AN—This started out as a flashback set into a larger story I'm in the process of writing, but I realized that the flashback was largely unnecessary for the plot. I put it as its own separate story because I was rather fond of Pestering!Jim about a third of the way in :-) Please read and review!

Disclaimer—I don't own Star Trek…

Cherokee Roses

It was the sight of the Cherokee roses that had done it. The curvy waitress had put them in pretty glass bowls of water at the front of the bar as a classy sort of decoration, but the display of them had caught McCoy like a sharp pain in the side. He simply couldn't stop staring at them—the way the white petals melded smoothly into a creamy yellow center, the way they looked so delicate and small, though he knew the thorns on their stems would make anyone recoil in an instant.

McCoy sat staring at the falsely innocent roses, brooding to himself. He had had asked for this, he thought angrily to himself. It had been, after all, his idea to try out a different bar that evening, and now the accusing eyes of the roses stared at him darkly, piercing him with guilt and shame.

But no sooner had his mood effectively been blackened, then a tall, wiry kid in a beat up leather jacket swung into view. "Hey," Jim said, leaning in close and smelling as usual like God's gift to women, "You're right. This place is lame. Let's bounce."

McCoy glanced up at his friend and didn't even pretend to hide his discomposure. "I'm fine right here," he growled, suddenly unwilling to leave the semi-concealed seat deep in the club.

"What's the matter?" Jim's tone was probing and slightly exasperated. "Seriously, Bones, loosen up—c'mon, let's have some fun! Murphy's is open just down the street, and, oh, even better—I hear the McCulley twins have a 30 foot beer bong over at the Lawson building—we could—"

McCoy cut across him. "Look, kid, I'm just not in the mood, all right?" he said, unwilling to let Jim get carried away with himself. The improbable Cherokee roses in the water bowl at the front of the bar had caught his eye and simply wouldn't leave him alone. "If you wanna act like some idiot teenager again, then go ahead, be my guest, but don't expect me to come babysit you."

"What?" Jim said, his voice half laughing. "Half an hour ago, you told me this bar was far too classy and you wanted to leave and do something fun. Well, I've found us something fun—and far less classy—so let's go!"

"No, I—"

"C'mon, what's the problem?" He swung in front of McCoy, forcing McCoy's unwilling gaze. "You can tell me, Bones," he said, arranging his face into a mock-serious expression, "You know you can tell me anything."

"I don't—"

"Please?"

"You can't—"

"I'll do the beer bong for you. Dedicate it to you and everything."

"Just leave it—"

"I just pledged you the 30 foot beer bong and you won't even consider it?"

"Stop—"

"Fine. Party pooper. Just tell me what's wrong and—"

"It's the roses, all right!" McCoy snapped, unable to take the pestering any longer, "The Cherokee roses at the front bar! They're my daughter's favorite. I used to make her paper roses because the real ones were too prickly for her to touch. They were the only things I ever really… She thought they were the most beautiful things… I used to slip them places where she would find them later—into books, onto her pillow… But she probably doesn't remember that now, thanks to her charming mother," McCoy finished bitterly, swallowing a bit of drink with a twist of his mouth, "She probably doesn't remember me."

Jim's expression had lost all trace of playfulness. "Oh," he said simply. A faint line had appeared between his eyebrows and his mouth had a distinctly downward set to it. He looked like he was about to say something more, when McCoy found that he couldn't handle it—couldn't handle talking about his Joanna for a moment longer.

"I've had enough of this place," McCoy growled, rising to his feet and finishing the last of his drink, "You were right. Let's get outta here. You said Murphy's is open?"

And with that, he left without waiting for Jim, who lagged behind a moment before joining him again just outside the swanky club.

Two bars later, and McCoy had not forgotten about the white roses in the bowl from earlier in the night. Jim, it appeared, had other things on his mind as well, for he usually forced himself into the center of attention, no matter the night, or the occasion, or the people involved, but tonight, McCoy observed warily, he only sat beside his friend and sipped his drink slowly.

"Your daughter," Jim said without warning after a long and uncharacteristic silence, "When was the last time you talked to her?"

McCoy froze, wavering between shock and anger at the question, though he couldn't pretend it was entirely unexpected. "Jocelyn—"

"No." Jim's voice was almost vehement. "Not Jocelyn. Joanna."

McCoy blinked. "Not since just after the divorce. I never had the chance."

Jim bit his lip, staring up at the ceiling "You didn't have the chance," he repeated in a hardened monotone.

McCoy averted his eyes. He knew exactly where this was going. Something like a sickness had sprung up in his stomach, gnawing at him with a constant weight that he hadn't let himself fully acknowledge until this moment. He didn't want to hear what Jim would say to him. He didn't want to have his shortcomings thrown at him, and didn't want to be reminded of the day that that woman had taken everything from him. So he rationalized, and justified, and knew very well that he was doing it even as the words came out of his mouth. "I lost, all right? I lost her. I lost custody, and now Jocelyn's taking her on some world cruise and I can't contact her, because Jocelyn doesn't want me anywhere near her child."

"Right." Jim still addressed the ceiling, apparently intent on a knot in the dark oaken wood.

McCoy bristled. "What? What, exactly? You got a problem? Spit it out." But the ominous feeling in his abdomen would not be banished—the feeling that told him that he very well deserved whatever it was that fluttered on the tip of his friend's tongue.

Jim laughed humorlessly, finally dropping his gaze from the ceiling to land on the drink in his hands. "So what you're saying is, you've given up."

"Given—," McCoy spluttered. "D'you know how much I've agonized over this? I didn't want to leave her, all right? I didn't wanna just let her go!" He struggled to find words adequate to describe his desperation, but what came out was merely an incoherent mess that didn't cover the half of what he actually felt and he was left staring at his friend, mingled rage and despair warring for dominance in his heart.

Something in Jim's face gave in then, his expression softened ever so slightly and he said in a quiet voice—so quiet that McCoy could barely hear him over the thumping music coming from behind the bar, "Bones, she's your kid."

The simple words hit McCoy like dull arrows. "D'you think I don't know that?" McCoy hissed back furiously, hiding his shame and his guilt behind a mask of anger, "D'you think I wouldn't be with her if I could? She is everything to me!"

The anger in Jim's face, so momentarily gone, returned then in full force. "If she means so much to you, then why haven't you even so much as called her, Bones? You're her father. Start acting like it."

Something in McCoy, already so close to the breaking point, snapped then. He didn't even realize when he got up, his stool crashing to the ground behind him and his fists shaking in pent up anger. "I am her father, and I goddamn well know it. And you should know that I would be with her if I could—if there was any possible way, I would be there in a second. Faster than a second. I love her. I love her more than I've loved anything before." McCoy's breath came in heaves, and he commanded Jim's gaze, daring him to look away.

"Good… That's good," Jim muttered, finally breaking off his stare to study his drink fixedly, "Kids should know…" But he trailed off before he could finish the sentence. It hung between them, irresolute.

Then Jim turned his sharp look on McCoy, eyes clear and level. "Make sure she knows it," he said. McCoy met his friend's stare for a prolonged moment and nodded, slow and controlled.

They held each other's eyes for a second longer before Jim broke off, contemplating his own drink once more, but his posture had relaxed and the air between them suddenly felt warm again. McCoy toyed with his glass awkwardly. He felt shamed. He felt reawakened. For he knew why it had such a hold on his young friend that parents—if at all possible—be there for their children.

But a minute later, the moment had passed. Jim was back to making ludicrous remarks about this or that professor, or what exactly Admiral Archer got up to in his spare time. McCoy joined in with Jim's easy laughter, only talking to make a pointed aside, or expand on Jim's ridiculous jokes.

That night, after they had gone back to the room they shared and Jim had crashed on the couch, McCoy sat up until dawn, trying to remember the exact pattern for the folding of a Cherokee rose…