Notes: This AU takes place about 20 minutes in the future in San Francisco. I'm not sure what sort of "verse" it is yet, so if anyone has any ideas, please let me know! Also, I rated this T because there's nothing too bad except for McCoy and Kirk's language. I don't think it's strong enough to warrant an M rating, but if anyone has a problem with it, I will up the rating.

Disclaimer: Star Trek is not mine. Also, there are several career ideas mentioned in one of the sections (farmer, fashion designer, etc.) which were borrowed with love from different AUs I have read and loved within the Star Trek fandom. I am paying homage to many other great and wonderful AUs with respect to the authors.


A day after the wedding…

McCoy wondered if there was a medical term for "ants in the pants." Because if so, McCoy was pretty sure he was obligated as a doctor to diagnose Jim with ants-pants-osis. Not even a full twenty-four hours after they returned to San Francisco, Jim was gone.

He didn't have much of an excuse, but then again, he rarely did. He waved good-bye with a cheery grin and a promise that he would try to visit again soon.

McCoy was momentarily taken aback from Jim's comment. He had forgotten that when he and Jim hung out, Jim was just visiting. It seemed so much more like he belonged in San Francisco.

If McCoy was honest, it felt like he belonged with him. But really, that was just the stress and mental exhaustion from the wedding speaking.


A week after the wedding…

McCoy's thumb hovered over the send button on his cell phone. A week is an acceptable amount of time to wait before contacting your friend, right? He almost smiled to himself, remembering a similar feeling to when he wanted to call Jocelyn right after their first date. Completely different circumstances though, of course.

What city are you gracing with your presence now?

Hit "send." Waited a moment. Felt the phone vibrate in his hand.

Wouldn't you like to know?

McCoy continued to stare at his phone, wondering if a second text would be sent. A joke, an attempt at humor, something. But no. The phone just sat in his hand as he reread the message for a fourth, fifth, sixth time before the screen went black to conserve battery.

He remained sitting on the bench, wondering if he should just call Jim to make sure he was alright. Finally, Nurse Chapel called him back into the hospital. His break was over.

The phone fell back into the pocket of his lab coat, weighing him down for the rest of his shift.


A month after the wedding…

To: leonardmccoy

From: j-money

Subject: Legit, I'm fine. So stop your unnecessary worrying.

What it do, sucka?

Are you rolling your eyes right now? I bet you're rolling your eyes. :D Anyway, I'm just sending this e-mail to let you know that I am safe. That I am okay. That I am making only moderately bad choices. You know, the kind of choices that you would only regret if you were religious. Which I'm not. So yeah. No worries.

Sorry I haven't been too responsive. I'm also a little shocked (and a bit hurt too, might I say) that you only texted me that one time. You knew that I needed space? D'aw, you're a darn tootin' good friend. (Yeah, that's right. You read tootin'. Cue eye roll number two. …and now three.)

Seriously though, I just wanted a little bit of time to clear my head. I've been thinking things that need to be thinked about. (#4) I tried calling you a few days ago, but I guess you were working or something. It went straight to voicemail and I didn't see the point in leaving a message that only said "Chill, man, it's all good in the hood." (Eyeroll five. Dizzy yet?)

Peace out, girl scout.

James T. Kirk, badass extraordinaire

P.S. I'll text you when I'm back in town.

P.P.S. And now for my final attempt to get you to roll your eyes: LOLZ!111ONEONEONE

To: j-money

From: leonardmccoy

Subject: glad to know you're alright

Now stop acting like a fucking moron.


Two months after the wedding…

It was two in the morning. It always seemed to be at two in the morning after a heinously long shift at the hospital when he got a cryptic text from Jim. Well, not so much cryptic as fucking annoying.

Look out your window.

McCoy debated with the idea of just staying in his nice, warm, soft, lovely bed. But it really had been a while since he saw Jim and damned if that wasn't enough to make him crawl out of bed.

He edged his way over to the window, rubbing sleep from his eyes and yawning spectacularly. Admittedly, he was curious about what Jim had to show him out the window. Knowing him and his self-admiringly crazy antics, it could be anything.

So imagine McCoy's surprise when he looked out his window and saw… nothing. He looked down, through the sparse tree branches that obscured his vision between his view at the window and the hard, concrete ground below.

He could just make out Jim's figure standing like a lunatic in the dead of night. The moon was full that night and provided a fair amount of light that managed to gleam off of his golden hair (seriously, was that even possible? What sort of shampoo did he use?) that proved it was Jim. The figure gestured to McCoy, urging him to come down and meet him there.

Meeting under a tree in the pale moonlight. Oh gee, fantastic. This should be good, McCoy thought to himself as he threw on a pair of worn out jeans that he fished out of the dirty-clothes bin. Hell, if Jim was going to wake him up at fucking two in the morning, he would have to learn to deal with the consequences.

Muttering obscenities to himself the whole way he fumbled down the stairs, he wondered what the hell Jim wanted and prayed to God that the kid wasn't a fucking mess. He was too tired to deal with that shit.

He walked outside, expecting to see Jim standing there, waiting, but to no avail. He doubled around the back of the building and found him near the entrance to the shitty park next to the apartment complex with a strange bundle in his left hand.

"So, you made me stick my head out the window for what reason? I'm failing to see a purpose here," he gruffed in way of hello.

"I wanted to be dramatic," Jim responded, shrugging as though that much was obvious. "Only, after I sent the text to you and you looked out the window, I realized I didn't have a big sign or a boombox or anything."

Dumbass.

"Dumbass," he voiced his thoughts, shaking his head.

"You sweet, sweet man, you," Jim said, smiling sarcastically and bringing his free hand up to McCoy's cheek to pat it.

For a moment, he was almost overcome with the idea of biting Jim's fingers. But Jim might retaliate and the kid seemed all bright eyed and bushy tailed, an extreme advantage over McCoy's present condition.

"I just got home about three hours ago," McCoy informed him instead, a half-hearted glare in his eyes.

"Oh wow," Jim blinked, his eyebrows rising slightly. "Long shift."

"Yeah," McCoy said shortly. "I know."

Chuckling, Jim gestured McCoy to follow him as he made his way into the park, the thick grass coming up to nearly their ankles as they trudged through. The park was oddly silent and McCoy wondered if Jim hadn't chased out any of the usual miscreants who wasted their time in the park after hours so that the two of them could have the place to themselves. It seemed like something a man as selfish and self-centered as Jim would do. Like waking up a hard-working, tired man.

Jim seemed to be walking with a purpose which he, of course, did not share outright with McCoy. So McCoy fell into place behind him, following the erratic steps of his friend. When Jim finally found the spot that he had apparently been looking for, he stopped so abruptly that McCoy ran into him, his face cushioned by Jim's hair.

Jim unfurled the bundle under his arm and it was revealed in the moonlight to be forest green plaid blanket that was easily larger than a king-sized comforter. Momentarily, McCoy wondered how much luggage Jim must haul around with him from place to place if he managed to carry this with him.

After busily walking around the blanket, pulling on each corner until the blanket was reasonably flat and unwrinkled, Jim finally crawled onto his blanket, snuggled down into the very dead center of it.

He folded his arms under his head and smiled contently to himself with his eyes shut. After a few moments of McCoy staring at him mutely, wondering what the hell his friend was on, Jim finally opened one eye to see McCoy still standing above him.

"Wait, where's your blanket?"

"Funnily enough," McCoy started, his voice saturated with sarcasm, "my telepathy isn't working too well right now." He punctured his comment with a roll of his eyes before finishing, "I didn't know I needed one."

"Well, go upstairs and get one," Jim blinked innocently as though it were the most obvious suggestion in the world.

"Fuck no," McCoy snorted. "I'm tired. Besides, you have what appears to be God's blanket. Move over and let me use yours."

Jim sighed as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders and bitched for a few moments as he scooted himself to the left, allowing ample space for McCoy to join him.

The two men lay there on the surprisingly thick and soft blanket, shielding them from whatever crap was on the ground as they stared up at the sky, a spare star or two barely visible through the haze of the city lights.

They looked like fucking morons and McCoy wondered if Jim felt as stupid as he did right then. Probably not.

But McCoy didn't say a word. He let the minutes pass by, the silence between them more tense than companionable. At first he thought maybe Jim had fallen asleep, but a chance glance to the side showed his face illuminated under the moonlight, his open eyes gleaming. McCoy noticed the tightness around Jim's mouth, even in profile. He continued to watch his friend, his eyes taking in the deepened shadows created in the old pocketed scars dusted over the planes of his face, until Jim finally spoke.

"I want a job."

"Well, you've come to the right place," McCoy spoke out of the corner of his mouth, not really believing Jim's statement. "The employment agency is right over there, behind the clump of grass."

Jim sighed with annoyance, his eyes unblinking as he continued to stare up at the indigo sky. He slid his glance over to McCoy, lips pursed.

"You're kinda bitchy when you don't get enough sleep," he reprimanded him without any real spark in his low voice.

"You know me," McCoy shrugged awkwardly in his horizontal position. "If I'm not bitching, check my pulse."

Jim laughed, throaty and low. From this close proximity, McCoy could feel the vibrations through the ground and let a lazy grin onto his face.

"You serious about this job thing?" he asked, once he was sure Jim's annoyance had dissipated.

"Yeah, actually, I am," he admitted, a healthy amount of self-revelation clearly evident in his tone. He paused before letting out a snort of laughter, turning to face McCoy with his usual flicker in his eyes. "Shit's ridiculous, right?"

"What brought on this new life dynamic?" McCoy commented with eyebrows raised high in surprise, ignoring Jim's chuckles.

"It's only because you are tired and somewhat unaware of how stupid you sound that I am not making fun of you for saying 'life dynamic,'" Jim informed him mock-sternly.

"Answer the question," he pressed with a roll of his eyes. Damn kid.

In the dim light, McCoy could see Jim's smile fade from his face as he opened and closed his mouth a few times as though trying to decide how to start. With a shallow sigh, Jim frowned slightly, his eyebrows furrowed in thought.

"Well, it was the wedding, actually. Everyone kept asking me what I did for a living."

"Everyone?" As far as McCoy could remember (And really, who could forget a memorable night like that one?) no one had really approached Jim.

"Well, Lorelei and the bartender," he conceded, waving his fingers offhandedly.

"So?"

"The strangest thing happened," Jim said, hoisting himself up into a sitting position, his elbows resting on his now-bent knees. His position lengthened the shadows on his face as his brow blocked the moon's light. "I felt ashamed of not having a job. I mean, you work so hard all the time. As much as you bitch about your job, you enjoy it." He angled his neck, smirking, to glance back at McCoy still laying on the blanket. "Don't deny it."

"Wasn't going to," McCoy agreed, trying not to distract Jim from his inner monologue. He, too, sat up, placing the palms of his hands on the ground behind him and placing his weight onto his arms.

"You're helping people. You're doing something meaningful," he continued, turning his head to face forward again and away from McCoy. "I mean, I know you hate Treadway, but he builds houses. At the wedding, they were talking about how he made the house his parents now live in. He puts roofs over people's heads. He helps create homes. And Lorelei, she gives piano and singing lessons." He ran a harried hand through his tousled hair, pushing it away from his eyes. His voice sounded stressed, dragging out vowels, twisting with an undercurrent of frustration.

McCoy wondered if this was a good moment to interject when Jim shifted in his spot to face McCoy more directly.

"Me? What am I doing? I'm living off money the government gave to me because my dad was killed during his job."

The words hung in the air, almost tangible as though McCoy could reach out and grab them, hide them.

"I feel like I'm just coasting. I guess I've been coasting for a few years now," he admitted quietly, his eyes looking away from McCoy to address the far corner of the blanket. "But it's starting to bother me."

"Didn't realize you felt this way," McCoy murmured when Jim trailed off and let him get a word in edgewise.

"That's why I left right after the wedding," Jim explained almost apologetically. "I wanted to clear my head. My way of dealing with things is to just take off, I guess." One side of Jim's mouth curved upwards, its motion carefully observed by McCoy.

"Head all cleared?" he asked, one part joking and two parts concerned.

"You tell me, doc."

Jim's smirk stayed in place on his young face, the blonde hair falling back into his eyes. McCoy shifted his weight off of his arms and crossed his legs, his hands against his denim-clad knees.

"Sounds like you're growing up," he answered sincerely before making a show of placing his hand over his heart. "My God, I think I might have a heart attack from the shock."

"Fuck you," Jim glared, but then ruined the effect by letting out an open-mouth laugh, lightly shoving McCoy's shoulder.

McCoy joined in the laughter for a moment, returning the push to Jim's side. Once Jim started to calm down, he repositioned himself back on the blanket, folding his arms behind his head. McCoy likewise lay down, feeling all at once the gravity of Jim's statement.

"So what are you going to do?"

"Get a job, I guess." The casualty of his words sounded almost eerie against the backdrop of the city noises surrounding them.

"What kind of job?"

"No freakin' clue. Only so many jobs will hire you for being really, really ridiculously good looking."

McCoy could practically hear him smiling and waggling his eyebrows and let out a snort of derision. Jim nudged him with his sneaker in retribution. Then Jim let out what seemed to be his umpteenth sigh of the night.

"You know, picking a future is hard."

"Maybe that's why you put it off for so long, you lazy ass."

Jim continued as though he had not heard McCoy's comment.

"I could be a motorcycle mechanic again," he began reasonably, but McCoy could tell by the lilt in his voice that his ideas would soon grow in grandeur. "Or become a farmer. Or a newscaster. Or a mailman or vet…" His voice was nearly childishly excited as he extended his hands towards the sky above them. "Or maybe even fly a rocket. A spaceship."

"Dream big, kid," McCoy chuckled softly. The June air pressed against him, slightly chilly, causing him to snuggle more deeply into the blanket. Well, not snuggle. More like, manly rustle into the blanket. Yeah, that sounded better.

"Could you imagine me as a magazine editor?" Jim questioned cheerfully without pausing for an answer. "Oh, I could be a fashion magazine editor." He was back to his typical over-confidence.

Thinking it was time to knock him down a peg before his head grew any bigger, McCoy made a big show of glancing at Jim's outfit (a gray hoodie with frayed cuffs unzipped to reveal a navy shirt advertising some band McCoy didn't know, pinstripe black-and-white pajama pants with yellow socks peaking out at the bottom, ending with high-top red converse)

"Would we all be required to look like you?"

"No," Jim shook his head as though it were a genuine question and not a barely-concealed insult. "I celebrate freedom of clothing expression."

"Then fine. Go for it," McCoy relented, shaking his head, wondering why he was still surprised by Jim's eccentric ways.

"How about you, Bones?" he asked, poking McCoy's side. McCoy looked at him blankly, trying to figure out the best way to translate fuck no I don't want to be a fashion designer into a language Jim might actually understand. Realizing McCoy's confusion, Jim further explained.
"Say you picked something else to do, what would it be?"

McCoy thought of rolling his eyes, of telling Jim he was an idiot, of getting up and leaving this strange fantasy career world that Jim was creating. But instead, his mind took the question into consideration, thinking over the different possibilities and scenarios Jim had just said.

"A doctor," he answered after a moment.

"Really?" Jim wondered, his eyebrows disappearing under his hair, silently urging McCoy to continue.

McCoy nodded slowly, his eyes shutting comfortably as he continued explaining.

"In any situation, I can only see myself as a doctor. They're gonna be around forever and as long as there are fuck-ups like you who get their ass handed back to them in various degrees of alarm, doctors are going to be needed."

"I guess so," Jim mused thoughtfully. He shifted himself on the blanket, ending up closer to McCoy. The older man could feel their knuckles against each other, the heat from Jim's body radiating. "I seem to always need a doctor," he needlessly admitted, "so I guess wherever I would end up, I would have to have a doctor there. For any such occasions."

His last statement was a bit out of place and strange, but McCoy attributed that to his tiredness which was quickly taking hold of his body.

"Hmm," he answered unintelligently as he felt his body become heavier and his muscles relaxed. McCoy barely registered Jim's movement a few inches away from his head, probably turning to face him better.

"Okay, Bones," Jim said quietly after a second of watching McCoy. "Time for you to go inside and go to sleep."

"No," McCoy mumbled, his tongue thick in his mouth as he protested absentmindedly.

"No? Are you fucking kidding me? You've been bitching like a little girl this whole time about how tired you are." His annoyed tone could not hide the real amusement underneath.

"Just ten more minutes out here. Then I'll go inside." Or at least, McCoy thought he said that. He was in and out of sweet, blissful sleep. His head fell to the side facing Jim, a more comfortable position for his neck and his nose was quickly met with the soft cotton of Jim's hoodie.

"Promise?" Jim whispered.

"'Course," McCoy breathed, sleepier still with Jim's musky scent filling his senses.

"I bet you always keep your promises."

Low and sad. McCoy, in his barely alert state, wondered about Jim's abandonment issues if he was this upset that someone was falling asleep on him instead of talking to him.

"Yep," he might have said, his lips barely moving as he fell further and further from consciousness.

"Damn."

Jim's empty chuckle was the last thing he heard before he felt the weight of Jim's arm rest against his shoulder and he fell asleep.


His back hurt.

He was getting too damn old to sleep on the hard ground. Jim was supposed to wake him up and make him go back to his apartment, but instead the lout fell asleep himself. They didn't make it back to the apartment until nearly five in the morning when they had woken up to the early morning sounds of traffic a few blocks away.

They had made their way to McCoy's apartment, Jim falling half-dead onto the couch and McCoy collapsed onto his bed, snoring loudly into his pillow.

When McCoy finally reemerged out of his dreams, the room was bright with sunlight, even through the shades on the window. A quick glance at his clock informed him that it was early in the afternoon.

He glanced down a few feet at the foot of his bed to see Jim still knocked out on the couch, his mouth wide open and snoring.

The Great Jim Kirk in all his glory. How flattering, McCoy thought amusedly to himself as Jim snorted once before shifting in his sleep to a more comfortable position. His mouth was still wide open.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he stretched out his muscles, trying to ease the tension in his back. Once he realized he was fighting a losing battle, he stood from the bed and walked over to the kitchen area, his stomach grumbling. There wasn't much in way of good food sans a few instant meals he'd been eating for dinner lately. Hmm. Maybe it was time to go shopping.

Eh, he'd do it later. Right now he just wanted to head over to the convenience store down the street and pick up some breakfast and the day's newspaper. He rummaged through his desk drawers until he came across a pad of post-its and pen.

Getting breakfast. Don't leave.

He frowned to himself for a moment, staring at the message. Then he crumpled it up and threw it away, pushing it down into the trash can just in case Jim decided to go through the trash (Which, knowing Jim like he did, it was possible.).

Pressing the pen back to the post-it, he rewrote Getting breakfast before peeling it away from the pad and placing it gently on Jim's nose.

McCoy entertained himself for a few seconds, watching the paper flutter from the puffs of air omitting from Jim's open, slack mouth. Surprisingly enough, the novelty of watching Jim sleep did not lose its appeal as quickly as McCoy would have expected.

Shaking his head, he tried to rid himself of the strange notion and stood up as abruptly as possible without bothering Jim. He figured he should leave the apartment before Jim woke up and saw him sitting there.

He wouldn't know how to explain that one.


McCoy couldn't help but notice that Jim's visits were getting longer and longer each time he stayed in San Francisco. Not that he minded. It was nice to have the company, to have someone waiting for him when he got home from work. Although, admittedly, Jim wasn't always in the apartment when McCoy came back to the tiny apartment, feet hurting, nerves frazzled, and medic bag heavy on his shoulder. He would leave notes as to where he was and, depending on how playful Jim may have been feeling that day, clues that McCoy was instructed to decipher. Jim had the strangest personal stream of consciousness (A newspaper article with a girl who looked vaguely like Jennifer Aniston, the word "boy" circled in a page of a magazine left next to the newspaper with a Chinese symbol next to it which took McCoy a while to figure out meant "opposite", and a printed out advertisement for a girls' boarding school in the fifties finally prompted McCoy to realize that Jim was at a department store.)

After he had been there for a week, he even offered to help pay rent ("I'm sick o' moochin'!") which McCoy did not so much as accept freely as get caught in a headlock by Jim until he grudgingly allowed Jim to give him a check.

Another week had gone by and Jim was still happily in the apartment. McCoy was a bit surprised, having thought Jim would have left by then to go off to Fez or Oklahoma or something. He kept his mouth shut though because it was much more enjoyable to eat meals with an actual living, breathing person instead of while reading a medical journal. The autoimmune disease journals were all covered in Italian sauce stains and he didn't want to subject any more journals to the same fate.

And so Jim stayed. It may have been a little cramped in the apartment, but no worse than his days in college in a tiny dorm with a slob of a roommate. All in all, it was… nice.

One particular night (it was a Wednesday), Jim and McCoy sat on the couch, watching Aviator and if McCoy had been paying more attention to Jim than the movie, he would have noticed a twisted expression on Jim's face. It wasn't until the credits were rolling that Jim rose from the couch, stretching his long legs, and walked over to the sink to get a drink of water.

His movements seemed more calculated than casual and were inexplicable enough to cause McCoy to watch the otherwise mundane activity. Once Jim was certain that McCoy was giving him his utmost attention, he smirked and walked over to the furthest wall in the apartment. He leaned against it with blazing nonchalance, running a sweeping hand through his hair as he tossed the water back into his mouth.

Instead of swallowing like, you know, a normal person would, he kept the water in his mouth, storing it in his cheeks like a chipmunk. Then with a wink in McCoy's direction (This isn't going to end well, McCoy thought, raising an eyebrow.), he spit out the water like he was a fucking fountain. The stream of water soared through the air, splattering on the opposite wall.

Well. Okay then.

McCoy looked away from the water dripping down his wall onto his threadbare carpet to stare at Jim. Jim stood there proudly, hands on his hips like he should have been wearing a golden cape and spandex underwear.

"Care to explain that one?" McCoy drawled, not really sure if he should be angry or amused.

"You have a tiny apartment."

Well, no shit Sherlock.

McCoy told him as much, gesturing around the room as though Jim hadn't known its contents for months.

"You aren't paying alimony anymore. You can afford to move."

"No."

"Yes."

"Dammit Jim, no."

"Oh, come on! I just spit water from one end of the apartment to the other. That's a shitload of water on your wall. It's not like only a little splatter made it to the other side. Shitload of water, Bones. I won't say it again."

"Maybe you're just a good spitter."

"…Is that even a word? Did you really just say that? Is this real life?"

Their argument continued for a grand total of ten minutes while Jim displayed remarkable arguing techniques (McCoy wondered if he had been on the debate team in high school. Eh, too dorky. He didn't know one debate team member who got as much ass as Jim claimed to have gotten during high school.). McCoy had a multitude of reasons to which Jim refuted them all, his cockiness growing to epic proportions as McCoy faltered.

Finally, Jim silenced McCoy, moving closer on the couch until their faces were only a few inches away. McCoy could not look away from searing blue narrowed with determination and a smirk decorating Jim's unshaved cheeks.

"Are you really so desperate to always argue with me that you are willing to compliment my spitting abilities? Is this really an argument that you want to win?"


"So what do you think?"

Gaila rested her pointed chin onto the palm of her hand, her perfectly manicured fingers curled onto the apple of her lightly rouged cheek. With her free hand, she gestured to the café table, her emerald bangles jingling from the slight movement. McCoy followed the sweep of her hand onto the tabletop which was currently covered with papers and floorplans of nearly every variety fanned out over the entire surface.

Jim had recommended Gaila as a realtor after he had met her during the past New Year's party, despite McCoy's initial belief that the two of them had only fooled around. ("Did you think I just grabbed a girl by her shoulders and make out with her? C'mon, the art of conversation isn't that dead.") The three of them had looked at apartments over the greater part of San Francisco. McCoy kept glancing at the pro-con lists he had made up for each building, trying to determine which, if any, of the apartments would be the best option. He had calculated prices, location (how close it was to the hospital or to any parks for when Joanna came to visit), the utilities, everything.

Jim, of course, had contributed by telling McCoy in loud booming voices where he could stash some porn in each room. Gaila had laughed. McCoy had not.

McCoy frowned thoughtfully, peering over the papers for apartment number four. Gaila perked up in her seat at his expression, her impossibly green eyes (Those had to be colored contacts. There was no way irises could be that green.) trained on his movements. She brushed an errant red curl away from her cheek before crossing her arms onto the table.

McCoy opened his mouth to ask about renovation costs for the kitchen when Jim made his presence known.

"Actually, Gai, I don't think any of these are what we are looking for," Jim quipped from his seat, sitting reverse in the chair so that he straddled the back of it.

"What? How the hell would you know? And what do you mean, 'we'?" McCoy asked, baffled by Jim's assured comment.

"I just don't think it suits our needs," Jim tried to explain, his voice exasperated.

McCoy was held back from making another retort by Gaila who cleared her throat loudly enough that the two men looked at her with a bit of alarm.

"You know what, why don't I let you two talk and give Leonard some time to think about it?" She did not wait for them to answer in the affirmative and instead extracted the papers she needed from the piles, leaving the rest for McCoy to take and peruse at his leisure. She placed the papers into her briefcase and extracted a few crisp bills to cover the cost of her coffee and baguette.

Snapping her sleek briefcase closed, Gaila stood from her perch on the wrought iron seat. One hand clasped tight around the handle of her briefcase, the other brushed invisible crumbs from the front of her floral skirt and viridian top.

As the men stood, she produced a business card from the inside of her shirt (She only did that with her male customers. If they were female, then the cards came from the briefcase. Apparently she had told Jim that on the day they met, much to his amusement.) and handed it to McCoy. She made a habit of giving him a new card whenever they parted for the day despite his initial attempts to remind her that he still had the first one. He could probably wallpaper whichever new apartment he chose with all the cards she had given to him. As Jim kept saying, a girl's gotta advertise.

They shared their good-byes as Jim gathered up the remaining papers. Gaila scrunched up her nose and gave them both a little close-lipped smile, a habit McCoy noticed she did often, and then turned on her smart heels and walked through the door into the bustling traffic outside the café.

McCoy waited until she had disappeared into the crowd of pedestrians before turning to face Jim, greatly resisting the urge to smack him upside his dumb head.

"And what exactly is it that you deem unworthy about these apartments?" he hissed, leaning in towards Jim's personal bubble. Not that Jim seemed to care much.

"The price," he answered simply, shrugging his shoulders as he drank the remnants of his coffee.

"What about the price?" McCoy calmed down a smidgeon, cautious about what Jim meant. "Too high? Are you sure we're getting the best deal?"

"Trust me, she owes me," the younger man reassured him, the hint of a shit-eating grin on his smug face.

"For what?" McCoy asked before noticing the raunchy grin. He held up a hand to stop Jim from speaking. "You know, never mind."

Jim chuckled, throwing a sugar packet from the edge of the table towards McCoy.

"Anyway, it's not too high," Jim negated with an airy wave of his hand. "Quite the contrary. I think we could afford to go higher."

"Again with this 'we' crap," he commented, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I'm just saying," Jim said evenly, running his hands across the tabletop before him, "I think I should contribute to the rent."

Huh. That was interesting.

"Why the hell would you help pay?"

"Well, I figure I'll be living there, too," he commented with another shrug. "It's only fair."

A significant amount of time passed between them as Jim's smile grew wider and wider as his statement finally sunk into McCoy's brain.

"What?" he managed to spout out unintelligibly.

"Yeah," he nodded enthusiastically, clearly glad that McCoy had caught on so quickly. "Moving in. You and me. Roommates. Should be swell."

Crinkle-eyed smile, Jim was positively beaming, his white teeth flashing like a movie star's. He was quiet for a second, soaking in the moment as McCoy stared bemused, before adopting a more business-like tone.

"Anyway, that brings me to the next 'unworthy' quality of these apartments. They only have two bedrooms each," he scoffed, shaking his head disapprovingly at the pile of papers. "We would need three. One for you, one for moi, and Joanna makes three. For when she visits, you know."

McCoy nodded dumbly. It was his daughter, for Christ's sake. Of course he knew. But it was strangely sweet for Jim to think of it.

"So it's settled," Jim ended with a tone of finality, clasping his hands together in front of his chest with a resounding clap. "We'll start looking for a three bedroom apartment in the next price range up. If you need a few months to get back on track after the whole alimony nightmare, I can shoulder more of the rent. You can always pay me back later," he continued, taking advantage of McCoy's stunned silence to steal the scone from the plate in from of the older man.

"Why didn't you say anything about us living together before?" he said when he finally regained the ability to string words together.

"I didn't think of it until two days ago," Jim shrugged, talking around a mouthful of blueberry scone. Then his brow furrowed and he shook his head. He swallowed the mound of food in his mouth before continuing. Thank God. "Wait, no. That's a lie. I've been thinking about it for a while, but I didn't fully decide until two days ago."

He put the scone close to his mouth as though to take another bite, but pulled it away at the last second to look McCoy closely in the eye. "Are you okay with this?"

For a moment, McCoy wondered if Jim was asking about whether or not it was okay that he took McCoy's scone. But the blues of his eyes were a bit more sincere, a sign that this was about more than food.

"Yeah," he heard himself answering without really understanding what he was saying. He paused, mentally going over the positive and negative sides to living with Jim. More positive than negative. Actually, he couldn't really think of any negatives. Which was strange, because he was a highly cynical, critical, pessimistic, grumpy old man. Just ask anyone who's met him. "Yeah, I guess I am. Just a little surprised. So what happened to the whole career thing?

"Bones, Bones, Bones," Jim laughed, his mouth open and his teeth stained light purple from the fruit in the scone. "You worry too much. I've got it all covered."

"Oh, this'll be good," McCoy baited, his initial shock giving way to amusement and genuine pleasure for the new circumstances.

"It will be good," he insisted seriously, but with an irrepressible smile still plastered all over his face. "I want to be a pilot."

A pilot. The word hung in the air, heavy with its importance.

"Like your dad?" McCoy said quietly, the confirmation not really needed.

Jim's smile softened briefly, brushing his lower lip across the edge of his top front teeth in a rare show of introversion.

"Yeah," he answered just as quietly, his eyes catching the light from the sconce above their small table. Then he blinked and went back to his earlier, brighter tone. "Stanford Flying Club has a pilot school and it's not too far out of the city. It's a six month program to get the license. I'll do commercial stuff for an additional six months and then I can advance from there. I've got everything all settled."

He was so excited about everything if the fact that both of his legs shaking under the table was any indication. McCoy chuckled quietly, finding Jim's enthusiasm to be cute. Like puppy dog-cute.

"Well, what are you waiting for then?"

"A place to live," he responded simply, looking up at McCoy as though waiting for his acceptance.

"Okay."

With that single word, Jim grinned so widely that McCoy was pretty sure he would strain his cheeks.

"Tomorrow we'll call up Gaila and ask about three-bedroom apartments," he promised, that infectious grin growing onto his own face.

"Awesome," Jim managed to get out, practically humming with contentment.

The two men gathered the now useless papers, leaving behind money for their food with a sizeable tip. They exited out the door, a small bell signifying their departure. Within seconds, they were in step with the ever-present crowd that wandered through the city, feeling the warmth of the summer sun above them.

"Jim?" McCoy started as they rounded the corner towards the apartment complex. He waited until his friend was actually looking at him before saying anything else. Jim's gaze was curious and unwavering on his, his pupils nearly swallowed into deep blue depths.

"Yeah?"

"I'm proud of you."


McCoy made the mistake of calling the apartment "bare bones." Jim quickly provided a "well, if you really want to" response with a suggestive wink. Other than that minor eye roll, the rest of the move-in had gone without too many problems.

Sure, there were still blank spots on the walls, not enough dishes in the cupboard, curtains to be hung up, and boxes to be unpacked, but the major work had been done. McCoy's hodgepodge furniture had been settled into the house, pushed and pulled on the hardwood floors until placed in the exact right spot. They had purchased some more furniture, such as a bed for Jim who had bitched the whole time about having spent so much time on McCoy's couch.

"I have a delicate back!" he had insisted whenever McCoy mocked him about his whining.

"Why? Because you spend so much time on it?"

Jim had claimed he couldn't even be appropriately pissed off about the comment because it was too amusing.

Anyway, the bed had been assembled. Jim had tried to test his French ("I was great at speaking French in high school. The ladies loved it.") by reading the French instructions. His attempt lasted all of ten minutes before McCoy stole the instructions from him (the Spanish ones, too, just in case) and forced him to use English. Grumbling and half-hearted glares aside, Jim would be sleeping on an actual bed that night instead of on the floor, surrounded by bed parts.

It was nearly ten at night when both men called it a day and slumped onto the couch, too tired to move. Jim shifted his legs until his feet rested on McCoy's lap. He grunted, but could not muster the energy to push the feet away.

Jim extended his hand out towards the remote on the floor between the couch and the television set, but it was just out of grasp and he seemed to be as exhausted as McCoy. Instead, the two men just sat there, staring at the blank television.

"We should get a bigger television," Jim said, his voice echoing off the nearly bare walls. "Big screen. Flat screen."

"Let's focus on getting the things we need first," McCoy answered, leaning his head against the back of the couch, closing his eyes.

"Like what?"

McCoy sighed before shifting on the couch, reaching into his back pocket for The List.

"Paint."

"What rooms are we painting?"

"All of them. I figure we should do that before we have too much furniture. No sense getting paint all over it and making it look like crap."

"Tangerine orange kitchen?" Jim perked up, his feet dancing in McCoy's lap.

"Fine," he conceded, not really caring what color the kitchen would be. Jim smiled happily to his right which was good enough for him. "We also need furniture for Joanna's room. I'll call her tomorrow to ask her how she wants it decorated."

"Bet you five bucks she wants polka dots."

"You're on," McCoy grinned, mentally making a note to convince Joanna to want anything but polka dots. Five dollars wasn't a lot to lose, but Jim's bigheadedness was not something to be trifled with.

"What else do we need?" Jim urged, nestling further into the corner of the couch between the back cushions and the armrest.

"Food for the kitchen. More plates for the kitchen," he read off the sheet of paper in front of him, his eyes unfocused since his glasses were still packed away in one of the boxes in his new bedroom. "An actual kitchen table with real chairs."

"What's wrong with what we have?" Jim asked, blue eyes wide with question.

"A card table and folding chairs?" McCoy threw a look at him that clearly said, "You're an idiot if you think that's acceptable."

"Hmm, good point," he mused, nodding his head. "What else do we need?"

"Light bulbs and batteries."

"Oh yeah, that reminds me," he started, leaning up from his resting spot to look inquiringly at McCoy. "Are there batteries in the smoke detectors?"

"Yeah, I checked them all while you were trying to be Pepe Le Pew," he teased, one half of his mouth upturned in a smile.

"Fuck you." Jim's foot nudged itself against McCoy's thigh in a pathetic excuse for a kick.

"We need to get shampoo," McCoy continued as though Jim had not spoken.

"We already have shampoo," the younger man stressed, nudging McCoy's thigh again.

"We are not just using the little shampoos you've taken from hotels."

"There is nothing wrong with them."

They continued arguing and making adjustments to The List until neither of them were awake enough to speak. Their sleep-slurred words trailed off slowly until they both drifted off into dreamless sleep, still sharing the same couch.

Day one in their new apartment could certainly be counted as a success.


"Honey, I'm home!"

"Shit!" McCoy cursed loudly. Jim's sudden cry had startled him and caused him to drop the curtain rod on his foot.

"Well, gee. Nice to see you, too," Jim said behind him with a certain level of indignation in his voice.

"Not you, dumbass," McCoy rolled his eyes as he bent down to get the rod. "I accidentally dropped this on my damn foot." He brandished the offending object in the air so that Jim could see it from where he was in the kitchen.

He could hear Jim hum in understanding as the younger man bustled around the kitchen, putting the food away in the refrigerator that he had gone out to buy at the grocery store. McCoy stuck the rod into the slot, carefully removing his hands to make sure the curtains were in place. When the rod didn't fall onto his feet again, he began shifting the fabric around to make sure it was all even.

Pulling away from his handiwork, he looked at it critically to make sure it was fine.

"It's fine, Bones," Jim called from the kitchen as though reading his mind.

"I still think the apartment is empty," McCoy commented, still facing the curtain instead of his friend.

"Eh, we can just get inflatable furniture."

McCoy laughed and finally turned away from the curtains to see what Jim had gotten from the grocery. The laughter died in his throat when he saw that Jim had apparently gotten a haircut as well.

Hearing the abrupt end to the laughter, Jim looked around curiously at McCoy before comprehension dawned on his face and he ran his fingers rakishly through his newly cropped hair.

"Yeah, I registered for pilot school today and they suggested I get the hair out of my face," he explained, grinning. "Do I still look like a damn hippie?"

The golden hair no longer flopped around and instead was cut closer to the scalp, maybe only an inch or two in length. Jim, or rather the hairdresser, had used some sort of gel to part it cleanly onto one side.

"You look… older."

Jim blinked once or twice in confusion before smiling offhandedly and turning away to place cereal boxes in the cupboard above the stove.

With a sigh and a shake of his head, McCoy joined him in the kitchen to help put away the groceries. He wondered, not for the first time since he and Jim decided to be roommates, what other changes he could expect.


I hope you guys enjoyed this most recent installment. To clear up any confusion (my sister was a bit befuddled when she read the chapter), Jim's new haircut makes him look like he did in the movie.

Also, just as a heads up, I am currently in the middle of a family emergency. If I don't respond to your reviews for a while, it's because I'm with my family and away from my home and computer. I will respond as soon as I get the chance to, I promise.

As always, thank you for reading. :)