First of all, I want to thank everyone for their concern/sympathy for my family emergency. Thankfully, it's all settling down now and things are starting to get back to normal. I genuinely appreciate everyone's understanding. :D You all rock.
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: Yep. Still not mine. Is this really even necessary anymore? I also do not own anything else mentioned here. Well, I mean, I own some shaped macaroni, but I don't own the rights to it. Yeah, now that that's been cleared up.
"We need food, Jim," McCoy said while staring inside of their pathetically empty refrigerator.
"Why?" he called out from his spot on the couch where he was watching some awful daytime television show. What grown man with any kind of self-respect would watch a soap opera?
"Because I will die if I have one more meal from Wendy's," he answered, shutting the door to the fridge so emphatically that the watermelon magnet fell off and the crayon picture Joanna had mailed him drifted to the floor.
"Fine. Then we can go to Five Guys," Jim shrugged, his eyes riveted to the screen in front of him as the heavily made-up actors kissed passionately in front of their fireplace.
McCoy grumped and bent down to pick up Joanna's artwork, returning it to its spot on the fridge.
"Jim! I am a doctor and I know exactly the negative consequences of eating greasy foods too often."
Jim made an affronted noise from the back of his throat and maneuvered around on the couch to face McCoy with indignation written all over his face.
"You pulled the doctor card! No fair!"
"I will make you watch Supersize Me!" McCoy threatened, crossing his arms over his chest and refusing to acknowledge the absurdity of the moment.
"It can't be that bad," Jim drew out his words, rolling his eyes dramatically as he flopped down, suddenly hidden from McCoy's vision as the back of the couch blocked his view.
"You will get fat," he warned him in a firm, even tone of voice that he used when advising his unwilling patients. "And then your ass won't look good in jeans anymore."
Aw, shit. Did he really just say that out loud?
"Wait," came the disembodied voice from the couch. Jim reemerged, looking over the back of the couch with a shit-eating grin plastered on his young face. "You think my ass looks good in jeans?"
"Dammit, Jim."
In the end, McCoy managed to convince Jim to go to the store so it was at least somewhat worth the slip up.
Food shopping with Jim was an event. Granted, almost any activity with Jim began an extreme event, one comparable to an Olympic sport.
McCoy grabbed a cart when they first got to the supermarket, but Jim had quickly intervened and offered to maneuver it instead. McCoy soon realized that it wasn't so much an offer of kindness as it was a chance for Jim to be in control.
Naturally.
The two men spent the better part of the hour going up and down the aisles with McCoy nose-deep in the sales paper, trying to decide what brand of pasta would save them the most money. The two of them debated greatly over what sort of cereal was the best (Jim: Lucky Charms. McCoy: Cinnamon Life.), if one or two percent milk was better, and whether or not it was worth it to buy the bagels of questionable age. Jim had been particularly difficult in the produce section as he more or less fondled all the cantaloupes until he found the one he wanted.
They were doing their final sweep of the store and McCoy had basically given up on reprimanding Jim for tossing in impulse buys. Besides, those chocolate cookies had looked pretty damn good.
Halfway down the pasta aisle, Jim sped up a little while exclaiming, "We need macaroni and cheese, please!"
"Are you five?" McCoy asked with sarcastic indulgence as he watched Jim contemplate the many boxes on the shelves.
"God no," Jim chuckled before glancing over his shoulder to give McCoy a wicked glance. "If so, a lot of people are pedophiles."
McCoy chose to ignore that as Jim laughed to himself and began tossing a few boxes of the shaped macaroni into the already-filled cart.
"No, get the regular kind," McCoy chided, reaching into the cart to pick up the offending boxes.
"What? No!" The way Jim cried out and stared at him, it was as though McCoy had just sprouted a third head. You know, after sprouting the second one. "Shaped is the best!"
"But there are less shaped macaroni in the box," McCoy said, trying to reason with the astonished man-child gaping at him from the other side of the cart. "See, the way they are shaped, you can fit more regular ones in the box. The awkwardly shaped ones take up more room and do not compress as well—"
"Oh, God. Shut up," Jim interrupted, holding his hand up as his facial expression revealed horrified shock. "You are really not this old, are you? We are getting shaped macaroni, no questions." He took the boxes from McCoy's hand and put them back in the cart, protecting them with his own hands so that McCoy wouldn't revoke his action. "You need this. It's like medication for you."
Jim spoke like a therapist, his tone of voice like a father placating his child. McCoy deadpanned before gruffing and walking away from the cart.
"I'm only agreeing to this because we have coupons for the Pokémon-shapes."
"Sh'marvelous," Jim said, the grin clear in his voice. "My favorite kind."
Once they had finally made it through all the aisles, picking up a spare item here and there, such as applesauce (or as Jim liked to call it, awesome-sauce), they made their way to the checkout lines.
"Ooh, Snickers!" Jim exclaimed, his blue eyes bright with excitement as he reached out for the coveted candy.
McCoy smacked his hand away, with a reproving frown that evoked a scoffed response from Jim who pouted and crossed his arms.
"You don't need it and they're overpriced here," the older man said, refusing to give in to Jim's childish behavior.
"You are such a killjoy," Jim muttered as he dug in his pockets for his credit card.
The cashier smiled amusedly at the two men as she totaled up their food.
"Well, aren't you two just the cutest couple?" she remarked as the men got into a hitting fight, smacking each other's hands as Jim continued to reach out for the Snickers.
…uh-whah?
McCoy stood stock-still, his eyes bulging as he stared at the cashier's bubbly smile. Before he could correct her though, Jim swung his arms around McCoy's shoulders and landed a wet, sloppy kiss on his cheek. McCoy could feel the scruff of Jim's day-old beard scratch his face and something stirred in his stomach.
Misinterpreting the feeling as disgust or confusion, he pushed Jim off of him and swiping his cheek with the back of his hand.
"Aw, look what a big show he makes in wiping off his cheek," Jim cooed with saccharine sweetness. He adjusted his body slightly with his back was to the cashier so that he could grin devilishly at McCoy. Then he placed a hand on McCoy's upper arm and clenched hard enough so that McCoy got the hint to stay quiet.
He tried to grin at the cashier, but had a feeling he looked more menacing than anything else. However, she was too busy laughing at their antics to really notice his expression.
Feeling dazed, he grabbed several bags of groceries and followed a beaming Jim out the door as the younger man wished the cashier to have a nice day. McCoy waited until they had completely exited the building before looking at his friend in bewilderment.
"Why the fuck did you kiss me?" he asked simply, not really sure how else to state the question.
Jim grinned and slowed his walk to a stop, placing the bags on the ground. He kept his eyes trained on McCoy, the blue glinting in the San Francisco sunlight, as he pulled a Snickers bar from his jacket pocket.
"With magic tricks," he explained with smugness, "it's all about the misdirection."
Then he tucked the candy bar away, picked up the bags, and the two men started their trek back to the apartment once more.
"Did you shoplift that?" McCoy started, unconsciously using the same tone of voice he used on Joanna whenever she had done something wrong.
"Yeah," Jim shrugged, looking amused by McCoy's reaction. "I mean, if I had given it to Lissie, then you would have noticed and would've bitched about my buying it."
Wait. Backtrack.
"Who's Lissie?" McCoy asked, momentarily diverted from the conversation at hand.
"The cashier! It was on her nametag. Get with the program, Bones!" Jim emphasized energetically, still clearly in good spirits from the trip to the grocery store. Though, for whatever reason, McCoy didn't know.
"So you stole from the store."
"Yes," Jim announced, his tone suddenly taking a dramatic air, his voice growing with passion with each listing. "And in all my years of living, that is clearly my deepest sin. Not the wasteful spending of my money. Not my insatiable sexual needs in high school. Not the many drugs I've done or the fights I've started. It was this memorable moment when I stole the ninety-nine cents Snickers bar." He allowed a moment of silence, his eyes shut tight as his face screwed up in extreme pathos. When he finally spoke again, his voice was low and tense. "I must find a church, confess, and repent my evil ways."
"Fucker," McCoy said, rolling his eyes.
Jim opened one eye to see McCoy walking away, not bothering to look at him. Jim laughed fully, his teeth white and shiny.
"Or, you know, the other option is that I just wanted to kiss you," he said slyly once his laughter subsided.
"Fucker," McCoy repeated, though this time with less conviction. Despite his best efforts to ignore Jim's irrational behavior, he found himself glancing over at the younger man who was still smiling beside him.
"Now c'mon," Jim said, leaning over slightly to nudge McCoy with his elbow. "We have to get these back to the apartment and we don't have a car. Cheapskate," he added under his breath.
"We've been over this," McCoy groaned, sick of Jim's repeated complaints about the damn car. "It wouldn't do well for our credit after just getting the apartment. Maybe in a few months or so."
The two continued to amiably bicker and debate the rest of the way home, the whole kiss-debacle forgotten. Well, mostly forgotten.
Jim had been acting strange lately. He spent a lot of time watching McCoy. Sometimes he watched McCoy when he thought the doctor didn't realize, but sometimes he was very blunt about watching him. He kept his eyes trained on him during random intervals around the apartment.
At first, McCoy hadn't minded. He was used to Jim's strange ways and oddities. But after a while, he felt a burning need to address it.
"Why the hell are you staring at me all the damn time?" he finally said one evening when they were cleaning up after dinner.
He stood at the sink and handed a newly washed salad bowl to Jim who took it in his hands and began to absent-mindedly dry it as he looked at McCoy contemplatively.
"You look nice today," he answered simply once the bowl was dried to his satisfaction and placed on the island behind him to be put away later.
"What? I remind you of one of your former sexual conquests?" he snapped, using a harsher voice than necessary. He didn't really know what compelled him to say that. Or why he even said it so strangely. It's not like Jim's staring really bothered him that much. It was just… a little unnerving.
Jim stared at him, his eyes wide and staggered. Then his jaw clenched as he threw the towel onto the counter and crossed his arms imposingly.
"Think back, Bones," he answered tightly, his tone on the defensive. "When's the last time I told you about one of my conquests?"
"Just the other day, you told me about some red-haired filly in high school," he shot back, remembering with a strange tension in his stomach that almost felt like jealousy, but he knew it couldn't be that.
"Well, shit, Bones," he barked, running his damp hands feverishly through his short hair. "If you're going to dangle all of my 'conquests' from my high school days against me, then I'm never going to have a chance."
It was McCoy's turn to be taken aback. He thought about Jim's statement, turning it over in his mind but unable to understand it. His voice was less angry when he spoke again, though still charged with pent-up emotion.
"What the hell do you mean by that?"
Jim avoided his glance, staring at the wall behind the doctor as his mouth opened and shut several times as though he wasn't sure what to say. Finally he snapped it closed, his lips pursed and he suddenly looked older for a moment as he reached for the towel again, drying off some utensils in front of him.
"Just forget it, okay?" he muttered, still avoiding McCoy's gaze.
"Jim," McCoy started regretfully, hating himself for causing a scene like this for something as innocent as Jim watching him and complimenting him.
"Forget it," Jim stressed, finally tearing his eyes away from the towel to look at McCoy.
The intense blue warned McCoy that it would be best to keep cleaning in silence.
I'm sorry.
He wrote in green highlighter on a blue Post-It because he knew Jim would appreciate the lack of use of the yellow highlighter. McCoy left the Post-It on Jim's bedroom door before leaving for his night shift at the hospital.
He returned from the hospital, tired, exhausted, and ready to just fall into his bed until his afternoon-evening shift later that day. Unsurprised by the silence in the apartment, he knew Jim had gone off to pilot school. Thursdays and Fridays, they didn't see each other much due to conflicting schedules.
McCoy dropped off his medical bag in the hallway closet, his shoulder aching after carrying it back from the hospital. He was just sleepy enough to consider Jim's proposal of getting a car. Hazy-minded with tiredness, he trudged to his bedroom.
He found a Post-It.
It's okay. :)
McCoy fell asleep on his bed, a smile on his face.
A week or so passed and things were back to normal. Sort of. Things had changed. There was some insignificant shift in the air, something McCoy could not define. But he was on edge, more aware of Jim than usual. He second-guessed his responses to even Jim's most basic questions, seeking a deeper meaning in everything the two of them said or did, or even what they did not say or do.
Jim's behavior did not change. Well, maybe it did. McCoy noticed all the little things Jim did now, the way his eyes followed him around or how his fingers lingered when he passed McCoy the remote. Had he always been that way? Had McCoy never noticed?
Even if he had never noticed, he couldn't bring himself to care much.
Jim broke through McCoy's musings as the sound of his rustling around in the hallway closet filled the nearby sitting room where McCoy was resting on the couch, supposedly reading a medical journal.
McCoy glanced at the clock on the wall beside him. 7:17. Jim had to catch the bus at seven-thirty to get to his pilot school which started at eight.
"A little early, aren't you?" he called over the back of couch. The bus station was on the corner near the apartment.
"I guess I'm just excited," he answered, practically squealing like a teenage girl.
Jim was going to be gone for the next few days for some program at the school that needed his full attention. He had been like a puppy, packing and eagerly telling McCoy over and over again about the program and the new flight patterns he was going to learn and everything. Apparently, he was going to bunk with his new friends he had met at the school: Montgomery Scott, Pavel Chekov, and Hikaru Sulu.
McCoy smiled to himself, pushing his glasses further up his nose as he tried to focus on the journal in his hands. He was soon interrupted by Jim's sudden presence by the couch. The doctor looked up to see Jim watching him expectantly.
"When I come back, let's go to a museum."
McCoy grunted. Museums weren't really his thing. Crying kids, annoyed parents, statutes and paintings he just couldn't wrap his mind around, little posts everywhere with facts that he had no intention of ever needing to know.
"Oh come on," Jim persuaded, correctly interpreting the grunt. "This is a big city and there's just so much to see here. I'll bet you've never left your apartment to do touristy things, have you?"
"Locals aren't tourists," McCoy answered. "If you had ever planted your ass somewhere for more than a week these past few years, you'd know that."
He didn't mean for that last sentence to sound so accusing. If Jim noticed the tone (which McCoy was sure he did because Jim noticed everything, dammit), he didn't choose to acknowledge it.
Instead, he moved over to the couch McCoy was half-lounged on, sitting way too close as always, his thigh touching McCoy's. He waited until McCoy turned to face him, looking into those blue eyes.
"When I get back, I want to go to a museum. We can go to whatever one you want," he promised, his face as hopeful as a child's.
"Fine," McCoy muttered after a moment, unable to stand up against those round eyes.
"Great!" Jim grinned like a kid in a candy store, bounding up from his seat.
The loss of warmth was surprisingly apparent to McCoy, but he kept his face straight, determined not to show it.
Jim strode across the room with his long legs, turning the corner to go out the front door.
He sighed in the emptiness of the room, unsure of what to do now that Jim was gone. Somehow, that man had managed to be a constant source of entertainment and company that McCoy was having trouble remembering what he did with his spare time before James T. Kirk randomly showed up.
When the front door didn't open and slam shut, McCoy looked back up at the entrance to the hallway, wondering what Jim was doing. He did not have to wait long for Jim quickly appeared.
"Hey, will you take ridiculously touristy pictures with me when we go to the museum?" he asked. The sparkle in his eye was proof enough to McCoy that Jim knew he was pushing it.
"Sure," McCoy relented. He wondered if he would ever be able to say no to that man-child.
Jim's expression was a mixture of amazement and glee. He nodded once and beamed brilliantly before turning to leave.
This time McCoy did hear the door slam shut and he winced.
"Told you a hundred times, don't slam the door," he grumbled into the air, knowing full well that Jim can't hear him.
In retrospect, McCoy knew he shouldn't have been too surprised. In the back of his mind, he had already prepared for Jim to return home with an injury. Hell, he even had his medic bag sitting next to him when Jim came through the front door to their apartment.
But still. It was Jim in an arm sling, a large bandage wrapped around the length of his arm, the white of his wrappings pristine against the slight tan of his skin.
He had called Jim an idiot and Jim took the insult gracefully (that is to say, he tried to deny it but failed to come up with any plausible excuse). After being reassured multiple times by the idiot in question that his cut was shallow and that the excess of bandages was just a precaution against him suing the school, McCoy finally asked him how it happened.
If he hadn't already thought Jim was an idiot…
Apparently, he and his new pilot school friend, Sulu, had thought it was a good idea to go sky diving with only the basics of training. And when McCoy asked why he did such a moronic act, Jim shrugged.
"He dared me."
"And you took him up on it? As a dare?" he asked incredulously.
Jim rolled his eyes and gave McCoy his best "have you met me" stare.
"Have you met me?" Jim reiterated vocally.
Jim had gone on to explain that Sulu's parachute was ripped and he ended up sky diving at Sulu. Thankfully, Jim's parachute was able to withstand their combined weight. They landed not-too-gracefully, but with the exception of a few cuts and bruises, no major damage had been done. McCoy figured it was about as close to a miracle as he was ever going to see.
Jim laughed for a while, regailing McCoy with the dramatic details. He had been talking for nearly an hour, the skies becoming darker and darker outside the windows around them. Finally there was a lull in his monologue during which both men sighed and collected their thoughts. Then Jim broke the atmosphere with a rather sobering statement.
"I thought we were going to die."
"Well, you clearly didn't die since you're standing right here," McCoy commented, trying to bring the humor back to the conversation. It must have worked on some level because Jim smirked.
"Maybe I'm just an over-concentrated ghost."
He held his hand out to McCoy, palm reaching out to him. McCoy wasn't sure why, but somehow his hand had a mind of its own and pressed itself firmly against the younger man's hand. It was warm and just a little calloused, slightly smaller than his own. Definitely not the hand of a ghost, but the hand of someone living and breathing and smiling just so. Just as he was about to pull away, Jim laced his fingers through his, capturing McCoy's hand from moving.
McCoy couldn't bring himself to mind that much.
"So, as I was saying," Jim continued blithely, as though their hand-holding was nothing out of the ordinary.
Well, that had been a disaster.
Alright, to recap:
A few days after Jim came back from the pilot school, he reminded McCoy about going to the museum. And by remind, it meant he whined like a little brat. ("You promised we would go to a museum!") So, to appease his friend and to make good on his promise, McCoy agreed to go to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.
And it had been hell. Who the fuck decides what is or isn't art? Judging by the crap in the museum, his daughter was a fucking artistic genius from the tender age of two with her scribbles on scrap paper. He had voiced his thoughts to Jim, who, generally, disregarded McCoy's comments with a laugh and a joke about how he was just an old man.
But apparently, the awkwardness that had existed before Jim's departure for pilot school was still in play.
Jim had rebuffed McCoy's comments, acting moody and silent. His mood progressively grew worse as the hours passed in the museum. McCoy eventually got the hint and stopped complaining as it really wasn't as much fun without Jim's playful rebuttal.
But still. That tangible awkwardness was still there from the fight while they had been washing dishes. It had seemed so long ago. Was it really only a matter of a few days? McCoy couldn't figure it out.
They cut their evening at the art museum short, both of them wordlessly agreeing that it would be best to just go home and pretend that the trip never happened.
Or at least, McCoy assumed they would just pretend the trip never happened. Jim, as it would seem, had other plans.
"We've been friends for a while now, right?" Jim commented pensively from his usual spot on the couch.
"Yeah. Probably close to a year now. Maybe more than year," McCoy replied from the kitchen table in the adjoining room where he was peering over medical records from the past week. He smirked before glancing over at the back of Jim's head. "Can't say I marked the day on my calendar."
Jim did not respond to the amiable teasing and only continued talking in that thoughtful voice, his head purposely facing away from McCoy.
"I bet you never expected me to stay in your life for this long."
"I never expected to see you again after elbowing you in the eye," McCoy said honestly, starting to wonder where this conversation was going.
"It's surprising we've made such a great friendship from such a strange start."
"I guess," he shrugged. Yeah. Definitely wondering where this conversation was going.
"Some people would call that fate," Jim called out, uncharacteristically lacking the usual charm he used when saying ridiculous things.
"Some people are fruits," McCoy returned, placing his pen and glasses down on the table as he gave Jim his full attention.
When Jim finally turned around on the couch to face McCoy, he had a perplexed expression etched across his young face.
"Bones, are you happy being alone?"
"I'm not alone," he protested with a hint of indignation in his tone. "I have you and Joanna."
"That's not what I mean. I don't mean a friendship or a daughter." Jim paused, licking his lips briefly and staring intently at McCoy. If it were anyone else, McCoy would have thought Jim was nervous. But Jim didn't do nervous. If anything, he was pausing for theatrics. "Don't you want something else?"
"Want what?"
Jim frowned, his face both thoughtful and frustrated. His eyes cast about the room as though looking around for the right way to explain his thoughts. After a moment, he turned back to McCoy and spoke in a more level voice.
"Did you see that couple at the museum? The ones holding hands?" He waited until McCoy nodded in recognition before continuing. "They weren't being gushy or anything, they were just talking about the different exhibits, the different facts they read. But they were holding hands and just enjoying each other's company."
"Eh, it's not always as nice as it seems," McCoy assured him darkly, thinking of Jocelyn.
He realized that Jim was just feeling lonely. It had, after all, been a while since he last went on a date, surprisingly enough. He turned back to his work, his hand hovering over his glasses when Jim called out again and distracted him.
"Hey Bones?"
"Yeah?" McCoy said wearily, removing his hand from his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose.
"I like you."
"I like you, too," he told his friend, still pinching his nose, "but if you're going to get all mushy, we're going to need to watch some action films to balance it all out."
He looked over at Jim with a joking expression only to find the younger man staring at him more seriously than he had ever looked before. McCoy's hand fell from his face as he stared back at Jim with concern.
"That's not what I meant. I mean, I like you," he repeated, stressing the verb like it was a secret code. "Like, I like you-like you."
"You know, I think I told that to Jocelyn once in fourth grade," he said with a weak chuckle, trying to bring some humor back into the conversation. He didn't think he was ready to talk to Jim about this.
"Bones, I'm serious," Jim annunciated clearly, his tone and expression clarifying his words. He stood up from the couch and walked assuredly to the kitchen table and sat across from McCoy.
This couldn't be happening. It just couldn't. Could it? It would explain so much. McCoy's inner monologue continued until he finally heard himself speak.
"How long have you felt this way?" Was his voice really that husky? Was the sound really that trapped in his throat?
"Honestly?" Jim asked, raising his eyebrows. He paused once more, thinking back. "Remember that day on the subway when you elbowed me in the eye?"
"That was the first day we met," McCoy reiterated, his eyes growing wide with incredulity. "Since then?"
"No," Jim insisted, shaking his hands in front of him as a physical representation of his denial. "That's when I first thought you were hot."
McCoy waited for Jim to wink or raise his eyebrows suggestively, but he did no such thing. He just kept talking, still serious in his demeanor.
"I started to think you were pretty cool when you remembered me later that day when I called out to you. You remembered me. That means something." Jim trailed off softly, his eyes bright and hazy under the influence of the mood and the kitchen lights.
"From the first day," McCoy muttered, hardly able to believe his ears.
"Maybe," Jim relented. "That doesn't matter though, does it? I mean, I know how I feel now. That matters." His voice was strained, trying to verbally prove something that McCoy wasn't sure if he was ready to accept. "Sometimes, like when we first met and sometimes in moments like now, you make me feel like I was walking up a flight of stairs and I missed a step. And all of a sudden, my perception has been changed, my legs lock up, and my stomach falls down to my knees."
"What about the other times?" he asked, painfully aware of just how much he understood what Jim was talking about. His heart seemed to fall into his twisted, churning stomach.
"The other times, I feel differently."
There was a glimmer of his old annoyance under his confusion as McCoy thought to himself, well obviously.
"Differently how?" The annoyance colored his words only slightly, though Jim of course picked up on it.
"I don't know how to explain it without another simile," he admitted. "And even though you didn't make fun of me for my last simile, I know you were only just holding back a sarcastic comment." He gave McCoy a Look, one eyebrow raised accusingly.
"Just say it," McCoy sighed, prodding Jim along.
"Fine," Jim huffed, crossing his arms. A moment passed in silence as McCoy stared at Jim's face as the younger man composed his simile. Jim's face was scrunched up thoughtfully before the lines on his forehead smoothed out and he could finally speak. "Other times you make me feel like I do after a big meal. Warm, full, content."
It was quiet. The two men stared at each other, each waiting for the other to say something. McCoy couldn't feel the seat under his ass, the floor under his feet. The distance between them at the table seemed too far away and too close, all at once. And even as he was trying to understand the possibilities of that particular situation, Jim was speaking again.
"You make me want to feel like that all the time." His voice was low, quiet, sincere. Where was the brash, loud, obnoxiously funny man that McCoy was used to? He wanted that person back.
"What about you?" Jim asked, clearly not understand McCoy's contorted expression.
"Why are you telling me this now?" he responded, sidestepping Jim's question.
His avoidance did not go unnoticed by Jim if the thinning of his lips was any indication. Still, Jim answered the question, but with much bravado and gusto as a contrast to his previously calm inflection.
"Because I can't stop feeling this way!" he nearly exploded, standing up suddenly from the table. "I can't hold it in anymore. I didn't say anything when we first met because I thought you wouldn't like me that way."
"I don't," McCoy said, though the words got stuck in his throat and he really wasn't surprised at all that Jim didn't hear him.
"And then I didn't say anything because of the whole Jocelyn thing. The wedding and all." Jim began pacing in their kitchen, his eyes not really looking at McCoy anymore. McCoy instantly missed the comfort of staring into the blue and stood up from his seat almost involuntarily. "I wanted to give you space, but I just simply don't want to anymore."
With his last words, he turned around and stared at McCoy, momentarily taken aback by McCoy's standing stance. He regained his composure, his expression pleading and defensive all at once as he crossed his arms across his chest and waited for McCoy's response.
"Jim," he started slowly, his voice still catching in his throat. "I'm sorry, but I really don't like you that way."
"I think you're lying!" Jim yelled, his hands clenched into fists as they fell to his sides.
"I'm not!" McCoy insisted, all throat-catching disappeared with Jim's reaction.
This was insane, McCoy realized. All they needed was some footstomping and maybe someone sucking their thumb to make this a full-out temper tantrum.
"You call me and text me and leave me silly little Post-It notes," Jim shot at him, ticking off each item with a finger as thought to emphasis the ridiculous point he was making. "You take care of me when I'm sick, you danced with me at the wedding." Here, he paused again. Though, this time it was not for dramatic effect. McCoy watched, mesmerized, the frantic rise and fall of Jim's chest as he breathed heavily, trying to calm himself down. When he spoke again, he kept his voice even, though he did not lose any of the raw emotion from his tone. "At Christmas, right before you punched me for kissing you, you kissed me back."
"I was drunk," McCoy denied, his own voice flat except for the hint of a growl under his breath.
Jim made a disbelieving face, but continued speaking as though McCoy hadn't so much as moved a muscle.
"You made me want to change my life. I wanted to stop wasting money and start focusing on the future. You made me grow up," he announced, gesturing down at himself as though he were all grown up now. "I needed that, I needed you. I still need you. You make me feel like I am finally doing something with my life." He stopped, took a step towards McCoy. McCoy thought about taking a step backwards to avoid Jim, but found himself unable to move, stuck staring into Jim's emblazoned eyes.
"You make me feel like I'm a good person," Jim continued, still staring at McCoy as though examining his soul. "I haven't felt like a good person in a long time." He swallowed, licked his lips. And with a rare note of desperation, he asked, "Think about it, Bones, what do I make you want to do?"
McCoy couldn't move. He couldn't speak or think or do anything except stare at Jim and breathe heavily.
Jim just stood there as he had always stood there for the past year. Arrogant, defiant, consistent, too damn smart for his own good, unpredictable, loyal, hysterical, so-fucking-gorgeous.
"You make me want to throw things," was all he could say in a rough whisper.
And there, in the middle of their kitchen, in the middle of their fight, McCoy moved forward. Jim took a second to respond before the two men met in the middle, grabbing each other like lifelines as their lips finally, finally met.
Finally. Thank you for reading! As always, I would love to know what you think!