Bones and Bourbon

"Frankly, Captain, you look like shit."

McCoy hardly seemed to spare Kirk a glance as the latter came into Sickbay, but his eyebrows had drawn together forebodingly. Kirk wanted to turn right then, to leave without a single look back. But he had done a full workout – driven more than he had been in a long, long time – and followed it with a swim that left every muscle quivering.

He was beyond tired. (Exhausted. Utterly spent.) He had been light-headed in the shower.

Now, he leaned against the doorframe; and watched Bones, frowning, turn to the cabinet behind his desk. Suddenly, sitting – and letting Bones rage at him – seemed a whole lot easier than making his way back to his own quarters and being alone with his thoughts.

He sat.

Bones was turning back, that habitual frown still creasing his face. He glanced at Jim, and hurriedly put the bottle down. Swiftly, he came around the desk, gave him a more-than-cursory look, then sank onto the edge of the desk.

"Jesus, Jim," he muttered. His arms crossed. "You eat anything today?"

"Yeah. I ate." Jim was determined not to think… Ugh, his stomach started to rebel. He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. He tried to relax his neck – but trying didn't make it so.

"Uh-huh."

No sympathy here. Just as well: Jim wasn't sure he deserved any.

After a minute, McCoy's boots shifted, and moved from sight. He heard the sound of a chair being pulled up next to him; then Bones sat, and a hand was at his shoulder. He looked up.

McCoy nodded. "That's right; breathe."

The Doctor's cool palm was on his forehead then; fingers examining his neck, his throat. Kirk breathed.

McCoy had gone to get a Feinberger, and Jim focused on his breathing while the doctor came back and did whatever reading he was determined to do. 'Focused on his breathing' – how fucking lame was that? But it seemed he'd been doing that a lot lately, too.

Bones nodded at whatever the device told him, and dropped the instrument on his desk. He was leaning again, on its edge. "Feeling better?"

Jim slumped limply back into the chair, then thought about it for a second. Was he feeling better? He lifted his eyes to McCoy's and shrugged.

McCoy eyed him a moment, his expression softening, maybe, just a little. "Bad as that?" He went around his desk, dropping into the arm chair opposite. He fished around in a drawer and came up with two shot glasses. Cracking open the bottle, he poured a shot for each of them, pushed Jim's toward him.

Jim had to sit up to reach for it; McCoy watched him appraisingly. Jim met his eyes, looked away. "Not just 'routine,' then," the doctor stated, with a tiny grunt. "Ensign Bailey?" McCoy picked up his own shot and gazed into it, reading something in its amber glow. "Something happen at the Base I don't know about? Spock being a pain in the ass?" The doctor swirled the glass a little, stared again into its depths. "Some girl reject you, upsetting the delicate balance of the universe as we know it?" He raised the glass, started to take a sip, then glanced at Jim over the rim. The untouched drink was lowered to the surface of the desk, and McCoy was again looking at him intently.

"All the above?"

Jim grimaced and threw back the shot, not caring if Bones frowned at that, now, or not.

"Huh." Bones threw back his own, his face contorting unconsciously in reaction to its raw bite. When Kirk didn't answer, he picked up the bottle and came around the desk. "If you don't want to tell your friend, or your doctor," he said, refilling Jim's glass where it perched on the desk's surface, "maybe you'll tell your bartender." He leaned back and refilled his own, then put the bottle down right next to Jim's.

Jim collected his drink, cradled it in his palms.

"You sure you ate something?" The Southern drawl was a little more pronounced, the tone a little gentler. When he nodded, McCoy's hand dropped to his shoulder for an instant; then the doctor went back and reclaimed his chair. After a second, he slid down in his seat, propped his boots on the desk.

"Yeah, Bones, I ate." Jim could taste the bitterness in the words. In one motion, he downed the bourbon and dropped the empty on the desk. This time he could feel the burn.

"Right. Well, I gotta say: Doesn't seem to be agreeing with you, Jim. Didn't notice: What was it, tuna salad?" McCoy frowned again, then downed his own.

"Chicken soup."

And he couldn't help it: A wracking sob escaped him.

(A small silence.)

Maybe they could ignore that. (He was just so fucking tired.)

Once more, without a word, Bones came around to the chair next to his. An arm was draped comfortably across his shoulders, and there was a welcome sound of more bourbon pouring.

"Gonna be a long night, Captain," McCoy's voice growled. His arm tightened for a second, releasing when he laughed a little, the tiniest touch of dry humor edging in at the end. "Good thing the bottle's new."