fic: blue eyes
prompt: blue eyes
rating: pg-13
warnings:
word count: 1956
disclaimer: what, like i own anything?
author's note: written for the drinks flash challenge atjim_and_bones . also i can't html so...
Fill the cocktail shaker with ice.
Everyone always forgets to mention it, but it’s damn hot on Tawnrosa. Which is fine, because it’s just beautiful. And they get to be here for over a week.
This is hardly a difficult mission; in fact, it’s hardly a mission at all. They’re here primarily to smooth over a glitch that went through the main core a week ago. Spock and his team are busy working with the power base in the main city, and the Enterprise is docked at the nearest space station while Scotty repairs everything from minor cosmetic damage to missing engine parts.
Jim glances at Bones, and smiles. “Slow down there, champ. Ice-cube chewing is a sign of the crazies.”
Not true. “Anemia,” Bones replies, too hot to bother arguing. Which is also not true-they cured anemia ages ago-but Jim’s got his curious eyes on today and Bones really doesn’t want to start a real conversation right now. “Anyway, I’m out of water.”
“I’ll get you some.” Jim takes the glass from Bones’s protesting hands and goes to fill it with water, coming back with a full glass and pushing it towards him. “Never say I don’t do anything for you.”
“Hmmph,” grumps Bones, but he takes a sip and the cool water slipping down his throat feels like the brush of light fingers, leaving shivers in their wake.
Add the vodka.
“Fuck,” Jim swears, grimacing. “This shit goes down hard.” He sprawls back in his chair and closes his eyes, the sweat collecting on his forehead. After the negotiations this morning they’ve been free to explore, but the heat makes it almost unbearable. So Jim sprawled out on his balcony overlooking the ocean and made the official decision to not move until absolutely necessary. And Bones had showed up with Tawnrosy booze.
So here they are.
Bones is nearly three sheets to the wind, his head lolling back against the wall. He grins at the sunset, eyes hooded, and watches Jim take another sip straight from the bottle. It’s enthralling, the way his throat bobs, the slight ‘ah’ he makes afterward. The way he thrusts his tongue out just briefly between the seam of his lips.
“Oh,” says Bones. Jim turns to him questioningly, his eyes ice blue, and against the backdrop of the dark purple-blue ocean they stand out almost blindingly, making Bones grab for the booze and take another swig.
Add the Sweet and sour mix.
Day three brings bad news: the power core is backfiring, and while the Enterprise team is still working day and night to get it under control, the Tawnrosy government is upset, wanting someone to blame. Starfleet is naturally the fallguy, and Jim spends all day in talks with the president and comes back clearly exhausted.
“How’d it go?” Bones asks, from the desk. He’s been back for just a few minutes-there aren’t many things for a doctor to do on this planet, which is almost as advanced as the ‘fleet, but he’s been touring their top medical facilities, since Jim doesn’t need him.
Jim, actually, does seem to need him. Or, at least, Bones’s alcohol, which he practically dives at. “Worst. Day. Ever,” Jim mutters against the glass, settling down amongst the pillows of his bed. He looks like shit, to be honest, not because of anything in particular, since Jim rarely actually looks like shit. But Bones can tell by the way he blinks just a little slower and he doesn’t seem capable of keeping his head completely straight on his shoulders.
“That bad, huh?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Bones looks down. “Okay, well, uh,” he says, feeling unexpectedly like someone punched him in the gut. “Should I, ah, leave?”
Jim shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.” But he puts his glass down on the table next to the bed and closes his eyes.
Sometimes Bones doesn’t know how to handle Jim, can’t find a going-forward point in the sadness that fills Jim unexpectedly. Sometimes he just has to follow him and hope for the best.
Now is not one of those times. He crawls onto the bed and lies down next to Jim, tugging at his shoulders. “C’mere.”
Jim blinks at him, eyes a dark grey-blue, and for a moment Bones does really think that he’ll let Bones bundle him into his arms. But then he turns away and reaches for his drink again, taking a sip before he says, “I changed my mind. You should leave.”
Never let it be said that Jim Kirk is a man who doesn’t get what he wants.
He doesn’t, however, operate on the same principle when it comes to what he needs.
Add the Battery energy drink.
…Aaaaaaaaaand that’s when it all goes to shit.
Bones doesn’t get the full story until they’re back on the ship. What he does get is a blast text on his communicator from Jim:
Code Alpha Alpha Three-Nine:
All crewmembers return to ship. Effective immediately.
And a personal one:
get your shit onboard NOW bones
So Bones does. The nearest shuttle is manned by Riaden, who works in Sickbay and daydreams too much. Bones holds onto the nearest shuttle part and tries not to think about that.
Onboard there still isn’t much to do, since they’re not under fire. Bones is too antsy to stay in Sickbay or his quarters, so, unsure whether or not he’s on duty, he heads to the Bridge.
It’s a flurry of activity. Chekov and Spock have their heads together, writing equations on the glass, ignoring everything else. Sulu’s fingers are flying across the console. Jim won’t sit down, too busy barking instructions at ensigns who flurry off afterwards. Bones stands back, unsure how to help, not wanting to be in the way.
Jim sees him, gives him a small, awkward smile in between breaths, his eyes bright and in charge despite what his face is doing. Then he’s turning away, bellowing, “WHEN EVERYONE’S ON BOARD I WANT TO BE NOTIFIED,” and urging Sulu to hail the planet below, and Bones is adrift.
Shake well.
Bones pulls Rand aside. “What the hell’s going on?”
“They released something like ten thousand metric tons of an unknown gas into the atmosphere. We’re pretty sure nobody’s affected but-“
“Goddamnit! Did no one think to tell me?” Letting go of Rand’s arm, he marches at Jim. “Give me authorization for a ship-wide broadcast.”
“For what reason.” Jim asks him over the head of a particularly short ensign, who shoves a padd into his hands. Since gaining the captaincy, Jim’s become king of multitasking. Sometimes it really pisses Bones off. Like now, for instance, when the whole ship might be infected with who-knows-what and no one considered alerting the goddamned CMO about it-
“Calm down, Doctor,” Jim orders, voice official, eyes stern. “Authorization granted.”
“Gee, thanks,” replies Bones, heading out into the lift, feeling like the eighteenth wheel.
His broadcast goes something like this:
Crew, this is your CMO. Probably you’re all too busy working your asses off to consider your health, but I swear to god if you feel like something’s off, anything at all, and you don’t come down to Sickbay, I will personally inject you with-
After which he gets cut off by a bitch-faced Uhura, who slams the ‘stop’ button and says, “Now is not the time.”
Add the blue curacao liqueur.
As it turns out, the chemical is triziatoperane, something Bones has worked with before. “Convenient,” he mutters sarcastically, sending orders down to the science labs for a whole batch of the anti-drug.
The first person to come in with symptoms is a twitchy little Engineer. She holds up her arm and shows him the rash, and he is so glad he went to the class on this instead of skipping it to go drinking with Jim because it means he doesn’t have to pause, can simply jab her with the hypo and send her over to Chapel for the rest.
Over the next couple of hours he gets around thirty patients, which pisses him off more, because there are four hundred people on the goddamned ship and he knows that there’s no way all three-seventy of them were somehow immune. Chekov sends out a broadcast informing the crew that they’re far enough away from the planet so as to be safe from the planet’s weaponry, and that the Bridge Crew is doing all they can to rectify what will be sure to be a galaxary incident.
Bones snorts at that, startling his current patient.
Jim doesn’t come in until it’s almost twelve hours later, and Bones decides not to berate him, because he looks even worse than he did yesterday: eyes like bruises in his face, hair disheveled, posture slumped. Instead, he presses the hypo with less force than usual into Jim’s neck and then a kiss directly after that.
“Uh,” says Jim.
“Sorry,” says Bones.
Jim doesn’t look at him when he stands up. “We’ve got the situation under control,” he says, voice like gravel, “Starfleet Command is sending a group of diplomats to soothe things over. I’m not qualified for that job.”
If he’s looking for sympathy, Bones has none, not for that particular pity-party. “You’re shit at diplomacy, Jim,” he says, “But that doesn’t make you a bad captain.”
Jim’s hand on his shoulder is brief, but heavy.
Mix gently.
Everything returns to normality in a few days. Occasionally, embarrassed crewmembers straggle in, covered with the rash, and Bones wastes too much time berating them for not putting their health first. But for the most part, Sickbay is mostly empty.
After shift he gets a comm from Jim: i’m sunburnt. help.
“What?” Bones frowns down at his padd, because he was with Jim for most of their ill-fated semi-shore leave, and he’d worn sunscreen. “What?”
Feeling stupid, he still grabs some aloe from the supply room.
The door opens for him when he gets to Jim’s quarters, where Jim is sitting, perfectly healthy, thank you very much, on his bed. He grins when Bones gets inside, his blue eyes crinkling. “Hey, man.”
“You’re not sunburnt, you ass.”
Jim sighs and sits forward, puts his hands on his knees. Then he pushes up and stands, comes closer to Bones. “Listen, man, I was kind of a dick, before.”
It strikes Bones suddenly the absurdity of the situation. Jim’s just spent the last couple of days dealing with a whole fucking planet’s menstrual cycle, basically, and he’s worried that he might have pissed his friend off? He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. You had things on your mind.”
“No,” Jim says, “About Sickbay. Or-“
Pour into a highball glass and enjoy.
Whereupon Jim steps forward and kisses him, and Bones jumps just a little and lets his mouth fall open accidentally, and of course Jim takes advantage of this, his tongue soft against his own. Bones doesn’t mean to but his hands slip under Jim’s shirt seeking bare skin, press flat against Jim’s abdomen.
Bones pulls away and Jim makes a whining sound, eyes flying open and goddamn, Bones may be a sort of connoisseur of Jim’s eyes but he’s never seen them like this: pupil blown fat, the blue of his eyes nearly gone. Trained on him. It’s heady.
“I need a drink,” he says, stepping back and glancing toward the bar. “What do you want?”
“I don’t know,” says Jim, his voice a little off, “Whatever you want.”
Bones eyes the alcohol. And then he turns around. “You know what? Maybe we could do something else instead.”
The way Jim’s eyes light up completely makes up for all the shit that’s gone down this week.