Fic: Saved (6/?)
Title: Saved (6/?)
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy, background McCoy/Jocelyn at the beginning
Rating: R (Drug and Alcohol reference/abuse, violence, foul language, etc.)
Summary: What was Jim doing, those years before Pike found him? What if he'd met Bones a little sooner?
Author's Note: Yay another! This one is unbeta'd -- I tried to proofread as best as I could, so my apologies for any errors. They're all my fault. :P
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek in any form, and I especially don't own Jim and Bones. Which is probably a good thing. I'm just havin' fun.
One | Two | Three | Four | Five
Jim couldn't keep his good behavior up for very long. The next day, he'd gone and gotten another little bottle; This one, though, he used sparingly and guarded carefully. He made it through a few days on just a light buzz, enough to raise Bones' overly acrobatic and annoyingly concerned eyebrows, but not enough to make him comment. Jim's bruises and aches started to heal, and McCoy made sure to get a few good meals into him. He was almost functioning and healthy. Hell, he'd even showered. He swore the water had turned brown around his feet, but he was probably exaggerating. His hair was combed, he smelled like soap, and there was a little more clarity shining out of his blue eyes when he talked to people. He was almost fit for society, if not for operating heavy machinery.
Bones had tried to talk him into getting new clothing, and washing what he had. Jim hadn't really gone for the idea; His clothes were all he had, besides whatever was in his bag. He didn't care if they were fit for fine dining, they kept him covered, and that was what clothes were supposed to do. Still, after hours of bickering and complaining, Bones had talked Jim into sitting around in a borrowed shirt and pajama pants while his clothing was cleaned. Bones had even insisted his socks and underwear go in the pile for washing. He'd also ignored all of Jim's crude jokes about Bones wanting his underwear, which was just unfair, really. How was he supposed to entertain himself without a little cooperation?
Jim'd never felt so bizarrely comfortable and completely unsettled at the same time. Bones' clothing was just a little too big, shirt baggy and the hems of the pants hanging over his feet. It was comfortable, and smelled faintly like the other man - or, at least, it smelled like his detergent. It wasn't a bad smell, and Jim was torn between snuggling into the couch and the clean clothes, and pacing the room until his own things were given back to him.
“Just sit the hell down and let me make dinner.” Bones had growled good-naturedly, before disappearing to the kitchen. Jim sat cross-legged on the couch, looking around the living room (But not touching anything - Last thing he needed to do was knock something over and get into trouble in the house.). The place was full of elegant pseudo-antique furniture, knickknacks, and images in silver frames. There were carefully matched throw pillows on the couch and chairs. There was even a comfortable, distinguished-looking rocking chair. It smelled faintly like vanilla candles and old wood, the floorboards creaked as Bones shuffled around the kitchen and livingroom, and it had the air of the perfect home for a nice, small family. It was neat, and tidy, and it was old world European, straight out of a better home and garden holo. It was beautiful. It was... not Bones.
“When's your wife coming home, anyway?” He called out to the kitchen.
There was a short pause before Bones answered back, “Dunno. She said she figured they'd be about a week, week and a half.”
Jim grunted. He wasn't an idiot, especially not when he was (mostly) sober. He knew Bones had originally said she'd be gone the weekend. He had heard Bones answer his comm in the laundry room, but hadn't heard what had been said. Now, Bones sounded strained - like he didn't wanna talk about it anymore. All right then, don't mention the wife.
“Should be outta here by then.” Jim offered, hoping to ease the tension a little bit. It made him itch.
Bones glanced over at him, brow furrowed. Jim had started to notice that he did that a lot, and he could measure how much Bones disapproved of what he'd said by how deep the line between his eyebrows seemed to be. “If you're sure.”
Jim didn't know how to tell him that he wasn't sure, that he had no idea how to be sure when Bones was feeding him, letting him sleep there, being actually worthwhile company. He was starting to like the guy, starting to think he didn't really want to leave. If nothing else, that was sure as hell a sign to get out of town. He was starting to like the doctor. He wanted to be his friend, and Jim got the feeling Bones wasn't the type to let a friend barrel off into the unknown without any way of keeping contact. Jim couldn't stay here. He'd get too comfortable, winding around Bones' life like a stray tomcat, and he'd never get away again. It sounded like it could only end in flames.
“I doubt your wife'd approve of your choice in house guests.” He said, carelessly. He realized a moment too late what he'd jusy told himself a moment before - don't mention the wife. He looked up and met Leonard's angry gaze, the other man scowling deeply and staring at Jim from where he leant on the back of an all-too-elegant looking armchair, his fingers starting to curl into fists. Jim fought the urge to flinch or cringe, keeping Bones' gaze, refusing to drop eye contact until the other man started to shout, or swing fists. Instead, a little of the life seemed to ebb out of him, and he looked away first, closing his eyes.
“Yeah, well, Jocelyn's opinion ain't the only one in this house.” He said, straightening and returning to the kitchen, avoiding Jim's eyes.
Jim resolutely doesn't mention that the house, as far as he can tell, is full of Jocelyn's things. Jocelyn's furniture, Jocelyn's pictures, her coat on the hook by the door, her things on the shelves. Not a single thing besides Bones' clothing and a pair of work boots by the door seem like they could belong to the man. Even the kids in the photos are light haired, hazel eyed, \Bones' eyes (And eyebrows, poor girls) and Jocelyn's smile. Jocelyn's hair. Jocelyn's chin. Jim wants to ask what Bones has for his own, but he's worried it'll amount to about the same amount of shit Jim has, with the addition of the truck out in the yard. Jim wants to know why she's away so long, and why she took their kids but not her husband. People go on trips. He knows that. Hell, he knows better than anybody that just because someone's left you behind, it doesn't mean they don't care. A week wasn't that long to be away at all. He'd slink out of the house before she came back, and let Bones slide back into his old, picture-perfect life. At least, he hoped it was, but it wasn't any of his business anyway.
Dinner was quiet. Leonard seemed to have decided the couch was Jim's for the duration of his stay, and sat in the armchair instead. Jim picked at his food, slowly eating it all. Bones had busted out the beer for the meal, and that bottle was all that kept Jim from diving for the other one in his backpack, or from digging even deeper to see what else he could find. He hated tense meals, and this one was a hell of an example. He tried to strike up playful banter every now and then, but Bones just looked dead tired and bit off a one- or two-word reply. It was driving Jim crazy. When they finally washed up and Bones headed upstairs, Jim pulled his bottle out of his bag and made plans to spend the next night somewhere else, if he could. He needed a break from this, whatever it was. Whatever it was turning into.
He drank himself to sleep, and didn't notice in the morning when Bones padded down the stairs and carefully took the half-empty bottle from his hand, capping it with an easy twist and setting it on the ground before he went to start the coffee. Bones made sure Jim's coffee was strong and black, enough to wake him up and help the hypo Bones had already made up to cut through the inevitable hangover. He made his own coffee Irish. He set Jim's cup on the table by the couch, trusting the smell to wake the younger man, and started on his morning routine.
Jim was up by the time Bones was about finished getting ready. They started their usual day all over again, and Jim wasn't sure how he felt about having a routine. Bones went to work, Jim hit the streets, and come the end of Bones' shift he'd be in the same place he always was, waiting for his ride 'home'. He was, technically, winning the dare. He wasn't in trouble. He hadn't been anything more than a little tipsy for days. He hadn't gotten in a fight. He hadn't done much of anything, really.
It was driving him crazy.
He needed to break pattern, dare or no dare. He hated losing, yeah, but losing a stupid dare wasn't much in comparison to the overpowering need to go and do whatever he wanted, with whoever he wanted, wherever he wanted, on whatever he wanted. Tonight, he needed something different from going back to a nice, clean house and having a nice dinner and going to bed, he wanted something exciting, something he wasn't supposed to do, anything to get the adrenaline in his body moving. Something different.
He wasn't there when Bones stopped to pick him up that night. He was in somebody else's house - He didn't know them, he'd just met them outside a bar, been invited, thought why the hell not and this is exactly what he needed, had just wandered over to their house in the middle of a party that was spilling out of both ends of the house. The backyard had a huge fire pit blazing, there was enough alcohol that the hosts were sharing and not charging, which Jim thought was awful nice of them, and most of the guests were being fairly free with their less legal substances, as well. In a matter of hours, Jim was as high as a kite and drunk off his ass, lounging on a couch and watching the ebb and flow of people around the party. He leaned his head back against the arm of the couch, smiling at whoever wandered by. This was great. He was warm, he was comfortable, he couldn't really feel his extremities, and everybody seemed relaxed and happy, and unlikely to punch him in the face. Always a plus. A pipe passed by, and Jim didn't really notice if he'd taken a hit or not. Someone asked him if he wanted another shot, and well, of course he did. He heaved himself off of the couch and staggered after them.
Shots had turned into following some guy and a girl to a bedroom - He wasn't sure if it belonged to either of them, or who actually lived in this house, anyway. The sex had been lazy and calm, and each of them had probably broken down into a giggling fit at some point during, but it was good. He fell asleep on the floor after rolling off of the bed, and someone had eventually prodded him awake and persuaded him to move to a couch. He sprawled across that - And maybe across another person, he wasn't sure - and slept soundly.
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy, background McCoy/Jocelyn at the beginning
Rating: R (Drug and Alcohol reference/abuse, violence, foul language, etc.)
Summary: What was Jim doing, those years before Pike found him? What if he'd met Bones a little sooner?
Author's Note: Yay another! This one is unbeta'd -- I tried to proofread as best as I could, so my apologies for any errors. They're all my fault. :P
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek in any form, and I especially don't own Jim and Bones. Which is probably a good thing. I'm just havin' fun.
One | Two | Three | Four | Five
Jim couldn't keep his good behavior up for very long. The next day, he'd gone and gotten another little bottle; This one, though, he used sparingly and guarded carefully. He made it through a few days on just a light buzz, enough to raise Bones' overly acrobatic and annoyingly concerned eyebrows, but not enough to make him comment. Jim's bruises and aches started to heal, and McCoy made sure to get a few good meals into him. He was almost functioning and healthy. Hell, he'd even showered. He swore the water had turned brown around his feet, but he was probably exaggerating. His hair was combed, he smelled like soap, and there was a little more clarity shining out of his blue eyes when he talked to people. He was almost fit for society, if not for operating heavy machinery.
Bones had tried to talk him into getting new clothing, and washing what he had. Jim hadn't really gone for the idea; His clothes were all he had, besides whatever was in his bag. He didn't care if they were fit for fine dining, they kept him covered, and that was what clothes were supposed to do. Still, after hours of bickering and complaining, Bones had talked Jim into sitting around in a borrowed shirt and pajama pants while his clothing was cleaned. Bones had even insisted his socks and underwear go in the pile for washing. He'd also ignored all of Jim's crude jokes about Bones wanting his underwear, which was just unfair, really. How was he supposed to entertain himself without a little cooperation?
Jim'd never felt so bizarrely comfortable and completely unsettled at the same time. Bones' clothing was just a little too big, shirt baggy and the hems of the pants hanging over his feet. It was comfortable, and smelled faintly like the other man - or, at least, it smelled like his detergent. It wasn't a bad smell, and Jim was torn between snuggling into the couch and the clean clothes, and pacing the room until his own things were given back to him.
“Just sit the hell down and let me make dinner.” Bones had growled good-naturedly, before disappearing to the kitchen. Jim sat cross-legged on the couch, looking around the living room (But not touching anything - Last thing he needed to do was knock something over and get into trouble in the house.). The place was full of elegant pseudo-antique furniture, knickknacks, and images in silver frames. There were carefully matched throw pillows on the couch and chairs. There was even a comfortable, distinguished-looking rocking chair. It smelled faintly like vanilla candles and old wood, the floorboards creaked as Bones shuffled around the kitchen and livingroom, and it had the air of the perfect home for a nice, small family. It was neat, and tidy, and it was old world European, straight out of a better home and garden holo. It was beautiful. It was... not Bones.
“When's your wife coming home, anyway?” He called out to the kitchen.
There was a short pause before Bones answered back, “Dunno. She said she figured they'd be about a week, week and a half.”
Jim grunted. He wasn't an idiot, especially not when he was (mostly) sober. He knew Bones had originally said she'd be gone the weekend. He had heard Bones answer his comm in the laundry room, but hadn't heard what had been said. Now, Bones sounded strained - like he didn't wanna talk about it anymore. All right then, don't mention the wife.
“Should be outta here by then.” Jim offered, hoping to ease the tension a little bit. It made him itch.
Bones glanced over at him, brow furrowed. Jim had started to notice that he did that a lot, and he could measure how much Bones disapproved of what he'd said by how deep the line between his eyebrows seemed to be. “If you're sure.”
Jim didn't know how to tell him that he wasn't sure, that he had no idea how to be sure when Bones was feeding him, letting him sleep there, being actually worthwhile company. He was starting to like the guy, starting to think he didn't really want to leave. If nothing else, that was sure as hell a sign to get out of town. He was starting to like the doctor. He wanted to be his friend, and Jim got the feeling Bones wasn't the type to let a friend barrel off into the unknown without any way of keeping contact. Jim couldn't stay here. He'd get too comfortable, winding around Bones' life like a stray tomcat, and he'd never get away again. It sounded like it could only end in flames.
“I doubt your wife'd approve of your choice in house guests.” He said, carelessly. He realized a moment too late what he'd jusy told himself a moment before - don't mention the wife. He looked up and met Leonard's angry gaze, the other man scowling deeply and staring at Jim from where he leant on the back of an all-too-elegant looking armchair, his fingers starting to curl into fists. Jim fought the urge to flinch or cringe, keeping Bones' gaze, refusing to drop eye contact until the other man started to shout, or swing fists. Instead, a little of the life seemed to ebb out of him, and he looked away first, closing his eyes.
“Yeah, well, Jocelyn's opinion ain't the only one in this house.” He said, straightening and returning to the kitchen, avoiding Jim's eyes.
Jim resolutely doesn't mention that the house, as far as he can tell, is full of Jocelyn's things. Jocelyn's furniture, Jocelyn's pictures, her coat on the hook by the door, her things on the shelves. Not a single thing besides Bones' clothing and a pair of work boots by the door seem like they could belong to the man. Even the kids in the photos are light haired, hazel eyed, \Bones' eyes (And eyebrows, poor girls) and Jocelyn's smile. Jocelyn's hair. Jocelyn's chin. Jim wants to ask what Bones has for his own, but he's worried it'll amount to about the same amount of shit Jim has, with the addition of the truck out in the yard. Jim wants to know why she's away so long, and why she took their kids but not her husband. People go on trips. He knows that. Hell, he knows better than anybody that just because someone's left you behind, it doesn't mean they don't care. A week wasn't that long to be away at all. He'd slink out of the house before she came back, and let Bones slide back into his old, picture-perfect life. At least, he hoped it was, but it wasn't any of his business anyway.
Dinner was quiet. Leonard seemed to have decided the couch was Jim's for the duration of his stay, and sat in the armchair instead. Jim picked at his food, slowly eating it all. Bones had busted out the beer for the meal, and that bottle was all that kept Jim from diving for the other one in his backpack, or from digging even deeper to see what else he could find. He hated tense meals, and this one was a hell of an example. He tried to strike up playful banter every now and then, but Bones just looked dead tired and bit off a one- or two-word reply. It was driving Jim crazy. When they finally washed up and Bones headed upstairs, Jim pulled his bottle out of his bag and made plans to spend the next night somewhere else, if he could. He needed a break from this, whatever it was. Whatever it was turning into.
He drank himself to sleep, and didn't notice in the morning when Bones padded down the stairs and carefully took the half-empty bottle from his hand, capping it with an easy twist and setting it on the ground before he went to start the coffee. Bones made sure Jim's coffee was strong and black, enough to wake him up and help the hypo Bones had already made up to cut through the inevitable hangover. He made his own coffee Irish. He set Jim's cup on the table by the couch, trusting the smell to wake the younger man, and started on his morning routine.
Jim was up by the time Bones was about finished getting ready. They started their usual day all over again, and Jim wasn't sure how he felt about having a routine. Bones went to work, Jim hit the streets, and come the end of Bones' shift he'd be in the same place he always was, waiting for his ride 'home'. He was, technically, winning the dare. He wasn't in trouble. He hadn't been anything more than a little tipsy for days. He hadn't gotten in a fight. He hadn't done much of anything, really.
It was driving him crazy.
He needed to break pattern, dare or no dare. He hated losing, yeah, but losing a stupid dare wasn't much in comparison to the overpowering need to go and do whatever he wanted, with whoever he wanted, wherever he wanted, on whatever he wanted. Tonight, he needed something different from going back to a nice, clean house and having a nice dinner and going to bed, he wanted something exciting, something he wasn't supposed to do, anything to get the adrenaline in his body moving. Something different.
He wasn't there when Bones stopped to pick him up that night. He was in somebody else's house - He didn't know them, he'd just met them outside a bar, been invited, thought why the hell not and this is exactly what he needed, had just wandered over to their house in the middle of a party that was spilling out of both ends of the house. The backyard had a huge fire pit blazing, there was enough alcohol that the hosts were sharing and not charging, which Jim thought was awful nice of them, and most of the guests were being fairly free with their less legal substances, as well. In a matter of hours, Jim was as high as a kite and drunk off his ass, lounging on a couch and watching the ebb and flow of people around the party. He leaned his head back against the arm of the couch, smiling at whoever wandered by. This was great. He was warm, he was comfortable, he couldn't really feel his extremities, and everybody seemed relaxed and happy, and unlikely to punch him in the face. Always a plus. A pipe passed by, and Jim didn't really notice if he'd taken a hit or not. Someone asked him if he wanted another shot, and well, of course he did. He heaved himself off of the couch and staggered after them.
Shots had turned into following some guy and a girl to a bedroom - He wasn't sure if it belonged to either of them, or who actually lived in this house, anyway. The sex had been lazy and calm, and each of them had probably broken down into a giggling fit at some point during, but it was good. He fell asleep on the floor after rolling off of the bed, and someone had eventually prodded him awake and persuaded him to move to a couch. He sprawled across that - And maybe across another person, he wasn't sure - and slept soundly.