Ramble!fic wherein Jim is introduced to the Mysterious Progeny of Bones (1/?)
This is as about as close to shmoop as I'm ever gonna get. Probably. >>
2,855 words, PG-13 for sexual content, Jim + McCoy + Joanna
This Saturday morning is the best Saturday morning that Jim has seen in his entire Starfleet career. Admittedly his career is only two months long at this point, unless you count the five years that Jim was a junior officer at Starfleet Camp, but it's still remarkable that the sky is clear enough for Jim to see the vaguely-roundish outline of the sun between the buildings. It's a pearly pink that reminds Jim of his favorite candy when he was a kid, a slow-dissolve wafer that was supposed to taste like some kind of fruit but mostly tasted like a color.
Jim isn't superstitious, exactly, but he's pretty sure that today is going to be awesome.
It's pretty great from the get-go: he wakes up last night's date with a lazy bout of cunnilingus that turns into a salty-lipped make-out session. The shower is a little small for two but they manage, and then she slips back into her LED minidress and heads out for the walk of shame-what-shame across campus. Jim dolls himself up in casual chic (unimaginative people refer to it as "jeans and a t-shirt") and heads for the medical barracks because Bones bought a bulk case of muffins on Tuesday and should have some left.
On the way, just because Jim's such a nice guy, he picks a bouquet of dandelions and drops it off at Pike's office with a pleasant parable about how staying inside all day will make you wrinkle up and die, oops, my bad, that should've been "wither." Pike is his usual charming self and responds with a parcel of sage wisdom that makes his yeoman go red in the face.
With that errand taken care of, Jim leaves the admin building with a bounce in his step that may or may not have been facilitated by a kick in the pants.
He gets to Bones' door and loiters outside until it's safe to enter the lion's den. The designated mauling time is before 0900 on weekends and 0800 during the week. Some allowances can be made if one brings a surrogate victim, like take-out steak and eggs, maybe, but Jim is empty-handed today so he waits until 0915 just to be on the safe side. He pokes the call button and mentally tracks Bones' movements inside: he's probably out of bed on the third ring, wearing pants about five seconds later and shuffling across the minuscule living area. He may have to detour around the end of the sofa, depending on if he's had to pull it out to make use of the freaky multi-species anatomical model he has in the corner.
Jim has suggested many times that Bones should keep that thing someplace else, but Bones gets defensive, and a defensive Bones is a difficult thing to work with. Jim does in fact understand that the model is a learning aid to help save lives, and he'll even add unprompted that electro-morph technology is a wonder of human advancement, but Jim is of the opinion that any solid object that can look and feel like a human one minute and a Tellarite the next belongs either in a porno vid or a horror vid or both, depending on your taste, and definitely not standing next to the couch watching you eat lukewarm lo mein. This is a solid point, ok, and it doesn't matter who the lo mein "technically" belongs to. Takeaway is fair game if left unattended, and that's a Federation law.
Anyway, Jim surmises that the couch must be pulled out because it's a few seconds too long before the door slides open. He takes a quick confirming glance past Bones' shoulder but the couch isn't pulled out at all. In fact the model is facing the wall and has a sheet draped over it, which has never happened before no matter how nicely Jim asked.
Then Bones leans against the doorjamb (the misery of no longer being in bed is too great for his weary soul, poor guy) and reveals a second Bones-face hovering in the middle-distance behind him. The expression is the same-eyebrow creases like diacritical marks and a light-shunning squint that goes all the way to the mouth-but it looks like somebody went at Bones with the copy-and-paste option in photoshop and then fiddled randomly with the color filters. The cloned face is about half-size with darker skin, eyes like drops of black oil, and a halo of springy hair that looks like it might be making a bid for sentience.
"Woah, that's new," Jim says. "Are you subletting?"
Bones curls his lip like he does when he's tragically incapable of understanding Jim's brilliant wit. His miniature doppelganger curls her lip in exactly the same way and, honestly, Jim is getting a little freaked out here. Intellectually (and somewhat belatedly) he recognizes that she must be the mysterious Progeny of Bones, but the random vids and pictures he's seen didn't do justice to the sheer Bonesosity that emanates from her form.
Jim decides to focus on the differences instead: Bones is too big to stand on the couch like that (though he frequently crosses his arms in the same way) and, to Jim's knowledge, he has never donned bright purple jammies emblazoned with anthropomorphic hovercars. He also tends to use standard-issue bedding, which is sort of beige-grey and not rainbow-colored like the blanket swirled around her feet (the blanket's also glittery, which Jim doesn't understand. Glitter doesn't seem that conducive to sleep.)
Finally, Bones catches up to the situation (he's a little slow before coffee) and steps back to wave Jim in. "This is my daughter, Joanna," he says, flashing his teeth like just saying the words makes him happy. It's a good change from the hang-dog look he usually gets. "Joanna, baby, this is my friend Jim."
Joanna, baby mumbles "Nice to meet you, Mr. Jim," then shoots a glare at Bones as if to say, Why have you allowed this cretin to disturb my slumber?
Bones doesn't seem to notice. "Her mother's in town for a few days, so Joanna's going to be staying with me," he says.
"Oh," says Jim, then "Oh," when he realizes that this is sort of a Big Deal. "Hey, listen, I don't want to intrude. I was just going to grab a muffin." He was also going to bully Bones into going with him to watch the atmocraft certification trials but Bones has probably blocked out his schedule for playing with dolls or braiding hair or something. Jim is a little fuzzy on the specifics of what little girls do besides destroying Jim's self-esteem by screaming and running away from him on the playground. Not that anything like that has ever happened, of course, which would explain why Jim is so fuzzy on the concept. Also, he forgot to shave this morning.
"No, Jim, stay a while!" Bones says with the podunk geniality that Jim suspects is half-natural, half learned from holovids. Bones is a bastion of sincerity, of course, but it's suspicious that the accent gets thicker when he's forced to talk to people who are a little too slick. The ornery glint in his eyes doesn't help. Luckily, Bones isn't being ornery at the moment; he's beaming and saying, "I'm going to cook us up a big breakfast!"
"I'll set the table," Jim says immediately. After exhaustive research and a lot of home-cooked meals, Jim has determined that if Bones isn't helping some little old lady get over the whooping cough then he belongs barefoot in the kitchen. Kitchenette. Food preparation nook. Whatever.
Jim starts cajoling the table into folding down from the wall (the medical barracks haven't been renovated for a while and most of the furnishings are, for lack of a more technical term, futzy) while behind him, Bones says, "Come on, Boo, I'll let you scramble the eggs."
After a pause Bones adds, "What's the matter; your legs broken?"
"I want you to carry me!" Joanna says, like Bones is the most obtuse person in the world for not knowing that. Jim turns around to investigate and decides he agrees. Joanna holding up her arms in the universal pick-me-up gesture, and when you're a member of Starfleet, 'universal' really means something.
Bones shakes his head. "You're getting too big to carry."
Joanna's eyebrows scrunch up. "When I'm in Alaska it doesn't matter how big I am, because you can't pick me up anyway!" She finishes on a near-wail that Jim doesn't trust not to be calculated, but masterfully so; from the look on Bones' face, she might as well have stabbed a kitten. Without even bothering to declare surrender he swings her up on his hip, bounces her once to settle her properly, and heads past Jim to the fridge unit.
Joanna peers at Jim over his shoulder, her face snuggled up to Bones' head and her hand curled in a loose fist beneath the crisp line of his hair. Jim is not a superstitious man but it's possible that Joanna is contemplating which parts of him she could boil down and use in a potion. Bones doesn't seem like the type to instruct children in witchcraft, but who knows what The Ex is like? Jim gets these gut feelings, ok, and they've never steered him wrong. Then again Jim can always turn a wrong into a right, even if it involves having to do the rumba on the side of the road to catch a ride back home from Quebec (he really thought it was true love that time,) so his data may be skewed.
Luckily, Bones asks Joanna to provide some input on the menu so Joanna twists and Jim isn't getting stared down anymore, although he's still a little wary that her hair might start shooting laser beams.
"I want a beer," says Joanna.
"Beg pardon?" Ooh, Jim knows that tone of voice. It's Bones' way of saying I am giving you the opportunity to recant because otherwise I might bluster my way into a heart attack.
"It's good for breakfast," Joanna says, apparently immune to her father's subverbal suggestions. "It has carbs."
"It also has the ability to destroy your liver," Bones says.
"Livers are gross," says Joanna, which isn't really an answer but seems to settle the argument to their mutual satisfaction.
Of course, as Jim realizes a few moments later, arguments between McCoys don't end so much as pause to reconfigure themselves. He's just finished with setting the table and started cutting up some fruit on Bones' orders when Joanna volleys back with a factoid about beer consumption in ancient Egypt (it happens to be an overly simplified and borderline incorrect factoid, but Jim decides not to wade into the fray.) Bones responds by arbitrarily raising the legal drinking age to twenty-five, which seems pretty hypocritical considering the videos on Bones' undergrad socialnet account which star his inebriated alter ego Brother John-Joe Jackson, Baptist Preacher Extraordinaire.
Those videos, by the way, are more proof that Bones' level of Southerness is not as ingrained as he would have Jim believe. Another piece of evidence, which had been scurrilously withheld from Jim until today, is that Bones is perfectly capable of switching to a French accent if Joanna says 'pretty please with sucrose on top,' although Jim doesn't wholly buy their claim that it makes the omelets taste better.
He ends up retracting that when Bones slides a fluffy, sun-colored semicircle onto Jim's plate and the first bite makes him moan involuntarily.
"Told you so," Joanna sing-songs, then starts up an argument about ketchup. Jim was not aware that it was possible to hold a sustained debate on the subject (particularly not one which includes accusations of fractiousness) but there they are, sustaining it. It doesn't matter much to Jim, though. Nothing at this moment can penetrate his haze of omelet-y joy.
He surfaces a few minutes later, just in time to hear Joanna chirp something about "anocrafts" and loop-de-loops.
"You mean 'atmocrafts?'" Jim says.
Joanna creases her brow at him. "Yeah, that. Whatever," she says, and stabs a piece of cantaloupe with her fork. "My mama can fly those," she tosses out, like Jim should be impressed. And, ok, Jim is a little impressed, because though most cadets have to pass some rudimentary sim-training, not everyone gets to sit in an actual cockpit. Jim will, of course. Eventually.
Bones hunches over his plate like there's someone mean behind him. "There's some to-do over on the training field," he says. "Joanna's mother is renewing a certification and she wants to go watch."
"I'm going," says Jim. "I was going to ask you to come with me, actually. We could pack a picnic lunch."
Bones snorts. "Jim, you're the only person I know who'll ask for lunch with his mouth still full of breakfast."
Jim seriously doubts that. There's plenty of people in Starfleet who like to eat, and anyway he swallowed before talking; it's basic manners. "Don't change the subject," he says. "The atmocraft recerts are a huge social event on campus. Most of the cadets and officers will be there."
"See?" says Joanna. "Daddy, we have to go."
"Joanna-"
"We have to!" Joanna says.
Bones grabs the sugar dispenser and puts another drop into his coffee, probably just to give himself something to do because Jim knows that Bones doesn't approve of over-sugaring coffee (iced tea is another matter altogether.) "I thought you wanted to go to the marine museum," he says finally.
"We can do that later!" Joanna says.
"Atmocraft are cooler than whales," Jim says. "And educational."
"Educational!" Joanna brandishes the adjective like it has magical powers.
"They're shinier, too," Jim adds.
"Oh, fine!" Bones says. "We'll go! Just stop pestering me about it!"
Joanna celebrates by clambering onto Bones and anointing his cheek with a greasy kiss. "Thank you, Daddy!"
Jim smirks. "Thank you, Daddy," he echoes.
Bones scowls and squeezes Joanna one-armed before she returns to her chair. "That's all I need," he mutters into his omelet. "The two of you ganging up on me."
Jim and Joanna high-five under the table.
Even accounting for Bones' bizarre policy of washing dishes immediately, it takes longer to disembark than Jim anticipates. The lag time is worth it for the solid ten minutes of watching Bones-cranky, thick-fingered Bones-braid his little girl's hair. Joanna kneels between his legs, resting her forearms on Bones' thighs as if they are the arms of her throne and his kneecaps are bulbs of polished wood beneath her palms. Her gaze of imperious ennui flickers every so often; Bones is coaxing the obdurate mass into skeins as gently as he can but snarls lurk deep within, like the roots of ancient trees.
Jim finishes packing up the sandwiches that Bones finally agreed to make and settles himself backwards into the deskchair. "Wow, Bones, I didn't know you could french braid," he says.
Joanna narrows her eyes suspiciously. "You making fun of my daddy?"
Bones smiles around the pickcomb in his mouth. "It's ok, Boo, he's my friend."
"Why's he making fun of you if he's your friend?" Joanna shoots back.
Bones flips the comb into his hand and tabs gently at Joanna's hairline, deliberating on the starting point before slicing a neat part back across her crown. "I dunno," he says, "why are you being so bossy if you're my daughter?"
Joanna thinks about that for a minute. "Somebody's gotta tell you what to do."
Jim decides that is a very sensible thing to say. Bones doesn't seem to be paying Joanna's pearl of wisdom the respect it deserves; he's letting out soft, easy chuckles that Jim doesn't recall ever hearing from him, before. Judging from Joanna's scowl, she's perfectly aware of the insolence occurring behind her, but has no choice but to sit tight until her hair has been securely wrangled into five fat braids bumbling down her back.
Jim wanted there to be eight braids, like octopus legs, but his suggestion is summarily rejected on the grounds that octopuses are gross and boys are, too. Jim vehemently protests the blatant sexism, but then he has to explain what sexism is so he kind of loses his momentum, there. On the plus side, Joanna seems really interested in the concept and immediately informs Bones that it's sexist to make her wear pink beads.
Bones glares at Jim the whole time he's re-fastening her braids with some gender-neutral silver beads, but Jim is unrepentant. It's a good day's work aiding in the social education of the next generation.
"Alright, all done," Bones says at last. "Go brush your teeth."
"I don't wanna brush my teeth," Joanna says but goes off anyway, apparently satisfied that her complaint has been registered.
Bones grabs a towel to wipe the detangler gunk off his hands and slides a nervous glance at Jim. "So... what do you think of her?" he asks.
"I love her!" Jim says. "She's like a tiny you with big hair."
Bones laughs loudly at that, looking as proud as Jim has ever seen him.
2,855 words, PG-13 for sexual content, Jim + McCoy + Joanna
This Saturday morning is the best Saturday morning that Jim has seen in his entire Starfleet career. Admittedly his career is only two months long at this point, unless you count the five years that Jim was a junior officer at Starfleet Camp, but it's still remarkable that the sky is clear enough for Jim to see the vaguely-roundish outline of the sun between the buildings. It's a pearly pink that reminds Jim of his favorite candy when he was a kid, a slow-dissolve wafer that was supposed to taste like some kind of fruit but mostly tasted like a color.
Jim isn't superstitious, exactly, but he's pretty sure that today is going to be awesome.
It's pretty great from the get-go: he wakes up last night's date with a lazy bout of cunnilingus that turns into a salty-lipped make-out session. The shower is a little small for two but they manage, and then she slips back into her LED minidress and heads out for the walk of shame-what-shame across campus. Jim dolls himself up in casual chic (unimaginative people refer to it as "jeans and a t-shirt") and heads for the medical barracks because Bones bought a bulk case of muffins on Tuesday and should have some left.
On the way, just because Jim's such a nice guy, he picks a bouquet of dandelions and drops it off at Pike's office with a pleasant parable about how staying inside all day will make you wrinkle up and die, oops, my bad, that should've been "wither." Pike is his usual charming self and responds with a parcel of sage wisdom that makes his yeoman go red in the face.
With that errand taken care of, Jim leaves the admin building with a bounce in his step that may or may not have been facilitated by a kick in the pants.
He gets to Bones' door and loiters outside until it's safe to enter the lion's den. The designated mauling time is before 0900 on weekends and 0800 during the week. Some allowances can be made if one brings a surrogate victim, like take-out steak and eggs, maybe, but Jim is empty-handed today so he waits until 0915 just to be on the safe side. He pokes the call button and mentally tracks Bones' movements inside: he's probably out of bed on the third ring, wearing pants about five seconds later and shuffling across the minuscule living area. He may have to detour around the end of the sofa, depending on if he's had to pull it out to make use of the freaky multi-species anatomical model he has in the corner.
Jim has suggested many times that Bones should keep that thing someplace else, but Bones gets defensive, and a defensive Bones is a difficult thing to work with. Jim does in fact understand that the model is a learning aid to help save lives, and he'll even add unprompted that electro-morph technology is a wonder of human advancement, but Jim is of the opinion that any solid object that can look and feel like a human one minute and a Tellarite the next belongs either in a porno vid or a horror vid or both, depending on your taste, and definitely not standing next to the couch watching you eat lukewarm lo mein. This is a solid point, ok, and it doesn't matter who the lo mein "technically" belongs to. Takeaway is fair game if left unattended, and that's a Federation law.
Anyway, Jim surmises that the couch must be pulled out because it's a few seconds too long before the door slides open. He takes a quick confirming glance past Bones' shoulder but the couch isn't pulled out at all. In fact the model is facing the wall and has a sheet draped over it, which has never happened before no matter how nicely Jim asked.
Then Bones leans against the doorjamb (the misery of no longer being in bed is too great for his weary soul, poor guy) and reveals a second Bones-face hovering in the middle-distance behind him. The expression is the same-eyebrow creases like diacritical marks and a light-shunning squint that goes all the way to the mouth-but it looks like somebody went at Bones with the copy-and-paste option in photoshop and then fiddled randomly with the color filters. The cloned face is about half-size with darker skin, eyes like drops of black oil, and a halo of springy hair that looks like it might be making a bid for sentience.
"Woah, that's new," Jim says. "Are you subletting?"
Bones curls his lip like he does when he's tragically incapable of understanding Jim's brilliant wit. His miniature doppelganger curls her lip in exactly the same way and, honestly, Jim is getting a little freaked out here. Intellectually (and somewhat belatedly) he recognizes that she must be the mysterious Progeny of Bones, but the random vids and pictures he's seen didn't do justice to the sheer Bonesosity that emanates from her form.
Jim decides to focus on the differences instead: Bones is too big to stand on the couch like that (though he frequently crosses his arms in the same way) and, to Jim's knowledge, he has never donned bright purple jammies emblazoned with anthropomorphic hovercars. He also tends to use standard-issue bedding, which is sort of beige-grey and not rainbow-colored like the blanket swirled around her feet (the blanket's also glittery, which Jim doesn't understand. Glitter doesn't seem that conducive to sleep.)
Finally, Bones catches up to the situation (he's a little slow before coffee) and steps back to wave Jim in. "This is my daughter, Joanna," he says, flashing his teeth like just saying the words makes him happy. It's a good change from the hang-dog look he usually gets. "Joanna, baby, this is my friend Jim."
Joanna, baby mumbles "Nice to meet you, Mr. Jim," then shoots a glare at Bones as if to say, Why have you allowed this cretin to disturb my slumber?
Bones doesn't seem to notice. "Her mother's in town for a few days, so Joanna's going to be staying with me," he says.
"Oh," says Jim, then "Oh," when he realizes that this is sort of a Big Deal. "Hey, listen, I don't want to intrude. I was just going to grab a muffin." He was also going to bully Bones into going with him to watch the atmocraft certification trials but Bones has probably blocked out his schedule for playing with dolls or braiding hair or something. Jim is a little fuzzy on the specifics of what little girls do besides destroying Jim's self-esteem by screaming and running away from him on the playground. Not that anything like that has ever happened, of course, which would explain why Jim is so fuzzy on the concept. Also, he forgot to shave this morning.
"No, Jim, stay a while!" Bones says with the podunk geniality that Jim suspects is half-natural, half learned from holovids. Bones is a bastion of sincerity, of course, but it's suspicious that the accent gets thicker when he's forced to talk to people who are a little too slick. The ornery glint in his eyes doesn't help. Luckily, Bones isn't being ornery at the moment; he's beaming and saying, "I'm going to cook us up a big breakfast!"
"I'll set the table," Jim says immediately. After exhaustive research and a lot of home-cooked meals, Jim has determined that if Bones isn't helping some little old lady get over the whooping cough then he belongs barefoot in the kitchen. Kitchenette. Food preparation nook. Whatever.
Jim starts cajoling the table into folding down from the wall (the medical barracks haven't been renovated for a while and most of the furnishings are, for lack of a more technical term, futzy) while behind him, Bones says, "Come on, Boo, I'll let you scramble the eggs."
After a pause Bones adds, "What's the matter; your legs broken?"
"I want you to carry me!" Joanna says, like Bones is the most obtuse person in the world for not knowing that. Jim turns around to investigate and decides he agrees. Joanna holding up her arms in the universal pick-me-up gesture, and when you're a member of Starfleet, 'universal' really means something.
Bones shakes his head. "You're getting too big to carry."
Joanna's eyebrows scrunch up. "When I'm in Alaska it doesn't matter how big I am, because you can't pick me up anyway!" She finishes on a near-wail that Jim doesn't trust not to be calculated, but masterfully so; from the look on Bones' face, she might as well have stabbed a kitten. Without even bothering to declare surrender he swings her up on his hip, bounces her once to settle her properly, and heads past Jim to the fridge unit.
Joanna peers at Jim over his shoulder, her face snuggled up to Bones' head and her hand curled in a loose fist beneath the crisp line of his hair. Jim is not a superstitious man but it's possible that Joanna is contemplating which parts of him she could boil down and use in a potion. Bones doesn't seem like the type to instruct children in witchcraft, but who knows what The Ex is like? Jim gets these gut feelings, ok, and they've never steered him wrong. Then again Jim can always turn a wrong into a right, even if it involves having to do the rumba on the side of the road to catch a ride back home from Quebec (he really thought it was true love that time,) so his data may be skewed.
Luckily, Bones asks Joanna to provide some input on the menu so Joanna twists and Jim isn't getting stared down anymore, although he's still a little wary that her hair might start shooting laser beams.
"I want a beer," says Joanna.
"Beg pardon?" Ooh, Jim knows that tone of voice. It's Bones' way of saying I am giving you the opportunity to recant because otherwise I might bluster my way into a heart attack.
"It's good for breakfast," Joanna says, apparently immune to her father's subverbal suggestions. "It has carbs."
"It also has the ability to destroy your liver," Bones says.
"Livers are gross," says Joanna, which isn't really an answer but seems to settle the argument to their mutual satisfaction.
Of course, as Jim realizes a few moments later, arguments between McCoys don't end so much as pause to reconfigure themselves. He's just finished with setting the table and started cutting up some fruit on Bones' orders when Joanna volleys back with a factoid about beer consumption in ancient Egypt (it happens to be an overly simplified and borderline incorrect factoid, but Jim decides not to wade into the fray.) Bones responds by arbitrarily raising the legal drinking age to twenty-five, which seems pretty hypocritical considering the videos on Bones' undergrad socialnet account which star his inebriated alter ego Brother John-Joe Jackson, Baptist Preacher Extraordinaire.
Those videos, by the way, are more proof that Bones' level of Southerness is not as ingrained as he would have Jim believe. Another piece of evidence, which had been scurrilously withheld from Jim until today, is that Bones is perfectly capable of switching to a French accent if Joanna says 'pretty please with sucrose on top,' although Jim doesn't wholly buy their claim that it makes the omelets taste better.
He ends up retracting that when Bones slides a fluffy, sun-colored semicircle onto Jim's plate and the first bite makes him moan involuntarily.
"Told you so," Joanna sing-songs, then starts up an argument about ketchup. Jim was not aware that it was possible to hold a sustained debate on the subject (particularly not one which includes accusations of fractiousness) but there they are, sustaining it. It doesn't matter much to Jim, though. Nothing at this moment can penetrate his haze of omelet-y joy.
He surfaces a few minutes later, just in time to hear Joanna chirp something about "anocrafts" and loop-de-loops.
"You mean 'atmocrafts?'" Jim says.
Joanna creases her brow at him. "Yeah, that. Whatever," she says, and stabs a piece of cantaloupe with her fork. "My mama can fly those," she tosses out, like Jim should be impressed. And, ok, Jim is a little impressed, because though most cadets have to pass some rudimentary sim-training, not everyone gets to sit in an actual cockpit. Jim will, of course. Eventually.
Bones hunches over his plate like there's someone mean behind him. "There's some to-do over on the training field," he says. "Joanna's mother is renewing a certification and she wants to go watch."
"I'm going," says Jim. "I was going to ask you to come with me, actually. We could pack a picnic lunch."
Bones snorts. "Jim, you're the only person I know who'll ask for lunch with his mouth still full of breakfast."
Jim seriously doubts that. There's plenty of people in Starfleet who like to eat, and anyway he swallowed before talking; it's basic manners. "Don't change the subject," he says. "The atmocraft recerts are a huge social event on campus. Most of the cadets and officers will be there."
"See?" says Joanna. "Daddy, we have to go."
"Joanna-"
"We have to!" Joanna says.
Bones grabs the sugar dispenser and puts another drop into his coffee, probably just to give himself something to do because Jim knows that Bones doesn't approve of over-sugaring coffee (iced tea is another matter altogether.) "I thought you wanted to go to the marine museum," he says finally.
"We can do that later!" Joanna says.
"Atmocraft are cooler than whales," Jim says. "And educational."
"Educational!" Joanna brandishes the adjective like it has magical powers.
"They're shinier, too," Jim adds.
"Oh, fine!" Bones says. "We'll go! Just stop pestering me about it!"
Joanna celebrates by clambering onto Bones and anointing his cheek with a greasy kiss. "Thank you, Daddy!"
Jim smirks. "Thank you, Daddy," he echoes.
Bones scowls and squeezes Joanna one-armed before she returns to her chair. "That's all I need," he mutters into his omelet. "The two of you ganging up on me."
Jim and Joanna high-five under the table.
Even accounting for Bones' bizarre policy of washing dishes immediately, it takes longer to disembark than Jim anticipates. The lag time is worth it for the solid ten minutes of watching Bones-cranky, thick-fingered Bones-braid his little girl's hair. Joanna kneels between his legs, resting her forearms on Bones' thighs as if they are the arms of her throne and his kneecaps are bulbs of polished wood beneath her palms. Her gaze of imperious ennui flickers every so often; Bones is coaxing the obdurate mass into skeins as gently as he can but snarls lurk deep within, like the roots of ancient trees.
Jim finishes packing up the sandwiches that Bones finally agreed to make and settles himself backwards into the deskchair. "Wow, Bones, I didn't know you could french braid," he says.
Joanna narrows her eyes suspiciously. "You making fun of my daddy?"
Bones smiles around the pickcomb in his mouth. "It's ok, Boo, he's my friend."
"Why's he making fun of you if he's your friend?" Joanna shoots back.
Bones flips the comb into his hand and tabs gently at Joanna's hairline, deliberating on the starting point before slicing a neat part back across her crown. "I dunno," he says, "why are you being so bossy if you're my daughter?"
Joanna thinks about that for a minute. "Somebody's gotta tell you what to do."
Jim decides that is a very sensible thing to say. Bones doesn't seem to be paying Joanna's pearl of wisdom the respect it deserves; he's letting out soft, easy chuckles that Jim doesn't recall ever hearing from him, before. Judging from Joanna's scowl, she's perfectly aware of the insolence occurring behind her, but has no choice but to sit tight until her hair has been securely wrangled into five fat braids bumbling down her back.
Jim wanted there to be eight braids, like octopus legs, but his suggestion is summarily rejected on the grounds that octopuses are gross and boys are, too. Jim vehemently protests the blatant sexism, but then he has to explain what sexism is so he kind of loses his momentum, there. On the plus side, Joanna seems really interested in the concept and immediately informs Bones that it's sexist to make her wear pink beads.
Bones glares at Jim the whole time he's re-fastening her braids with some gender-neutral silver beads, but Jim is unrepentant. It's a good day's work aiding in the social education of the next generation.
"Alright, all done," Bones says at last. "Go brush your teeth."
"I don't wanna brush my teeth," Joanna says but goes off anyway, apparently satisfied that her complaint has been registered.
Bones grabs a towel to wipe the detangler gunk off his hands and slides a nervous glance at Jim. "So... what do you think of her?" he asks.
"I love her!" Jim says. "She's like a tiny you with big hair."
Bones laughs loudly at that, looking as proud as Jim has ever seen him.