*tentative wave*
Bones says, quite clearly, "It's the butter that makes a cheese sandwich."
Jim thinks about lifting his head off the table in order to stare at him incredulously, but it doesn't quite seem worth it, and also he isn't totally sure if he actually has that much control over his neck at this precise instant.
"Uh?"
"Well," says Bones, "it's the cheese, too. But the butter is important."
There's also the fact that as matters stand, or rather loll, in the case of his head, the top of Bones' forearm is level with his eye. He can see the curling hair, gold-tipped. Bones' forearm is very complicated, just now, netted over with a pattern of shade so delicate that the slivers of unshadowed skin seem like light.
Jim risks a sniff, and blinks away tears. He's beginning to see how Bones got onto the topic of cheese. Strapping young cadets that they are, they really put the rank in 'rank and file'. Rank and vile, even.
"Bathing is important, too," he says. His heart isn't really in it. He's pretty sure it's been proven-- possibly by science!-- that smelly armpits are a great way to attract girls.
Bones doesn't bat an eye. He does, however, frown. "'s a bad idea to dip a cheese sandwich in water," he says.
"No, I meant us," says Jim.
"You like cheese sandwiches," says Bones. It ought to be question; it sounds like an order. Not a particularly convincing order, but an order.
"Well, yeah--"
"Right. Us," says Bones. "I'll make you one. Swear. Doc's honor. For bein' helpful on the thing. The shuttle. Be a good sandwich, not bathed at all."
Jim thinks about forcing the point. He does like cheese sandwiches, though.
"Go on," he says, instead.
Bones' hand closes and he pounds the table emphatically; Jim watches a furrow form between tendons in that deep wrist as the fingers lock in. "Butter," he says, "is, right, is the soul of the sandwich. The heart. The soul. Soul 'n' heart. It gives each bite a salty finish."
It's just as well they ran out of both money and beer a little while ago, or Jim would probably find himself wiping off the tabletop with his shirt. As it is, he tries to recover his composure, and gasping, repeats, "A salty finish."
"Nice and thick," Bones adds, apparently to himself.
They've only known each other for about twelve hours, but sometimes things just have to be said.
"Bones," Jim says, weakly, "I think I love you."
"That's what she said," says Bones.
Jim snorts.
"My ex-wife," clarifies Bones.
"Oh."
"Except she didn't call me Bones."
"No."
"She called me--"
He stops.
Jim winces, and says, "What kind of butter?" And he watches the lines loosen, in Bones' brown fist.
Jim thinks about lifting his head off the table in order to stare at him incredulously, but it doesn't quite seem worth it, and also he isn't totally sure if he actually has that much control over his neck at this precise instant.
"Uh?"
"Well," says Bones, "it's the cheese, too. But the butter is important."
There's also the fact that as matters stand, or rather loll, in the case of his head, the top of Bones' forearm is level with his eye. He can see the curling hair, gold-tipped. Bones' forearm is very complicated, just now, netted over with a pattern of shade so delicate that the slivers of unshadowed skin seem like light.
Jim risks a sniff, and blinks away tears. He's beginning to see how Bones got onto the topic of cheese. Strapping young cadets that they are, they really put the rank in 'rank and file'. Rank and vile, even.
"Bathing is important, too," he says. His heart isn't really in it. He's pretty sure it's been proven-- possibly by science!-- that smelly armpits are a great way to attract girls.
Bones doesn't bat an eye. He does, however, frown. "'s a bad idea to dip a cheese sandwich in water," he says.
"No, I meant us," says Jim.
"You like cheese sandwiches," says Bones. It ought to be question; it sounds like an order. Not a particularly convincing order, but an order.
"Well, yeah--"
"Right. Us," says Bones. "I'll make you one. Swear. Doc's honor. For bein' helpful on the thing. The shuttle. Be a good sandwich, not bathed at all."
Jim thinks about forcing the point. He does like cheese sandwiches, though.
"Go on," he says, instead.
Bones' hand closes and he pounds the table emphatically; Jim watches a furrow form between tendons in that deep wrist as the fingers lock in. "Butter," he says, "is, right, is the soul of the sandwich. The heart. The soul. Soul 'n' heart. It gives each bite a salty finish."
It's just as well they ran out of both money and beer a little while ago, or Jim would probably find himself wiping off the tabletop with his shirt. As it is, he tries to recover his composure, and gasping, repeats, "A salty finish."
"Nice and thick," Bones adds, apparently to himself.
They've only known each other for about twelve hours, but sometimes things just have to be said.
"Bones," Jim says, weakly, "I think I love you."
"That's what she said," says Bones.
Jim snorts.
"My ex-wife," clarifies Bones.
"Oh."
"Except she didn't call me Bones."
"No."
"She called me--"
He stops.
Jim winces, and says, "What kind of butter?" And he watches the lines loosen, in Bones' brown fist.