Hot summer nights [Star Trek!Reboot, Jim/Bones, future imperfect]
It's the Jack Daniels in the lemonade that throws Jim at first.
Not that he's not had liquor in lemonade, but usually something clear and relatively flavorless- vodka, usually- and he's been known to abandon the lemonade part fairly quickly.
So it's the way Bones sits there, long legs out and crossed at the ankles, just barely rocking the old hickory rocking chair (must be over 700 years old by now, if it's a day, and an antique when it was made from reclaimed house lumber, passed down in a branch of the family Bones never knew and left here, with the cabin, for the sole male heir of his odd and scattered family, the one he never talks about, and he'll leave it all to Jo, fuck male privelege) and sips at the slightly darker version of summer's old favorite, slowly, licking his lips every so often, off in his memories somewhere Jim's never been with him.
Two tall glasses, with ice. Every evening when it's this hot. Jim's learned how to make it, but he never does. It's part of the ritual, part of how Bones buys himself that time he seems to need to sort things out, or to do nothing, between the day and the night, and Jim's learned how to let him have it, between the first sip and the last glass-tipping head-tipping-back throat-stretching swallow and the slow deliberate planting of feet flat on the porch floor in front of the rocker and the moment where, as he stands up, Bones comes back to him.
He washes the glass out while Bones gets ready for bed. He puts it, gleaming, on the shelf over the sink- small cabin, small kitchen, just enough for summer shore leave.
15 years together, and this has never changed. If they're on Earth, and they're in the States, and they're in the South, and it's summer, it's Jack and lemonade on the porch, and Jim's learned not to mind.
Not that he's not had liquor in lemonade, but usually something clear and relatively flavorless- vodka, usually- and he's been known to abandon the lemonade part fairly quickly.
So it's the way Bones sits there, long legs out and crossed at the ankles, just barely rocking the old hickory rocking chair (must be over 700 years old by now, if it's a day, and an antique when it was made from reclaimed house lumber, passed down in a branch of the family Bones never knew and left here, with the cabin, for the sole male heir of his odd and scattered family, the one he never talks about, and he'll leave it all to Jo, fuck male privelege) and sips at the slightly darker version of summer's old favorite, slowly, licking his lips every so often, off in his memories somewhere Jim's never been with him.
Two tall glasses, with ice. Every evening when it's this hot. Jim's learned how to make it, but he never does. It's part of the ritual, part of how Bones buys himself that time he seems to need to sort things out, or to do nothing, between the day and the night, and Jim's learned how to let him have it, between the first sip and the last glass-tipping head-tipping-back throat-stretching swallow and the slow deliberate planting of feet flat on the porch floor in front of the rocker and the moment where, as he stands up, Bones comes back to him.
He washes the glass out while Bones gets ready for bed. He puts it, gleaming, on the shelf over the sink- small cabin, small kitchen, just enough for summer shore leave.
15 years together, and this has never changed. If they're on Earth, and they're in the States, and they're in the South, and it's summer, it's Jack and lemonade on the porch, and Jim's learned not to mind.