Archive of Our Own

Now…

He tells himself they did the right thing; that ending things with Jim now, before anybody got hurt, was for the best. That they can stay friends this way, that he won’t lose him this way.

But as he closes the door and leans heavily against it he wonders to himself, then why does it feel like he’s gone

“Hey, Bones?” Jim’s voice couldn’t quite be called slurred but his elocution leaves something to be desired after a few beers, and his already fuzzy grasp of personal space becomes non-existent.

“What?” McCoy’s answer resembles the word more in tone than actual sound, but he’s three beers ahead of Jim, so… there. Yeah.

“Why don’t we fuck?” Jim asks like he’s just forgotten the answer to a very simple question. It’s a testament to how drunk he is that McCoy calmly swallows his beer before answering.

“Because, Jim, that would be a goddamned stupid thing to do.”

“Huh,” says Jim.

And that’s that.

And it should have fucking ended there, McCoy thinks now. Because if that’s the last they’d ever heard of that brilliant plan, he’d be sleeping peacefully right now instead of staring blankly at his clock like he’s not sure if he want to speed it up and put all this behind him, or turn it back and undo the entire night.

Forget that. He’d undo the entire last four and a half months. Definitely.

“Booooones,” Jim slurs. Definitely a slur this time. He’s got a two drink lead on McCoy and he’s not slowing to let him catch up. McCoy’s solution is just to drink faster. It seems to be working.

“Mmph?” McCoy replies, lips firmly sealed to the mouth of his bottle.

“You said it was a stupid idea. Why’s it a stupid idea?”

“Why’s what a stupid idea? You’ve had so many.”

“Fucking,” Jim answers seriously.

McCoy puts his bottle down with a thump. Heaven help him, he cannot have this conversation now. Again. Ever. There are rules about having conversations that require any kind of guile while drunk and rule number one is don’t. Rule number two is deflect and McCoy could only pray that the normally discriminating Jim Kirk was drunk enough for that to work.

“Space AIDS.”

Shit. Maybe he should have prayed that he’d be sober enough to come up with something clever. Not that it mattered, clearly God wasn’t listening. Hell, maybe he was and he thought this was funny. Bastard.

“Jesus, Bones. You have Space AIDS? Lucky for you, I happen to be immune to imaginary diseases.”

“Jim, we’re friends,” Bones says gravely.

“HOT friends.” I give you Jim Kirk, poet and gentleman. McCoy just sighs.

“I mean, I’m not asking you to marry me. Just to take your friggin’ pants off,” Jim continues.

McCoy takes another swig from his bottle before he remembers that that’s a very bad idea. He glares at it, clearly torn between keeping his mouth busy with things that aren’t taking Jim up on his offer and staying clear headed, the better to resist taking Jim up on his offer. If it can even be called an offer.

Fuck it. McCoy takes another gulp, watching Jim out of the corner of his eye, who is in turn avidly watching the play of muscles in McCoy’s throat as he swallows. The look on his face is the best argument he’s made so far and McCoy swallows again, even though his bottle is empty.

“Have you ever done this?” Jim’s head swings up at the question in that loose, exaggerated way that means he can still walk, but probably not in a straight line.

“Fucked? Yeah, I think I’ll manage.”

Some people are happy drunks, some people are mean drunks; Jim, when he’s drunk is just Jim, only more so. You ply a horny Jim Kirk with alcohol, you just get a hornier Jim Kirk. God help you. You get a morose Jim drunk and the results were downright maudlin. Jim never drinks to forget, it never works. Elephants and Jim Kirk, they remember.

All this to say that whether McCoy has this conversation now, or he has it next Wednesday, he will be having it. Hoping that Jim goes home and sleeps it off is like hoping for a pet unicorn. It ain’t gonna happen. If Jim wants to fuck him now, it’s a pretty safe bet that Jim wanted to fuck him five hours ago, when they were sitting in Xeno-anthropology and he was drawing large breasted stick figures going down on each other.

When McCoy is silent for too long, Jim nudges him with his elbow. “You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“Dammit, if I had sex with everyone I’d ever though about fucking, my dick would fall off from sheer exhaustion.”

Kirk’s eyebrows do an excited little dance over that bit of information and he visibly files it away, no doubt to bring it up at the most inappropriate, inconvenient time possible.

But the fact remains that McCoy had thought about it. A lot. He’s thinking about it right now, which is doing absolutely nothing for his resolve. He brings his bottle to his mouth before remembering that it’s empty and letting his hand fall back to the table.

Instead he takes a deep breath and puffs it out. “One time Jim, doesn’t matter if it’s great or if it’s poppin’ a boner in church awkward. We do this, you’re not allowed to get weird on me.” That wasn’t what he meant to say. He glares back at the bottle in his hands where he’s surprised to find his fingers have begun peeling back the label without informing his brain. God dammit, are there any parts of his body that are still taking orders like they’re supposed to?

As it turns out, yes, there are.

McCoy rubs the heels of his hands tiredly against his eyes. He needs to go to bed. He needs to stop thinking about this and actually get some sleep so he can function in the morning, because if he has to sit through two classes and a full shift on duty without getting some shut eye, whether or not his best friend can look him in the eye may not make a difference when they kick his ass to the curb.

Climbing into bed and turning out the light doesn’t make his brain stop buzzing. Closing his eyes only brings up images of Jim.

Jim naked in his sheets, Jim laughing in the shower, Jim’s arm slung around McCoy’s chest, the only part of him he can see as Jim kneels behind him. FUCK. McCoy’s eyes snap open to blackness and the picture fade but don’t vanish. Jim on his knees, between McCoy’s legs; Jim sound asleep, on his side of the bed.

McCoy huffs a humorless laugh. He’d really had himself convinced that this was a casual, no strings kind of thing. How had he managed to make himself believe that? How had he been able to tell himself that it could stop at any time? That there was an “after” this, like he’d just stop wanting Jim, stop wanting to be with Jim.

Well, he was about to find out what “after” felt like.

Eventually McCoy falls asleep, but it’s not a dreamless sleep.

”I said once, Jim,” McCoy argues, but he doesn’t have it in him to actually push Jim away. Not while he’s got his lips pressed fast and warm against the underside of his jaw. Not when it feels this good.

“It wasn’t awkward,” Jim says against his throat. And it hadn’t been. It had been good, really good. Which is probably why McCoy’s fingers are threading themselves through Jim’s belt loops, even as he tells him to stop. “I’m making sure it wasn’t a fluke.”

“What, you think I accidently wasn’t terrible in bed?” He curves his neck into Jim’s kisses under the pretense of pulling his head away, leaning farther down the couch, which only really results in more of Jim leaning over him.

“Maybe. But what kind of scientist would I be if I took all my data from one fuck? Need a larger test group.”

The size of Jim’s ‘test group’ is part of the problem. “You’re not a scientist at all. You’re a cocky, sex-crazed farm boy that only comes on to me when you’re drunk.”

“Or I only come onto you when you’re drunk.”

Huh. McCoy has something to say to that, something about taking advantage, but he’s not so drunk that he doesn’t realize it makes him sound like he should be wearing a prom dress, so he keeps his mouth shut. He just grunts as Jim’s fingers find his belt buckle, he huffs when they find his fly and he bites back the mother of all groans when they snake their devious way inside and wrap themselves firmly around his cock.

He’s given up the token protest; they both know where this is going to end. The first time was too good to turn down an encore and McCoy harbors no illusions about this being the start of anything serious.

Jim Kirk is Jim Kirk and McCoy is… well he’s McCoy. He’s not any more fit for a committed and giving relationship than his best friend, and they probably both know it. But sex is just sex, and this sex is really fucking great sex.

Jim crashed here often enough without the promise of a blowjob that neither had to worry about the awkwardness of one night stand etiquette, and if Jim went home with the perky brunette from stellar cartography tomorrow then it would hardly be different from any other Thursday.

Besides, he wants this. Jim. He wants Jim.

Jim, as if reading his mind, presses one last open-mouthed kiss against his jaw before sliding down his body and ending up neatly positioned between his legs. Tugging his pants lower, Jim mouths wetly at the tip of his cock. McCoy manages to stay silent, just barely, throwing his head back with his teeth clenched.

But what he really wants is to watch Jim, so he forces his head back up and his eyes open to watch as Jim opens his mouth wider and wraps his lips around the head of McCoy’s dick. As Jim slips his mouth down his shaft, his breaths coming heavier through his nose, matching McCoy’s own.

Jim pulls back and swirls his tongue around McCoy’s head again. Jesus fuck. “Yeah,” McCoy says, his hand going to the back of Jim’s head. He doesn’t push, just lets Jim work himself up and down, his eyes fixed on McCoy’s face. “Jesus, Jim.”

McCoy arches back into the couch to keep from thrusting into Jim’s mouth. Sweat is starting to collect at his temples and in the small of his back; he can feel his shirt sticking to him. He doesn’t care. He’s only peripherally aware of anything that isn’t his dick, and by extension, Jim’s mouth on his dick.

Jim doesn’t slow down. One hand comes up to wrap around the base of McCoy’s cock, jacking him in even time to the motions of Jim’s mouth and it leaves McCoy panting harshly into the still air of his apartment, his eyelids fluttering.

Jim’s other hand runs up the inside of McCoy’s thigh, pressing carefully between his legs and pushing just there behind his balls. McCoy’s eyes slam shut and stay that way as he comes with a shout into Jim’s mouth.

When McCoy finally does open his eyes, still panting heavily, it’s to find Jim still crouched on floor, looking up at McCoy.

“You want another beer?” he asks.

Just because McCoy is well rested for his classes the next day doesn’t mean he’s not distracted. But they do pass relatively painlessly, even the one he shares with Jim. They make eye contact and Jim flashes him a quick smile before moving to find a seat. There are only a few left at this point, none of them near McCoy, and a small, traitorous part of him can’t help but wonder if Jim is late on purpose.

He refuses to let himself think that. After all, that’s why they ended it, so they could stay friends. So friends they would stay. He has to believe that because believing anything else is too fucking depressing, and if there’s one thing he’s gotten good at over the past several months, it’s convincing himself to believe whatever is convenient, no matter how untrue. Things like having to retake some introductory xeno-bio courses will be a good refresher and not at all boring and I’m not in love with Jim.

They’re not even drunk this time.

“Jim, at least wait until we get back to my room. People are going to think I’m your boyfriend,” he tells the man currently wrapped around him in a way McCoy had previously thought was impossible for anything with a skeletal system.

Jim ignores him. He doesn’t seem to have a problem with what people think, but he doesn’t understand. He’s not the one that’s going to get that pitying look the next time he gets left in a bar for some pretty blonde with pouty lips that may or may not have at one time lived on her ass.

“Would you hold your goddamn horses, you juvenile delinquent?” he demands gruffly, because if there are three things that McCoy resorts to when flustered, they are profanity, alcohol and name calling; and not in that order. Since alcohol was not do be found in the quad, he’d have to settle for two out of three and substitute a good equestrian metaphor. Never underestimate the power of a good equestrian metaphor.

What was to be found was a handful of milling students, some of them less discreet in their staring at the Amazing Octopus Boy than others.

He gets it. He does. Jim is excited; he’s still riding the high from passing his sim. And the fact that he’d actually broken records in the process isn’t helping any. Andrenaline junkie, McCoy thinks bitterly before he all but grabs Jim by the scruff of his neck and drags him off to someplace with walls and doors.

Once is chance, twice is coincidence, three times is a goddamned pattern.

McCoy is exhausted. Which is probably to be expected after a busy 24 hours without sleep. He hopes Jim’s not waiting for him when he gets back, he really doesn’t have enough energy for athletic sex right now. Or any other kind of sex for that matter.

Then he remembers, Jim won’t be there. Jim won’t be coming around to fuck him tiredly into his mattress ever again. He swallows down the disappointed thought that he should be careful what he wishes for and lets himself into his tiny, dark apartment.

“Do you think Margolis is really sleeping with his Warp Theory professor?” Jim asks from about six inches to McCoy right. McCoy just grunts. Whether Jim takes that to mean that he doesn’t know or that he doesn’t care makes no difference. Same result and both are true.

McCoy’s pretty sure most fuck buddies don’t do this. The fucked out, post-coital pillow talk, that is. Well, McCoy’s fucked out, Jim is just Jim as he was an hour ago, but without a hard-on. In any case, he adds all this to the list of things he doesn’t care about right now, and possibly ever.

This has become a regular thing with them. When they’re drunk, or hell, when they’re sober. When one of them has had a particularly good day and wants to celebrate, when they’ve had a bad day and just need a distraction, when they’re too lazy to find new and creative ways to pick up partners and just on days ending in Y, they fall into bed together. The pillow talk is relatively new though, and McCoy can’t really say he minds.

Having somebody to tune out after sex again is nice. It’s funny the things you miss.

When McCoy wakes up, it’s to a sunny Saturday morning that’s too bright to be borne and too cheerful by half. At least he has the goddamn weekend off. He has big plans that chiefly involved never leaving his room and doing a whole lot of nothing. He’s a busy man.

Starting his tiny, ancient coffee maker he heads off to take a shower while it brews and it’s only when he comes back to find a full pot that he realizes that he’s got it set up to brew for two people. He wonders darkly if Jim is having the same kind of morning he is: shitty. He wonders if Jim got up and realized that there was no coffee waiting for him and though of McCoy.

Probably not, it’s Saturday after all. Jim probably isn’t even in his own room this morning.

“Bones, you home?” McCoy can hear Jim’s voice over the rushing water of the shower and hollers back that he’s in the bathroom. It should surprise him when Jim just lets himself in, but it doesn’t. Nor does it particularly surprise him when Jim strips and steps under the spray with him.

“I swear to god, that was the longest class I have ever had in my entire life,” Jim says without preamble, like friends get naked and slippery with each other all the time, no big.

McCoy goes with it. “You sure that’s not because it’s the first one you’ve ever sat through from beginning to end?”

He’s not bitter about how easy the good grades come to Jim, not at all. Besides, his grades are better. The fact that he probably works twice as hard for what amounts to an advantage of less than half a grade is completely beside the point.

Jim shoots him a quelling look but then completely ruins it by slapping his ass. McCoy doesn’t yelp, but the dirtiness of the look he throws Jim is directly proportionate to how close he was to doing it.

“Hand me the soap, you jackass.”

Jim complies and then steps further into the spray, allowing the water to cascade over his bowed head and down his neck. It’s a pretty picture, not that McCoy is watching.

“Why’d you sign up for a Friday evening class, anyway? I still can’t figure that out,” McCoy says, as much for something to do that’s not watching the water stream down Jim’s ass as anything.

“Other two were already full by the time I convinced McGregor to let me take the damn thing early,” Jim says from under the water. And that’s the other thing, Jim was really serious about this finishing in three years thing. When he’d first mentioned it to McCoy, he’d just snorted and clapped Jim on the shoulder. But now, half way through their second year, it really looks like Jim is going to do it, and McCoy is… proud.

McCoy just hums an acknowledgement because that makes sense and he really has nothing more to say. Clearly he did not think his topic of choice through very well.

“You going out tonight?” he asks.

“Nah,” Jim says, stepping around him and grabbing his shampoo. “I figured we’d order in. I’m wiped out, man and there’s no way I’m going back to my room.”

Jim’s roommate got used to Jim being out on Fridays and by the time his Friday class started and Jim found himself just wanting to sleep, he was surprised to find that Geoff’s noisy, Friday night sex with his girlfriend had become something of a working installation, not to be fucked with. So he crashes at McCoy’s and more often than not they just order take-out.

It’s exactly what they’d done the last two weeks. In fact, they hadn’t even gone out drinking in almost a month. Part of McCoy wonders if he should be worried about the change of habit, if maybe this was exactly what he’d been worried about and things were going to be different now that they’d slept together. The other part of him tells that part to shut the fuck up, Jim had a Friday night class and dick roommate and that was that, and why does he always have to be such a downer anyway?

Clearly that part wins because ten minutes later McCoy is ordering Thai while Jim wanders back and forth behind him wearing nothing but a towel. He never does get dressed that night and as Jim is drifting off to sleep next to him, McCoy hears him mumble a barely coherent “there had better be something caffeinated in the morning because awesome as that was, it did not make me less tired.”

The weekend is gone in a blur of small tasks and studying ¬– nothing that leaves time for either deep thinking or socializing – and by the time Monday rolls around, McCoy’s apartment is cleaner than it’s been since he moved in.

When McCoy arrives at his first class and finds an honest to god, bright red heart taped to the window in the door, he groans. This is Starfleet. Starfleet is not the third grade, it’s serious business (or so he tells himself when it suits his purpose) and this is frankly more than a little ridiculous.

Valentines day is still a couple of days away, not that it’s a real goddamn holiday in the first place, and is it too much to ask that he get a little peace?

The entire universe hates him. The chocolate heart on his usual desk – and in fact on every desk in the room because he looks for somewhere else to sit when he sees it, – is proof.

Jim has gotten good at not flaunting his other sexual exploits in front of McCoy, and a part of him that he’s not willing to examine too closely right now is grateful. Now when they go out together, they leave for home together. Who Jim sleeps with on his own time is his own business, that’s the deal, but McCoy is increasingly grateful that he doesn’t have to see it anymore.

Despite that, the fact that Jim apparently knows that he doesn’t want to see it and is going out of his way for McCoy’s peace of mind gives him pause. He shouldn’t have to do that. It wasn’t the deal.

The idea of having his nose rubbed in Jim going elsewhere for sex leaves him feeling vaguely ill, but that doesn’t negate the uneasy feeling he gets from knowing that Jim is showing enough consideration to be discreet. It never even occurs to him that he doesn’t see it because there’s nothing to see.

He looks down at where Jim is sacked out on his chest, probably drooling on him. He looks at his own fingers, carding rhythmically through Jim’s hair and he gets a sinking feeling in his gut.

This isn’t just fucking. And obviously Jim knows that. McCoy’s not sure when this got out of control, if it was ever really under control in the first place –and let’s be honest, this is Jim Kirk so it probably wasn’t – but he does know one thing. This cannot be allowed to get worse. They’re still calling themselves friends but if it goes any further they’re going to lose that and McCoy will be able to add another hash under the column of “things I’ve royally fucked up.”

He swallows heavily, his eyes pointed toward the ceiling but completely unseeing. This is not good.

He passes Jim in the hallway after class. He hasn't avoiding him per se, he just hasn't made any effort to be in his company for the last several days, either. Not since... Well, it would get better. Jim just frowns, excuses himself from whatever conversation he's having and flips a bitch right in the middle of the hall to sidle up next to McCoy.

McCoy is sure Jim was on his way to class but he doesn't seem bothered and it's not like the kid's never been late and gotten away with it before so he doesn't say anything.

"Where've you been, man? I haven't seen you all weekend."

"I was studying," McCoy replies a little more gruffly that is strictly warranted.

"Right," Jim says like hey, he gets it and McCoy pretty damn sure that he really, really doesn't.

“Look, Jim,” McCoy stops walking and turns to face Jim. The hallway is deserted but for the two of them, not that it matters because the last thing McCoy is planning on doing is spilling his guts. “Just give it a couple of days and things will go back to normal. Right now it’s just…”

“Weird?” Jim supplies.

McCoy nods.

There’s a wry twist to Jim’s lips when he says “See, I thought that’s what we were trying to avoid but I… just… you know what? You’re right. It’ll be fine.” He smiles, claps McCoy on the shoulder and heads off in the direction he was originally headed.

Funny thing but McCoy’s pretty sure he feels even worse now.

Jim’s been shooting him weird looks all day and McCoy’s pretty sure he knows why. No doubt it has something to do with the fact that he hasn’t been able to sit still or meet Jim’s gaze since they got up this morning. He can’t. He knows what he needs to do, he’s just not sure how.

As it turns out, Jim saves him the trouble.

“Bones, look. There’s this… we should… not that it isn’t good, because it’s fucking awesome and I just think it’ll get weird, you know? And I don’t want that.”

And McCoy does know. Even if it is the least eloquent speech he’s ever heard Jim make, with half the words get stuck in his throat and the other half come out too fast, McCoy knows. He’s torn between relief and crushing disappointment that it’s over. It’s impossible to tell from Jim’s frown which of those emotions is showing more predominantly on his face though and he just nods.

When the silence gets too heavy he crosses his arms over his chest and clears his throat. “Yeah, that’s… for the best.”

Jim doesn’t look any happier to have McCoy agree with him and McCoy wonders if he was even asleep last night when he was all but petting him. It doesn’t matter, this was inevitable and the sooner it ended, the sooner things could get back to normal.

Jim doesn’t stay long after that, which is just fine by him; it’s late, it’s awkward, McCoy just wants to be left alone for a little while. He doesn’t know why he let it go on as long as he did, why he didn’t realize that a sexual relationship with Jim was nothing more than mutually assured destruction. Both of them are the all or nothing type and it looks like it’s going to be nothing.

It’s February 13th and McCoy’s all but out of food. He is not, under any circumstances, leaving his apartment tomorrow, so either he stocks up now or he fasts. Considering how cranky he gets when he doesn’t eat, there really isn’t any question.

McCoy knows he could always just order groceries, but there’s something about having somebody else pick out his produce that just doesn’t sit right with him, and this is how he finds himself surrounded by shiny, red boxes of chocolates and decorations featuring naked, bewinged babies clutching tastefully positioned bouquets of carnations.

Valentines Day is against his religion. And if it’s not, he’s changing religions. Single position open, religions that do not see why Valentines Day is the embodiment of all that is wrong with the planet need not apply.

By the time he makes it out of the store, he’s lugging bags full of he doesn’t even know what and muttering about the ethics of companies who purposefully prey on the fat and the lonely.

PC? Definitely not. PC can go fuck itself. PC probably celebrates Valentines Day.

Once he’s holed up properly in his room, he pulls out a medical journal. Not actually his favorite reading but he does need to be caught up and it’s the only reading he’s got to hand that’s guaranteed 100% free of romantic themes of any kind.

Perfect. This will get him through the night.

When he wakes in the morning he starts the coffee machine and takes a shower. He makes too much coffee again but he pretends not to notice and pours himself a cup.
He gets dressed; he reads; he answers his messages, immediately deleting anything beginning with the word “happy” or even vaguely referencing the fact that holidays of any kind are observed by anyone, ever.

It’s a peaceful day, as good as could be hoped for, until about 18:30. That’s when someone comes to his door. And actually wants him to answer it.

Apparently the sound of him stomping from his bedroom doesn’t scare them off, because when McCoy opens the door he is rather surprised to find Jim standing there.

“Uh, hi,” says Jim.

McCoy blinks.

“Can I… is this a bad time?”

Shaking himself, McCoy steps out of the doorway and gestures Jim inside.

“Did you eat already?” Jim asks and McCoy just shakes his head. He’s not sure he trusts himself to say anything right now. At least not something he won’t regret.

“Hungry?” Jim asks, a frown forming on his face.

“Uh,” McCoy clears his throat. “yeah. Yeah, I guess.”

“Awesome! Let’s go.” Jim smile is bright and sudden as he sweeps an arm behind McCoy like he’s herding him to the door. McCoy doesn’t budge. Jim’s smile dies a sad death and his frown resumes its place on Jim’s face.

“No.” McCoy just shakes his head. He can tell himself that Jim doesn’t know what he’s doing, but it really doesn’t make a difference. It’s February 14th and as far as McCoy is concerned, he’s quarantined for his own safety.

“Why not?” Jim looks genuinely confused.

“It’s Valentines Day, Jim. “ There would be flowers and music and couples proposing to each other in restaurants and McCoy isn’t subjecting himself to that shit. If the rest of the word wants to drink the kool-aid and make sweeping romantic gestures that they probably don’t even mean, just because their calendar demands it, that was their business. He has homework.

“Well, yeah. That’s the point.”

“You’re telling me you’re asking me to go to dinner with you because it’s Valentines Day?” McCoy’s face is clearly asking if Jim has completely lost his mind.

Jim looks at his feet. Which is kind of an odd thing for him to do, actually. Jim rarely does embarrassed and even more rarely does he do shy. What the fuck was he thinking? Had he already forgotten why the lines between friends and… something else needed to be clearly drawn?

“It seemed like the thing to do,” he says, finally meeting McCoy’s eyes.

“Because you’re high?” McCoy demands, finally losing his cool.

“No!” Jim defends, “Because that’s what you do on Valentines Day!”

“You go out with friends who you know have feelings for you, so you can make awkward stilted small talk and pretend everything is okay? Is that what you do on Valentines Day?” FUCK. This is why he wasn’t supposed to talk.

“NO, Bones!” Jim says again, this time with considerably more volume. “You spend time with people you love!”

Oh.

McCoy’s hands are on his hips and now he’s the one that can’t meet Jim’s eye. The silence isn’t comfortable, nor is it particularly silent, filled with their harsh, angry breathing and the occasional sound of shuffled feet and ruffled hair.

“So,” McCoy begins cautiously, “this was like… a date?”

“Yeah, Bones.” Jim sighs heavily and glances around the room in a way that definitely not rolling his eyes. “this was like a date.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? Okay as in ‘Okay. I’ve noted that you’re an utter moron that thought that I would actually be interested in having a serious relationship with you’, or okay as in ‘Okay. Awesome, let me grab my coat’?”

McCoy smiles. He can’t help it. “Okay as in ‘I’ve got a kitchen full of food and you know better than to come in here with your shoes on’.”

“Right.” Jim shoes are kicked off and his jacket is over the back of the wingback in a heartbeat. “What am I cooking?”

“You can open the pasta,” McCoy says. It’s a long running joke between the two of them, that Jim is not allowed near anything hot or sharp. In reality Jim is a decent cook and has manual dexterity that some surgeon’s McCoy’s known don’t possess, but suddenly a stupid old joke is funnier than it’s ever been. It mean that things are normal. Things are okay.

In fact, McCoy’s pretty sure that Jim just told him that he loves him. Things are a fair sight better than okay. Catching Jim’s shoulder as he rifles in the cupboard, McCoy spins him around. He pushes him back against the counter and pushes his mouth against Jim’s.

Jim is responsive as ever, his mouth opening eagerly under McCoy’s and his tongue flicking past his lips. Though McCoy rocks his hips against Jim’s, he’s pretty sure this isn’t going anywhere tonight. It doesn’t need to, this isn’t about the sex. Well, not just the sex at any rate.

Jim loves him. Jim loves him and is kissing him and he’d managed to go the entirety of Valentines Day without stepping foot outside.

Valentines Day.

“Shit.” He mutters the word against Jim’s mouth and pulls away just far enough that his lips can form words, but not so far that he can’t feel Jim’s warm breath on them. “Jim, when did we get together?”

“October 2nd,” Jim answers immediately, like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Then he stops, pulling back far enough that McCoy can see the confused look on his face. “Why?”

Oh, thank god. “Because this cannot be our anniversary.”