fuckyeahmckirk

It didn’t smell of coffee, so Jim found it inexcusable for Bones to not be in there, snoring lightly beside him and complaining of Jim hogging the covers. He vaguely wondered if this had been the final straw. If Jim had stolen the covers one too many times and Bones had fled to the couch, vowing to never let him pass out in his bed again while in a drunken state.

And sober then, Jim would ask. What if I’m sober? And Bones would roll his eyes and they wouldn’t mention that neither of them were brave enough yet to not use booze as an excuse, but the truth was that Jim had found himself in this bed for the past month and a bit and not kissed a single stranger even if Bones hadn’t gone out with him. But they hadn’t talked about it, so who was Jim to holler Bones’ name indignantly first thing in the morning?

Which was, naturally, exactly what he did.

Bones’ face was groggy when he peeked into the room. “Would you calm down?”

“Would you come back to bed?”

“I work this morning. I told you.”

Jim whined, unashamed and still a bit drunk if he was being honest. “Call in sick.”

“No.”

“Please.”

Bones’ features softened. “I can’t. You know I can’t, Jim.”

Jim pressed his face into the pillow, the light defeating him. “Stupid hospital,” he muttered, and he could hear Bones breathe out, nearly a laugh, as he moved closer. He felt a hand in his hair, but missed the hesitation.

“It’s a short shift,” he said. “I’ll be back before you even properly come back to life.”

“If you knew you had to work, why did you go out with me last night?”

“Because you asked me to.”

Jim tried to look up at him, a question, maybe something playful once but that would turn into a timid mumbling, at the tip of his tongue, but Bones didn’t let him ask it. Instead he climbed back into bed, his chest pressed against Jim’s back in a way they wouldn’t talk about, and Jim could feel his heartbeat and how it was quicker than it should.

“Just for a moment,” Bones said, a warning, but so quiet Jim chose to ignore it and pretend this would be his whole day. It was true that he would probably pass out again once Bones left, unaffected by Bones’ sacrifice of sleep just to accompany him. But truth was Jim had longed so much for proximity that he’d found the closest party he could get and decided to go just to get drunk and have an excuse.

“Don’t,” he heard himself say, an automatic response whenever Bones’ fingertips rested against his belly.

“Don’t what?” Bones asked, but he was already tickling, softly and skillfully, but not enough to cause more than a giggle, a bit of a squirm. Jim could feel his grin against his neck. “Not my fault you’re ticklish.”