Not His Fault, by JiM (ST: XI)

It isn't his fault, not this time. In fact, he could argue that being a starship captain is hard on the joints. And the face. And a whole bunch of other body parts that have seen a whole lot more regeneration then both he and Bones would like. After all, hadn't he gotten his captain's seat because Pike had gone off and gotten himself tortured and enslugged or whatever? Hell, almost half the captains in Starfleet had died that same day; obviously, any day Captain Kirk comes home and can still breathe is a good day. OK, most of him came home this time, but he still wants to call it a win.

He wants to tell McCoy that Renata's Captain has a bionic eye and two prosthetic legs -- and she's a carrier, not even a front line vessel like Enterprise. So why is Bones bitching so much about one missing finger joint? It's the one he uses least anyways; his left pinky finger tip. What had it ever really done for him? He glares at the foreshortened digit and sneers at it.

He suspects he might be more rocked out than he thought on whatever Bones just pumped into him.

"I know," McCoy growls and adjusts the regenerator that is currently closing the severed flesh and capping off the nerves that he can no longer feel. The facility's blast door had slammed shut on his trailing hand just as he and the kid he was shepherding had (almost) made it through to safety. Damn, that had hurt. The numbness is good, if weird.

"Not even a whole one," he says comfortingly. "Look, I have nine more," and he waggles them at McCoy. Which seems to cause the doctor's jaw to lock even more and he snarls,

"'m just saying, it's no big deal. So you can stop looking all mean-ass-kill-doctor, 'k?" He is starting to slur and figures that unconsciousness is coming soon. But he really wants Bones to get this. "Not my fault. Just happen'd."

"Not your fault, either," he says just as slides into sleep and wonders briefly where that came from. His last view of his friend is of McCoy's wide, stricken eyes staring at him as he reaches toward Jim.

When he wakes six hours later, his left pinky stub is covered with soft, new pink skin. It barely reaches to the first joint of his ring finger. It looks cool, he decides; just that little bit of unexpected vacancy where someone might expect something else from him; that pleases him. It always pleases him to fuck with other people's expectations, even now when the reasons for his rebellions have all fallen so far astern that they will never catch up with him again. Sometimes, though, he just feels like saying "fuck you" to whatever everyone else has in mind for him.

Not Bones, though. Probably because Bones doesn't really have any expectations that he looks to Jim to meet. Instead, he makes demands that Jim can't help but respond to. Do your best. Stay safe. Be the man I know you are. Sometimes, Jim thinks that Leonard McCoy is the one who really made Jim into Capt. James T. Kirk, more than Pike or Starfleet or even Spock's loyalty, like a rock against his back.

McCoy is the one who seemed to see something in Jim beyond wasted potential or good publicity or even leadership material. Pike and Spock and all the admirals back on Earth, all those people watching news-holos of the dashing young starship captain -- they all want something from him. But Bones' demands seem to be for Jim, not from him.

Hell, he'd even demanded that Jim turn over the severed chunk of his finger when he stumbled into Sickbay behind Rand and Spock. He could have reattached it and his expression when told where it was now ranks in Jim's private gallery of top ten favorite McCoy facial expressions.

He manages to placate Bones and keep him in argumentative good humor for three months during which he gets nothing more than the occasional bruise or scratch on an away mission. McCoy has even complimented his restraint by asking if the "thrill has gone out of the wounded hero routine," although he still gets a particular sort of glower when his gaze rests too long on that missing fingertip. Of course, the fact that they are assigned to entirely known quadrants of space and completely boring routine and diplomatic trade missions may have something to do with it.

His winning streak comes to an end during an otherwise calm and undistinguished shore leave on Callahan's Settlement, designated Plasix V. Again, not really his fault, which he tries to explain to McCoy with a broken jaw. Damn, that hurts. It's almost enough to make him stop talking, stop trying to explain, but McCoy has that crazy-crazy-hurt look in his eyes and his jaw is clenched so tightly that it probably hurts more than Jim's does.

Why do the most important things he tries to say to his friend always come out like he's gargling with oatmeal? Maybe, says the exasperated BonesVoice in his head, because you're always drunk or beaten to shit when you decide to talk seriously to him. Because you're a coward about the real stuff, Jimmy boy. You know, emotions and friendship and anyone and anything that actually shows that you have more depth than a mud puddle.

"Hold still. For someone who never means to, Jim, you do a damned fine job of getting it done. What, things been too quiet around here for you?"

"Wuzn' trying to get in trouble." He finally manages to get his tongue to work enough to sound less drunk.

Of course, now he just sounds sullen. And about nine years old. But, seriously, this time it really wasn't his fault. It's just that he objects to some stranger biting the head off of one of his ensigns. Literally.

He still has no idea what Chekov did to piss off a Gorn. All he knows is that he came around a corner and the flash of a command gold tunic in a gloomy alley, combined with the sounds of a scuffle and a bitten-off yell, had launched him into action before he was consciously aware of moving.

There were no weapons allowed on Callahan's, so he had simply waded in with his fists. Of course, Gorns came naturally equipped in the weapons department and he had spent a very lively five minutes avoiding those razor-sharp teeth and ducking fistfuls of claws. It was the muscular tail that had bashed him off his feet and smack into the alley wall. While he was shaking off the fiery explosion of pain from his newly-cracked jaw, security had arrived. Good thing Chekov had actually recovered enough of his senses to communicate with the ship while Kirk was getting his head smacked around.

Unfortunately, nothing is going to save him from McCoy's temper. Which the doctor promptly demonstrates by gently easing Jim back flat onto the bed and pulling a light cover over him.

"Sleep for a while, Jim. Let the swelling go down and then we'll see about you getting to finish the rest of shore leave somewhere else."

McCoy has the Hypospray of Doom look in his eyes, so Jim doesn't even bother to argue. Fact is, his head hurts and his jaw is only now calming down and something about McCoy's gaze makes him want to do anything he asks just so he'll stop looking like that.

When Jim wakes after a few hours' nap, he feels a hell of a lot better. His jaw is still tender when he pokes at it but he is able to move it and it doesn't bother him if he doesn't grit his teeth. So, no chewing dinner tonight, apparently. Which is fine, since he plans on spending the evening with Bones, who will likely be drinking his evening meal, if the wire-tight expression on his face earlier was any indication. He gets up and wanders toward McCoy's office. He's still barefoot, wearing the surgical scrubs they had stuffed him into while mopping up blood and digging gravel out of his face.

Spock is there, which surprises him. More surprising still is the scent of jasmine tea and the two mugs of it that sit on McCoy's desk, one in front of each of them. They form part of a peaceful tableau that he had never imagined even as he had worked to resign those two to collegiality if not friendship. The two men look up from their respective padds when he appears in the doorway. McCoy barely glances at him, then nods once before looking back down at his screen. "Captain," Spock greets him gravely and stands to offer his seat.

Jim waves him back and grabs the gliding stool Bones keeps here for private exams. He pulls it up to the side of the desk and slouches down onto it before reaching across and helping himself to the last swallow of tepid tea in Bones' mug. When McCoy looks up with a minor grimace of annoyance, Jim says, "You still pissed at me?" He's too tired to try the sad-puppy-eyes or the smirk, which is probably why McCoy just sighs and shakes his head.

The clatter of his padd hitting the desk is loud before McCoy digs his hands into his hair.

"But you've gotta stop doing this to me, Jim. If my heart holds out, my liver won't." Which explains the weird tea, not McCoy's usual tipple.

"I know. I've been trying." He's trying not to whine and figures he's not doing too well when the corner of Bones' mouth disappears into an irritated frown.

"I calculate that the Captain's incidence of serious injury has decreased by 37 percent during the last 90-day cycle," Spock offers. "Additionally, his alcohol consumption while off-duty, on shore leave or planet-side has also decreased by 31.762 during the past eight months."

Kirk is torn between gratitude for Spock backing him up and annoyance that he has been monitoring Jim like a probationary cadet. Or a former genius-level offender with a tropism for bar-fights, his inner Bones points out acerbically. Yeah, okay, put like that, he doesn't have much to complain about. At least he always has company when he wants a night out dirtside.

"I know, okay?" McCoy snaps at Spock. "I can see what he's been trying to do. And I appreciate it; hell, my stores appreciate it, if nothing else. I haven't needed to order half the nu-skin or blood restock that I needed to before he hit this streak of good behavior."

McCoy finally looks straight at him. "Yeah, Jim. You are." He gives a half-hearted smile. "Spock was telling me that there's something like three million M-class planets out there in our galaxy alone."

Spock tries to interject with the correct figure and is silenced by McCoy's glare and one imperious finger waving side to side. Kirk is amused to see his first officer subside with nothing more than an eyebrow twitch of irritation as he goes back to staring at his padd.

"As I was saying… three million planets capable of supporting sentient life. In this universe, there are three million million…"

Jim can't help grinning; the acid in McCoy's voice would dissolve anyone else's composure. Spock has not even looked up.

"In three trillion galaxies, each with their millions of planets full of people. But in all of that, and perhaps more, there is only one of each of us. One." McCoy's voice drops a little but his eyes remain locked on Jim's. "Do me a favor, Jim. Don't destroy the one named Kirk."

Jim knows his mouth is hanging open in a way that makes him look especially feeble-minded. Even Spock has looked up at the something that thrums in the doctor's low-voiced words. McCoy's voice doesn't even touch the depths of crazy-crazy-hurt suddenly visible deep in his eyes. He gets to his feet abruptly and Jim is left saying, "Bones," to his rapidly retreating back.

He and Spock sit in silence for a few minutes while Jim runs his index finger in thoughtful circles around the rim of Bones' abandoned mug. After a while, Jim says, "Fuck."

But Jim Kirk isn't stupid and he isn't a coward. Okay, he might be a little slow where his best friend is concerned, but it isn't like Bones has been all that shy about telling him exactly what he thought since the first minute they met. Except for this. It would have been nice to be clued in, though.

Jim is desperately tired, the way he always is after a bone regeneration session. The decking is cold beneath his bare feet as he stands and flicks at the alert button outside Bones' quarters. It takes a while for McCoy to answer, but he is no coward, either. The door slides open and he is leaning against one side, not exactly blocking the entrance but not inviting Jim in, either.

They stare at one another for a while. Jim can see that Bones is dog-tired, too. He has stripped down to his dark undershirt and taken off his boots. Clothed only in black now, with dark smudges beneath his eyes and a late evening beard, he looks a little more like the man Jim had first met all those years ago than he has in a long time. But there is one thing different now.

Hope is crackling and jostling the crazy hurt in his eyes as he looks at Jim standing at his door tonight. The whiskers on Bones' cheek whisper against Jim's fingertips and his bottom lip is moist where Jim's thumb touches it.

"Not my fault," Jim whispers, his own lips curving when Bones takes his hand and draws him inside.

"All right," he murmurs, when Bones finally ends that first kiss, stopping to lean their foreheads together and just breathe. "Maybe a little my fault," Jim says happily.

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