It had been a bit of a gamble, and he’d never been much one for the sport – drank his fair share and then some, and had plenty of other vices, when it came down to it, but at least he’d never frittered away his and Joss’ savings on a roll of the dice – but he liked to think that he knew Jim well enough to know what note to strike on a surprise party. If the years they’d spent alternatively at each other’s throats (mostly Bones, when it came down to it) and commiserating over Starfleet core educational classes hadn’t been enough, then the years spent hurtling through deep space in a tin can against all reason damn well had better have been good for something.
Sometimes, he still thinks that he’s smack dab in the middle of his mid-life crisis still, or maybe a psychotic break. It’s the only thing that would explain the fact that he not only committed himself to Starfleet, of all things, but has willingly hitched his wagon to the craziest bastard the Federation’s spit out in the last decade. Don’t get him wrong, he loves Jim to death, but this is not how he thought his life would pan out when he was a fresh-faced med student in Georgia.
Then again, he hadn’t exactly seen it coming when his marriage imploded, even if he should have. He also hadn’t ever bargained on the notion that his world would start to feel so damn small and claustrophobic that he’d jettison himself off a goddamn planet to get away from his problems, but it just circles back around to one thing: mid-life crisis.
Or psychotic break.
For someone deep in the throes of mental illness, though, he’s felt pretty damn good lately. He could do without the long, lonely stretches in the inky black, and he could definitely stand to have less of Jim Kirk’s brand of personal excitement in his life, but he’s… content. If he didn’t think it would bring hellfire and damnation down on his head to admit it, he might even go so far as to say that he’s been happy lately.
“Begging for trouble,” he mutters, tugging at his sleeves as he waits for the doors to whisper open before him.
Jim’s alone, which he expected, and it adds to that feeling of rightness that’s settling somewhere in his solar plexus that he’s come to know his best friend so well. Things are… settling.
It’s a little terrifying sometimes, and if you’d asked the Leonard McCoy of a few years ago where his life was headed, he would’ve said the bottom of a bottle and face-up in a ditch somewhere, probably. Space is a bit of an improvement on that, he supposes.
He sidles up beside Jim, propping his elbows up on the rail and letting their shoulders brush. You made it work, Bones.
Imagine that.
Half his mouth tugging into a smile, he drawls, “Well, the last birthday party I planned was for a four year-old, so I figured I couldn’t go too wrong.”
Lifting a hand, he mimes clinking a glass against Jim’s. “Glad you had a good time, kid.”
He’s done too much dwelling in his life, the short life it’s been. Jim knows this, but can’t make it stop, halt his brain from traipsing over the what-ifs. There’s no point to it, can’t go back and change it (not unless there’s another deep space anomaly involving black holes and red matter, but let’s not go through that again).
Still, as he rests his elbows on the balcony, he wonders, not for the first, or hundredth time, how his dad would have done it. If he would have saved more, kept the ship intact, if he would have left Jaylah and her plight behind, if he would have avoided the whole mess at all.
What sets his thoughts back into gear is the knowledge that they’re still here. His ship is just a place, a thing, and it can be rebuilt. The people on it are another story, and he’s lost too many already.
Bones fills the empty space at his side like he was always meant to be there, and Jim looks over at him with a brow raised, grin pulling into a full smile, teeth and everything. “And here I was, expecting a piñata.”
Jim returns the gesture, watching his best friend’s still scraped knuckles, and his smile softens. “Me too."
His gaze goes back to the sky, eyes following the panels separating them from oblivion, and he lets out a long breath. “You ever, uh,” and he falters, because he knows what he wants to ask, but he’s never put the errant thought into words, even though it’s one he’s had for years.
“You ever wish you didn’t agree to smuggle me onto that shuttle? Just sent one more desperate lunatic on his way?”
