Work Text:
1. Warm bourbon (Academy, Day 1).
McCoy’s stomach lurched as the shuttle banked hard out of the shipyard. He didn’t want to make good on his warning about vomiting on his fellow new cadet—he really didn’t—but for fuck’s sake, it seemed like a Starfleet shuttle pilot ought to have more control over the damned thing. Or, he reflected in horror, maybe a cadet was flying the shuttle.
Oh, holy shit—one of these kids is flying this thing? His stomach did a flip-flop. The kid next to him—no, not a kid, he had to stop thinking of his fellow new recruits as children, or he’d never make it through the Academy—passed the hip flask back to him again.
“Looks like you need this more than I do, Bones.”
McCoy took the flask back gratefully, and drained it thoroughly. The kid—stop it, Leonard, not a kid—Jim, then—was watching him carefully.
“Okay, don’t nod or shake your head—just say yes or no. You all right?” Jim asked him.
“No.”
“An honest man,” Jim answered. “That’s refreshing, Bones. Very refreshing.” He fidgeted in his seat, trying to reach his back pocket around the five-point harness.
“Wha’d you call me?” McCoy asked.
“All you’ve got left is your bones, right? Aha!” Kirk finally pulled a piece of actual paper from his back pocket. “Thought I still had this.” He folded the paper into a crude fan, and passed it to McCoy. “Here. You need air. Fan. Can’t exactly open a window in here.”
“Christ on a crutch, kid, don’t even say that word,” said McCoy, closing his eyes and fanning himself.
“What word? Air? Fan? Can’t? Exactly? Open? A?”
“Stop!”
“Oh, ‘window!’”
McCoy groaned, and fanned harder.
“Sorry, sorry. Won’t say it again, Bones, and that’s a promise. Let’s see, how can I distract you? All right, I know.” Jim Kirk proceeded to deliver the ten filthiest limericks McCoy had ever heard in his life, without seeming to pause for breath.
“I’ve got some more, but they’re even worse, and I think the lady behind us has had enough.” Jim turned around and shot Uhura a wink, and was rewarded with a professional-level eye roll.
And for a moment—just a moment—McCoy had forgotten all about puking.
“Hey, Jim,” McCoy said, doing his level best to keep his head still and his eyes shut. “Thanks. When we’re back to terra firma, I owe you a drink—and not warm bourbon from a hip flask, either.”
“It’s a deal, Bones. I’ll look you up.”