"Shut up, Jim," McCoy mutters, pressing the heels of his palms to his eye sockets until white starbursts bloom in the black and his eyes hurt from the pressure. He reaches for the tumbler of bourbon and opens his eyes to find Jim pushing the glass into his hand.
McCoy takes a slow sip, the liquor burning hot down his throat. Jim remains silent, so McCoy closes his eyes and tilts his head back, rubbing his thumb against the glass until he feels his grip growing slack. He returns to consciousness with a sharp jerk, but Jim's already got the glass, has a hand wrapped loose around McCoy's wrist.
"You need to sleep, Bones," he says, his fingers heavy and warm against McCoy's skin.
"I don't have time for that—"
"You aren't any good to me if you're falling over like this," Jim says, his tone too damn reasonable.
"It's not gonna happen."
Jim stands and tugs McCoy up, pulling harder when McCoy resists. McCoy stares at Jim and waits for some sort of explanation, but he doesn't bother with the pretense for long; he allows Jim to pull him to his feet and scrubs a hand down his face. Before they go much farther, he snatches up the tumbler and shoots the rest of the bourbon, the glass landing a little too loudly on the table as the liquor swirls warm in his gut. Then it's to the bed, and Jim's hands heavy on McCoy's shoulders 'til he sits.
"Going to put me to sleep with a bedtime story, Jim?" McCoy asks with a wry smile.
"It's not your fault," Jim says, and McCoy's smile immediately vanishes.
He drops his head and rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes again. "I need another drink."
The warmth of Jim's body disappears, and then he returns, pushing the tumbler, half filled with bourbon, into McCoy's hand. "Last call," Jim says.
"It's my damn liquor." But McCoy takes a sip, savoring each one like it's the last.
In the time between, there's too much silence between him, sitting on the edge of the bed, and Jim, standing over him, doing nothing more than kneading the muscles in McCoy's shoulders.
McCoy tips back the last of what's getting. "I need to get back—" He makes it halfway up, but Jim pushes down on him, keeps him in place, and McCoy stays.
"When was the last time you slept?"
McCoy looks up at Jim's unflinching stare. "I could ask you the same thing."
Jim takes the glass, but McCoy doesn't protest. He briefly closes his eyes, feeling bone-weary, but he's gearing himself up to get back on his feet when Jim's hands press flat against his chest and start pushing him back.
"We're going to sleep," Jim says, like it's the most reasonable thing in the world, sliding onto the bed next to McCoy. "We're both going to get some rest."
McCoy stiffens. "Greene's burns have the potential of getting infected and Lt. Kaplan's lacerations from fighting off whatever-the-hell-it was aren't going to magically heal themselves."
He shoves against Jim's arms and tries to slide out of the damn bed because he's determined to do his job until his goddamn sickbay is clear, but Jim's arm tightens around him, tugging him closer, Jim's mouth pressing warm against McCoy's ear.
"It's just a little nap, Bones." McCoy's got half a mind to keep arguing, but— "Just for a few hours."
They're both too exhausted to keep this up, and McCoy—
He has to trust his med staff and does, but it's hard to sleep when his head won't stop. McCoy suspects what Jim's relying on is the stillness, the warm comfort of the bed and the silence of the room and Jim himself, as solid as the ground, right next to him. All McCoy has to do is close his eyes, breathe out, and crash into a deep sleep. With Jim's heart beating strong and steady in his ear, there's only so long McCoy can resist before he does exactly that.