Chapter Text
“Wow. I see you had a fun day,” Jim grins, stepping over a slowly coagulating puddle of red-orange blood.
"Go fuck yourself, Jim," the doctor grumbles without so much as glancing at Jim, stripping off his bloodied scrubs as he heads towards the decontamination shower tucked near the back of the small clinic. The door slides shut, blood puddle just shy of getting caught in the tracks, and Jim makes his way over to the wall. There's a different blood smear here - blue, oddly thick - but that can wait for later. Jim bangs at the hidden compartment in the wall and grins at the colourful multitude revealed.
“You really need to hire a nurse or a cleaner or something,” Jim says, towels in hand as he walks back to the door. The red-orange blood starts to soak in instantly, once he throws them down. Bones always complains about not having plain white towels, but you can barely even see the blood on these rainbow coloured ones! Jim's a genius, truly.
“Find me one who’ll work for peanuts and I’ll hire ‘em on the spot.” Bones' voice is almost lost underneath the pipes groaning and rattling. There's a cupboard bolted to the wall - one of the few storage spaces in Bones's clinic that isn't a smugglers hidey-hole. No reflection on Bones himself, though who hasn't smuggled a few things across intergalactic lines? The smugglers' bolt holes are all over the place here, a reflection of the ancient generation ship's spotty past which is gleefully taken advantage of by its current inhabitants.
“You got peanuts?” Jim speaks louder to be heard above the noisy hiss of water through the showerhead, the still complaining pipes. He rummages through the cupboard that pulls double duty as cleaning equipment and scrubs storage, throwing a clean pair of scrubs over his shoulder. He stares at the mop and bucket, face a picture of forlorn martyrdom. Unfortunately, Bones is in the shower and isn't paying attention. Ah well can't win 'em all. Jim grabs the bucket and doesn't get bonked on the head with the mop; it says something about his day that he classes that as a win.
“No. Wipe that disappointed look off your face, you’re allergic anyway.”
Jim wedges the fresh scrubs in the miniscule towel rack, under the towel because he’s considerate like that. He knocks on the shower door with the bucket and snickers at the contortions Bones has to do to fit both himself and the bucket in the small space at the same time. The bucket gets passed back half full; any more and the water'll just tip back out when Bones has to tilt and squeeze it to get the bucket back past the door.
“You should use those peanuts to buy a bigger ship, Bones.”
“Don’t you start,” Bones grumbles, scrubbing at the blood caught in his hair. Jim’s got three jokes about squirting lined up but wisely closes his mouth at Bones’s sharp glare. The wet slap of mop on metal is barely audible over the rush of water, the groaning of the pipes; the groaning of the ship. She's an old beast, outlived many crews; most through terrible and horrific accidents, tragedies and sometimes outright warfare and sabotage. Scotty's got the helm now, and he's sworn up and down that there's no chance that any of the multiple catastrophe’s will happen to them. (Probably.)
“I’m serious. If you had a personal ship, a proper one with an actual medbay, you wouldn’t have to do all your work in this crapheap.” The generation ship must've had a great - or at least larger and purpose built - medbay once. Jim's pretty sure it's in the section of the ship that collapsed in a barrage of photon torpedoes a hundred or so years ago.
“I’ll tell Scotty you called his girl that.”
“Not if you want me to keep cleaning your floor, you won’t.” The pipes keep rattling, even after Bones turns the water off. Scotty might wax rhapsodic about this gargantuan ship but she’s a real hunk of junk. Held together with Scotty’s devotion and a whole system’s worth of tape and moonshine. Then again, that’s still better than Jim’s ship, currently barely held together at all and lacking in moonshine. The exit from his last job was less than smooth and his baby’s still smarting from it. He’s been on the Brightwing - affectionately called Bessy by Scotty - for three days and he still hasn’t figured out a way to make Sparky go again. Even Scotty had rubbed his chin with a dubious expression as he’d looked her over.
If he has to strip her for parts and start over - again - he’s gonna be pissed. It’d teach him to take a job sponsored by an Andorian Cartel, wouldn’t it. Bones had warned him and he’d sure as hell said ‘I told you so’ when Jim’d finally limped his way to the station. His baby might’ve been fixable if he’d been able to get a tow; Scotty reckons the way he’d jury rigged her to keep her going might’ve been what did the most damage.
“What’d Scotty say about Sparky?” Bones asks, voice muffled by the towel he’s scraping through his hair. This towel, Jim can’t help but notice, is looking increasingly threadbare. Come to think of it, most of the ones in the cupboard had lost that plush feeling, too. Jim makes a mental note to steal him some new ones. He’d clean out a whole store of the really thick ones, if he thought Bones had the space to store them. Between this shitty, run down clinic and Bones’s equally shitty and tiny ship tucked away in the far dock that he never uses, the other man’s got fuck all room to breathe, let alone anything else. If Bones had a bigger ship, he might even spend some time undocked from old Bess and actually travelling.
…Okay, he definitely wouldn’t. But at least he’d be able to sleep in a bunk more than half an inch wider than his shoulders! One day, Jim's gonna figure out a way to get Bones a new bed. Every emergency that he can think to manufacture in order to keep Bones away from his bed for long enough to completely overhaul his sleeping quarters is one in which Bones would press gang him into clinic service the second he caught wind of Jim's presence on the station. Also, he'd definitely get raked over hot coals by both Bones and Gaila, if not about seventy other people. Just Bones and Gaila would be fine but that much attention from that many people… pass. He'll think of a solution, eventually.
“He’s still tinkering but, honestly, I’m expecting a comm that says I should get the plans for Sparky V ready.”
“Shit. How far down you gotta pare her?”
“Gonna go down to her bones this time, Bones.”
“Won’t be able to work if Sparky’s in dry dock for months.”
“Won’t take me months,” Jim says, maybe a little overconfident, as he does his best to rinse the blood and goop out of the mophead. Bones toes into his hard soled old man slippers and walks across the newly cleaned floor; his crisp blue scrubs look out of place, now. Too neat by half, even without taking all the blood into consideration. Scotty might love this old ship but there’s no denying that her heyday was about three centuries ago. It shows in the walls, in the slow creep of rust, in the howling of the pipes whenever anyone even thinks about using them. In the sections of the ship deemed too damaged to be repaired even by Scotty's admittedly wild scale of measurement.
“Jesus, Jim, that water’s black.”
“I’d say charcoal grey.”
“Outta my way,” Bones says, the barest warning before his elbow is digging into Jim’s sensitive ribs. The younger man practically leaps away, almost slipping on the wet floor. He catches himself on a metal shelf, wincing when he hears the screech of age weakened metal. It’s only luck that this shelf contains nothing more than old holos, their frames already taped to the metal in case of sudden grav loss. Unfortunately, not exactly an uncommon situation aboard the Brightwing. Just about everything is taped or bolted or magnetised; some of the people, too, for that matter.
“I’ll fix that,” Jim promises, wiggling the now very loose shelf. One of the screws has bent, looks like. Easy fix - so long as he can find the right screw size. That’s the thing about living in the margins of society, scraping out a living between the galactic powers instead of submitting to their yoke: scarcity. Things which are a dime a dozen on planets, or ships or stations backed by a government or corporation - or both; little difference between the two, sometimes - are hard to come by, out here. Rare as hen’s teeth, Bones says, forever ignoring the handful of species of hen that do have teeth. Bones says they don't count, being alien and all. There's a handful of said hens teeth affixed to the inside of the smugglers compartments with clear tape; Jim's pretty sure Bones hasn't found them yet. He snickers at the thought of what Bones's face will look like when he does.
“Yeah, yeah,” Bones says, absentminded as he does his best not to splash filthy water on his clean scrubs as he pours it out. The pipes perform their habitual protest as Bones turns the taps on again, starting to refill the bucket.
“You get paid in worthwhile creds this time, at least?” Jim starts popping open wall panels, pretending like he doesn’t know exactly where the cleaning solution is. The one which Bones likes to use on his operating table, as opposed to the harsher shit he pours over his floor. The smugglers compartments contain the same thing as the visible, on display storage: medical supplies, medical supplies and more medical supplies. ‘Disposable’ by design; sanitised, resealed and reused by necessity. Masks, gloves, hypos, oh hello!
“Tell me this doesn’t contain Scotty’s moonshine,” he almost begs, lifting up the whiskey bottle. The seal looks intact. Jesus, Bones better have been paid for his work in this and not shelled out for it himself; it would've cost an arm and a leg, out here.
“It does,” Bones lies, “fix my shelf and clean my floor and I’ll even let you have some.”
“You were gonna let me have some anyway.” Bones’s silence is reply enough and Jim grins, replacing the glass bottle carefully back in the drawer. He skips the next handful of hidey-holes, runs his hand three inches across the next wall panel he gets to and then bangs his fist against it. It slides open smoother than the clinic's front door, its tracks much more meticulously maintained over the decades. Jim pulls the needed bottle of sanitiser and a clean cloth from its depths, nudges it with his elbow and doesn't bother to watch the easy way it slides shut.
“You get your kicks from going through my drawers?” The pipes shriek as the taps are turned off and Jim waits for them to be mostly quiet before he speaks.
“Why Bones, I’d love to go through your drawers.” Bones throws a caustic look over his shoulder and Jim giggles. He doesn’t miss the way Bones’s lips start to twitch upwards as he turns back to the bucket; he's soft and sweet all the way through, no matter how prickly he is on the outside. Jim throws the cleaner and cloth on Bones’s desk rather than the filthy operating table and then arms himself with the mop once more. He would clean the table himself but Bones has ridiculous standards for his operating table. Easier to keep to the floor than waste the amount of cleaner he'd use when Bones would just re-sanitize it after he finished, anyway.
“You know if Sulu’s gonna be around this meet? Got a lead on a plant he might be interested in.” The mop head splats against the floor. Jim contemplates saying something like 'wow, cleaning is much easier with clean water' but decides to save it. Bones only has so many things to throw at the moment, most everything sitting on a magnetised tray near the shower.
“Last I heard, he was still caught up somewhere near Earth. Doubt he’ll make it here by tonight, honestly.”
“Ah, the perils of being semi-legitimate. You ever miss it Bones?” For a few minutes there’s nothing but the sound of them cleaning and the ever present hum of the ancient ship. The wet sound of water against the metal floor, the squeak of Bones's cloth on the operating table. He's unsurprised when Bones sighs; whatever expression he's making is shown to the table and the table alone.
“This ain’t a life that most people choose for themselves, Jim. You’re the only bastard I know fucked up enough to actually like it out here.”
Jim laughs, high and bright for all it feels like glass in his throat.
Jim throws the small packet of screws from hand to hand as he wanders down the corridor. He used to be surprised by how normal black markets looked. Where's the shadowed figures with their faces hidden, the back alleys and weapons on prominent and threatening display? The threat of danger so prominent it zings along your nerves? The drama? Maybe there are black markets like that but Jim suspects they're nowhere he'd want to be. Probably the type of place that lets the skin trade flourish, that deals in stuff dark enough to make even his hardened stomach turn. Scotty wouldn't let any of that happen on his baby, of course, but he spends most of his time putting out small fires as he keeps the ship moving - literally, sometimes, given the age of some of the parts in the engine.
Gaila's the real one to look out for. Second in command in name alone, she runs the day to day of the ship and the black market with an iron fist. Anyone tried to sell slaves here and she'd skin 'em; she'd be the first in a long line of people looking to get in on that ass kicking, too. The Brightwing might be a giant piece of crap with a top speed of fuck all, but she's home to a lot of people. They got standards here, even if everyone here skirts the edges of legality in just about every intergalactic territory.
Standards for their black market, too, which looks more like something you'd see in a cute movie about some galactic nomads or a photo of a car boot sale. Well, so long as you didn't look too close at the wares on display, that is. Stalls spilling from airlocks and interior rooms and onto their berths and the docks. Temporary metal walkways and rope bridges linking ship to ship, across their backs and hooked to the hulls and zigzagging from airlocks to airlock. An easy way to shortcut between berths, sometimes, but usually it's just to make sure that latecomers or those without the money to secure a berth are still accessible, still able to hawk their wares.
The sight of it all - the lack of handrails, the meagre anchoring, the straight drop down into the black if you fall - makes Bones green every time. Sometimes there are pathways leading down to another layer of ships, barely contained within Bessy’s atmo. There are rope ladders and sometimes even sturdier metal ones, but one time Jim slid down a steep, thin plank, laughing all the while. The rush had been phenomenal, knowing if he shifted his weight the wrong way at the wrong time, he'd be gone. No second chances. He likes the thrill of it; loves the soul deep warmth he feels when Bones yells at him for being so careless, concern writ large across his whole body.
Jim always tries to make it back for market week, has rushed a few jobs he probably shouldn't have just to race back in time to catch the end of it. The market lights up the station, weirdos and outcasts and criminals from just about every empire and galactic power swinging by at one point or another. The entire central dock becomes a mass of chaos: colourful lights and banners, cheerful shouts and banter, the scent of at least three makeshift restaurants operating out of galleys.
Of course, they're not just selling illegal goods like drugs, neural jacks, information and every weapon under the sun. Jim entered the turbolift back into the heart of old Bess with nothing gained but a handful of assorted screws. He's hoping at least one will fit Bones's shelf. The Kobali who’d sold it to him had seemed equally pleased to sell him a little bag of screws as they had been selling a wicked looking Klingon knife to the Lethean standing next to him.
Bones's clinic is right in the heart of the ship, centrally located the way a good doctor tends to be - and Bones is the very best, even without any fancy equipment. Must've been a real hot shot, back when he had a medical licence. He's only a handful of decks above the main docks, a handful below the suite of rooms that Gaila runs everything out of and easy enough to get to for everyone else in the two kilometre stretch that counts as the main, central section of the Brightwing.
Bones has his go bag if he needs it, and most places on the ship Scotty or Chekov can snap someone up with a transporter if they're in need of an instant evac. Well, unless Chekov's off with Sulu and Ben; Jim plans to win big off when those three finally make themselves an actual triad. He's not afraid to stack the odds in his favour, either.
Jim swerves out of the way of someone darting out of a side passage that seals itself right up behind them, barely managing to catch the screws as he takes a hasty side step. Kid barely even manages a sorry as they dart away; Jim's gonna mention the kid's manners to Bones, just to listen to the rant about hypocrisy he knows that'll inspire.
Maybe he can rile Bones enough that he'll follow Jim through the cordoned off areas of the ship. There are official pathways through the blocked off sections, of course. Hallways reinforced through badly damaged stretches of ship, bright lighting and security footage and alerts if anything goes wrong. Bones has to take those paths, to get to the west dock where his ship is, where a bunch of apartments and shops are. Of course, Jim's baby's docked all the way to the east, past the truly fucked up parts of Old Bess. All the way down those unofficial pathways that any self respecting ship full of ne'er-do-wells ought to have.
Hopefully Scotty will find the parts he needs over the next few days. If Jim has to wait and send away for the part, he's gonna be climbing the damn walls before too long. With the way Jim's life tends to pan out, all his luck was probably spent finding the screws.
He keeps throwing the small fabric bag from hand to hand, contemplating whether he could trick- convince! Whether he could convince Bones to abandon his post for the afternoon and try one of the pop-up restaurants. The scent of it all combined had been mouthwatering; he'll just conveniently forget to mention the way his nose had bad-tingled when he'd gotten too close. He's got an allergy hypo tucked away in one of his pockets somewhere - wait, scratch that. He used his last one two jobs ago when his mark had spent five hours at a seafood restaurant and Jim had gotten sick of waiting.
Bones always carries at least one of Jim’s hypos on him whenever they go anywhere together, so it’ll be fine!
Jim’s almost at Bones’s door when it slides open, the faded red cross Jim'd lopsidedly painted there a few years ago disappearing from view. It's replaced by a different but equally welcome sight. Welcome for Jim, anyway; the Vulcan's never pleased to see Jim.
“Surak!” He chirps, feeling an irrepressible grin spreading across his face. He doubles his pace, hurrying so that he meets the Vulcan in the doorway. Makes sure the Vulcan can’t leave the clinic without bodily moving Jim out of the way; Jim kinda hopes he does. The first time he was so carefully manhandled by the strong alien had been a revelation for Jim, so used to strength and force being harsh, violent and usually cruel. Of course, Surak wouldn't be quite so careful now that he actually knows who Jim is; the memory of it continues to linger, though, as does Jim's eternal hope of a repeat.
The Vulcan stares at him, dark brown eyes inscrutable. They flick up and down Jim's body with an unmistakable air of disdain; Jim wishes he was wearing his much more form fitting work clothes instead of his hand altered jacket of many pockets. Surak doesn't have to like him to like his body, after all. His dark eyes are like ice as they survey Jim and that won't do at all.
Jim's seen Surak when he's working. Has had the privilege to be close to the mercenary and occasional hired goon when absolutely everything has gone to shit. When his meticulous plans are collapsing and the walls are being beaten in - he wasn't cold like the void then.
Still controlled, still precise, but his eyes had been a supernova. Blazing and furious, hot enough to scorch Jim down to the bone.
His hands had been just as hot on Jim's bare skin, when he'd been so careful and firm and had seen Jim as someone worthy of protection. He'd used his own body as a shield, the guiding hand pressed to Jim's back had felt molten hot; branding Jim in a way he hasn't been able to shake.
They've only met a few times in the wake of that disastrous - for Surak - first meeting. Each time they've run into each other, Jim's done his best to reignite that fire he'd almost burnt himself on. He wants to bask in the heat of it, get close enough Surak sears the very meat off his bones.
"Mr. Tarsus." How the man shoves so much cool disdain into inflectionless words, Jim doesn't know. He can't lie though; Surak’s disinterest works for him as much as his passion does. Personally, Jim finds the bland façade Vulcan’s paper over everything to be reassuring.
“It’s just Tarsus. Didn’t I tell you that already?”
A pause. Jim half expects Surak to correct himself out of some reflexive politeness. The man doesn’t. Perhaps he finds the pseudonym distasteful, as decent people tend to do. Jim’s not sure anyone who works as muscle for hire can pretend to be a decent person. No one in their line of work gets to act like they’re better than anyone else. Money for blood’s a dirty business, no matter how you try and spin it. The pause stretches, turns into a silence. Jim can feel the smile on his face stretch wider; does his best to fashion it into something enticing instead of manic.
Jim weighs his options. He’s got limited time before Surak reaches the limit of his patience with Jim's antics; what's gonna provoke the largest reaction from him? He's lucky that Surak hasn't pushed past him yet, though they both know that if he really wanted to move Jim, there’d be nothing the human could do to stop him. He seems willing to wait for Jim to make a fool of himself, as he always does.
Jim's opening gambit is to reach forward and tap Surak on the shoulder. The Vulcan twists his upper body until Jim’s hand meets nothing but air; on the one hand, that does throw a small spanner into Jim’s plan to feel up the other man’s arm. On the other - Surak’s face doesn’t exactly change, no obvious indication that he feels one way or another about Jim’s attempt to touch him. Jim was an expert at reading microexpressions before he'd finished puberty and his work has only honed his skill. Jim doesn't need Surak to emote like a human in order to read the miniscule tilt to his chin, the barely there slant of one eyebrow.
There's no hiding the smug pleasure in his face, after successfully annoying Surak. The Vulcan doesn't move so much as a muscle, still half turned while Jim lowers his hand. The temptation to reach for Surak's other shoulder is huge. Jim wonders how long they could play this game before Surak was forced to touch him - even just a little - in order to move Jim from his path.
“Get in here and fix my damn shelf, Tarsus,” Bones calls. Jim doesn’t let it shatter the atmosphere, keeps his eyes locked with Surak's own. He could almost lose time, staring into them.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to annoy you.” Jim lies.
“To be annoyed would be illogical,” Surak replies.
“And you’re all about living up to your namesake aren’t you, Surak?” The Vulcan gives a slow blink; it's one hell of a reaction. Jim just wishes he knew the man well enough to figure out what it meant. Admittedly, Jim does find it amusing that Surak decided to utilise the name of Vulcan's greatest pacifist while working as a blood soaked mercenary. That's the sort of humour he can't get enough of. Surak's gaze seems more focused now, his brown eyes like a physical weight against Jim's skin.
“Indeed,” he replies, dry as the desert he comes from, and Jim blinks in only partially feigned surprise.
“Surak, this is very important: was that a joke? Do you have a sense of humour?” He leans forward as he speaks, wondering what Surak would do if he actually took a step forward. If he was bold enough to press their chests together, to start pressing kisses along that sharp jaw until he had to pull down the man's turtleneck to find more skin to mark.
Considering Surak’s aware of Jim's favoured method of getting close enough to targets to make the kill, the Vulcan'd probably take the wrong impression.
“Kid, do not make me come out there,” Bones’s voice rumbles out of the clinic again and Jim pouts, tilting his head so that he’s able to look up at Surak through his eyelashes.
“You hangin’ round long? Wanna fuck?”
“Said the spider to the fly,” Surak's deep, quiet voice sends shivers down Jim's spine almost as much as the Vulcan's touch does. The back of one gloved hand is placed against Jim's chest, a deceptively light touch that proves an unstoppable force as he starts to push. They both know that there's nothing Jim can do but step aside or be forced back, step by step.
Jim does his best to stay in place, struggling futilely in the face of Surak's strength. Inch by inch he's pushed back, Surak's eyes still carving out space in Jim's soul. He wonders how good Surak's vision is; if the other man can see his eyes dilating. In an ideal world, the Vulcan would keep pushing him. Further and further until Jim's back hit the tarnished metal on the other side of the hall. He'd cage Jim in, looming and threatening and willing to take Jim up on his excruciatingly serious offer.
He hasn't been so far, but Jim's holding out hope for one day.
Surak does none of that. He pushes Jim back with that same firm gentleness which had so devastated him two years before. He doesn't move Jim a millimetre more than needed, drops his hand the moment he can and takes an easy step to the side. Every move the Vulcan makes seems effortless, perfectly calculated. Jim wants to suck on the man's fingers till he comes apart.
Surak begins to walk down the corridor, nothing more than a barely there tilt of his head towards Jim as a goodbye. The clinic door slides closed now that it's free from obstruction and Surak tucks his hands neatly into the small of his back as he walks. His shoulders are a broad, straight line padded even further by his slick leather jacket and Jim watches him til he rounds the corner and disappears from sight.
Jim throws the packet of screws between his hands a few more times, staring down the empty corridor. Then he kills the wistful longing doing its best to bloom in his chest and pulls himself back together. He walks the short distance back to the clinic door and when it whooshes open, Bones is waiting for him at the small desk tucked into an alcove on the opposite side of the room from the operating table. Far enough away to supposedly keep it free from the occasional splatter of biological matter but Jim's sure he's cleaned blood off the wall over there once or twice.
Bones is leant back in the ergonomic desk chair Jim stole for him, which Bones had sworn up and down he didn't need and wouldn't use. What a delight it's been to swing by after a job and see his chair pride of place, the shitty back breaker Bones used to complain about nowhere in sight. In lieu of a chair to complain about, the doctor had started bitching about how his desk was too low for his chair. One sleepless night later and Bones's desk had been the right height. The look on his face when he'd seen Jim in the clinic, packing up his tools next to the now perfect for Bones set up had been…
Soft. Too soft. Jim can't handle that much emotion directed straight at him, not by someone he cares about. Luckily, Bones's face had slid into a scowl as he realised his entire workspace smelled like solder and hot metal and spent the next twenty minutes bitching Jim out. What would his life be without Bones's constant grumbling and his ever present judgement of Jim's life choices? Jim's smiling before the door even shuts behind him, ready for Bones's latest tirade.
"Stop tryna push the man’s buttons, Jim. He’s Vulcan - he ain’t got buttons.” The look on Bones's face is extremely judgemental; probably in the top three or four judging looks he’s ever gotten from Bones, which is saying something. His quest to get Surak to look at him truly pays dividends.
“He’s got buttons, Bones. A sense of humour, too. Didn’t you hear him? Spider to the fly, haha. How does he even know that? Do you think he reads Terran poetry in his spare time?”
“What in the hell’re you talking about?” Bones leans forward in his chair, judgement sliding away in favour of bemused disgruntlement - his default look around Jim, most of the time.
“Didn’t you hear him? He sassed me!”
“Uh…huh. You need your head checked, Jimbo?” Jim rolls his eyes, heading over to the desk and upending the packet of screws next to Bones’s padd. It’s only a few years old but it could probably stand to be replaced. There’s a crack at one edge of the screen, though Jim doesn't get to inspect it fully before Bones covers it with his hand.
“I know that look in your eyes, Jim. This padd suits me just fine. I don’t need some new fandangled, bells and whistles pieces of junk when this one does everything I need it to and I don’t need to spend a month figuring out how to work it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bones." Jim lies as he sorts through the screws, picking through and isolating the ones that look roughly right. Can't do anything about the padd while he's grounded here, anyway. Sticky fingers on the Brightwing is ill advised, given he spends so much down time here.
“You’re the one who got me this one - back when it was shiny and new, remember?”
“Doesn’t sound like something I’d do.”
“You want me to run through a list of everything you’ve ever gotten for me? Or should I comm Scotty and Gaila and get their input, too?”
“Mm, not ringing any bells.” He crosses the room and rummages through his jacket pockets until he finds the screwdriver. The weight of little more than the shelf itself is already causing it to list heavily to one side, warping without some apparently very necessary support.
“Jim. We appreciate you, with or without all the things you bring us. We care for you. You don’t need to buy us or prove yo-”
“Emotions! Surak’s got emotions as well, did I mention? Surprises most people to learn that about Vulcans. I definitely annoyed him at least a little bit today. Progress, right?” Jim could take an educated guess at what Bones’s face is doing right now, so he doesn’t need to turn and look. Between the bend in the screw and the weight of the off kilter shelf, the broken screw does not want to come out. That’s okay, Jim’s got elbow grease to spare.
“I thank God every day that I’m not your therapist, Jim.”
“One day, I’m gonna see ‘em. All those emotions he keeps locked away, up close, personal and in technicolour.”
“I believe it’s his fist you’re thinking of.”
“I'll feel that too, don't you worry.”
“...I'm gonna pretend we're talking about the same thing.”
“Sure, whatever makes you happy. Did I ever tell you about the first time I ever met Surak? We were on a job and he-”
“Picked you up, then threw you over his shoulder and onto a bed without breaking a sweat. ‘ It was a defining moment for me, Bones.’ ”
“...That sounds nothing like me.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Hard to swoon in a chair, though.” Jim throws the bent screw at him, much to Bones’s amusement. It sails across the room and manages to land on the desk for half a second before it slides off and onto the floor. Jim realises he has a problem. He's currently holding the shelf level with one hand. The screws are on Bones's desk, aaaall the way across the room. If he lets the shelf go, the other screws are gonna need to be replaced.
"Uh, little help here Bones?"
Bones levels him with a flat stare and then heaves a sigh, both of which would've been more effective if he wasn't sweeping all the screws into his hands and standing. Jim can see Bones deciding whether or not to lean on the shelf Jim's holding up. The man always gets at Jim for being a shit stirrer when he's exactly the same. Alright, not quite as bad as Jim, considering Bones manages to restrain himself. Instead the man just stands there and holds his cupped hands up, the small menagerie of screws now available for Jim's perusal.
He takes his time sorting through the options, measuring them up to the screw he'd thrown away. Bones jiggles his hands in a distinctly 'hurry it up' manner and so Jim starts to peruse each of them individually, very slowly.
"Hmm," he hums, obnoxiously loudly, placing one screw back into Bones's waiting hands and picking up the longest screw to squint at instead. It's at least half an inch longer than the bent one. He's half a second away from dropping it as well and picking up what is distinctly a bolt for an in-depth assessment when, between one blink and the next, the entire clinic is bathed in a dull red.
The speakers crackle as the stark emergency lighting fades a bit, enough for the regular lights to turn everything an odd pink.
“I’d say good evening but we’re actually in a bit of a pickle,” Scotty starts, Gaila’s voice half audible in the background, barking commands at their bridge crew. “So, a wee fleet of Tellarite ships appear to be inbound. I’d say we’ve got, oh, about eight minutes before a raid.”
“Jim, go.” Bones orders, throwing the screws on the operating table as he stalks past it. He bangs on the wall, rustling through the drawer before it's fully open. After a few seconds, he moves on to another drawer, bag in hand, and starts shoving things into it. In contrast to Bones’s frantic energy, Jim feels frozen.
“Bones, Sparky. She’s…” In parts. Not even together enough to jury rig. Half her engine’s on the fucking dock, last he checked. How’s he supposed to outrun a raid with a ship that can’t fly?
“She ain’t the only ship. There’s gotta be dozens fixin’ to hightail it out of here. Pick one and get the hell out.”
“I can’t leave-”
“Shut your fool mouth. If you’re worried about your ship, we’ll take care of her. And I know you’re not worried about me, otherwise I’d have to beat your ass myself. Now -” he shoves a bag at Jim’s chest and he takes it unthinkingly, automatically adjusting his grip so that he doesn’t drop it, the screwdriver or the screw. The shelf, bereft of his supporting touch, sags instantly.
“GO. Stay safe.”
Jim goes.
Central dock is chaos. It’s been about two minutes since Scotty’s station wide announcement and if it wasn’t obvious that they’d been hosting an illegal market before, it is now. Sentients scurrying this way and that, hastily packing up their stalls, throwing crates and boxes and loose handfuls of product into cargo holds and open hatches and anywhere it’ll fit. A few of the ships berthed lower than the main dock, mostly people who come to buy instead of sell, have already peeled away. Cables and planks and ladders are being hastily detached, the makeshift walkways disappearing as Jim runs down the wharf.
Assessing the ships is easy; Jim absent-mindedly catalogued most of them on his earlier shopping trip. He strikes off anyone with gang or cartel affiliations. Strikes off those with precious cargo, people who'd kill first ask questions never when they discovered a stow away. Being picky about whether he'll have to kill whoever's ship he boards is quickly whittling away his options - and he doesn't have many to begin with. Hatches and airlocks are sealing shut up and down the docks.
Jim's almost resigned to bloodshed - and he with only three small knives, a screwdriver and a long screw - when he spots it. Down on the second layer, a small craft with its airlock still wide open. Nothing on the hull but a symbol that Jim recognises in a vague way, a circle and a triangle that belongs to nobody who currently wants to kill Jim, and that sends it right up to the top of Jim's list. There's a cable still attached to the ship above, the thin but sturdy metal being quickly and expertly coiled by a stern looking Betazoid who meets Jim's gaze after half a second and gives Jim a look that hastily makes him rethink his plan. He's not wearing gloves, anyway. The metal cable would tear his hands to shreds. Stupid plan.
Not that his next one is much better. If Bones ever finds out about this, he'll kill Jim with his own two hands. Good thing Chekov's definitely purging the security footage right now and there'll be no record of Jim bending as he runs, grabbing the edge of a tarp. The Ferengi whose ship the tarp is still attached to - even if only by a singular anchor point - starts shouting. Jim sees the barest hint of movement below, inside the airlock. The door starts to move.
Jim jumps.
More shouting from the wharf. Jim can't help the laughter that spills from his throat. He plummets. Nothing under him but the void of space; the possibility of a landing. The flimsy canvas turns taut in his hands, ripping through his fingers, burning them. Jim doesn't let go. The speed of his descent is almost nauseating. Self-made wind makes his eyes water but he can’t close them. Canvas to rope; rope hurts more, strips a layer of skin from his fingers almost instantly.
The end of the rope snaps out of his hands. Jim's still a metre and a half short. For a few heartstopping, exhilarating moments, Jim's in complete freefall. The airlock rushes to meet him, its door still ajar.
Jim lands. One foot on the airlock step, the other meeting nothing. His knee buckles on impact. His hand shoots out and touches nothing but the smooth, unforgiving hull. No handholds. He misses the door with his other hand. His centre of balance is off. He starts to fall, body already hanging over the black.
Jim courts death every day. He's survived; he always survives, even when he never wanted to. Adrenaline shoots through him but there's nothing to be done. He's gonna die of recklessness, of his own stupidity. He -
Stops. Neck snapping backwards as he's jerked to a sudden halt. There's a gloved hand tangled in his shirt, the sudden tension already starting to strain the thin material. Jim looks up, stunned. Surak stares back at him from within the shadowed alcove of the airlock. Jim's tethered to the ship by Surak's hand alone, the toe of his right boot just barely still touching the lip of the airlock step.
Jim doesn't know how long they stare at each other for. It feels like hours, Jim's heart thundering, chest heaving. Surak extends a hand. Jim takes it, barely even feeling the pain of his friction burnt hand as it slides against cool leather. The Vulcan doesn't hold Jim's hand. Reaches further until he's got a firm grip on Jim's forearm. Jim reaches up with his other hand, digging all ten of his bloodied fingers into butter soft leather.
Surak reels him in.