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The commendation ceremony is mercifully short, just Jim getting his medal, a handshake from Pike, and then a standing ovation while Jim stands there, looking like the smug jackass he is. McCoy claps with the rest of the crowd, but with none of their enthusiasm, and winces when Chekov, just a few seats down, whistles shrilly before whooping like a maniac.

He meets Jim's eye and the kid's practically preening now. McCoy rolls his eyes and mutters, "Goddamned peacock," knowing Jim'll pick up on the sentiment if not the exact words.

The receptions that follows the ceremony is anything but short, but at least McCoy can console himself with the open bar and the numerous toasts that practically force him to consume copious amounts of alcohol, which is most of the reason why he's feeling pretty mellow when Jim sidles up to him late in the evening.

"Congratulations," McCoy offers up, managing to keep the sarcasm to a bare minimum. "Got any plans for celebrating?"

Jim seems to come down with a bad case of elevator eyes, and McCoy snorts.

"What?" Jim asks, somehow managing to sound both wounded and lecherous at the same time. Kid's got talent, McCoy'll give him that. "You don't want to celebrate with me, Bones?"

"We can celebrate any old time, kid," McCoy says, not quite able to imbue his words with the same amount of innuendo as Jim, but enough that Jim's eyes narrow just the slightest bit. "Tonight's about you, not me."

"With whom would you suggest I celebrate, then, Bones?" Jim asks, enunciating very clearly, and that's when McCoy knows that Jim's well and truly drunk. Damn kid never uses 'whom' properly unless he's three sheets to the wind.

McCoy surveys the still decently sized crowd, eyes lingering on a possible candidate before moving on, a process he repeats until his roaming gaze is brought to an abrupt halt by Admiral Barnett. The man's got his eyes locked on Jim and there's no way he hasn't mentally undressed Jim, if the slightly glazed look in his eyes is anything to go on.

"You ever fucked an admiral, Jim?" McCoy asks, turning towards Jim, but keeping his eyes on Barnett.

"You know I haven't," Jim replies, and McCoy can see him out of the corner of his eyes, turning his head and trying to figure out who McCoy's looking at. "You probably remember better than I do who I've fucked."

"True," McCoy concedes. He doesn't know if it started with him or if Jim had someone back in Iowa who filled the same role, but ever since that first shuttle ride three years ago, Jim has reported to McCoy, without fail, after every sexual encounter and shared every single intimate detail. At first it was disgusting, and then annoying, then just a fact of life, until it somehow turned into an incredibly hot part of their friendship that McCoy looks forward to almost as much as he looks forward to actually participating in Jim Kirk's private porn show. "Would you like to?"

"Hmm." Barnett looks away from Jim suddenly and McCoy knows without looking that Jim's caught sight of the other man. "You really think he'd be up for it?"

"Only if he's less drunk than you are." McCoy prides himself on the fact that he can recognize a double entendre just as well as Jim Kirk, thank you very much.

"Are you saying I'm too drunk to get it up, Bones?" Jim doesn't sound insulted, which is good. McCoy'd rather not end the evening in Medical with a broken nose, which is what happened last time Jim took serious offense to McCoy impugning his manhood. "Because you would be so incredibly wrong, my friend."

McCoy throws a quick glance towards Jim's crotch. Jim just shifts, widening his stance, and McCoy's got to admit that Jim's right about McCoy being wrong. "What are you waiting for, then?" he asks, hoping Jim won't notice that he's more than half-ready to find his own company for the evening.

Jim grabs two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and hands one to McCoy before he downs his in one swallow, like cheap whiskey. He hands McCoy his empty glass and says, "Chapel's had her eye on you all night," nodding his head towards the far side of the room where Christine is sitting alone before wandering off, smirk firmly in place.

"I can take care of myself, jackass," McCoy calls after him, hardly noticing the glares from every admiral in hearing range his comment earns him. Jim doesn't answer, but he does turn, walking backwards for a handful of steps as he flips McCoy the bird. McCoy deposits the champagne flutes on an empty table and returns the favor before meandering his way towards Christine.

Much later, McCoy hardly stirs when Jim crawls over him and insinuates himself in the middle of the bed, McCoy on one side and Christine on the other. "Hey, baby," Christine murmurs, her hand meeting McCoy's over Jim's stomach, Jim shuddering at the combined caress.

"God, Bones, Barnett was--" Jim starts to say, but stutters into a moan as McCoy's hand dips below his waist and Christine nuzzles his neck.

"Tell me all about it in the morning," McCoy tells him before trying his damnedest to steal the breath right from Jim's lungs.




Jim wakes up the next morning to Christine's mouth around his cock and her hair tickling his stomach and thighs. He'd be embarrassed about the sound he just made, but it's hard (haha, hard, and yes, Jim realizes it's juvenile, so his inner Bones can just shut the fuck up, thank you very much) to feel anything other than so fucking turned on right now, especially when his cock bumps the back of Chris's throat as Bones thrusts into her from behind.

"So how was Barnett, Jim?" Bones asks almost conversationally and Jim absolutely does not whimper at the gravel in Bones's voice, the way Bones draws out Jim's name into at least half a dozen syllables when Chris reaches one hand back and grips his hip, urging him on, her other hand braced against Jim's hip.

"He just – fuck, right there – took it," Jim gasps out, gripping the bed sheets with his left hand and holding Chris's hair back so he can see her face with his right. "Right there in his office, bent over the desk, begging for it, for deeper, harder. He wanted it to hurt, wanted me to leave bruises. I'd like to see him explain my – god, don't stop, Chris – finger marks on his hips to his wife."

"I never took Barnett for such a cockslut," Bones drawls out, and okay, so maybe Jim whimpers this time. He's actually thinking about answering, but then Chris does this amazing thing with her tongue that almost makes Jim forget his own name, let alone what they're talking about and he decides a moan is a pretty decent answer.

Sooner than he'd like, Jim's gasping, "Shit, Chris, I'm gonna, I've gotta--" and then he's coming down Christine's throat which will never not be one of the hottest things Jim's ever seen. He watches through half-lidded eyes as Chris licks him clean and then has her brains fucked out by Bones, both of them still braced above Jim's legs.




There are a lot of things McCoy's going to miss about Earth, most of them things he's always expected he'd miss, things like sunlight, the smell of wet earth after the rain, the sound of the ocean. He's never thought that he'd miss Starfleet Medical, but now that he's set to leave soon, he knows he will. He's going to miss his fellow doctors, the nurses, hell, he'll even admit to missing the on-call room where he once bunked for eighteen days straight during an outbreak of influenza his second semester here.

"So how am I doing, Doctor?" Admiral Pike asks from where he laid out on a biobed in a flimsy paper hospital gown, his hands folded over his stomach. "Will I dance again?"

"That depends," McCoy says, looking over Pike's chart, lingering over the latest test result. Nerve regeneration is moving a little slowly, but it's nothing out of the ordinary and not to the point of being worrisome. Nerve toxins completely gone from his system. Mobility in his extremities moving along right on track in regards to nerve regeneration. All in all, Pike's doing as well as he possibly can, considering he had a Centaurian slug attached to his spinal cord eight weeks ago.

"On what?"

"Could you dance before?"

"Touché, Doc," Pike says, tossing McCoy a mock salute, grinning in a way McCoy normally associates with Jim and that's got McCoy all sorts of worried for the state of the universe. "Seriously, though, McCoy. How am I doing?"

"Well enough that I'm willing to turn your care over to Dr. Ithlix and not insist on taking you with us so I can keep an eye on you," McCoy answers, setting Pike's chart aside and turning his attention to the readouts at the head of the biobed. "Why is your blood pressure so high?"

"Do you want an answer or do you just want something to bitch about?" Pike asks.

"I've told you before, Admiral, but I'll say it again and hope that this time it seeps through that thick skull of yours and into the brain I know is there because I've seen the scans of it," McCoy says, wishing he could find a patient, just one, before he died who actually listened to a word that came out of his mouth. "Nerve regeneration is a delicate process and if you want the least amount of complications with your recovery, you need to lower your stress, get at least six hours of non-sedated sleep a night, and try to eat something that didn't come out of a replicator."

"Do I get a lollipop if I behave?" Pike asks, licking his lips and, dear god, the man is actually flirting with McCoy. McCoy gets a little rush when he realizes he's getting hit on by an admiral before he remembers what a pain in his ass the man is (and not the good kind of pain in the ass) and McCoy's really only got the bullshit tolerance for one pain in the ass and that slot's already filled. It's unfortunate; Pike's a good looking man and McCoy's sure he'd be a stellar fuck, but he just doesn't have the energy for that, not when he's already got Jim Kirk around.

McCoy doesn't say any of that, though, just looks at Pike for a long moment before saying, "I'll be sure to mention it to Dr. Ithlix when I see her this afternoon. For now, feel free to put your pants back on and get the hell out of my exam room."

"Insubordination isn't becoming on you, Doctor," Pike says, pushing himself upright and swinging his body around so his legs are dangling over the side of the biobed. He stands (McCoy notes that he's much steadier on his feet than he was even a week ago) and steps into his pants before sitting heavily in his wheelchair. McCoy helps him out of the paper gown, something he would normally leave to a nurse, but he's still here so he may as well help the man out.

"Then I guess it's a good thing he's so pretty to begin with, balances out all the grump," McCoy hears Jim say and he bites out, "What do you not understand about an exam room being private, jackass?" to which Jim only laughs.

"Kirk," Pike says, nodding in acknowledgement, straightening his shirt from where it'd gotten bunched up underneath the gown. "I didn't think our meeting was until later."

McCoy bunches the used gown into a wad and tosses it into the closest waste receptacle for something to do with his hands as he watches Jim and Pike stare at each other and forget they're not alone in the room.

"It's not," Jim says, but doesn't offer an explanation as to why he's here. McCoy would give it three guesses, but he's pretty sure he only needs one if the look on Jim's face is any indication.

"I don't have anything else scheduled before then, so if you want to wheel me to my office, we can start early," Pike says, and holy hell, he's giving Jim a once-over so blatant a blind man could see it. "Anything else I need to do here, Doc, or am I good to go?"

"I'll have Doctor Ithlix's office contact you to schedule your next check-up, but other than that and, I don't know, actually listening to what I told you earlier, you're good to go. Sir," he adds belatedly.

Pike waves his hand rather dismissively, but he's Ithlix's problem now, thank god, and McCoy's not going to lose sleep if the man can't listen to a simple directive from his doctor that might mean the difference between mobility and permanent disability. "Safe journey, McCoy, and try to keep this kid's head attached to his shoulders, will ya?" Pike says, jerking a nod towards Jim.

McCoy shakes Pike's outstretched hand and says, "That's not normally an issue. It's convincing him that copious bleeding isn't really conducive to a long life that's the problem."

"Good luck." Pike's still smiling, but he's suddenly more serious than he's been for his entire appointment, so McCoy gives him a small nod.


"Now, Kirk," Pike says, seriousness gone as quickly as it had come, "get me the hell out of here before the good doctor there decides he forgot a hypospray or some horribly uncomfortable test that needs to be done right this second."

"Yes, sir." And Jim actually snaps off a regulation salute before trotting to his spot behind Pike. "Initiating strategic retreat, sir." Jim turns and winks at McCoy. "We still on for dinner tonight, Bones?"

"Sure," McCoy says to Jim's retreating back, eyes drawn to how Jim's uniform trousers fit his ass oh-so-snugly and McCoy's suddenly glad for the empty exam room and the fact that Pike was his only appointment for the day.




Jim has Bones pinned to the wall before the man even realizes Jim is there, struggling until he realizes it's Jim and not some random dude who decided to accost him outside the eighteenth floor staff room.

"How'd your meeting go?" he asks, his hands slipping around Jim's hips to the small of his back, pulling Jim flush against him as Jim latches his mouth to Bones's pulse point. "Was it – hmm – productive?"

"Incredibly," Jim eventually says, his words muffled against Bones's skin. His hand meets Bones's as they both reach for the closure on Jim's uniform pants; Bones is wearing scrubs for which Jim is incredibly thankful as redirects his effort and unties the drawstring.

"I think I might have a thing for wheelchairs," Jim gasps into Bones's ear, arching his hips into Bones's hand, moaning when the head of his cock slides against Bones's. "I don't think I've ever come so hard in my life."

"Not even when you were between Gaila and your Interspecies Ethics professor?" Bones asks, not giving Jim a chance to answer before he's fucking Jim's mouth with his tongue. Jim moans loudly, only remembering that they're humping each other in a public corridor when the sound echoes back.

"Shit, Bones, we gonna fuck right here?" Jim asks against Bones's mouth.

"Yeah," Bones says, jerking the both of them together now, his breath hitching on the down stroke. "Why the fuck not?"

Jim shudders, a full-body affair, pressing his forehead against Bones's shoulder. He braces his left hand against the wall next to Bones's shoulder and puts his right on top of the hand Bones has wrapped around their cocks, not to guide, but just to go along for the ride.

"Did you know," Jim stutters out a minute later, "the kind of leverage you can get when you're fucking in a wheelchair?"

Bones groans and comes right there, his grip on Jim's cock loosening as he rests most of his weight against Jim. Jim presses Bones harder against the wall and wraps his hand firmly around his own cock, using Bones's come to slick himself as he jerks himself off. "God," he groans into Bones's shoulder when he comes a minute later.

"So, dinner?" Jim asks after a long moment of just the two of them breathing against each other. Bones laughs and tucks Jim back into his pants before straightening his own clothes. Their pants are hopelessly soiled, but neither of them is about to go wandering around with their cocks hanging out, despite the rather public sex. Bones kisses Jim almost chastely before pushing him away and levering himself away from the wall.

"I would almost kill for some lasagna."

"No way. We had Italian last night. Let's get Indian."

"I am not putting up with you whining about heartburn all night. Chinese?"

Jim slings an arm around Bones's shoulders and uses it to steer the other man towards the laundry room at the end of the corridor and the clean pants that await them within. "I guess I could do Chinese."

"Good, 'cause you're buying."




It's strange how quickly McCoy's settled into life on Enterprise. For the most part, his shifts are fairly routine: scrapes, sprains, bruises, on-going care, and lots of prescriptions for prophylactics. Even when there's an away mission, McCoy mostly only has to run pretty simple scans before he's able to clear the away team for duty. He writes to Joanna a couple times a week and occasionally even to Jocelyn. There's a weekly Medical-only poker game on Thursdays and senior staff meetings on Mondays.

McCoy likes the routine, rather a lot, but that's not to say that he's not a tiny bit relieved when routine is occasionally disrupted.

Pavel Chekov's eighteenth birthday pretty much sets the bar for disrupting life onboard, probably just as Jim Kirk intends it to.

The crew in stellar cartography were collectively creaming themselves over new data coming in from the Carina Nebula, which Enterprise had been parked near for the past week and where they would continue to sit for the next week, so McCoy was really looking forward to a quiet couple of days of catching up on his reading.

He was sprawled on his couch, bare feet on the coffee table, with a glass of bourbon in hand and the latest Emmy Eaton mystery on his PADD when the door pinged and slid open, admitting Jim.

"You ever hear of using the bell?" McCoy had asked, not bothering to look up from his PADD. He didn't want any attention he might pay Jim to be misinterpreted as encouragement.

"Why ring the bell when doors just open for me?" Jim had asked on his way through McCoy's small living area to the bedroom. "Do you have anything decent to wear that's not a uniform?"

"Why?" McCoy had asked after taking a fortifying drink of bourbon. "And what qualifies what I'm wearing as indecent?"

"It's not indecent," Jim said, his voice muffled presumably because he was in McCoy's closet or had gotten his head stuck in one of the dresser drawers again, "but holey jeans and a ratty old t-shirt do not party clothes make."

"What party?" McCoy asked, finally rising and following Jim into the bedroom. Jim was actually physically inside McCoy's closet, which should've been impossible considering how much shit McCoy's got crammed into the tiny space, rifling through the hangars and then the folded pants on the shelf above.

"Chekov's birthday party," Jim answered, maneuvering himself out of the closet with a triumphant-sounding "Ah-ha!" When he tripped over a box of book's McCoy hadn't gotten around to unpacking yet and fell flat on his ass, McCoy just laughed from his spot in the archway. "Did you know the kid tried to keep quiet about his birthday? Said he didn't want a big fuss."

"So you, of course, immediately decided to make a fuss about it," McCoy said, and somehow, Jim had taken this for agreement that McCoy not only approved of the idea of the party, but also agreed to go to said party.

Which is why he's now standing in the deck five rec room, holding a glass of something Scotty had handed him that smells suspiciously like paint thinner, watching those present get progressively more and more drunk.

Surprisingly enough, the birthday boy isn't falling down drunk, despite sucking down Scotty's hooch with abandon; he is, however, currently dancing on a table in the middle of the room to some god-awful Andorian power punk or something and hoo-boy, there goes Chekov's shirt.

Said shirt smacks Jim in the face and he peels it away, wolf whistling loudly. Sulu, who's dancing next to Jim, laughs and slides a little closer and McCoy can see Chekov watching the two of them with a huge smile on his face.

"Gee, I wonder what Pavel wants for his birthday?" McCoy hadn't heard Christine approach, but that's not surprising when the bass from the ear-splitting music is throbbing in his bones. He slips his arm around her waist and lets her press against his side.

"Looks like he's gonna get it, too," McCoy adds when Chekov falls off the table and onto Jim and Sulu, who all somehow manage to right themselves, hands wandering as they bump and grind to the beat.

Christine steals McCoy's cup and takes a large gulp, shuddering and shaking her head in revulsion. "God, that is some truly awful shit," she says, her voice hoarse, handing the cup back to McCoy. "Anyway, you'll tell me all about that later, right?" She nods her head in the direction of the makeshift dance floor, where Jim and Sulu are practically molesting Chekov right there in the open.

"Of course," McCoy agrees, taking a sip from his cup and trying to force himself not to spit it right back out.

"Told you it was shit," Christine says with a laugh, leaning up on her tiptoes to drop a kiss against the corner of McCoy's mouth. "See you at work tomorrow, boss." And then she's sashaying away and McCoy knows she's swinging her hips like that on purpose, but that doesn't make it any less attention-grabbing.

By the time he forces himself to finish his drink and glances back at the dance floor, Jim, Chekov, and Sulu are gone, probably already in Jim's quarters and taking advantage of the large bed or the decadently huge shower that are only two of the perks of the captain's quarters.

McCoy leaves the party a few minutes later, alone, wondering if Chekov's really as flexible as he looks like he'd be.




It's either really late or really early when Jim uses his override code to let himself into Bones's quarters for the second time in twelve hours. Hopefully, Bones is asleep and Jim can just slip into bed and sleep off some of the liquor before he has to be up and be Captain Kirk in… four hours. Shit.

Bones is asleep, thank god, so Jim quickly strips down to his briefs and does his best not to jostle the bed, but doesn't manage because as soon as he's settled, Bones asks, his voice gravely just the way Jim likes it, "Did you just do the walk of shame out of your own quarters?"

"Maybe," Jim says, rolling onto his side to face Bones, the other man mirroring his position. "It was awesome and Chekov's way more bendy than I ever gave him credit for and Sulu does this thing with his hands that I'm going to have to get him to teach me, but it was a mistake to fuck them."

"James Kirk, are you maturing right before my very eyes?" Bones asks, his hand skimming up Jim's body and coming to rest against the side of Jim's neck, his thumb brushing back and forth against a hickey left by Chekov. Jim raises his hand to rest it against Bones's bent elbow and the bite mark Sulu left on his shoulder burns a little at the movement.

"Do you think morals can be sexual transmitted?" Jim asks, curling his legs to brush his knees against Bones's. "I'm fairly certain I had none before we started fucking and now here I am feeling guilty after a fantastic fuck and all because it was two of my crew."

"If morals are an STI, it's awfully slow in developing symptoms," Bones says, "seeing how we've been fucking for nearly four years now and the guilt has only now chosen to manifest itself."

"God, has it really been that long?" Jim's never really thought about it, but this thing he's got with Bones, this friendship with fucking on the side, is the longest relationship of any kind he's had with anybody who he's not related to. Hell, he hasn't even seen his brother in a decade and he and his mom haven't spoken in person since before he enlisted, so this thing with Bones definitely takes the top spot.

"Yeah," Bones answers, his eyes closing, his foot brushing against Jim's ankle as he settles his leg against Jim's. "Can we finish talking about your crisis in the morning, though? I'd like to get some sleep before I have to be on shift again."

"Sure," Jim says, pushing Bones over onto his back and settling himself half on the bed, half on top of Bones, his head on Bones's rather bony but still comfortable shoulder. "G'night, Bones."





McCoy wakes to Jim's mouth on his stomach, tonguing his belly button. "Thought we were gonna talk about your crisis, Jim," he says, twining his fingers through Jim's hair.

"Don't need to anymore," Jim says, and McCoy shivers when Jim's breath ghosts over his damp skin. "I figured it out."

"Oh, yeah?" Jim hooks his fingers under the waistband of McCoy's sleep pants and tugs. McCoy lifts his hips, his hands falling to the bed beside him as Jim strips him. Jim's already naked and McCoy's suddenly glad he decided against wearing a shirt to bed last night because that's one less thing in the way between his skin pressed against Jim's. "How's that?"

Jim works his way up McCoy's body, dropping kisses and little bites along McCoy's chest and neck. "You're the only one on board I can fuck and not feel guilty," Jim says, making his way towards McCoy's mouth. McCoy plants a hand against Jim's sternum to hold him back.

"First of all, no kissing on the mouth before you brush your teeth. How you don't choke on your own morning breath is a miracle," he says. When Jim nods, McCoy lets his hand wander down Jim's chest and stomach and just barely grazes the tips of his fingers along the length of Jim's cock. Jim shudders and presses his face to McCoy's neck.

"And second of all?"

"Second of all," McCoy says, working his hands around to Jim's back, palming at Jim's ass, "I'm just as much under your command as anyone else on this boat so why do you feel no guilt molesting me?"

"Is it molestation if you like it?" Jim asks, his breath hot against McCoy's ear before he takes the lobe between his teeth, tugging just hard enough to send all of the blood in McCoy's head straight to his cock. "Besides," he continues when he's done worshipping McCoy's ear, "ship's CMO and captain are practically equals. You technically outrank me in several different circumstances."

"That's very true," McCoy gasps out as Jim shifts and their cocks slide against each other. "What if I ordered you to fuck me?"

"That's an order I'm always willing to follow," Jim says, reaching for the lube and condoms in the nightstand drawer. He preps McCoy quickly but carefully, crouched between McCoy's spread legs, and soon enough, McCoy's pushing into Jim's fingers, wanting more, needing more.

"Just fuck me already," he says, clenching around Jim's fingers when Jim brushes against his prostate.

"Yeah," Jim agrees, sounding kind of shaky. McCoy sits up long enough to roll the condom over Jim's cock and slick him up, lingering a little longer than necessary, before he's on his knees, his head pillowed on his folded arms, ass in the air.

Jim opens him up with his fingers, but quickly replaces them with his cock. He pushes in with one slow thrust, not stopping until he's fully seated in McCoy and the stretch and burn is just as good as it always is. McCoy can feel Jim practically vibrating as he waits for the okay from McCoy to keep going.

"Fuck, Jim, go," McCoy gasps out, moaning when Jim pulls almost all the way out before slamming back into McCoy. Jim reaches a slick hand around McCoy and starts to jack him in time with his thrusts and McCoy's caught between pushing back to get more of Jim's cock or pushing forward to get more of Jim's hand on his own cock.

"God," McCoy moans, lifting his head long enough to move his arm and pull at Jim's hip, his fingers digging hard into Jim's skin, probably hard enough to leave bruises. "Jim. Fuck."

"Shit, Bones, so fucking amazing like this," Jim groans out, taking his hand from McCoy's cock and using both hands to haul McCoy higher up on his knees and McCoy swears he sees stars when Jim hits his prostate hard on his next thrust.

Jim gets his hand back on McCoy's cock, jerking a counterpoint to his thrusts now and McCoy knows he's speaking, but he can't make sense of the nonsense syllables leaving his mouth. Jim leans over his back, pressing his whole body against McCoy's and says, "Come for me, Bones."

And McCoy's never been able to ignore an order that makes sense and comes so hard his vision goes black on the edges, Jim coming so soon after it's almost, but not quite, simultaneous. They lay there like that for a long moment, Jim draped over McCoy's back before he pulls out with a groan, flopping onto his back and dropping the used condom over the side of the bed.

"As soon as I can move, I'm going to make you pick that up," McCoy says, flopping onto his side away from Jim (and the wet spot).

"I'd like to see you try," Jim says, his tone more blissed out than cocky.

"No shared shower unless you pick it up," McCoy says, smirking.

"No fair, Bones," Jim groans, throwing an arm across his eyes. "That's hitting below the belt."

"Only if you're a good boy," McCoy says, laughing when Jim weakly bats at his shoulder. "C'mon. Toss the condom and take a shower with me. We've got forty minutes before Alpha starts and you've yet to tell me all about last night."

"Fuck, Bones, I'm pretty sure we don't have time for that," Jim says, but that doesn't stop him from grabbing the used condom and tossing it in the trash before following McCoy into the bathroom.

"Then we'll just have to be quick because I promised Christine I'd let her know how it went," McCoy throws over his shoulder as he steps into the shower stall.

"Oh, God," Jim groans.

They both end up being late for shift.