Jim’s fingers tapped out morse code on his jumping leg.
B-O-N-E-S
When he was through, he started again.
A cool hand covered his and pressed it gently onto his knee, stilling both.
“It’s illogical to be nervous.” His business partner, Spock, told him.
Jim snorted. “I don’t know what I’m more worried about--that he’ll punch me in my face or laugh in my face.”
Spock considered his options. “Both are possible.”
Jim threw his head back, banging into the headrest. They were three hours into their four hour trip to Atlanta, and there was a ring in his pocket that he picked out five-years-ago, hoping, praying that one day he’d be able to give it to his best friend. Spock had called him illogical then too.
“You didn’t see his face, Spock.” Jim pushed his palms into his closed eyelids, color exploding behind them. A headache was starting to form there and he was sure he was going to throw up.
“If you believe that Leonard’s feelings for you are true, then there is nothing to fear, Jim.”
Jim had fallen in love with his best friend way before he knew what falling in love meant. Having lost his father before he was even born, he hardly had a functional couple role-model, and spent most of his adolescence thinking of Bones as his hero, protector, partner-in-crime. It wasn’t until his sophomore year of high school, when Bones had taken Jocelyn Darnell to prom, that Jim realized that he was 1) Bi and 2) so deeply in love with Bones that it hurt to see them line up on the lawn across the street for pictures. It hurt to think of Bones anywhere but with him.
He had thought distance and experimentation was the best way to fall out of love with Bones. He spent summers at his grandparents’ estate in Iowa, distancing himself from the person he physically hurt at leaving behind.
“What if I was wrong? What if he was just pissed over something else?
***
Leonard McCoy made his way through the packed lunch crowd of Persimmons, dodging shopping bags and the pushed backed chairs of the Atlanta Elite. The exclusive establishment was a bit too high brow for his taste, he hated any restaurant that had a dress code, but his best friend of over thirty-years, Nyota Uhura, refused to discuss business anywhere else.
And there she was, in her usual corner circle table by the fireplace, where she could be found at any day of the week, holding court over her media contacts and the various waitstaff that fawned over her.
He kissed her cheek and took his place in the high backed seat across from her, noting the wine glass that was stained red that told him she’d been working here for the day already.
“So?” He asked, rubbing his hands together as he waved away a waiter that tried to offer him a wine menu. “Is it possible?”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course it’s possible. It’s done, in fact.”
He breathed a sigh of relief.
“But...” She tapped a quick message out on her phone and pushed it aside before letting her chin fall into her palm, propping her elbow up on the table in a way that he was sure she would never do if he were one of her contacts.
“But what?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Two weeks ago you were about to move across the world to get away from him. Now you’re proposing?”
Leo avoided her eyes to nod at the waiter, who was standing attentively waiting his order on the other side of the fireplace. “A whisky neat. Please?”
Nyota narrowed her eyes at him but he ignored her.
“It took me a while but I get it now.”
“You’re going to need to give me a bit more than that.”
“I love him.” This was said quietly, drowned out by the gentle crackle of the fire. Nyota heard it though. She didn’t miss a thing.
“I just--” She shook her head. “I love you both.” At his raised eyebrow, she screwed up her mouth. “If you admit that to Kirk, I will quit and you’ll have to found a new PR exec.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“So why now? It’s been...thirty something years?”
“I’m an idiot that took too long to figure things out. And when I realized that it would be months until I saw him again--with the way we left things..things just clicked.”
She rolled her eyes and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Men.”
The waiter placed the highball glass in front of him and he took a sip, relishing in the warmth that spread at the smallest amount.
“Thank you.” He told her after twenty minutes of going over details--Nyota wasn’t called the best publicist in town for nothing, her attention to detail and creativeness was unparalleled, which is why he knew he could trust her with something as important and terrifying as this.