Jim heard the comm link in his bedroom chirping, but ignored it. He was off-the-clock and Spock spent Thursday nights at the school's observatory, so it wasn't him. Whoever was calling him could wait until tomorrow. But once the bedroom link stopped, his desk comm began lighting up and beeping. Jim huffed, spotting Bone's ID on the screen. He didn't feel like talking to anyone, but Jim would feel guilty if he brushed the doctor off. He punched the answer button and grunted, "What is it, Bones?"

"Hey, Jim. Are you done prince-ing for the day?"

"I need to finish sending off some documents to the Andorian ambassador." Technically the woman didn't need them for another two days but being productive was a good thing, right? The Andorians had finally formally allied with Earth and Vulcan and entered the war a little over a month ago, so Jim had been in much greater contact with them the last few weeks. He'd been relieved to discover that the ambassador he'd accidentally snowballed as a kid had retired six years prior. But he'd been even more relieved at the news of new allies. The tide of the war was turning.

Bones peered at him suspiciously through the screen. "Doesn't that fall under Janice's job description?"

"I gave her the day off. It's her and the beau's six month anniversary or something." The guy apparently had something hugely romantic planned and Janice had been practically walking on air all week; Jim expected an engagement announcement from that direction any day now.

"Is that so?" Bones drawled. "And just when are you gonna have time off?"

"Who knows," Jim dodged, scrawling his signature digitally at the end of a long form.

"I'll tell you when: tonight. Finish your paperwork or whatever and come get a drink with me."

"I've got a comm-conference with the Vulcan High Council tomorrow morning."

Bones rolled his eyes. "It's just a drink, Jim, not a frat party."

"I don't know, Bones…"

"Consider it medical orders. You've been cooped up way too long; a man's got to stretch his legs every now and then. Finish up and put on some sort of cunning disguise. I'll pick your royal ass up at the west gate." The doctor cut the transmission before Jim could broach any more arguments.

Jim blinked at the brash treatment, then grinned to himself. It had been a while since he'd spent time with Bones outside of being poked at in the infirmary. After all the boring diplomatic functions and terse meetings he'd been sitting through, it would be refreshing to talk to someone that had given up on pleasantries with Jim eight years ago.

Jim saved his work and shut down the terminal. He dug out his usual costume from the back of the closet: a battered faux-leather jacket complete with black duct tape on one of the elbows, jeans with ripped hems that trailed the ground, and the plainest, most boring t-shirt in existence. When completed with a poorly-knit beanie cap to cover his hair and huge drugstore reading glasses over his face, his presence was near invisible so long as he slouched and didn't meet anyone's eyes. The slouching part was key. Jim had become quite proficient at not being noticed during his teenage years—it was a necessary skill if a prince ever wanted to get out of the palace and have some normal-people-style fun.

Jim recorded and sent a quick message to Spock on the off-chance that he tried to call while he was gone, then he crept out from his wing (technically, he wasn't supposed to leave the palace without taking a bodyguard) and took the long route to the gate where Bones was waiting. After thoroughly insulting his attire, Bones drove them to a tiny hole-in-the-wall in the middle of nowhere with old clientele and even older music playing dimly.

"You really know how to pick them, Bones," Jim commented, scanning the small building as he sat down at the bar. "I don't think this floor has been cleaned since my—King Tiberius's reign."

The doctor scoffed. "Please. They pass their health inspections just like everyone else. Don't be such a wuss." He signaled to the bartender, a broad-shouldered woman with more freckles than Jim had ever seen on one person. "You want to go somewhere trendy, let that Russian guy drag you out sometime."

"I'm not complaining." This seemed like the kind of bar where people went to be left alone and fewer people approaching them meant lower chances of being recognized. He let Bones order their drinks and then clinked his glass against the other man's once they arrived. "Cheers."

"Oh? What's there to 'cheers' over?"

"What, a guy can't celebrate going out with a friend?"

Bones eyed him suspiciously over the rim of his glass as he drank. "Not when said friend had to practically drag the guy out."

"Well, it was a good idea," Jim admitted. "You're right. I've been keeping myself too busy." Usually such a confession would be followed by Bones gloating, but instead he just hummed quietly and drank along with Jim. They both knew why Jim had been so deeply immersed in his work. It'd only been three months since the funeral after all. Spock had gone back to the academy seven weeks ago. Without his company, Jim felt Sam's absence even more deeply.

It was getting better though, he realized. Jim could afford to lower his defenses a bit and relax without the grief overwhelming him—like he was doing now. Jim glanced over at the unassuming man sitting next to him, recognizing that he had somehow known that Jim was ready for this. "I don't say this a lot, but you know, you're a really good doctor."

"I do believe that this is the second time you've said that," Bones drawled, draining his glass.

It was a sort of Spock-like thing to say, but Jim elected not to tease him about it. "When was the first?"

Bones tensed his shoulders and ran his finger around the perimeter of glass's top. He didn't answer, instead leaning forward to call the bartender again. "You want another?" he asked.

"I'm still working on this one." Jim could detect the faintest hint of a blush rising above Bones' collar and suddenly he remembered.

It had been after the first seizure Jim had—a bad one, one of the worst seizures he'd ever experienced. Jim had come to surrounded by his mother and brother, a nurse, and the man he recognized as the surgeon that saved his life after that dumb air car accident. He'd been confused, not remembering at first what had happened, and then became terrified as the memory returned to him. The man, Doctor McCoy, explained the seizure to him, hesitated, and then added that based upon the brain scans it was likely Jim would seized again. And again. He'd apologized profusely to Jim, his mother, and his brother, apologized that the surgery had not been able to prevent this outcome—that the surgery may have actually resulted in this outcome.

Jim had thought this apology was exceedingly dumb. He was alive, wasn't he? He'd seen the pictures of the accident, the blood and the gore and the shattered bone. He'd touched the still-healing scars crossing his recently shaven skull. Jim should have been a goner.

So Jim dismissed the man's apologies and thanked him for the surgery a second time, adding "You're a really good doctor, you know?" A strange, choked expression crossed the surgeon's face and Doctor McCoy excused himself from the room. He came back inside five minutes later with red-rimmed eyes and a raspy voice. The reaction baffled Jim until two years later when he learned that a mere month before being called in from Old Georgia to perform brain surgery on a prince of Earth, Bones had lost his own father to a disease he couldn't cure.

The bartender came back with a fresh drink and a tall glass of water for Bones. Bones gulped down the water in three swift swallows. Jim propped his elbow up on the bar and lowered his chin to rest on his palm. Underneath Jim's scrutiny, Bones' blush spread to his cheeks. "What?" he growled.

"Well, you're always complaining that Spock is 'emotionally constipated,' but you aren't exactly regular yourself."

"Shut up. I emote perfectly fine." He set the water glass down with more force than absolutely necessary. "Anyway, how's the hobgoblin's thesis coming?"

Jim was well-practiced in diplomacy; he knew a subject change when he heard one. "Good, I think."

"You think?" Bones repeated.

Jim took a small sip. "Well, he tells me about it all the time but I don't really understand most of it. I mean, astrophysics?" He chuckled. "I'm great with hands-on stuff, but when it gets all theoretical I'm lost."

"Don't sell yourself too short there, Mr. Valedictorian. "

"Heh. Anyway, it's Spock, so of course it's going well. He never does anything less than his best." His stomach pinched a little and Jim was suddenly keenly aware of how long it'd been since he ate lunch. Without Spock around, it was easy to forget about dinner and Janice hadn't been in to remind him. He cast his eyes around the building for a menu and located it on a small chalkboard. "Hey, since this is supposed to be a night out, you won't nag me if I eat something deep-fried, right?"

Bones started in on his second drink and rumbled, "As your doctor, I reserve the right to nag you whenever I damn well please."

"I'll take my chances. This place serves mozzarella sticks and I am not passing up on authentic dive bar cooking." He waved down the bartender and put in the order, along with a request for his own water.

"So he's really graduating in two months, huh?" The doctor peered down into the bottom of his glass. "What's he planning next?"

"More higher ed and lots of research. He probably won't be satisfied until he's got thirty doctorates to his name." Jim drummed his fingertips on the bar counter. Real wood. Didn't see that too often anymore. "I think he's had his fill of dorm life though." Jim grinned. "He hasn't said anything, but all of the universities he's mentioned to me are really commuter friendly."

"That'll be better for you too, wouldn't it? Having him around more."

"It'll certainly be good to get my regular chess partner back full time. Janice is great at a lot of things, but chess isn't one of them. Pavel hates chess. And you— you are horrible." The man had only indulged him in a game once and the result was so pitiable that Jim never asked again.

Bones ignored the jab, tipping his glass backwards. The ice inside clattered loudly. "You ever planning on making him a real husband and not just your chess partner?" he asked.

If Jim wasn't a prince and thus highly-trained in maintaining dignity during important luncheons and dinners, he might have spat his drink a little. Instead, a startled "What?" slipped out.

"I'm surprised he isn't already," Bones continued. "I mean, age of consent sailed by a ways back and his eighteenth birthday was months ago. I was there for the 'not-a-party party.' It happened."

"Why are you even ask—" Jim cut himself off and narrowed his eyes. "Did he say something to you?"

Bones scoffed. "Kid, do you have any idea how many confidentiality forms I've signed in my lifetime? Even if he did, I wouldn't tell you shit."

"We're married."

"And he's my patient."

"You told him all about my surgery and seizures and stuff."

"After you said I could. I even made you sign something, remember?"

"Oh." With all the physical and digital paperwork that crossed his desk, it was easy to forget one form from years ago.

The doctor sighed and held up two hands in concession. "Look, it's between the two of you. If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. I'm just asking, is all. The kid's not exactly a kid anymore, you know what I mean?"

"No, you're okay; you just took me by surprise. I guess I don't really let myself think about him like that." Jim polished off the rest of his drink, wishing he'd ordered something stronger. Maybe after he ate a little. He stared at his empty glass and murmured, "What we have right now is , I don't know if he's even interested in me like that. Or sex, for that matter."

"…And yet you won't consider seeing other people. Knowing Spock, he'd probably give you permission."

Jim wasn't so sure of that, considering that weird conversation he'd had with Spock over Thanksgiving break two year ago. That wasn't any of Bones' business though, so he just responded, "No."

Bones shook his head. "I'm amazed you made it this long staying celibate."

"It really isn't that difficult."

"Here you go, sir." The bartender announced, making both Jim and Bones start a little. She set a steaming plate in front of Jim and he thanked her. She inclined her head slightly in what might have been a nod before leaving them.

"Ooh, mozzarella sticks," Jim crooned. He rubbed his hands together. "Oh god, they look so greasy and cheap and wonderful." He picked one up and bit into it, the hot cheese burning his tongue. Worth it. "Man, this is the best. You want one?"

"I'll pass. How about you explain what exactly you meant a moment ago."

Jim crammed the rest of the deep-fried perfection and chewed it thoroughly for as long as he reasonably could. Eventually though, he had to swallow and reply. "Are you asking as a friend or a therapist? Because you sure aren't my therapist— officially, anyway."

"I'm asking as your friend and your doctor," Bones grumbled. "Some sex now and then would probably be good for your stress levels. And by extension, mine."

"Fine, fine." He plucked another mozzarella stick up and ripped it in half to let the cheese cool. "Well, you know, I used to sleep around a lot." He paused and reconsidered. "Actually, you weren't working at the palace back then, so I guess you wouldn't know."

"I remember the tabloids," the doctor retorted. "I didn't read them, but it was hard to miss." A promiscuous prince wasn't as huge of a scandal and it once was, but it was still considered rag-worthy when there weren't any celebrity pregnancies to report.

"Yeah, and that was just what the tabloids knew about." Jim stretched the pieces apart until the cheese string finally snapped before eating one end.

Bones watched, but finally huffed. "And? What changed?"

"I'm not sure. It's not like there was any one thing." Jim tugged a napkin out of a nearby dispenser and wiped off his fingers. "I guess… I was a teenager and having tons of no-strings-attached sex was fun. It was easy to get too. Even when I concealed my identity, I was still a handsome, charming guy." Bones rolled his eyes, prompting a short laugh from Jim. "What, are you jealous? I'm just stating a fact."

"Yeah, yeah, you're very pretty," Bones said dismissively, drawl in full force.

Jim finished the other half and then stole Bones' second drink for a quick sip. He didn't want to call over the bartender and have to pick up this conversation again. "Anyway, eventually, it just started to feel kind of… empty. I didn't know any of those people and they didn't know me. I'd still go out because it was still fun, of course, but whenever I was finished with someone, I couldn't help but feel that it was all so meaningless. Geez, that makes me sound like some stuffy, old man…"

"Didn't you date a little though?"

"Yeah, a couple of people. For a while." He drained Bones' glass for him (surprisingly without any protests) and sighed. "It's hard to find someone that can see past the crown though. You think you know a person, but you find out they've been interested for all the wrong reasons."

Bones nodded. "Folk like Aurelan are a rare breed."

"That she is." Frowning down at his plate, Jim tore up the rest of the mozzarella sticks. "And just as I was realizing all this, the accident happened. And then there was all the recovery time and Sam got really busy with university and I had to take over some of his duties and before I knew it it'd been a year since I last got laid and I discovered that I didn't really miss it much." He lined the pieces up into a neat row from longest to shortest. "I mean, sex is great; I like sex. But I decided that what I really wanted was to share it with someone that meant something to me… and to whom I meant something too."

Under Bone's careful gaze, Jim ate each of the stick pieces, starting with the smallest. He'd gotten through three quarters of them before Bones shifted in his seat and asked, "Do you think Spock could be that for you?"

"I told you, I haven't exactly been thinking of him in those terms." He lowered one hand towards the floor. "I mean, do you remember when he was just this tall? Talk about a turn-off."

"And like I said, he's not a kid anymore."

Jim thought about Spock holding him on the stage after his mother's sad announcement and the weeks of quiet company and comforting touches that followed. "No, he's not," he agreed. At fourteen, Spock would not have been able to a handle the powerful emotions coming off of Jim and he certainly wouldn't have been able to tuck Jim's head perfectly within the space between his neck and shoulder, like it belonged there.

Bones repeated himself, with none of the grumbling about idiots that usually preceded such an act. "Do you think Spock could be that for you?"

Jim ate the last of his mozzarella sticks and scrubbed his hands with a fresh napkin as he considered the question. Truth to be told, there wasn't much to be considered. "I know he could," he answered finally. "Whether he wants it to be that way between us… that's up to him." He looked up at Bones and met his friend's eyes for the first time in a while. "That first day, I promised myself to do my best never to make Spock uncomfortable. I won't ask him for something he isn't ready to provide, or capable of providing, or just plain doesn't want to provide."

Bones didn't seem to have any reply to that. If he did, he kept it to himself. The two of them sat in silence for a while, the low noises of the music and other bar patrons filling the space until Jim finally pushed his plate away from himself and brought up a new topic. They talked a while, ordered a round of an unfamiliar seasonal brew, and Jim convinced Bones to split a cheeseburger with him. ("Carbs, protein, and calcium, it's perfectly balanced. If they stick some lettuce, tomato, and onions on it, we can get our veggies too!")

When Bones finally drove them back to the palace, Jim had enough of a pleasant buzz going to simply toe off the shoes, shrug out of the jacket, and throw the hat to some corner of the room before sinking into his bed. He closed his eyes and didn't think about Sam or the war or the latest failing of his epilepsy medication. He thought about Spock— probably back from the observatory by now and typing away at his thesis despite the late hour— and just slept.