( Sometimes it feels like yesterday when they first set off, not years ago. Time gone in moments, the impulsive, headstrong young man before him since grown into a fine, wise Captain.
So he's still a little exasperating. Something had to stick.
The wry look he shoots Jim says everything, fond around the edges, a warmth that brings out the green in his eyes. Bones sits forward, and picks up his glass, touching the rim to Jim's. )
（ he doesn't knock it back, though the temptation is strong — instead, he mirrors bones' delicate drink. no tingle, good sign. he'd hate to make the good doctor work for a living. ）
So what were you up to, anyway?
（ people still have... you know, hobbies. presumably. jim's got a few dozen luxuriously bound paperbacks in his footlocker, moby dick at his bedside with a tattered piece of what bones might recognize as an old, old uniform as a bookmark. he reads, plays chess, plays squash, has taken up knitting (there is a half-finished sock on his bed, which is otherwise neatly made with crisp hospital corners) but sometimes the restless energy wins out.
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（ petty? maybe — but jim has a surprising (to most) wellspring of patience. he just sits there, eyebrows faintly raised as bones decompresses.
one never notices the gradual changes around them. but every once in a while, he looks at bones and thinks that they aren't just academy kids anymore.
not that bones was ever a kid. he hit puberty and promptly mutated into a grumpy old man, but — his point still stands. ）
Come on. Me, reckless? I would never.
（ he reaches for the second of the glasses, holds it up. ）
To seizing the day.
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So he's still a little exasperating. Something had to stick.
The wry look he shoots Jim says everything, fond around the edges, a warmth that brings out the green in his eyes. Bones sits forward, and picks up his glass, touching the rim to Jim's. )
Carpe Diem,
( he agrees, and sips at the liquor at last. )
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So what were you up to, anyway?
（ people still have... you know, hobbies. presumably. jim's got a few dozen luxuriously bound paperbacks in his footlocker, moby dick at his bedside with a tattered piece of what bones might recognize as an old, old uniform as a bookmark. he reads, plays chess, plays squash, has taken up knitting (there is a half-finished sock on his bed, which is otherwise neatly made with crisp hospital corners) but sometimes the restless energy wins out.
something, something, rats in a maze. ）