Work Text:
“Look, Bones – we had Archer’s dog on the Enterprise for four months before we reached a star base that could transport him home on a shuttle – not that I don’t get why the old man didn’t trust the transporter,” Jim mused with a grin before launching back into his argument.
“You know the crew loves the idea. And you’re not gonna make any friends standing in the way of what they want, ya know. A hypo’s only gonna keep this bunch in line for so long. Pretty soon, they’re gonna find out that you’re mostly all talk.” Jim watched as Bones – who still hadn’t said a word – reached casually for his medical bag that he always seemed to have within reach. A gulp followed the click of one of Bones’ precious hypos and that last trail of thought seemed to veer off somewhere far away. “Just seems like you and Uhura are the only ones left holding up the inevitable – and she’s only disagreeing due to allergies. Pretty sure two genetically engineered, hypo-allergenic puppies are gonna do wonders for the ship’s moral,” Jim states, refilling Bones’ glass with the single-malt he’d brought with him to Bones’ cabin to bribe the guy into finally agreeing that yes, The Enterprise would undertake a trial run of keeping permanent pets on board.
“You done?” Bones asked patiently, rolling his eyes as Jim fumbled with the cap on the bottle of expensive booze. “Let’s just let me do that, shall we?” he asked, taking the bottle and cap away from Jim, closing up the booze himself.
“Okay now… first? It’s unhygienic. Do you know how much easier it is for intergalactic microcosmic germs to pass to pets than people? Considering you’re not sober enough to get into the kinds of percentages we’d need for me to explain this, I’ll just say… lots. Lots easier, okay? And that’s just the beginning of my argument, but seeing as that’s my best point, I’ll just bang it like a drum until you give up this crazy idea. Now… are we drinking or what?” Bones asked, downing his newly poured three fingers of bourbon and unscrewing the just screwed on cap in order to pour himself another.
Jim was already sufficiently buzzed, but why not get totally drunk tonight? Wasn’t like he had the alpha shift tomorrow. Wasn’t like he was
hanging out with someone who couldn’t handle their booze. Hell, Bones could handle his own and Jim’s and probably Chekov’s, too, Jim thought.
“Yeah, pour me another one,” he slurred, not quite ready to give up the fight for the newest members of Starfleet just yet. “They’re cute, Bones… you saw the pictures we got from the rescue center… Didn’t you have a dog growin’ up?” Jim asked, sinking deeper into Bones’ standard regulation sofa. The damned thing had the nerve to masquerade as a sofa when all it really was was a hard bench with a back on it draped in a terrible shade of maroon.
“’M from Georgia, Jim – ‘course I had a dog. Had lots of ‘em, but we lived on a farm. They had room to roam. Not the same for these two, I can tell you that much. Just… think about that.”
Jim did. And his mind took another tack.
“Lady. That was my dog. A red Basenji. My mom got her for me the first time she left me and Sam with Frank. I was four, I guess. I had her until I left for Tarsus… Loved that dog, man. She was the best friend I ever had. ‘Til I met you, of course,” Jim automatically held his glass up to toast with Bones. Yes, it was true – he was playing the sentimental shitty childhood card on Bones. Again. Why? Because it’s a classic. Works every single time.
With a very deep, very put-upon sigh, Bones sinks more into Jim’s shoulder than the couch and joins his best friend by offering up a piece of his own childhood.
“Funny you should mention Lady, Jim. My favorite dog – the one I had the longest and the very first dog ever allowed to sleep in the house with us – was Tramp. Got him in the hottest July that Georgia’s ever seen. The July when I turned 9 and managed to catch the worst case of chicken pox our little country doctor had ever seen. I was miserable and neither my momma nor my daddy could do much of anything about it. At least, until my daddy brought home Tramp. He was a hell of a dog. Best one there ever was. A brindle-colored Welsh corgi that bossed around our whole family. I left him for college and I’ll be damned if that dog didn’t die two weeks after I left. Never forgave myself for leaving him behind.”
Jim’s eyes were rimmed with red and it wasn’t just the booze. Poor Bones, he thought, resting his head on Bones’ shoulder, finishing the last of his drink before deciding he wasn’t going to have anymore.
“Alright, fine,” Bones finally said after they’d shared a bit of silence together. “What do I have to do? Sign something saying I agree to this deal?” Bones asked, the irritation in his voice was milder now, though not completely gone.
Jim lifted his head and smiled his mega-watt smile at his best friend. “Nope. I already put through the order – just wanted you to be okay with it,” he admitted, moving far too slow to dodge the pillow Bones hurled at his head.
~;~;~;~;~;~;~;~;~
“So which one’s Lady and which one’s Tramp?” Jim asked Bones excitedly, as they stood in the transporter room, meeting their new ship’s mascots for the first time.
Two beagle puppies sat on the pad with their handler – an ensign from the star base below.
“Only one way to find out,” Len replied, nudging Jim forward.
Kneeling before the little four-legged bundles of energy, Jim managed to sit before he was attacked with kisses.
“Hey, guys… Hey,” Jim cooed, stroking the soft fur. “Such a pretty girl. Yes… Oh, yes… and you are a handsome boy, too, aren’t you? Yes you are… Oh yes you are,” he went on, his face covered in puppy saliva. He stared helplessly up at Bones, a look of utter joy on his face.
Maybe Bones did roll his eyes, but he also gave his Captain a smile – a real smile – before going forward to be properly introduced.