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1. Jim was fourteen the first time he got drunk, on peppermint schnapps stolen from Frank's liquor cabinet. While he did get his hand up Nancy Paulson's skirt, this success was mitigated by the fact that he puked all over himself about ten seconds later. She split pretty soon after that. Or at least he assumed she did, as he woke up bare-assed naked on the dirt floor of the barn, mostly because weak morning light and a harshly cleared throat had driven nails under his eyelids.
His mother had come home for Thanksgiving, a surprise she didn't repeat the next year. Or the year after.
2. The slam of the old house's door echoed in his ears as he hopped on his bike and took off. The destination didn't matter so much as that first stop forty miles out of town, when he pulled into a convenience store to buy a bottle of Jack with his fake I.D. He drove for several hours more before he stopped and sank down in some deserted park, one hand clutching the liquor bottle and the other flattened against the still-warm engine of his bike.
Just before dawn, he was awakened by a booted foot nudging his ass.
"You again," said the cop in his weird modulated voice, and Jim groaned and clutched his aching skull.
3. It was all fucking Finnegan's fucking fault. He'd stocked his party with nothing but Jello shots and livid purple jungle juice in an attempt to woo girls who mostly knew to stay the fuck away from the deadly combination of sugar and grain alcohol. Jim on the other hand, as Bones informed him with an evil smirk the next morning, didn't have the sense God gave a banana slug much less a fine woman like Uhura. It was a wonder he’d gotten away with just a vicious hangover and not a broken nose.
"Shut the hell up, Bones," Jim muttered, dragging his pillow over his face. Bones tugged it away, bopped Jim in the head when he tried to wrestle it back, and finally gave him the hypo he'd been dangling just out of reach for the past fifteen minutes.
4. Jim woke up alone the morning after he took the Kobayashi Maru. He immediately rolled over and vomited into the trashcan beside the bed, and it was only after he realized it was an awfully convenient placement that he felt the faint stirrings of memory. His hot face pressed against a broad chest, strong arms wrapped around him, a quiet steady voice telling him it was all right - it'll be all right, easy, Jim, easy, shhhh…
There was a handful of pills, a glass of water, and a note about Bones' early morning practical exam sitting by the bed. He returned around noon and Jim brushed off his concern with a laugh, careful to give every impression of not remembering how the night had ended. Bones fixed him with a long, searching look; but he pressed his lips together in the Bones version of a smile and dug into the bag of bagels he'd brought. Jim took one with cautious enthusiasm, as his stomach seemed to have emptied itself for now and the pounding in his head had eased.
His heart, well, he couldn't do much about that.
1. On the one hand, it was maybe the worst hangover he'd ever had. A newly minted ship's crew drowning their grief and sorrow and joy in alcohol would do that to you. Round after round and he hadn’t paid a single credit all night - it may have seemed like a good idea at the time, but now he pretty much wanted to curl up and die weeping.
On the other hand, Bones was naked.
Bones was naked, in Jim's bed, pressed up against Jim's back and snoring like an antique lawnmower.
Jim winced at the rumbling sound but snuggled closer until Bones snorted, slung an arm over his hip, stuck a cold nose into his ear and fell blessedly quiet.
Yeah, Jim thought as he stroked his hand down Bones' thigh, he could get used to waking up like this.