A/N: This series originates as a set of writing exercises I've begun in a probably futile attempt to foster more effective writing habits. I really am sorry, y'all. School, work, and chronic illness are conspiring to sap my creativity's will to live. The tales that make up "Proverbial" are intended to prime the pump, so to speak—and hopefully lessen my utter neglect of my chapter fics, especially "Scars."

I only intend the various pieces herein to relate to each other in the loosest of thematic senses: each will chronicle the development of a romance between Jim and Bones, with a proverb serving as the prompt. Beyond that, absolutely anything goes—all lengths, genres, and universes may apply. Any sections warranting additional warnings will receive them. For now, just expect the usual language, melodrama, and—of course—slash.

This first one is a pretty straightforward revamp of the bar scene from the movie—add doctor and shake well.

HASTE

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Marry in haste, repent at leisure.

XxXxXxX

Jocelyn had been a mistake from the get-go. Three beers and a couple shots of Jack into his evening, he didn't have any real problem admitting it. Worse than that, it was his mistake, free and clear—for her part, Joss had known exactly what she was about.

She'd surely gotten it, too.

There was a part of Leonard McCoy that figured you had to admire a bitch with brass that epic. Yeah, he was just drunk enough to admit to a certain ruthless admiration for his formerly wedded nemesis.

Sure as hell didn't preclude him from hating her almost as much as he hated the universe that tolerated her existence, though. Hence the justification for his rather undignified retreat as soon as the metaphorical ink had dried on their divorce papers. Well, retreat was one word for it, anyway. Or strategic decampment, maybe.

He'd be goddamned if he admitted to running away from the manipulative bitch.

Unfortunately, he'd also be goddamned if he made his first appearance as Riverside General's newest trauma surgeon hungover, which meant that tonight was his last chance to drown his frustrations. He refused to call them sorrows—the Wicked Bitch of the Southeast had yet to reduce him to quite that level of sad sack melodrama, at least.

Still. Gazing morosely around the sorry-ass excuse of a bar, courtesy of Bumfuck, Iowa, he couldn't entirely fend off the sinking expectation that he'd get there soon enough.

Nursing the tail end of his third beer and the rising tide of hard feelings, he nonetheless found himself sparing half an eye for the dauntless townie kid at the bar beside him. Buff, blond, and All-American was working on his third righteous shutdown from the sexy, mocha-skinned Starfleet cadet on Leonard's other side, but he showed no signs of accepting defeat.

Leonard was drunk enough to admit a slight admiration for that, too—especially since the by-play bore no resemblance whatsoever to the saccharine clichés he'd exchanged with Joss, five years ago. And since the duo was singularly oblivious to the presence of the worn-down older man between them, he had a hell of a vantage point to make his observations from. After a quick glance assured him that the cadet wasn't nearly as annoyed by the attention as she wanted boy-wonder to believe, he was content to hide his sardonic amusement behind his beer as the zingers flew back and forth over his hunched shoulders.

At least, he was until sexy cadet's derisive but nonetheless lovely laughter was interrupted by a new, and blatantly threatening, voice.

"Is this townie bothering you?"

"Oh, beyond belief." Sexy cadet knocked back a shot, confidently unconcerned. "But it's nothing I can't handle."

"You could handle me." Boy-wonder managed an impressively charming smile despite his rather unfocused gaze, but sexy cadet just rolled her eyes. "And that's an invitation."

Leonard wished he could feel half as nonchalant, but apparently the handful of years he had on these kids was telling on him, tonight. He recognized the look that bald and burly was giving the blond, and it told him the bigger man had no intention of backing off. If anything, that glare suggested that the newly dubbed "Cupcake" was mentally measuring the kid for a coffin, and Leonard couldn't suppress a sigh.

As though he really needed more evidence that the universe loathed him.

He kept a wary watch out of the corner of his eye, adrenaline burning through the alcohol haze; when the first punch flew, he was ready for it. Twisting to jerk the kid out of the way just ahead of Cupcake's fist—and damn it, but he'd be feeling that tomorrow—he took the half-step forward that put him between the blond and his would-be assailants almost without conscious forethought, immediately directing a silent litany of curses at himself for the suicidal idiocy of the move.

Well. He was involved, now, and nothing to do for it but try to talk the batshit young bucks down before he had even more cause to regret it. Fortunately, the looks of sheer, stupid shock on the faces of all involved bought him the precious seconds he needed to get his mental feet back under him.

"Ease down!," he barked. Best to start simple—Cupcake and his cronies didn't strike him as the brightest crayons in the box. Besides, Cupcake and company were cadets, too. They recognized the command snap in his voice, the one that sent even surgical residents older than Leonard running to obey; and they responded to that implied authority despite their best—or rather, worst—intentions. Cupcake himself swayed backward, scowling uncertainly.

"I don't see how it's your business," the burly man finally snarled, after glancing back to his wingmen for support. Leonard rolled his eyes, not bothering to disguise his impatience.

"You tried to start a bar brawl right the fuck on top of me. Go figure, but I tend to consider that a personal inconvenience." He was actually rather fond of that particular tone—a tricky but entirely worthwhile combination of unimpressed and implacable. Though he'd designed it to terrorize med students, it was proving admirably effective in a multitude of situations. Including, thank god, the current one. The four brawny cadets were actually shuffling uncomfortably and exchanging helpless looks when boy-wonder picked his damn fool jaw up off the ground and attempted to surge forward.

"Look, man, I didn't ask you to—" The younger man's protest was cut off as Leonard jerked him sharply back against his own hip, looping one arm around his waist in restraint as his other hand pressed two fingers against the blond's lips, startling him into silence.

"Shut. Up. Stupid," he grated out, and for a moment, that was all he could manage. He tried to tell himself that it was the simple logistics of managing an armful of writhing, idiot kid, and thus had nothing to do with the fact that said armful was unbelievably warm and smelled like leather and alcohol and, of all things, strawberry-scented shampoo.

The full-face view of amused azure eyes that the position afforded him dared him to think that again and actually mean it. He dragged his own eyes back to their audience with a difficulty that he prayed like hell wasn't obvious, and his newly intensified glare met Cupcake's baffled one with unapologetic annoyance.

"The lady doesn't want your assistance, sport." He caught movement over the cadet's shoulder and glanced up, eyes narrowing in speculation. "And I guaran-damn-tee you that the boy-wonder here ain't worth embarrassing yourself in front of a command officer over."

"Hey!" the kid complained, but his lips curved into a slightly wicked smile under Leonard's sensitive fingertips as the aforementioned officer stepped farther into the room, which subsequently deteriorated into a jumble of red as cadets stumbled over themselves on the way to their salutes. The officer gestured Cupcake and company to the exit with a stern glare, nodding an appreciative acknowledgment to Leonard as the stiff-backed foursome hustled to comply. He nodded back with a dismissive shrug, but didn't release the kid in his arms until the door had closed between them.

Better safe than sorry, was all. Of course.

He pulled back abruptly, then, transferring his annoyed glare to the blond and ignoring the unaccountable chill he felt with the sudden distance. The kid just returned the eye contact, amused and calculating, those unbelievable eyes narrowing as his head tipped slightly to the side. There was no trace of inebriation left in his gaze.

Leonard felt entirely too sober himself, which meant that he was absolutely not thinking that the kid—what the hell had he told the sexy cadet his name was? John? Jake?—kind of reminded him of a tiger cub investigating an unusually fascinating bug. Slightly adorable, and probably more dangerous than he seemed. And what the fuck was baby-blue staring at, anyway?

"You know, you have gorgeous eyes." For a moment, Leonard was terrified that he'd spoken the thought out loud. Then, he realized that he was the one being addressed. His incredulous expression only elicited a wary-but-game smile from the blond, who continued, "So. What's your name?"

After three beats of uncomprehending silence, he reached out and smacked the kid upside the head. Sexy cadet burst into approving laughter, and with the silence broken, the rest of the bar exploded into sound.

The white noise of excited gossip was almost painfully loud in the aftermath, and though he was loathe to give her so much credit, Jocelyn had left his ego bruised enough that he couldn't resist the urge to give the goddamn hyenas something to whisper about. After all, he'd seen the caliber that boy-wonder's taste ran to—and even if he was only classing Leonard in that category thanks to the dual graces of alcohol and adrenaline, it still felt pretty damned good. Watching the blond's lithe frame as it went through the motions of flirtation, he even started to believe that a night of feeling pretty damned good with the kid might not be such a bad idea.

That thought—and the lingering haze of his own alcohol and adrenaline—carried him out of the bar, with its tide of whispers, and all the way to the kid's own personal hole in the wall: a bachelor loft over his momma's farmhouse, lord love him. He tried to convince himself that it didn't really matter; people did it all the time, after all. And so what if this was only the second time he'd done it. So what if the first time, the choice had culminated in his shuttle wreck of a divorce.

Didn't matter. Couldn't let it matter.

Suddenly, or so it seemed, the kid's warm, calloused hands were sliding under his shirt to play teasingly over the small of his back. Lips trailed lightly down a jawline that Leonard had abruptly realized carried three days of stubble with every indication of enjoyment, neither hesitant nor particularly insistent. They paused at the corner of his mouth, as though seeking permission, and the gesture was so tender and unexpected—so un-Jocelyn—that all at once, he really didn't care.

He turned toward the touch, and the universe fell back into place—along with hands and mouths, and countless other body parts that he hadn't utilized this enthusiastically in he couldn't remember how long. After what might have been seconds or hours, but was probably something in between, they finally stumbled their way onto the double bed. The kid drew back for a moment, all disheveled sandy hair and desire-glazed azure eyes, and licked his kiss-swollen lips with distracted—and distracting—contemplation.

"You know, I never quite caught that name." Leonard grinned at that, full and sudden and—apparently—a little startling, since his bed-mate caught his breath sharply in response.

"Never actually threw it to you, kid," he replied, and the wriggling motion the blond executed in revenge elicited an equally sharp hiss.

"What is it with people tonight? And I'm Jim, by the way. Jim Kirk." Jim looked at him expectantly, but Leonard simply rolled his eyes and twisted onto his back, pulling the younger man with him so that Jim straddled his torso, Leonard's hands a steadying presence on his hips.

"Yeah, kid. I know," he tossed back dryly, lifting one brow in challenge. After all, it was almost true. And the white lie was completely justified by the several kinds of heat in Jim's return glare as he leaned back in. Leonard trailed his fingers up the blond's spine in a maneuver he'd already discovered could guarantee a shiver in response, and only had a moment to smirk in triumph before the expression was washed away in a flood of sensation.

It was the best sex that Leonard had ever experienced—and also, in some ways, the strangest, despite the fact that it was pretty standard vanilla. Somehow, it was neither fast nor slow, both forceful and gentle. Demanding and generous all at once, and far too tender and thorough for lovers whose bodies were unfamiliar territory still, and whose hearts were all but unknown. Jim kissed a fascinated trail over the freckles that dusted his shoulders, and Leonard found a scar behind the younger man's knee that made him writhe when licked.

It became almost a game, and then more than a game, and Leonard was both elated and slightly relieved when they finally settled next to each other, limbs tangled and limp with exhaustion.

"That was fun," Jim finally offered, his voice still hitching breathily in a way that Leonard found extremely gratifying.

"Can't argue," he replied, and the husky edge in his own voice must have had a similar effect on his fly-by-night lover, because Jim ran a rather proprietary hand down his arm in response.

"So. Breakfast?" Leonard gave the kid a bemused look that was probably lost in the dark.

"What, now?"

"After that workout? Fuck, no." Jim stifled a yawn before continuing. "In the morning."

Leonard froze. "You asking me to stay the night?" Jim stretched sinuously against him before tugging him back into a gently insistent embrace.

"Why not? Seems like the least I can do for you, considering." The self-satisfied smirk was clear in the kid's voice, and Leonard elbowed him in response.

"Most people would figure we've already done plenty for each other, considering."

"Oh, come on," Jim wheedled. "I'll even take you to the diner where the officers usually get breakfast. Give your partner in crime from the bar a chance to thank you properly, since you were babysitting his cadets and all."

"Thank me," he repeated, amused. "What, like you just did?"

"Why, is he more your type?" Even encroaching drowsiness couldn't disguise the trace of jealousy in Jim's flippant tone, and Leonard sighed, giving in to the impulse to pull the kid closer.

"Shut up and sleep," he ordered, gruff and embarrassingly affectionate.

Although his new-found lover obeyed with admirable promptness, Leonard himself was unable to follow the example, his thoughts tumbling with a strangely idle desperation. Jim was just like him, he realized bleakly—or rather, just like he'd been five years ago. Too young for twenty-three, in some ways, and far less prepared than he thought he was. Too old, in others, to just sit around and let a chance pass by; the instincts that warned him it might never come again were already in place. He'd been primed to fall, and just waiting for someone to reach out and catch him.

Yeah, Leonard recognized the type, and the game. Fall into bed, too fast, too soon. Fall into more—and hit bottom, hard.

He knew that this kind of headlong rush could only end in a different kind of fall.

The moon had risen past the window as he brooded, casting the fair hair and long, lean lines of the man in his arms into sharp, silvered relief. Jim's lashes cast fey shadows as they fluttered, then lifted to half-mast as he shifted, murmuring.

"What?" Leonard prompted softly, stroking a soothing hand down the younger man's back.

"What's your name?" Jim repeated, only a little slurred. Leonard gazed into wistful, moon-shadowed eyes, and sighed.

"McCoy. Leonard McCoy."

"Hmmm," Jim purred, with evident satisfaction, and nestled deeper into pillows and arms before subsiding back into sleep.

Making a face at his implausible, apparently impossible to deny bed-mate, Leonard did the same. And if his last thought before sleep claimed him was that Jim Kirk just might be worth regretting someday, he sure as hell wasn't going to tell the kid so over pancakes in the morning.

It was far too soon, for that.