Positano is rife with possibilities for complaint -- even if McCoy really could find fit to seek out (and usually successfully) fault in anything. Hell, Jim thinks he could even manage to find something wrong in the garden of Eden before the sin came down. McCoy could have complained about the drive down the terrifying Amalfi coast that Jim suspects Bones had been comatose during, judging by the lack of noise he made). He could have complained about the presence of jellyfish lurking in the waters or even the deafening fireworks the locals set off at dusk.
But, no. The issue of the day turns out to be sunscreen.
"Bones, seriously, I'm just playing volleyball, I'm not walking on any suns here," Jim complains as he stands firmly still so Bones can smother suntan lotion all over his face. "It's beach volleyball. Getting a tan is practically expected!"
"It's possible melanoma," is Bones' immediate response -- the man has an answer for everything. "Besides, once you and the boys start sweating, god knows your brain's only going to be fixated on aesthetics and hardly on the medical."
And, well, man's got a mild point because Jim has seen the caliber of the men he's playing with. They tend to overrule all other thoughts, including how to protect against unsexy things like melanomas.
Bones should have been finished lathering him up ages ago, but his broads palms skim over Jim's bare chest with such constancy that Jim starts to wonder if this is really all about a potential life-threatening disease or whether Bones is maybe worrying about other things he's not coming clean with.
"Bones, it's one game of volleyball," Jim insists. "We can go explore the streets after and I won't even wink at a single local."
That seems to do it. Bones pulls his hands away, looking at Jim warily. "Are you sure?"
Jim smirks, tapping his sunscreen coated fingers over Bones' nose, rubbing it in. "Why do I need to ogle other guys when I've got you, right?"