He wants to trade the game he plays for shelter - [Quarters] - [Kirk, McCoy]

[behnd_blueyes]

He was late, coming back from his first shift since It had happened with Chapel's gift under one arm. He had a good excuse, should he need one, but he was tired and thoughtful as he entered, the probes in the bulkhead and door recognizing him as if it was his own room. He guessed--when he thought about it--it was. And maybe Chapel in her own way

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[sharpestscalpel]

It had been busier than an Andorian auction selling Vulcans for sex parties. The second-string nurses had picked up the shift work no problem, but they weren't as good at managing the pack of animals in uniforms who had smelled blood in the water.

Fucking Rien. Girl was a mess.

He'd hit himself with a hypo to clear up his headache but it hadn't done its work yet, was still working through his system because his head was still pounding. McCoy laid himself out on the bed on his back and kept the lights dark.

[behnd_blueyes]

The lights being dark was unexpected; it wasn't that late, and he expected McCoy to be here. He stilled, listening, and, hearing breathing, ordered the lights to 15%.

McCoy, on the bed, not (Kirk thought) asleep.

"Shit," he said. "Sorry."

[sharpestscalpel]

McCoy grunted, kept one arm over his eyes and waved Kirk's apology away with the other.

"Just a damn headache. Engineering is a clusterfuck at the moment. Scotty's too busy running around after those engines to pay attention to his crew."

[behnd_blueyes]

Kirk put the box down and wandered over to the side of the bed.

"You take anything for that?" he asked automatically, because of course McCoy was a doctor and knew how to treat a headache. Still, doctors could be weird about that sort of thing. And Kirk didn't fancy spending the rest of the evening in the dark.