Standalone: Magic Fingers
Title: Magic Fingers
Fandom: Star Trek
Characters/Pairings: Jim, Bones, Archer's Prized Beagle
Word Count: ~600
Summary: Archer's Beagle plays favorites in the commissary.
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Jim grinned as his chair gently wiggled, something small and enthusiastic crawling between his legs to lurk under their table as he shoveled another mouthful of watery spaghetti into his mouth and grinned at Bones' disgusted glare.
“I've seen cows with better manners,” Bones gruffed, stabbing at the perfectly diced pieces of meatloaf on his plate. He swirled it through his mashed potatoes and Jim made a face.
“How can you do that?”
Bones snorted, pointedly chewing his food and swallowing before he spoke, “It isn't a crime to mix food groups.”
“Yes, it is,” Jim insisted, grinning under the table as Admiral Archer's beagle gave an impatient wiggle. He tore a piece off his broccoli - which was clearly segregated on it's own side of his plate, so not to ruin his spaghetti - and slipped it under the table.
“For a complete philistine, you're neurotically controlling,” Bones declared. “And stop that. Human food is hard on his digestion.”
“Oh, come on,” Jim whined. He rolled his eyes, “I'm not feeding him pizza. A little green does him good.”
“I'll be sure to tell the Admiral you think so when he brings him in with the runs. Again.”
Jim snickered, “He brings his dog into medical? Don't we have a veterinary school? Xenobiology, at least?”
“He's very particular.”
Chuckling quietly, Jim turned back to his meal, devouring his meal in organized slaughter, systematically offering tiny bits of vegetables to his furry beggar. Somewhere along the fifth piece of smuggle contraband, the beagle left Jim hanging. Frowning, he put down his fork and waved the broccoli a little farther under the table.
Bones ignored him.
Jim tapped is foot under the table until he found a warm puppy belly and frowned. Finally, curiosity got the better of him and he ducked under the table to see what was so much better than pilfered food. “Hey!”
Jim jerked out from under the table, smacking his head solidily on the edge. He rubbed his head sulkily, glaring at Bones, “You stole my dog.”
“I did not.”
“He's ignoring me!”
Bones' lips curled smugly as he continued to eat with perfect southern manners, “Can't fault him for good tastes.”
“Not fair,” Jim insisted. “I have food. All you've got is ear scritches. They don't even compare.”
Bones leaned back and spoke to the dog, “No wonder. Kid's got no idea how to treat a dog if he thinks food compares to a good scratch.”
Jim glared indignantly, “You're cheating.”
“How am I cheating?”
“You've got,” Jim waved his fork accusingly, “magic fingers.”
“Don't be a child.”
“I'm serious!” Jim insisted, “Why else would he like you better?”
“I'm not arguing with you over a dog, Jim.”
“Fine,” Jim huffed, hopefully waving his last piece of broccoli under the table. With a pout, he dropped it on back on his empty plate and stood, snatching Bones' tray as well.
“Oh, don't be - Give that back, I'm not finished!” Bones gave up and tossed his fork on the runaway tray before Jim got too far. “Fine, you over grown man-child. I can't believe you've got your shorts in a twist over a damn dog.”
“I don't know what you're talking about, Magic Fingers,” Jim sniffed. “I'm just busing the dishes.”
"You bet you are," Bones grumbled, giving the dog one last rub, "You and your ego, both."