(no subject)
Thanksgiving has sailed on by, tragically (or not) without the turkeys Charlie gifted to the mess hall. Those had disappeared along with the boy, and McCoy feels it's more than a fair price to pay. It's near Christmas-time back on Earth, and the mood on the Enterprise couldn't be grumpier. Between teenagers on their first multi-year cruise suddenly realizing they won't be home for Christmas, disgruntled closet fundamentalists taking pot-shots at each other about competing religions, continued drama from those Charlie played his games on, and the current running battle between Kirk's loose command style and Spock's eye to rules and regs, it's a wonder, in McCoy's mind, that someone hasn't set the self-destruct yet.
And every time he thinks it, he finds a bit of wood to knock on, just in case. No need to be tempting Murphy when you're sailing through vacuum in a glorified tin can.
Thus, this particular country doctor can't be too sorry when the door leads not to his quarters, but to a bar where for a little while (one hopes) he won't have to sort out anyone else's problems.
He'd be more than happy to help someone sort out a bottle or two of good Tennessee whiskey, though. He'd be the ruggedly handsome fellow in Starfleet blues bellying up to the bar, in case you're wondering.
And every time he thinks it, he finds a bit of wood to knock on, just in case. No need to be tempting Murphy when you're sailing through vacuum in a glorified tin can.
Thus, this particular country doctor can't be too sorry when the door leads not to his quarters, but to a bar where for a little while (one hopes) he won't have to sort out anyone else's problems.
He'd be more than happy to help someone sort out a bottle or two of good Tennessee whiskey, though. He'd be the ruggedly handsome fellow in Starfleet blues bellying up to the bar, in case you're wondering.