PART THIRTEEN [CLOSED]
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ATTN: regarding reposts
As a new guideline: for the time being, I'd like to put a damper on the re-requesting going on. Please only re-request something if it has been more than a month since you asked for it and it still hasn't been filled. I'd like to remind everyone that old parts still have many ( Read more... )
When the surgery was finally done and Kirk was in ICU, rigged up to half the hardware in sickbay, McCoy sank exhausted onto his chair in his office. Using the heels of his hands, he rubbed his tired eyes. A few minutes later Spock entered.
“I have brought you coffee, Doctor.” He placed the steaming mug in front of McCoy.
“Is this your way of apologizing for nerve-pinching me?”
Spock’s right eyebrow rose. “Indeed not. The action was a logical one. Given the battle we faced upon our arrival, I was entirely justified in my decision that you remain on board.”
McCoy was too tired to argue. Putting his hands around the mug he lifted it and inhaled the heady aroma before taking a sip. It tasted damn good. He was going to need it if he was going to stay up all night, sitting with Jim.
“I’m going to let it go for now. But that doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you, because I haven’t,” he scowled. “And thanks for the coffee. You’re a lifesaver.”
Spock’s lips quirked and McCoy held his breath wondering if the Vulcan was actually going to smile, but it didn’t widen any further. “Apparently,” he quipped and left McCoy to it.
-=-=-
Stardate 2259.93, CMO’s personal log, Leonard McCoy recording. I’ve decided that ferrying ambassadors and their entourages to conferences is top of my list of most hated duties, eclipsing even report writing and general bullshit bureaucracy. The dress uniforms are uncomfortable and Jim’s told me I’ve got to watch my mouth. I swear he’s told Spock to keep an eye on me, either that or the Vulcan’s taken a weird shine to my aftershave. I’m told the mission could have been worse. StarFleet carefully segregated any groups where potential conflict might occur across the three starships in attendance, so at least we didn’t have any diplomatic wars on our hands. After three formal receptions on board with the kind of finger food that looks pretty but you have no idea what it is, and teases the palette but never satisfies the appetite, I’m glad we’re at least getting a full-on banquet on our arrival at Babel. Spock mentioned his father will be there representing the Vulcan people, having been transported aboard the Lexington.
When McCoy walked into the transporter room, Kirk and Spock were already there and he stopped short and openly gaped, although fortunately they were too caught up in their own conversation to notice. The two of them looked eye-catching in their dress uniforms. He was used to Jim looking pretty, but Spock cut a positively dashing figure - albeit an exotic one - as he stood relaxed next to his captain.
Fuck, he thought. The last person he needed to be attracted to was an uptight Vulcan. Talk about a hiding to nothing.
“Well, don’t you two scrub up well,” he drawled with a smirk. “I predict you’ll be fighting off the ladies all night.”
Kirk grinned. “I don’t think I’ll be fighting them all off - it’d be nice to score at least one.”
“How about you, Spock?” McCoy asked, amused by the not-quite non-expression on the first officer’s face indicating what he imagined to be mild horror at the thought.
“Since this is a diplomatic function, I do not anticipate any need for combat. However I will reject any advances should the need arise.”
“Ah, you’ll be breaking hearts, m’boy, and don’t start giving me lectures on the likelihood of cardiac rupture,” McCoy quickly added with a scowl, “because you damn well know what I mean.”
Spock closed his mouth on the words he’d been about to utter as Kirk laughed and clapped him on the back. Any further teasing would have to wait as Scotty and Uhura entered, with Chekov to work the transporter.
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