Fic: Literary Companion (Slash, Star Trek XI, Kirk/McCoy, PG, Complete)
Life has been strange, during which I wrote then squirreled away into my hard drive. Only now, I slowly bring them out as I continuing writing a few certain sequels and a hurt!Bones one I had promised snowinginjune long ago. It's coming, my dear. :)
Title: Literary Companion
Author: d8rkmessngr
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy established
Rating: PG
Words: 2,591, complete, betaed by soullessminion
Summary: Spock encounters something more than zygomorphic samples on Feltar II. Fascinating…
Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: Star Trek is owned by Paramount, Roddenberry and all the more awesomer people out there who made this awesome legacy that's not me.
Notes: To soullessminion, who finally succumbed to trying out Star Trek Reboot verse despite the avalanche of editing she's doing of "The Oncoming Storm". And to gingerlr, because oh, it's wonderful to see her name on a fic again…
It stood to reason that during shore leave, one would depart the ship to "relax" or in a more colorful phrase "blow off some steam" although it escaped Spock where steam could possibly vent out from a human and why "blowing off" would provide any relief. The fact of the matter is that the announcement of shore leave was usually met with much anticipation. Despite the more perfunctory mission Starfleet had originally set out for the Enterprise's fledging crew, the past six months had been eventful. Even Spock welcomed the respite.
Feltar II was a mesoplanet with a tropical environment, currently in its periastron. Hence the days were warm, long (approximately thirty Earth standard hours) and were what Doctor McCoy had referred to as "the perfect weather for mint juleps".
Spock was unsure why an alcoholic drink required certain weather conditions.
Nevertheless, such factors seemed to have incited much enthusiasm among the crew, human or not. Nyota insisted on a daily picnic the three days their shore leave rotations coincided; an experience that, although impractical, was not unpleasant.
Today, however, their assigned time for shore leave did not coincide so Spock had determined that a circuit around the planet's undeveloped hillsides, collecting samples, would be time best utilized. And if some samples collected were sorted into one basket for Botany and into another for Nyota, it was simply because he knew Nyota would be as fascinated with the alien flora as he.
Nyota's basket held an assortment of eudicots and zygomorphic flowers (and it was a coincidence they were all in her preferred colors) by the time he reached a clearing on top of a hill overlooking the village that guarded the wilderness from exploitation.
There was a murmur, carried to him by the floral perfumed wind. Spock cocked his head. The sound was male, familiar-
A chuckle, soft and also familiar, joined the other sound.
And it was not alone.
Under a tree, shaded by a generous canopy of violet hued leaves, sat Doctor McCoy, his back against the broad, bleached white trunk and his legs stretched out across the yellow-green grass. But what made Spock's right eyebrow rise was Captain Kirk, sitting close to McCoy, close enough that his right shoulder rested back against the doctor's chest, his head angled so that the side of his face was flush with the doctor's unshaven jaw. It was an echo of the position Nyota often favored in the privacy of his or her quarters when they retreated to enjoy a companionship they normally could not have on duty.
Doctor McCoy did not appear to object to the close proximity although he did wave a hand to swat an errant strand of the captain's hair from under his nose. There was no apology from the other man; simply a chuckle, to which McCoy snorted and flicked again at the irritant hair.
The two men sat under the tree, out of uniform, their communicators piled under an exposed root, with cans of unopened beer and three apples by the captain's knees.
There was the light flutter of a page turning. Doctor McCoy held what appeared to be a worn hardbound book in his hands, angled between them. Kirk blinked red-rimmed eyes at the reading material, his eyes darting quickly from left to right.
Behind a tree, Spock debated announcing his presence to the pair when Jim made a sound, screwed up his face, reached over and flipped a page.
McCoy harrumphed and turned it back.
"Still?" Jim sighed, so loudly that Spock doubted he sincerely was irritated. "It's been ten minutes."
"No, it hasn't and not everyone is a speed reader, Jim," McCoy grumbled but his voice no longer contained the edge of illogical anger from days before when treatment after treatment failed to eradicate the infection that plagued Jim. The discovery of a new planet had proven to be a fatal one: three had died while Jim and Mr. Chekov had not. The planet was left unnamed and a warning buoy was left orbiting the moon, declaring its inhabitants hostile.
Jim's hand shook slightly (the doctor said the muscular tremors would remain for another week) as he raised it towards the book once more. McCoy slapped it away from the upper right corner.
"When I said you needed to take it easy, it included this," McCoy told Jim gruffly as he pulled the book away so it was closer to his field of vision.
Exhaling slowly, Jim slumped back against McCoy, his head lolling back to rest against the junction of the doctor's shoulder and neck. McCoy did not push him away.
"You read too slowly," Jim complained. He tried to turn the page again. McCoy turned it back with a sharp flick of a wrist.
"I want to remember what I've read."
"I do too, just in a speed faster than impulse," Jim pointed out as he reached down to one of the cans of beer, only to have it promptly vetoed by the doctor, ever mindful of the captain's health and switched out with an apple. Jim glowered at the fruit in his grasp before he polished it on the faded gray t-shirt he wore. Then, he grinned and took a large and vocal bite of the apple, reminiscent of the time of his third Kobayashi Maru.
McCoy's left eyebrow twitched but he said nothing. He kept his eyes on the book.
Another bite exposed the fruit's core. Jim wiped the juices dribbling down his chin with the back of his hand. Another crunch made the corner of Spock's right eye flinch.
Even from here, Spock could see McCoy's jaw tensing and his eyes narrowing as Jim took another bite that was loud even from three meters away.
"Dammit, Jim," McCoy snapped. He drew the book closer to him.
Jim chuckled, reached to grab the book and hissed, his shoulders suddenly hunching forward, his right hand on his stomach.
"See?" McCoy chided even as he set the book down. The medical tricorder appeared in McCoy's grip and the hum of the scanner wand filled the air. The doctor carefully eased Jim down to rest against his upper thighs, one hand loosely around the back of Jim’s neck, the other bracing his right shoulder.
"Let me do the work," McCoy advised. His brow knitted together, McCoy frowned, his eyes dark as he settled Jim's head in his lap.
"Fuck," Jim bit out. Spock observed Jim's hand clasped over McCoy's closest knee. Jim breathed between clenched teeth.
"Idiot, what did I tell you about moving? Those sutures on your abdomen keep tearing like that and it's back to surgery for you." The doctor's words were harsh. His voice was not. "Stop fidgeting. Told you sitting up was a bad idea."
"I was getting bored being flat on my back," Jim complained from his new position. Suddenly, he grinned. He tilted his chin up.
"Not that I'm complaining when you have me on my back," Jim went on, his voice slipping to roll his vowels.
Spock tilted his head to the side. Interesting.
"You're always complaining," McCoy muttered. His hand on Jim's forehead flipped over, knuckles now grazing along Jim's hairline. His eyes, however, were still fixated on the tricorder. He nodded absently at whatever readings it showed before he set it down and switched it for his book. "Even in bed, you're making demands."
"A captain is always on duty," Jim quipped. His smirk was a faded copy of the one Spock was accustomed to. Spock's lips pursed. Perhaps it was more prudent if the captain had remained in sickbay after all.
"Not here. Not today." McCoy's voice dropped to a hush. His hand turned palm down to cup over Jim's eyes.
"Shore leave," McCoy reminded Jim. "We agreed you could get out of your bed and come down here if you didn't strain your stitches. Lie still."
"But now I can't see anything," Jim complained as he brushed McCoy's hand away from his eyes. He lay where McCoy positioned him though. Spock noted the pale pallor and wondered when it would go away because it was...unsettling to see Jim needing McCoy to help ease him down on his back. The planet's wildlife had been particularly violent.
"I thought this one was your favorite. You've probably already read this a dozen times," McCoy muttered. He carded his left hand through Jim's hair, a knuckle drifting to trace the topography of Jim's face. Jim closed his eyes, folding his hands over his stomach.
"I like reading it," Jim slurred. "No matter how many times." Jim's mouth opened wide into a yawn. His head rolled, angled so he could gaze up at McCoy with half-mast eyes. "Read it to me."
McCoy grunted. "Is that an order?"
Jim simply smiled, but his eyes slid shut as McCoy cleared his throat.
The words of an ancient naval battle filled the silence, the rustling of the surrounding fauna a pleasing accompaniment. Spock could recall his late mother, her telling of Earth's folklore a prelude to his sleep cycle, her voice rising and falling as she tried to act out the characters and his father standing in the shadows by the doorway watching and listening every night.
Unlike his human mother, McCoy read the text with little embellishment. The doctor's voice was steady as if he was reading his daily reports, his usual commentary withheld from his reading. His hand continued to stroke across Jim's hair, fingers holding then releasing strands of hair as if they were made of glass. Occasionally, McCoy's left palm would drift to settle on Jim's brow in an archaic form of checking his temperature. Jim would murmur, stir, blue eyes languidly opening and closing under McCoy's touch. It was unusual to witness the captain so willing to remain stationary.
After a few moments, McCoy paused to watch Jim's chest rise and fall in deep sleep. The corner of his mouth tugged upward in an aborted smile. The doctor lowered his head and brushed his lips lightly across Jim's brow. He smoothed a hand over Jim's hair and whispered something inaudible when Jim moved around. When Jim settled, the doctor cautiously leaned back into the tree, his right hand balancing the book, his left hand rhythmically going back and forth across the top of Jim's head. And despite the fact that Jim was asleep, McCoy continued reading out loud, in a much lower volume.
Spock watched a few moments longer in order to remember the location should he need to reach them and quietly slipped away. When he was outside of hearing distance, he contacted Mr. Scott to be beamed back on board.
The look on Nyota's face when he presented her with the floral samples was unexpected. Humans find many things a delight that Spock has yet to comprehend, but a portion of him deep down in his conscious found satisfaction in the way Nyota pressed her cheek deep into the blossoms.
It was four point three hours later when Spock departed (with surprising reluctance) from her quarters for his. After some meditation and then a personal communication to the Vulcan colony, Spock arrived at the captain's quarters.
Doctor McCoy stood there, blinking at him, as the pneumatic door slid sideways to reveal Spock's presence. Hazel eyes fixed on his face as if uncertain of Spock's identity.
"I was …," McCoy started as he tugged down the hem of a worn sweatshirt that had the chemical formula of the Orion pheromones stenciled in faded black across his chest.
It was not Starfleet issue.
"Was checking on the captain," McCoy finished as he patted down his unruly hair and stroked his bristly jaw as if suddenly aware of his unkempt appearance.
"Of course," Spock merely said but for some reason Doctor McCoy's eyes narrowed.
"The captain's still on medical leave," McCoy growled or tried to but his voice was raspy. He cleared his throat repeatedly. "Dammit, Spock, Jim needs his-"
Spock extended the mug of steaming liquid in front of the doctor. McCoy stuttered to a wide-eyed pause. Fascinating. Had he known this could silence the doctor, he would have done this more often.
"Something for Jim? What is that?" McCoy did not take the mug but he lifted an eyebrow towards it. "Vulcan chicken soup?"
"Vulcans do not have chickens," Spock informed McCoy. McCoy appeared stumped, perplexed at this enlightening fact, like he was encountering a new virus.
"What is it then?" McCoy leaned forward and gave the steam a cautious sniff. Spock made a mental note to remind the doctor that sniffing was not a Starfleet recommended method of ascertaining unknown substances.
McCoy's eyes widened. "Is that?"
"Chamomile tea," Spock rumbled, "with honey, ginger, lemon and essence of a se'valtac root." He hesitated, unsure how it would be received. "It was a recipe from my mother."
"Ah." McCoy, for some reason, lowered his voice further and his scowl eased. He extended his hands, reaching for the offered drink.
"Right…okay…old-fashioned remedies always work best. I'll make sure Jim-" McCoy trailed off to another halt when Spock pulled the mug back slightly.
"My apologies," Spock said as he cradled the mug with both hands. It was odd, but he thought he could hear his mother biding him to drink.
"This is not for Jim." Spock slowly extended his arms again. McCoy blinked at the mug before curling long fingers around its circumference.
"For…me?" McCoy eyed the liquid with another arched eyebrow. "Okay," the doctor drawled but it was quite obvious the doctor was confused.
"My mother often made it for my father after he spoke with the High Council. He often returned home with a strained voice." Spock nodded towards the mug he had relinquished to McCoy.
"Yeah, well, all that talking, trying to out logic one another can…" McCoy frowned at the contents. Slowly, his eyes widened and his mouth moved soundlessly to form a single syllable word the doctor often favored in moments of emotional outbursts. His head snapped up, his eyes bleached in clear alarm.
"I would request an update on the captain's recovery in five hours, Doctor," Spock interjected before McCoy could say anything, although it would appear McCoy was speechless. An anomaly.
"My mother had often favored reciting old Earth literature to me as a child." Spock was unsure why he felt it necessary to tell McCoy this. "It was a habit I could not find the logic of, but it seemed to have provided my mother…comfort and she believed it would do the same for me so I allowed it to continue. The experience was not unwelcome."
McCoy rolled his eyes. "Uh huh, so you tell me."
Spock's brow furrowed. "I just did." Perhaps an auditory test was needed. He made a small bow, pivoted on his heel and started for his quarters when McCoy coughed.
"Wait. Hold up…thanks." McCoy looked like he wanted to say something further but Spock picked up the sleepy and slurred "Bones?" from within the quarters. McCoy glanced over his shoulder, his brow knitted, his mouth pursed. When there was another pained sound, his torso twisted to follow. The doctor gave Spock a brusque nod and a tight smile before turning back inside. The door slid silently shut behind him.
Spock stood by the door, his hands clasped behind him. He tipped his head towards the door but no sound could be heard. Spock, however, did not find an urge to linger. He walked away.
The captain was in good hands.
The End
Title: Literary Companion
Author: d8rkmessngr
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy established
Rating: PG
Words: 2,591, complete, betaed by soullessminion
Summary: Spock encounters something more than zygomorphic samples on Feltar II. Fascinating…
Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: Star Trek is owned by Paramount, Roddenberry and all the more awesomer people out there who made this awesome legacy that's not me.
Notes: To soullessminion, who finally succumbed to trying out Star Trek Reboot verse despite the avalanche of editing she's doing of "The Oncoming Storm". And to gingerlr, because oh, it's wonderful to see her name on a fic again…
It stood to reason that during shore leave, one would depart the ship to "relax" or in a more colorful phrase "blow off some steam" although it escaped Spock where steam could possibly vent out from a human and why "blowing off" would provide any relief. The fact of the matter is that the announcement of shore leave was usually met with much anticipation. Despite the more perfunctory mission Starfleet had originally set out for the Enterprise's fledging crew, the past six months had been eventful. Even Spock welcomed the respite.
Feltar II was a mesoplanet with a tropical environment, currently in its periastron. Hence the days were warm, long (approximately thirty Earth standard hours) and were what Doctor McCoy had referred to as "the perfect weather for mint juleps".
Spock was unsure why an alcoholic drink required certain weather conditions.
Nevertheless, such factors seemed to have incited much enthusiasm among the crew, human or not. Nyota insisted on a daily picnic the three days their shore leave rotations coincided; an experience that, although impractical, was not unpleasant.
Today, however, their assigned time for shore leave did not coincide so Spock had determined that a circuit around the planet's undeveloped hillsides, collecting samples, would be time best utilized. And if some samples collected were sorted into one basket for Botany and into another for Nyota, it was simply because he knew Nyota would be as fascinated with the alien flora as he.
Nyota's basket held an assortment of eudicots and zygomorphic flowers (and it was a coincidence they were all in her preferred colors) by the time he reached a clearing on top of a hill overlooking the village that guarded the wilderness from exploitation.
There was a murmur, carried to him by the floral perfumed wind. Spock cocked his head. The sound was male, familiar-
A chuckle, soft and also familiar, joined the other sound.
And it was not alone.
Under a tree, shaded by a generous canopy of violet hued leaves, sat Doctor McCoy, his back against the broad, bleached white trunk and his legs stretched out across the yellow-green grass. But what made Spock's right eyebrow rise was Captain Kirk, sitting close to McCoy, close enough that his right shoulder rested back against the doctor's chest, his head angled so that the side of his face was flush with the doctor's unshaven jaw. It was an echo of the position Nyota often favored in the privacy of his or her quarters when they retreated to enjoy a companionship they normally could not have on duty.
Doctor McCoy did not appear to object to the close proximity although he did wave a hand to swat an errant strand of the captain's hair from under his nose. There was no apology from the other man; simply a chuckle, to which McCoy snorted and flicked again at the irritant hair.
The two men sat under the tree, out of uniform, their communicators piled under an exposed root, with cans of unopened beer and three apples by the captain's knees.
There was the light flutter of a page turning. Doctor McCoy held what appeared to be a worn hardbound book in his hands, angled between them. Kirk blinked red-rimmed eyes at the reading material, his eyes darting quickly from left to right.
Behind a tree, Spock debated announcing his presence to the pair when Jim made a sound, screwed up his face, reached over and flipped a page.
McCoy harrumphed and turned it back.
"Still?" Jim sighed, so loudly that Spock doubted he sincerely was irritated. "It's been ten minutes."
"No, it hasn't and not everyone is a speed reader, Jim," McCoy grumbled but his voice no longer contained the edge of illogical anger from days before when treatment after treatment failed to eradicate the infection that plagued Jim. The discovery of a new planet had proven to be a fatal one: three had died while Jim and Mr. Chekov had not. The planet was left unnamed and a warning buoy was left orbiting the moon, declaring its inhabitants hostile.
Jim's hand shook slightly (the doctor said the muscular tremors would remain for another week) as he raised it towards the book once more. McCoy slapped it away from the upper right corner.
"When I said you needed to take it easy, it included this," McCoy told Jim gruffly as he pulled the book away so it was closer to his field of vision.
Exhaling slowly, Jim slumped back against McCoy, his head lolling back to rest against the junction of the doctor's shoulder and neck. McCoy did not push him away.
"You read too slowly," Jim complained. He tried to turn the page again. McCoy turned it back with a sharp flick of a wrist.
"I want to remember what I've read."
"I do too, just in a speed faster than impulse," Jim pointed out as he reached down to one of the cans of beer, only to have it promptly vetoed by the doctor, ever mindful of the captain's health and switched out with an apple. Jim glowered at the fruit in his grasp before he polished it on the faded gray t-shirt he wore. Then, he grinned and took a large and vocal bite of the apple, reminiscent of the time of his third Kobayashi Maru.
McCoy's left eyebrow twitched but he said nothing. He kept his eyes on the book.
Another bite exposed the fruit's core. Jim wiped the juices dribbling down his chin with the back of his hand. Another crunch made the corner of Spock's right eye flinch.
Even from here, Spock could see McCoy's jaw tensing and his eyes narrowing as Jim took another bite that was loud even from three meters away.
"Dammit, Jim," McCoy snapped. He drew the book closer to him.
Jim chuckled, reached to grab the book and hissed, his shoulders suddenly hunching forward, his right hand on his stomach.
"See?" McCoy chided even as he set the book down. The medical tricorder appeared in McCoy's grip and the hum of the scanner wand filled the air. The doctor carefully eased Jim down to rest against his upper thighs, one hand loosely around the back of Jim’s neck, the other bracing his right shoulder.
"Let me do the work," McCoy advised. His brow knitted together, McCoy frowned, his eyes dark as he settled Jim's head in his lap.
"Fuck," Jim bit out. Spock observed Jim's hand clasped over McCoy's closest knee. Jim breathed between clenched teeth.
"Idiot, what did I tell you about moving? Those sutures on your abdomen keep tearing like that and it's back to surgery for you." The doctor's words were harsh. His voice was not. "Stop fidgeting. Told you sitting up was a bad idea."
"I was getting bored being flat on my back," Jim complained from his new position. Suddenly, he grinned. He tilted his chin up.
"Not that I'm complaining when you have me on my back," Jim went on, his voice slipping to roll his vowels.
Spock tilted his head to the side. Interesting.
"You're always complaining," McCoy muttered. His hand on Jim's forehead flipped over, knuckles now grazing along Jim's hairline. His eyes, however, were still fixated on the tricorder. He nodded absently at whatever readings it showed before he set it down and switched it for his book. "Even in bed, you're making demands."
"A captain is always on duty," Jim quipped. His smirk was a faded copy of the one Spock was accustomed to. Spock's lips pursed. Perhaps it was more prudent if the captain had remained in sickbay after all.
"Not here. Not today." McCoy's voice dropped to a hush. His hand turned palm down to cup over Jim's eyes.
"Shore leave," McCoy reminded Jim. "We agreed you could get out of your bed and come down here if you didn't strain your stitches. Lie still."
"But now I can't see anything," Jim complained as he brushed McCoy's hand away from his eyes. He lay where McCoy positioned him though. Spock noted the pale pallor and wondered when it would go away because it was...unsettling to see Jim needing McCoy to help ease him down on his back. The planet's wildlife had been particularly violent.
"I thought this one was your favorite. You've probably already read this a dozen times," McCoy muttered. He carded his left hand through Jim's hair, a knuckle drifting to trace the topography of Jim's face. Jim closed his eyes, folding his hands over his stomach.
"I like reading it," Jim slurred. "No matter how many times." Jim's mouth opened wide into a yawn. His head rolled, angled so he could gaze up at McCoy with half-mast eyes. "Read it to me."
McCoy grunted. "Is that an order?"
Jim simply smiled, but his eyes slid shut as McCoy cleared his throat.
The words of an ancient naval battle filled the silence, the rustling of the surrounding fauna a pleasing accompaniment. Spock could recall his late mother, her telling of Earth's folklore a prelude to his sleep cycle, her voice rising and falling as she tried to act out the characters and his father standing in the shadows by the doorway watching and listening every night.
Unlike his human mother, McCoy read the text with little embellishment. The doctor's voice was steady as if he was reading his daily reports, his usual commentary withheld from his reading. His hand continued to stroke across Jim's hair, fingers holding then releasing strands of hair as if they were made of glass. Occasionally, McCoy's left palm would drift to settle on Jim's brow in an archaic form of checking his temperature. Jim would murmur, stir, blue eyes languidly opening and closing under McCoy's touch. It was unusual to witness the captain so willing to remain stationary.
After a few moments, McCoy paused to watch Jim's chest rise and fall in deep sleep. The corner of his mouth tugged upward in an aborted smile. The doctor lowered his head and brushed his lips lightly across Jim's brow. He smoothed a hand over Jim's hair and whispered something inaudible when Jim moved around. When Jim settled, the doctor cautiously leaned back into the tree, his right hand balancing the book, his left hand rhythmically going back and forth across the top of Jim's head. And despite the fact that Jim was asleep, McCoy continued reading out loud, in a much lower volume.
Spock watched a few moments longer in order to remember the location should he need to reach them and quietly slipped away. When he was outside of hearing distance, he contacted Mr. Scott to be beamed back on board.
The look on Nyota's face when he presented her with the floral samples was unexpected. Humans find many things a delight that Spock has yet to comprehend, but a portion of him deep down in his conscious found satisfaction in the way Nyota pressed her cheek deep into the blossoms.
It was four point three hours later when Spock departed (with surprising reluctance) from her quarters for his. After some meditation and then a personal communication to the Vulcan colony, Spock arrived at the captain's quarters.
Doctor McCoy stood there, blinking at him, as the pneumatic door slid sideways to reveal Spock's presence. Hazel eyes fixed on his face as if uncertain of Spock's identity.
"I was …," McCoy started as he tugged down the hem of a worn sweatshirt that had the chemical formula of the Orion pheromones stenciled in faded black across his chest.
It was not Starfleet issue.
"Was checking on the captain," McCoy finished as he patted down his unruly hair and stroked his bristly jaw as if suddenly aware of his unkempt appearance.
"Of course," Spock merely said but for some reason Doctor McCoy's eyes narrowed.
"The captain's still on medical leave," McCoy growled or tried to but his voice was raspy. He cleared his throat repeatedly. "Dammit, Spock, Jim needs his-"
Spock extended the mug of steaming liquid in front of the doctor. McCoy stuttered to a wide-eyed pause. Fascinating. Had he known this could silence the doctor, he would have done this more often.
"Something for Jim? What is that?" McCoy did not take the mug but he lifted an eyebrow towards it. "Vulcan chicken soup?"
"Vulcans do not have chickens," Spock informed McCoy. McCoy appeared stumped, perplexed at this enlightening fact, like he was encountering a new virus.
"What is it then?" McCoy leaned forward and gave the steam a cautious sniff. Spock made a mental note to remind the doctor that sniffing was not a Starfleet recommended method of ascertaining unknown substances.
McCoy's eyes widened. "Is that?"
"Chamomile tea," Spock rumbled, "with honey, ginger, lemon and essence of a se'valtac root." He hesitated, unsure how it would be received. "It was a recipe from my mother."
"Ah." McCoy, for some reason, lowered his voice further and his scowl eased. He extended his hands, reaching for the offered drink.
"Right…okay…old-fashioned remedies always work best. I'll make sure Jim-" McCoy trailed off to another halt when Spock pulled the mug back slightly.
"My apologies," Spock said as he cradled the mug with both hands. It was odd, but he thought he could hear his mother biding him to drink.
"This is not for Jim." Spock slowly extended his arms again. McCoy blinked at the mug before curling long fingers around its circumference.
"For…me?" McCoy eyed the liquid with another arched eyebrow. "Okay," the doctor drawled but it was quite obvious the doctor was confused.
"My mother often made it for my father after he spoke with the High Council. He often returned home with a strained voice." Spock nodded towards the mug he had relinquished to McCoy.
"Yeah, well, all that talking, trying to out logic one another can…" McCoy frowned at the contents. Slowly, his eyes widened and his mouth moved soundlessly to form a single syllable word the doctor often favored in moments of emotional outbursts. His head snapped up, his eyes bleached in clear alarm.
"I would request an update on the captain's recovery in five hours, Doctor," Spock interjected before McCoy could say anything, although it would appear McCoy was speechless. An anomaly.
"My mother had often favored reciting old Earth literature to me as a child." Spock was unsure why he felt it necessary to tell McCoy this. "It was a habit I could not find the logic of, but it seemed to have provided my mother…comfort and she believed it would do the same for me so I allowed it to continue. The experience was not unwelcome."
McCoy rolled his eyes. "Uh huh, so you tell me."
Spock's brow furrowed. "I just did." Perhaps an auditory test was needed. He made a small bow, pivoted on his heel and started for his quarters when McCoy coughed.
"Wait. Hold up…thanks." McCoy looked like he wanted to say something further but Spock picked up the sleepy and slurred "Bones?" from within the quarters. McCoy glanced over his shoulder, his brow knitted, his mouth pursed. When there was another pained sound, his torso twisted to follow. The doctor gave Spock a brusque nod and a tight smile before turning back inside. The door slid silently shut behind him.
Spock stood by the door, his hands clasped behind him. He tipped his head towards the door but no sound could be heard. Spock, however, did not find an urge to linger. He walked away.
The captain was in good hands.
The End