Paws and Whiskers
Title: Paws and Whiskers
Beta: secret_chord25
Pairing: Spock/McCoy
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 4300
Warnings: none
Summary: Written for the prompt: Spock has a cat and said cat always sneaks out to MedBay and ends up on the lap of certain CMO, from which Spock has to retrieve it. So a cat matchmaker ;)
A/N: written for kamiyo and co. as a small token of appreciation for their generous donation during round one of help_japan .
“There is still life here,” Spock says, as the landing party takes in the broken carcasses of houses blackened with unforgiving fire.
“I’m picking up no human life forms,” Chekov says quietly, staring at his tricorder intently, as though willing it to reconsider. “But - wait, there’s something…” He frowns. “It was like a spark, but now it’s gone.” His face falls. “There’s - there’s nothing left here.”
“Not exactly.”
Spock takes several cautious steps through the ruins of what used to be a blooming settlement before the Gorns attacked, toward a pile of debris, where a small movement has caught his attention. He kneels, completely disregarding the damage his uniform is taking, and looks under a burnt sheet of plastic.
Two huge, vividly green eyes stare back at him, unblinking. Spock knows he’s done for even before the dirty, shivering, furry bundle, stinking of fire and fear, launches itself into his arms.
“A spark,” Chekov whispers, grinning despite himself amidst the horrifying devastation around them. “Iskra.”
--
The door to McCoy’s office slides open to reveal the doctor himself, sitting at his desk with a brilliantly orange ball of fur curled up in his lap. As Spock steps in, both the human and the animal look up at him with identical quizzical expressions.
Spock suppresses a sigh. “I see you have discovered Iskra. Again.”
McCoy smirks leaning against the back of his chair. His hand scratches around the cat’s ear. “I don’t know about discovering,” he drawls. “I was here the whole night, so it’s pretty safe to say she found me. For the third time this week,” McCoy adds, squinting up at Spock as the cat purrs loudly in appreciation. “You know, Spock, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you coach her to do that.”
Spock lifts an eyebrow. “As you are undoubtedly aware, cats are notoriously difficult to train, Doctor.”
“Difficult ain’t impossible.”
“Correct, but I do not have the time to devote to animal training,” Spock refutes. “Even if I were so inclined, which I am not.”
“Yeah, okay.” McCoy narrows his eyes. “Not so sure I believe you.”
Spock folds his arms across his chest. “Assuming you are correct in your suspicions, what purpose would I supposedly pursue with this action? What am I to gain?”
McCoy grins. “Well, the first thing that springs to mind is the irresistible pleasure of my company,” he drawls. “Of course, you could have that any time, without the ‘cat intervention.’” He pauses. “Then again, maybe you’re so socially retarded you feel like you can’t approach people without some kind of excuse.”
Spock considers him for a moment. “You think very highly of yourself, Doctor.”
McCoy snorts. “You betcha. And I can’t help but notice how that wasn’t a ‘no.’”
“I do not feel compelled to ruin your fantasy life.” Spock pauses. “Tonight.”
“How generous of you,” McCoy mutters distractedly, picking up the cat and lifting it closer to his face. “Isn’t he generous with us?” he coos, getting up to his feet. “And you’re such a good kitty, yes, you are. Yes, you are.”
“Doctor.” Spock winces. “Your tone of voice-”
“Is perfectly normal while talking to such a good kitty,” McCoy murmurs, pets the cat one last time, and hands it over to Spock. “He doesn’t understand, does he?” he tells Iskra, who doesn’t resist the transition, but stops purring. “You poor thing, he probably calls you Felis catus the whole time, doesn’t he?”
“Of course not,” Spock replies, cradling the cat in his arms. “She has a name. I use it.”
McCoy sighs. “Like I said. Poor thing.” He reaches out to pet the cat again, brushing Spock’s hand. Iskra makes a distinct noise of approval, which doesn’t quite turn to full-blown purring again, but does give Spock a horrifying impulse to do the same. McCoy’s touch is warm.
McCoy looks up suddenly. Spock doesn’t know what the doctor sees in his face, but the smirk has returned, the teasing woven in with something else this time, something deeper. “Want me to scratch your ears, too?”
Spock purses his lips and steps back. “That will not be necessary. Goodnight, Doctor McCoy.”
The cat mewls softly.
“Goodnight, Iskra,” McCoy says, grinning. “Goodnight, hobgoblin.”
However tempting the urge is, Spock does not allow himself to roll his eyes.
Back in his quarters, Spock prepares to sleep, Iskra sitting with ostensible benevolence on her designated sleeping cushion. Spock is not fooled. He knows he will undoubtedly wake up to find her sleeping on his pillow or at the foot of his bed. McCoy is wrong, Spock thinks grudgingly. If he truly were capable of training his cat, that would have been the first thing he would have taught her not to do. Spock frowns, glancing at his pet, as a thought occurs to him.
“Good kitty?” he says experimentally.
Iskra’s ears quiver slightly, as though she has heard something deeply insulting of her dignity. She stares at Spock with an air of mild incredulity, as if uncertain that he hasn’t hit his head while out of her sight out there somewhere.
Spock really does sigh this time. “Computer, lights off.”
He wakes up, vaguely, in the middle of the night to a purring substance nuzzling at his shoulder. Spock smiles deliriously, curls his fingers in the warm fur, and goes back to sleep.
--
“No, dammit, stay there! You can go when I say you can go, you pig-headed idiot! I just pulled you out of cardiac arrest not two hours ago - lie back down this instant or I swear to God, I’ll shoot you myself!”
Spock would have scowled if not for the anti-burn cohesive mask covering his face. “There is no need for dramatics, Doctor McCoy. I am feeling adequate, and the captain requires my assistance-”
“YOU ARE NOT ‘ADEQUATE’!” McCoy yells, outraged. “What part of ‘almost died twice’ don’t you understand?”
“You are exaggerating-”
“The hell I am! And the captain will survive another six hours without you being perched on his shoulder, you freaking control maniac!”
“Are the injuries I have sustained on the surface not enough to keep you satisfied?” Spock asks dryly. “Is it absolutely necessary to impair my hearing as well?”
“It’s not your hearing that’s impaired, it’s your brain! And I’m afraid the damage is permanent. It’s called stupidity, and I can’t cure it!”
“Which is a significant setback for us all, since it makes the axiom ‘physician, heal thyself’ inapplicable in your case.”
McCoy glares at him. “Don’t tell me how to do my job!” He glances over to where Chapel is hovering uncertainly beside the door. “Nurse, give him ten ccs of adazaline, and keep an eye on him. If he tries to leave, sedate him.”
“Yes, Doctor,” Chapel agrees bemusedly and steps closer, readying the hypo. A second later, the nurse screams and jumps back suddenly. “Something grabbed meeeeyyyyyh!” She slips into a high-pitched whine. “Get her away! Get her away!”
“Iskra!” McCoy stares at the cat that has, apparently, taken residence under the biobed, unnoticed by anyone, and had chosen that moment to attack the nurse. “What the hell? How’d you get in here?”
“Iskra, cease your actions immediately,” Spock demands in a strict tone.
Iskra has taken a position between the bed and the startled woman and gives no indication of willingness to forfeit it any time soon. The fur on her spine has risen upright, as though filled with an electrical charge, and her tail is swinging menacingly from side to side as she hisses at Chapel.
“Um - Nurse, I’ll take care of it myself,” McCoy says slowly, taking the hypo from Chapel. “I think it’s best if you leave till we catch her.”
Chapel glances at him curtly. “You think?” she deadpans, backing away from the room.
Iskra follows her movements diligently with her eyes. Then, obviously considering her job well done, she springs up onto the bed and Spock’s lap, stepping from paw to paw relentlessly, as is her custom, while watching critically as McCoy administers the medicine. Her seizing green gaze doesn’t stray from the doctor’s hands, but she makes no move to stop him.
McCoy laughs suddenly. “I’ll be damned.”
Spock glances up at him, perplexed. “You seem to find this amusing.”
“It’s just that - your damn cat.” McCoy shakes his head, chuckling. “She’s - she’s logical.”
Spock’s eyebrows make a valiant attempt to arch. “Excuse me?”
“Well, we were fighting, right?” McCoy is grinning. “You’re her master, and she seems to like me. So she made the logical conclusion that the source of the bedlam was the only other person in the room - the only alien to her person!”
Spock blinks. “You believe that Iskra attacked Nurse Chapel because she assumed that the nurse was the reason of our discord?”
“Yep.” McCoy beams. “Logical and loyal, how’d you like that?”
Spock looks over at the cat. Iskra is imitating an ancient Egypt statuette, her tail bumping against Spock’s thigh in residual irritation. “You are a smart creature,” he informs the cat thoughtfully. “I apologize for alarming you.”
Iskra stares at him, demonstrating with her whole posture how utterly unimpressed she is, before turning her gaze expectantly at McCoy.
“Seriously?” The doctor rolls his eyes, but reaches to pat Spock’s shoulder carefully. “All friends here, see? You little red devil.” He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t even be here; it’s against the rules.”
Iskra responds to this by stretching across Spock’s legs, digging in her claws for good measure.
“I do not recommend removing her at this time,” Spock says, watching his pet bemusedly.
“No kidding,” McCoy sighs. “All right, she can stay. But if Jim comes in here, tell him to stop by for a hypo, or he’ll be sneezing for a week and I’ll never hear the end of it.” He looks up at Spock and points a finger at him imperiously. “You, rest. I’ll come by to check on you later.”
Spock nods softly. “Please convey my apologies to Miss Chapel.”
McCoy grins. “I don’t think she’s all that mad, but sure.” He pauses. “Hey, Spock.”
Spock peers at him quizzically.
“You scared the hell out of me today,” McCoy says, grim. “My fantasy life does not include you dying on me, so, for God’s sake, do us all a favor and stop trying to, okay?”
Before Spock can respond, McCoy walks out, not pausing to look back. That doesn’t stop Iskra from mewling in apparent agreement with the doctor’s words and sinking her claws in deeper for emphasis.
--
A familiar wave of heat attacks McCoy as the door to Spock’s quarters slides open.
“Doctor.” Spock blinks, looking up from where he’s seated at his desk. The reflected light of the viewscreen colors his face with rainbows.
“You didn’t come to pick her up,” McCoy says, nodding at the armful of Iskra he’s holding as he steps into the room. “You always do that, so I thought I’d check what kept you.”
“Oh,” Spock says, somewhat slowly. He glances at the monitor uncertainly. “I believe I have - lost track of time.”
“Really?” McCoy’s eyebrows arch in surprise. He steps inside, depositing Iskra on her favorite cushion before coming to stand behind Spock’s chair. “What’s got you so caught up?”
“A colleague from the Daystrom Institute sent me an advanced copy of her upcoming article,” Spock explains, faltering infinitesimally as McCoy’s hands land on his shoulders. He doesn’t comment, though, or pull away.
“More computer science?” McCoy asks incredulously, leaning forward slightly, eyes trained on the screen, even as his hands start kneading Spock’s shoulders gently in what he hopes could pass for an automatic gesture. “I thought you already held the highest possible degree. How much smarter are you planning to get?”
“It is not for a degree; I was merely interested.” Spock actually inclines his head forward, rolling it from side to side, helping McCoy ease the tension.
“Jesus, you’re stiff,” McCoy mutters. “Been sitting here long?”
Spock seems to consider it. “A while.” He exhales audibly as McCoy presses against a particularly tight knot. “You are… very good at this, Leonard.”
“You think?” McCoy smirks, digging his fingers a little deeper, making Spock brace himself against the desk. A human would have moaned in pleasure.
“Yes,” Spock says, a little breathlessly. “But I - I need to feed Iskra, and-”
“Already fed her,” McCoy tells him, counting the knobs of his spine. “But you could feed me. I’ve found that documentary you’ve been looking for. We could eat and watch.”
“That would be - agreeable.” Spock pauses. “Leonard.”
“Yes?”
“You will have to cease what you are doing first.”
McCoy chuckles a little awkwardly. “You sure? ‘Cause I almost got the nerve pinch down.”
“The appropriate response to that is, I believe, you wish,” Spock says dryly, sliding up to his feet. “Vegetarian lasagna?”
“Works for me.”
Which is how they end up with BBC’s 300 Years of Reconstructing History - again - which the pair of them happily dissect for its numerous inconsistencies. McCoy replicates some root beer, which manages to soften Spock just enough to make the relocation to the compelling comfort of the bed seamless and natural. McCoy is grinning, listening to Spock abuse the representation of medieval battle tactics, but then the episode about the Spanish Inquisition starts, and McCoy begins a rant of his own.
At some point, it occurs to him that he hasn’t heard Spock’s comments in a while. He glances sideways and discovers that Spock is fast asleep, body stretched comfortably across the bunk, head resting against McCoy’s shoulder, breathing steady and even. McCoy shakes his head with amusement - how did he miss that?
For anyone else, it wouldn’t be a big deal, but Spock is generally such a tough, bend-duranium-plates-with-my-bare-hands-for-fun kind of guy that to see him relaxed and peaceful like this is precious - and, ultimately, fascinating. McCoy grins, reaching to pull the coverlet up, and waves the vid off.
He’s about to slide off the bed as quietly as possible when he discovers it won’t be such an easy maneuver. Iskra has taken position at his other side, making it impossible for McCoy to get up without crushing her, and that’s not an option. He’s been there, having stepped on her tail (the very ending of it or its shadow, he still isn’t sure) once. The yell was... memorable.
“Iskra, kitty,” McCoy whispers, already having a bad feeling about this. “Be a good girl and move?”
She blinks up at him innocently before resuming her methodical paw washing routine. McCoy bites his lip; it’s time for desperate measures. Cautiously, he extends his hand, aiming to either shoo or remove the cat. Iskra stops her ministrations, stares at his hand suspiciously, and makes a funny noise somewhere between a purr and a growl, baring her teeth for good measure.
“Dammit,” McCoy curses, withdrawing his hand. Vaguely, he contemplates climbing over Spock to get up on the other side, but there’s no way he can do it without waking Spock up, and for some reason, McCoy would really hate if that happened.
“Fine,” he breathes, sinking back into the mattress and poking one fluffy side vindictively. “Have it your way, you little furry wench. If Spock gets mad at me in the morning, I’m so ratting you out.”
Iskra gazes up at him serenely, green eyes twinkling. With a resigned sigh, McCoy gives up, snuggling closer to Spock and murmuring for computer to kill the lights.
--
Spock doesn’t get mad. He isn’t even particularly surprised to wake up half-smothered between McCoy and his own devilish cat. McCoy watches, half-asleep still, how Spock replicates food for the demon creature and thinks petulantly that it’s plain unfair, because he’s cold now and could definitely use another couple of hours of shuteye, and it’s all the damn cat’s fault that he now feels like he misses Spock next to him and that’s just so damn screwed.
Spock doesn’t seem to mind, though. He replicates coffee, then pancakes, and then they’re talking about the upcoming crew evaluations, and McCoy is not only eating, but actually feeling like he’s making sense. Spock walks him back to Med Bay before his shift, like it’s all normal for them, like it’s something they do.
What’s even worse - it really does feel natural.
It’s only when Nurse Chapel stares at McCoy questioningly, eyebrows eloquently arched and lips quirking in a teasing smirk, that he realizes it hasn’t really been part of their usual routine when they spent time together so far. He shrugs, greets his head nurse with a terse ‘Good morning,’ and goes to work most definitely not biting down a grin.
--
To quote Engineer Scott, Ambassador Oelna is one hell of a woman. She’s tall, broad-shouldered, and menacingly beautiful, with a trail of stormy raven black hair and piercing blue eyes. She also has a dog that’s easily half her size and intimidates the hell out of half the crew. McCoy would have found the situation amusing, except the dog has taken to trailing after him all over the ship, having, for some reason, chosen him as a subject of its affection. The ambassador usually isn’t too far behind, all smiles and power bursts, and the week it takes the Enterprise to ferry the peace conference is beginning to seem endless.
McCoy’s mama didn’t raise him to be rude to women, particularly when half the crew is plastering themselves against the walls at the first sign of her approach. He tries his best to be friendly, even though he can’t quite figure out exactly how it has fallen on him to be the Enterprise’s goodwill ambassador. But seeing Oelna alone in the mess hall makes his innate sense of hospitality wince in sympathy, and he strives to rectify the situation. The fact that it results in his free time being thoroughly monopolized is just an unfortunate side effect, as is the nagging feeling that the lady expects more of him than he’s probably willing to share.
Having had a first ambassador-free afternoon in five days, McCoy is in a perky mood as he strides into his office to complete some paperwork.
The sight that greets him is… astounding.
The room is demolished. It looks like the hordes of Genghis Khan have used it for a daybreak camp, with all the smashed equipment, ripped papers flying around, and the panicked blinking of an upset monitor.
The culprit of this travesty is instantly apparent.
Iskra - whom McCoy hasn’t seen for about a week - is standing before his desk in a fighting stance, her back arched menacingly and tail stretched in a thin line toward the ceiling. She’s facing the desk, under which - McCoy gasps - sits Ambassador Oelna’s almost 65-kilo weighing dog. It’s making a high-pitched, pitiful whine, filled with the most sincere, utmost terror known to a living creature. Every time it tries to move, Iskra slinks forward, claws fanned out, hissing and growling, effectively making the dog cower back under the desk.
For a moment, McCoy is utterly speechless, taking in the absurd image. Then, he tries to move.
“Iskra.” He clears his throat. “Iskra, let him out.”
He steps toward her, which turns out to be a mistake. She whirls on the spot and launches at his leg, claws and teeth sinking in readily with a loud battle yowl. The attack is nothing like her usual playful nips and swats, and McCoy howls at the sudden pain, shaking the furious cat off instinctively.
“Ow! What the devil has gotten into you?” he demands, backing away and staring at his ripped pant leg. “What the hell?”
Iskra emits a long loud hiss, taking position between the man and the dog now, watching them both as if daring them to move.
McCoy limps toward the comm on the wall, punching the panel angrily. “Spock! Get your ass down here this instant! Your damn cat is taking hostages!”
There’s no acknowledgement, and McCoy continues to watch the animals warily, the hissing and the whining grazing on his nerves. He can’t help but stare at Iskra. He’s never seen her so enraged.
Five minutes later, Spock appears in the doorway, stone-faced and unreadable.
“Your cat-harpy attacked me,” McCoy complains, irritated and confused. “And she won’t let that dog go.”
Spock doesn’t look at him, taking in the situation instead. Then, he steps forward.
“Careful,” McCoy cautions.
Iskra hisses at Spock’s approach, but doesn’t jump him. He nears her slowly, going down on one knee, calm and unhurried.
“Iskra,” Spock says softly. “Come here. We must leave.”
She growls angrily, but suddenly, the sound changes into a long meow that sounds like a complaint of an offended child.
“I know,” Spock tells her. “It is all right. Come to me.”
Much to McCoy’s amazement, the cat hesitates a second longer before actually walking toward Spock, allowing him to scoop her into his arms. She clings to him, her little body shivering, breathing labored, as he strokes her back soothingly, straightening up. She’s whining softly now, almost like - McCoy’s heart clenches - almost like she’s crying.
“I apologize for the imposition,” Spock says, addressing McCoy for the first time since he entered. His fingers glide through the fluffy red fur relentlessly. “We will take our leave now. I will inform the maintenance crew that you require assistance.”
“Spock, um.” Extremely confused, McCoy halts him at the door. He hasn’t seen Spock for the better part of the week, either, and suddenly he feels bad for no immediate reason. “Don’t be too hard on her. I think she is - I think she’s just jealous.”
Spock purses his lips, looking down at his distressed pet. “Indeed,” he says flatly. “She is not the only one. Excuse me.”
He walks out, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.
--
It takes the better part of the day for McCoy to gather up enough courage and seek Spock out. As a result, he’s standing in front of Spock’s door when it’s very late into the ship’s evening. Taking a deep breath, McCoy buzzes. The door opens, revealing Spock standing just beside it. McCoy brushes past him nervously, without waiting for an invitation.
“Do come in, Doctor,” Spock says, as the door slides closed.
“Doctor?” McCoy looks at him. “What happened to ‘Leonard’?”
Spock lifts an eyebrow and says nothing, but, at this point, they both know precisely what happened.
McCoy casts a glance around. “Is Iskra here?”
Spock folds his arms across his chest. “No.”
“Oh,” McCoy says.
There’s a beat of an awkward silence, while McCoy tries to decide what to do with his hands, and Spock is busy avoiding his eyes.
“Tell her that dog means nothing to me,” McCoy blurts out suddenly. “Tell her - I was just being friendly. You know, hospitable. Like friendly people do when they have guests in the house, and I might have overdone it, but really, that dog, we’re just friends, that’s all. I swear. Spock, listen-”
Spock’s eyebrow seems to climb up even higher. “I will be certain to tell Iskra that,” he intones dryly. “If that is all-”
“I missed you.”
Spock freezes. McCoy walks up to him impulsively. “I’m sorry if it seemed... Spock, I’m sorry. You know I’m not a dog person. I could never be a dog person - or with a dog person. I got a little carried away, but I-”
“Leonard.” Spock sighs. “I do not care if you are-”
McCoy grabs his shoulders and kisses him soundly on the mouth. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, and, seeing as Spock doesn’t resist, kisses him some more. He gets little to no response, though, and pulls back with a sigh. “Come on, Spock. I know I was an idiot, but forgive me already.” He leans in closer to whisper in Spock’s ear. “Want to make you purr.”
“I do not purr,” Spock says indignantly, making an extremely unconvincing attempt to free himself.
McCoy smirks against his lips. “Wanna bet?”
Spock doesn’t reply. At least, not with words.
--
McCoy wakes up several hours later to discover himself more or less wrapped around Spock, and grins dazedly. At first, he isn’t certain what woke him, but then, turning his head slightly, he spots Iskra sitting on the nightstand, in her statuette mode once again. She is staring at McCoy unblinkingly, and, in the low light of the cabin, her eyes seem to gleam ominously.
McCoy swallows. “Um...”
He reaches with his hand toward the cat slowly. At first, she doesn’t move, but then she bends down, sniffing at his fingers, and pauses for a moment before biting at a fingertip gently, staring at McCoy the whole time. He doesn’t take his hand away, and, after a moment, Iskra releases him, nudging his hand with her wet nose before pulling back. She glances over his head at Spock before returning her unnerving gaze to McCoy, narrowing her eyes slightly.
McCoy grins, shaking his head. He’s pretty sure he has just been subjected to the feline version of the ‘hurt him and I’ll scratch your eyes out’ speech. He’s also quite certain the threat is entirely literal.
Having made her point, Iskra jumps down to the deck fluidly and marches out of the bedroom alcove with an air of insulted dignity. McCoy chuckles softly, closing his eyes.
Spock murmurs something barely audible in his sleep, and McCoy tugs him closer instinctively, his heart swelling.
“Don’t worry,” he whispers after the departed guardian cat. “I won’t hurt him. I’m pretty sure I love him.”
Still smiling, he slips back into slumber, and misses a pair of fluorescent green eyes slice through the darkness sharply once as they blink their approval.
Fin
And now meet Iskra! I know, this photo pictures a red & white kitty, but it was the expression that sold me. That's her!
Beta: secret_chord25
Pairing: Spock/McCoy
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 4300
Warnings: none
Summary: Written for the prompt: Spock has a cat and said cat always sneaks out to MedBay and ends up on the lap of certain CMO, from which Spock has to retrieve it. So a cat matchmaker ;)
A/N: written for kamiyo and co. as a small token of appreciation for their generous donation during round one of help_japan .
“There is still life here,” Spock says, as the landing party takes in the broken carcasses of houses blackened with unforgiving fire.
“I’m picking up no human life forms,” Chekov says quietly, staring at his tricorder intently, as though willing it to reconsider. “But - wait, there’s something…” He frowns. “It was like a spark, but now it’s gone.” His face falls. “There’s - there’s nothing left here.”
“Not exactly.”
Spock takes several cautious steps through the ruins of what used to be a blooming settlement before the Gorns attacked, toward a pile of debris, where a small movement has caught his attention. He kneels, completely disregarding the damage his uniform is taking, and looks under a burnt sheet of plastic.
Two huge, vividly green eyes stare back at him, unblinking. Spock knows he’s done for even before the dirty, shivering, furry bundle, stinking of fire and fear, launches itself into his arms.
“A spark,” Chekov whispers, grinning despite himself amidst the horrifying devastation around them. “Iskra.”
--
The door to McCoy’s office slides open to reveal the doctor himself, sitting at his desk with a brilliantly orange ball of fur curled up in his lap. As Spock steps in, both the human and the animal look up at him with identical quizzical expressions.
Spock suppresses a sigh. “I see you have discovered Iskra. Again.”
McCoy smirks leaning against the back of his chair. His hand scratches around the cat’s ear. “I don’t know about discovering,” he drawls. “I was here the whole night, so it’s pretty safe to say she found me. For the third time this week,” McCoy adds, squinting up at Spock as the cat purrs loudly in appreciation. “You know, Spock, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you coach her to do that.”
Spock lifts an eyebrow. “As you are undoubtedly aware, cats are notoriously difficult to train, Doctor.”
“Difficult ain’t impossible.”
“Correct, but I do not have the time to devote to animal training,” Spock refutes. “Even if I were so inclined, which I am not.”
“Yeah, okay.” McCoy narrows his eyes. “Not so sure I believe you.”
Spock folds his arms across his chest. “Assuming you are correct in your suspicions, what purpose would I supposedly pursue with this action? What am I to gain?”
McCoy grins. “Well, the first thing that springs to mind is the irresistible pleasure of my company,” he drawls. “Of course, you could have that any time, without the ‘cat intervention.’” He pauses. “Then again, maybe you’re so socially retarded you feel like you can’t approach people without some kind of excuse.”
Spock considers him for a moment. “You think very highly of yourself, Doctor.”
McCoy snorts. “You betcha. And I can’t help but notice how that wasn’t a ‘no.’”
“I do not feel compelled to ruin your fantasy life.” Spock pauses. “Tonight.”
“How generous of you,” McCoy mutters distractedly, picking up the cat and lifting it closer to his face. “Isn’t he generous with us?” he coos, getting up to his feet. “And you’re such a good kitty, yes, you are. Yes, you are.”
“Doctor.” Spock winces. “Your tone of voice-”
“Is perfectly normal while talking to such a good kitty,” McCoy murmurs, pets the cat one last time, and hands it over to Spock. “He doesn’t understand, does he?” he tells Iskra, who doesn’t resist the transition, but stops purring. “You poor thing, he probably calls you Felis catus the whole time, doesn’t he?”
“Of course not,” Spock replies, cradling the cat in his arms. “She has a name. I use it.”
McCoy sighs. “Like I said. Poor thing.” He reaches out to pet the cat again, brushing Spock’s hand. Iskra makes a distinct noise of approval, which doesn’t quite turn to full-blown purring again, but does give Spock a horrifying impulse to do the same. McCoy’s touch is warm.
McCoy looks up suddenly. Spock doesn’t know what the doctor sees in his face, but the smirk has returned, the teasing woven in with something else this time, something deeper. “Want me to scratch your ears, too?”
Spock purses his lips and steps back. “That will not be necessary. Goodnight, Doctor McCoy.”
The cat mewls softly.
“Goodnight, Iskra,” McCoy says, grinning. “Goodnight, hobgoblin.”
However tempting the urge is, Spock does not allow himself to roll his eyes.
Back in his quarters, Spock prepares to sleep, Iskra sitting with ostensible benevolence on her designated sleeping cushion. Spock is not fooled. He knows he will undoubtedly wake up to find her sleeping on his pillow or at the foot of his bed. McCoy is wrong, Spock thinks grudgingly. If he truly were capable of training his cat, that would have been the first thing he would have taught her not to do. Spock frowns, glancing at his pet, as a thought occurs to him.
“Good kitty?” he says experimentally.
Iskra’s ears quiver slightly, as though she has heard something deeply insulting of her dignity. She stares at Spock with an air of mild incredulity, as if uncertain that he hasn’t hit his head while out of her sight out there somewhere.
Spock really does sigh this time. “Computer, lights off.”
He wakes up, vaguely, in the middle of the night to a purring substance nuzzling at his shoulder. Spock smiles deliriously, curls his fingers in the warm fur, and goes back to sleep.
--
“No, dammit, stay there! You can go when I say you can go, you pig-headed idiot! I just pulled you out of cardiac arrest not two hours ago - lie back down this instant or I swear to God, I’ll shoot you myself!”
Spock would have scowled if not for the anti-burn cohesive mask covering his face. “There is no need for dramatics, Doctor McCoy. I am feeling adequate, and the captain requires my assistance-”
“YOU ARE NOT ‘ADEQUATE’!” McCoy yells, outraged. “What part of ‘almost died twice’ don’t you understand?”
“You are exaggerating-”
“The hell I am! And the captain will survive another six hours without you being perched on his shoulder, you freaking control maniac!”
“Are the injuries I have sustained on the surface not enough to keep you satisfied?” Spock asks dryly. “Is it absolutely necessary to impair my hearing as well?”
“It’s not your hearing that’s impaired, it’s your brain! And I’m afraid the damage is permanent. It’s called stupidity, and I can’t cure it!”
“Which is a significant setback for us all, since it makes the axiom ‘physician, heal thyself’ inapplicable in your case.”
McCoy glares at him. “Don’t tell me how to do my job!” He glances over to where Chapel is hovering uncertainly beside the door. “Nurse, give him ten ccs of adazaline, and keep an eye on him. If he tries to leave, sedate him.”
“Yes, Doctor,” Chapel agrees bemusedly and steps closer, readying the hypo. A second later, the nurse screams and jumps back suddenly. “Something grabbed meeeeyyyyyh!” She slips into a high-pitched whine. “Get her away! Get her away!”
“Iskra!” McCoy stares at the cat that has, apparently, taken residence under the biobed, unnoticed by anyone, and had chosen that moment to attack the nurse. “What the hell? How’d you get in here?”
“Iskra, cease your actions immediately,” Spock demands in a strict tone.
Iskra has taken a position between the bed and the startled woman and gives no indication of willingness to forfeit it any time soon. The fur on her spine has risen upright, as though filled with an electrical charge, and her tail is swinging menacingly from side to side as she hisses at Chapel.
“Um - Nurse, I’ll take care of it myself,” McCoy says slowly, taking the hypo from Chapel. “I think it’s best if you leave till we catch her.”
Chapel glances at him curtly. “You think?” she deadpans, backing away from the room.
Iskra follows her movements diligently with her eyes. Then, obviously considering her job well done, she springs up onto the bed and Spock’s lap, stepping from paw to paw relentlessly, as is her custom, while watching critically as McCoy administers the medicine. Her seizing green gaze doesn’t stray from the doctor’s hands, but she makes no move to stop him.
McCoy laughs suddenly. “I’ll be damned.”
Spock glances up at him, perplexed. “You seem to find this amusing.”
“It’s just that - your damn cat.” McCoy shakes his head, chuckling. “She’s - she’s logical.”
Spock’s eyebrows make a valiant attempt to arch. “Excuse me?”
“Well, we were fighting, right?” McCoy is grinning. “You’re her master, and she seems to like me. So she made the logical conclusion that the source of the bedlam was the only other person in the room - the only alien to her person!”
Spock blinks. “You believe that Iskra attacked Nurse Chapel because she assumed that the nurse was the reason of our discord?”
“Yep.” McCoy beams. “Logical and loyal, how’d you like that?”
Spock looks over at the cat. Iskra is imitating an ancient Egypt statuette, her tail bumping against Spock’s thigh in residual irritation. “You are a smart creature,” he informs the cat thoughtfully. “I apologize for alarming you.”
Iskra stares at him, demonstrating with her whole posture how utterly unimpressed she is, before turning her gaze expectantly at McCoy.
“Seriously?” The doctor rolls his eyes, but reaches to pat Spock’s shoulder carefully. “All friends here, see? You little red devil.” He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t even be here; it’s against the rules.”
Iskra responds to this by stretching across Spock’s legs, digging in her claws for good measure.
“I do not recommend removing her at this time,” Spock says, watching his pet bemusedly.
“No kidding,” McCoy sighs. “All right, she can stay. But if Jim comes in here, tell him to stop by for a hypo, or he’ll be sneezing for a week and I’ll never hear the end of it.” He looks up at Spock and points a finger at him imperiously. “You, rest. I’ll come by to check on you later.”
Spock nods softly. “Please convey my apologies to Miss Chapel.”
McCoy grins. “I don’t think she’s all that mad, but sure.” He pauses. “Hey, Spock.”
Spock peers at him quizzically.
“You scared the hell out of me today,” McCoy says, grim. “My fantasy life does not include you dying on me, so, for God’s sake, do us all a favor and stop trying to, okay?”
Before Spock can respond, McCoy walks out, not pausing to look back. That doesn’t stop Iskra from mewling in apparent agreement with the doctor’s words and sinking her claws in deeper for emphasis.
--
A familiar wave of heat attacks McCoy as the door to Spock’s quarters slides open.
“Doctor.” Spock blinks, looking up from where he’s seated at his desk. The reflected light of the viewscreen colors his face with rainbows.
“You didn’t come to pick her up,” McCoy says, nodding at the armful of Iskra he’s holding as he steps into the room. “You always do that, so I thought I’d check what kept you.”
“Oh,” Spock says, somewhat slowly. He glances at the monitor uncertainly. “I believe I have - lost track of time.”
“Really?” McCoy’s eyebrows arch in surprise. He steps inside, depositing Iskra on her favorite cushion before coming to stand behind Spock’s chair. “What’s got you so caught up?”
“A colleague from the Daystrom Institute sent me an advanced copy of her upcoming article,” Spock explains, faltering infinitesimally as McCoy’s hands land on his shoulders. He doesn’t comment, though, or pull away.
“More computer science?” McCoy asks incredulously, leaning forward slightly, eyes trained on the screen, even as his hands start kneading Spock’s shoulders gently in what he hopes could pass for an automatic gesture. “I thought you already held the highest possible degree. How much smarter are you planning to get?”
“It is not for a degree; I was merely interested.” Spock actually inclines his head forward, rolling it from side to side, helping McCoy ease the tension.
“Jesus, you’re stiff,” McCoy mutters. “Been sitting here long?”
Spock seems to consider it. “A while.” He exhales audibly as McCoy presses against a particularly tight knot. “You are… very good at this, Leonard.”
“You think?” McCoy smirks, digging his fingers a little deeper, making Spock brace himself against the desk. A human would have moaned in pleasure.
“Yes,” Spock says, a little breathlessly. “But I - I need to feed Iskra, and-”
“Already fed her,” McCoy tells him, counting the knobs of his spine. “But you could feed me. I’ve found that documentary you’ve been looking for. We could eat and watch.”
“That would be - agreeable.” Spock pauses. “Leonard.”
“Yes?”
“You will have to cease what you are doing first.”
McCoy chuckles a little awkwardly. “You sure? ‘Cause I almost got the nerve pinch down.”
“The appropriate response to that is, I believe, you wish,” Spock says dryly, sliding up to his feet. “Vegetarian lasagna?”
“Works for me.”
Which is how they end up with BBC’s 300 Years of Reconstructing History - again - which the pair of them happily dissect for its numerous inconsistencies. McCoy replicates some root beer, which manages to soften Spock just enough to make the relocation to the compelling comfort of the bed seamless and natural. McCoy is grinning, listening to Spock abuse the representation of medieval battle tactics, but then the episode about the Spanish Inquisition starts, and McCoy begins a rant of his own.
At some point, it occurs to him that he hasn’t heard Spock’s comments in a while. He glances sideways and discovers that Spock is fast asleep, body stretched comfortably across the bunk, head resting against McCoy’s shoulder, breathing steady and even. McCoy shakes his head with amusement - how did he miss that?
For anyone else, it wouldn’t be a big deal, but Spock is generally such a tough, bend-duranium-plates-with-my-bare-hands-for-fun kind of guy that to see him relaxed and peaceful like this is precious - and, ultimately, fascinating. McCoy grins, reaching to pull the coverlet up, and waves the vid off.
He’s about to slide off the bed as quietly as possible when he discovers it won’t be such an easy maneuver. Iskra has taken position at his other side, making it impossible for McCoy to get up without crushing her, and that’s not an option. He’s been there, having stepped on her tail (the very ending of it or its shadow, he still isn’t sure) once. The yell was... memorable.
“Iskra, kitty,” McCoy whispers, already having a bad feeling about this. “Be a good girl and move?”
She blinks up at him innocently before resuming her methodical paw washing routine. McCoy bites his lip; it’s time for desperate measures. Cautiously, he extends his hand, aiming to either shoo or remove the cat. Iskra stops her ministrations, stares at his hand suspiciously, and makes a funny noise somewhere between a purr and a growl, baring her teeth for good measure.
“Dammit,” McCoy curses, withdrawing his hand. Vaguely, he contemplates climbing over Spock to get up on the other side, but there’s no way he can do it without waking Spock up, and for some reason, McCoy would really hate if that happened.
“Fine,” he breathes, sinking back into the mattress and poking one fluffy side vindictively. “Have it your way, you little furry wench. If Spock gets mad at me in the morning, I’m so ratting you out.”
Iskra gazes up at him serenely, green eyes twinkling. With a resigned sigh, McCoy gives up, snuggling closer to Spock and murmuring for computer to kill the lights.
--
Spock doesn’t get mad. He isn’t even particularly surprised to wake up half-smothered between McCoy and his own devilish cat. McCoy watches, half-asleep still, how Spock replicates food for the demon creature and thinks petulantly that it’s plain unfair, because he’s cold now and could definitely use another couple of hours of shuteye, and it’s all the damn cat’s fault that he now feels like he misses Spock next to him and that’s just so damn screwed.
Spock doesn’t seem to mind, though. He replicates coffee, then pancakes, and then they’re talking about the upcoming crew evaluations, and McCoy is not only eating, but actually feeling like he’s making sense. Spock walks him back to Med Bay before his shift, like it’s all normal for them, like it’s something they do.
What’s even worse - it really does feel natural.
It’s only when Nurse Chapel stares at McCoy questioningly, eyebrows eloquently arched and lips quirking in a teasing smirk, that he realizes it hasn’t really been part of their usual routine when they spent time together so far. He shrugs, greets his head nurse with a terse ‘Good morning,’ and goes to work most definitely not biting down a grin.
--
To quote Engineer Scott, Ambassador Oelna is one hell of a woman. She’s tall, broad-shouldered, and menacingly beautiful, with a trail of stormy raven black hair and piercing blue eyes. She also has a dog that’s easily half her size and intimidates the hell out of half the crew. McCoy would have found the situation amusing, except the dog has taken to trailing after him all over the ship, having, for some reason, chosen him as a subject of its affection. The ambassador usually isn’t too far behind, all smiles and power bursts, and the week it takes the Enterprise to ferry the peace conference is beginning to seem endless.
McCoy’s mama didn’t raise him to be rude to women, particularly when half the crew is plastering themselves against the walls at the first sign of her approach. He tries his best to be friendly, even though he can’t quite figure out exactly how it has fallen on him to be the Enterprise’s goodwill ambassador. But seeing Oelna alone in the mess hall makes his innate sense of hospitality wince in sympathy, and he strives to rectify the situation. The fact that it results in his free time being thoroughly monopolized is just an unfortunate side effect, as is the nagging feeling that the lady expects more of him than he’s probably willing to share.
Having had a first ambassador-free afternoon in five days, McCoy is in a perky mood as he strides into his office to complete some paperwork.
The sight that greets him is… astounding.
The room is demolished. It looks like the hordes of Genghis Khan have used it for a daybreak camp, with all the smashed equipment, ripped papers flying around, and the panicked blinking of an upset monitor.
The culprit of this travesty is instantly apparent.
Iskra - whom McCoy hasn’t seen for about a week - is standing before his desk in a fighting stance, her back arched menacingly and tail stretched in a thin line toward the ceiling. She’s facing the desk, under which - McCoy gasps - sits Ambassador Oelna’s almost 65-kilo weighing dog. It’s making a high-pitched, pitiful whine, filled with the most sincere, utmost terror known to a living creature. Every time it tries to move, Iskra slinks forward, claws fanned out, hissing and growling, effectively making the dog cower back under the desk.
For a moment, McCoy is utterly speechless, taking in the absurd image. Then, he tries to move.
“Iskra.” He clears his throat. “Iskra, let him out.”
He steps toward her, which turns out to be a mistake. She whirls on the spot and launches at his leg, claws and teeth sinking in readily with a loud battle yowl. The attack is nothing like her usual playful nips and swats, and McCoy howls at the sudden pain, shaking the furious cat off instinctively.
“Ow! What the devil has gotten into you?” he demands, backing away and staring at his ripped pant leg. “What the hell?”
Iskra emits a long loud hiss, taking position between the man and the dog now, watching them both as if daring them to move.
McCoy limps toward the comm on the wall, punching the panel angrily. “Spock! Get your ass down here this instant! Your damn cat is taking hostages!”
There’s no acknowledgement, and McCoy continues to watch the animals warily, the hissing and the whining grazing on his nerves. He can’t help but stare at Iskra. He’s never seen her so enraged.
Five minutes later, Spock appears in the doorway, stone-faced and unreadable.
“Your cat-harpy attacked me,” McCoy complains, irritated and confused. “And she won’t let that dog go.”
Spock doesn’t look at him, taking in the situation instead. Then, he steps forward.
“Careful,” McCoy cautions.
Iskra hisses at Spock’s approach, but doesn’t jump him. He nears her slowly, going down on one knee, calm and unhurried.
“Iskra,” Spock says softly. “Come here. We must leave.”
She growls angrily, but suddenly, the sound changes into a long meow that sounds like a complaint of an offended child.
“I know,” Spock tells her. “It is all right. Come to me.”
Much to McCoy’s amazement, the cat hesitates a second longer before actually walking toward Spock, allowing him to scoop her into his arms. She clings to him, her little body shivering, breathing labored, as he strokes her back soothingly, straightening up. She’s whining softly now, almost like - McCoy’s heart clenches - almost like she’s crying.
“I apologize for the imposition,” Spock says, addressing McCoy for the first time since he entered. His fingers glide through the fluffy red fur relentlessly. “We will take our leave now. I will inform the maintenance crew that you require assistance.”
“Spock, um.” Extremely confused, McCoy halts him at the door. He hasn’t seen Spock for the better part of the week, either, and suddenly he feels bad for no immediate reason. “Don’t be too hard on her. I think she is - I think she’s just jealous.”
Spock purses his lips, looking down at his distressed pet. “Indeed,” he says flatly. “She is not the only one. Excuse me.”
He walks out, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.
--
It takes the better part of the day for McCoy to gather up enough courage and seek Spock out. As a result, he’s standing in front of Spock’s door when it’s very late into the ship’s evening. Taking a deep breath, McCoy buzzes. The door opens, revealing Spock standing just beside it. McCoy brushes past him nervously, without waiting for an invitation.
“Do come in, Doctor,” Spock says, as the door slides closed.
“Doctor?” McCoy looks at him. “What happened to ‘Leonard’?”
Spock lifts an eyebrow and says nothing, but, at this point, they both know precisely what happened.
McCoy casts a glance around. “Is Iskra here?”
Spock folds his arms across his chest. “No.”
“Oh,” McCoy says.
There’s a beat of an awkward silence, while McCoy tries to decide what to do with his hands, and Spock is busy avoiding his eyes.
“Tell her that dog means nothing to me,” McCoy blurts out suddenly. “Tell her - I was just being friendly. You know, hospitable. Like friendly people do when they have guests in the house, and I might have overdone it, but really, that dog, we’re just friends, that’s all. I swear. Spock, listen-”
Spock’s eyebrow seems to climb up even higher. “I will be certain to tell Iskra that,” he intones dryly. “If that is all-”
“I missed you.”
Spock freezes. McCoy walks up to him impulsively. “I’m sorry if it seemed... Spock, I’m sorry. You know I’m not a dog person. I could never be a dog person - or with a dog person. I got a little carried away, but I-”
“Leonard.” Spock sighs. “I do not care if you are-”
McCoy grabs his shoulders and kisses him soundly on the mouth. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, and, seeing as Spock doesn’t resist, kisses him some more. He gets little to no response, though, and pulls back with a sigh. “Come on, Spock. I know I was an idiot, but forgive me already.” He leans in closer to whisper in Spock’s ear. “Want to make you purr.”
“I do not purr,” Spock says indignantly, making an extremely unconvincing attempt to free himself.
McCoy smirks against his lips. “Wanna bet?”
Spock doesn’t reply. At least, not with words.
--
McCoy wakes up several hours later to discover himself more or less wrapped around Spock, and grins dazedly. At first, he isn’t certain what woke him, but then, turning his head slightly, he spots Iskra sitting on the nightstand, in her statuette mode once again. She is staring at McCoy unblinkingly, and, in the low light of the cabin, her eyes seem to gleam ominously.
McCoy swallows. “Um...”
He reaches with his hand toward the cat slowly. At first, she doesn’t move, but then she bends down, sniffing at his fingers, and pauses for a moment before biting at a fingertip gently, staring at McCoy the whole time. He doesn’t take his hand away, and, after a moment, Iskra releases him, nudging his hand with her wet nose before pulling back. She glances over his head at Spock before returning her unnerving gaze to McCoy, narrowing her eyes slightly.
McCoy grins, shaking his head. He’s pretty sure he has just been subjected to the feline version of the ‘hurt him and I’ll scratch your eyes out’ speech. He’s also quite certain the threat is entirely literal.
Having made her point, Iskra jumps down to the deck fluidly and marches out of the bedroom alcove with an air of insulted dignity. McCoy chuckles softly, closing his eyes.
Spock murmurs something barely audible in his sleep, and McCoy tugs him closer instinctively, his heart swelling.
“Don’t worry,” he whispers after the departed guardian cat. “I won’t hurt him. I’m pretty sure I love him.”
Still smiling, he slips back into slumber, and misses a pair of fluorescent green eyes slice through the darkness sharply once as they blink their approval.
Fin
And now meet Iskra! I know, this photo pictures a red & white kitty, but it was the expression that sold me. That's her!