I wrote this after I learned McCoy's middle name was Horatio. Or rather, when I realized it wasn't only about "Hamlet". There are, in fact, three Horatii, all of which fit neatly to McCoy's personality, so I based the story on those.

The text has some references, which are quite explicit. I will leave them for you to locate, but here's the hint: look for a Shakespearian faithful friend, an ancient hero, and a philosopher. I do not own the Horatii, or the two Shakespeare lines and а TOS script line I used.

Enjoy.

"Shut up!"

Spock arched his brow and obeyed, more surprised than intimidated by the command. Doctor McCoy turned sharply to the other biobed.

"Shh! Shhhh!"

Jim was just opening his mouth to say something, but the doctor looked like he meant business, so he changed his mind. McCoy turned his gaze furiously from one to the other until they were both sufficiently quiet. He then seemed to relax and let a smile lighten up his face.

"Well, what do you know? I finally got the last word."

With this, he left the ward and retired to his cabinet to do the reports. He sat down, a stylus in his hand, and listened. He could vaguely hear their muffled voices from behind the wall. They chatted for a while, and then Jim and Amanda laughed, sounding relieved. The two Vulcans remained solemn, their voices a deep leveled rumble, but he could feel the air was getting jovial in there. They all seemed to think it was some kind of a joke, McCoy thought, switching on his padd. Oh, well. They could giggle all they wanted, they could all laugh their butts off, he wouldn't care, as long as they stayed put and took their pills. Otherwise he just might have to glue them to their biobeds.

He was about to begin his work when the doors to the sickbay slid open. He raised his head and watched a group of Tellarites enter. They were desolate and lost without the late ambassador Gav, but rampant all the same. Raucously, they explained they'd come to inquire after the Captain's health. McCoy shook his head.

"Some other time, gentlemen. He's only just stopped hoppin'."

The delegates tried to insist, but he was firm, and they left indignant. Their roars still ringing in his ears, McCoy went back to the report and tried to focus. He inserted the stardate and began scrolling through the templates when he was interrupted again. Two Ithenites bustled in, like little gold-skinned Oompa-Loompas, looking important under their fez hats. They, too, asked about the Captain and the Vulcans. The doctor had to show them to the exit, quite literally this time, with the delegates trying to sneak under his arms now and again.

He closed the doors behind them, but the moment he turned away, another bunch of visitors was in and at him. And then another one came. And then two more. The doctor kept fighting them off for quite a while, going over and over again how the Captain wasn't seeing anyone, and never quite getting down to his work. He was beginning to regret you couldn't have padlocks on automated doors.

When it became quiet, he took a deep breath and paced about his cabinet for some time. Good thing they were going on a shore leave after the Enterprise was docked to Babel's repairs hull. The ship was a bolt bucket after the Orions' attack, and the whole delegates thing was one massive disaster, and the crew was freaking out and frazzled. His own nerves were screaming for either a couple of days' sleep or a gallon of coffee.

He took the stylus and went on filling the tables. The smart notetaker extension was automatically turning his atrocious little handwriting into block letters. He was already halfway through when the doors hissed open again, and four Andorians went in. Dressed in their national chain-mail outfits, blue faces radiating pomposity, and with ambassador Shras at the lead. These four didn't even look in McCoy's direction. They just started making their way past him into the ward, as if he didn't exist.

The doctor felt his jaw drop. He gaped at them for a full second, taken aback by such audacity. He then rose to his feet and stood them in the way, arms crossed.

"It's next door," he said grumpily.

Ambassador Shras blinked at him.

"What is?"

"Whatever you're looking for," McCoy said, "Give my patients a break, willya?"

This seemed to cut the delegates' grandeur down to size. Shras hesitated, and then beamed a gracious smile. His gums were dark blue.

"Why, doctor, after Captain Kirk so masterfully maneuvered us out of death's grip, won't you give us a chance to thank our hero?"

"He's wounded and needs rest," McCoy said, trying not to stare the alien in the mouth, "Season your admiration with some common sense, ambassador. Just for a change, y'know."

The Andorian's smile became a couple of molars narrower. His associates didn't seem to like that, either. They started talking all at once and gesticulating wildly, clearly not taking no for an answer. This was getting weird, McCoy thought, backing off in case one of them caught him on the nose accidentally. And loud, too.

"Bones! Who are you fighting this time?"

Shras called out through the door, and Jim called back, cheerfully. Oh, great. McCoy entered the ward and pressed the lock button quickly before the Andorians could slip in. When he saw Jim was already sitting up, he almost growled. Glue wouldn't be much use here, he thought. Perhaps, a good old nine-inch nail?

"Jim, I – "

"I know, Bones, you're a doctor, not a gatekeeper," Jim said. He then cocked his eyes in Sarek's direction and went on in whisper, "But it's political, you see? We still have them under our responsibility, and we've got to keep them happy until we've reached Babel. Could you please put up just a little longer?"

McCoy glanced at Sarek, whose face was perfectly blank, as if he didn't hear every word. The doctor knew he had to comply. Now that the Andorians heard Jim was awake, he had to let them in. Otherwise they might think the Vulcans were cooking up a mischief with the Captain involved. This would lead to another scene of bigotry, which couldn't be allowed, not on the ship. Scenes had to wait until the conference, where the delegates could tear at each other's throats as much as they liked.

He shrugged and opened the ward, and even forced a smile as the Andorians entered. Back at his desk, he pressed the stylus so hard against the padd the sensor screen went rainbows. The voices behind the wall grew louder, and there were some more bursts of laughter on the humans' and the Andorians' part. He then overheard some apologetic notes to Shras' voice, a dignified calmness to Sarek's, and it was all peaceful, just as Jim hoped.

He could understand that. And he had to admit Jim was right. And still, somehow it was always doctor McCoy that had to comply with what the others wanted.

Rank had nothing to do with it. He would never question Jim's authority as a superior. It was the categorical "Bones-I-need-you-here" imperative that troubled him, because it gave their friendship a touch of one-sidedness. It was McCoy that had to babysit Jim wherever he went. And be the shoulder to cry on after Jim was left heartbroken – which seemed to happen on a weekly basis. And – which was probably the most annoying – put up with his prescriptions and advice being happily ignored. Oh, Jim did value him just like anyone on this ship, maybe more. But, it seemed, only as something that added value to his own self.

The doctor went to the food replicator and made some coffee. When he turned, he almost bumped into the Andorians, who were setting off to leave. Skipping nonchalantly after them, with a boyish smile on his face, was Jim.

"Just where do you think you're – "

Jim went big-eyed and mouthed the word "political" at him.

"Jim, your wound – "

"Oh, that scratch. Don't let this bother you," the Captain waved him off, "We're arriving at Babel in a half-hour or so. I'll be waiting for you at the transporter."

McCoy just stood there, tongue-tied. Shras glanced at him and flashed another smile, but with his lips only. His eyes were humorless.

"If I were as lucky to have such a faithful friend as you are, Captain, I would wear him in my heart's core," he cocked his head to the side, studying the doctor as if putting his face to memory, "Doctor Bones, is it?"

"My records have another name in 'em," McCoy snapped, "And so does the plaque on that door. Just in case your grace ever feels like reading anything but your own credentials."

Jim goggled at him again and raised a finger to his lips. In the chilly silence that followed, McCoy held the Andorian's spiteful gaze. With grim satisfaction, he saw Shras quail and be the first to look aside.

"I shall look forward to seeing you at the conference, doctor," he said through his teeth, "What would you vote, by the way, if you had the chance?"

"Doctor McCoy is neutral," Jim cut in hastily, "We all are."

"Yes, I can see that," Shras said.

They strolled past him. McCoy heard the Captain assure the ambassador that they'd be transported from the repairs hull to the surface safe and well. He'd take this under his personal supervision. There was nothing to worry about, he repeated, and the two looked the best of friends as they were leaving.

That's the whole point, McCoy thought. Typical.

He glared at the closed doors, resisting the urge to smash the coffee cup against them. Surely, the antennae-headed wankers didn't need to worry about anything. What they needed was a good kick in the pants for messing with his patients, but the trouble was, he wasn't the one to decide. Jim was, and he was making way too much fuss about the whole thing, to his opinion. And that was another problem: no one asked McCoy's opinion. No one cared about McCoy having a ton of paperwork piling up, or a life of his own, for that matter. He had to be at the transporter because Jim told him to, the very Jim that went around nearly impaled, not giving a damn about the doctor's orders, leaving Spock and his parents on McCoy's hands –

The thought slid like an ice cube down his spine. He shivered cold and stared at the wall separating him from the ward, wide-eyed. He was alone with Spock and his parents.

McCoy tiptoed to his desk, slid behind it, and put the paper cup down, noiselessly. He clasped the tabletop with both hands, straining his hearing, trying to distinguish which one was talking and catch every intonation once he couldn't make out the words. It was downright eavesdropping, he knew, and did it deliberately. This time, he had a very good reason, because clearly, they were talking about him and Spock.

Spock was – well, Spock was a different story.