Okay, so I'm not entirely sure WHERE this came from. Just something funny (I hope) that I've been thinking about for a few days now. Figured I might as well write-and-post. My first Star Trek fic.

FYI: I don't own.

There's language, yes. And probably a little bit out of characterness. I didn't reread or proof-read this, so if you spot any mistakes, I'm sorry. Just let me know, please?

SPOCK WAS HERE

There was no polite way to put it. Half of his face was numb. His mouth felt like cotton, tasted like ass, and he was almost positive that the drum banging behind his eyes was his brain shouting at him "What the fuck did you do last night?!"

There had been alcohol, Jim was sure, and a floor somewhere along the way. Where it had come into play… he wasn't positive, but he knew it had been there! And that was what mattered… right?

He nodded absently to himself before realizing it was a mistake. Pushing himself to his knees, his hand found the side of his bed… so that was where the floor part happened… also partly explained his mouth, too.

As he made it to his feet, there was a feeling of vertigo and nausea. Vaguely, he wondered which was moving more: his stomach or his head.

Deciding not to focus on that, he moved past his doors and miraculously made it to the sickbay, only to find Bones' disapproving eyes looking over and assessing him. He felt like a lab rat… but a lab rat with a really bad hangover.

Did rats even get hangovers? Maybe Bones would know.

Before Jim got the chance to ask, however, he was being pushed down onto a sickbed, only to shout at the pain shooting up his spine. What the hell had he done last night?!

"What the hell happened to you last night, Jim?" Good Ol' Bones, always reading his mind… maybe that wasn't such a good thing though…

"…I remember alcohol…vaguely," Jim replied, blue eyes squinting.

Bones must have shot him with a hypo, because when Jim was slapped on the back by the good doctor, his brain didn't ricochet around inside his skull. "All right, Jim," he began, taking out something that looked kind of threatening. Jim didn't know if he should feel threatened or not, though, so he didn't dwell on it. "Take off your pants."

Jim nodded, but then caught himself. "What?"

Bones grimaced. "Just do what I say." Mumbling so Jim could barely hear him, he continued, "Gotta find out if anything's broken, don't I?"

Cautiously, with a suspicious eye kept on the doctor, the Captain undid his pants, sliding them down until they were around his boots. Had he put those on this morning? He couldn't remember.

Unceremoniously, Jim was bent over the sickbed. The only clue he had to the removal of his underwear was the cold blast of wind as Bones exhaled. What the hell was he doing down there anyway?

"Good God, man!" Bones exclaimed, slapping himself in the face as he examined the cause of his patient's pain. It took a few moments to recover, all the while causing Jim to squirm even more, before Bones could move forward. "You'll want to keep ice on that. Nothing too strenuous, either. And don't sit down too hard, or you'll cause unnecessary pain for yourself, since we all know how much you hate that."

Jim nodded, frowning. "Are you gonna tell me what it is?"

Bones was silent, but he brought a mirror over anyway, telling Jim to see for himself.

Jim stood and half-turned, looking at his left ass cheek… he wasn't sure whether he was turning red out of embarrassment or anger… but, really, what the hell was he going to do about it now?

He really needed to have a conversation with his first officer… because this… this was unacceptable. Absolutely. At least it would have been had he not seen his right ass cheek.

Jim laughed. He didn't know what else to do. And then he heard that voice.

"You called for me, Doctor?"

There, standing in the doorway to the sickbay stood his first officer, Spock, witnessing his humiliation with that annoying left brow he was always lifting. Like now.

Horrified and humiliated and not know what else to do, he turned his back on Spock. "Care to explain, Commander?"

There was a moment of silence. "It would seem that I 'was here' and that you 'love me'. Fascinating."

"Fascinating?" Jim exclaimed, turning on Spock. "You freakin' own my ass!"

Spock blinked. "I assure you, Captain. That is not what happened."

"You mean something happened?!"

"Indeed."

Somewhere during all of this, McCoy was trying his damndest not to laugh, Jim was sure, and in the back of his mind, the Captain was plotting revenge.

"After making several failed attempts to seduce me, the alcohol seemed to get the better of you," Spock explained, his eyes still on the Captain. At their distance, he could still see that Jim had yet to pull his pants up. "I reluctantly agreed to help you back to your quarters. However, you were not as drunk as you appeared to be. You ambushed me on my way out of your room. A surprise, I assure you, as I thought you to be unconscious at the time. It would seem, however, that I was mistaken."

Spock cleared his throat, shifted a bit. Was he nervous? Jim was almost giddy at the prospect of it.

"After your successful ambush, you… quite securely tied me to the bed and proceeded to… take out your sexual frustrations on me." There was a pause, a tilt of the head as though processing a though. "An enjoyable experience, I must say. After you were sated, you untied me and proceeded to leave the room. I did not question where you might have gone."

Jim stared, mouth slightly agape. He'd done that? "Well, I don't remember any of that." There. It couldn't have happened. He didn't remember it.

"Your alcohol consumption has disrupted your memory temporarily. However, if you would like to relive the experience, I would be more than willing to oblige."

In the mirror, Spock could still see the tattoos staring at him. "Spock was here," said the left one. On the right, outlined in a crudely drawn heart, "Jim loves Spock".

Somewhere, in one of the other rooms, Bones fell off of his chair, finally unable to hold back the laughter.

Jim blinked. He still hadn't pulled up his pants.

Okay, so if you couldn't tell... I wasn't quite sure how to end this.

Also, despite the fact that I am now officially twenty-one, I have never had a hangover and I have yet to get a tattoo, so I don't know what the pain of either is like. Or the experience. I'm just guessing here, from the experience of friends and other writers.

Just, tell me what you think? Please?