Jim Kirk couldn't halt the snort that slipped past his lips when he saw the antics of his Chief Engineer beneath the too-wide, too-long control panel. Montgomery Scott couldn't quite get to the wires wedged beneath the floor-level board, so every time the Engineer turned his head juuust so, a vitriolic stream of foul Celtic brogue (so foul it would make Molly Malone blush) exited the man's lips.

"Téigh trasna ort féin--! G'wan, wit ye, ye boughin' gubbed, shooglie —"

"Ah, heh." Kirk cleared his throat, but the cough resembled laughter far more than a true throat clearing. "Problems, Mr. Scott?"

Scotty slipped out from beneath and gave Kirk his deepest Aberdeen scowl, but his face was ruddy from fighting the horribly placed control panel. "How long've you been hoverin' over me, Captain?"

"Long enough to chuckle over your colorful metaphors." Kirk perched on a railing and tried sparing the Engineer's dignity by wearing – and keeping – a neutral expression. Truth be told, Kirk was only down on the lower decks because the (quite religious) Ensign Sean McGreggor reported the echoing swears to another senior officer. Rather than letting Lieutenant Kyle deal with Scotty's ire, Kirk decided to investigate the problem himself.

"What language was that anyway? Scotch, Irish, or Klingon?"

"Hardy-har." Scott made a face and slowly rose to his feet. He opened his mouth to retort but made a sharp face when he moved his neck too quickly. "It's the damned soreness, Captain," he said, rubbing his shoulder, "and now it's down clear through my back. I can barely move without some new adventure in suffering. Please, Captain. Is there nothing for it?"

"You could always ask McCoy to stab you with his hypo." Kirk hid his smile, but not long enough to elicit a glare from the engineer.

"'Tis nae funny!" Scott's brogue returned twice as fierce and Kirk had to laugh, then. "That man'll be the death of me, sir. You wait. Mark m'words."

"Ah. You'll get over it." But Kirk nervously prodded his own neck, and his sour feelings about the doctor's "hypo-mania" resurfaced. It took approximately two days for every damned hypo pain to level off, and out of every barfight, every brawl, every scuffle he'd ever been in Jim preferred soreness attributing to cuts and bruises over McCoy's shots and their lingering aches.

He sighed. "Doctor McCoy is nothing if not thorough, Scotty."

"Aye," Scotty said darkly. "And that's what I hate most. He had the gall to tell me he wasn't done, and that I needed a second round of the nasty things tomorrow. 'God knows what you're carrying from Delta Vega,' " Scotty mimicked, in a fair imitation of Bones' southern drawl. "I tell you, Captain. I can't take another. I'm startin' to wake up in the middle of the night, thrashin' away giant hypos, needles, and the like."

Kirk nodded. He needed his crew to perform their jobs to the best of their abilities. So maybe Scotty didn't get his round of shots before jumping on the Enterprise. But that didn't mean the engineer needed everything at once - at this rate Scotty'd end up a bent, hobbled, ill-tempered question mark by tomorrow's end. Bones had his moments, but this was pushing things.

Putting aside his dark train of thought, Kirk gestured to the panel's underbelly. "Why didn't you get one of the crewmen to handle this job, Scotty? You don't trust them enough to do it?"

Scotty made a face. "Nae, nae, Captain. It's that the adjustments are so minute, it takes a seasoned hand to get it right. I just assume do it myself than make someone else's life hell."

Chuckling, Kirk understood. He was the same way, and both Bones and Spock had to slap his hand away from time to time because of his own perfectionist tendencies.

"But Captain. Honest to God, ye've got to do something about McCoy. Last week, the doctor chased Keenser off, and God knows where the bugger's gone. I trust Keenser's eye with these kinds of adjustments, and he's small enough to do the job quick. Not that I'd admit it to his face, but I depend on that wee beastie to help with the smaller squeezes."

"Hm," Kirk said quietly. And that was the step over the line. Well, true, Bones had been running on fumes far too long after the last major battle with casualties. Kirk had even ordered McCoy to take some time off. But instead, the doctor had decided the best 'cure' for being stressed out and overworked was…more work. Apparently Bones got it into his stubborn skull that he could only save the dead by becoming one of them. The doctor was working himself into an early grave, or an early trip to the psych ward. Jim knew he had to do something. Like, yesterday.

Dammit, Kirk thought. A hypochondriac is one thing, but a hypochondriac doctor is infinitely worse--

A lightbulb went off. If he could've put a finger on the "ah-hah" moment, that was it; the exact moment when Jim's genius mind worked at Warp Five and a bad, bad plan formed in his mind. Oh, he would burn for this. Death by a thousand hypos, if Bones caught wind of it. But he'd survived worse by the good doc, mostly, and it would kill two birds with one stone. McCoy would be forced to take a mini "vacation." A slow, evil smirk played at Kirk's lips as he hopped down from the railing.

"Scotty," he said, clasping a hand around the Scott's shoulder. Scott let out a small squeak of pain. "Oops. Sorry." He loosened his grip. "How would you like to play a little prank on the good doc? You know – turnabout, and all that."

Mr. Scott's grin matched Kirk's. "If it's sauce for the goose, I'm all for it."

Jim's grin broadened. "Let's just say that goose will be well and truly cooked by the time we're done with him."

***

"Jim, why the hell did you make me beam down here with you?" McCoy's face had become a screwed up mess of frustrations and neuroses as they walked the planet's dark, dirty streets. Kirk had mandated shore leave for everyone after several weeks of dodging angry Klingons, so no one argued against having a little R&R between assignments. And although the city of Kahlan in the Rigelian system had dreamy, pink beaches and moderate temperatures it had its seamy side, just like any other place. Which was exactly why Jim made Bones beam down with him and Scotty.

"Ah, c'mon, Bones. You need time off just like the rest of us. Right, Mr. Scott?"

"Oh, aye," Scott said. McCoy narrowed his eyes. He could tell from their expressions that they were plotting something, but he couldn't finger it. If they were planning on sandbagging him some way, he'd be happy to provide a new round of injections after coming down here.

Come think, he thought, looking at a particularly natty street walker, maybe new inoculations wouldn't be such a bad idea.

"Look. There's a bar a few clicks from here – in walking distance."

McCoy pulled another face. "I've got work to do, Jim. There's—"

"Ah, ah. Don't lie. I checked your schedule, Doctor," Jim said with a small grin. More than checked, actually; he'd trumped McCoy's schedule, and then some. He hadn't known how bad it was until he saw the dark, embedded circles beneath his friend's eyes, and that clinched it for him. Bones looked like he hadn't had more than three hours' sleep over the past week.

"You've got two cases of Rigelian fever, one case of Andorian measles, and one case of regular ol' Earth flu. Those four crewmembers will make a full recovery, according to what I read in your log, and Christine can handle the rest. You're golden for at least three days, Doc."

McCoy made a small, strangled noise in his throat. "Figures. The one time you actually read my medical reports, and it's to maroon me on some godforsaken, disease-ridden amusement park of a planet."

"Quit acting like a spoiled five-year-old germaphobe, Bones. Marooning you isn't even in the plan."

"Ah-HAH! So there is a plan."

Jim stopped short of rolling his eyes. "The 'plan' is to get you out of that cave of an office. You've been mother-henning my crew like crazy and I'm getting damn tired of it. So lay off and have some fun. Captain's orders."

McCoy looked between the two men, still not overly convinced. "Why don't I believe you?"

"Believe it, or don't, Bones," Jim said, walking forward with Scotty in tow. "But you're going to relax, if it kills me."

McCoy snorted and slowly trailed behind the two men. But Mr. Scott's evil little chuckle scared the shit out of him. "I am not a 'germaphobe'," he half-grumbled, half-whined. "And the actual term is bacillophobia, thank you very much."

***

In the end, the sleepy little hollow of a rabbit hole (hovel?) Jim found was both cleaner and cheerier than McCoy expected. He saw maybe five tourists – including them – and no Starfleet personnel, which was an interesting change of pace. The bar reminded him of an old, twentieth-century pub without the mushroom cloud of cigarette smoke. To top it off, a live folk band played soft, haunting folk tunes in a far corner. Their lutes and gentle humming in a lulling, Rigelian twang dug deep through his tense shoulder blades and almost felt like a proper massage.

"Do you trust me now?" Kirk slid into their booth, and McCoy snorted. Their man-child Captain had already bought their first round of drinks and set the glasses on the table.

"Jury's still out," Bones grumbled, but his tone was decidedly less gruff. He grabbed one of the glasses of liquor and observed it clinically. "Why is this drink green?"

"Captain says it's a local specialty," Scott said, and McCoy made a face. Great. Another local specialty he didn't have immunity for. "Passed on through the generations, and brewed a few miles from here. I've heard it's quite good, Doctor."

Kirk had already taken his glass and had quaffed a large portion, and despite the alarms going off in his paranoid brain, McCoy felt more at ease about things when Mr. Scott downed the liquor in one quick gulp. "If I didn't know any better," McCoy groused, taking a cautious sip, "I'd wonder if you two were tryin' to get me drunk so you could have your way with me."

"Don't be ridiculous," Kirk said. He nodded to the bartender for another round. "So?" He said, gesturing to McCoy's glass. "What do you think?"

"Surprisingly...decent," McCoy said, taking a larger sip. "And refreshing. Kinda reminds me of mint tea back home – what's it called?"

And Kirk said something in the native tongue that if he tried imitating would've broken his lips. "Er, okay." McCoy raised his hand as a toast. "To the green stuff," he said.

"To the green stuff," the other men echoed. But McCoy missed the sly looks Scotty and Jim exchanged as he downed his drink.

***

Fifteen minute marker

"Man, it's warm in here." McCoy began removing his jacket. "Did they turn on the heat?"

"No, not that I know of," Kirk said. He glanced at Scott. "You warm, Mr. Scott?"

"Nae, Captain. Feels a mite chilly, actually."

"Oh." McCoy shrugged and sipped his drink. He blinked a little and saw a dartboard in the far corner. "Darts! I haven't played in years. Feel up for a game?"

"Sure," Kirk said, smirking.

Thirty minute marker

"Woah…woah, Bones. Okay. The dartboard is not your friend."

"Huh? Why?"

"Because you nearly gave that Andorian a new piercing in his left antennae." Jim waved at the Andorian pleasantly, but the humanoid did not seem amused. Muttering a curse, the Andorian left and sat at the opposite side of the bar.

"Nonsense, Jim. I'm sober as a judge. Sober-er. I can hit the broadside of a barn."

Scotty laughed. "Now that I'd like to see. It'd have to be a damned big barn, doctor.

"Whatever. Ye of little faith." McCoy swayed a bit and guided himself back to their table. "You have no faith in my abilities to inocru…inoculate."

"Got that right," Jim muttered.

Forty-five minute marker

"I'd hit it."

Scotty did a double take. "Hit the bartender?" The bartender, no offense to her species' kind, was covered in fur and sported a healthy proboscis.

McCoy sniffed and gestured awkwardly to the bar. "Reminds me of one'a my old profs. That girl had some tail, I'm tellin' ya. A literal tail, right off 'er coccyx. You ever heard the ol' adage, 'bout having meat in the tail?"

"Ew…?"

"Hell, Jim. You're a horndog. Inner…interspecies matin' rituals should interest ya." McCoy downed his drink, and his glassy gaze took on a decidedly wistful turn. "But tell ya what. Lieutenant M'Ress brought new meaning to 'cat got my tongue,' y'know? She was one really cute girl. Fuzzy, but cute."

Kirk blinked. "You are so gonna regret telling me that, Bones."

Seventy-five minute marker

McCoy half-squinted and glared at them through bleary eyes. Then he gestured with his glass, and sloppily spilled half its contents on the table "Yeah, my ex-wife...I ever tell you boys 'bout my ex? Goddamn harpy."

Jim started laughing and exchanged a look with Scotty. "Oh, he's done.

"Bones…"

"Huh? Whaddya want?"

"You're shitfaced, man."

"Am not. I'm a doctor, not a...shitfaced." McCoy snickered at his own stupid joke, and Scotty bit back a shameful smile. He and Jim were relatively (some might say suspiciously) sober compared to the good doctor.

"Ach, Captain. Are we evil men?"

"Worse than the Klingons and Romulans combined, Mr. Scott."

"That's what I thought, sir."

"We're not evil," Bones slurred. "We're misunderstood. We gotta goddamn planet to protect an' it's shit-all when the ex-wife yanks it right out from under ya."

"Bones, that didn't even make sense."

The good doctor muttered something unintelligible before slowly slumping forward and resting his head on his arms. "Tell Sulu t'compensate. Enterprise's spinnin'."

Kirk thumped McCoy once as the doctor went down. "Sweet dreams, Bones. At least for a few days."

A guilty look crept across Scotty's face. "Will he be okay, Captain? I mean…after."

"Oh, sure, sure," Kirk said. He dug into his pocket and brought out a small vial, and twirled it in his fingers. "Well, probably. How many did he have, again?"

"Five, sir."

"Hm. They did say not more than four for a man of his average weight and build…but Bones is hardly a lightweight. He can take the extra punch."

Scotty delicately lifted Bones' right hand and dropped it suddenly. McCoy's wrist slapped the table like a dead fish. "No, no, Joanna," McCoy mumbled into the table. "Daddy's busy right now. Ask Mommy."

"Aye, Captain?" Scott said, unsure if the Captain was right, that McCoy would be okay. "And who's Joanna?"

"Long story," Kirk said, choosing to remain mum regarding McCoy's personal life. "But now, Mr. Scott, it's time to get the good doctor back to the Enterprise before we do any more damage to him, or his reputation." He signaled to their bartender, said the equivalent of "check, please" in the native language, and grinned as she ambled over to their table. What proceeded was a series of clicks and whistles that Scott didn't recognize, but Kirk apparently did. Kirk laughed once and gestured to the vial, while the bartender slowly shook her shaggy mane, apparently in amusement.

"Okay, Captain," Scott grunted, folding his hands in front of him, once the bartender left. He did a small double take as low snores suddenly exited McCoy's lips. "Before we left the ship you told me to drink some of that foul beastie," he said, gesturing to the vial, "so I'd be 'immune'. What exactly did we drink, an' why did Doctor McCoy go down faster'n a virgin at a tart convention?"

Kirk had been slowly drinking his beer – he and Scott had switched to beer after McCoy started showing the effects of the drink (not that the doctor noticed) – and nearly sputtered it out his nose. "Mr. Scott. I am surprised and shocked at such language coming from such an esteemed officer as—"

"Spill it, Jim." Then off Kirk's raised eyebrow: "Captain."

Jim's grin broadened. "This little baby," he said, jiggling the vial, "is the sober cure of the ages. Let me tell you a little story about the local hooch that you might not realize, Mr. Scott. It's delicious, it's nutritious…and it's toxic."

"Toxic? God, man, I dinnae wanna kill the doctor—"

"No, Scotty, hold up. It's not as bad as you think. Not exactly." He dug into his other pocket and brought out a holochip showing the Earth standard warning labels regarding the local alcohol. "It's illegal to sell this liquor to Earthers because we can't metabolize the stuff."

"Unless you find some non-standard bar of dubious moral fiber," Scott muttered, glancing over the warnings.

"Exactly," Kirk said. "This place was perfect: Very few off-worlders, no Starfleet personnel, and then we had our own, easy-going, neophyte bartender who wanted to see the results to a human first hand. After doing my research, she was the one who allowed the 'experiment'. Within reason, of course."

Scott frowned – there was a lot of strange gobbly-gook in those instructions and he didn't like how some of the warnings sounded. "And the anti-serum, or whatever 'tis you've got there – what does it do?"

"It breaks up that particular alcoholic bond and prevents it from reaching the liver," Jim said. "Basically turns into some kind of non-fermented juice compound, as long as it's ingested at least two hours before you drink the liquor. And, the serum is also sold on the black market for folks who want to do the exact same thing we just did."

"Heaven help us," Scott said, half-laughing. He took the vial from Jim and held it up to the light. It looked like honey but tasted like old socks. "Remind me never to get on your bad side, sir. You know too much."

He handed the vial back to Kirk, who put it back into his pocket. "So what now?"

Jim rubbed his hands together. "Now's the fun part. The intoxication eventually wears off, but it takes a really long time. Maybe twenty-three hours…or maybe thirty, in Bones' case."

"Six hours a glass," Scott said, marveling at the liquid. "That's one powerful drunk."

"Yep. And he'll be blissfully asleep for two days. But when he wakes up, the hangover…oh, man. That's the glorious bit. Take your worst hangover, multiply it by five, and add a migraine. And it lasts fifteen hours."

Scotty winced. "Ooch. You're kiddin'."

"Nope. I read the studies. That stiffness you're feeling? It'll be nothing compared to what ol' Bonesy's gonna feel the next few days." Bones' snores continued and Kirk rested his elbow on the older man's back. "And if McCoy tries to look for anything to 'cure' his hangover, he's going to find his sickbay suddenly devoid of hangover patches, hypos, or pills."

Scotty shot him a look. "Ach. That's below the belt, Captain."

Kirk waived him off. "I left a few aspirin patches in his room. He can take the old-time ancient cure.

"But seriously? You watch this man, Mr. Scott. Once he finds out what we've done, our asses are grasses." Kirk chuckled. "But I'm not totally devoid of compassion. We'll take a trip through the sickbay and make sure he doesn't have alcohol poisoning, and we'll have one of the nurses check on his condition from time to time while he sleeps it off."

He shook his head at McCoy and pulled out his communicator. "I told him he needed to relax. This way, he has no choice and he can't argue with me. Hell, he'll probably thank me for it after a few years."

"I seriously doubt that, Captain. Ten years, maybe."

Jim laughed as he signaled the ship. "Kirk to Enterprise. Come in."

"Captain," Kirk heard, in the low tones of his first officer. Spock was the only one who decided not to beam down with the others. According to Spock being charge of a skeleton crew with very few humans was his idea of a "vacation."

"Three to beam directly to sickbay."

"Are you injured, Captain?"

"No." Jim made a face. Everyone expected him to be the one in trouble, despite how he'd proved himself time and again to his crew. "Doctor McCoy is slightly…incapacitated. See if you can have Nurse Chapel meet us in sickbay."

Spock's pause spoke volumes. Jim could hear the wheels turning in the Vulcan's mind, and even Scotty wore a small smirk. Maybe it was wrong of him, but he could imagine Spock getting a chuckle out of the circumstances, too.

"…Understood, Captain."

And as the familiar whirling, stirring caught their matter and churned it to ether, Jim had the sneaking suspicion that they'd be paying in "unnecessary" hypos for years to come.

But in his mind? Worth it. Totally, totally worth it.

--End--