In which TOS/Fed-up!Bones is fed up and curses a lot, repetitively, which he may-or-may-not have in common with reboot!Bones. (Guess he/they just has those favourite few he/they sticks with) I also [super-hard, oh my goodness, bottom of my heart] apologize for taking so long (I guess when I said in August, I meant a year from now, August). The only thing I have to say for myself is that this simply would not write itself like it did before and I got very much distracted by Kurt/Puck Glee fanfics...

So, in other news, I'm expecting 2-4 more chapters depending on how difficult Spock/Jim are. Because they will be difficult. Both versions of them. You'll see. Only, I have no idea when. Please stick with me, I promise it will be worth it. I hope.

Also, keep in mind that this is from the character's POV so it might not necessarily be something that is true.

I was always there. Somehow, even when I was doing my damnedest not to, I was there. Part of the inseparable Starfleet trio of heroes. It wouldn't bother me so much if two-thirds of the trio would only cut back on flirting all the damn time.

They could be dying-for god's sake, we all are dying! We're stuck on this damn planet slowly going insane as we speed through the aging process to our certain death-except for that damn immune hobgoblin-and there they were, without the decency to leave the room,or at least wait until that damn irritating Yeoman left, flirting away.

'How soon do you think the cure will be ready?' 'Oh very soon, Captain...I would very much like to return to the ship...Captain...' 'Oh, yes, Mr. Spock...I would...very much like to return to those things...up there...in the ship as well...Mr. Spock...' Good grief, they might as well have been rubbing noses and insisting on which one of them loved the other the most in baby voices!

Not blatant, my ass.

Even more insufferable was that that was all they could do. They grew closer, developing their "unique and remarkably close friendship" to unheard-of levels, and then left the Enterprise Bridge or Sick Bay-because the damn idiots couldn't keep themselves or each other out of harm's way for one god-damn day, could they?-to reek of their sexual tension and meaningful gazes and bouts of "logical" responses, in the Vulcan's case. Prejudice and homophobia was still rampant in this century, most prevalent in the militaristic and politically driven Starfleet. So neither really could act on it. No matter how accepting their crew was. No matter how blatant they were-and they really, really were-in front of everyone.

Thank God I haven't yet-knock on wood-interrupted them while in their quarters. I have no desire to see what they consider not blatant behaviour.

I think I might have to burn my eyes out just to get that image out of my mind. But it might be worth it to ask the hobgoblin to do his Vulcan voodoo and remove the memory just to see his face at my imagining them doing the horizontal tango.

No emotions, my ass too.

Leonard blinked awake like someone had soothed him out of sleep. He sighed. Don't get him wrong, it was much nicer to wake up like someone was cradling him into consciousness with the weird talking-dreams he was having; especially in comparison to the normal ones where Jim died on his table, under his hands-or anyone else's, for that matter. Even the hobgoblin's distress disturbed him enough into startling awake and jumping out of bed with the nearest hypo he could find. And then he felt like a fool, trying to calm his racing heart when there was no medical emergency, and for Spock of all people. Or, rather, of all humanoids.

He sighed again. According to the narrator in his dreams, which sounded suspiciously like an alternate version of himself from some other universe-maybe the one that Spock's self came from, who knows which (yes, he knows about that because Jim tells him everything, universal-paradox-world-ending-chaos-flibbertygibbert or not)-, that wasn't entirely true. Apparently, the not-Captain would have not-his head once he got over his soul-crushing grief if he let their-Spock die.

It was more open in this dream-sequel, though. Something must have changed in order for them to be so frank. His other self, anti-Bones maybe, pretty much alluded to the same symptoms of those nauseating couples he found trying to have various forms of sex-whether it be eye, oral, vaginal, anal or otherwise-on Valentine's. If he hadn't seen it with his own dream-eyes or rather, heard it, he wouldn't believe it.

Because, seriously, Spock and Jim? That had to be the world's biggest failed joke. Not only did they not mix, they were matter and anti-matter without a collision chamber. Or, red-matter and Romulans for a more modern metaphor. Last he checked, strangling someone to death did not equate to love; not even in ancient Vulcan terms.

One last sigh and he propelled himself out of bed. There would be no more sleep for him after one of those dreams. Quickly and quietly, he checked on Jim's frequencies just to be sure. It was a habit now, perhaps even borderline obsessive compulsive. With all the trouble he got into, it was a logical preventive measure. It also let him breath easier knowing with his own eyes that he was all right.

And the Vulcan too. Those damn dreams were really getting to him if he was glad to see the hobgoblin alive and in good health.

As it was, Jim was in the middle of a REM cycle. Completely safe and free from harm, if he wasn't having nightmares. That kid was more screwed up than a bucket of bolts.

Now to Spock. Similar readings. Either he was meditating or taking one of those not-nap-naps since 'Vulcans do not require sleep'. He'd like to call 'my ass' on that bit of hogwash.

Everything was fine. His brain knew that. Now he just wished his body would so he could go back to sleep for once. Of course, today was no different.

After wasting as much time organizing his Sickbay-which really wasn't saying much since he always kept it nice and neat barring any life-or-death disaster of a situation Jim and/or Spock got himself into-he wandered around the Enterprise.

It really was just plain ol' luck he just happened to be passing the transporter room when he heard the familiar buzz of the machine. He hated the transporter. He absolutely hated travel by "beaming up". And yet, he was there in the empty room at that precise time.

He jumped in to the empty room and immediately went to the control panel he knew nothing about. He was a doctor, not a transporter technician but he couldn't not try to help someone obviously in danger. Dammit, he hated feeling helpless.

Turns out he didn't need to. Whatever was beaming aboard did that just fine without his meddling.

He had his communicator out, ready to call for Jim at any moment, but something told him to wait. And, unlike Spock, he trusted his instincts, not logic. So he waited, and boy, was that a great decision.

He hadn't tried the dating game since his damn ex-wife divorced him. That didn't mean he didn't have a good pair of eyes that he put to work and did they look. The humanoid was an excellent example of whatever species it-she, he corrected-was. Her hair was elegantly cropped on the top of her head, swirling to a point that accentuated her sharp features, skin a lovely shade of browned copper, her eyes framed with the perfect amount of lashes for that shade of chocolate and her slim body filled the different but still clearly Starfleet uniform to perfection. Oddly enough, she looked remarkably like their Communications Officer, Uhura, that Jim was always flirting with much to both Spock and her's dismay.

Wait a minute, Starfleet uniform?

"Oh," she gasped, putting a hand to her head and stumbling off the pad to lean against the wall shakily. That was his cue. No more observations, he was in Doctor mode. "Where am I?" But damn, if her voice wasn't positively musical.

"Now, just hold on a minute there and don't move, miss," he grumbled politely, setting her down on what seemed to be the only chair in the room. Starfleet apparently wasn't big on furniture, or anything ergonomically comfortable really, since he had seen the way Spock's hand went to his back after a long day of bending over his long-range scanners. Though, maybe that could be because he knew Jim liked to-goddammit, his dreams were corrupting his poor, abused brain!

"I'll go grab my tricorder and take a look at you. Blasted transporters, never believed they were harmless for a minute," He started to turn around and do just as he said but her light grip on his elbow swayed him for a minute.

"You, you're a doctor," she said, blinking at him. He took this time to monitor her pupils. They didn't seem to be too dilated, probably no concussion then.

"That I am, ma'am," he nodded, pulling his arm gently out of her grasp. He patted her hands as he tried to leave again. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll just go-"

"McCoy," she said, and while it was nice to hear such a pleasant way of saying his name out of her mouth-though, at this point, he would take any female mouth-, the fact that he didn't know who she was but she did made him suspicious with plenty reason. He narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Doctor Leonard McCoy. But you aren't my Leonard," she added with a perplexed frown.

"Your Leonard?" he picked up with only just the slightest hint of amusement colouring his tone. It was obvious what she meant, but he couldn't pass up the opportunity. He got so few of them what with Jim picking up the dame-of-the-hour-every-hour-except-for-Nyota, it seemed. Even Chekov had caught the attention of a few ladies before he did. All he had was Chapel. And, fine Nurse she may be, he was pretty sure that she had a thing for Mr. Spock.

Oh, well, there's no accounting for taste.

His mystery lady blushed and it added a pretty layer of colour to her cheeks. What a wonderful display of vasodilation because of adenyly cyclase and adrenaline. "Oh, well...I mean," she stammered quietly. "Of course, you're not my Leonard, I just meant from my universe, it seems,"

"So, we're talking alternate universes kind of thing," he said mostly to verify the apparent conclusion.

"Have you experienced them before?" she asked conversationally, as if it was something normal.

Space. What kind of idiot chooses to combat the "brave unknown" that seemed to mostly consist of inter-universe travel and psychotic people?

Oh, right. Jim.

"You could say that," he muttered with one eyebrow raised. The way Jimmy tells stories, it's like you're tossed around in a tornado while on a vacation that you are slowly able to piece back together once the storm stops; certainly not the most coherent style, but very...enthusiastic and engaging. As in, every time Jim enthusiastically blabs his mouth, he ends up engaging in a headache or trying not to throw up.

Her face got a touch more playful and he actually leaned into her aura of grace and beauty automatically. She had this soft charm that made you want to stop and listen, slow down. "Just to be clear, this universe doesn't have any Spocks with a goatee, does it?"

"Spock..." he echoed, not entirely believing he was hearing right. "With a beard..." His lips twitched the more he tried to picture it and how ridiculous it would no doubt look. "Our hobgoblin Spock?" And, finally, it got to him. He laughed uproariously and couldn't make himself stop. A light feminine chuckle tinkled on top of his and he grinned at the woman shielding most of her sound behind a delicate hand.

"I take it that you haven't," she said once he regained the ability to breathe normally.

"No, technically, I haven't been a part of any alternate nonsense. Jim and Spock dealt with it, mostly," he frowned. "Of course, there was the whole thing with Nero, the crazy Romulan from the future,"

"A crazy Romulan," she repeated with a thoughtful frown. "I'd hate to see what makes the difference between a crazy Romulan and a normal one,"

"Yeah, well, depending on how long you're gonna be staying here," he said, light-heartedness gone. "You just might get to know the after-effects of one,"

He sighed. "Right. Now, missy, that's enough distracting for one day. I swore an oath to make sure no one comes to any harm and that's just what I'm going to do, alternate universe or not, and you'll not be getting another word from me until I give you a clean bill of health,"

"You're exactly the same, Doctor McCoy," she smiled, standing with the use of his hand but walking on her own as independent a Swahili woman as ever.