"That's not what I'd prescribe for a headache," mused Doctor McCoy, upon meeting his patient.
Engineer Scott waited in Sickbay, sitting at the edge of the center bed and sipping from a borrowed bottle of scotch. Chekov had politely rewrapped it, attached a tape to complain about his ruined shoes, then deposited it in front of Scotty's cabin.
"Who said anything about a headache?" he set down the bottle, balancing it carefully on the mattress, "Maybe I'm here for a social visit."
This did not coincide with Nurse Chapel's recommendation, when she called for her supervisor. McCoy shrugged.
"Well, are you?"
"I think it might do me a world of good, Doctor."
He took the glasses – usually reserved for himself and Chapel – and aligned them on the table beside the bed.
"Long day?" nudged McCoy, as Scotty settled the balance of each glass. When he held up one hand, venturing to stop Scotty's pouring, he was met with muttering about how Chekov had watered it down before returning it.
"Suits me," the doctor said softly. He was ignored:
"It's only been a day since I last saw ya?" Scotty stared with wide eyes.
"Just a guess."
"Then it's been even longer since we've had a drink together, hasn't it?"
McCoy nodded, and coughed over the brim of his glass before sipping it. He always enjoyed the engineer's company, but not his choice of beverage.
Their conversation drifted quickly away from casual shores, dragged by tides of familiarity. They sat and talked as friends, leaning against Sickbay beds with one leg crossed over the other. On similar evenings, they always fell to counting each other's greying hairs. At first, silently and respectfully, then competitively and playfully. As their five years in space dwindled away, they reverted to the comfortable, quiet method.
"It isn't a Christmas 'spirit', is it; Scotch?" Scotty said, shuffling backward. He set his cup down on the table, mounted to the wall beside the bed.
"I don't think so."
"Then you don't have t' drink it."
McCoy shrugged and resigned himself to finishing it, as it had lasted for the entirety of their conversation. Payment.
"I'll find something more traditional," he promised, "For next time."
"We'll have to get everyone together for that," Scotty grinned, "The captain would like that. And Mister Spock could be convinced to join us, I think."
"Not by me."
"Really? I can't think of anyone more qualified."
He accepted this with one stiff, modest nod.
"Sounds like a lot of work."
Engineer Scott stood, and fetched the empty glasses.
"Just what you need," he said, "I'm not a doctor, but you can trust me on that one. I know the feeling."
As he set the cups down on McCoy's desk, he reached to rub at the branches of grey that grew against his temple. McCoy did too, as if he was looking into a mirror.
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it. I know I won't."
He tapped the grey; the doctor did the same.
You beneath life's crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way,
With painful steps and slow.
Look now, for glad and golden hours.
Oh rest, beside the weary road.