Title: Good Intentions (or, Spock's Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Week)
Characters: Spock, McCoy, Kirk
Rating: K
Word Count: 2,082
Warnings/Spoilers: Borderline crack, but not really. Warning for human good intentions, and basic fandom tropes regarding Vulcans and how they become intoxicated. Also warning for silliness and lack of editing, as the purpose of the below-mentioned comm is writing in a certain time period; in this case, ninety minutes.
Summary: Killing two birds with one stone, this is an entry for the LJ comm chronometric (the prompt this week was food and/or drink), as well as answering a long-forgotten st_tos_kink meme prompt.
James T. Kirk had been absent for six days.
As the Enterprise was the closest starship to Starbase Sixteen, Kirk had been summoned by a 'Fleet tribunal to serve as one of the three commanding officers on a judging committee for a court-martial. Not his duty of choice, certainly, but this appeared to be a clear case of negligence; while the duty of sentencing guilt was not something he would enjoy, he nonetheless accepted it with resignation, leaving the Enterprise in the capable hands of his First Officer and crew for the eight days of hearings and testimonials and travel time.
This was the sixth day of his absence.
Which meant that everyone aboard, the Science divisions especially, were giving their Vulcan acting captain a wide, wide berth. Only McCoy had been so unconcerned with his own life to poke at Spock during those six days, and he'd come off definitely second-best against Vulcan sarcasm.
Half the Bridge crew thought it was frightening, and the other half thought it was adorable, that their resident Vulcan got unbearably cranky when the captain was either absent or incapacitated on those occasions he became so. It was a standing joke that after five days their First was too grumpy to live with, and though some of them bore the brunt of cold Vulcan not-wrath-because-that-is-an-emotion on occasion, it was still endearing. Most of the time.
In his defense, McCoy had to admit, still smarting under the sting of Spock's latest flaming darts last time he'd been on the Bridge, Spock hadn't had a fun week. Jim had planned to spend two days going over crew evaluations with his First, a task which though it would seem tedious to others the two always rather enjoyed performing; the next day their off-duty day had coincided for the first time in three weeks and Spock had reluctantly promised to stay out of the science labs in favor of who-knew-what pursuits the captain had had in mind for their unheard-of free time.
Then came the summons to Starbase Sixteen, and all that had been flung out the airlock.
Spock's non-existent disappointment had been thick enough to choke a Xoronian musk-ox by the time Jim, grumbling and sighing, had left in the shuttle Copernicus to head for the Starbase, though the Vulcan of course denied the fact with every fiber of his katra. McCoy had attempted to console him by eating dinner with him that night and had ended up only wanting to fling his plate at that immaculate dark head.
The next day, two of Spock's best lieutenants in Microbial Research came down with the Altarian flu, stalling one of his pet projects to a grinding halt while the two experts were down for the count. That night, a well-meaning yeoman had straightened the First Officer's desk in his quarters, and had cracked a data-disc containing the rough draft of his short treatise on the viability of silicon-based life-forms in a non-geological environment.
The following day, Ensign Chekov had accidentally hit the emergency manual jettison button for the Enterprise's port-side escape pods, which forced them to spend the next twelve hours locating and retrieving said pods, repairing structural damage, and attempting to decide how best to explain that little detour to the captain during the COs' vid-call that night.
That night, the call had gotten canceled because the tribunal deliberations went long.
The fourth morning, Nurse Chapel had bumped into him in Officers' Mess, causing him to spill his tea over his tunic, and had then insisted quite vehemently upon accompanying him back to his cabin, apologizing the entire way (he politely, and emphatically, refused when she offered to locate a clean uniform for him).
The fifth day, they had spent the entirety of alpha shift finishing up star-mapping charts, and had been fired upon by a quite brash, and quite stupid, small Huraon pirate vessel. One well-placed phaser blast sent the little ship scurrying off into warp, but the cheap blow to their hull had hairline-fractured the transparent aluminium which made up the observation dome. Jim was going to, as McCoy would say, have a cow when he heard about that.
Also, his meal selector malfunctioned that evening, turning his soup into a disturbingly green-grey concoction of viscous chunks whose molecular composition (and taste) seemed highly suspect.
The sixth day, Spock stalked the corridors on full alert status, wary of whatever else Fate might decide to hurl his direction, and crew members wisely scuttled out of his way, whilst praying to every deity in the quadrant that the tribunal would finish early and return their captain to restore the harmony of his ship.
By ship's evening, McCoy had taken all he could of what he told Christine was Vulcan moping, and toddled on over to the First Officer's quarters to take his safety in his hands.
Spock was, from the look of things, trying to figuratively choke himself in paperwork. One dark, warning eye peeked from around the corner of the computer monitor as the doctor wandered in, fairly daring him to even speak.
The physician plopped himself down into the spare chair and clunked a bottle onto the desk, followed by a glass and a steaming mug.
"Doctor, you will partake of your human need for alcoholic indulgence elsewhere than my working space."
"You're such a pointy-eared ball of sunshine, Spock." He raised the glass in a half-mocking toast. "Here's to mixed metaphors."
He received a condescending eyebrow as he shoved the mug across the desk toward the obscured figure, hidden as it was by the mountain of data-padds and computer monitor.
"Doctor, you are quite aware that my Vulcan physiology makes it impossible for my body to become intoxicated by the effects of alcohol."
"Mmhm." McCoy grinned, scooted the mug around a data-padd so its hot contours brushed the nervously working fingers. "That's why I brought you somethin' special."
Spock peered warily at him over the computer monitor, then glanced in consternation at the steaming ceramic mug.
"Go on, it won't kill you."
"What, exactly, is it, Doctor? And do be brief, as I have sixteen reports and four requisitions to compile before retiring."
"'S a mocha latte," the doctor informed him, throwing back another shot of his own poison and then grinning over the glass's edge at the blank look he received. "Oh come on, Spock, it won't endanger you; just enough chocolate and caffeine to make you feel better, not incapacitate you."
"I have no wish to –"
"Spock." McCoy sighed, and finally shoved a stack of data-padds out of the way. "I know it's been an awful week. Now for once do the human thing and have a drink with a…" he was about to say friend, and then the idea occurred that maybe Spock didn't consider him to be? Wouldn't be surprising. "…colleague," he settled for saying.
Dark eyes looked despairingly down at the steaming mug, and then flicked back up to his subdued face. "Doctor, I have no need for your well-meant, but ineffective, means of distracting me from my work," came the voice from behind the computer terminal, and the Vulcan returned to typing on the keypad.
McCoy scowled. "For the love of sanity, drink it, Spock! You're drivin' this crew crazy!"
"Which, in cases such as yours, is a far shorter journey than the average."
"Why you –"
Glaring, he reached over and turned the computer off (it had an auto-save feature; he wasn't that mad).
Spock's eyebrows spelled his Doom in no uncertain terms.
McCoy sighed, and slipped a hand across the desk to bridge the gap between them, scooting the mug closer to the cold, blank figure before him. "Spock, he'll be back tomorrow morning and I guarantee these reports aren't going to be the first thing on his mind. Relax." Something akin to alarm, and then embarrassment, flickered through the back of the Vulcan's expression, and he knew he'd hit home. "You've kept the ship running at peak performance despite the chaos people've thrown at you this week; that's all that Jim'll care about, and you know it if you'd just take a minute and think about it, logically."
The word was magic, and he grinned as the tension slowly began to ease from the Vulcan's stiff posture.
"Now," he continued, gently, when Spock made no protest or denial of what he knew too well to be an accurate diagnosis, "have a drink with somebody who misses him too?"
It was a request, not a demand, not a doctor's order, and it was obvious Spock recognized the fact, for the Vulcan blinked at him in some surprise, processing all the implications of what had just been said. A few moments ticked by in uneasy silence, and he shifted in his chair.
Then – "You are certain the concentration of this beverage is not at a level which could impair my cognitive abilities?"
Well, it wasn't like he had measured the liquor or the chocolate, but…yeah, surely not. "Quite certain, Mr. Spock." And even if it was, the walking database could use a little loosening up…
For an instant longer, Spock hesitated, and then McCoy could see the instantaneous change that occurred when he finally released some of the tension that had held him so tightly during this comically horrible week.
"Very well." Casting the curling wisps of steam a dubious glance, the Vulcan lifted the mug carefully in one hand and took a hesitant sip.
"Well?" the doctor asked, cocking an eyebrow at the surprised expression.
"It is…surprisingly pleasant."
"Old family recipe," he replied knowingly, raising his glass again. He wasn't expecting the Vulcan to return the toast, and so wasn't offended when Spock stared blankly at him. "To the safe return of the captain of the Enterprise," he said, smiling, and watched with amusement as the Vulcan nodded stiffly, then applied his undivided interest to his drink.
-ooo-
"Bones. Bones, you awake now?"
"Seriously, Jim, it's what…0230 in the morning! Are you back early or something?"
Through bleary eyes as he dragged himself before the vid-screen, he finally registered after saying this that the captain was still in his sleep pants…then he had been asleep as well.
He was instantly alert. "Something wrong?"
Thank goodness, the man looked more like he was about to choke to death from laughter than be irritated with him for whatever reason was keeping him awake. "Bones. Do you have any idea, any idea at all," and Kirk smiled even wider, "why my First Officer just called me up in the middle of the night to tell me in all earnestness that he is, and I quote, 'greatly anticipating my return tomorrow'?"
McCoy stared at the screen in horror.
A fit of high-pitched laughs, more like giggles than anything else (though the captain would no doubt deny that until his dying day), countered the thunk the doctor's head made when it contacted the desk. Hard. Multiples times.
"He also, when I asked him gently how he'd been, said that he has had a 'deplor…deploarb…very bad week, Jim. Very bad.'"
A small whimper escaped the pajama-clad sleeve in which McCoy had buried his face.
"But apparently he's 'ferscetly punctional' now, thanks to the good doctor's prescription," Kirk continued, grinning mercilessly. "What in the name of all that's logical were you thinking, Bones?"
-ooo-
"Gee, I'm awfully sorry, Spock…"
"Doctor, your apologies would be more readily accepted if you were to voice them in a tone considerably lower in decibels than your present one."
McCoy fell silent, poking at his toast and trying to ignore Spock's there-is-no-pain-oh-holy-mother-of-Surak-yes-there-is expression.
"That is much more pleasing."
"I haven't said anything, you –"
"Precisely, Doctor."
A dark scowl shot across to land on the Vulcan's unhappy countenance. "You're awful snippy for a sappy drunk who can't hold his chocolate."
James Kirk inhaled a cornflake and choked on it. "Bones, that's enough. Spock, how are you feeling?"
"More than I would prefer to be, Captain. I trust this incident will remain off the record?"
"Do you know how fast we'd both be laughed out of Starfleet if I put a note in your file that said my brilliant, unrivaled Vulcan First Officer got sloshed on a spiked mocha latte?"
McCoy blinked innocent baby blues over the rim of his coffee cup. "I could make it a medical order, get you both off the hook –"
"Bones."
"Doctor, are you aware of the Standard translation for the Vulcan word tal'shaya?"
