Highlight Reel

Out of Medbay and off duty, our at times grumpy chief medical officer is relaxed and the epitome of old-fashioned charm. Len's hand rests on my lower back as I walk from the door into the living area. I sit on the couch. He dims the lights and activates holographic candles of different sizes throughout the room filling the space with a warm glow. He opens the wine, his talented, agile hands gently easing an Ah-So opener down and around the cork and then edging it out. This tool, also known as a butler's friend, or by some butler's thief, and oft shunned by non-sommeliers, requires patience, finesse, and strength. It's like watching a master sculptor at work.

He hands me a glass of wine and says, "I'm glad you didn't back out of our date."

"Why on Earth or in the stars would I do that?"

The usually visibly confident physician fidgets and shifts his weight from leg to leg. "Ah … well … despite all my bravado … it's not an unusual occurrence … I can be a bit much at times."

Narrowed eyes scrutinize him. "I see. Hmmm." Placing the glass in my hand on the low coffee table, I stand and lean close to him, just inside the boundary of his personal space, and continue in a softer tone, "We'll see how the evening goes, but I like your odds." And I add, after retrieving the glass and taking a sip, "Excellent choice."

"I agree," he murmurs. Though judging by the way he is studying my face, my body, my movements, he isn't complimenting the wine.

During dinner, Len keeps the conversation focused on me, listening and learning about my interests, tucking away each detail in his highly trained and disciplined mind. Randomly his hand crosses the middle of the table and moves close to mine. A couple of times his fingers brush against mine subtly communicating his inability to resist touching me.

Focused on the suggestions inherent in this physical conversation, I miss what Len is currently saying. "Ah, sorry. Would you repeat that, I … I was a bit preoccupied."

Len hides a smile but does not completely disguise the pleasure my comment evokes. He repeats, "Now I that am here, what are your other two wishes?" His tone is light yet faintly seductive.

I wonder, Is he teasingly serious or seriously teasing? And reply in a quiet throaty tone, "Perhaps you are all my wishes."

With Len's guidance the conversation then returns to casual topics – friends, missions, an upcoming shore leave. We linger over coffee and Len insists on dealing with the dishes and tidying. Afterwards he walks to the doors of my quarters and holds out his hand.

"There's no need to rush off," I say.

"And yet there is good reason not to rush forward," he counters.

Confused, I join him at the doors and clasp his hand.

He explains, "A southern gentleman proceeds slowly, savoring each step of the dance." He leans in and kisses my lips, simply, chastely. The knuckles of his free hand trace my cheek and jawline. My eyes close at his touch. "Dinner, my quarters, day after tomorrow?" Len asks.

I nod. And suggest, "Or tomorrow?"

His mouth quirks upward and he shakes his head. "No." Before leaving he adds with a mischievous grin, "I relish anticipation. And it is one of nature's best aphrodisiacs."

ooooo

McCoy entered his quarters half an hour later, having indulged in a brisk walk through the arboretum. He is humming quietly, and his features are composed in a self-satisfied smile.

Kirk popped up from the chair where he was lounging and turned towards his CMO. "By the look on your face I assume you broke the southern gentleman's code of honor and got lucky on this first date. Smooth move. Was the swanky jacket the dealmaker?" The Captain checked the time and slapped McCoy on the back. "And home before curfew … you skipped dinner and leapt …" Kirk grinned and clarified, "thrust straight to the … crux of the matter didn't you, you roue."

"No and no," McCoy replied. He continued in an acerbic tone, "And I thought, no hoped and prayed, the 'waiting up for you' joke was figurative rather than literal."

"Nope. Given your dating history at the Academy we assumed you'd require consoling, and we take our duties seriously. Right Spock?" Kirk prompted.

"Undoubtedly Captain," Spock said distracted by the PADD in his hand.

"Hello, Spock? Our baby boy is home," Kirk reminded.

"I am aware, Jim. You take the first shift; I must correct Ensign Donald's math."

Kirk poured two finger widths of an amber liquid into a glass and handed it to McCoy. "Sit Bones and fill us in."

After a sip McCoy exclaimed, "That's my 80-year-old Kentucky bourbon! How did you find it? And get past the lock on the box?"

"Finding it was child's play. Let's just say you won't be in charge of hiding the eggs should we ever indulge in a ship-wide easter egg hunt …" Kirk started explaining.

"Why would we conceal potential offspring and then attempt to locate them?" Spock asked from his corner, frowning as his fingers rapidly tapped on the PADD.

"It's … ah … part of an annual spring tradition … a celebration of rebirth," Kirk said. "And not just any type of egg, chicken eggs are the quarry."

"Plus duck and turkey eggs where I come from. Though the pullet eggs are best since they are smaller," McCoy chimed in.

Kirk looked at his CMO, "You have an inordinate collection of farm knowledge. I hope you don't trot it out on dates as part of your conversation repertoire."

McCoy returned the stare with his patented 'I am displeased' glare usually reserved for interns. "Who brought up the subject? And when on a date do you ever utter anything other than 'your place or mine?'"

"That constitutes an oxymoron, removing the eggs from the safety of their nest and then randomly relocating them," Spock replied to the previous point.

"They get colored too. I mean their protective shells are dyed various shades." McCoy then said in defense, "It's festive."

Spock shook his head almost imperceptivity. "As usual reasonable queries lead only to further illogic and a bevy of undecipherable factoids. Answering your original question Doctor, I bypassed your amateurish attempt at a deterrent."

McCoy jabbed his thumb in the Vulcan's direction as he carefully took possession of his prized bottle of bourbon. "Lock picking is a handy trait in a first officer."

"Tell me about it," Kirk agreed and then redirected the conversation. "So?"

"So what?" McCoy grumped.

"Our intrepid leader is vaguely and artlessly inquiring after your evening's clous d'un évènement," Spock clarified.

"What?" McCoy again grumped.

Rolling his eyes Kirk amended, "How did it go? The date? Did you kiss? Will there be a second date?"

Spock placed his PADD on a nearby table and added, "Indeed Doctor. A recap, or highlight reel, will be sufficient."

Kirk and McCoy turned to the Vulcan and said in unison each ticking up an eyebrow, "Highlight reel?"

"Yes. As in a summary of the best, and worst, plays of the night," Spock clarified.

McCoy coughed.

"Oh we," Kirk emphasized the word, "know what a highlight reel is. But how did it enter your lexicon?"

Spock answered matter-of-factly, "Nyota enjoys SportsCenter after sex. Invariably, despite attending to work and other duties …" Kirk smirked, Spock continued without missing a beat, "my attention is drawn to the program. I thought the reference appropriate."

"I'm a doctor not a sportscaster," McCoy huffed and rose to his feet. He picked up the bottle of bourbon and his glass. "A southern gentleman never … well he doesn't tell."

"So you kissed then," Kirk deduced.

McCoy walked to the door of his quarters.

"Wait … where are you going … we're not finished yet," Kirk called after him as the doors swished closed.