Title: Childish Things
Characters: Spock, Kirk, McCoy, bit of Scotty
Rating: K
Word Count: 1,875
Summary/Warnings: Written for the prompt write something that takes place in a small and/or cramped space. Time: 45 minutes. Bored crew + stuck turbolift + devious!McCoy = this. No warnings, no pairings.
A/N: Written for the Trek LJ comm chronometric, where a prompt and a time period are given and a fic must be written around that time frame; pre-planning is allowed but no further editing when done. I'm surprised I managed 1875 words in about 51 minutes, but anyhow that's why it's a rough draft. Purpose of the comm is simply to have fun and loosen up the creativity.

Leonard McCoy was seriously considering writing a dissertation something along the lines of Feel No Emotions, My Sainted Aunt; or, Observations of a Pouting Vulcan.

To be fair, Spock wasn't the only one; one very miffed starship captain was giving him a run for his money in the grade-schoolish sulking department. Not for the first time, the CMO declared to Scotty over a glass of 'medicinal relaxant,' he wished that someone would just give both his CO's a good smack upside the head, or else that Klingons would pop out of warp and attack the ship or something to distract them.

It had started two weeks ago, after nearly a month of excruciatingly boring milk runs and absolutely nothing else of interest to divert crew attention and boredom, and had escalated from there.

Jim had gotten swamped with a series of reports from department heads who, due to intense boredom, were exponentially more detailed in them than usual. Stuck trying to understand why Ship's Stores could possibly have a clothing report eight pages long when absolutely nothing had happened for over a month, he missed a chess date with his First Officer.

Spock had, naturally due to being Vulcan, simply assumed something of the sort and had gone to Science Lab Eleven to begin a series of experiments on equipment calibration.

Six hours late for their appointment, the Captain had found him there and sheepishly informed him he'd been distracted, etc., etc.

The Vulcan had of course accepted the reason in his usual you-hurt-my-nonexistent-feelings-but-naturally-I-will-never-say-so fashion.

Next afternoon, the Captain had yawned after six hours of boring Bridge duty, and asked if they could reschedule their missed game for that night.

Spock had replied that his series of experiments were liable to take at minimum four-point-five-seven days and could not be interrupted; possibly at some time after their conclusion.

Jim had retired with a book to his quarters, and after four hours gave up and went down to the gymnasium to accept one of his more stupid lieutenant's challenge to a wrestling match.

Five minutes after the experiments were done, Spock stopped by the Captain's quarters, and found him working on crew psych evaluations with Dr. McCoy, their judgment somewhat impaired by a warming dose of alcohol.

Refusing the invitation to join them in their human social activities, he began another series of tests, this time on the spatial distortion calibrators.

McCoy had to have his nurses chase the Captain out of his Sickbay the next evening, as Jim's moping was getting in the way of treating their sole patient, a young ensign with a touch of allergic reaction to something in the arboretum (the most excitement Sickbay had seen in three weeks, though he wasn't complaining about that).

Even the densest crewman noted that the Bridge was creepily quiet the next day.

McCoy watched the Captain eat alone for three nights running.

He didn't see Spock eat at all for two more.

And so it had escalated until now, his two superiors were barely speaking beyond the usual work-related questions and answers. Said superiors had been sniping at each other for days, enough that the command crew was giving both of them a wide berth both on duty and off. Nothing bad enough that he could, medically speaking, call them on – and not even anything serious; just juvenile snippiness from tired and bored minds that refused to let go small issues that never would have been even blinked at had the crew been busy and content.

As Chief Medical Officer, he knew discord in the chain of command, however ridiculously shallow it was, wasn't good for crew morale. As a physician, he knew the only reason his Captain and First Officer functioned so well together was for the simple fact that they cared a great deal about the other, complementing the other's differences – and he knew that avoiding each other was both grade-schoolish and detrimental to their respective healths.

But as an equally bored crew member, he had to admit watching them scowl at each other across the mess table, arguing crabbily over whether or not Science Lab Eleven really needed a new molecular vibration amplifier to help in their study of the bacterium growing in an oxygen-less experimental compartment there, was highly amusing.

Still, they both needed to relax, but shore leave wasn't scheduled for the crew for another month – and he wasn't stupid enough to risk being impaled by two angry glares at suggesting they both take a day off duty and chill until they could be civil again. Even he wasn't that foolhardy when it came to Vulcan irritation.

In that case, he needed a second (even more devious) mind, and a more capable pair of hands for this job…

"This is ridiculous," Kirk complained, sliding down the wall into a sitting position, knees drawn up and arms resting on them.

"It does appear to be highly unusual," came the unflappable voice above him, as the control panel for the lift was removed and a few wires poked around. "Turbolift malfunctions are somewhat understandable, but for the emergency escape hatch to fuse closed, communications to be inoperative, and manually overriding these circuits to fail, would seem rather too much to be combined coincidence."

Kirk looked up, a troubled frown creasing his face. "You think someone wanted to trap the two superior officers of this ship inside a lift?"

"I have no data with which to hypothesize, Captain." A nearly-silent expulsion of breath sounded, as close to sighing as the Vulcan would ever come. "I am unable to effect any change over our present circumstances."

"Swell," the Captain growled irritably, as he leaned his head against the wall of the lift. Silence fell for an awkward moment. "…At least running diagnostics will give Scotty something to do other than tweak the selectors into producing random ethnic dishes for unsuspecting crewmen," he muttered, squirming on the hard floor.

Spock settled elegantly – always so annoyingly graceful – on the floor across from him in the small space. "I have been meaning to ask you, Captain, if you had given any thought to producing some entertainment for the crew of late," he spoke, formal and cool and all business; no sense in wasting this time.

"No," was the terse response.

"Dr. McCoy is concerned about the state of mind of many of the crew, Captain. Reaction time has been shown to be down by at least six percent in most, and evaluations have shown a marked increase in irritability and loss of temper."

Kirk glared at him in open hostility. "Maybe they're all just as sick of this supply run as I am. Humans tend to get that way when they're bored – not that you'd know about such human shortcomings, Mr. Spock."

"I know more than you might believe, Captain," the Vulcan replied dryly. "For example, I understand that for some reason I cannot explain and can only attribute to stress and tension, that you have been avoiding me for seven days and an undetermined number of hours."

Kirk's face flushed. "Avoiding you! Just because I was drowning in Mendel's report about how many pairs of pants the crew's going through in a week's time and forgot one little chess game, you avoided me for days afterwards!"

An eyebrow inclined indignantly. "Captain, I explained to you that the experiments would take at least four days; I did not fabricate that amount of time, as my staff can testify."

"Then what was your excuse after that?" the Captain challenged.

"I have been…busy," he answered, as close to mumbling, eyes downcast, as was possible for a Vulcan to be.

Instead of recrimination, the anger seemed to deflate from the captain as quickly as it had appeared. Kirk sighed. "Lucky you," he muttered, folding his arms and leaning back against the wall.

He shook his head, puzzled at the words, but saw no logic in continuing to carry on in the tense manner they had been for nearly a fortnight. "I regret that my actions were the cause of this tension, Captain."

Kirk cocked an eye at him in surprise. "What the heck are you apologizing for? I'm the one that got ticked off about it all."

"Vulcans do not apologise, Captain," he reminded the human patiently. "I am merely stating a fact; I do regret this."

"Me too," Kirk mumbled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. "You didn't do anything, Spock…it was my fault."

"Blame rarely lies entirely with one party," Spock returned calmly. "However," he continued, as the captain grinned at him across the enclosed space, "I see no logic in continuing to discuss the matter."

"Mkay," was the amicable agreement, and for a minute they simply looked at each other across the stuck lift. "So…how long do you think we'll be stuck in here?"

"Judging by Mr. Scott's past rapidity in solving mechanical difficulties, and the close proximity of this lift to the Jefferies tubes immediately above Engineering, I should say no more than an hour, Captain."

Kirk looked annoyedly up at the useless control panel. "Well, we have an hour to kill then," he said companionably.

An eyebrow slid his direction. "Indeed. We could utilize the minutes in completing crew evaluations for the lower decks; I do of course have the files memorized of those ensigns at the top of the promotion list."

"Yes, of course," Kirk chuckled, squirming into a more comfortable position. "But I'd rather just relax for a few minutes, if it's all the same to you."

Spock moved fractionally closer, and folded his hands upon his drawn-up knees. "What, exactly, did you have in mind, Captain?"

"Do Vulcan children have an equivalent game to Rock, Paper, Scissors?"

"I think that's enough, unless they're both more stubborn than I thought," McCoy growled, finishing his drink and waving a hand at his co-conspirator. "You can turn it back on now, let's see if they've kissed and made up yet."

The Engineer grinned indulgently and restored communications, opening the channel to the halted turbolift.

"I fail to see the logic in the paper enveloping the rock, Captain," the Vulcan's plaintive voice came through the speaker. "Would it not be more logical for the stone to rest upon the paper, effectively trapping it in place, instead of –"

McCoy's eyes bugged, and Scott began to laugh.

"It's a game, Spock, for Pete's sake!"

"An archaic one," the First Officer pointed out dryly. "Such implements as scissors have not been in common usage for at least one-hundred-eight-point-five years. It would be far more appropriate to our time period to replace these instruments with more effective ones, for sake of accuracy in this 'game'."

Kirk's low, genuine laugh was the most welcome sound either of the eavesdroppers had heard in a week. "What, you mean instead of Rock, Paper, Scissors it should be Rock, PADD…and Phaser?"

"It would certainly be more logical than the previous set of implements," Spock pondered aloud. "Phaser vaporizes Rock –"

"Rock shatters PADD," Kirk continued, chortling gleefully.

"Oh, saints in heaven preserve us," McCoy moaned, seriously considering impacting his head with the nearest wall. Multiple times. "Scotty, let that lift go or we'll have them trying to reinvent patty-cake while they're in there."