A/N. This was inspired by all the times TOS Jim and Spock rescue each other from mortal peril while incapacitated, usually with a fireman's lift. Apologies to Kingsley Amis for my description of Kirk's hangover. Crack!Bingo prompt: Amnesia. As always, shout-out to my lovely beta, SpockLovesCats. I tweak, mistakes are my own.

Fireman Spock

Collar straight? Check. Jacket hem lying flat? Check. Medals? Check. Expression of authoritative, educated interest plastered onto face? Check.

James T. Kirk used to enjoy these diplomatic functions on board the Enterprise but good grief, things were just getting ridiculous. During the previous reception Spock's surprise father had been accused of murder, suffered two cardiac arrests and underwent open-heart surgery. Jim was stabbed by a mad Andorian who turned out to be an Orion - a long and involved story about control of the galaxy - and Spock was pumped full of untested blood cell stimulant, and subjected to his mother's powerful right hand. That was quite enough for one evening, thank you very much.

McCoy had already made his excuses and left. He had more sense. No doubt he would be holed up with Scotty and Uhura and a whiskey bottle of either Tennessee or Aberdonian heritage, or more likely, both.

As the mourners - whoops, reception goers - left, a kindly Saurian aide winked at him and gestured beneath his voluminous silky cloak - they always wore garments that made the Captain glad there were no naked flames on the Enterprise. A hip-flask was extracted and he whispered to the Captain, "A last shot of Saurian Brandy, sir? It is a particularly specialist vintage."

Jim carried out one final baleful surveillance of the room, disappointed at the efficiency of the Enterprise catering staff, and their ability to whip away half-empties and food remains by the very stroke of any party's official end. He must speak to them; it's not over 'till it's over.

"Why not, I'll have a nightcap then head off to bed, thank you Mister Okeg." The Captain and the reptilian aide sat in quiet contemplation sharing the flask until Kirk decided he was beginning to feel a little drunk. Not wishing to appear intoxicated in front of an officer of lower rank he made his excuses and left, swiftly. In the turbo-lift he swayed, glad for the support of the hand-holds. His walk as he approached his quarters became more pronounced, nay exaggerated, as he tried not to veer from one side of the corridor to the other.

Damn, this feels like I am on a real ship, and it's a rough sea.

Buuuuurp!

Was that me?

Just barely managing to get to his door he punched in the door-key only to be greeted by the computer. "Door key sequence incorrect. Please try again." He tried again. The computer repeated her words. He tried again, and again.

Lord, I am drunk-Bones is going to kill me. What will I do now? God I'm starving. I'll go to the mess and get some rations.

A tiny portion of the Captain's brain was not surprised when he found that his legs no longer worked. In abject defeat, he rolled round so his back was to the door of his quarters, and slid down like a Denebian Slime Devil thrown at a wall, legs sticking straight out in front.

Are those my feet?

Minutes, or possibly hours later the Captain hiccupped himself awake, jerked his head up and used his sleeve to wipe a slovenly trail of drool from his chin.

Weird kind of Saurian Brandy, making your body drunk from the waist down. I hope no crewmembers come by, I'll just pretend I'm ill-ate something—no, that might cause a panic. What was I thinking about there? Oh well, mustn't have been important.

Just as he was drifting off again, he heard distant footsteps.

Oh, for the love of Gorn, please don't come this way.

The Captain tried to flatten his body against the door, which was in an alcove caused by a bulkhead. His boots could still be seen, but the Ship's corridors were on night time, so the dim light helped to conceal his traitorous limbs in shadow. A man's voice was talking in a low register.

Spock. Oh please, not him.

"I assure you, Lieutenant, the chances of anyone coming down this corridor in the next hour are 157.2 to one. We are perfectly safe."

Kirk's interest was piqued. He pushed his head forward by inches so he could just see up the corridor.

Spock stood at the junction of two passageways in his customary stance. The person he was talking to was, maddeningly, around the corner and out of sight. "No one will see you enter my quarters, and you may leave in the early morning."

What? The First Officer arranging a tryst? As Spock would say, "Highly irregular." I must be even drunker than I look, and I'm sure I look, as Scotty says, "stoshus and pie-eyed."

Mmm, pie.

Where am I again?

Spock's rich tones brought Jim back to his surroundings.

"Lieutenant, must I pick you up and carry you? I can assure you once we have reached our destination you will be severely and thoroughly punished for your insubordination. I have many inventive methods of chastisement at my disposal."

What? Kinky bastard. I knew it. It's always the ones with a stick up the ass. Who's the lucky girl. Might not be a girl? Who knows with Spock?

The First Officer stepped towards the unseen person. Kirk could only see one long blue-clad arm stretched along the wall, its hand nonchalantly curled around the edge. There were some faint rustling sounds, followed by a low female moan that would have caused stirrings, had the lower half of Kirk been connected to his brain in any way. Spock stepped further towards the hidden woman and there was a shocked squeak, preceding a peal of sparkling giggles.

I know that laugh.

Kirk was astounded to see Spock emerge, facing a quarter-side on to the Captain, with a red-uniformed officer over his shoulder in a fireman's lift. Her luscious round bottom was displayed to wondrous, maximum advantage. She began to protest, kicking her legs and struggling ineffectually against his iron Vulcan grip. "Put me down, you brute!" She was laughing the whole time.

"Be silent woman! Or we shall be discovered."

"Make me."

I know that woman, it's… it's…UHURA!

Jim's stomach dropped worse than it had in that turbo lift malfunction during the Christmas party lift-cramming competition. Scotty had given them all one hell of a dressing-down, lined up like naughty children.

Oh hell. Please don't see me, please don't see me.

Feeling like an intruder, but also completely unable to tear his eyes away, Kirk witnessed an event which, had he placed a bet on it, would have won him enough credits to retire on Risa for the rest of his unnatural life. Spock used his free hand to grab hold of the fabric of the Lieutenant's uniform shorts and pushed them roughly aside. He turned his head away from Jim's direction and placed a firm, but playful bite on Uhura's ass-cheek.

"The next one will not be so gentle." Spock's voice had a teasing rasp to it that meant business.

"Yes Commander." whispered his captive in an alluring way that caused Jim to think wildly inappropriate thoughts about his Communications Officer. He wished to Gorn the brandy had also rendered him deaf and blind and he closed his eyes tight, like a man in a bad dream hoping to wake up. When he opened them again the corridors were empty.

Mmm … lovely, juicy, round, red apple. Take a big bite ... mmm. Why did I think that. I'm hungry. I'm hungry. Where am I?

Oh! Are those my feet?


Jim was almost disappointed to be alive. Ship's daylight penetrated his eyelids, searing his eyeballs with a laser's efficiency. He lay crumpled and sweat-slicked on a bio-bed like the newly-ejected putrid stomach contents of a dyspeptic, disgruntled whale. The pounding in his head made the walls of the sickbay pulse like a drum skin. His mouth had evidently been the toilet of a baby tribble, and then its coffin. Some time in the early morning he appeared to have endured at least ten bouts of wrestling, and been efficiently done over by the Cardassian secret police. In short, if someone had given him a phaser, he might have put himself out of his own misery. Nurse Chapel bustled over to him, infuriatingly cheerful.

"Well, how are we this morning?"

Why do they always say we? It's so annoying.

Jim offered a weak smile, he was sure he looked like a grinning death's head. The nurse continued.

"People never say 'specialist vintage,' do they? It's always 'a fine vintage,' or the year."

Where in Terra was she going with this?

"Specialist vintage is Saurian code for 'spiked'. With delta 9-trans-quatrohydrocannabinol, or Delta Nine-Four as they used to call it, before it became illegal in forty federation areas. And, of course, as Captain, you will have read the regulations about accepting 'under the counter' food or drink." The nurse was as stern as he had ever heard her. "Never mind, you'll live. Do you remember anything, sir?"

Jim's mouth opened, but it was a while before his brain caught up and he lay catching flies for some time. "I was at the reception, that's it."

"Then nothing? Nothing at all?"

"No, it's a complete blank. How, ah, how did I get here?"

"Mister Spock brought you at about 0500 hours. He found you slumped outside your quarters. I got quite a surprise-he just appeared with you over his shoulder in a fireman's lift. He's very strong." The nurse's eyes took on a far-away look. Jim coughed. A fluttering thought about a fireman's lift stirred in the back of his mind, but he had not the mental net to catch it, and it flew away forever.

"Ah well, sir, it's a good job it was just me and Doctor M'Benga. Doctor McCoy would never have let you forget this, especially since you were so entertaining in your sleep."

"Uh?" Jim's stomach tightened.

"It's all right sir, just the effects of the drug. Gorn knows what was going through your mind, but you kept tossing and turning and saying…" The nurse tailed off, obviously suppressing laughter.

"Well, what, Nurse? You can't just leave it there!"

Chapel took a deep, steadying breath.

" 'Please Mister Spock, don't bite me in the ass!' "

-END-