Notes: Change of pairing! Le gasp! Also, a five and one, but not with its usual format. Just in one big scene instead of all broken up! Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek 2009, and I make no profit from this work.
"Well, if it isn't the hobgoblin and his captain, finally taking the damn time to actually eat."
"Hey, Bones," Jim greeted around a mouthful of poorly-replicated meatloaf, as the doctor joined them at their table in the mess hall. "What bit you in the ass?"
"How about being stuck on this ship full of so-called geniuses who are too damn stupid to know to get out of the way when somethin' weird in engineering sparks at 'em?" McCoy ranted.
"You can't talk," McCoy jabbed a fork in his direction. "'Electrical burn', my ass. I know rug-burn when I see it! Stop screwing on the floor! It's what the damn beds are for, and you can't tell me they didn't have beds in your hotel on Risa!"
"Bones, please! No discussion of sexual matters at the table!" Jim said in a mocking falsetto.
"Like it ever stops you," McCoy griped, but he did turn his attention to the as-yet silent First Officer. "And you - for the last time! Physical. Overdue. Your ass in sickbay before shift tomorrow, or so help me, I'll do that damn physical on the bridge in front of the whole command crew."
"Hardly necessary, doctor," Spock returned dryly. "I am in optimal health and perfectly able to carry out my duties."
"And when you get your goddamn medical degree, I'll let you make that call. Until then - routine physicals, just like everybody else," McCoy sniped. "I'd make it more often than everybody else, what with your damn physiology, but you'd just ignore me twice as much."
"As you are fully acquainted with my medical file, and well-versed in both Human and Vulcan physiology, not to mention my own, I do not see the reason behind the verbal damnation of my physical makeup."
"You know what I mean, you literal-minded idiot."
"Indeed I do not. Your speech is often difficult to comprehend, suffused as it is with somewhat liberal interpretations of Terran Standard."
Jim choked on his meatloaf, and went an alarming shade of red before spitting it out and snickering loudly - and disturbingly like a fifteen-year-old hearing a dirty joke.
"Well, then, Spock, I'll make it simpler for you," McCoy drawled. "Your routine physical is overdue. If you're not in my sickbay in the morning, you'll regret it. You get that, you pointy-eared menace?"
"And he will make you regret it," Jim put in helpfully, chuckling at the completely blank expression on Spock's face.
"And you!" McCoy rounded on Jim again. Never let it be said Leonard McCoy was a xenophobe - Humans and Vulcans were equally damn stupid when it came to their health. "STD shots for Risa. The morning, sickbay, right after his physical. Or before, I ain't picky."
"Heeeey, whoa, I haven't got any..."
"You got a medical degree too now, Jim-boy?"
"The Captain is not in possession of a medical degree, nor could he be classified as a 'boy' under either..."
"Shut it," McCoy said flatly.
Spock shut it.
"No," Jim allowed, "but..."
"No buts. My morning tomorrow is fully booked. Crank up a private room to a stupid heat for a ten-minute physical on this green-blooded bastard, then slap on a glove and go where I really don't want to go with you, then rearrange my hypospray collection. Any questions?"
"No Bones," Jim said demurely.
"Good. And try eating those vegetables as well, not just the damn meatloaf."
"If there's one thing that Spock and I are on the same side on, it's the foul diet of most humans - including you," McCoy griped. "You don't shape up your diet, I'm going to make you. And I can - best damn part of Starfleet regs in the whole manual."
Jim scowled darkly.
"I must excuse myself, gentleman," Spock said, neatly avoiding the brewing argument by rising from the table. "I must return to my experiments in the botany laboratory."
"Sure, Spock, see ya."
"Tomorrow! Physical!" McCoy shouted after him before he disappeared through the doors, and grunted. "For all that he's a walking computer with a memory to match, you watch - he'll claim to not have remembered come morning."
"Hey," Jim snapped. "Stop giving him a hard time."
McCoy raised an eyebrow.
"You're always riding his ass about being Vulcan. Just...just stop it."
"And I'm always riding yours about you bein' you," McCoy pointed out. "What's your damn point?"
"He's Vulcan. He won't get it. Just stop it."
McCoy snorted, and said nothing.
Ensign Hansen's emergency surgery had torn McCoy from the relaxing evening he'd had planned, and so it was that he ended up back in his quarters at 0200 hours, tired and drained, but pleased with the success.
The lights were on, but dimmed, and his weary smile broadened at the wash of gentle heat that embraced him as he stepped inside. He slipped into the bathroom and had a swift blast under the sonics before slipping back into his room and crawling into bed, wrapping himself around the smooth, lean back that awaited him.
The acres of cool skin were a balm, and the doctor in him couldn't resist laying a gentle palm over the inhumanly fast heart, measuring its rate and silently declaring it healthy, before completing its journey and curling into a loose fist against the Vulcan's chest. He breathed in, long and deep, at the nape of his neck, smelling faint shampoo and incense, and the doctor inside once again approved at the evidence of recent meditation.
"Lights," he murmured, and the cabin was plunged into darkness.
The body in his arms stirred, the voice leaking exhaustion, and he flattened his palm against that lean stomach soothingly. "Ssh. S'alright, darlin', s'alright."
Every muscle tensed, and he mentally cursed at having woken him, but relaxed against when Spock simply turned over and planted his head beneath the doctor's jaw, burrowing into him and his body heat like a cat. A moment later, those muscles relaxed again, and he brought his hands to rest on that cool back, stroking idly.
The faint pulse of dreams began to push against his fingertips, warm and content, and he smiled in the dark.
"Love you, darlin'," he murmured - something he could only, would only, say here - and breathed out.
A Vulcan kiss ghosted the back of his shoulder, feather-light, and they were gone.