Diagnosis: Terminal Entanglement

by aegis_scientiae

Summary:

Leonard McCoy did not mean to stumble on a deeply classified exchange between his captain and his science officer in a forgotten corridor. Nor did he expect to spend the next week pretending that everything was perfectly normal aboard the Enterprise—while those two made eye contact like it was a tactical maneuver.

Post-V’Ger and post-denial, Jim and Spock are very quietly and very obviously married. McCoy is not coping.

Featuring: turbolift interrogations, briefing room chaos, away mission nonsense, and one increasingly exasperated CMO with a growing list of psychological concerns (and several new incident reports).

Or: five times McCoy witnessed something, and one time he wrote it down.

Notes:

Takes place a couple years after V'Ger during the 12 year gap. (Between the events of ST I: TMP and ST II: TWOK.

I love McCoy so much. He puts up with. A lot.

This fic is just a love letter to Jim and Spock being annoyingly in love and married.

Chapter 1: Unscheduled Observations

Leonard McCoy did not make a habit of wandering into restricted access corridors without reason. That was Jim’s territory—Jim who strolled where he pleased like he was king of the damned galaxy. Jim who flirted with death, regulations, and every species this side of the Neutral Zone. Jim who—McCoy reminded himself as he rounded a quiet bend between Deck 5’s auxiliary conference rooms and a long-unused briefing alcove—was still his commanding officer, and more relevantly, his oldest friend.

He’d only meant to find a moment’s peace from the infernal hum of Sickbay—just a quick detour en route to his quarters after a double shift and three minor emergencies. But of course, quiet never lasted on the Enterprise .

It started with voices—sharp and low, a clipped exchange in tones too formal for argument but far too charged for comfort. McCoy paused out of habit, ears pricking.

“…not here,” Spock was saying. His voice, usually level as a tricorder readout, held an edge of tension. Not loud, not desperate—just tight .

“I don’t give a damn,” came the answer. Jim. Irritated, emotional. So, business as usual.

McCoy leaned forward instinctively—and then stumbled back with a muttered curse as something thunked against the wall.

Correction: someone .

From his angle just beyond the threshold, all he could see were shadows. But the unmistakable silhouette of Kirk’s back shifted as he leaned in, pinning Spock to the bulkhead with the kind of force that suggested more than mere disciplinary urgency.

McCoy opened his mouth—then closed it again as Jim grabbed Spock’s uniform at the collar and kissed him like it was a matter of national security.

Spock didn’t shove him off. Didn’t even flinch . Instead, his hands came up—slow, deliberate—and found their way to Jim’s shoulders. There was no mistaking the familiarity in the touch. 

McCoy stood frozen in the corridor like a man who’d just been hit by a phaser on stun.

Well , he thought, hell .

Spock was speaking again—something soft, private. It didn’t carry. But whatever it was made Jim smile in that maddening, quiet way of his, all smug relief and barely-concealed affection.

McCoy backed away without making a sound, boots silent against the deck plating. There were some things a man didn’t want to know.

But God help him, he knew now.

And he had questions .

After a drink. Or three.

 

---

 

McCoy didn’t stop walking until he hit his quarters.

The door hissed shut behind him, and for a moment he just stood there—hands braced on his hips, head tilted back, eyes fixed on the bland beige ceiling like it might offer absolution or explanation. Neither came. He exhaled hard and headed straight for the cabinet over the sink.

One glass. Two fingers of Saurian brandy. He didn’t bother with the lights.

"Typical command dynamics, my ass," he muttered.

The first swallow went down hot and smooth. Not smooth enough .

Because now he had a situation on his hands. Not a medical emergency—thank God for that—but a psychological one, and worse, it came with faces he knew too damn well. Faces that had just been far too close to each other for plausible deniability.

He slumped into the chair by his desk and glared at the darkened monitor like it might volunteer insight.

Jim and Spock.

Jim and Spock.

To be clear, McCoy had seen a lot in his years aboard the Enterprise —Klingons, Romulans, salt vampires, godlike entities with more power than wisdom—but somehow this cracked the top ten. Maybe even the top five.

It wasn’t that he minded , exactly. He’d suspected something for years, really—half a glance here, a silent moment there, Spock’s maddening habit of knowing what Jim wanted before Jim did. Jim’s willingness to lay down life, limb, and logic for that pointed-eared bastard time and again. Sure , it had crossed his mind.

But seeing it—

Seeing Jim slam Spock into a wall like that, then kiss him like it was the only thing keeping the ship from falling out of orbit— that was new.

McCoy took another drink.

Not that it changed anything. They were still the same stubborn idiots he’d been patching up and pulling out of fires for years. Still the same pair who’d drag each other out of hell one minute and argue Starfleet protocols the next. If anything, this just explained a hell of a lot.

Still.

He leaned back in the chair, letting the glass dangle between two fingers.

It also meant that every time Jim barked a command and Spock obeyed it with half a raised brow and that insufferable air of reasoned superiority, McCoy would have to wonder .

Was that Starfleet regulation or marital compromise? Tactical judgment or domestic detente?

He groaned. Out loud. Then dragged a hand down his face.

“Should’ve just stayed in Georgia,” he muttered to the empty room. “Opened a nice little clinic. Delivered babies. Treated sprained ankles.”

Instead, here he was. The captain pinning his Vulcan to bulkheads in forgotten corridors like a lovesick teenager.

McCoy finished the drink in one go, thunked the glass down, and sighed.

Eventually, he’d have to talk to them. Not to lecture—he wasn’t their father , thank God—but someone had to ask whether this was new or whether he'd just been criminally underinformed.

And if they were together—really, officially together—he had some demands. Not least of which was that they stop making out near airlock doors and phaser storage lockers. One misplaced kiss, and half the damn crew could end up vaporized or traumatized.

He rubbed his temples. "God help me. I'm going to have to write up safety protocols for Vulcan-human necking ."

He rose from the chair. Paused.

Then reached for the bottle.

Tomorrow, he’d corner one of them. Probably Spock—he’d break faster under scrutiny. Or at least blink slower.

But for tonight?

Tonight, McCoy poured himself another drink and muttered into the quiet, “Of course it had to be a Vulcan. I told him not to do anything stupid.”

He drank.

Too late.

Chapter 2: Internal Escalation Protocols

It was the longest turbolift ride of Leonard McCoy’s entire medical career.

Not because it broke down—not because of anything mechanical. No, the lift functioned just fine.

It was psychological . The dread. The knowledge. The anticipation. The certainty that the moment those doors opened and he stepped onto the bridge, he’d have to look both of them in the face and pretend he hadn’t witnessed the command equivalent of a Harlequin novel three decks down.

He squared his shoulders, did his best impression of a dignified officer of medicine, and stepped out.

The bridge hummed with its usual morning rhythm. Chekov, bright-eyed and painfully cheerful, greeted him with a “Good morning, Doctor!” like the sun had risen just to see him.

McCoy grunted in response and made his way to the port-side science station— avoiding , very deliberately, the command circle.

But his eyes betrayed him. They always did.

Spock stood, ramrod straight at his console, hands behind his back, face composed into an expression of serene detachment. Unreadable. Impeccable.

Which would’ve been reassuring, if McCoy hadn’t noticed the faint, almost imperceptible discoloration on the edge of Spock’s collar—like someone had gripped it, hard.

God damn it, Jim.

And there— there was the bastard himself, lounging in the command chair with one leg crossed loosely over the other, fingers steepled beneath his chin in a posture McCoy recognized as his “I have a secret and I’m not telling you” mode.

Jim glanced up. Smiled.

A perfectly normal smile.

Too normal.

McCoy narrowed his eyes and gave a tight nod. Kirk’s smile deepened.

The bastard knew .

He was about to turn away—just ignore it, pretend he had never seen anything, pretend everything was perfectly ordinary —when Spock spoke.

“Admiral, long-range sensors have picked up a communications relay anomaly near the Gamma Hydra sector.”

“Mm?” Kirk didn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Anything interesting?”

“I am running a detailed scan. Preliminary readings suggest it is a drifting civilian transponder buoy. Likely inactive.”

“Let me know if it’s worth investigating.”

“Affirmative.”

Perfect. Civil. Starfleet professional.

Except—

Except Spock’s fingers tapped the edge of the console with a rhythm McCoy never saw from him. An unconscious twitch. He was fidgeting .

And Kirk, the picture of calm, shifted in his seat again—but McCoy could see it now. His left hand, resting lightly on the armrest, curled inward once. Twice. A tiny motion. Like a habit.

Like he was fighting the urge to reach for someone .

McCoy stared. Then looked away before one of them caught him staring . He busied himself at the auxiliary medical terminal. There was nothing there, of course, no reports due yet, no critical readouts. He stared at a blank bio-monitor with the intensity of a man seeking divine truth.

Which, apparently, he was. Because the more he watched , the more he realized: they were terrible at hiding it.

Oh, they didn’t touch. No smiles exchanged. Not a word out of place. But it was the space between them. It was Kirk’s every sideways glance. It was the way Spock pivoted exactly fifteen degrees toward the captain when he spoke, never more , as though even his posture was carefully tuned not to give anything away.

Which, paradoxically, gave everything away.

McCoy resisted the urge to laugh. Subtle , his ass. If this were a medical scan, he’d call it conclusive.

"Doctor," Uhura said pleasantly, turning slightly from her console. "You're staring."

"Am I?" McCoy replied, blinking. He smiled in that particular way only Southern men and officers of the Federation could manage. "Just observing, Lieutenant. That’s all."

Uhura gave him a look. Not unkind, but wry. "You’re not nearly as sneaky as you think you are."

McCoy coughed into his hand and turned back to the terminal.

 

---

 

Not ten minutes later…

Spock crossed the bridge to hand Kirk a datapadd. There was no reason he had to do it personally. No reason he had to step so close, angle his head like that, speak in that low, too-even voice that no one else could hear.

Kirk, for his part, looked up with the softest damn expression McCoy had ever seen on him. It was gone in a blink, replaced with the usual commanding resolve—but McCoy saw it.

The slight tilt of his head. The near-smile in his eyes.

That did it.

McCoy pushed away from the medical station and marched over.

“Captain,” he said loudly. “I need to speak with you in private.”

Jim blinked. “Now?”

“Yes. Now.”

He didn’t wait for a response—just turned and stalked toward the turbolift, knowing full well that Kirk would follow.

The doors closed behind them. Silence.

And then McCoy turned to him, jabbed a finger toward his chest, and said, “ What the hell , Jim.”

Kirk smiled like the cat who had not only gotten the cream, but also kissed the damn milkman.

“Bones,” he said. “You’re going to have to be way more specific than that.”

“You want specific , Jim?” McCoy hissed, once the turbolift doors had shut and the humming silence of descent wrapped around them. “Fine. Let’s try last night , Deck Five, outside the auxiliary briefing alcove. You. Spock. Wall. Lips.”

Kirk didn’t even blink.

McCoy stared at him, waiting— hoping —for something. An apology, a denial, maybe even a laugh. But instead, Jim Kirk just folded his arms across his chest like he was settling in for a pleasant conversation.

“I see,” he said mildly.

McCoy rubbed a hand over his face, resisting the urge to throttle him.

“‘I see’? That’s all you’ve got?”

“Bones, what do you want me to say?”

“How about, ‘Leonard, I’m sorry you had to witness my extremely personal moment with my first officer in a public damn corridor’? That’d be a start!”

A beat. Then—

Kirk grinned. “Were we that obvious?”

McCoy made a strangled sound. “Jim! You slammed him into a bulkhead like you were staging a Klingon opera, and then you kissed him like you were trying to rewrite his DNA.”

Kirk didn’t look remotely repentant. If anything, he looked pleased . Proud, even. “Well,” he said, “I am a very committed partner.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” McCoy stepped back, flailing one hand toward the lift ceiling. “How long?”

Kirk raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘long.’”

“ Kirk. ”

Kirk sobered. Just slightly. “Since before the V’Ger mission.”

McCoy blinked.

“You mean you’ve been— since then ?”

Jim shrugged. “Give or take a few miscommunications, yes.”

McCoy exhaled and leaned back against the wall. He felt like he needed a sedative. Or another drink. Possibly both.

“All this time,” he muttered. “And you didn’t think to mention it?”

Kirk looked at him, then tilted his head. “Would it have changed anything?”

“Hell yes, it would’ve changed something! Like my entire perception of reality ! I’ve been standing on the bridge with you two for years watching you pass PADDs back and forth like it was an ordinary day at the office. Meanwhile, you’re married in everything but paperwork!”

Jim’s gaze went soft at that. “We are, actually. Bonded. Vulcan rite.”

McCoy froze. “You mean—you’re bonded ?”

Kirk nodded. “Formalized after the V’Ger incident. About a year after, to be precise.”

McCoy blinked again. “Does Starfleet know?”

“No.”

“Does anyone on board know?”

“No.”

McCoy threw up his hands. “Then why did you think it was a good idea to act like hormonal ensigns in the middle of a shared corridor where anyone could walk by?”

Jim raised a single finger. “Correction. I thought it was an empty corridor.”

“You’re damn lucky it was me and not someone from the junior command track. They’d be running a pool on who’s topping who before shift change.”

Jim didn’t even blink. “They already are.”

McCoy made a noise that defied classification and slapped the emergency stop. The lift jolted to a halt between decks.

“Jim,” he said flatly. “I am too old, too sober, and too Southern to process this much at once. I need you to take this seriously.”

“I am taking it seriously.”

“Really? Because right now you’re treating this like a punchline!”

Kirk’s expression finally shifted—quieting, softening. The smile faded, leaving something steadier behind.

“I do take it seriously, Bones,” he said. “Spock is… the most important person in my life. Has been for a long time. We just—we didn’t feel the need to publicize it. It’s ours.”

McCoy looked at him. Really looked.

And for all the levity, all the posturing, there was something in Jim’s eyes that silenced him. A quiet steadiness. A certainty. That rare, raw kind of honesty Kirk only showed when there was nothing left to prove.

“I see,” McCoy said at last. Quieter now.

Jim nodded once. “I didn’t mean for you to find out like that. But… I’m not sorry you know.”

McCoy looked down at the floor, then huffed. “You realize I’m going to worry twice as much now, don’t you?”

“About what?”

“About you two. If one of you goes down in the field, the other’ll be right behind him, protocol be damned. You were bad enough before the kissing.”

Jim’s mouth quirked. “Then nothing’s changed.”

“Everything’s changed.”

A pause.

Then McCoy hit the panel, and the lift resumed its climb.

“You tell him I want a word next,” he muttered. “And if he so much as raises an eyebrow at me, I’ll take a hypospray to it.”

Kirk smiled faintly. “Understood.”

The lift doors opened onto Deck Two.

McCoy stepped out, paused, and threw a glance over his shoulder.

“Just… try not to do it near my Sickbay, will you?”

Kirk’s eyes twinkled. “You got it, Bones.”

And then he was gone.

Chapter 3: Terms of Engagement

McCoy had expected resistance. A well-placed Vulcan eyebrow. A claim of privacy. A polite refusal followed by a polite silence followed by a polite door closing in his face .

He did not expect Spock to agree to meet with him immediately after alpha shift ended.

He also did not expect Spock to be waiting for him when he arrived—already seated, hands folded with impossible calm, as though this weren’t a conversation about wall-kissing, emotional intimacy, and Jim Kirk’s complete disregard for plausible deniability.

“Doctor.” Spock inclined his head when McCoy stepped in.

McCoy scowled. “Don’t try to charm me, Spock. You already corrupted the captain.”

“I believe you will find the reverse is equally arguable.”

McCoy squinted at him. “So you’re admitting it?”

“I am acknowledging that the relationship between myself and Admiral Kirk has progressed beyond the purely professional.” A pause. “Some time ago.”

McCoy pulled out the chair opposite him and dropped into it. “That’s one hell of a euphemism for married by telepathic soul-bond , Spock.”

Spock blinked. “I did not realize you were familiar with the term.”

“I’m a doctor, not a theologian, but I read . And I listen.” He pointed a finger. “More importantly, I saw . You two weren’t exactly subtle yesterday.”

Spock inclined his head again. “No. We were not.”

McCoy let that sit for a moment, waiting. When no elaboration came, he scrubbed a hand through his hair. “All right, let’s try this another way. Why now? Why kiss him in the corridor in the middle of a shift rotation like you were starring in some kind of Vulcan soap opera?”

Spock regarded him levelly. “We were not on duty.”

“You were in uniform .”

“That is not synonymous with duty.”

McCoy closed his eyes. “Spock. Spock. Listen to me. You’re the most buttoned-up, regulation-bound son of a logic cult I’ve ever met. And that’s before you started sleeping with the captain. So what ,” he opened his eyes and leveled a look at him, “possessed you to make out with him three feet from a turbolift door?”

A long pause. Then, in a voice far too neutral:

“He kissed me.”

McCoy narrowed his eyes. “And you let him .”

“Affirmative.”

“Spock, do you even hear yourself? You realize this makes you his accomplice , right?”

“I am his bondmate.”

“That doesn’t make it better!”

Spock tilted his head minutely. “It is not worse.”

McCoy threw up his hands. “And you’re sure you’re bonded?”

A pause. “That is a curious question, Doctor. Given I was present for the ceremony.”

“Forgive me if I’m having a little trouble squaring you , Vulcan paragon of personal restraint, with the guy I saw getting smooched into a Jefferies junction like he was part of the infrastructure.”

Spock was silent for a long time. Then—

“I believe you are… unsettled.”

McCoy stared. “ Do you think? ”

“You have always been protective of the Admiral.”

McCoy didn’t answer.

“I do not take offense,” Spock continued. “In truth, I find your concern for him commendable. You have served beside him longer than I have. You have saved his life on more than one occasion.”

McCoy squinted at him. “Is this some kind of preamble?”

Spock met his gaze directly. “Yes. I intend to assure you—formally and without reservation—that I do not intend to harm him. In fact, I would go to great lengths to prevent any such outcome.”

There was no inflection in his voice. No tremor. Just fact .

And damn it if McCoy didn’t feel his defenses slip just a little.

“Then what,” he said finally, “do you intend ?”

Spock’s fingers twitched faintly atop the desk.

“To stand at his side, for as long as he will have me.”

McCoy blinked.

“And when Starfleet tries to come between you?”

“Then I will stand at his back .”

McCoy leaned back, exhaled slowly. “You Vulcans really don’t do anything halfway, do you?”

“No.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

Finally, McCoy grumbled, “Does he make you laugh?”

Spock blinked. “Pardon me?”

“I said,” McCoy waved a hand, “does he make you laugh? Not publicly , not with your face—God forbid—but deep down. In that place where your weird green blood tells you when you’re happy.”

There was a pause.

“Yes.”

McCoy nodded once. “Good. Then I suppose I’ll allow it.”

“Allow it?”

“As chief medical officer and the only person on this ship with half a brain not romantically entangled, yes . I’ll allow it.”

Spock’s expression didn’t change, but there was a subtle lightness to his posture now, a barely-perceptible easing of his shoulders.

“I appreciate your… sanction.”

“Don’t push it.”

McCoy stood, then paused at the door.

“And Spock?”

The Vulcan looked up.

“If you ever break his heart—” McCoy’s drawl sharpened, cool and deliberate, “—I’ll find a way to invent a hypo that works on Vulcan katras . Understood?”

Spock inclined his head. “Understood.”

McCoy gave a nod and left.

Chapter 4: Public Displays of “Command”

To their credit, they did try.

For exactly thirty-six hours following his separate lectures— debriefings , if one wanted to be charitable—Jim and Spock appeared to make a concerted effort to behave like respectable, regulation-adhering officers of the fleet.

No intense eye contact during shift handovers. No synchronized chair swiveling. No mysteriously delayed turbolift arrivals when the two of them were aboard. No… touching.

McCoy had almost begun to hope.

Then came the staff meeting.

Scheduled, as usual, in Briefing Room One. Agenda: a straightforward rundown of long-range sensor anomalies and some debate over which survey sectors to prioritize. A perfectly routine morning.

McCoy arrived five minutes late, coffee in hand, and found the nonsense already well underway.

Kirk was seated at the head of the table, all warm smiles and casual charisma. Nothing new there. What was new —or rather, what had grown so familiar it was now starting to become a problem —was the way he was leaning. Slightly. Just slightly. As though drawn toward his science officer by some invisible field.

Spock, in turn, sat with one hand flat against the table, the other tucked neatly into his lap, attention fixed on the main screen. All business. Except—

Except his chair was a few degrees closer to Kirk’s than necessary.

McCoy squinted. That was a deliberate lean. Vulcans didn’t slouch. That chair was angled . Subtly. But it was angled .

“And if we adjust course by three degrees,” Spock was saying, “we can align our trajectory with the anomalous readings near sector 203-G. There is a 76.4% probability of discovering useful mineral deposits.”

“Spock,” Jim said, his tone low and oddly fond, “you just want an excuse to drag us back toward that nebula where you ‘accidentally’ took those environmental samples last year.”

“I fail to see the relevance of your insinuation.”

Uhura didn’t look up, but McCoy could tell she was smiling . Sulu pretended to cough. Chekov was wide-eyed and clearly taking notes for later.

McCoy raised a brow. “Is this a staff meeting or a domestic dispute?”

Kirk turned toward him with a winning smile. “Why, Bones—don’t you think a well-managed starship is a well-managed household?”

“Only if your definition of ‘well-managed’ involves light flirting over duty rosters.”

“I do not flirt,” Spock said, without looking up.

“You definitely flirt,” McCoy muttered, mostly into his cup.

Kirk shrugged. “Doctor, I can assure you that my appreciation of Commander Spock’s intellect is entirely professional.”

“And mine for the captain’s leadership capacity is entirely logical,” Spock added.

McCoy stared at them both. Then turned to Uhura. “Do you see this?”

Uhura sipped her tea and said nothing.

“You all see this,” he added, eyes sweeping the room. “Don’t try to pretend you don’t.”

“I think it’s nice,” Chekov said brightly. “Very romantic.”

“They’re not supposed to be romantic , they’re supposed to be running a starship.”

Sulu tapped a few notes into his PADD and offered helpfully, “Well, they are running it. Just… you know. With eye contact.”

McCoy groaned. “This is it. This is how the ship goes to hell. One minute it’s eye contact and shared metaphors, and the next, we’re being blown to bits because someone was too busy holding hands at tactical.”

Spock’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. “We do not hold hands at tactical.”

“Not yet ,” McCoy shot back.

Kirk smiled. Not his captain smile—his private , pain-in-the-ass smile. “Would it help if I filed an incident report?”

“Oh, please do,” McCoy muttered. “Title it ‘How I Made Out with My First Officer and Accidentally Broke McCoy’s Faith in Objective Reality.’ ”

Spock tilted his head toward Jim. “He is exaggerating.”

Kirk nodded. “Only a little.”

The meeting continued.

Sort of.

Every so often, McCoy caught one of them looking at the other—too long, too soft—and then looking away like nothing had happened. Like they weren’t bonded by Vulcan tradition and apparently making it everyone else’s problem .

By the time the briefing ended, McCoy had scribbled “THEY ARE UNHINGED” in the margins of his PADD three times. Underlined twice. Once in Klingon.

He caught up with Kirk outside the conference room.

“Jim,” he said, catching his sleeve, “you’re not subtle.”

Kirk looked genuinely confused. “About what?”

McCoy gave him a long, flat look.

Kirk’s eyes sparkled. “Bones, we’re trying .”

“Try harder ,” McCoy growled. “Or I swear I’ll start posting daily updates to the crew bulletin titled ‘Signs Our Captain Is Hopelessly in Love With His First Officer: A Running List.’ ”

Kirk’s smile was positively serene .

“Thanks for the feedback, Bones.”

McCoy groaned and stalked off.

And—damn them both—he smiled .

They were going to drive him insane. Slowly. Thoroughly. Affectionately.

 

---

 

The Bridge, One Week Later

Quiet shift. Routine patrol. Starfleet Command hadn’t issued anything more urgent than a reminder to file quarterly psych evaluations—which McCoy had already written, submitted, and immediately regretted writing when he realized half of them read like romantic prose poetry once you knew what to look for.

It had been exactly seven days since the… incident. He’d spoken to them both. Set firm boundaries. Cautioned against further indiscretions in public spaces. He’d expected backsliding. What he hadn’t expected was the slow-motion descent into the most civilized form of chaos imaginable.

They were obeying every regulation.

They just weren’t fooling anyone .

“Report?” Kirk asked, in that easy, controlled tone he used when not flirting.

“Minor subspace fluctuations,” Spock replied from his station, hands poised over his controls. “Nothing that would endanger our current trajectory.”

“Good.” A small nod. “Carry on.”

Normal , McCoy thought. Perfectly normal.

Then Spock added, “Adjusting forward sensors to sweep 42 degrees on the horizontal plane. The anomaly appears… intermittent.”

“Got a hunch?” Kirk asked, without looking at him.

“Merely curiosity.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Kirk murmured.

McCoy whipped his head around so fast he nearly sprained something. But Jim’s expression hadn’t shifted. Still calm. Still focused on the viewscreen.

Spock said nothing.

Uhura glanced over her shoulder, blinked at McCoy like she dared him to say a word.

He didn’t. He was too busy gritting his teeth.

Later, it was the turbolift again.

They emerged together. Always together. Kirk with his hands clasped behind his back, Spock a precise half step behind, angled toward the captain in that protective way he probably thought no one noticed.

McCoy did.

So did everyone else .

They paused outside the science station—Spock adjusting some scan parameters, Kirk peering over his shoulder as if the view of blinking lights was the most fascinating thing in the galaxy.

Then Kirk leaned in. Not much. Just enough that his shoulder brushed Spock’s. Not so much a touch as an accidental alignment of planetary bodies .

Spock didn’t flinch. Didn’t acknowledge it.

But the corner of his mouth—not a smile , never a smile— tilted . Minutely.

McCoy made a noise that drew attention from two ensigns and pretended to drop his stylus.

They were going to kill him. Slowly. With restraint .

“Is everything all right, Doctor?” Kirk asked brightly from across the bridge.

“Oh, just peachy, Jim,” McCoy said, kneeling to retrieve the stylus. “Never better. Just watching you and your Vulcan do your little orbital dance again. It’s enchanting .”

Chekov blinked. “Is the captain dancing?”

“It’s metaphorical,” Sulu muttered.

“ Barely ,” McCoy added.

Kirk looked innocently at Spock. “Commander, have we been dancing without realizing it?”

Spock considered this. “If so, it is highly efficient. I have not missed a single scan cycle.”

Kirk gave a beatific nod. “Well, then.”

McCoy stood up and counted slowly to ten. Then twenty. Then twenty-eight , for good measure.

“You’re both insufferable,” he muttered.

“Doctor,” Spock said, tone as dry as Vulcan stone, “that assessment has been previously recorded.”

“I have records , Spock. Logs. I’ve got enough material for a full dissertation on ‘Interpersonal Conduct in the Starfleet Command Structure When Said Structure Has Been Compromised by Whatever This Is .’”

“You’re very welcome to publish,” Kirk said cheerfully. “Just be sure to cite us as co-authors.”

McCoy pressed a hand to his temple. “Lord help me, you would want a byline.”

 

---

 

By the time his shift ended, McCoy had written up three imaginary citations, one sternly-worded note to Personnel, and a draft message to Starfleet Command that simply read “HELP.”

He didn’t send it.

But he did add a footnote to Kirk’s psychological profile:

Displays strong attachment to science officer. Further observation required. Also: stop touching him on the bridge, you menace.

He saved it. Closed the file.

Chapter 5: Practical Applications

McCoy didn’t mind away missions. Not in theory .

Sure, they involved a lot of tramping around on uneven terrain, fiddling with environmental scanners that never calibrated properly, and occasionally getting shot at—but there was something refreshing about not being in Sickbay for once. Out in the field, at least the dangers were straightforward: poisonous plants, local fauna, ancient ruins with strong opinions about trespassers.

But that was before he started being assigned to double shifts on away teams with Kirk and Spock.

Together.

Because now, instead of watching for venomous spores or sudden atmospheric instability, he had to worry about—

“Jim,” he barked, “would you please stop making eyes at your first officer and look where you’re walking?”

Kirk, perched halfway up a rocky incline and climbing far too fast for someone in his forties with three cracked ribs (two of them recent , McCoy recalled with fury), didn’t even turn around.

“I’m not making eyes at anyone, Bones.”

“Captain,” Spock said calmly from just above him, “I believe Doctor McCoy is referring to the moment you turned to ask about my readings and did not resume forward progress for approximately twenty seconds.”

“That’s not ‘making eyes.’ That’s basic command awareness.”

“You said I had beautiful hands,” McCoy snapped.

Kirk did pause then. Glanced down. “…Did I?”

“You did,” Spock confirmed, from the high ground. “Approximately eight minutes ago. Immediately after I recalibrated the seismic sensors.”

Kirk looked up at Spock, shrugged. “Well, he does . Have you seen what he can do with a tricorder?”

McCoy threw up his hands. “This is a dangerous and possibly unstable terrain , not a couples retreat!”

“Doctor,” Spock said mildly, “we have not encountered evidence of seismic activity for nearly—”

“I don’t care if the tectonic plates are singing lullabies. One of you’s going to fall into a crevasse because the other wouldn’t stop being smitten. ”

Kirk grinned and hoisted himself up the next ledge. “You’re just mad we didn’t bring you flowers.”

McCoy groaned. “If either of you brought me flowers, I’d assume they were carnivorous.”

“They would not be,” Spock said calmly. “Jim knows my preferences.”

McCoy stared up at them, deeply aware he was outnumbered, outmatched, and increasingly out of patience. “Let’s just finish the survey, collect the damn samples, and get off this rock before one of you starts composing sonnets.”

“Spock does write poetry,” Kirk offered helpfully.

“I know ,” McCoy muttered. “He sends it in the mail. On vellum. ”

 

---

 

They reached the top of the ridge thirty minutes later, the climb blessedly silent for at least half of it. The plateau was wide, ringed by low cliffs and scattered with strange, crystalline outgrowths.

“Seismic sensors are reading stable,” Spock reported, kneeling to examine a cluster of amber-colored shards. “Atmospheric composition unchanged. No signs of sentient habitation.”

“Good,” McCoy said, pulling out his scanner. “Let’s collect what we need and beam up before anyone starts making out over the mineral deposits.”

There was a soft hum as Spock’s tricorder activated. “These formations are silicon-carbon hybrids. Possibly useful for alloy development. I will collect several specimens.”

“I’ll help,” Kirk said, immediately.

“You’re the captain ,” McCoy said.

“Exactly. I should be setting an example.”

“You’re setting an example, all right.”

But they’d already moved off together—Spock kneeling beside a crystal growth, Kirk crouching next to him, their arms brushing, heads tilted toward each other like conspirators.

McCoy stood alone for several minutes, scanning the surrounding area with practiced efficiency. No movement. No interference. No threats.

Nothing, he thought, except those two acting like this is a honeymoon with tricorders.

He glanced back at them.

Kirk was murmuring something too low to hear. Spock, lips faintly parted, responded with a barely perceptible nod. One of them reached over—briefly—to adjust a sensor, fingers grazing knuckles.

McCoy narrowed his eyes.

That wasn’t a necessary adjustment. That was foreplay .

“Bridge to away team,” came Uhura’s voice, clear and blessedly professional through their comms. “We’re picking up elevated energy readings in your sector—possibly residual from subterranean crystal fields. Recommend wrapping the survey and preparing for transport.”

“Understood, Lieutenant,” Kirk replied. “Give us five.”

“Make it three,” McCoy said, already packing his kit.

Kirk straightened. “You’re not enjoying the scenery?”

“I’d enjoy it more if it weren’t being used as a backdrop for Vulcan courting rituals.”

Spock arched a brow as he stood. “Doctor, Vulcan courting rituals require formal declaration, physical meditation, and—”

“Don’t tell me. I’m sure Jim’s already been through the syllabus.”

“Actually,” Kirk said brightly, “he annotated it.”

McCoy groaned so hard it echoed off the ridge walls.

 

---

 

By the time they beamed back aboard, McCoy was already mentally drafting a new memo:

TO: All Medical and Command Personnel
FROM: Chief Medical Officer McCoy
RE: Romantic Entanglements During Away Missions

f you are bonded, mated, or otherwise stupid in love with another member of your team, please refrain from demonstrating said attachment in active field conditions, on unstable surfaces, or within five feet of a hostile mineral formation.

Addendum: if your name is James T. Kirk or S'chn T'gai Spock, this applies doubly.

 

Chapter 6: Observational Notes (Updated)

There’s a kind of horror, McCoy thought, in witnessing people so completely, absurdly in love that they start reorganizing their entire professional dynamic to accommodate it—while insisting nothing’s changed.

He’d seen Spock duck into a supply closet once because Kirk looked at him with the wrong smile . Seen Kirk sit through an entire staff meeting with a bandaged wrist and a face that radiated “Spock bandaged this and therefore I am fine forever.”

They were not subtle.

They were not quiet.

They were not— and this was the worst part — doing anything actually against the rules.

But McCoy still felt like he needed to file a report.

Or an exorcism.

Or a request for reassignment .

Hell, maybe all three.

Shipboard Log: Confidential | CMO Leonard H. McCoy, M.D.
Subject: Kirk, James T. / Spock, S. — Observational Notes (Updated)

Symptoms:

• Smiling at each other for no goddamn reason
• Coordinated leaning
• Psychic nonsense
• Spock allowing hair-touching (?!)
• Jim refusing treatment unless Spock administers it
• Mutual “accidental” handholding
• Spock voluntarily visiting Sickbay??

Diagnosis:

• Terminal romantic entanglement. No known cure. May be contagious.

Recommended Treatment:

• Separate quarters
• Vulcan chaperone
• Cold showers and logic puzzles
• Restraining field (last resort)

Additional Notes:

• If I walk in on one more forehead kiss I’m sedating myself.

He hit save.

He hit encrypt .

And then he poured himself another drink.

Because Jim Kirk loved the pointy-eared hobgoblin.

And God help them all, Spock loved him back.