Leonard "Bones" McCoy

Following their halfway smooth departure from the party, Leonard led the way back to Jim's quarters, pausing only to key in the code before shooing the young captain inside. By the time they were both in the softly lit room, the CMO was literally sweating bullets. He'd never felt this nervous in his life, and even though he knew there was probably nothing to be nervous about, he couldn't force himself to relax.

So, he translated it into some pacing, unconsciously fingering the small box in his pocket again. "Jim ... I know we mentioned it once ... then never talked about it. But ... I've been meanin' to do this for a while ..."

They had exited the transporter room and made it to the med bay in record time, by Leonard's modest estimate. Quite honestly, he'd never seen Jim move that fast to get anything done unless it involved some form of mischief. Nonetheless, he was grateful to be out of sight of the rest of the crew and back on his home turf.

"Alright, Jim," he began, giving the other man a gentle push towards one of the biobeds. "Let's have a look at your latest achievement." He was resolutely ignoring his own injury because he knew Jim's back required far more attention than anything he needed.

His PADD gave a short trill, and the CMO glanced over at the offending object, his exhausted expression promising murder. As the message scrolled across the screen, his sleep-clouded eyes barely comprehended the words:

To: dr_mc_coy
Frm: suluh
Subj.: Flight practice
Dr. McCoy,

I am going to be in the hangar between 2400 and 0300. I would like you to supervise the testing of some of the shuttles.

-Lt. Sulu

Oh dear Lord. He had agreed to that, hadn't he? Following his discussion with the young no, not young, really old pilot, he had returned to his quarters and drank himself into a stupor, aiming to put all thoughts of flight and the supernatural out of his head. Well, that plan had worked until the damned PADD woke him out of a deep, and hungover, sleep. His head was pounding and the last thing he wanted was to go flapping around the shuttle hangar.

With a tired sigh, he rolled over and buried his face in the pillow, the gears in his brain already attempting to pull together a plan to coax Jim down the the hangar for a little entertainment, even though he wanted nothing more to sleep just a bit longer.

Oh well, he was awake. No point in letting his gamma shift day go to waste.

At first, it was just a subconscious prickle. Like that itch that keeps itching but you can't seem to scratch it. Then, it evolved into a strange pulling and pressure against his skin, unusual, but not entirely uncomfortable. He could live with it. He was nearly thirty years old; and had just begun serving under the notorious James T. Kirk aboard the Enterprise. He'd gone through far worse and knew he was bound to endure far worse during his time with Starfleet..

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