Title: Riddles and Rhymes
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek TOS
Characters: Spock, McCoy
Summary: Everybody is bored. McCoy speaks in riddles. Spock gets confused.

“Stay out of the rain.”

Spock pauses in mid-stride so that he can watch the nonchalant CMO disappear around a turn of the corridor. After thirty seconds of attempting to place the context of the human’s warning—and failing to do so—he resumes heading to his intended destination aboard the Enterprise.

Two days later, the Bridge crew on duty are fighting off yawns and fiddling with buttons at their stations in order to look busy. The Science Officer is the only person presently accomplishing any genuine work. Star-charting is mundane; why the Vulcan seems to disagree is beyond the others’ combined comprehension (they’ve discussed this on occasion via inter-ship messaging). Even the Captain became bored enough that he vacated his favored seat of power and went in search of far superior entertainment and better utilization of his time.

The lifts opens to admit the unexpected Doctor McCoy to the Bridge. Chekov turns and eyes the doctor hopefully. McCoy begins with a slow walk about the upper platform, stopping every once and a while to make a comment or ask questions of no longer dull-eyed officers. When he ignores the Science station altogether, Mr. Spock straightens in his chair and, in keen observation, fixes his attention upon the man’s movements.

Then McCoy steps down to Chekov’s level, smiling good-naturedly, and Chekov greets him with ample, fairly grateful enthusiasm. “Doctor! It is wery good to see you.” He leans over the back of his chair, eyes flitting to Spock and back, before talking in a lowered voice. “Is it boring in Sickbay, too?”

“I’m just sightseeing, Lieutenant,” explains Doctor McCoy in a warm drawl. “How are things with you?”

Chekov launches into a detailed account of everything that has happened to him since they passed each other in a corridor three shifts ago. Perhaps he exaggerates somewhat, but the exaggerations are necessitated by a paucity of drama as of late and, more importantly, for the sake of providing his avid listener with a good story. Chekov believes strongly in the art of story-telling.

At that point, the Vulcan returns to notating events of scientific interest from the computer’s continuous output of readings—of which Chekov is certain there are few. Eventually the doctor is done paying a visit to the Bridge crew. When he says as much, one officer appears as if she might beg him to stay but glances at the stiff back of the Vulcan across the Bridge and drops her eyes to her console instead. Thus Doctor McCoy meanders away but in a purposefully roundabout fashion so that he is within inches of Mr. Spock again (the First Officer is still staring at incoming data and rapping out more data with his long fingers) rather than going directly to the turbolift.

Everyone hears him say, “Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you.” Then McCoy ambles to the lift, pausing to raise his hand in goodbye on his way out.

Chekov returns the handwave with sadness and, sighing loudly, goes back to punching buttons in an oddly musical pattern.

When the CMO and the First Officer are coincidentally riding the same turbolift several shifts later, McCoy’s utter quietness only serves to confuse Mr. Spock into a state of intense tension. It isn’t until the door opens on Deck 9 that McCoy, departing, calls out at the last second from over his shoulder: “If you keep that potato in your pocket, it’ll rot straight through.”

The Vulcan can only stare. Regulation Starfleet uniforms have no pockets.

Within a day he addresses what he perceives to be a misunderstanding or potential problem (though after many fruitless hours of meditation).

“Doctor McCoy.”

The doctor hmphs and adjusts a setting on a biomonitor, then grumbles when it makes a hacking noise. He isn’t paying attention to the Vulcan in the least.

“Doctor,” Mr. Spock tries again.

“Damn it. Make it idiot-proof and someone will make a better idiot. Christine! Get one of the techs up here! It’s broken again.”

Nurse Chapel’s voice drifts in faint waves from another room. “They have to fix the lights in the OR first.”

“What is this, the age of cavemen? I can’t operate by candelight!”

Spock points out logically, “Should candles become the only available option for lighting, Doctor, you would undoubtedly be required to—”

“Wasting time is an important part of living.”

“Pardon?”

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? My unscheduled visit to the Bridge?”

“Negative.”

Doctor McCoy considers Spock for some seconds. Then he shrugs. “Well, I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. About time you quit fussin’ over a little thing like security clearance.”

“Doctor, I am here to discuss…” The Vulcan makes a significant pause in his speech, as if he is processing several explanations and rejecting them one by one. “…your advice,” he concludes at last.

“My advice?” The human rocks back on his heels. “You want advice, Spock?” He sounds gleefully surprised.

“I refer to the advice which you have offered without request on multiple occasions. Am I misdirected in assuming they were meant for me?”

McCoy’s mouth twitches, suppressing a reaction, but his eyes cannot hide his amusement. He says nothing, so Spock continues.

“I desire to understand your unorthodox statements. They do not correlate with the situations in which they were spoken, nor—”

“It’s got to be the cheese.”

Spock’s eyebrows frown severely.

“Now,” adds the doctor, “I do have some real work to attend to, unless you need a lookin’-at.”

“I do not understand,” insists the First Officer.

Doctor McCoy lifts his eyebrow and deliberately misconstrues Spock’s meaning. “Lookin’-at is a loose reference to the general question ‘Are you sick?’, Mr. Spock. So… are you sick? We can certainly do a full health work-up if—”

Spock unclasps his hands from behind his back. “An examination will be unnecessary, Doctor. I must return to duty.” His exit from the medical bay is swift, despite that he has gained only an inconclusive, quite unsatisficatory answer to his question.

Where is there cheese? he ponders.

During a formal conference—a very dull one, that is—held to update all department heads on their unchanged schedules and to announce more plans for mapping this sector of the Alpha Quadrant, a particular blue-eyed senior medical officer is muttering at a dimly lit PADD, giving little heed to the drone of others. Kirk nods knowingly after every two sentences spoken by the current report-giver though he really looks like he is about to fall asleep. Engineer Scotty, however, is asleep since no one sees the point in waking him up.

“Artifical intelligence is no match for natural stupidity.” A soft snort. “Ain’t that the honest-to-God truth! Hmmm… An apple a day keeps the doctor away, if well-aimed.” Lines of humor rapidly deteriorate into a deep scowl. McCoy stabs a finger against the screen of the PADD several times. Finally he slumps down into his chair, back to murmuring to himself. “Put a cat on your head…? Ha! Never’d figure that one out.”

When the doctor glances up (blinking like he is only now remembering where he is), he catches Spock’s intent gaze. McCoy’s eyes widen in response, and the PADD in his lap is quickly powered off and discarded. Then the doctor interrupts the meeting loudly, not quite griping, “Are we done yet?”

Captain Kirk rolls his neck with a grimace. “Nooo.”

“Damn.” The doctor slumps in his seat again, except this time he leaves the PADD untouched on the table. It’s possible he watches Spock out of the corner of his eye until everyone is dismissed; it’s quite possible, actually, since Spock continues to watch him—and notes that the doctor peers in his direction more than once. This suspicious behavior gives the Vulcan much to contemplate upon.

The following stardate James Kirk plops down beside his CMO at a table in the mess hall. First Officer Spock is situated a few seats down (diligently consuming his meal) but not at a distance that prevents him from missing the exchange between the captain and the doctor. His sensitive Vulcan ears have been attuned in the doctor’s direction long before Kirk arrived.

“You look pleased. What’s going on?”

“New orders from Upstairs,” says Jim with a flash of a grin.

“Ah. A break from tedium, then? How thoughtful of Command.”

Jim’s expression is no less infused with anticipation in spite of McCoy’s sarcasm. He and the doctor chat for approximately ten minutes while they eat.

The Vulcan lifts his tray from the table and directs himself to a corner of the cafeteria to deposit the remaining portions of his meal into a disposal unit. As he passes by the pair of officers, McCoy, fork lifted part of the way to his mouth, says, “The proof of the pudding is in every man.”

Spock’s eyes bore into the back of McCoy’s head. He counters, “All generalizations are false, Doctor, including this one.”

Spock is already at the disposal unit by the time the doctor finishes choking on his ill-timed sip of water.

Next to Doctor McCoy, Jim hastily swallows a mouthful of cake. “Did I miss something?” the captain wants to know.

McCoy grins. “If you can’t convince ’em, confuse ’em.” He adds, at Jim’s bemused look, “Don’t worry about it. This downtime is having strange effects on us all. You wouldn’t believe some of the things people’ve resorted to for entertainment.” He collects his cup and tray and stands up. “Oh and, Jim, you might want to spend an extra half-hour on sit-ups today.”

“What? Why?”

“Your eating habits are starting to show.” Doctor McCoy leaves behind an alarmed captain poking at a small roll of stomach fat hidden beneath his gold tunic.

Where the doctor intends to go next is a mystery; however, several ensigns and lieutenants see him trotting down random hallways of the Enterprise, absently acknowledging each greeting tossed at him as he studies a PADD with clear fervor. If these crewmen had heard his earlier words pertaining to the “strange effects” of boredom, they would undoubtedly agree; they also would not judge him on how he relieved himself of that boredom… mischief-making though he might be.

-Fini

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