Title: A Suitable Cause
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek TOS
Characters: Kirk, Spock, McCoy
Summary: Written for sullacat‘s prompt during a jim-and-bones “resolutions” flash!fic challenge: Jim: To keep from ripping all his gold shirts on away missions.

As their captain waddles up to the transporter pad and with great difficulty tries to climb the two steps to his proper beaming position, no one says a word. Nothing can be said that wouldn’t result in a mass relocation of the beaming party to the brig where Kirk would likely imprison them until the Enterprise is decommissioned.

Still, that doesn’t stop one security ensign from stuffing a fist against her mouth and turning red in the face. A few tears of laughter leak out of the corners of her eyes.

Captain Kirk comes to a jarring metal clang of a stand-still next to Sulu. Looking straight ahead, he orders, “Beam us down to the planet, Mr. Spock.”

The First Officer nods minutely as he activates the transporter controls. Chekov leans toward Sulu from the left and says, “It vould be good to be a Wulcan.”

Sulu silently agrees. Vulcans have the best poker faces in the galaxy, and—he steals a glance at his armor-plated starship captain—if this resolution of Kirk’s continues, Mr. Spock may wind up manning the Enterprise by himself.

A giggle escapes from somewhere at their backs. Kirk’s face twists into a hard grimace, and he almost barks out (is that a hint of embarrassment Sulu hears?), “Now, Mr. Spock.”

“Yes, Captain,” agrees the Vulcan in a very placid tone.

The moment before the team’s molecules disperse Sulu thinks he sees a less-than-unaffected gleam in Commander Spock’s dark eyes.

Oh crap, they’re ALL going to end up in the brig before the week is out.

~~~

“Your new outfit not working for you, Jim?” drawls an amused voice.

James Kirk wrenches at his dented breast plate, having forgotten where the straps are to remove it in proper fashion. “Bones,” he snaps, “less talk and more help!”

McCoy lifts an eyebrow. “I’m a doctor, not a medieval manservant.” The man snorts. “I’ll go get Scotty. He can cut you out, I bet.”

Jim makes a noise of frustration, rocks back on his heels, and gives up. Unfortunately he does not account for the weight of the armor and he tips backward with a shout, a desperate pin-wheeling of arms, and lands with a bone-jarring crash on the floor.

McCoy is kneeling down and slapping at his face in an instant, saying, “Jim? Jim! Are you all right? Damn it, Jim, what possessed you to think this infernal contraption was a good idea!”

Jim peeks open an eye and grunts. He doesn’t know whether to be grateful the suit of armor has saved him from injury or to curse it for existing. But he had thought it necessary…

“Bones,” he says with a tiny flare of smugness, “it worked.”

McCoy sits back on his heels. “What did?”

He wants to grab McCoy’s shoulder but abandons the attempt and lets his metal-encased arm flop back onto the floor. “My shirt,” he says as if the two words explain everything. He grins widely. “Ha! I’d like to see my yeoman complain this time!”

“Oh, I imagine she will,” the CMO says dryly. “Especially if you intend to keep dressing up like a knight of Camelot.”

Bones could be right, Jim decides, so he mentally strikes the idea of suggesting to Rand she add armor-polishing to her list of duties. (He somehow doubts her response would be polite anyway.)

“King Arthur,” he corrects as he tries to sit up. “I’m a captain so that means I’d be a king of Camelot.” After a minute, he huffs out, “Bones.”

McCoy grabs at one of his shoulders and helps pull him into a sitting position—which results in extremely uncomfortable pressure on his nether regions. This armor, it seems, isn’t built to bend at the waist.

Jim can’t get his feet under him and McCoy, after several curse-laden attempts to drag the captain to his feet, lets go of him.

“Damn,” the doctor complains as he rubs at the bicep of his right arm, “it’s like tryin’ to budge a baby elephant.”

Kirk is too busy rolling from side to side to answer, looking for purchase so he can lift himself from the floor.

This is why he missed half of the fight with the enraged natives, he thinks sourly. He had tried to charge them (like a good protective captain at the forefront of battle) and tripped over a tree root (not his fault, his visor fell shut and he could barely see out of its thin eye-slit, let alone see where he was running) and lain stranded on the ground like a turtle on its back while his away team defended themselves until the ship beamed them out. It had taken four men to lift him up from the transporter pad and six men total to hustle him to Sickbay where Bones declared he only suffered from a sprained ankle and a bruised ego.

Jim can still hear the echo of laughter in his head, even if nobody dared laugh while in his company.

He surfaces from his thoughts in time to see McCoy step away from the wall comm.

McCoy catches his ill-tempered look. “Don’t worry,” the doctor assures the captain, “I called in some help.”

Jim doubles his efforts to get up. His thrashing around only serves to increase Bones’ amusement. A short time later, he stills when he hears the swishing sound of a door sliding open but he is in the wrong position (face-up) to see the newcomer.

McCoy however is looking across the room and grinning crookedly. “I think Jim-boy here needs a hand,” he announces.

“Indeed” comes Spock’s voice.

Kirk suspects he fails to look dignified from the floor.

Without a word, the Vulcan plucks him up and sets him on his feet.

Jim clears his throat twice. “Thank you, Mr. Spock.”

Spock returns his hands to their usual position behind his back and inclines his head. To McCoy, “If you do not require further assistance, I must return to the Bridge.”

Yet Spock pauses, adds, “Captain…” He doesn’t look directly at Kirk. “It is inevitable that, when a mission is of a sufficient level of danger, you will encounter forces which may prove detrimental to your attire.”

“Are you saying he’s always going to get his shirt ripped off, Spock?” McCoy asks incredulously.

Spock blinks. “To deny the truth is illogical.”

As one, Spock and McCoy turn to regard Kirk. Jim shifts uncomfortably in his suit of armor and is surprised to discover no hot rejoinder is forthcoming. He thinks he might be blushing.

Doctor McCoy remarks almost idly, “You know, Spock, besides saving that damned gold shirt of his, the armor did keep Jim outta the fray.”

“An astute observation, Doctor,” agrees the First Officer. “It may be possible to adopt a material less cumbersome than iron for a purpose similar to that of the armor’s. I will discuss the matter with Engineer Scott.”

“But I don’t need—” Jim begins.

They aren’t listening.

McCoy turns a considerate and friendly expression upon the Vulcan. “A man after my own heart,” the doctor murmurs. “Huh, we may just get along fine on this five-year mission, Mr. Spock.”

“I am told a common interest is beneficial in order to improve work relations, Doctor McCoy.”

Never again, Jim thinks. Never again will he give Spock relationship advice of any kind.

“Jim’s definitely a common interest,” the CMO says somewhat gleefully and adds, still gleeful, “I could use some help in removing that godawful armor, if you have a minute or two.”

Spock lifts an eyebrow. “Does the medical bay have an appropriate tool?”

“How about a surgical laser?”

“A laser should suffice.”

Jim is left standing there (unable to run lest he fall over again, and unable to cry out for help lest he appear scared of two of the ship’s senior officers) while Spock and McCoy, in charity with one another, plan what is certain to be an unpleasant and educating experience for Jim.

Armor, he concludes, is simply too much trouble to save a gold shirt. Maybe he should look into wearing one of those green wrap-around tops Yeoman Rand requisitioned. It would be easier to remove, after all, if he had to fight…

-Fini

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