Hair askew, James Kirk poked his head around the edge of the doorway. “Hey Spock, this place is apparently too old for technology beyond basic electrics – what’s an ancient can opener look like?” “For electrics, a small device usually mounted underneath the upper cabinets, or else stored in one such cabinet; containing a plasticene base with a circular, serrated metal blade. For a non-electric, it is a handheld device containing two handles and the same such blade; usually stored in a utensil drawer.” He refrained from pointing out that soup out of a can was hardly home-made. “Right, thanks.” The captain winked and disappeared. “You know the weirdest stuff, Spock,” McCoy muttered, rubbing his eyes and then coughing hoarsely into the same hand. “I suppose you can tell us the date the blasted thing was patented, too.” “The non-electric can opener, invented by –“ McCoy’s head impacted the table with a dull thunk. “Never mind!” he whimpered, covering his head with one arm. “Just for the love of all that’s holy shut up for a few minutes! Go read your Logic Digest or meditate or something for a while, just go away.” He knew better than to continue against that particular tone of belligerent crankiness, and besides that it smelled as if Jim were indeed burning the cabin down around them. Spock retreated momentarily to the kitchen, just in time to help frantically flap a towel in front of the wall smoke sensor as it screeched its protest to the captain’s supposed cooking ability. This close to the alarm, the pain was excruciating to his sensitive hearing; McCoy’s headache no doubt had been exponentially worsened. Ears ringing, he permitted himself to be shooed away by a slightly embarrassed Kirk, and made his way back into the living room, where their resident patient had in the interim crashed on the small sofa before the fireplace, a pillow over his head. He looked like nothing more than a miserable bundle of blankets and temper, and refused to do more than grunt in answer to Spock’s inquiry regarding his state of health. Spock finally gave up the futile exercise, and settled on one of the ottomans, lyrette over one knee. There existed an ancient Terran saying about music being able to soothe all manner of savage animals, and it was as good a method as any; besides this, it would distract him from the increasingly unpleasant odors and muttered swearing which were wafting from the kitchen area. McCoy lay silent and still through three gentle classical numbers until Spock’s thoughts drifted to their last shipboard concert and Lieutenant Uhura’s various song choices characterizing various regions of different planets. Sudden inspiration hit, and he changed his playing style accordingly. He made a mental note afterwards; apparently, hearing a sentimental Earth song like Georgia on My Mind while ill could cause interestingly emotional effects in otherwise unresponsive humans. Granted, the human in question had been prone to sniffling for the last twenty-four hours or so, but it had not been quite so pronounced until now. Head now visible instead of under the pillow, a watery-eyed McCoy was eyeing him with something he could not readily identify. The doctor opened his mouth to speak, and Spock discovered to his chagrin that he was somewhat embarrassed to know what might be said. He was saved by a small explosion from the kitchen. Blinking, the physician looked aghast at the plume of steam escaping from the open door, then back at Spock, all verbalized sentiments forgotten. A perfectly composed James Kirk strolled nonchalantly into the room, not batting an eye as something fell behind him, rolling through the doorway and under a nearby curio cabinet. “So, I was thinking, we could order Chinese?”