A/N: Written for Deannie for the Stocking Stuffer fic exchange at The Beta Branch! It's still winter, right? ;) Enjoy.

Better to Give

Snow swirled thickly from a slaty sky, fat white flakes as large as coins, obscuring the towering mountains in the distance and adding to the already considerable piles on the sidewalks. It settled softly onto hats and coats alike, caught like spun sugar on eyelashes, and added heavenly halos to the festive strings of colored lights strung across every storefront and across the road. Between the snow, the halos, and the flock of rosy-cheeked shoppers, the scene felt more like an ancient Norman Rockwell painting than the colony on Deneva Prime. Everyone around him seemed to be cheerful and smiling.

Dr. Leonard McCoy, Chief Medical Officer of the Federation starship Enterprise, hugged his arms to his chest against the winter chill and scowled.

Really, he should be thankful the Enterprise had the luck to be near Deneva in time for Christmas. Crew morale always slumped a little around festive periods, when homesickness tended to hit particularly hard. Only a handful of the crew could be classified as devoutly religious but the majority took part in the more secular elements of the half dozen or so winter holidays observed onboard. The prospect of shore leave coupled with the upcoming festivities had morale so high it nearly made McCoy nauseous.

Which took McCoy back to his current dilemma. With this crew and particularly this captain, there was always some sort of problem or other. But this wasn't a broken bone or trying to get Starfleet to actually fill his damned requisitions in time so he could keep Sickbay running. Those he could handle. No, this was a problem of a different sort. Although, he thought, it did have a familiar name: Jim Kirk.

The imminent onset of the winter holidays brought McCoy's least favorite part of Christmas: buying presents. He'd never enjoyed it much, even when he was married and actually had someone to buy presents for. What little fun it had been died long before his signature dried on the divorce papers.

McCoy's nose wrinkled with distaste as he peered through a festive window display of old Earth fruitcakes (fruitcakes!) piled with oranges and draped in red ribbons. Fruitcake, of all the damned things. Nobody wanted a fruitcake, let alone Jim Kirk.

The doctor trudged on through the snow. Cold was beginning to trickle through his Starfleet boots and he still wasn't any closer to finding a gift for his friend. He stepped to one side to let a woman and her daughter, both heavily laden with packages, pass him by.

The funny thing was, he could never put his finger on when exactly they'd become friends. Kirk had wormed his way into McCoy's life that fateful morning on the academy shuttle, and despite McCoy's best efforts to dislodge him, he'd stayed there. It was, in all honesty, one of the best things that had ever happened to him. Cocky, corn-fed Jim Kirk had just about singlehandedly dragged McCoy out of his post-divorce wallowing and back into the world. The corner of his mouth quirked up a little.

Not that he'd ever admit any of it to Kirk, of course.

Morosely, McCoy surveyed a window piled high with some unholy tangle of what appeared to be sporting equipment, though he sure couldn't tell which sport it was for. Some of it resembled football pads, which had some merit. Maybe Kirk would manage to bring himself home from an away mission unharmed then, if McCoy stuffed him into a helmet and shoulderpads.

That'd go over about as well as a lead balloon. He chuckled at the thought and moved on. It had been hard back then to imagine having any friends at that point in his life, let alone a best friend. The hell of it now was when you had a best friend, you had to get the guy a damn Christmas present. He was, McCoy thought, sorely out of practice.

The next store was so covered in signs proclaiming its low prices that McCoy could hardly tell what it actually sold. He stuck his head inside to see stacks of warm-looking sweaters and other clothing. He withdrew with another scowl. Clothing was practical but somehow too intimate, even for Jim. He had no talent for joke gifts, unlike Scotty or Kirk himself. But he couldn't just leave with nothing.

McCoy sighed and glanced at his chrono. He only had an hour until he had to be back to the ship and he was still no closer to completing his mission. He had been past nearly every shop on the street, and still, nothing. Was it too much to ask for a Klingon raid, right about now? Surely that would be better than any more of this damned shopping.

The last shop on the street was a little dingy, for this part of town, and had only a few half-hearted paper snowflakes taped onto the glass storefront. Through the window he could see rows and rows of bottles crammed into the interior. A drink sure sounded good about now. Pity Jim was still up on the Enterprise…

McCoy glanced back down the street, then back at the store. Inspiration finally struck. He smiled and went inside.

A few hours later, he was back onboard the Enterprise with a pair of glasses in one hand and a long, thin package tucked under one arm. He rapped on the door of the Captain's quarters with his knuckles.

"Come," Kirk's voice called from inside, and McCoy pushed the button. The door wooshed open, revealing the captain sitting at his desk. A couple stacks of datapads teetered haphazardly in front of him. "Bones!" he exclaimed with a grin.

"I come bearing gifts," McCoy said, holding up the long package. The brown paper wrapping crinkled under his fingers.

Kirk rubbed his hands together eagerly. "You know, you didn't have to," he said, while McCoy handed him the package. It was heavier than it looked, and Kirk hefted it experimentally. He raised a hopeful eyebrow at the soft glug of liquid inside.

"Sure I did," McCoy said with a chuckle. He deposited the two glasses on the desk and took a seat across from Kirk.

He studied the captain with a practiced eye while Jim unwrapped the bottle. He looked tired, McCoy thought. Evidently the month's festivities had been wearing on him. The captain, of course, was expected to participate in all of the ship's various events and parties, all on top of his usual duties. Kirk did it and did it gladly, because he cared about his crew, but that didn't mean it didn't take something out of him.

"Is this…?" Kirk asked, his voice trailing off as he held the slender blue bottle up to the light. A grin spread slowly across his face. "Bones, is this even legal?"

"Didn't your mama ever tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?" McCoy smirked.

Kirk snorted. "Or in this case, a bottle of Romulan ale." He set the bottle on the table and looked up at McCoy. "Seriously, Bones, where did you get this?"

"Little shop on Deneva," McCoy told him. "There was 'bout an inch of dust on the bottle. I'd say that means it's probably pre-embargo goods."

"And therefore legal," Kirk added with a laugh.

"Couldn't let a perfectly good bottle of Romulan ale go to waste," McCoy told him. "Just like I couldn't remember the last time we'd had a quiet drink, Jim."

Kirk smiled. He extracted the cork and poured a couple of fingers' depth of ale into each glass. He handed one to McCoy and they clinked glasses. They each took a drink. Kirk leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, savoring the taste of the Romulan ale. McCoy smiled and took another drink of his own.

Kirk's eyes opened. "Thanks, Bones," he said, breaking the friendly silence. He still looked tired, but also more relaxed. He didn't have to put on a show here, not for McCoy. "I mean it. This is…great."

"You're welcome," McCoy said, and he meant it.