I was working on something entirely different when Dr. McCoy began a monotonous tap on the pipe of my brain. He insisted I write this and since the phaser wasn't set on stun, I quickly agreed.

WARNING: This borders on the silly.

Molecule Toast

I've seen a lot of bad combinations in my life; walking while drunk, gambling while poor, laughing when caught. But this? I'm a doctor, not a matchmaker but even I know when a couple is all wrong. I mean, what's a nice young kid like her doing with a rigid machine like him?

I never pegged the living textbook for a cradle robber.

Not to say I haven't tried to like the green-blooded elf. Five months on this ship and our handful of conversations leave me itching to perform an autopsy because I can't prove he's slightly human by his manners. Cold as space and twice as vacant. The last time I saw eyes that dead was a cadaver. And this wisp of a girl thinks she loves him.

I love whiskey too, but I ain't screwing it.

There must be a sex manual by the bed, telling him what goes where. Though it's gotta be a hell of an explicit book because little Brown Eyes doesn't so much as look at another living soul. Bet he does it precisely by the numbers; step one, step two, complete, repeat. I guess that's enough for her, but I also bet she's doing all the real work. Like getting some robotic dog to sit and stay, she's training him to be a functioning lover. But he sure as hell can't love.

Maybe she's read too much Shakespeare.

I try not to watch them, since it does my blood pressure no good. I see a few of my exes in her; lithe, naïve and eventually disappointed. I couldn't give my gals monogamy and Spock can't give Nyota a molecule of passion. Not a single molecule. Though I'm sure he could recite the definition of passion verbatim. Backwards. And without enthusiasm.

Anyone that smart shouldn't be so damned stupid.

Where I come from, a fellow's got to woo a lady. In the process, a woman will bring a suitor to financial ruin and incinerate his dignity. Which isn't entirely a deterrent, I've found. Apparently, all Spock had to do is raise a bored eyebrow while looking superior and the earthly beauty fell for it. If that's charm, I should be running a harem. Trust me, no one on this ship is quite so enamored with the Vulcan. Lord knows his own parents must have hated him…

They gave him a sound effect for a name.

Having been viciously divorced, I'm in no position to give Uhura advice that she ain't real interested in. I know these young girls have the future mapped out, forgetting all the black holes that devours pretty little plans. And I wouldn't bother to tell Spock anything. I either get 'fascinating' or some version of 'does not compute.' Some days I'd like to compute him right out of the airlock.

But I'll be damned if they don't look happy.

Not that I know what happy looks like on a Vulcan, since they're allergic to smiling. But in the months since our first mission, where the only emotion I've ever witnessed from him was violent fury, my doctoring eyes diagnose contentment. They both wear it like old Earth wedding rings; they match and they fit. And my inner romantic, the one that revives with liquor, says I'm jealous. So I pour a shot to their union, conceding that maybe the walking calculator woos better than I do. And I raise my glass.

Here's to a hell of a potent molecule.

For T'Leba...