"Buckle Up."

McCoy had started to hate that phrase. It went right on the list under 'Punch it Sulu', 'It'll work', 'Trust me Bones' 'Get us the hell out of here Scotty', and 'I didn't do anything!'. Any and all were harbingers of doom and disaster wrapped in madness and more often than not bloodied bodies. Most of the time Jim's. If not Jim's, then security's or engineering from the last boost of whatever the hell it was Scotty pulled out of his Gaelic ass to get the Enterprise to do the impossible for Jim. Again. Not that it was unusual on this ship. Jim constantly demanded the impractical, impossible, and things that broke the laws of reality of his crew on a daily, if not hourly basis. They beat themselves bloody and worked themselves sick to do it for him. Jim, in turn, threw himself into danger to keep every last one of them whole as best he could, and it always, always fell to McCoy to put him and everyone else back together.

How was he supposed to keep the crew in one piece when their damn captain led by a reckless and hazardous example? McCoy could count on one hand how many away missions didn't end with someone stabbed, shot, poisoned, brainwashed, pollen faced, married, or off their ass drunk. Again, that person is usually Jim. Mostly Jim. Almost always Jim. If he didn't make so much by way of nonlethal injury Bingo and wagers with his nursing staff, McCoy may very well start to get pissed at the man.

In his spare time he'd mentioned the wagers and the randomized bingo cards to CMO's on other ships in the fleet. He'd wanted to share the Enterprise's unique methods used to deal with the weirdness of space. The reactions he received ranged from amusement, bafflement, and incredulity. All asked why.

Why?

At the end of the first few months of their five year mission McCoy realized he had several options. He could drink himself stupid, which worked for all of two weeks before Chapel hid his stash and threatened Scotty with various unpleasant diseases to keep his rotgut out of the medical bay so McCoy'd be able to function. He could keep a journal like a thirteen year old girl, even if Jim insisted it wasn't 'just for teens what the hell is wrong with you Bones this is private get out get out!'.

Exercise did nothing, or immersion in paperwork, and the healing power of tears always seemed like bullshit to him. Plus it was impossible sober, which he was, because of goddamned Chapel. Angel in the emergency room, hard-ass in every other instance. McCoy loved and hated that woman. In a last-ditch attempt before the current set up he decided to rant to the Federation required on ship therapist, which lasted all of two meetings before the poor woman burst into tears and requested a transfer. It wasn't all on him, he swears, but the bet pool was split between his rants and Spock's non answers, to this day no one knows which tipped her over the edge. Or the next one. Or the next one. Frankly the Admiralty got tired of reassigning therapists so the crew of the Enterprise took their current unique and creative defense mechanisms against their issues. Or non-issues, in Spock's case.

Engineering built forts in the Jefferies tubes and assaulted their off duty peers with viscous globs of...something. McCoy only realized how sticky the substance was when three Ensigns showed up glued together by the shoulder and hip, respectively. The Science department still hadn't figured out what they'd used. It took McCoy and Chapel all of two weeks to notice that in accordance with who was shooting at whom, the color and scent were different. To keep score. Of course. He had no doubt there was a board up somewhere with names and dates and if Jim had any kind of sense he'd put a stop to it. But since Jim had no sense and encouraged the competition, all McCoy and Spock could do was work out a chemical that dissolved the goo quickly and circulate it among the Engineering and Security division.

Not that Security was in any way, shape, or form involved in aforementioned guerrilla competition.

Even if McCoy had a record of several Engineering ensigns glued together with bright orange globs of goop that reeks of banana daiquiri that said otherwise. So long as no one's incapacitated during an emergency and Scotty and Giotto don't complain, he saw no need to put a stop to it. Even if his nurses began to mix up their own batch of mint green...something. He'd rather not know. As long as they didn't stick him to Jim, he'd live.

Navigation and cartography mapped out supplemental and vulgar constellations based on various agreed upon fixed points of observation. Jim called it Star Porn with far too much relish for McCoy's future ulcer. Especially since Jim offered a month's worth of extra hot water credits to the first group that illustrated and animated an inter-species orgy that featured at least one Klingon, Romulan, a Ba'neth, and a Gorn out of the stars in the neutral zone. When it happened, not if, because on this damn sip it sure as hell will happen, McCoy planned to do everything he could to keep Jim from sending it to someone he shouldn't. Which would be anyone at all. Even hell-bent on keeping it from happening he may or may not have money in the betting pool that one or several copies would find their way to the Admiralty. It'd happened before with an animated Star Porn lesbian threesome of Orions made of nebulae from the edges of the Alpha Quadrant.

The Admiralty stopped sending the Enterprise on star mapping missions the next day. After the requisite inquiries and protestations of innocence.

No one ever bought it, but no one could ever prove it was Jim's crew either.

Xenoathropology had taken to categorizing all the groups and subgroups of their peers and various departments, mapped their behaviors, and made a wall with a relationship web that spanned the entire goddamn crew. It was huge, multihued, and a thing of chaotic beauty. Especially when you considered they have an entire second one devoted to the shit they made up, because by god they did.

What started as a commentary that may or may not have been a satire of the Federation based on small-scale social experiments and observations brought on by boredom swiftly became something akin to an on ship soap opera. Who ate with whom, who was sick or injured or taken on an away mission could mean anything and everything to them. Every other Thursday they met in rec room 5 to compile their notes, recordings, and observations.

Then? Then they wrote scripts. And auditioned for parts. And added it to the goddamn STORY ARC that was the Enterprise's epic incestuous love affair with itself. Or something. The tag-line changed every damn week depending on who was in charge of writing, and yes McCoy knew this because his goddamn Nurses auditioned for parts or lent their suturing ability to the creation of costumes or whatever it was they needed and they would not stop talking about it while on shift. Ever.

After all that madness was finished the alternating Thursday they acted out what they'd written and the music club played along with over dramatic, weepy tones. It made McCoy ill in a way no hypo could ever cure.

Xenobotany, headed by Sulu, had three teams. One for fruits, one for vegetables, one for flowering plants. All were trying to breed a plant that naturally produced palatable alcohol. The closest they'd come to success was something that looked kind of like an orchid that dripped something that kinda tasted like whiskey. But with twice the alcohol content of Scottie's private stash. As much joy as the plant brought everyone involved in the project, and many that weren't, it and all the notes involved were given over to the grand high priest/ambassador/chancellor/head individual of a planet two months ago to smooth over a bizarre diplomatic incident. They'd tried to sacrifice Chekov and Jim to their gods for their eye color. Or hair color. Or because 'We're just so damn pretty Bones, can't you tell?'

The aliens took the booze plant and the Enterprise got their navigator and their captain back, even while drugged and then depressed at the loss of their whiskey orchid thing.

There was a moment of silence accompanied by profound weeping in the ranks once the crew learned of the Worchid's fate.

Navigation kept track of the most efficient routs to Risa and other Federation sanctioned pleasure planet from wherever the hell the Admiralty'd sent them. Chekov and Scotty regularly had discussions, heated, almost argumentative discussions, about theoretical physics. About what laws would be twisted, broken, or bent over and violated in the worst way to get them there under a week without blowing up the Enterprise. In case of an emergency. Because 'Cabin fewer is a wery serious affliction!'.

Wery serious his southern ass. It wasn't serious enough for Chekov and Scotty to hound him all day to rewrite the psych test for that 'affliction'. Especially if it was to include delusions of grandeur and assault with replicated food. God trips and food fights are not enough to make McCoy go through all the damn paperwork.

However in light of yeoman Sanchez' not quite breakdown two weeks ago where he claimed himself the emperor of eclairs and did his damnedest to assault Spock to the point of unconsciousness or death with cream filled pastries, McCoy would consider it. With a glass of whiskey he snuck by Chapel and one of the few pastries still allowed in the replicators after that incident.

The tactical officers had begun what McCoy can only assume is a complicated and ridiculous scavenger hunt. Of events. That must occur on their shift at the bridge. And included the personal lives, reactions, and turns of phrase of the command crew. Whoever was keeping score was making a hefty sum from the included wagers of the other departments. Along with McCoy. It's not his fault Jim was so damn predictable with his 'But Bones!' and his 'Precisely Mr. Spock.'

Pike may or may not have a few credits in when he knew Jim was about to face the not so subtle scorn of an older, more experienced Captain. Especially if he knew Jim'd get pissed and run circles around them in whatever joint venture they'd been assigned, succeeding in the ridiculous and almost obscene without breaking a single regulation.

Uhura and the communication officers kept busy, kept sane by translating human idioms into basic Standard meanings for other cultures, or so they claimed. McCoy knew they were doing it for Spock. The best bit was when they programmed a Kirk to Standard into Spock's universal translator. The bridge watched Jim use his usual lines and have them repeated in a tinny, computerized tone stripped of all his bravado and charisma and made him antsy and red and it was glorious. Scotty and McCoy laughed about it for hours.

Until Uhura added in programs for them as well.

Then? Then it was war.

With Jim at the helm, it was always Jim with something this silly and insane and pointless, McCoy and Scotty, with the odd help from Sulu, Chapel, Chekov, and any other member of the crew that the communicator annoyed by spitting out stale definitions of their everyday slang, they built a language. Out of nonsense. McCoy blamed his cooperation on Scotty's liquor and Jim's goddamn eyes and the ever pleading 'Come on Bones, it'll be fun!'.

Damn Jim and his damn fool ideas.

McCoy thought it was stupid. At least until he saw Uhura and Spock's faces when the previously coherent translator started spouting gibberish, stuttered, and then exploded before either of them could fix it. McCoy watched Uhura go wide-eyed and pale and Spock's eyebrows twitch and race for his hairline and it'd been so gratifying he couldn't screw with them enough. He'd throw out his drawl when he could and started making up phrases and slang terms and bits of 'old country wisdom' from his 'Grammy' just to watch the hobgoblin twitch.

It was beautiful.

The members of the command crew had their own ways of keeping sane. Sulu taught fencing for recreation and combat. McCoy didn't know which class had more members since an equal amount of idiots came in with scrapes and bruises after both of them. When word reached Sickbay of a damn tournament that'd been arranged he set up a chart with the best times for quickest and cleanest application of a dermal regenerator. McCoy'd name the prizes when he could find something all the nurses would agree they want.

He didn't want those damn fools in his Sickbay any longer than he had to, there were other people who aren't idiots that'd probably need his attention. Except anyone from Engineering. And Scotty. McCoy let the Chief Engineer deal with their twisted, special brand of lunacy on his own. McCoy washed his hands of it after the last damn time they limped to him, every last member of Scotty's little team of specialists was stained bright, fluorescent blue. Jim enjoyed it far too much. McCoy made him spend the rest of the shift explaining his outburst to Spock by way of vengeance. 'Smurf blue Bones! My engineering department is a bunch of SMURFS!'

So. All of Engineering was blue. Except Gaila. She was orange. How that happened he'd never know, but between the color and the fact she smelled like cheap citrus air freshener instead of her usual pheromones he was more than a little out of his depth. After an hour McCoy would've rather taken the pheromones, he'd never be able to look at a citrus fruit the same way again. Ever. Whatever they'd been working on McCoy didn't want to know.

But his nurses did. Even Chapel, the traitor, and they all reported back to M'Benga for his incident chart 'of doom.' Two parts crossword, one part mad libs and five different kinds of crazy scrawled on the wall of his office in different colored marker for the department of the injured party and footnotes for details. Apparently he'd kept one while interning on Vulcan. Just because the cold-blooded elves were logical doesn't mean they were incapable of screwing up spectacularly on occasion.

Reports held firm that Scotty tried to upgrade the Still no one admitted to know about to accelerate the process to obscene levels and make it possible for one to choose a particular flavor of rotgut which would then be dispensed into an innocuous bottle. Gaila's excuse was given with an impressive orange pout. 'An instant booze VENDING MACHINE Doctor, we need that! You know what the captain makes us go through.'

It had gone well until Keenser fell off from his perch on something onto something else that McCoy couldn't understand through the thick, hysterical brogue of the Enterprise's Chief Engineer. It was a wire or a coupling or a lever or a goddamn button but whatever it'd been it was important and Keenser's fall on it made everything go to hell. Thus: smurf engineers, an orange Orion and Scotty reeked of whiskey and bacon when he'd clearly had neither. He'd be much happier if he had eaten.

McCoy refused to leave him in that condition when the other ensigns started to look at Scotty like he was one of his beloved sandwiches.

Cannibalism wasn't only against Federation Law, it was right on top of Jim's 'Do this and have your ass kicked by Spock while he lectures you on the illogical nature of your species you inferior _' list. Aforementioned list is surprisingly short mostly because Jim defaults the crew's punishment to a well known handful.

A) Time in the brig. 'No, not the fun brig, there is no fun brig Bones stop staring at me like that!'

B) A mandatory physical with McCoy. At 0400. Before he's had any coffee.

C) Sensitivity lectures by Spock or

D) Fitness training with Giotto and Cupcake. Ensigns wept in fear of the last.

Chekov claimed various hypothetical planets, stars, and nebulae in the name of Mother Russia. There's an entire sub-network on his console that tagged this and that with the Russian Flag and with notations along with false 'captain's logs' that detailed his bravery when he'd conquered these planets. The rest of the navigation offered commentary and supplemental stories that hailed Chekov as a hero. McCoy didn't want to know.

Uhura and Spock had each other, and used one another to keep balanced and relaxed they manage to keep their peers focused when not cuddled up in an illogical display of affection. McCoy called Jim a lying idiot when he claimed that they were together, even when Scotty backed him up on it. They'd been liars and thieves together with a bond made in the midst of hell and mutiny, of course they'd back each other up on anything. Now, though, he could admit that they were well suited and damned adorable. Even if he never said it out loud. Jim did enough for everyone on board. To the point where he'd been threatened with a nerve pinch six times in the last month alone.

Scotty had his still, his theoretical projects and all the Enterprise to keep him insane. Sanity will never be an option, and McCoy thanked Jim every day for his bullshit that calmed Archer down enough to get the Scot on their ship. Even when he'd aggravated him and sent in blue skinned ensigns or vomited up tribbles.

McCoy and Medical? They had their gossip, their wagers, the charts and lists and smug knowledge that they know everyone's dirty laundry and get paid plenty to keep it quiet. They also had The Wall. On The Wall was a series of lists, exploits, medical saves, improvised cures with credit given where it's due, strange illnesses, awkward injuries, 'epic' recoveries and infamous pollen afflictions. But there is one called The List.

McCoy doesn't know who started The List, but the handwriting includes all the members of the command crew, most of his nurses, all of his patients, and a handful of diagrams courtesy of Spock, Scotty, and Chekov. An entry on The List is always, always, always caused by one James T. Kirk. It's everything he'd done to make McCoy swear up, down, sideways, backwards, forwards, and in a few strands of non-humanoid languages Uhura was kind enough to teach him that Jim will pull something and get them all killed. Almost every entry on The List is something McCoy has said. Every single entry starts with the same phrase.

"Dammit Jim!"