Title: Fire and Water (or, They may extinguish each other but the world's supposed to end with their combined force so you'd better take cover if you want to survive)
Characters: McCoy, Spock, Kirk, various minor and OC characters
Rating: PG
Word Count: 7741 (this bit)
Warnings: basic TOS spoilers for various episodes; not easily-recognized ones and personal speculation are footnoted
Summary: Five reasons why there's only one person aboard ship who's willing to get in-between Commander Spock and CMO Leonard McCoy, and one reason why even that person will duck and run for cover sometimes instead
A/N: This is a sequel, of sorts, to My Captain, but no reading of My Captain is necessary to understand this story. The format is simply the same, and a few references may be made to characters introduced both in that and in A Celebration in Infinite Combinations (my NaNo novel from 2010).

I.

"I really, really hate Mr. Spock right now," Monique Benet muttered, legs swinging idly over the side of the upper bunk.

Peering into the tiny dresser mirror, Angela Martine squinted at a stray eyebrow hair. "Oh? Why's that?"

"He keeps pairing me up in the Bio labs with that horrid little Jamie Carr."

Angela winced. "He's not as bad as people make him out to be –"

"He's every bit as bad, Angela! I can't even believe he's old enough to be a cadet, let alone one of Spock's pet projects!"

"Obviously he knows what he's doing, or Mr. Spock wouldn't have him transferred to Bio from Medical," was the shrugged reply. "I doubt he's trying purposely to annoy you, and you know it."

"Oh, I know it – and I love Mr. Spock, I really do," the redhead sighed, flopping dramatically back onto the bunk, legs still dangling over the side and uniform boots discarded on the floor below. "But he's just so…"

"Clueless about human males and their impulses?" Angela supplied tactfully.

"Yes!"

"Carr's not harassing you, is he? You know even Spock won't stand for that."

"No, no, nothing like that, he is quite harmless. He's just like a little bitty lovestruck puppy, y'know? One that's more in love with a slight French accent than the fact that I can genetically engineer plague-resistant duotriticale?"

Angela hid a laugh behind a pair of tweezers as she went after the offending eyebrow. Robert was probably already loitering in the hall outside, somewhat like that cute lovestruck puppy her roommate was talking about. Only Robert wasn't a creeper, and he wasn't five years her junior, either. Five years was a bigger difference at twenty-two than at thirty, unfortunately for Ensign Carr. "And of course Mr. Spock wouldn't get it if you said the kid was stalking you," she mused aloud.

"Oui, that is a bit overreaction. And besides, can you not just hear him asking for clarification on the term?"

They thought for a moment about trying to explain to their gentle Vulcan Science Officer about the difference between a boy's infatuation and a man's affection, and how fending off unwanted offers of coffee and walks back to cabins wasn't the same thing as playing hard to get.

Both of them burst into giggles at the mental image. "I can already see the eyebrows," Angela chortled, giving her hair a final fluff.

Monique slid gracefully to the floor and began shoving her feet back into the discarded boots. Honestly, whoever came up with this (sexist, for one thing, and uncomfortable, for another) uniform design for Starfleet's female members deserved to be exiled to Rura Penthe. Lieutenant Uhura had mentioned trying to convince the Captain to waive regulation and allow everyone, not just the Engineering crew, to wear the pantsuits if they preferred, and she desperately hoped the Comms Chief would succeed. Granted, the regulation had been put into place to begin with decades ago as a way for species to easily and publicly identify with a specific gender, and it avoided unpleasant HR issues with those non-humanoid species in the 'Fleet whose genders were not easily discernable. But on a primarily humanoid starship, it was nothing more than a nuisance to not have the option.

"Oui, it would not be a good thing," she agreed, mentally bemoaning the fact that she was simply going to have to put up with stalking!puppy!Jamie until Spock re-did the rotation schedules. "Do you think I could get transferred to Sulu's Botany lab instead?"

"Not without a valid reason; neither Spock nor Mr. Scott like to transfer personnel just for personality conflicts, and that comes straight down from Captain Kirk."

"Being followed around off-duty by a little boy who's only on the Enterprise by virtue of his parents' Starfleet connections isn't enough?"

"Monique," her roommate said reprovingly. "He's a brilliant scientist, even if he is a bit young. And you know Captain Kirk doesn't just pick people for the Enterprise based on their names."

"No? How d'you figure Jeffery Garrovick then?" she retorted. "He's in Engineering with you and the boyfriend all the time, and you've seen his work; do you think he got spectacular grades in the Academy? And it's not coincidence that Kirk served under Captain Garrovick on the Farragut before its crew was nearly massacred?"

"Garrovick's a fine Security man," Angela said firmly. "If Kirk picked him for his name, he at least keeps him around because he's good at his job."

"And he is not, for instance, sixteen," Monique mumbled.

"You don't have a problem with Pavel Chekov, and he's by far younger than any of my other friends in Tactical."

"Chekov's annoyingly girl-crazy, but not…" the Frenchwoman paused, thinking, "…so infatuated with everything that walks by in a short skirt that it is uncomfortable. He understands that nyet means nyet!"

"So requisition the alternate uniform from Ship's Stores, and when Mr. Spock asks why you're out of dress code tell him his latest protégé seems to be paying illogical attention to your legs. I'm sure he'll agree with you rather than trying to explain that one to the Captain."

"If I can convince him, that is. You know how he is with his pet projects, and if there's no real harm being done…I do not wish to cause a problem, for the department or the boy, he is just immature. And yet..." she trailed off unhappily.

Angela half-turned, looking at her. "Carr really is bothering you, isn't he?" The other girl nodded. "Why don't you go talk to Christine Chapel, then?" she suggested. "You seem to get on well enough with her. I would say take it to Lieutenant Uhura but she's so tied up with the Comms overhaul it might be a while before you can catch her off-duty."

The young Frenchwoman nodded slowly. "That is quite a good idea. I wonder if she's in Sickbay now?"

Angela poked her head out the door of their cabin, and then popped back in. "No idea, but the coast is clear if you want to make a run for it," she said with a grin, ignoring Tomlinson, who was unashamedly trying to peek into their cabin. "Stop that," she scolded, giving him a solid whack to the arm.

"Ow!"

"Aww, mon petit," Monique crooned as she slipped past the couple, patting the sheepish engineer on the head as she passed (she was a good five inches taller than her roommate's significant other). Robert's ears turned a bright red. "Enjoy your evening, darling."

"Good luck, Monique!" Angela called back as they disappeared around the corner.

Monique sighed, and checked carefully around each corner on the way to Sickbay.

-0-

"Waaaalll, look what the cat dragged in." McCoy's drawl was specifically cultivated, with much experimentation, to needle their expressionless First Officer.

He was not disappointed.

Spock's eyebrows twitched in what McCoy knew by now to be irritation. "Doctor, I am a busy man, and you have interrupted an important experiment in the biometrics lab. If for no other reason than to waste my time with your childish vocabularic exercises, I shall take my leave."

"I'll show you childish, you green-blooded excuse for a -"

"Gentlemen," Chapel interrupted sharply, glaring at her CMO with a fearlessness that instantly raised her estimation a notch in Spock's eyes.

McCoy favored her with a sour look. "What?"

"You have a half-dozen crewmen receiving inoculations within hearing range outside. Play nice, or play outside." She disappeared with a swish of blue skirt out the door, letting in a whirl of sound and chatter for a moment before it slid shut again and muffled the hubbub of the outer ward.

The remaining occupants of the office glared at each other for a minute in stony silence.

Then -

"Proceed, Doctor."

"Look, I need you to -"

They both began speaking at the same time, whereupon Spock did the noble thing and gestured for the physician to proceed (he also knew that, in all probability, McCoy would simply go on until he ran down, and it was simpler just to let him speak).

The doctor leaned back in his chair, half-heartedly gesturing toward the one opposite him, on the other side of the desk. Spock raised an eyebrow, remaining at attention.

"Fine, whatever," McCoy grumbled. "We have a problem, Spock."

"We?"

"Yes, we," the doctor retorted. "It was your decision as much as mine and now it's just started all over again."

"Doctor, your abuse of indefinite personal pronouns is a disgrace to your language; please clarify."

"Ensign Jamie Carr, Mr. Spock."

"Ah."

Blue eyes rolled toward the ceiling. "And you call my indefinite Standard a disgrace to the language."

True to form, Spock ignored him. "I take it that the same problems which necessitated his transfer from Medical have arisen in my departments as well?"

McCoy nodded. "He's not doing anything that can technically be called harassment, he's just alienating a lot of the female crewmen he works with. This's the third complaint Chapel's fielded from someone in your labs, Spock, about the fact that they can't understand why he's one of your favored projects when he's not mature enough to behave himself like an adult."

Spock looked more affronted at the slight to his Vulcan objectivity than disturbed by the continued reports about his subordinate. "My personnel in Sciences believe me to be subjective in my dealings with the crew?"

The doctor brought his hand away from pinching his forehead with a curious look. "That bothers you, Mr. Spock?"

"Concerns me is a more accurate term, Doctor. I was requested, by you specifically, to keep Mr. Carr under a close watch when possible after we made this transfer; I do not wish those under me to believe I am prejudiced in favor of certain crewmen over others. Such a thing is highly illogical."

"And yet it happens," McCoy reasoned. "No one's criticizing you having pet projects, Spock, because pretty much all of your people worship the ground you walk on, even I can see that. And those who don't, don't dare to say otherwise, not on this ship, 'cause we both know Jim would have them transferred at the next starbase if he didn't lose patience and boot 'em out in an escape pod before then. I wouldn't let it worry you too much."

"Worry is a human emotion, Doctor, and therefore a non-issue for me. We have digressed."

"Uh-huh. Keep tellin' yourself that. So anyway, I palmed Carr off on you when he was dragging my nursing staff's efficiency down to an unacceptable percentage, and now he's doing the same in your bio labs. If we transfer the kid one more time the Captain is going to expect a darn good reason for the rapid shift."

"Indeed. One departmental transfer in a six-month period, in cases other than promotion, must be directly approved by the captain of a starship." Spock's brows drew together slightly. "I do not believe the young man to be devoid of potential, Doctor, or possessing malicious intent."

"Me neither," McCoy agreed. "But regardless, we've gotta do something before some less tolerant object of his fascination gives him a swift boot up the backside for his trouble."

"Quite," Spock intoned. "What do you suggest?"

"If we hadn't already transferred him once, I'd say let Carr serve a stint in Recycling and Sanitation, but Jim would have to see that paperwork and will want to know why if we do it now. The kid would be mortified, and Jim would be upset that there's trouble in the ranks. He doesn't really need to be notified of every single crew personality conflict, I think we both agree."

"Indeed." Spock looked thoughtful for a few moments, while the doctor tapped his fingers aimlessly on the table, trying to think of what to do. "Should I speak with Ensign Carr about his undesirable behavior, Doctor?" the Vulcan finally asked, genuinely curious.

McCoy tried valiantly not to laugh but didn't quite succeed. "If you want to embarrass the poor kid from here to the other side of Altair VI, Mr. Spock," he chortled, wiping his eyes. "I can't imagine how being given 'the talk' by your Vulcan CSO will affect his psyche!"

He received a well-practiced look of tolerant Vulcan derision. "I suppose you would be a better candidate for such, Doctor; after all, when it comes to utilizing the more annoying of human emotions you certainly have superior expertise." Ignoring the doctor's spluttering, he continued serenely, "I shall await the results of your talk with the greatest enthusiasm."

"You - I am not going to - Spock, get your skinny butt back in here or so help me I will refrigerate my instruments for your next physical!" he yowled out the now empty doorway.

Outside, Chapel paused and gave him a disapproving look before the doors closed between them.

"Great," he muttered, crossing his arms with understandable petulance. "I'm a doctor, not a relationship counselor." He'd told the captain more than once during the last two months that they really needed to employ a ship's counselor, and this clinched it.

He didn't get paid enough to put up with lovesick kids' dramas and Spock being an insufferable know-it-all.

-0-

"Lieutenant Benet, a word."

Monique jumped, much to the amusement of the young biologist whom she was helping program algorithms for a hypothetical silicon-based lifeform. Spock had a very bad habit of sneaking up catlike behind his people and then making them nearly wet themselves with that sonorous voice booming into the concentrated silence.

"Sir?" she inquired curiously, as she left the tricorder and its programming to her superior and followed the Vulcan a few meters away for privacy. "Have I done something, Mr. Spock?"

"Rather, you have not 'done something', Lieutenant," was the calm reply.

"Commander?"

Spock's eyebrows inclined pointedly. "Lieutenant, if you are uncomfortable around any crewman under my command, regardless of what you mistakenly believe to be their differential status in my eyes, I expect to be told by you rather than the medical staff of the Enterprise, out of concern for crew morale and interaction."

She flushed in embarrassment, feeling a tinge of anger that Chapel or McCoy had seen fit to broadcast what she'd intended as a personal issue. Technically she had been there as a friend rather than a patient, so there was no real breach of confidentiality, but just the same! Her severe Vulcan commander was the last person she would have wanted hearing about such issues.

Spock seemed to read her thoughts on her features, because his stern demeanor relaxed immediately. "I was not censuring your confiding in Nurse Chapel, Lieutenant; in fact I commend you for your pro-active reaction to Ensign Carr's…unwelcomed advances."

"It hasn't come that far, yet, sir. He's done nothing wrong, Mr. Spock," she protested quietly, but trailed off at the Vulcan's dismissive shake of the head.

"Lieutenant, I appreciate your kindness toward the less mature members of this crew; however, I…" he seemed to pause, formulated the rest of his response carefully, and then continued after an awkward moment, "…desire to maintain equal relations with all crewmen under my command, and if you are in any way uncomfortable with a situation regarding a colleague I wish you to inform me of the conflict so that it can be rectified. If that idea produces yet more discomfort for you, please do as you have done and address the matter with a female member of the command crew. It is our job, Lieutenant," he added gently, as she stared at her boot-tips in mortification, "to see that such things do not occur between valued members of this crew."

Benet knew Spock-speak well enough by now to see that it was both an apology and a commendation for handling the situation properly, and also that Spock was apparently disturbed by the idea that some of his people thought he played favorites.

Perhaps he did, to a very small extent; but then so did Captain Kirk and no one hated him for it. Everyone aboard joked about the fact that Spock could abscond with the ship itself and get away with it (supposedly, at some point very early in this voyage, some said the Commander actually had), but it only made the crew love their close-knit command team more. Everyone in Sciences knew that both Spock and McCoy would bend over backwards to make each crewman feel that they were an individual rather than a nameless blue-shirt, and that ability to inspire was the primary reason for the Enterprise having the best science teams in the entirety of Starfleet. If Spock did gravitate toward certain people - like Ensign Chekov, for instance, his new protégé - then it was because they deserved that recognition for special expertise or simply the fact that they understood how to respond to, respect, and flourish under a Vulcan's supervision: something not all crewmen did.

"Thank you, sir," Benet said simply, knowing that anything else would not be welcomed.

"Thanks are illogical, Lieutenant," was the dry (expected) reply, and she smiled.

"Of course, Commander," she said easily. "But permit the illogical humans our little idiosyncrasies, oui?"

The glint of humor in the Vulcan's eyes told her more than their conversation that she wouldn't need to resort to talking to Christine the next time she - or anyone she knew from now on - had a conflict with a crewman.

The fact that apparently McCoy and Spock (because all girls know each others' secrets, and she was willing to bet that Chapel hadn't been the one to break a friend's confidence to a being she had a major crush on) were working together on crew psychology and morale was a bit frightening, but Monique was a scientist - and all scientists know that results speak for themselves.

Bio-Medical consistently got outstanding results, even if their respective heads sometimes reacted like matter and antimatter.

And if it kept the crew entertained meanwhile, who could criticize their unique methods?

The third day after he'd come aboard as Chief Medical Officer, Leonard McCoy had informed his new Captain in no uncertain terms that he expected to have access to the Bridge whenever and whyever he wanted, and if the captain didn't like it then he could transfer him at the next Starbase. Sir.

It had been a gamble, but a calculated one; he was nobody's fool and had studied the psych profiles of his young CO in detail before coming aboard. Kirk's had intrigued, horrified, and amused him in turns, and one thing he had to do first and foremost was learn how to act with the man to accomplish both what he wanted, and what was best for the captain.

He wasn't in error in his evaluation. After an initial incredulous look, Kirk had laughed aloud at his mild insolence and agreed with no real argument. He had gone on to add with a smirk that he could see why the physician's previous captain had been over-eager to be rid of his meddling, and then warned McCoy to not overstep himself in the presence of his subordinates or get in the way of the workings of his ship.

On lazy days – weeks – like this, the physician enjoyed the privilege of fraternizing with the command crew; sitting boredly in his Sickbay for hours on end got old real quick. Four whole weeks had passed, without anything more serious aboard than one isolated case of bronchitis from a crewman stupidly going straight from the gym to bed without taking the time to shower and dry his head, and nothing more serious off-ship than a passing Hi-you-guys-need-anything? to a freighter they'd encountered in the last sector.

McCoy had found soon after joining the Enterprise, however, that these stints of absolute boredom wreaked havoc with the tightly-strung command crew, and especially with the crew's dynamo of a captain.

And here my staff say I'm cranky when I don't get my own way, he thought one morning as James T. Kirk entered Officers' Mess with don't-even-talk-to-me-until-after-my-coffee written all over his grumpy countenance.

The sole ensign who was brave enough to chirp a cheery good-morning to his captain was somewhat mystified to receive only a glare in return as the man slumped into the chair next to his Chief Medical Officer. Luckily, the young man was good-natured himself and only refrained from laughing at the captain's mood, rather than taking offense at it. Well, these kids were selected for their smarts, on this ship; good to know that wasn't just 'Fleet scuttlebutt. This one would survive a while, at least.

McCoy had no such restrictions on taking pleasure in his CO's misery, however, and chuckled into his heavily-sweetened tea (Georgia boys did not drink that swill Jim called coffee, thank you very much).

Then he caught sight of the plate before the younger man, and the amusement promptly turned into a scowl. "What exactly are you tryin' to do, clog your arteries completely in a twenty-four hour span of time?" he asked, incredulously eyeing the enormous cup of coffee and plate of syrup-laden strawberry waffles.

"When I want your prognosis, Doctor, I'll ask for it," the captain grunted shortly, slugging down half the coffee in one drink. "Until then, keep it in your office."

The physician gave him a calculating look; Kirk's eyes were strained, slightly bloodshot, carrying the darkness of vitamin depletion and sleep deprivation below their lower lids. It was not uncommon for captains and high-ranking officers to have difficulty sleeping; that was a proven 'Fleet medical fact, but he'd had no complaints from the man about his sleeping habits. Most men simply asked for a knockout pill for a few days, until the insomnia corrected itself naturally. Kirk had asked him for nothing. Either the man was sick, instead of sleep-deprived, or else he was more stubborn than McCoy had heretofore given him credit for being.

And then there was the eating pattern, which he only now began to see as a vague outline in his mind. He'd personally seen Kirk go without food without a second thought on a disastrous rescue mission – gave it to his subordinates, and ran on fumes and a bit of water for three days, all without really showing any ill effects. And he knew for fact from the first physical he'd performed on the man, that his metabolism was far higher than any other crew member aboard; he fairly exuded adrenaline and nervous energy, one reason why he was so distinct as a vibrant, unusually animated commander.

And yet, even with a metabolic rate like that, the captain appeared to have an ongoing issue with weight gain and loss, a swinging back and forth that was entirely unnatural for a healthy human male with the active lifestyle afforded to the captain of a starship, much less one that fairly shone energy as bright as a star everywhere he went.

Now, McCoy observed, he knew Kirk did not have a habit of eating unhealthy foods; as a general rule, he'd observed the captain eat fairly sensibly. His meal card carried several choices, but none that were ridiculously high in fats or complex carbohydrates, and he doubted the man was getting sweets from someone else. Interesting.

Once the captain was over the growling phase and had moved on to the give-me-more-coffee-and-I-might-not-bite-your-head-off phase, the doctor excused himself and returned to his office, intent upon pulling up the eating records of the captain's meal card for the last five months, since he'd come aboard.

What he found, when cross-referenced with the ship's logs, pointed to one extremely obvious and almost too-easy conclusion.

-0-

"You are describing the psychological process known as 'bingeing,' Doctor, albeit in a more subdued way than the traditional term indicates," was Spock's highly disapproving, and disbelieving, response.

"No, no! For the love of – it's nothing like that," he was quick to protest, sighing at the Vulcan's ridiculous habit of picking apart every detail he spoke. It had been aggravating his first week aboard, and had only gotten worse from there. But now wasn't the time to think about how much he enjoyed riling up the First Officer, or to put into practice his skill in doing so. "It's not bingeing, Commander; if a Starfleet officer had such a severe eating disorder he'd never have made it through the psych evals his first semester at the Academy. It's more of a…I don't even know what to call it really, it's just a pattern."

"Clarify, Doctor."

"It's not that serious, just a...a pattern of comfort foods, I guess you could call it."

"Comfort foods?" The clueless expression on the Vulcan's face was hilarious. "I am unaware of how a food is capable of administering emotional assistance to your species, Doctor, and therefore am entirely ignorant of this term's meaning."

"Ugh, I don't know why I'm even bothering with you..." He sighed. "Look, I'm sure Vulcans don't have such things as favorite foods, Spock, since having preferences is illogical," the doctor replied dryly. "But we humans do. And it's a fairly common occurrence for people to eat things they enjoy, whether they're healthful or not, when they're under emotional or physical stress. Or boredom, as the case may be and as I think the case is, here."

Spock's eyebrows clearly said what an idiotic and illogical notion, Doctor.

McCoy ignored the look. "Statistically, it is more common in women, as their slightly more hormonal states are as a general rule more under fluctuation than men – but it's not relegated solely to them by any means. Like I said, it's fairly common among the species as a whole, and what I'm talking about right now isn't an eating disorder, so if I hear even a hint of that leaving this room, I swear to God, Spock..." he added, dead serious.

The Vulcan's features shifted slightly. "That would be unethical, Doctor. And...unacceptable."

"Well, we agree on something finally."

"Do you have a point to this conversation, Doctor McCoy?"

"I'm getting to it! I'm just saying, it's nothing more than a simple bad habit, Mr. Spock."

"In other words, you believe the captain to have such a habit?"

"Would I be talkin' to you about it if I wasn't sure?" he retorted indignantly. "It's none of your business anyway, it's just that Jim usually eats with you and someone has to start keeping tabs on his caloric intake at certain times."

"Would that not be your purview, Doctor, as you can control what his meal card will permit him to order? I believe the humans call the process dieting."

McCoy shook his head slowly. "It's not really serious enough for that," he said thoughtfully. "I'd rather not have to do that unless it becomes absolutely necessary for the sake of his health."

Spock looked unconvinced. "You have yet to show me any evidence that this…habit, is truly in existence with the Captain's meals, Doctor."

The physician sighed, and punched a button on his keyboard to pull up a graph on the enlarged holographic wall screen. "This is the record of his meal card, Spock; what he orders and when. For example, in the last ten-day period, he's ordered two chicken sandwiches, one vegetable soup, thirty-four cups of coffee – good Lord, he could stand to lay off that at least – and the list goes on, right down to the amount of sweetener he orders on his cornflakes."

"While none of the meals are entirely healthy as a salad, for instance, I fail to see a true problem here, Doctor. His selections are no more varied than any ordinary human's would be."

"Here, no. But when you pull up the graphs for the last five months, Spock…look."

The Vulcan's eyebrows knitted slightly. "I take it you are concerned with –"

"For example, those danged waffles he had this morning. In the one hundred fifty days since our starting out on this mission, he's ordered them seventeen times."

"That is not an outrageous number, Doctor, as I am sure you are aware. They are one of the most popular items on the breakfast menu in senior Officers' Mess."

"But each of those times was in one of two circumstances. One, the morning after a mission went wrong, Mr. Spock," McCoy said softly. "The morning after he lost a man on a landing party or something similar."

The Vulcan was silent, his eyes narrowing in on the graph, which was now overlaid with the incidents marked from the ship's logs.

"Each time – look here, this is after the incident on Dhertos II, where we lost those four hostages to that terrorist group; we didn't lose a crewman but that was a disaster anyway. Here, he had chicken soup for dinner, followed by chocolate cake. And the next morning, two donuts and those four cups of coffee. Usually he's not that careless about it; if he has an unhealthy dinner, he'll have fruit and oatmeal the next morning. But each time something happens on this ship, Mr. Spock, he's followed this pattern. The other end of the spectrum produces the same results; look here. During points where there have been more than two days without any incident, he's been driven to it by sheer boredom probably."

Slowly, Spock nodded, dark eyes tracing the patterns on the graphs. "I see your point, Doctor."

"None of it is even extreme, either. So I'm not sayin' it's anything more than a subconscious desire for what humans call comfort food, Commander," the physician was quick to clarify. "But if he can find some other way to work out that stress and boredom, it'd be healthier for him, mentally as well as physically. Not like he's going to come asking for help, either."

At the still-distrustful look he received, he sighed, and turned the wall screen off with a resigned gesture. "Mr. Spock, my only concern here is the well-being of the captain – which should be the primary concern of any starship's Chief Medical Officer, and the ship's second-in-command," he spoke directly, letting the severity of his tone speak through to that cold logic he never could seem to get past with this man. "I have no intention of filing any kind of report regarding the changes in his eating schedule, but I will impose a diet if I have to. I'd rather not have to."

"What do you propose to do, then, Doctor?"

McCoy threw up his hands in exasperation at the expressionless tone. "I have no idea, for the love of Pete! You're the one who normally eats with him after those catastrophes of missions, haven't you ever noticed that he's not himself?"

"I...have not, Doctor." Was that a twinge of discomfort in the otherwise flat tone? "The captain can be quite the consummate actor regarding whatever he chooses, you must be aware of that."

"Yeah, I am," McCoy sighed, rubbing his eyes with one hand. "It's too much to ask you to be concerned about him, I suppose." He received no answer; and what fun was there in needling someone who never even got offended? "At least, as his First Officer, surely you can find some activity that might take his mind off things instead of just letting him brood about it until he subconsciously turns to, I don't know, the ship's Terran apple pie recipe to burn off that energy?"

Spock's eyebrows did a disappearing act. "An…activity?"

"You mean you've known him for more than five months and you two don't do anything at all together except talk ship's business or play a chess game sometimes?" he asked incredulously.

"Social interaction is an unnecessarily human activity. I…have never given the matter a thought, Doctor," was the apparently truthful, and slightly intrigued, reply.

The doctor turned intense blue eyes on the taller man, the glare stabbing from them enough to make the Vulcan's skin crawl. "Then think about it, Commander, or we're both going to have a problem on our hands before too long," he growled, and waved an empty hypospray casing in dismissal.

-0-

Spock was slightly puzzled by the information he had just been given; not only did he not comprehend in the least how a human could be 'comforted' by edible products, he also was slightly disconcerted at the thought that Jim – that the captain had for some time been so distraught by the deaths of his men or innocent civilians that his eating and sleeping habits had suffered without any notice until this morning. Whatever his problems with their irascible and highly antagonistic CMO, he was however grateful for the human's quick insight.

While pondering the matter, he did remember times as a child on Vulcan, in which he wondered why his mother was in such a terrible mood when there was no logical reason for being so. He would hear his father sigh tolerantly, and Sarek would inexplicably go all the way to Shi'Kahr's spaceports to see if he could locate any (obviously imported) chocolate for his irritable human wife.

Spock had never quite understood the process, but apparently it was logical to fetch what one's bondmate wished if she was so unhappy, even if the item was highly illogical and horrendously expensive on a planet whose inhabitants did not imbibe the substance. He duly took note of the fact.

Apparently human women were not the only gender of the species who were subject to such things; and besides, he had observed that the captain was closely connected with each of his crew and took their welfare far more seriously than he did his own. No doubt, humans had very few mechanisms with which to cope with the grief and guilt that could be compartmentalized and controlled by Vulcan custom and training.

Perhaps that was it. The captain would be highly suspicious were he to increase the frequency of their chess matches or exercise sessions, for those were carefully and rigidly scheduled due to their own responsibilities. Any other activity he could think of involved far more crew interaction than would be healthy for the captain if the man were in emotional distress (not to mention it would be his last choice, as he himself preferred solitude).

But Kirk might be amenable to learning basic Vulcan meditation techniques, enough at least to calm his nerves and control the subconscious urge to find comfort in inanimate objects.

He put his theory into test the next time a mission went wrong.

They had lost only one man to injury (thankfully not death), but the captain was taking it as personally as if he had lost ten; and it had been the young man's fault for not completely following orders and reading the reports that indicated which plants were poisonous on the planet and which were harmless. Still, the crewman's severe allergic reaction weighed visibly on the captain now that Spock was seeking signs of it.

Thursdays were one of their scheduled chess nights, unless they were otherwise occupied, and Kirk showed up two minutes early at his door, asking if they could play in Spock's quarters instead of the Rec Room – a clear indication of his state of mind, as usually the hubbub of his crew served to encourage him rather than cause him to withdraw.

McCoy's words ringing in his mind as warning, Spock had seized the opportunity and invited the human in, then lowered the temperature to a comfortable medium between their two preferences. Kirk put up the token protest but fell silent after little argument, staring at the chess board as if already contemplating his next move.

Spock had moved to the small beverage selector officers were permitted in their quarters, and instead of bringing coffee for the human instead brought two cups of Vulcan spice tea – renowned for its soothing and relaxing qualities in many species, not just Vulcanoid ones.

Surprised, Kirk looked dubiously down at the drink, observed candidly that it smelled rather like wet clay, but obligingly sipped at it over the course of the game.

When, halfway through, it became obvious that the human's mind was not on his play, Spock paused the game.

"Captain, you are too troubled regarding today's mission for our game to be equally stimulating," he said quietly, as Kirk gave up in despair, not caring enough to even protest the putting away of the board half-finished.

The captain rubbed the back of his neck, painfully rolling it from side to side as if trying to release tension from the muscles there. "I know," he admitted. "I'm sorry, Spock."

"There is no need to apologize for what is beyond your control, Captain."

"I've told you, Spock, you can call me Jim when we're not on duty."

It was a plea this time, an almost desperate one, and to refuse to give comfort when it was in one's power to do so was not logical. "Jim," he amended, and the human's face brightened. "If you wish to continue the game another night, I am amenable to that suggestion."

"Thanks, Spock. I appreciate it." Kirk sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose with one unsteady hand.

Now was the chance to play his gambit, and hope the human would fall into the carefully-planned trap. "I shall spend the remainder of the evening in meditation then, Jim. Do not feel that you must leave," he added quickly, as the human stood immediately to give him privacy.

"But…won't I distract you?" Kirk asked curiously, for he had never before, to Spock's knowledge, been told of Vulcan practices. And, one characteristic which had immediately drawn Spock to this remarkable human, Kirk had never inquired into cultural privacy, unlike many impolite humans in the Vulcan's past.

"Negative." Spock shook his head, for that much at least was true; he had given the matter long and careful thought. "Vulcans are taught a focus, a…center, if you will, with which to anchor ourselves so as to successfully shut out the chaos of the world around us. You will not disturb me."

"An anchor…" the human mused aloud, eyes glinting in curiosity and thoughtfulness. "That seems quite logical. How else would you order your mind so meticulously?"

"Quite so." He was pleased, for Kirk showed remarkable understanding and respect for Vulcan culture, one quality that had drawn Spock to the intriguing young man since his first step aboard. "Meditation is the primary method we use in categorizing and controlling those emotions which our ancestors permitted free rein."

The human's gaze turned from hazel to sharp brilliant green in an instant, picking up on the smallest details. "Then you do have them; you simply know how to handle them," he stated, a smile lurking at the corner of his lips.

"Call it what you wish, Captain," he replied easily, circumventing the statement with as much finesse as possible when in five seconds this remarkable man had cut to the truth where most did not care to discern, only presume.

He settled on the floor, carefully lighting the fire-pot and candles, filling the air with the subtle tang of incense – all much more of a show than he would typically perform in privacy, and for a single purpose.

He knew his curious, daring captain well enough by now to not be surprised at the nervous shifting that took place in the human's chair. Ten, fifteen, twenty-three seconds exactly, before Kirk had crouched down cautiously in front of him.

"Can I watch? Will that bother you?" he asked quietly. "You may be truthful, Mr. Spock; I have no wish to desecrate your traditions by my presence. Will it disturb you if I stay so close?"

"I believe, in order, your answers are affirmative, negative, and negative, Jim." The humor was not lost on the younger man, for a sunny smile broke momentarily through the clouds of guilt that obscured Kirk's countenance. "You will, however, need to seat yourself upon those cushions," he added, indicating the several comfortable ones across from him, placed there carefully by him before opening the door for their game tonight.

Kirk cast a pointed glance at the bare floor upon which he was sitting.

"Your human circulatory system is not equipped to compensate for five hours' worth of little to no motion, Captain," he explained with a perfect lack of guile. "Besides, you will not be actually entering into the levels of meditation and as such will be aware of your surroundings; to do so in discomfort is illogical."

"Okay," the human agreed easily, and crawled into a relaxed position atop one of the cushions, squirming for a moment until he was comfortable. "Perhaps some of your tranquility will rub off on me, Mr. Spock," he said with a small smile, leaning back against the wall.

"You could, in theory, learn the basic levels of meditation, Captain," he spoke, and thereby played his trump card, gambling on the nature of the man before him. "They are not difficult, and could offer a suitable alternative for you when sleep is not available; such situations arise frequently, as you are aware, while starships are on high alert status, for example."

Appealing both to the curiosity and the rationality was always an effective two-edged sword; and, already lulled into a mellow state by the tea and incense, Kirk was only too eager to learn more.

An hour later, Spock had coaxed, cajoled, encouraged, and nearly lost all patience with the human, for Kirk's dynamic mind was utterly unable to reach even the first level of peace which began the process of meditation. The human's emotions were too chaotic, his thoughts too vivid and quick-moving, his very nature too energetic, to successfully master the art. To use a human turn of phrase, Kirk was a totally lost cause.

But Spock had suspected this already, and was therefore not disappointed. Instead, he encouraged the human to try once more. Kirk was already more calm, more relaxed, though he had not succeeded in the technicalities of meditation, and so had no idea how thoroughly he had failed the Vulcan test. Instead, he smiled his thanks and began anew, closing his eyes for the instructed one-hundred-eighty seconds.

Only this time, Spock did not tell him when those seconds were up, only began slowly projecting an aura of calm and peace as best he could into the room. Kirk was of course not telepathic, but he had shown a remarkable receptivity to psionic persuasion. And while Vulcans were touch-telepaths, they did have a limited empathic ability which would equate to what humans called a 'sixth sense.' That was to Spock's advantage now, as he slowly wove a network of peace around the drowsing human.

And when, three minutes and twelve seconds later, Kirk's breathing dropped into the rhythmic cadence indicating peaceful sleep and the human unconsciously slumped over onto the cushions with a muffled thump, he allowed his lips to quirk at the corner in a tiny gesture of satisfaction.

Then he logged a report to Dr. McCoy, and dimmed the lights in preparation for his own meditation. Perhaps it would do little good for the human's eating habits, but at least it might aid his state of mind.

He knew the experiment had been a success – and that he had acquired the man's complete trust – when the captain returned for another 'lesson' after the incident on the Tantalus penal colony, and then again after the entourage of Kodos the Executioner had been taken off the Enterprise.

Dr. McCoy was insufferably smug for a fortnight after Spock's report, but that (most unfortunately) was nothing new.