Warnings: None
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AN: Written for "The McCoy-A-Thon" on LJ

It isn't the first time Spock's seen him like this, sprawled on a chair in the mess hall, flask dangling loosely from his hand, but it is what he believes whatever proverbial "they" the Captain is always mentioning would deem "one time too many." He takes a seat opposite the doctor, cocking an eyebrow as the other man grins at him.

"Hiya there, Spock," McCoy drawls, waving the hand with the flask wildly in the air. "How ya doin?"

"Doctor, I believe you require some assistance," Spock said, matter-of-factly.

"What're you talkin' 'bout, ya pointy-eared...nut?" McCoy leans forward, looking Spock in the eye, fighting laughter that's brimming up in his throat.

"You have a drinking problem, Doctor."


"Doctor, this is not the first time I have found you in this condition," Spock informs him. "And I am aware of reports from your head Nurse informing the Captain that you have not reported for duty because of this drinking problem."


"Doctor, I would suggest you enroll in some sort of-"

He doesn't get a chance to finish the suggestion, McCoy's fist is too busy colliding with his chin, and he's too fascinated to do anything. Yet. He feels the fist hit his chin, the shot of pain running through his jaw, and he quickly brings up his hand and grabs the doctor's wrist, clutching it tightly until McCoy tries to pull away.

"What the hell'd ya do that for?" McCoy growls, shaking out his wrist.

Spock cocks an eyebrow. "I was merely stopping you from proceeding for fear that you would hurt yourself, Doctor."

"Hurt myself?" McCoy asks incredulously. "What are ya, a moron? I was trying to hurt you ya green-blooded idiot!"

"I am aware of that, Doctor; however, you are more likely than not aware that Vulcan's have superior strength, and that had a fight ensued, I would have, as you say, 'kicked your ass'."

"You're a cocky sunnofabitch, aren't ya, Spock?"

"I am merely stating facts, Doctor. If this makes me 'cocky', then I suppose I must concede the point." As he speaks, McCoy turns away, heading for the door. "Are you taking my advice, Doctor?"

"No," McCoy replies, not turning around or even slowing down. "I'm going to bandage my wrist then I'm going to bed."

 He disappears into the corridor. Spock hesitates a moment, then follows him. He says nothing, does nothing to make his presence known, as McCoy meanders down the corridor to his quarters (not Sickbay, Spock notes). Once McCoy has disappeared inside, Spock waits a few moments before stepping up to the door. The familiar chime sounds, announcing his presence (or the presence of someone) to Doctor McCoy.

The door slides open.

"The hell?" McCoy exclaims as Spock steps into the room. "I thought it might be Jim. Why the hell're you following me, Spock?"

"I wish to make sure that you are all right, Doctor?"

"Do I detect concern?" McCoy asks dryly, sitting down on the couch in the center of the room.

"An interest in the smooth running of this ship, Doctor," Spock replies, standing with his hands behind his back. "Nothing more."

"Oh, of course," McCoy says, nodding emphatically and rolling his eyes. "interest in the ship."

"Are you...making fun, Doctor?"

"No, Spock, never."

"Doctor, I do not understand why you deem it necessary to avoid the issue at hand," Spock says, deciding to try again to persuade the Doctor to seek some sort of help. "If this drinking...habit of yours continues, it could endanger this crew."

"I know my limits, Spock," McCoy says, shaking his head. "I'm a doctor, not a drunk."

"At this point, Doctor, I believe you may be both."

"What do you know, Spock?" McCoy demands, rising and crossing briskly to stand before spock, their noses inches apart. "What d'you know about anything besides logic? Your oh-so-brilliant logic! Gets you through anything, eh? Gets you through loss, even! You're just like a damned machine!" McCoy throws his hands up and turns away, but Spock catches his wrist, pulling him back. A wince crosses McCoy's face, but it passes quickly.

"My people are taught that logic is the way, the only way, yes," Spock concedes. "But you will recall, Doctor, that we are not incapable of emotions. Embracing logic has given us a better way to deal with those emotions, that is all."

"Repression isn't a 'better way', Spock," McCoy grumbles, not even trying to pull away from the Vulcan's grasp. "I know that and I'm not even a psychiatrist."

"It is not repression, Doctor, it is a focusing of energies elsewhere."

"That's repression ya dunderhead," McCoy mutters. He's teetering on his feet, the drink catching up with him. He leans forward, falling slowly towards Spock. The first officer catches him, listens to his slow, steady breathing as he drifts off to sleep, then lays him down on the couch.

"Perhaps it is, Doctor," Spock whispers, standing. "But you are the expert in it, not I."

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