Fic: So Foul and Fair A Day, NC-17
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singularityTitle: So Foul and Fair A Day
Author:fringedwellerfic
Pairing: McCoy/Chapel
Rating: NC-17, but only just.
Warnings: Fluff. Fluffity fluff fluff.
Disclaimer: Not my characters, obviously.
Summary: McCoy had a bad day, and Chapel makes it better.
Author's Notes: A fill for the kink meme prompt here. Title from Macbeth.
There were a number of rules that Leonard McCoy lived his life by. Not Starfleet regulations, although he obeyed those. Mostly. Not the Hippocratic rules either, although he obeyed those in the spirit rather than the letter. ‘Doing no harm’ didn’t mean he couldn’t stab Jim Kirk in the neck with a hypospray a little more firmly than required. After all, a little suffering is good for the soul and this counted as a holistic approach to medicine, right?
No, the rules that McCoy lived by were the ones he had formulated himself over his thirty three years. The first one he clung to was “Everyone is stupid. Try to remember this, it’ll help.” This explained why so many otherwise intelligent people did so many ridiculous things on a daily basis. Like jumping from shuttles onto Romulan infested giant space drills, for instance, or trying to take on two drunken Klingons in a bar fight when he was just as hammered. Genius level, his ass.
The second rule was “You are stupid too. Just because you make the rules up doesn’t mean that you’re excluded.” That explains why he trusted that genius level moron with his safety, and why McCoy felt it necessary to jump in the fight with the Klingons too.
Sometimes, when rules one and two collided, McCoy’s day got very bad indeed, and today was no exception.
He had been invited to lecture at a conference on Starbase 16 to medical professionals from all over Starfleet. The thought of being trapped in a hall with some of the most boring people of his profession made his claustrophobia kick in slightly, so he had rejected the offer. ’Rule two always bites me in the ass’ he thought ruefully as he stood with a group of security officers as they tried to open the sealed sickbay doors.
A series of cascading systems failures were causing havoc all over the ship. He had ducked out of sickbay to grab a cup of coffee from the mess in between dealing with a deluge of bruises, sprains and knocks only to find out that the power coupling on deck six had blown, locking all the doors on that deck.
Apart from the staff in the three auxiliary sickbays dotted around the ship, he was now the only accessible medical help available until the sickbay doors could be opened. He drank his coffee grimly, knowing that today was going to be a hell of a day.
He wasn’t wrong, and there was something about panic on a starship that caused otherwise intelligent and highly trained people to turn into raving idiots. Rule one again.
“I forgot I wasn’t on the ground,” explained one ensign as he moved her patella back into position. She had tumbled from an anti-grav platform as she attempted to repair a interphase focusing occilator and done her leg some serious damage. Luckily the emergency medkit in the bay had a decent painkiller and the security team he had co-opted were able to carry her to the nearest auxiliary sickbay. He did a quick cranial scan as well, but there was no evidence of head trauma. Apparently, she really was just that stupid.
The next set of emergencies came from the bridge. Uhura had put her arm down on a console that someone had left a plasma cutter on and had a bad burn. By the time he had run the portable dermal regenerator over her and given her some local anaesthetic, Chekov had cut his hand on the sharp interior on his navigation console that was currently telling him that they were on the wrong side of the Neutral Zone. Sulu had rushed to staunch the wound with his own uniform tunic, but in his haste had knocked his head into Chekov’s, giving both of them duck-egg lumps and pounding headaches. He had just finished applying the sutures to Chekov’s hand when a loud thumping came from the captain’s ready room.
Growling under his breath, McCoy had to get Spock’s help to pull the doors open, the mechanism having sealed itself for reasons nobody understood. They both stood in the doorway, speechless as they saw the lower half of Kirk’s body dangling helplessly from the access hatch in the ceiling above his desk.
“Uh, guys? A little help for your captain, please?”
“A little diet for our captain may be more appropriate,” McCoy grumbled as he and Spock each took a leg and heaved.
“That hatch is not built for manly man-sized men,” Kirk accused, glaring at it as McCoy swiped antibacterial wipes over his cuts and grazes. “Ouch, that stings Bones!”
“Really? A manly man sized man like you complaining about a few scratches?” McCoy said, packing up his kit. “Stop bitching about it, and make sure you don’t get stuck in anymore hatches. I haven’t got my camera with me.”
Engineering was next on his list of home visits, and there he found enough burns, cuts, scrapes and breaks to keep him busy for the next four or five hours. The toxic gas that vented unexpectedly into shuttle bay one caused him a few worries, and of course what every day like this needed was for a pregnant crewmember to go into labour in a jammed turbolift.
“Brilliant idea,” he muttered as Scotty paid out the cable that lowered him down the turbolift shaft. “Get in a lift when every system in the ship is on the fritz, that always works wonders for everybody concerned.”
One hastily-removed access hatch later (and maybe Jim had a point about the size of them after all), and Lieutenant Melhuish was delivered of a loud and perfectly healthy baby boy. McCoy sacrificed his blue uniform shirt to provide a makeshift blanket, and not long afterwards one of Scotty’s engineering techs had managed to make the lift shudder to a floor with a working door. There his loyal troop of security guards-come-ambulance men were waiting to carry the mother and child to the nearest working facility.
Another hour or being bounced around the ship like a demented ping pong ball cumulated in the main sickbay being reopened. He arrived back there to discover a large gaping hole where his doors used to be; apparently engineering had got around the problem of malfunctioning doors by simply removing the doors, instead of the malfunction. McCoy was actually speechless; that was the problem with people that thought logically all the time – sometimes it was clearly insanity masquerading as logic.
The reopening of sickbay saw his deputy, Dr M’Benga send him off duty. There were enough staff to cope with the injured now, and McCoy was practically swaying on his feet. He took the long way back home though; he had spent enough time in turbolift cars for that day.
When he got there the doors swished open co-operatively to reveal Christine setting the table for dinner. She had changed out of her uniform and showered already; he could smell peaches and magnolia blossom as he gave her a welcome kiss hello.
“You’ve time to wash up before dinner,” she said, uncorking a bottle of red wine he knew she had been stashing away for a special occasion. “But don’t take too long, the garlic bread will get cold.”
His stomach rumbled appreciatively, and he hurried to make himself look vaguely presentable for an intimate dinner with a beautiful woman. When he returned to the table there were two generous servings of lasagne waiting, alongside the promised garlic bread.
“Did the replicators get fixed?” he asked through a mouthful of food.
“No, but the cold storage failed and the mess hall were trying to use everything up. I think we’ll all be eating lasagne for a week.” Christine drank from her glass of wine before adding “I didn’t think you would be up for eating there after today.”
“To be honest, I’m not in the mood for people at the moment. Just you,” he said, breaking the last slice of garlic bread in half and offering her some. She smiled that deliciously dirty smile that always delivered on its promises, and he felt the usual tug of desire deep in his gut as she leaned forward and pulled the bread into her mouth, using her tongue to lap up the molten butter that had oozed down his fingers.
“I’m sorry, honey. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak,” he said, reaching out with his other hand to play with her soft, blonde hair.
“We’ll see,” she said, leading him by the hand to his bathroom and flicking on the taps.
The bathroom that had been remodelled and expanded to include a deep two-person tub after the refit at the Utopia Planetia shipyards. Christine had given up the pretence she was sleeping in her own cabin shortly before the Enterprise had been set upon by four Klingon warbirds. They had all but destroyed the ship, causing it to limp back to the shipyards for some major work. Scotty had been inconsolable for weeks.
McCoy knew for sure that he hadn’t received a standard upgrade; he had his suspicions about it, but Christine always smiled and refused to be drawn about her friendship with Gaila, who had both the Chief Engineer and the ship’s computer systems wrapped neatly around her little finger.
McCoy’s third rule of life was to not interfere in the secret world of women, in case he discovered too much. He had accepted his new bathroom with good grace, and sent a few bottles of good whiskey anonymously to Scotty’s office in Engineering.
Christine slipped into the tub first, so when he entered with a heartfelt groan of pleasure he found himself in the cradle of her pale, elegant arms and legs. She bathed him slowly and carefully, taking the opportunity to rub the tension out of each knotted muscle she came across. The scalp massage she gave as she washed his hair seemed to relax every part of his body save one that firmed up noticeably.
She gave a husky laugh and whispered “I told you so” as she manoeuvred herself out from underneath him. She sank down onto his length in one graceful movement, and leant forward to nibble gently at his lips as she rocked her hips in a gentle rhythm. Their lovemaking was unhurried and languid, their pleasure breaking in slow waves instead of fierce peaks.
When the water cooled they pulled themselves from the tub, drying off quickly before tumbling into bed. McCoy drifted off to sleep with a possessive arm around his woman, still trying to get the wording of rule four right – there is no day so bad that Christine can’t make good? Something like that. He'd work on it in the morning.
Author:
fringedwellerficPairing: McCoy/Chapel
Rating: NC-17, but only just.
Warnings: Fluff. Fluffity fluff fluff.
Disclaimer: Not my characters, obviously.
Summary: McCoy had a bad day, and Chapel makes it better.
Author's Notes: A fill for the kink meme prompt here. Title from Macbeth.
There were a number of rules that Leonard McCoy lived his life by. Not Starfleet regulations, although he obeyed those. Mostly. Not the Hippocratic rules either, although he obeyed those in the spirit rather than the letter. ‘Doing no harm’ didn’t mean he couldn’t stab Jim Kirk in the neck with a hypospray a little more firmly than required. After all, a little suffering is good for the soul and this counted as a holistic approach to medicine, right?
No, the rules that McCoy lived by were the ones he had formulated himself over his thirty three years. The first one he clung to was “Everyone is stupid. Try to remember this, it’ll help.” This explained why so many otherwise intelligent people did so many ridiculous things on a daily basis. Like jumping from shuttles onto Romulan infested giant space drills, for instance, or trying to take on two drunken Klingons in a bar fight when he was just as hammered. Genius level, his ass.
The second rule was “You are stupid too. Just because you make the rules up doesn’t mean that you’re excluded.” That explains why he trusted that genius level moron with his safety, and why McCoy felt it necessary to jump in the fight with the Klingons too.
Sometimes, when rules one and two collided, McCoy’s day got very bad indeed, and today was no exception.
He had been invited to lecture at a conference on Starbase 16 to medical professionals from all over Starfleet. The thought of being trapped in a hall with some of the most boring people of his profession made his claustrophobia kick in slightly, so he had rejected the offer. ’Rule two always bites me in the ass’ he thought ruefully as he stood with a group of security officers as they tried to open the sealed sickbay doors.
A series of cascading systems failures were causing havoc all over the ship. He had ducked out of sickbay to grab a cup of coffee from the mess in between dealing with a deluge of bruises, sprains and knocks only to find out that the power coupling on deck six had blown, locking all the doors on that deck.
Apart from the staff in the three auxiliary sickbays dotted around the ship, he was now the only accessible medical help available until the sickbay doors could be opened. He drank his coffee grimly, knowing that today was going to be a hell of a day.
He wasn’t wrong, and there was something about panic on a starship that caused otherwise intelligent and highly trained people to turn into raving idiots. Rule one again.
“I forgot I wasn’t on the ground,” explained one ensign as he moved her patella back into position. She had tumbled from an anti-grav platform as she attempted to repair a interphase focusing occilator and done her leg some serious damage. Luckily the emergency medkit in the bay had a decent painkiller and the security team he had co-opted were able to carry her to the nearest auxiliary sickbay. He did a quick cranial scan as well, but there was no evidence of head trauma. Apparently, she really was just that stupid.
The next set of emergencies came from the bridge. Uhura had put her arm down on a console that someone had left a plasma cutter on and had a bad burn. By the time he had run the portable dermal regenerator over her and given her some local anaesthetic, Chekov had cut his hand on the sharp interior on his navigation console that was currently telling him that they were on the wrong side of the Neutral Zone. Sulu had rushed to staunch the wound with his own uniform tunic, but in his haste had knocked his head into Chekov’s, giving both of them duck-egg lumps and pounding headaches. He had just finished applying the sutures to Chekov’s hand when a loud thumping came from the captain’s ready room.
Growling under his breath, McCoy had to get Spock’s help to pull the doors open, the mechanism having sealed itself for reasons nobody understood. They both stood in the doorway, speechless as they saw the lower half of Kirk’s body dangling helplessly from the access hatch in the ceiling above his desk.
“Uh, guys? A little help for your captain, please?”
“A little diet for our captain may be more appropriate,” McCoy grumbled as he and Spock each took a leg and heaved.
“That hatch is not built for manly man-sized men,” Kirk accused, glaring at it as McCoy swiped antibacterial wipes over his cuts and grazes. “Ouch, that stings Bones!”
“Really? A manly man sized man like you complaining about a few scratches?” McCoy said, packing up his kit. “Stop bitching about it, and make sure you don’t get stuck in anymore hatches. I haven’t got my camera with me.”
Engineering was next on his list of home visits, and there he found enough burns, cuts, scrapes and breaks to keep him busy for the next four or five hours. The toxic gas that vented unexpectedly into shuttle bay one caused him a few worries, and of course what every day like this needed was for a pregnant crewmember to go into labour in a jammed turbolift.
“Brilliant idea,” he muttered as Scotty paid out the cable that lowered him down the turbolift shaft. “Get in a lift when every system in the ship is on the fritz, that always works wonders for everybody concerned.”
One hastily-removed access hatch later (and maybe Jim had a point about the size of them after all), and Lieutenant Melhuish was delivered of a loud and perfectly healthy baby boy. McCoy sacrificed his blue uniform shirt to provide a makeshift blanket, and not long afterwards one of Scotty’s engineering techs had managed to make the lift shudder to a floor with a working door. There his loyal troop of security guards-come-ambulance men were waiting to carry the mother and child to the nearest working facility.
Another hour or being bounced around the ship like a demented ping pong ball cumulated in the main sickbay being reopened. He arrived back there to discover a large gaping hole where his doors used to be; apparently engineering had got around the problem of malfunctioning doors by simply removing the doors, instead of the malfunction. McCoy was actually speechless; that was the problem with people that thought logically all the time – sometimes it was clearly insanity masquerading as logic.
The reopening of sickbay saw his deputy, Dr M’Benga send him off duty. There were enough staff to cope with the injured now, and McCoy was practically swaying on his feet. He took the long way back home though; he had spent enough time in turbolift cars for that day.
When he got there the doors swished open co-operatively to reveal Christine setting the table for dinner. She had changed out of her uniform and showered already; he could smell peaches and magnolia blossom as he gave her a welcome kiss hello.
“You’ve time to wash up before dinner,” she said, uncorking a bottle of red wine he knew she had been stashing away for a special occasion. “But don’t take too long, the garlic bread will get cold.”
His stomach rumbled appreciatively, and he hurried to make himself look vaguely presentable for an intimate dinner with a beautiful woman. When he returned to the table there were two generous servings of lasagne waiting, alongside the promised garlic bread.
“Did the replicators get fixed?” he asked through a mouthful of food.
“No, but the cold storage failed and the mess hall were trying to use everything up. I think we’ll all be eating lasagne for a week.” Christine drank from her glass of wine before adding “I didn’t think you would be up for eating there after today.”
“To be honest, I’m not in the mood for people at the moment. Just you,” he said, breaking the last slice of garlic bread in half and offering her some. She smiled that deliciously dirty smile that always delivered on its promises, and he felt the usual tug of desire deep in his gut as she leaned forward and pulled the bread into her mouth, using her tongue to lap up the molten butter that had oozed down his fingers.
“I’m sorry, honey. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak,” he said, reaching out with his other hand to play with her soft, blonde hair.
“We’ll see,” she said, leading him by the hand to his bathroom and flicking on the taps.
The bathroom that had been remodelled and expanded to include a deep two-person tub after the refit at the Utopia Planetia shipyards. Christine had given up the pretence she was sleeping in her own cabin shortly before the Enterprise had been set upon by four Klingon warbirds. They had all but destroyed the ship, causing it to limp back to the shipyards for some major work. Scotty had been inconsolable for weeks.
McCoy knew for sure that he hadn’t received a standard upgrade; he had his suspicions about it, but Christine always smiled and refused to be drawn about her friendship with Gaila, who had both the Chief Engineer and the ship’s computer systems wrapped neatly around her little finger.
McCoy’s third rule of life was to not interfere in the secret world of women, in case he discovered too much. He had accepted his new bathroom with good grace, and sent a few bottles of good whiskey anonymously to Scotty’s office in Engineering.
Christine slipped into the tub first, so when he entered with a heartfelt groan of pleasure he found himself in the cradle of her pale, elegant arms and legs. She bathed him slowly and carefully, taking the opportunity to rub the tension out of each knotted muscle she came across. The scalp massage she gave as she washed his hair seemed to relax every part of his body save one that firmed up noticeably.
She gave a husky laugh and whispered “I told you so” as she manoeuvred herself out from underneath him. She sank down onto his length in one graceful movement, and leant forward to nibble gently at his lips as she rocked her hips in a gentle rhythm. Their lovemaking was unhurried and languid, their pleasure breaking in slow waves instead of fierce peaks.
When the water cooled they pulled themselves from the tub, drying off quickly before tumbling into bed. McCoy drifted off to sleep with a possessive arm around his woman, still trying to get the wording of rule four right – there is no day so bad that Christine can’t make good? Something like that. He'd work on it in the morning.