Counting Turkeys

Title: Counting Turkeys

Author: Tempest

Series: TOS

Paring: S/Mc, as told by Kirk

Rating: PG, for language and some implications of adult relations

Summary: Kirk’s trying to sleep, but Spock and McCoy are fighting. What’s a Captain to do? And how do turkeys fall into this?

Disclaimer: Star Trek and all of its relations are property of Paramount and Viacom. I only own this story. Problems with male homosexuality? Please stay away. Flames and feedback are welcome. For archiving, please ask author permission first.


Counting Turkeys

By Tempest

November 30, 2005



      ...Six sheep...eight sheep...Damn. It’s not working. It worked back when I was a boy. Then again, we actually had sheep. And my biggest responsibility was making my bed and not failing out of school. Not like this.


      *Try something else,* my brain tells me. I’m exhausted and willing to try anything. Let’s yeoman...two yeomen...three yeomen...


      I shift on the bed. Instead of putting me to sleep, I managed to wake all of me up. Well done, Jim. I close my eyes, slowing down my breathing, placing my concentration elsewhere. If it weren’t so late, I wouldn’t mind, but I have Alpha shift tomorrow and a senior staff meeting and I have to talk to the galley...


      There, that’s better. I breathe easily and roll back onto my side. There’s nothing like responsibilities for suppressing urges. And to think the scouts told me to think of my mother’s pure love. That gives me an idea. One scout...two scouts...three scouts...


      “Listen you pointy-eared demon, if you think for one minute I’m going to go along with this, then you need a stay at Elba II-”


      They’re at it again. They’re always at it. I turn onto my other side, staring at the chronometer. It’s half past one. What the hell are they doing up this late?


      *Arguing,* a voice responds in my mind. I sigh softly. It wasn’t until I met Spock that my brain began answering rhetorical questions.


      They’re my best friends. Hell, I love them like family, but I wish they’d stayed in Bones’ quarters. Two decks down and on the other side of the corridor. They’re going to keep me up.


      I roll onto my stomach and bury my head in the pillow. Snippets of their fight are making the way through my wall. An “illogical” this and an “if you cared” that and some reference to somebody’s mother. This is the most pitiful excuse for soundproofing I’ve seen since I was a plebe at the Academy. And just whose idea was it to put the beds of adjacent quarters up against the same wall?


      I can’t make out most of it. But Bones is getting pretty angry. He’s drawling every other word. I don’t want them to keep fighting, but right now, I really don’t want them to make up. I squeeze the pillow more tightly over my ears. Either way this can’t end well. For me, at least, and my date with Morpheus.


      It’s bad enough when they fight. When they make up,’s not like I don’t know what they’re doing at night. They’re married; they’re entitled. But I really don’t want to hear it. Sigh. I hate living next to them. They’re happiness is important, it helps their attitudes and their jobs get done more easily, but I don’t need to know the specifics. Never once before they hooked up did I sit around thinking “I wonder if Bones likes to play Doctor or “I wonder if Spock likes getting spanked” or “What really gets my friends hot and heavy.”


      The short answer is yes, yes, and stuff that gave me horrible images for three weeks. They do everything else under the twin suns of Rigel, I don’t see why they can’t just use gags too.


      Now you’ve done it, Jim, gone off and given yourself another image. And they’re not even doing anything this time. Just fighting.


      Try not to think about it. Think about something else: Rand in her uniform or your last promotion or earthworms.


      Earthworms. Rand as my date at my last promotion banquet wearing a giant earthworm as a stoll...that’s it. I need sleep. And if they keep this up, I’m going to become the nasty next-door neighbor and bang on the wall.


      Something in their quarters goes crash. I can hear it clearly. I cringe slightly and lift my head. Bones threw something. Bones threw something, and I hope to God it wasn’t the firepot because Spock will kill him.


      A pause. Well, I don’t think I’ve heard any of those words before.


      Sigh. I’m going to have to do mediation counseling tomorrow. When will I have the time? Maybe after the staff wait, the galley. I could do it before the staff meeting, although they’ll probably glare at each other the whole time. But, they do that anyway.


      It’s unbelievable, mind-boggling, actually. We all thought that when they tied the knot, they’d stop fighting. Instead, it got worse. I’ve never seen such mood swings in adult men before.


      I guess I should have seen it coming, though. If they can barely agree on what to do in missions, or off duty, why would it get any simpler when their families are involved?


      I should intervene, sit them down and talk to them. Not just for mediation counseling, but something more authoritative. I’m going to tell them to stop fighting. And as their Captain, they’re going to listen to me.


      Just like they’ve listened the last twenty times? I hate it when my brain talks back to me, particularly when it undermines my confidence. It’s right though; they’re not going to listen.


      I still can’t believe this last fight is entirely about Thanksgiving. Well, now I’m sure it’s progressed past Thanksgiving into the realm of respecting one another’s cultures, but it started with Thanksgiving.


      Bones wanted to have a good old fashioned celebration, just like he shared with his father and the rest of the McCoy clan, back in the day. Hell, I’ve been to a McCoy Thanksgiving once before, and it’s an experience you never forget.


      Spock didn’t see it that way. He’s a Vulcan, and his Mother’s family isn’t originally from the former United States, certainly not from Georgia. A good-old fashioned Southern Thanksgiving was meaningless to him. As a vegetarian, he’s appalled at the idea of a turkey surrounded by side dishes traditional cooked in fat. As a pacifist, the story of the First Thanksgiving offends his sense of right and wrong. And with his sense of logic and honesty, he didn’t try to tell Bones nicely. Bones was taken aback by how quickly Spock had refused, and it ruffled his feathers a bit.


      By now, though, they’re well past that point for rational intervention.


      Wait...I think the fighting stopped. There’s no more noise coming through. Finally, I can sleep, and deal with it all tomorrow. I turn on my side, close my eyes and...




      This is the night that won’t end. That better be Chekov, coming to tell me that the ship is about to explode. Sigh. I rise to my feet and answer the door.


      It’s Bones. He looks just as tired as I am. Grinning sheepishly, he asks, “Can I stay?”


      What else would I do? I told him to make himself at home. And as he settled himself on the sofa, I could have sworn he added, under his breath, “Until December?”



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