Leonard McCoy rarely got sick. For one thing, God seemed to grant special grace to doctors to not catch the many maladies with which they came into frequent contact, and for another, his momma had gifted him with a lot of common hygienic sense when it came to children. It would just figure that recent events would overtax his immune system enough for his defenses to slip and allow in the same ‘flu bug which had sent a hyperactive, sunny child into cranky tears in the second day of its run through his small system.
Jim was dead when he went back to being an adult; he was already planning the rigorous diet and exercise routine he would take great evil pleasure in inflicting.
He was currently holed up in his own Sickbay – insisted upon it just before Christine had stabbed him with a sedative for his own good, just in the very remote case of its being highly contagious – nauseated and achy and altogether miserable. His staff steered well clear of his fluctuating temper, and even Chapel had finally shot down his last adult tantrum with some well-chosen words and then ignored him for the rest of the afternoon.
Well that suited him just fine; he didn’t need anybody’s chirpy companionship anyhow.
It was after ship’s Evening Mess when the door to his room opened to admit the last person he wanted to see.
“Oh, now my fantastic day’s complete,” he muttered, scowling at the placid figure regarding him with detached interest. “What, come to gawk at the novelty of a sick doctor, Science Officer?”
“Negative,” Spock replied calmly. “Were the choice entirely up to me, I should be more than happy to relieve myself of any association with you while you are in such a quarrelsome temper, Doctor. Unfortunately,” and the Vulcan looked slightly put-upon, “someone insists upon seeing you, and Nurse Chapel promised him he might if he behaved himself this afternoon.”
McCoy lifted his head slightly just in time to see a small figure in yellow pajamas toddle carefully around the Vulcan’s long legs, a soup mug held with the strictest attention in both hands. He was relieved to see the mug wasn't steaming, at least, even Spock wasn't clueless enough to let the child carry something that could badly burn him.
Jim’s tongue poked slightly out of his mouth as he took careful steps across the room toward the bed and its grumpy occupant.
“You play dirty pool, Spock,” McCoy muttered, glaring at the Vulcan, who only looked back at him with complete innocence.
“Hey, squirt,” he murmured, pushing the button which would incline his bio-bed to an acceptable angle. “Be careful, don't spill on yourself.”
Jim nodded, and carefully stood on tip-toe to place the mug on the bedside table, where McCoy picked it up and examined it for signs that Christine had replicated it and not Jim by himself. “Is chicken ‘n’ stars,” the toddler said, fidgeting shyly onto one socked foot, then hopping back to the other. “Tastes lots better than the plomeek Spock gave me when I was pukin’ yesterday.”
Spock looked slightly affronted, and McCoy snickered into the mug. “I just bet it is,” he said, grinning over the rim. He glanced over to Jim, who was scrambling up on the end of the bed. “How you feelin’, kid?”
“Better,” was the reply. “Spock lemme have ice cream today!”
“Did he now.”
“After he consumed a bowl of soup and a plate of applesauce and kept both down without incident, Doctor,” Spock added calmly. “The child’s fever is also gone, and his nutrient and chemical levels are rapidly returning to normality for his age according to Nurse Chapel’s scans.”
“She’s gorgeous, she can gimme shots ev’ryday,” Jim remarked dreamily.
McCoy inhaled a pasta star and choked on it.
“You are so gonna be the dad of this dysfunctional family when he hits puberty, Spock,” he managed after a fit of coughing.
Spock’s eyebrow clearly said as if.