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Bones twirled his pen in his hands. He was supposed to be doing paperwork, but Scotty had popped in ten minutes ago and the doctor had been distracted ever since. Stupid Scot. Who the hell gave him the right to look so good in a standard issue uniform?
He hummed, the motivation to do anything other than go over every detail of the visit meticulously escaping him. “Bet he looks even better without it,” he muttered aloud. He was alone in his office, glaring at his padd and urging words to take up the space Scotty was occupying.
Opening a fresh document, Bones began to draw on it. He only ever turned to scribbling when he was really at his wit’s end. He cursed himself, cursed Scotty, and cursed the way his stylus flowed over the screen, repeating the same two names together over and over again, as natural and automatic as his breathing.
The doctor kicked his feet up and over the arm of his chair, leaning against the edge of the back support. He sighed, defeated.
Then, he straightened up, as if he were an elastic band being pulled taut and let loose again. Except he didn’t feel loosened, in fact, he felt more tense. The captain had walked in, and while he didn’t care how the doctor sat he certainly cared about the damned paperwork. Getting done, that is, not doing it. An important distinction.
Bones nodded to himself, acknowledging the distinction. The distraction allowed Jim to swipe the padd from his hands with the document still open. Bones cringed at the cartoonish hearts, which were now on display for all.
“And here I thought you were a doctor,” Jim chuckled, waving the padd about. “Just as I suspected: you’re a softie, and one with a childish crush, at that!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bones grasped at Jim’s arm, which now held the padd above his head. “I was just, er, practicing writing down his name, because he’s always injuring himself because your stupid ship is stupid.”
The captain looked quite affronted. He dropped the padd in mock surprise, his face twisted into a pout. “Now that’s just not fair, the Enterprise is the best ship in the entire ‘Fleet!”
Bones scoffed, choosing his battle, and ignored all the evidence against the statement. “Besides, don’t act like you don’t scribble the first officer’s name everywhere. Remember that time you wrote Spock on the side of the ship?”
“It was Must Kill Spock, I believe,” Jim corrected. “And my body wasn’t under my full control, but being steered by vicious enemies!”
“It took you quite a while to figure out you weren’t just tired, crazy, or both.” Bones was a hypocrite for laughing, although he’d still be one if he stayed silent. “You signed an official document with his name, went ‘Oops maybe my thoughts are spilling over into my actions’ and forgot about it completely.”
“Alright, alright, we both have childish crushes.” Jim blushed at the memory.
“Don’t call it that,” Bones grumbled. “I’m a doctor, not a school kid.”
“Sure,” the captain said, the disbelief clear in his voice.
They sat in silence for a second, and while Jim prepared his questions, Bones simultaneously thought of shut-downs.
“So—”
“Shut up.”
“Why Scotty?” Jim asked, and Bones sighed, turning back to his previous document. He felt a sudden urge to do paperwork overcome him.
Why Scotty? What a fantastic question. He’d rather eat nails than answer with ‘because his laugh makes me feel funny,’ or ‘he can light up a room with his dumb crooked smile,’ or even ‘his passion for this stupid ship and keeping it running smoothly keeps me going, too,’ because, to reiterate, he was not some kid with a crush, waxing poetic over a friend and daydreaming about them all the time.
He really wasn’t.
Not answering the captain gave Bones the motivation to get through his paperwork. His usually disinterested pace was replaced by a speed to rival a dilithium powered race ship, if only to pretend the conversation never happened.
Long after Jim had left, the medbay was yet to be visited by a certain clumsy engineer. Bones glanced around the room inconspicuously, opening a certain document and doodling a little heart.
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