Title: Rapid Demotion M=V
Author: Yami no Kaiba
Beta: fearedeyepatch
Fandom: Star Trek TOS
Rating: PG
Pairing: Spock/McCoy
Length: 646 words

Summary: Patterns of Force Episode Tag
Disclaimers: I do not own the characters or the concepts of Star Trek in any of its forms.
Notes: For those of us not used to military ranking, Star Trek follows the U.S. Navy ranking of Ensign, Lieutenant, Lieutenant Commander, Commander, and Captain for the first 5 ranks. In the Episode Patterns of Force the Nazi's shown followed the German Army ranking of (Second or First) Lieutenant, Captain, Major, Lieutenant Colonel, and Colonel for the first 5 ranks.
Translations: Seine plicht erfuellen, Leutnant. = Carry on one's duty, Lieutenant.
Oberst = Colonel

*---*---*---*---*

"Stupid, God-damn boot, and curse that damned computer besides," McCoy muttered under his breath, nearly falling over in his chair as he attempted to tug the offending item off.

"Cursing both your footwear and the computer will not make the task of removing your boots any easier, Doctor."

"Kindly keep your pointless observations to yourself, Lieutenant." Eye twitching, McCoy gave a vicious tug to punctuate with still no results but the squeaking of shined black leather against human skin.

He wasn't looking, but he could see the raised eyebrow and cocked head. "If you are attempting to order me outside of a medical situation, Doctor, I must remind you that I am a Commander, not a Lieutenant, and therefore outrank you."

"Great, a Colonel for a day and I still don't get any respect. And the Brass wonders why I keep declining promotions." He fiddled with the boot some more, attempting to find some way to get a good grip, but the material was too tightly snug and smooth. In all honesty he was surprised he could still feel his toes.

"It would be highly illogical to respect you for a rank you had not earned. I further postulate that the Captain would be highly... irritated, should there be an officer with equivalent rank on board to countermand his orders."

He couldn't help but snort at that. "Jim bucks at the orders given to him from the higher ups and you think a piddling thing like equivalent rank would stop him when it comes to the welfare of his ship? He's practically married to this rattling death trap." Another tug met with the same amount of success and he threw his hands into the air in frustration. "Sweet Jesus on High, where's my scalpel? It's not like I have to wear these dratted things again."

"Doctor," was there a hint of disapproval in that word? "It would be highly wasteful to destroy your boots simply because you are not using the correct method of removal."

He looked up for the first time since sitting down, eyes snapping at Spock as his frustration found a more animate target. "I swear, if it wasn't for the fact that you'd deny it, I'd say you were enjoying my futile efforts here. What, pray-tell, would be your high, lofty, correct method?"

He watched Spock shift his stance, tilting his head in the other direction like a curious bird. "It would be far more efficient to demonstrate than to talk you through the method. If I may?"

"Go right ahead. I'm all for getting these dratted things off. The sooner the better."

A brief nod and moments latter Spock had knelt in front of him, those long-fingered hands of his firmly grasping McCoy's calf and ankle. There was a little jockeying for angle. Then pressure was briefly applied in a ring around his ankle that had McCoy gasping at its unexpectedness, and finally the troublesome boot was off.

"Your boot, Doctor," Spock said while still kneeling, offering the black leather object for the taking. "Was it a sufficient demonstration or shall I repeat?"

His lips quirking in wry amusement, McCoy took the boot in hand. While he was fairly sure he could get the other one, he figured he might as well earn his two rank demotions. Leaning back, eyelids at half mast, mind-full of his German Army Colonel attire, he responded, "Seine plicht erfuellen, Leutnant."

Spock's eyes widened minutely, before shuttering once more in calculation. Dipping his head, he went about his task. "Your accent is poor to say the least and your grammar leaves something to be desired... Oberst."

McCoy smiled slyly as he tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. It was a good thing Spock had saved the boots. He was already planning the fun they could have later tonight, with the right... mood settings.

--Fin.