"Once y'git me out of this mess, I should be the one gettin' you a drink," Doc comments, shifting slightly on the bed without moving the arm that McCoy is working on - the painkiller hypospray definitely has improved his comfort level, but there's no way about it - falling off of a roof hurts. He's pretty sure there are going to be bruises tomorrow on his body in places he's only read about in textbooks.

"Though I will admit, I am lookin' forward to showin' you what I'm carryin' in my bag these days," he adds. "Given that we ain't got nothin' like your little whirrin' talky-box for at least another fifteen-hundred years or so..."

Doc knows that McCoy is going to be just horrified by some of the tools in his arsenal. A small part of him is looking forward to the man's reactions.