Year-End Comment Fic Round-Up II: "Bedside Manner" (ST XI ficlet)
I'm corralling a couple of stray comment fics I wrote last spring, purely for record-keeping purposes (not posting them to coms). They are both pretty random, and I'm resisting the urge to try and make them better. They are both straight-up, shameless h/c.
This one was written for
affectingly's McCoy-A-Thon, for a general request for McCoy h/c. Think of it as a fanfic cliche in space.
Title: Bedside Manner
Rating: PG, gen fic
Word Count: 1,852
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit.
Bedside Manner
“Dammit, Bones, you were lying, weren’t you?” Kirk says, pushing McCoy down into the one beat-up chair in the visitors’ quarters of Colchan Mining Substation II with slightly more force than is probably appropriate.
“Huh?” McCoy blinks up at him, face pale and eyes red-rimmed.
“About those full-spectrum vaccines you got at the Academy protecting you from this bug. Look at you-you’re as sick as Sliborean tree rat.”
“Wasn’t lying, Jim.” Though he isn’t denying being sick either, Kirk notes. The doctor is scrubbing a hand hard across his face, and his voice is hoarse. “They’re supposed to be effective against all these damn flu strains-full-spectrum, remember? There must be something unusual in this the structure of this one.”
“Yeah, well, not as fucking effective as actually getting the specific vaccine, was it? Of all the risky moves! You’re the Chief Medical Officer, Bones, what were we supposed to do if you had come down with this in the middle of the outbreak?”
They had beamed down to the mining colony three days earlier, to help with a particularly nasty outbreak of Phrixian Influenza. The Enterprise had left again almost immediately, evacuating the sickest colonists, their CMO amongst them, to the nearest top-level medical facility-a journey of several days due to the remoteness of the location-and Kirk, McCoy and Spock had stayed behind to vaccinate and look after the rest. Nothing about the mining complex was sophisticated, not its medical facilities, nor its information services, and it was only after the Enterprise had departed that they had realized they were several doses short of the vaccine relative to the number of people who required it, and without the technology to replicate more. Kirk and Spock had both volunteered to go without, and been roundly chastised by McCoy for their efforts. In the end, several brave miners had foregone immunization-and McCoy, who had sworn up and down that those Academy shots would work. Luckily, it had been relatively easy to get the outbreak under control, and Kirk had thought they had nothing left to do but wait for the Enterprise to come back the next evening, til he had heard McCoy coughing harshly into his elbow, and taken a good look at his friend’s pinched face.
Jim can feel himself gearing up to really lay into Bones, ill nor not, but Spock, who has been diligently deploying the tricorder while Kirk was fuming, clears his throat. “Captain,” he says, “The Doctor is running a high fever. Perhaps your, ah, evaluation of his decisions can wait until he is in a fit condition to understand you?”
He’s right, and Kirk suddenly realizes that a lot of his anger is really worry. Some of the colonists the Enterprise evacuated had been pretty sick.
As if reading his mind, McCoy rasps, “Don’t worry, Jim, it’s not usually fatal.”
Kirk manages not to punch him. He is, after all, down with the flu.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Bones can’t sleep when he has a fever. Jim knows this sad fact, God help him, from personal experience. Bad reactions to some of those same full-spectrum vaccines-Kirk is really developing a personal animosity towards those things-had left McCoy tossing and turning, alternately loopy and maudlin, several long nights during their time at the Academy. Each time, Kirk had felt honor-bound as his best friend to stay up with him, ostensibly listening to McCoy’s barely coherent stories, but really trying to 1) make sure he didn’t decide booze was the best medicine and 2) stop him wandering the halls of the dorm-naked. Seriously, the one time was enough.
McCoy doesn’t look capable of such of shenanigans at the moment. The substation’s sickbay is still full of recovering colonists, so Kirk and Spock had gotten the doctor settled as comfortably as possible in the bare, chilly visitors’ quarters they’d been sharing. They’d gotten enough meds in him to control the coughing and bring the fever down to a manageable level. But McCoy had refused any heavier painkillers or sedatives, claiming they’d mask the more dangerous symptoms of the virus, if any were to appear (none had, thank goodness, the Starfleet shots seemed to be giving him that much of a buffer).
So now McCoy is huddled in one of the beds with the blankets off all three, still shivering slightly; he’s wide awake, but clearly too miserable to do much talking, blinking owlishly at Jim as the Captain rambles on in what he hopes is a soothing and soporific tone of voice. Spock, who has more medical training, has gone to check on the patients still in sickbay, and to make sure the mining operation is running smoothly despite its skeleton crew.
When it had become clear that Bones was going to follow his usual pattern, and not sleep precisely when he needed sleep the most, Jim had drawn the chair close to the bed, wrapped what he hoped was a comforting hand around Bones’ ankle, and dipped into his prodigious store of shaggy dog stories. Not the really exciting ones, he doesn’t think McCoy is up to those-just ones he hopes are entertaining enough to pass the time while waiting for the fever to break.
But he’s been talking for two, possibly three hours now, with no visible change in McCoy’s condition. Bones isn’t saying anything, but Jim can tell he’s in pain from the hunch in his shoulders and the sharp lines around his mouth. Jim’s seriously considering disobeying the doctor’s orders and giving him a hypospray of the heaviest sedative they have, or maybe just climbing into bed with him, seeing if body heat can give him the comfort Jim’s best stories are notably failing to provide, when Spock comes back.
Spock doesn’t say anything, just runs the tricorder again. “Captain?” he says, after a minute, and he’s clearly asking permission for something, though Jim has no idea what. Nevertheless, he says “Of course, Mr. Spock,” because whatever form of relief Spock’s come up with, it can’t possibly be as ineffectual as what Kirk’s been doing for the past three hours, and Jim really doesn’t think he can watch Bones being this miserable for much longer.
“Doctor,” Spock says, turning his attention to McCoy, “All the literature on Phrixian Influenza notes that its worst symptom is the muscle and joint pain it generates.” McCoy snorts feebly at that, in what Kirk takes to be agreement. “There is,” Spock continues, “A Vulcan technique to mitigate such pain. With your permission…”
If Bones had the strength, Jim is sure he’d tell Spock exactly what he could do with his Vulcan techniques, but Spock, thankfully, doesn’t actually wait for permission. Instead, he does what Jim has just been contemplating, and perches on the bed next to McCoy. Bones is pretty much a dead weight, but Spock deftly shifts the doctor around so he’s sitting up, head resting on his bent knees. Spock wedges himself behind Bones, arranges all ten fingertips at different pressure points along his back and shoulders, and digs in firmly. McCoy groans, and Jim tenses, ready to tell Spock to back off, but then Spock rearranges his fingers a bit, presses harder, and just like that, Jim can see the tension ease out of McCoy’s body. It takes about ten minutes of Spock working through various configurations of pressure points, but then Jim can hear the doctor’s breathing even out, and knows that, miraculously, Spock has gotten him to sleep. Gently, Spock eases Bones back down, pulling the blankets back up over his shoulders, before standing himself.
“Why, Mr. Spock--” Kirk whispers, trying for irony, but his slightly flabbergasted admiration showing through.
“Yes, Captain?”
“Nothing, I just should have known that of the three of us, you’d have the best bedside manner.”
Spock cocks an eyebrow at him, but merely says, “It’s late, Captain, you should try to sleep too. I’ll wake you if the doctor’s condition worsens.” And Kirk is just tired enough, and relieved enough, to take his First Officer’s advice.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Somewhat to his surprise, Jim falls asleep as soon as he lies down. When he wakes up, McCoy is still sleeping, and so is Spock, uncharacteristically sprawled on the chair by the bed, head at an awkward angle. Kirk pads over to the bed and studies McCoy: there are still traces of pain on his face, but his breathing is steady and unlabored. Not bothering with the tricorder, he rests the back of his hand gently on Bones’s forehead-still hot, but not as bad as the night before, he doesn’t think. Turning, he nudges Spock who comes awake with a start. Kirk jerks his head towards the third bed and mouths, “it’s an order.” Spock doesn’t protest, just nods, folds himself onto the narrow cot, and is asleep again almost instantly. Kirk checks the time: they have another five or six hours before the Enterprise returns Sighing, he heads out of the visitors’ quarters to find breakfast, and check on the rest of the substation.
Bones actually is a bit better when he wakes up. Still too shaky to get out of bed, but he eats something, and is cogent enough to glare and bitch at the other two men. Kirk isn’t really sure what he’s bitching about, he’s just glad Bones has the energy to do it. Spock unearths a chess set from somewhere, and he and Jim play until Bones complains that watching them is making his headache worse. So Jim goes back to his inexhaustible supply of tales-of-Jim-Kirk’s adventures-he figures Bones is up to the raunchier variety now-until Spock gives them a look that says that the smut is giving him a headache, and stalks out to double check the mining operation.
He’s involved in a detailed account of how he got the notoriously difficult to please three-breasted Nephelian girl at the Academy to scream his name when she came, when he notices that the Doctor’s expression has gone suddenly serious. Okay, maybe the description was getting a little technical, but McCoy looks-
“Bones? Are you alright? Do you need something?
“Jim-“ McCoy starts, and it’s clear he hasn’t been paying attention to the problems of Nephelian foreplay at all. “You were right-that was a supremely boneassed move on my part. I keep thinking-what if something had happened to you, or Spock, while I was flat on my back like this? What would I-“ He stops, coughs lightly, clears his throat: “What I’m trying to say, Captain, is that I apologize: it won’t happen again.”
Jim’s heart aches. Bones still looks so fragile, pale, propped up on the bed’s thin pillows. As a friend, he wants to reassure him, tell his it doesn’t matter now anyway. But that’s not what McCoy needs.
“Thank you, Doctor,” he says instead, in the most official voice he can muster, “I feel assured that it will not.”
And just then, like the chime of redemption, he hears his communicator beep. It’s the Enterprise, he knows, come to take them home.
This one was written for
affectingly's McCoy-A-Thon, for a general request for McCoy h/c. Think of it as a fanfic cliche in space.
Title: Bedside Manner
Rating: PG, gen fic
Word Count: 1,852
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit.
Bedside Manner
“Dammit, Bones, you were lying, weren’t you?” Kirk says, pushing McCoy down into the one beat-up chair in the visitors’ quarters of Colchan Mining Substation II with slightly more force than is probably appropriate.
“Huh?” McCoy blinks up at him, face pale and eyes red-rimmed.
“About those full-spectrum vaccines you got at the Academy protecting you from this bug. Look at you-you’re as sick as Sliborean tree rat.”
“Wasn’t lying, Jim.” Though he isn’t denying being sick either, Kirk notes. The doctor is scrubbing a hand hard across his face, and his voice is hoarse. “They’re supposed to be effective against all these damn flu strains-full-spectrum, remember? There must be something unusual in this the structure of this one.”
“Yeah, well, not as fucking effective as actually getting the specific vaccine, was it? Of all the risky moves! You’re the Chief Medical Officer, Bones, what were we supposed to do if you had come down with this in the middle of the outbreak?”
They had beamed down to the mining colony three days earlier, to help with a particularly nasty outbreak of Phrixian Influenza. The Enterprise had left again almost immediately, evacuating the sickest colonists, their CMO amongst them, to the nearest top-level medical facility-a journey of several days due to the remoteness of the location-and Kirk, McCoy and Spock had stayed behind to vaccinate and look after the rest. Nothing about the mining complex was sophisticated, not its medical facilities, nor its information services, and it was only after the Enterprise had departed that they had realized they were several doses short of the vaccine relative to the number of people who required it, and without the technology to replicate more. Kirk and Spock had both volunteered to go without, and been roundly chastised by McCoy for their efforts. In the end, several brave miners had foregone immunization-and McCoy, who had sworn up and down that those Academy shots would work. Luckily, it had been relatively easy to get the outbreak under control, and Kirk had thought they had nothing left to do but wait for the Enterprise to come back the next evening, til he had heard McCoy coughing harshly into his elbow, and taken a good look at his friend’s pinched face.
Jim can feel himself gearing up to really lay into Bones, ill nor not, but Spock, who has been diligently deploying the tricorder while Kirk was fuming, clears his throat. “Captain,” he says, “The Doctor is running a high fever. Perhaps your, ah, evaluation of his decisions can wait until he is in a fit condition to understand you?”
He’s right, and Kirk suddenly realizes that a lot of his anger is really worry. Some of the colonists the Enterprise evacuated had been pretty sick.
As if reading his mind, McCoy rasps, “Don’t worry, Jim, it’s not usually fatal.”
Kirk manages not to punch him. He is, after all, down with the flu.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Bones can’t sleep when he has a fever. Jim knows this sad fact, God help him, from personal experience. Bad reactions to some of those same full-spectrum vaccines-Kirk is really developing a personal animosity towards those things-had left McCoy tossing and turning, alternately loopy and maudlin, several long nights during their time at the Academy. Each time, Kirk had felt honor-bound as his best friend to stay up with him, ostensibly listening to McCoy’s barely coherent stories, but really trying to 1) make sure he didn’t decide booze was the best medicine and 2) stop him wandering the halls of the dorm-naked. Seriously, the one time was enough.
McCoy doesn’t look capable of such of shenanigans at the moment. The substation’s sickbay is still full of recovering colonists, so Kirk and Spock had gotten the doctor settled as comfortably as possible in the bare, chilly visitors’ quarters they’d been sharing. They’d gotten enough meds in him to control the coughing and bring the fever down to a manageable level. But McCoy had refused any heavier painkillers or sedatives, claiming they’d mask the more dangerous symptoms of the virus, if any were to appear (none had, thank goodness, the Starfleet shots seemed to be giving him that much of a buffer).
So now McCoy is huddled in one of the beds with the blankets off all three, still shivering slightly; he’s wide awake, but clearly too miserable to do much talking, blinking owlishly at Jim as the Captain rambles on in what he hopes is a soothing and soporific tone of voice. Spock, who has more medical training, has gone to check on the patients still in sickbay, and to make sure the mining operation is running smoothly despite its skeleton crew.
When it had become clear that Bones was going to follow his usual pattern, and not sleep precisely when he needed sleep the most, Jim had drawn the chair close to the bed, wrapped what he hoped was a comforting hand around Bones’ ankle, and dipped into his prodigious store of shaggy dog stories. Not the really exciting ones, he doesn’t think McCoy is up to those-just ones he hopes are entertaining enough to pass the time while waiting for the fever to break.
But he’s been talking for two, possibly three hours now, with no visible change in McCoy’s condition. Bones isn’t saying anything, but Jim can tell he’s in pain from the hunch in his shoulders and the sharp lines around his mouth. Jim’s seriously considering disobeying the doctor’s orders and giving him a hypospray of the heaviest sedative they have, or maybe just climbing into bed with him, seeing if body heat can give him the comfort Jim’s best stories are notably failing to provide, when Spock comes back.
Spock doesn’t say anything, just runs the tricorder again. “Captain?” he says, after a minute, and he’s clearly asking permission for something, though Jim has no idea what. Nevertheless, he says “Of course, Mr. Spock,” because whatever form of relief Spock’s come up with, it can’t possibly be as ineffectual as what Kirk’s been doing for the past three hours, and Jim really doesn’t think he can watch Bones being this miserable for much longer.
“Doctor,” Spock says, turning his attention to McCoy, “All the literature on Phrixian Influenza notes that its worst symptom is the muscle and joint pain it generates.” McCoy snorts feebly at that, in what Kirk takes to be agreement. “There is,” Spock continues, “A Vulcan technique to mitigate such pain. With your permission…”
If Bones had the strength, Jim is sure he’d tell Spock exactly what he could do with his Vulcan techniques, but Spock, thankfully, doesn’t actually wait for permission. Instead, he does what Jim has just been contemplating, and perches on the bed next to McCoy. Bones is pretty much a dead weight, but Spock deftly shifts the doctor around so he’s sitting up, head resting on his bent knees. Spock wedges himself behind Bones, arranges all ten fingertips at different pressure points along his back and shoulders, and digs in firmly. McCoy groans, and Jim tenses, ready to tell Spock to back off, but then Spock rearranges his fingers a bit, presses harder, and just like that, Jim can see the tension ease out of McCoy’s body. It takes about ten minutes of Spock working through various configurations of pressure points, but then Jim can hear the doctor’s breathing even out, and knows that, miraculously, Spock has gotten him to sleep. Gently, Spock eases Bones back down, pulling the blankets back up over his shoulders, before standing himself.
“Why, Mr. Spock--” Kirk whispers, trying for irony, but his slightly flabbergasted admiration showing through.
“Yes, Captain?”
“Nothing, I just should have known that of the three of us, you’d have the best bedside manner.”
Spock cocks an eyebrow at him, but merely says, “It’s late, Captain, you should try to sleep too. I’ll wake you if the doctor’s condition worsens.” And Kirk is just tired enough, and relieved enough, to take his First Officer’s advice.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Somewhat to his surprise, Jim falls asleep as soon as he lies down. When he wakes up, McCoy is still sleeping, and so is Spock, uncharacteristically sprawled on the chair by the bed, head at an awkward angle. Kirk pads over to the bed and studies McCoy: there are still traces of pain on his face, but his breathing is steady and unlabored. Not bothering with the tricorder, he rests the back of his hand gently on Bones’s forehead-still hot, but not as bad as the night before, he doesn’t think. Turning, he nudges Spock who comes awake with a start. Kirk jerks his head towards the third bed and mouths, “it’s an order.” Spock doesn’t protest, just nods, folds himself onto the narrow cot, and is asleep again almost instantly. Kirk checks the time: they have another five or six hours before the Enterprise returns Sighing, he heads out of the visitors’ quarters to find breakfast, and check on the rest of the substation.
Bones actually is a bit better when he wakes up. Still too shaky to get out of bed, but he eats something, and is cogent enough to glare and bitch at the other two men. Kirk isn’t really sure what he’s bitching about, he’s just glad Bones has the energy to do it. Spock unearths a chess set from somewhere, and he and Jim play until Bones complains that watching them is making his headache worse. So Jim goes back to his inexhaustible supply of tales-of-Jim-Kirk’s adventures-he figures Bones is up to the raunchier variety now-until Spock gives them a look that says that the smut is giving him a headache, and stalks out to double check the mining operation.
He’s involved in a detailed account of how he got the notoriously difficult to please three-breasted Nephelian girl at the Academy to scream his name when she came, when he notices that the Doctor’s expression has gone suddenly serious. Okay, maybe the description was getting a little technical, but McCoy looks-
“Bones? Are you alright? Do you need something?
“Jim-“ McCoy starts, and it’s clear he hasn’t been paying attention to the problems of Nephelian foreplay at all. “You were right-that was a supremely boneassed move on my part. I keep thinking-what if something had happened to you, or Spock, while I was flat on my back like this? What would I-“ He stops, coughs lightly, clears his throat: “What I’m trying to say, Captain, is that I apologize: it won’t happen again.”
Jim’s heart aches. Bones still looks so fragile, pale, propped up on the bed’s thin pillows. As a friend, he wants to reassure him, tell his it doesn’t matter now anyway. But that’s not what McCoy needs.
“Thank you, Doctor,” he says instead, in the most official voice he can muster, “I feel assured that it will not.”
And just then, like the chime of redemption, he hears his communicator beep. It’s the Enterprise, he knows, come to take them home.