Day 58: Sun Room (Second Shift)

[poorexample]

[From here.]The room was mainly empty when Michael reached it, which was fine by him. It wasn't that he didn't feel sympathy for the other patients, but he also didn't know if it would be helpful for him to talk to them. The staff seemed to think that forming bonds amongst themselves would lead to recovery, but to him it felt more like they would

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[hes_deadjim]

The next shift had McCoy pacing just like the crouched tiger he'd accused Jim of days ago.

Last night he could have easily overdosed Carter on a drug he hadn't needed. Morphine wasn't something to laugh at. He shouldn't even have made that mistake and in any other circumstance, McCoy wouldn't have made it it ever. A loaded syringe felt nothing like a cotton swab. And yet, last night, his fingers had registered them as the same thing. McCoy looked down, rubbed his fingers together. They felt like what he'd expected, what he saw. Fingers, slightly rough, rubbing against each other. Now they do, McCoy thought darkly. He wasn't reliable. He couldn't count on that being a one time incident. The more he thought back on it, the more McCoy realized it shouldn't have come down to nearly ODing Carter. He had depth perception problems earlier. Those missing drug vials from the Infirmary they may or may not have gone to. The temperature variations he kept feeling whenever he drifted between awareness and sleep, because his body could have sworn his room was an arid desert. Combined with the migraines and mood swings, it had be something to do with the brain. He just didn't know what.

Spock was the answer. The only other option was going to the staff and hope they didn't just perform a frontal lobotomy on him. Spock was the only person who was qualified for the job in the end.

I'm going to do it, McCoy tried to drum up the enthusiasm and resolve to go with the decision. I'm going to go up, find that pointy-eared goblin, and I'm going to....

Every time he got near the conclusion of his battle plan, McCoy trailed off. Shied away from just the thought of what he had to ask Spock for. God, he didn't want it. He never wanted it and he still didn't want it. Everything in him was telling him to keep the damn Vulcan out of his head, but after last night, it wasn't an option. He could've killed someone.

McCoy was going to find a way out of this if he didn't act. Like getting a shot, he tried to tell himself. The anticipation was going to be worse than the actual thing. That was a damn lie and he knew it. Geller certainly hadn't thought so.

The doctor finally stopped and looked down at - judging from the scar tissue peeking out- Mr. Dent. "Hey. I'm looking for a man with pointy ears and a bowl cut, you seen him yet?"

[unheroed]

God dammit. Even when he was passed out on a couch and covering most of his face, that still didn't make it clear enough to these people that he did not want to be bothered.

In fact, Harvey almost thought about acting like he hadn't heard the other man speak at all. The only thing that stopped him from doing that was that he recognized the voice. Well, that and the fact that "pointy ears and bowl cut" sounded beyond ridiculous.

Pulling his arm up off of his eyes, Harvey glanced up at the other patient, realizing that it was in fact the doctor who he'd spoken to a few times in the past. Mainly to give him a hard time, though part of him was surprised that the man was still here. He seemed like the sort of patient that would have been weeded out by now.

"Pretty sure I would have remembered something like that," he grumbled, still stubborn enough that he wasn't sitting up to make room for McCoy. "Why the hell would I have seen him?" He was beyond a point where he was interested in even pretending to be polite.

[hes_deadjim]

McCoy scowled back at him. It wasn't like it was Dent's fault that he was having these problems or the fact that McCoy was dragging his feet, as if he were going in for one of the old style forms of dentistry, the barbaric kind that involved putting drills and little picks into your mouth. 'Course it wasn't like McCoy had been completely rude with him from the start either. Butting in his business and asking him where Spock was might not be the most polite way to greet someone, but you'd think someone had told him he was expected to work triple shifts.

"Because he stands out and we're a captive audience here," McCoy tried to be patient. It was obvious, he thought, but who knew with Dent? The man, even from day one, was a hard one to peg down. Underlying anger issues, but other than being a doctor, McCoy didn't know why he seemed to annoy the man. Or maybe this was the norm for him.

He did know he was less inclined to put up with it nowadays. The only reason he wasn't lying down and nursing his migraine was because now he needed to track down Spock. Preferably before he lost his nerve. The waiting had McCoy antsy, chomping at the bit and wishing he could have some control over a situation he felt backed into. Above all he wished he didn't have to look for Spock.

All the nervous energy needed an outlet, and unfortunately, Dent was the closest target. McCoy was about to go, let it be, when he seemed to change his mind. He turned around. "What in blazes is your problem anyway, Dent? Because you've had one from day one, and I'm not talking because you're a prisoner here. You've been pricklier than a porcupine and I want to know what the hell is with you."

[unheroed]

If the guy was that set on finding someone, he could have easily put up a message on the bulletin board instead of coming over to bother someone who was clearly resting. That was how Harvey saw it, anyway. Granted, McCoy probably had to be desperate if he was asking in the first place, but did Harvey care about what was bothering him or what had him all wound up? No, not really.

He had a whole lot of other things to worry about -- or, well, he was already past the worrying part. The worst had already happened when Jones had wheezed his last breath last night, and now Harvey was left even more burned than before (figuratively, this time) and at a loss for what to do with himself. They had access to some other area after what they'd done, right? But why the hell would he want to go put himself through more abuse?

Oh, right. Because the alternative was being stuck in this place and being forced to listen to people like the doctor here jabber on.

Just as he was about to somewhat rudely suggest that McCoy go ask someone else about his elf friend, however, the man actually rounded on him and started demanding an explanation for his behavior. That was enough to make Harvey sit up from the couch and stare right back at the man, seeing how this was one of the first times that he'd been challenged so directly. Most people just let it go.

His response, however, was simply to laugh into his hand, and it soon became clear that he was slightly off-kilter at that. "Pretty sure you can figure that out just by looking at me," he shot back. "What kind of doctor are you, anyway?" There was so much more to it than just the injury, of course, but hell if he was going to start spilling all of his feelings to some crotchety doctor.

[hes_deadjim]

McCoy didn't expect him to laugh. An eyebrow arched. There was something odd to it, a strange, faint quality that tended to put red flags in just about everyone else. Dent's response was somewhat surprising. McCoy would have expected him to get offended, although that came just after and a lot more subdued than he thought was coming. But not laugh.

Yes, that was a terrible injury. McCoy didn't need a degree to tell that much. How he survived that degree of burns was a miracle, and had this been in Federation space, he wouldn't have had to carry it so long. He might be angry at his lot in life, but something wasn't quite ringing right. Anger at the thought of being disfigured or pitied made sense, but with the way Dent acted, it felt like there was more.

"Don't give me that load of bull," McCoy grunted, unsympathetic. "That kind of injury could be healed back where I come from in about a week. Maybe less if you have extensive treatment. What you've got feels like it's been brewing long before your injury, and I want to know why you see fit to share it with everybody else."

[unheroed]

Healed in a week? That was a bizarre thought, and Harvey almost wanted to call the man on it. Because even if they'd offered him all sorts of options -- skin grafts, the whole nine yards -- he never would have looked completely normal again. Which was probably fitting, since he wouldn't ever be completely normal again. He hadn't wanted to heal and he still didn't, because now the sad state of his face stood for something.

But it wasn't as if someone like this doctor could understand that.

McCoy was pushing him, though, applying more pressure than anyone who had a sense of self-preservation should have. He was about half right. It was true that there was more to all this than just the injury, but it hadn't been a previous problem; it was more the circumstances under which the burns had been received. Well, and the fact that he'd built himself up so high only to fall so far.

"I'm not sharing it," he said with a snarl. "You're the one who got nosy. I mean, what the hell do you care?" His voice was increasing in volume now because he really wasn't in the right state for being pestered or confronted about all this. "Believe me, this isn't something you can just fix by waving a magic wand. And shouldn't you be off looking for your pointy-eared friend by now?"