Cura Te Ipsum (Kirk/McCoy, ST:XI; NC-17) Part 1
"Some welcome,” Kirk huffed. “You had medics waiting in the transporter room to waylay me.”
McCoy let his gaze run down Kirk, starting with the cut on his forehead, over the blood-spotted uniform shirt, down to the ripped hem of his pants. McCoy ignored his petulant expression and focused on the left arm clutched tightly to his side, a sure tell if there ever was one.
"Can't imagine why. All right, let's get you in here." McCoy shepherded him toward one of the bays, got him perched on the edge like a bird about to fly away. He placed a hand on his chest and gave him a push. "Down, boy." Kirk tipped backwards and landed with a soft grunt. The medics, hovering nearby, looked a bit shocked; McCoy waved them away. “Get the captain a hot meal and a clean uniform. I can handle this.”
“A cold beer would be nice,” Kirk called after them, not intending to be heard. With no audience left but McCoy, he settled into a shallow breathing pattern and stared at the ceiling.
The scan showed nothing much: slightly elevated heart rate and BP, but that was normal following transport. If he managed to survive his five-year tour, he was going to devote the rest of his life to proving that beaming caused cancer and hair loss and whatever else he could think of. For now, it was self-evident that it caused an increase in reckless behavior in starship captains under 30 years of age.
Kirk had a high potassium load around his major muscles, and a few areas of inflammation that were probably nothing worse than bad bruises. He detached Kirk’s elbow from his side and zeroed in on his ribcage with the handheld tricorder he liked using in conjunction with the biobed for finer control.
“Uh-huh. Hairline fracture of the 7th and 8th ribs.” He put the tricorder down, leaned on the bed, and looked down at Kirk. “Only you could break a rib on a diplomatic mission. Was this before or after you vanished for 12 hours without your communicator? Spock was about five minutes away from arming torpedoes.”
“Oh, Spock was worried.” He smirked up at McCoy for a few seconds, and, getting no reaction, continued. “You didn’t ask me how the mission went.”
“From the evidence, I’m guessing not so well.” Kirk said nothing. “Oh, all right. ’How did the mission go, captain?’
“Complete success. We signed an eight-year mutual defense treaty with Gamma Civillon with first purchase rights on strategic elements.” He watched with minimal interest as McCoy tugged his shirt up to get a visual, revealing a slice of pale skin and a lot of mottled bruising.
“Well! Another resounding success for Captain Kirk and the Enterprise. The Admiralty will be pleased.”
“The Admiralty definitely won’t be. They sent us here to fail. Ow!” Kirk let out an indignant yelp as McCoy pressed lightly on his bruised rib. Kirk generally had an almost alarming inattention to his own injury and discomfort, but iatrophobia made him whiny.
“They sent the Enterprise, their most advanced ship. To fail.”
“Yes, their most advanced ship, their least experienced captain, and their most incompetent diplomat.”
“If you say so. All right, shirt off. Pants, too. I can fix up whatever that is on your left shin while I’m at.” He let McCoy help him back to a sitting position with a barely concealed grimace; allowed McCoy to take off his boots and shimmy off his pants with ill grace. He lifted his arms with a wry smile that turned into a gasp, waiting for McCoy’s help in pulling off his uniform shirts. McCoy saw that his ribcage had been wrapped with a half dozen or so turns of white fabric strapping.
“A compression wrap! How charmingly old-fashioned and completely useless. Good setup for pneumonia if you do it right.” Kirk did nothing but absorb the sarcasm as McCoy gingerly severed the thick layers of bandaging carefully away with a laser scalpel.
Now dressed in nothing but his briefs, Kirk allowed himself to be lowered back onto the bed, watching with almost comical suspicion as McCoy readied the osteogenerator.
McCoy welcomed the distraction. There was something about watching the captain undress, about seeing all that bare flesh, which he found disturbing. It was an unfortunate fact, since as CMO he was the captain’s personal physician, and since as this captain’s personal physician, he had to patch the man up after almost every mission, including refueling stops.
Lord knows he’d seen it enough, including all those mornings he’d shoved Kirk into the shower 20 minutes before their first class, which was generally 10 minutes after he’d gotten in the “night” before. Maybe McCoy didn’t like the reminder that it had, after all, been just last year. Maybe he needed the uniform, the command gold, as much as the rest of the crew. Stripped of it, Kirk’s body still showed the softness of youth, though it was long and lean, all legs and back, built like a greyhound, for speed. At the moment, it looked all too vulnerable as well. There were half a dozen spectacular contusions, and the thing on his shin turned out to be a swollen knot of flesh the size of a tennis ball.
“Good god, Jim. And you’re telling me Ambassador Luong is the one who’s a lousy diplomat.”
“The worst.” Kirk sighed with either relief or resignation as McCoy positioned the osteogenerator and attached it with a little skin fixative. “Well, maybe in another context he’d be OK. But you should have heard him, droning on and on about the galactic values of peaceful cooperation between planets and how Federation worlds had a 41.7% higher standard of living per capita than non-Federation worlds adjusted for social, cultural and biological factors, blah blah blah. I got sick of listening to him. The Grand Consul was crawling out of his skin. He was almost as bored as he was on the ship tour.”
“He didn’t seem so bored when you blew through here. He was hanging on your every word.” McCoy, in dress uniform for his part in the dog-and-pony show, had gotten a good look at the Grand Consul, a middle-aged bearded man of medium height, opulently dressed, just on the well-built side of portly. He’d listened politely while McCoy rattled off the features of sickbay, but had turned his dark, intent gaze back to Kirk as soon as courtesy allowed.
“Uh-huh. Anyhow, Luong was about as interesting and relevant as one of those patriotic Federation vids they make you watch in fifth grade. As if Gamma Civillon has any motivation but unenlightened self-interest. It’s a typical exploitation colony-parents and grandparents worked liked dogs so their children could enjoy a life of ease and plenty, and boy, do they enjoy it. Especially the Grand Consul.”
“Wine, women, and song?”
“Wine and song, for sure. Women? For the Grand Consul, not so much, although he made sure there were plenty available for his guests. I doubt the Admiralty knew that when they sent me, although I’d kind of like to think they’re that devious.”
That effectively stifled McCoy’s next question, which was going to be what Kirk had done to make him see the light on the benefits of a Federation alliance. He felt himself flush a bit and covered it by turning the dermal regenerator, and his attention, to the bruise on his left shoulder.
“See, Gamma Civillon cares about one thing, which is protecting the interstellar shipping lanes.” Kirk sketched out his vision with his right hand, ignoring McCoy’s protests. "If they can’t trade their high-energy elements, they’re just another miserable rock where the solar radiation at noon is enough to make your hair fall out. The old men at the Admiralty think that means they’ll be happy to jump into the Klingons’ arms if war breaks out, because if they’re not invested in the Federation as a concept, then they don’t care who they sell their minerals to.”
“And you think the Admiralty is wrong.” McCoy moved on to the bruise on the anterior tibialis. He probably owed Kirk a tongue-lashing for that one; complications were rare, but it shouldn’t have been left unattended. At that particular moment, he was too morbidly fascinated listening to this very young, almost naked young man casually discussing the fate of planets.
“It’s not just me; it’s Pike and a good part of the Federation Council, even if they don’t have the guts to come out and say it. The loss of Vulcan wasn’t just a huge military hit. We also lost some reasons for joining the Federation: Vulcan science, Vulcan technology, Vulcan diplomatic skills. Without Vulcan, and with the Klingons becoming more aggressive, we can’t be as picky as we used to be. We have to meet planets on their own terms, and convince them we understand their interests. The Grand Consul knows that if a war broke out, the Klingons would just annex Gamma Civillon, or take what they want through piracy. He has much more to gain if things remain tense but stable; he can sell to both sides and develop new markets for his other raw materials. In effect, we signed a treaty promising to help protect Klingon supply lines, and that’s okay. We can put another planet in the ‘safe’ column and concentrate on more interesting things like deep space missions.”
“Your perspective on the galactic balance of power is fascinating, but you still haven’t explained where the broken bone and the contusions fit in. No, wait, let me guess: you picked a fight with Luong so he’d recuse himself from the mission and leave you in charge.”
“Please. They closed that loophole before they made me captain. No, I ditched Luong and went with the Grand Consul to his house in the Para Hills. Shit heaps, if you ask me, but the house was nice, and there was a huge party with the whole clan and I got the big honor of dancing with the Grand Consul’s fourth cousin twice removed or something. Then he and I went one-on-one in the old Civillon sport of dokan. It’s one of those stupid tests of ‘manhood’ people get weepy about when they’re drunk. The good old days when men were men, all that crap. Each player gets these two things like long dumbbells. They’re small and padded, but they weigh a ton. You’re supposed to spin ‘em around and whack your opponent, anywhere is fair.”
“So you lost.”
“No, we tied. I think. I’ve gotten a lot better since I’ve been sparring with Sulu. Plus, Sulu showed me it isn’t easy to throw a fight without looking to0 obvious unless you’re really that much better than your opponent, which Sulu, by the way, isn’t.”
“I think I remember patching you up after that lesson.” McCoy had done all he could for the surface damage. “You want me to apply some sterile leeches? They’ll help with the swelling.”
“Oh god no,” Kirk shivered. “Anyhow, where do people get this idea this idea you’re not supposed to beat the captain at anything? My ego’s not that fragile. Chekhov’s cleaned my clock at chess often enough.”
“What about the Grand Consul’s ego? Did he look like you after the match?”
“More or less. Marks on your body are part of the game; it’s how you keep score. You wear nothing but this loincloth-like thing called a bron so everyone can see if you’re hit. In the old days they’d play until one person passed out or gave up, but these days they call it well before that. The rib thing happened when I slipped on a wet spot on the floor and slid into an incoming blow. The Grand Consul was very apologetic; he insisted on tending to it himself.”
“Those people should use some of their ridiculous wealth on osteogenerators.”
“That wasn’t the point. It was more of a-I mean, in that culture, when men-Well, anyway, it was a mountain retreat and kind of rustic, and however he treated it you’d probably be complaining now, anyway.”
There was something about this turn in the story that made McCoy very uncomfortable. Fortunately he was saved from answering by the arrival of one of the medics, Chapel, who had come back with a tray of food-gespar and wheat cakes, it looked like. The mess had been serving a lot of Vulcan food lately; McCoy suspected blatant influence peddling on Spock’s part.
“Thank you, Chapel.” Kirk turned the high beams on her for a minute.
“Of course, sir. Glad to have you home safely.” McCoy caught the wide end of her smile as she walked away.
“Jim, don’t you start. I told you to lay off my staff or I’ll have you blindfolded the next time you come in here.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He looked convincingly baffled.
“You really don’t, do you?” McCoy spread a blanket over him and pulled the tray close enough for Kirk to reach. “The osteogen is going to take about half an hour. Enjoy your Vulcan slop and a nap if you want. If Spock comes prowling around looking for a report, or to beat you senseless for that stunt with the communicator, I’ll tell him I’ve got you under observation.”
“That’s it? You don’t want to know anything else about the mission?” McCoy in fact had many questions, none of which he felt like asking.
“If it’s not directly related to a broken bone, I’m probably better off not knowing. Good night, Jim.”
+ + + + +
Kirk got his deep space mission, to an unmapped region of the Morgana Quadrant. McCoy found out what one of his Academy instructors had meant about deep space exploration as being “long stretches of mind-numbing boredom punctuated by moments of terror.” The key, as everyone kept reminding each other, was routine. McCoy met M’Benga for rounds every ship’s morning, followed by coffee and a review of research abstracts. They conducted physicals of the new crew who’d joined before the mission; they regularly rechecked the non-humans to make sure they were adjusting to the environment. That took care of the days. The nights were another story, as McCoy found himself singularly uninterested in the hobbies and diversions that proliferated as if the Enterprise were some wholesome, high-IQ version of an old interstellar pleasure cruiser.
Though he saw Kirk little, his presence was everywhere. He ran drills every day and gave himself duty in each department. “I want to know her down to the last rivet,” he’d said on their maiden voyage, and whatever else he was accomplishing, it seemed to be going over gangbusters with the crew. He heard a group of engineers in the mess speak admiringly of how the captain had replaced a matrix restoration coil while dangling one-handed 10 meters above the deck. One evening, he arrived in the gym to find it packed and a Command-versus-Engineering volleyball game in full swing, with Kirk both playing and engaging in some uncaptainly trash talking. McCoy didn’t stay long.
There was nothing to prevent him from stopping by Kirk’s quarters with a bottle of bourbon and a deck of cards, except that he didn’t. The more days passed without some incident that brought them together on the bridge or in sickbay, the more discomforting the idea of being alone with Kirk in his quarters seemed. With 1,100 people demanding his attention, with crewmembers prizing little bits of his time like shiny presents, it seemed unfair, not to say a little desperate, to presume on an Academy friendship that Kirk might well have outgrown.
There was the truth of it. Half the ship was in love with him, quite literally. He’d heard Spock complain on occasion about the noisome rise in pheromone levels when the captain entered a crowded room. The other half saw him as the boat their ambitions sailed in, whether it was for adventure, or promotion, or just getting home alive. There were times when McCoy thought Starfleet Command was moonstruck itself, so giddy with acts of heroism and their own escape from death that they’d handed the keys of their most powerful starship to someone who hadn’t been in space since the day he was born. This was a man famous for jumping into freefall above a dying planet, and accelerating downward. It was enough to make anyone nervous, even someone who didn’t love terra firma as much as Dr. McCoy. As the famous pilot’s expression had it, it wasn’t the fall that killed you, it was the sudden stop at the end.
+ + + + +
A week into the voyage, McCoy had abandoned his attempts to be in anything other than full mope, and fled the officers’ mess with a dinner tray and the intention of eating it in front of a vid in his quarters. The Andorian version of Anna Karenina was doing nothing to lighten his mood, so he wasn’t entirely disappointed when the door chimed, figuring it was Scott in search of another victim for his most-nightly poker games. The door swished open and revealed Kirk, leaning against the door jamb, holding a bottle of Saurian brandy where every guy held a bottle of Saurian brandy at some point when he was drunk and trying to be “funny.” McCoy briefly considered closing the door again.
“That joke never gets old for you, does it?”
“The really funny thing is that Saurians don’t look like this. They’re flat and pronged. Or so I’ve heard.” He was, or at least appeared to be, completely sober.
“I suppose you want to come in?” Kirk didn’t reply, but sauntered over the tiny galley and grabbed a couple of glasses. He sloshed a little brandy into one and a lot more into another and handed it to McCoy, making the “drink up” gesture with his other hand.
“Trust me, you’re going to need it.” They sat down on the armchairs McCoy had substituted for the Fleet-issued table and chairs, more or less for exactly this purpose.
“Something about this mission I’m not going to like?”
“Nothing in particular. Unexplored planet, bizarre telemetry, ships mysteriously disappearing nearby. Pretty routine stuff.” He took a suspiciously small sip, then rested his elbows on his knees and looked directly at McCoy. “Bones, how come you haven’t stopped by my quarters since, oh, forever?”
“Oh, you know.” McCoy cleared his throat a little. “Still getting the hang of things in Sickbay. We added 20 crew before this mission. Plus this deep space thing-time kind of gets away from you.”
“Riiight.” Kirk looked at him with something oddly like sympathy. “Well, here we go, then.” He put the glass down on the small side table and scooted his chair a little closer.
“Before I took command of this ship, Admiral Pike and I had a lot of long talks. He told me things they didn’t teach us in the Academy. From the minute you join Starfleet, it’s all about the glory of exploration and the honor of serving as a peacekeeper. They tell us we’re the best and brightest, the envy of our home worlds. That most people will die without ever seeing their planets from space.” He rested his elbows on his knees and turned his head toward McCoy, his blue eyes dark and serious.
“What they don’t tell you is what it’s like living your life in a tin can bouncing around a huge void. How your subconscious knows, on some level, that you’re not supposed to be here. We need oxygen, food, water, and climate control to survive in space. That’s it. All the rest of this-“ he gestured around McCoy’s quarters-“is an illusion designed to fool us into thinking we’re safe out here. What we’re doing out here, most of the time, isn’t keeping the peace or exploring new worlds. It’s trying not to die.”
“Uh, Jim.” McCoy found that his voice had dropped to the same confidential level as Kirk’s. “I’m still not sure what this is about, but if you’re trying to be reassuring, it isn’t working.”
Kirk sighed. “I know. OK, here’s the deal. Apparently when people are under that kind of stress, especially for the first time, there’s a kind of…transference. To the person who they feel can protect them from all the bad stuff. They want to build that person up, make them larger than life. And when they do that it’s not unusual for them to develop…feelings.”
“Ah, I get it,” McCoy said, with relief. “Some of the younger crewmembers have developed a crush on you. Well, I can’t say I haven’t noticed. Do you really think it’s a problem? It sounds pretty harmless to me.”
“I’m not talking about the younger crewmembers. I’m talking about you.”
“What? Are you out of your ever-loving mind?” McCoy almost jumped out of his chair, but he was hemmed in, between Kirk and the wall. “Talk about delusions of grandeur! It’s not enough to have Starfleet and the crew mooning over you, but now your best friend’s got to be in love with you?”
“I didn’t say anything about love,” Kirk said calmly. “Look, we’ve known each other for four years and I as far as I know you’ve never had any interest in me sexually. I also know that you’re shit scared of a lot of things about space travel, and you got yourself stuck on the most bad-ass ship in the fleet with an inexperienced captain who loves getting into trouble. You’ve got as much experience being CMO as I have being captain, the difference being I wanted to be captain and I don’t think you ever wanted to be CMO. But you took the position, and I’m grateful you did. And you’re doing a helluva a job. That’s not just me saying that; M’Benga says it all the time, and he’s got six years in space and five at the Vulcan Medical Institute."
“Uh, thanks, I think.”
“But that wasn’t the only reason I wanted you as CMO. It was important to me to have someone on the ship-a senior officer, a peer-who’s not afraid to talk frankly to me, and who I can talk frankly with. Who’ll call bullshit if he thinks I need it. And you’ve certainly never had a problem with that.”
“If there’s any kind of thing at all-which there absofuckinglutely isn’t, by the way-it’s nothing you didn’t put there. You flirt shamelessly with every sentient being on this ship, maybe with the plants for all I know. You’ve got a god-damned Vulcan, a Vulcan who tried to kill you, eating out your hand like Shetland pony.” McCoy was working himself up to a righteous rage; it felt good. “And that weird story about the Grand Consul? What the hell was that about? Did you really want me to think you’d-“ he stumbled for a word-“seduce some alien potentate to secure a mission objective?”
“Do you think I would?” Kirk asked calmly.
“I have no bloody idea. But I refuse to be another one of your conquests. Whatever problems I have with being on this ship, being on your ship, I’ll handle myself. I don’t need your god-damned psychoanalytical bullshit to tell me I’m afraid of space, and I don’t need you here managing me.”
“Have it your way,” Kirk said. “I was trying to make it easier for you. If that way didn’t work for you, maybe this will.” With that, James T. Kirk leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth.
Part 2
McCoy let his gaze run down Kirk, starting with the cut on his forehead, over the blood-spotted uniform shirt, down to the ripped hem of his pants. McCoy ignored his petulant expression and focused on the left arm clutched tightly to his side, a sure tell if there ever was one.
"Can't imagine why. All right, let's get you in here." McCoy shepherded him toward one of the bays, got him perched on the edge like a bird about to fly away. He placed a hand on his chest and gave him a push. "Down, boy." Kirk tipped backwards and landed with a soft grunt. The medics, hovering nearby, looked a bit shocked; McCoy waved them away. “Get the captain a hot meal and a clean uniform. I can handle this.”
“A cold beer would be nice,” Kirk called after them, not intending to be heard. With no audience left but McCoy, he settled into a shallow breathing pattern and stared at the ceiling.
The scan showed nothing much: slightly elevated heart rate and BP, but that was normal following transport. If he managed to survive his five-year tour, he was going to devote the rest of his life to proving that beaming caused cancer and hair loss and whatever else he could think of. For now, it was self-evident that it caused an increase in reckless behavior in starship captains under 30 years of age.
Kirk had a high potassium load around his major muscles, and a few areas of inflammation that were probably nothing worse than bad bruises. He detached Kirk’s elbow from his side and zeroed in on his ribcage with the handheld tricorder he liked using in conjunction with the biobed for finer control.
“Uh-huh. Hairline fracture of the 7th and 8th ribs.” He put the tricorder down, leaned on the bed, and looked down at Kirk. “Only you could break a rib on a diplomatic mission. Was this before or after you vanished for 12 hours without your communicator? Spock was about five minutes away from arming torpedoes.”
“Oh, Spock was worried.” He smirked up at McCoy for a few seconds, and, getting no reaction, continued. “You didn’t ask me how the mission went.”
“From the evidence, I’m guessing not so well.” Kirk said nothing. “Oh, all right. ’How did the mission go, captain?’
“Complete success. We signed an eight-year mutual defense treaty with Gamma Civillon with first purchase rights on strategic elements.” He watched with minimal interest as McCoy tugged his shirt up to get a visual, revealing a slice of pale skin and a lot of mottled bruising.
“Well! Another resounding success for Captain Kirk and the Enterprise. The Admiralty will be pleased.”
“The Admiralty definitely won’t be. They sent us here to fail. Ow!” Kirk let out an indignant yelp as McCoy pressed lightly on his bruised rib. Kirk generally had an almost alarming inattention to his own injury and discomfort, but iatrophobia made him whiny.
“They sent the Enterprise, their most advanced ship. To fail.”
“Yes, their most advanced ship, their least experienced captain, and their most incompetent diplomat.”
“If you say so. All right, shirt off. Pants, too. I can fix up whatever that is on your left shin while I’m at.” He let McCoy help him back to a sitting position with a barely concealed grimace; allowed McCoy to take off his boots and shimmy off his pants with ill grace. He lifted his arms with a wry smile that turned into a gasp, waiting for McCoy’s help in pulling off his uniform shirts. McCoy saw that his ribcage had been wrapped with a half dozen or so turns of white fabric strapping.
“A compression wrap! How charmingly old-fashioned and completely useless. Good setup for pneumonia if you do it right.” Kirk did nothing but absorb the sarcasm as McCoy gingerly severed the thick layers of bandaging carefully away with a laser scalpel.
Now dressed in nothing but his briefs, Kirk allowed himself to be lowered back onto the bed, watching with almost comical suspicion as McCoy readied the osteogenerator.
McCoy welcomed the distraction. There was something about watching the captain undress, about seeing all that bare flesh, which he found disturbing. It was an unfortunate fact, since as CMO he was the captain’s personal physician, and since as this captain’s personal physician, he had to patch the man up after almost every mission, including refueling stops.
Lord knows he’d seen it enough, including all those mornings he’d shoved Kirk into the shower 20 minutes before their first class, which was generally 10 minutes after he’d gotten in the “night” before. Maybe McCoy didn’t like the reminder that it had, after all, been just last year. Maybe he needed the uniform, the command gold, as much as the rest of the crew. Stripped of it, Kirk’s body still showed the softness of youth, though it was long and lean, all legs and back, built like a greyhound, for speed. At the moment, it looked all too vulnerable as well. There were half a dozen spectacular contusions, and the thing on his shin turned out to be a swollen knot of flesh the size of a tennis ball.
“Good god, Jim. And you’re telling me Ambassador Luong is the one who’s a lousy diplomat.”
“The worst.” Kirk sighed with either relief or resignation as McCoy positioned the osteogenerator and attached it with a little skin fixative. “Well, maybe in another context he’d be OK. But you should have heard him, droning on and on about the galactic values of peaceful cooperation between planets and how Federation worlds had a 41.7% higher standard of living per capita than non-Federation worlds adjusted for social, cultural and biological factors, blah blah blah. I got sick of listening to him. The Grand Consul was crawling out of his skin. He was almost as bored as he was on the ship tour.”
“He didn’t seem so bored when you blew through here. He was hanging on your every word.” McCoy, in dress uniform for his part in the dog-and-pony show, had gotten a good look at the Grand Consul, a middle-aged bearded man of medium height, opulently dressed, just on the well-built side of portly. He’d listened politely while McCoy rattled off the features of sickbay, but had turned his dark, intent gaze back to Kirk as soon as courtesy allowed.
“Uh-huh. Anyhow, Luong was about as interesting and relevant as one of those patriotic Federation vids they make you watch in fifth grade. As if Gamma Civillon has any motivation but unenlightened self-interest. It’s a typical exploitation colony-parents and grandparents worked liked dogs so their children could enjoy a life of ease and plenty, and boy, do they enjoy it. Especially the Grand Consul.”
“Wine, women, and song?”
“Wine and song, for sure. Women? For the Grand Consul, not so much, although he made sure there were plenty available for his guests. I doubt the Admiralty knew that when they sent me, although I’d kind of like to think they’re that devious.”
That effectively stifled McCoy’s next question, which was going to be what Kirk had done to make him see the light on the benefits of a Federation alliance. He felt himself flush a bit and covered it by turning the dermal regenerator, and his attention, to the bruise on his left shoulder.
“See, Gamma Civillon cares about one thing, which is protecting the interstellar shipping lanes.” Kirk sketched out his vision with his right hand, ignoring McCoy’s protests. "If they can’t trade their high-energy elements, they’re just another miserable rock where the solar radiation at noon is enough to make your hair fall out. The old men at the Admiralty think that means they’ll be happy to jump into the Klingons’ arms if war breaks out, because if they’re not invested in the Federation as a concept, then they don’t care who they sell their minerals to.”
“And you think the Admiralty is wrong.” McCoy moved on to the bruise on the anterior tibialis. He probably owed Kirk a tongue-lashing for that one; complications were rare, but it shouldn’t have been left unattended. At that particular moment, he was too morbidly fascinated listening to this very young, almost naked young man casually discussing the fate of planets.
“It’s not just me; it’s Pike and a good part of the Federation Council, even if they don’t have the guts to come out and say it. The loss of Vulcan wasn’t just a huge military hit. We also lost some reasons for joining the Federation: Vulcan science, Vulcan technology, Vulcan diplomatic skills. Without Vulcan, and with the Klingons becoming more aggressive, we can’t be as picky as we used to be. We have to meet planets on their own terms, and convince them we understand their interests. The Grand Consul knows that if a war broke out, the Klingons would just annex Gamma Civillon, or take what they want through piracy. He has much more to gain if things remain tense but stable; he can sell to both sides and develop new markets for his other raw materials. In effect, we signed a treaty promising to help protect Klingon supply lines, and that’s okay. We can put another planet in the ‘safe’ column and concentrate on more interesting things like deep space missions.”
“Your perspective on the galactic balance of power is fascinating, but you still haven’t explained where the broken bone and the contusions fit in. No, wait, let me guess: you picked a fight with Luong so he’d recuse himself from the mission and leave you in charge.”
“Please. They closed that loophole before they made me captain. No, I ditched Luong and went with the Grand Consul to his house in the Para Hills. Shit heaps, if you ask me, but the house was nice, and there was a huge party with the whole clan and I got the big honor of dancing with the Grand Consul’s fourth cousin twice removed or something. Then he and I went one-on-one in the old Civillon sport of dokan. It’s one of those stupid tests of ‘manhood’ people get weepy about when they’re drunk. The good old days when men were men, all that crap. Each player gets these two things like long dumbbells. They’re small and padded, but they weigh a ton. You’re supposed to spin ‘em around and whack your opponent, anywhere is fair.”
“So you lost.”
“No, we tied. I think. I’ve gotten a lot better since I’ve been sparring with Sulu. Plus, Sulu showed me it isn’t easy to throw a fight without looking to0 obvious unless you’re really that much better than your opponent, which Sulu, by the way, isn’t.”
“I think I remember patching you up after that lesson.” McCoy had done all he could for the surface damage. “You want me to apply some sterile leeches? They’ll help with the swelling.”
“Oh god no,” Kirk shivered. “Anyhow, where do people get this idea this idea you’re not supposed to beat the captain at anything? My ego’s not that fragile. Chekhov’s cleaned my clock at chess often enough.”
“What about the Grand Consul’s ego? Did he look like you after the match?”
“More or less. Marks on your body are part of the game; it’s how you keep score. You wear nothing but this loincloth-like thing called a bron so everyone can see if you’re hit. In the old days they’d play until one person passed out or gave up, but these days they call it well before that. The rib thing happened when I slipped on a wet spot on the floor and slid into an incoming blow. The Grand Consul was very apologetic; he insisted on tending to it himself.”
“Those people should use some of their ridiculous wealth on osteogenerators.”
“That wasn’t the point. It was more of a-I mean, in that culture, when men-Well, anyway, it was a mountain retreat and kind of rustic, and however he treated it you’d probably be complaining now, anyway.”
There was something about this turn in the story that made McCoy very uncomfortable. Fortunately he was saved from answering by the arrival of one of the medics, Chapel, who had come back with a tray of food-gespar and wheat cakes, it looked like. The mess had been serving a lot of Vulcan food lately; McCoy suspected blatant influence peddling on Spock’s part.
“Thank you, Chapel.” Kirk turned the high beams on her for a minute.
“Of course, sir. Glad to have you home safely.” McCoy caught the wide end of her smile as she walked away.
“Jim, don’t you start. I told you to lay off my staff or I’ll have you blindfolded the next time you come in here.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He looked convincingly baffled.
“You really don’t, do you?” McCoy spread a blanket over him and pulled the tray close enough for Kirk to reach. “The osteogen is going to take about half an hour. Enjoy your Vulcan slop and a nap if you want. If Spock comes prowling around looking for a report, or to beat you senseless for that stunt with the communicator, I’ll tell him I’ve got you under observation.”
“That’s it? You don’t want to know anything else about the mission?” McCoy in fact had many questions, none of which he felt like asking.
“If it’s not directly related to a broken bone, I’m probably better off not knowing. Good night, Jim.”
+ + + + +
Kirk got his deep space mission, to an unmapped region of the Morgana Quadrant. McCoy found out what one of his Academy instructors had meant about deep space exploration as being “long stretches of mind-numbing boredom punctuated by moments of terror.” The key, as everyone kept reminding each other, was routine. McCoy met M’Benga for rounds every ship’s morning, followed by coffee and a review of research abstracts. They conducted physicals of the new crew who’d joined before the mission; they regularly rechecked the non-humans to make sure they were adjusting to the environment. That took care of the days. The nights were another story, as McCoy found himself singularly uninterested in the hobbies and diversions that proliferated as if the Enterprise were some wholesome, high-IQ version of an old interstellar pleasure cruiser.
Though he saw Kirk little, his presence was everywhere. He ran drills every day and gave himself duty in each department. “I want to know her down to the last rivet,” he’d said on their maiden voyage, and whatever else he was accomplishing, it seemed to be going over gangbusters with the crew. He heard a group of engineers in the mess speak admiringly of how the captain had replaced a matrix restoration coil while dangling one-handed 10 meters above the deck. One evening, he arrived in the gym to find it packed and a Command-versus-Engineering volleyball game in full swing, with Kirk both playing and engaging in some uncaptainly trash talking. McCoy didn’t stay long.
There was nothing to prevent him from stopping by Kirk’s quarters with a bottle of bourbon and a deck of cards, except that he didn’t. The more days passed without some incident that brought them together on the bridge or in sickbay, the more discomforting the idea of being alone with Kirk in his quarters seemed. With 1,100 people demanding his attention, with crewmembers prizing little bits of his time like shiny presents, it seemed unfair, not to say a little desperate, to presume on an Academy friendship that Kirk might well have outgrown.
There was the truth of it. Half the ship was in love with him, quite literally. He’d heard Spock complain on occasion about the noisome rise in pheromone levels when the captain entered a crowded room. The other half saw him as the boat their ambitions sailed in, whether it was for adventure, or promotion, or just getting home alive. There were times when McCoy thought Starfleet Command was moonstruck itself, so giddy with acts of heroism and their own escape from death that they’d handed the keys of their most powerful starship to someone who hadn’t been in space since the day he was born. This was a man famous for jumping into freefall above a dying planet, and accelerating downward. It was enough to make anyone nervous, even someone who didn’t love terra firma as much as Dr. McCoy. As the famous pilot’s expression had it, it wasn’t the fall that killed you, it was the sudden stop at the end.
+ + + + +
A week into the voyage, McCoy had abandoned his attempts to be in anything other than full mope, and fled the officers’ mess with a dinner tray and the intention of eating it in front of a vid in his quarters. The Andorian version of Anna Karenina was doing nothing to lighten his mood, so he wasn’t entirely disappointed when the door chimed, figuring it was Scott in search of another victim for his most-nightly poker games. The door swished open and revealed Kirk, leaning against the door jamb, holding a bottle of Saurian brandy where every guy held a bottle of Saurian brandy at some point when he was drunk and trying to be “funny.” McCoy briefly considered closing the door again.
“That joke never gets old for you, does it?”
“The really funny thing is that Saurians don’t look like this. They’re flat and pronged. Or so I’ve heard.” He was, or at least appeared to be, completely sober.
“I suppose you want to come in?” Kirk didn’t reply, but sauntered over the tiny galley and grabbed a couple of glasses. He sloshed a little brandy into one and a lot more into another and handed it to McCoy, making the “drink up” gesture with his other hand.
“Trust me, you’re going to need it.” They sat down on the armchairs McCoy had substituted for the Fleet-issued table and chairs, more or less for exactly this purpose.
“Something about this mission I’m not going to like?”
“Nothing in particular. Unexplored planet, bizarre telemetry, ships mysteriously disappearing nearby. Pretty routine stuff.” He took a suspiciously small sip, then rested his elbows on his knees and looked directly at McCoy. “Bones, how come you haven’t stopped by my quarters since, oh, forever?”
“Oh, you know.” McCoy cleared his throat a little. “Still getting the hang of things in Sickbay. We added 20 crew before this mission. Plus this deep space thing-time kind of gets away from you.”
“Riiight.” Kirk looked at him with something oddly like sympathy. “Well, here we go, then.” He put the glass down on the small side table and scooted his chair a little closer.
“Before I took command of this ship, Admiral Pike and I had a lot of long talks. He told me things they didn’t teach us in the Academy. From the minute you join Starfleet, it’s all about the glory of exploration and the honor of serving as a peacekeeper. They tell us we’re the best and brightest, the envy of our home worlds. That most people will die without ever seeing their planets from space.” He rested his elbows on his knees and turned his head toward McCoy, his blue eyes dark and serious.
“What they don’t tell you is what it’s like living your life in a tin can bouncing around a huge void. How your subconscious knows, on some level, that you’re not supposed to be here. We need oxygen, food, water, and climate control to survive in space. That’s it. All the rest of this-“ he gestured around McCoy’s quarters-“is an illusion designed to fool us into thinking we’re safe out here. What we’re doing out here, most of the time, isn’t keeping the peace or exploring new worlds. It’s trying not to die.”
“Uh, Jim.” McCoy found that his voice had dropped to the same confidential level as Kirk’s. “I’m still not sure what this is about, but if you’re trying to be reassuring, it isn’t working.”
Kirk sighed. “I know. OK, here’s the deal. Apparently when people are under that kind of stress, especially for the first time, there’s a kind of…transference. To the person who they feel can protect them from all the bad stuff. They want to build that person up, make them larger than life. And when they do that it’s not unusual for them to develop…feelings.”
“Ah, I get it,” McCoy said, with relief. “Some of the younger crewmembers have developed a crush on you. Well, I can’t say I haven’t noticed. Do you really think it’s a problem? It sounds pretty harmless to me.”
“I’m not talking about the younger crewmembers. I’m talking about you.”
“What? Are you out of your ever-loving mind?” McCoy almost jumped out of his chair, but he was hemmed in, between Kirk and the wall. “Talk about delusions of grandeur! It’s not enough to have Starfleet and the crew mooning over you, but now your best friend’s got to be in love with you?”
“I didn’t say anything about love,” Kirk said calmly. “Look, we’ve known each other for four years and I as far as I know you’ve never had any interest in me sexually. I also know that you’re shit scared of a lot of things about space travel, and you got yourself stuck on the most bad-ass ship in the fleet with an inexperienced captain who loves getting into trouble. You’ve got as much experience being CMO as I have being captain, the difference being I wanted to be captain and I don’t think you ever wanted to be CMO. But you took the position, and I’m grateful you did. And you’re doing a helluva a job. That’s not just me saying that; M’Benga says it all the time, and he’s got six years in space and five at the Vulcan Medical Institute."
“Uh, thanks, I think.”
“But that wasn’t the only reason I wanted you as CMO. It was important to me to have someone on the ship-a senior officer, a peer-who’s not afraid to talk frankly to me, and who I can talk frankly with. Who’ll call bullshit if he thinks I need it. And you’ve certainly never had a problem with that.”
“If there’s any kind of thing at all-which there absofuckinglutely isn’t, by the way-it’s nothing you didn’t put there. You flirt shamelessly with every sentient being on this ship, maybe with the plants for all I know. You’ve got a god-damned Vulcan, a Vulcan who tried to kill you, eating out your hand like Shetland pony.” McCoy was working himself up to a righteous rage; it felt good. “And that weird story about the Grand Consul? What the hell was that about? Did you really want me to think you’d-“ he stumbled for a word-“seduce some alien potentate to secure a mission objective?”
“Do you think I would?” Kirk asked calmly.
“I have no bloody idea. But I refuse to be another one of your conquests. Whatever problems I have with being on this ship, being on your ship, I’ll handle myself. I don’t need your god-damned psychoanalytical bullshit to tell me I’m afraid of space, and I don’t need you here managing me.”
“Have it your way,” Kirk said. “I was trying to make it easier for you. If that way didn’t work for you, maybe this will.” With that, James T. Kirk leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth.
Part 2