Fic: Uncertainty Principle (3/4)
Title: Uncertainty Principle (Part 3 of 4)
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG-13
Note: Keep your eyes peeled for a TOS reference!
Summary: Bones gets a lesson in quantum mechanics, Chekov goes on an away mission and things go wrong, Jim has a very bad day, and everything may (or may not) be Scotty's fault.
CHAPTER III
Someone is calling his name, and that someone sounds suspiciously like Bones. Kirk groans inwardly, not relishing the idea of that inevitable torture that follows the doctor like the plague, despite the fact that his leg feels like it might fall off, and he does not understand how someone can be so hot and so cold at the same time, and he's having trouble seeing things, and. . .
His wandering thoughts suddenly coalesce for a moment.
What the hell is Bones doing here?
He realizes he has been leaning in a daze against the cliff face and it is only by virtue of his vice-like grip on the stone that he has been able to stand upright. He cranes his neck to look in the direction of the voice and finds the doctor much closer than he expected. Their heads nearly collide.
Kirk flinches out of instinct and the normally minute movement nearly tips him over on his unsteady feet. A firm hand on his back is all that saves him. He turns his head slowly and he sees Spock supporting his entire body weight with one hand, looking entirely unperturbed.
McCoy already has the medical tricorder out and is making quick work of the unfortunate captain. Kirk tries several times to snag to offending machine from the doctor's hands but is unsuccessful, clutching hilariously at empty air.
McCoy mutters at Kirk, motioning for him to keep still. “Good God, man, what did you do this time?”
The last member of the party that Kirk identifies, standing silently next to McCoy, is Pavel Chekov. Kirk takes one look at the ensign and begins to laugh, low and thready. In his slightly delusional state he can't help but feel endeared to the slightly dirty-but obviously alive-Russian navigator.
“Chekov! The hell happened to you?”
“You can thank him later him for chasing away that giant alien that you obviously couldn't handle,” McCoy offers bitterly, batting Kirk's interfering hand away to get a closer inspection with his tricorder.
The insult is obviously lost on Kirk. He is staring at Chekov, eyes wide. “You killed it?”
The ensign shakes his head. “. . . No, captain. But it will not be giving us any more trouble, sir.”
Kirk grins wide, laughs drunkenly. “Good job, Chekov! That's a story to tell the ladies.”
The ensign can't help but beam beneath the layers of dirt and grime. “I will remember that, sir.”
Kirk reaches out and claps Chekov on the shoulder. Only Spock's steady hand, now gripping his shoulder, keeps him from pitching forward onto the dirt.
“How'd you enjoy this away mission?” He tries unsuccessfully to disguise a heavy breath. “Pretty exciting?”
Chekov bristles. He can not help but look slightly offended. “I would appreciate, Captain Kirk, if you would consider choosing someone else for your next away team.”
Kirk's face falls. “Aw, Chekov. I'm hurt.” He senses McCoy coming with the hypospray before the doctor has even removed it from the medpack. “Get that thing the hell away from me, Bones.”
McCoy ignores the sentiment. “How many times I have told you not to be such an infant, Jim?”
“It's not that bad!”
McCoy stares at Kirk's face. His eyes flick down to the open wound seeping blood in a sizable pool around the captain's ankle and travel back up again. “I bet, Jim. Could've fooled me.”
“Shut up, Bones.”
“Spock?”
Kirk had nearly forgotten about the Vulcan acting as his support until a very firm hand grips the side of his head and pulls it back, exposing his neck. McCoy jabs the hypospray there with Vulcan-like reflexes and Kirk finds himself cursing at the doctor before he even has a chance to react otherwise.
“You're an ass, Bones.”
“I know.”
Kirk looks between Bones and Spock and Chekov and his body and brain seem to make a concurrent decision. His legs fold underneath him and he falls like a stone, not into the waiting arms of the doctor but into and nearly on top of the completely startled Pavel Chekov. Two fall as one before McCoy can do anything and Kirk's dead weight nearly smothers the unfortunate ensign.
Spock might-just might-have a slight smile on the corners of his lips as he pulls out his communicator, but McCoy is too concerned with Kirk to notice.
“Spock to Enterprise. We have located the captain and ensign Chekov. Request to transport four. Have a medical team waiting at arrival.”
“Don't do anything funny this time, Mr. Scott!” McCoy can't help but hear himself scream in Spock's direction. It is a reaction that has become almost automatic, now.
“Aye, you bet your arse-er, sir.”
******
Spock examines the doctor in silence. McCoy is busing himself with the captain, his eyes focused on a list of readouts, and if he knows of the Vulcan's presence in sickbay he has yet to acknowledge it. Spock watches the doctor prepare a hypospray and deliver it without pause and takes note of the fact that the captain does not stir; he is as still has he was two days ago. On the normally robust captain such a stasis is disconcerting.
McCoy turns away from Kirk to attend to something across the room when his attention finally falls on the Vulcan. He does not seem surprised, though there is a slight mask of irritation on his features.
“Commander.”
“I am inquiring as to the status of the captain.”
“Of course you are.” McCoy glances over one shoulder at said patient. “There has been no change.”
“You are positive this antitoxin is working as it should?”
McCoy swallows the insult that his tongue wishes it could speak and forces himself to give a more medial response. “Yes, I'm sure. That was a pretty big lizard that gave him quite a dose of whatever the hell it was. It's a lot for any human to take. Even for Jim.”
“Do you have an estimate for his recovery?”
“You know how Jim is.”
Spock raises an eyebrow.
“He'll be back to get on your nerves soon enough.”
The Vulcan continues to stare. “Also,” he says, “the bridge is in need of its navigator.”
Spock gestures with his eyes to the bed opposite Kirk's.
“In due time,” McCoy replies curtly.
Spock nods. “I will return to the bridge, doctor. Please inform me of any changes.”
“Will do, commander. You've got your job to do, and I have mine.” McCoy gestures in confirmation with his free hand, not looking up from the data he is reading. He is prepared for the Vulcan to say something about the insubordination but is greeted only with a closing door. McCoy's eyes snap up to find the room deserted. He offers himself a private, inward smile. Finally got the last word, he thinks triumphantly.
McCoy pulls his attention away from the door and notices the eyes of his other patient locked on him from across the room. Chekov looks like he has aged ten years, but his eyes are unnaturally bright with fever. His face is dark with a bruise that has not even begun to fade. It stands out vigorously against his pale skin, which is several shades lighter in his disheveled state.
“How are you feeling, Chekov?”
“Not so good, sir. Worse than before, sir.”
“That's to be expected. I gave you some antitoxin as a precaution. It is normal for you to get the symptoms.”
Chekov sighs. To McCoy it looks absolutely pathetic.
“Don't worry, you'll be out of here in a day or so.”
The prospect seems to cheer the young ensign somewhat. “How is Captain Kirk?”
“He'll make it.”
Chekov intends to continue the conversation, but there is such a throbbing pain in his head. He massages at his temple and groans.
“Get some rest, Chekov.”
The ensign nods appreciatively. The room falls silent as the doctor returns to his work elsewhere, and in a few minutes Chekov feels his eyes go heavy in spite of himself.
******
He vaguely feels a light dusting of sensation on the side of his neck. Something cold settles there until he feels the unmistakable jolt as a hypospray buries itself in his jugular. He groans and jerks his head away.
“Get away from me with that friggin' hypo,” he attempts to say, but his tongue does not want to function and it comes out as a garbled and incoherent mess of words.
“Oh, Jim. Glad to see you're awake.”
McCoy waits the requisite time as Kirk tries to get his tongue to work again. His eyes are focused on the readouts from Kirk's chart, eyebrows knitted together in concentration.
“What the hell did you do to me, Bones?” Kirk manages after several failed attempts.
“Saved your damn life. Be a little more grateful.”
Kirk tries to sit up but McCoy places a very firm hand against his breastbone. “No.”
“What the hell?”
“You just added 'giant alien lizard wrangler' to your list of accomplishments. I don't want you getting up any time soon.”
“'Giant alien lizard wrangler',” Kirk repeats. “Hey, I like the sound of that.”
“Shut up and don't get any more ideas.”
Suddenly Kirk attempts to rise again. There is a wild look in his eyes. “Chekov?”
“For the last damn time Jim,” McCoy snaps. “The kid's fine. I released him two days ago.”
“Two days? But, Bones. . .?”
“You were out for almost four days, Jim.”
“Because of you.”
McCoy returns the expression with his own acrimonious one. “Yes, because of me, and if you don't shut your mouth I'll put you back that way for another week.”
Kirk regards McCoy with daggers in his eyes as he notices another hypospray hovering dangerously nearby. “What's with all the damn hypos?”
“The alien's saliva acted as some sort of toxin. I've had to give you injections every six hours to counteract it.”
“And this one?”
There is no expression on McCoy's face as he nonchalantly delivers the jab to the side of Kirk's neck. Kirk curses at him, decides that the pain in his neck is worse than anything a stupid alien lizard could have done to him.
“Sedative.”
“Bones, what the hell . . .?” the sedative takes over before he can finish his retort.
To Be Continued.