Fic: Triple Full (1A/1)
Title: Triple Full
Author: Gixxer Pilot
Summary: McCoy might be a cranky, snarky bastard, but even he's not immune to 'proud papa' moments when it comes to Joanna. It would have been nice if she'd picked a sport that wouldn't scare him into a heart attack, but beggars can't be choosers.
Author’s Notes: As a former gymnast converted to springboard diving when I was in high school, gymnastics has always held a special place in my heart. Even though I quit both sports after high school, I continued to follow gymnastics. I’m glad, too, because it gave me a bunch of great ideas. I started this fic before the 2012 London Olympics, and watching the games solidified my resolve to actually finish it. For it, I’ve drawn inspiration from quite a few of my favorite gymnasts over the years. Some is technical and some is artistic, but I hope I’ve done a sufficient job of describing what’s going on, both from a spectator’s standpoint, and from a gymnasts’. You know, because flipping through the air is just win.
Also, I wrote this story well before Into Failure was even in production, so consider it an AU of sorts.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of the gymnastics referenced herein. I only own this idea and a giant bag of dark chocolate Raisinets.
Chapter | 1A | 1B | 1C | 1D | 1E |
========
“I’m not doing it. You do it.”
Christine Chapel rolled her eyes and waved one hand towards the sleeping physician sprawled inelegantly across his very disorderly desk. Turning her head, she replaced her hands to her hips and sent an exasperated glare towards the man standing to her immediate left. Incredulously, she whispered, “Oh, good lord. You’re kidding me, right? You’re the captain. This is your job.”
“He’s your boss,” Kirk stated, his tone bordering just the right side of a childish whine.
“And your subordinate,” Chapel fired right back, barely restraining the urge to poke the blonde man in the chest with one painted fingernail.
Kirk folded his arms across his chest in a freakish impersonation of their object of contention. “Exactly,” he huffed, puffing his chest up just a little bit. “And as the captain, I’m pulling rank. The last time I woke him up when he was sleeping like that, he hypoed me into oblivion.”
Christine’s sharp blue eyes narrowed. She waved one finger through the air at her boss’ boss while he clicked her tongue. “Remind me one more time how you decided to do that?”
Kirk fidgeted in place for a brief moment before he admitted, “Okay, dumping a mug of his cold coffee over Bones’ head wasn’t the best way to wake him up. But we were in a jam, and I needed his attention in a hurry.”
“You’re lucky he didn’t murder you with his bare hands,” she said, idly picking at a stubborn hangnail on her right hand. “And it was a pity, too. Cost me two hundred credits.”
Jim’s mouth fell open. “You-Christine, I’m disappointed. You bet against the greatness of James T. Kirk?”
“No, I bet for the angry, uncaffeinated abomination that is Leonard H. McCoy!”
Jim took a breath to refute Chapel’s revelation but stopped right before the words tumbled from his mouth. “Bones without caffeine in the morning is kind of a scary thing, I won’t lie. But still, he’d never do that to me. He’s honor bound by that physician’s code…whatchamacallit to do no harm. Besides, if he murdered me, who would be left for him to bitch about?” He grinned at the Enterprise’s head nurse while he waggled his eyebrows. “And I’m telling your boss that you just called him an abomination.”
With an emphatic nod of her head, Chapel concluded, “Leonard’s right. You’re a pain in the ass.”
Jim, wondering if Christine had taken lessons in non-verbal intimidation from her boss, took an instinctive step backwards at Chapel’s bone-chilling glare. Kirk cleared his throat, changed his tone to something he hoped resembled maturity, and went for Plan B. “Christine, I’ve thought about this. You’re the best person for this job. I know he won’t do anything to you, because he needs you.”
“And we don’t need you, Captain?” Christine asked, making sure to emphasize Jim’s rank.
Kirk shrugged. “Well, according to Bones, no we don’t. You know him - he thinks the ship flies itself and that I have rocks in my head. How many times have you heard him curse Pike and stupid field promotions?”
Chapel snorted and pointed to her own temple. “Well, he’s got a point.”
“Hey!” Kirk hissed, attempting to keep his voice down. He straightened, pulled his uniform shirt down and cracked is neck. In the most official tone he could muster, Jim half-ordered, “Nurse, I leave sickbay in your very capable hands. You and I both know that Dr. McCoy’s been on his feet for the past thirty hours, and he needs a break in a real bed. Please make sure he gets there,” before he turned and walked out the door.
Chapel stared at Kirk’s retreating back with righteous indignation. “Men!” she griped to the nearly silent sickbay. She threw her hands up in the air and added, “I am deserting Earth for Betazed. I will never understand how we evolved past the amoeba phase with you simple-minded idiots in charge.” Marching over to the lump of humanity sacked out on the desk, Christine leaned down and put her mouth two inches from her boss’ ear. “Dr. McCoy. Doctor. Len. Leonard!” Chapel finally hollered, her voice arching in a sharp crescendo with each salutation.
At the sound of his head nurse’s combat bark, McCoy’s head bolted upright from the smooth surface. His spine snapped to attention and his hands moved of their own volition, sending data PADDs scattering across the floor. Medical charts, research and a couple of journals all wound up in separate corners of the room as the man startled awake. Wide, unfocused and slightly glassy green eyes darted around the room as awareness flooded back. “Dammit, woman!” McCoy yelled as he zeroed in on the familiar figure standing at the corner of his desk. He willed his heartbeat to slow through a couple of deep breaths before he asked Chapel, “Are you trying to scare me into an early grave?”
Christine simply shook her head and held his steely gaze. “No, I’m trying to pull that foot you already have in it right back out. Look what you’re doing to yourself, working yourself to death like you are.”
“It would have been nice to get the personnel memo, telling me that my mother is now on board a starship,” the doctor muttered as he searched instinctively for a cup of a coffee.
“I’m not your mother,” she replied wryly. “But I bet I could give her a run for her money. It’s a tough job, being your keeper, but you need it.”
Len swiped one hand over his face, took a deep breath and glared at his head nurse. “I am not working myself to death, and I sure as hell don’t need a babysitter. Working every second of every day is Spock’s thing, not mine.”
“Like hell,” Chapel said bluntly. Shifting her stance, she told him frankly, “You need to get some rest, and I’m under orders to make sure it happens.”
“I was resting,” McCoy retorted with a little more heat in his tone than necessary. “I was resting just fine until someone decided they needed to wake me up by yelling in my damned ear!”
“Your desk is not a bed, Leonard.”
“It’s good enough for me. Besides, I have patients,” he replied, busying his hands by searching for the various data PADDs he launched when Chapel woke him.
“The fact that you were not only out cold on top of your desk, but that you also slept through an argument between your head nurse and your pain in the ass captain suggests that you most certainly need some sleep. Real sleep, in a real bed, away from patients and annoying captains,” Christine answered, undeterred.
McCoy blinked owlishly. “You argued with Jim? And I slept through it?”
Chapel’s face softened. “You can be disappointed later. I promise to give you the play-by-play breakdown when your brain is actually capable of processing information. But for now,” she said, stepping forward and gently pulling at his elbow, “You need to take your own advice and get the hell out of here. Relax. Sleep. Read. Do something that’s not related to your work for at least the next twelve hours.”
“But--” he began in protest.
“Come on, Len. You’re no good to anyone if you’re ready to drop. Everyone is stable for now. M’Benga is here, and we can handle it. And, I promise I’ll call you if anything huge happens.” Tsking her tongue at her stubborn boss, she added, “You trust us, right? It’ll be fine.”
The room swayed in front of him as McCoy stood from his chair. Suddenly aware of every sore part of his exhausted body (even those parts he’d forgotten existed), the Enterprise CMO reached one hand up and massaged the baseball sized knot lodged in the muscle near the edge of his scapula. He hated to admit it, but perhaps Christine had a point. His feet felt heavy and his head fuzzy, and if the fate of the universe depended on it, he doubted he could formulate a coherent insult. “Tell M’Benga to comm me if anything changes.”
“We will. Now go,” Chapel replied, arms crossed over her chest as she leaned against his desk.
McCoy waved his hand through the air as he forced his feet to move in proper rhythm. Nodding wearily to the gamma crew on duty, he trudged out the door and down the corridor of the ship. He walked on autopilot, navigating the hallways of the Enterprise with a combination of will and muscle memory alone.
Thumbing in the code to the door of his quarters, a trail of clothing followed McCoy’s path from his door to his bedroom as he unceremoniously stripped and headed for the sonic. A real hot water shower sounded amazing, but he was far too tired for anything other something quick and easy. In and out, Len threw on a pair of underwear and wandered out into the living area, intent on grabbing a bit of real food and a strong drink (not necessarily in that order) before he crashed until the next Kirk-induced crisis.
He rounded the corner, yawning and stretching as he passed the small couch and chair set in the living area. McCoy’s foot broke the threshold of the small kitchenette off to the side of his quarters when movement out of the ordinary finally registered in his sluggish brain. The feeling of the cold tile on his bare feet jerked him back to reality as he blinked once, then again. Len silently cursed himself for such lax attention to his surroundings while he wished he’d thought to stash a phaser in his kitchen. Shaking his head, the ship’s physician took two steps backwards, and, ever so slowly, craned his neck and head around the curve of the wall.
The source of the noise stopped abruptly when he realized another set of eyes was on him. He popped up from his place on the floor and sent an enthusiastic wave to the shell-shocked man. “Doctor McCoy! Privyet!” Pavel Chekov called happily, leaning back on his haunches.
McCoy let out a silent breath of relief that his intruder was none other than the Enterprise’s navigator, and not an assassin hell-bent on killing him slowly and painfully. Holding up one hand, he made a quick pit stop to his bedroom for some pants and a shirt he hoped was blood-free. Pulling them on with a series of annoyed grunts, he exited and silently padded back into the kitchen in search of a glass and the bottle of bourbon in the cabinet. Items in hand, he walked back into the living room and set both on the coffee table, collapsing into the soft cushions on his favorite chair.
Throughout the entire excursion, the Enterprise’s residence Russian genius remained silent, content to aim his focus at the mishmash of technology spread out before him. McCoy narrowed his eyes at the young man, and as he poured himself a tall glass, asked, “What the hell are you doing in here, Chekov? Is this more of Jim’s meddling into my life?”
“Nyet, Doctor,” Pavel answered distractedly as he reached for the stylus and one of three PADDs within his arms’ reach.
Feeling his heart rate spike, McCoy sucked in a breath through his nose and vowed not to simply sedate the young man before throwing him into the corridor outside his quarters. ‘Sunshine, rainbows and happy bullshit,’ he thought while he counted backwards from twenty in his head, closing his eyes at the same time. When he reopened them, he asked slowly and deliberately, “Then what are you doing here? And why are you screwing with my vidscreen? Because Chekov, so help your genius Russian ass if I miss the Superbowl--”
“You will not miss your American football game. That I can promise,” Pavel said with a barely contained shudder of fear. God forbid; the entire ship’s compliment knew McCoy might blow up the Federation’s flagship if someone or something interrupted his annual foray into football fanaticism. “I am young, but I am not insane!”
McCoy’s expression softened as he took another long pull from the glass, draining the contents. He could feel the blessed slightly warm, tingling sensation snaking its way through his body as the alcohol worked its magic. Reaching forward to pour another glass, he said, “Fair ‘nough. Now, are you gonna tell me why you broke into my quarters?”
Confused, Chekov tilted his head to the side. “You do not remember today’s date?”
“I’ve had my hands in more chest cavities today than I have fingers to count them on,” the doctor admitted with a sigh. He tipped his head back into the cushion of the couch and closed his eyes, rubbing the pads of his fingers in them for good measure. Levering his half-lidded gaze towards the young Russian, he added, “I’m too tired for mind fucks. Just tell me why’re here.”
“It would be better to show you.” Chekov turned towards his work wordlessly, and punching in a couple of final commands, smiled proudly at the image suddenly projected on the screen.
The picture cut in and out for the first initial seconds upon connection. When it finally cleared, the feed gave way to a view of a large, cavernous warehouse-looking room with high ceilings and bright, white walls. Blue and red racing stripes, one apiece, was painted at the top of the wall running parallel to the ceiling. Large, high intensity lamps hung from the white metal catwalks in the ceiling, illuminating the floor and several odd looking pieces of equipment scattered about.
It took a second for his overtaxed brain to register why, exactly, Chekov saw fit to bring up a feed from a gym, but McCoy nearly slapped himself once recognition set in. He rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “Joanna’s gymnastics meet. Shit - I forgot all about it.”
“When you did not show up to the recreation room tonight, I figured that was the case, yes. But you have a reason.”
“That doesn’t make forgettin’ about my own kid any easier,” McCoy grumped back. Scrunching his face up, he pointed one finger towards the young Russian sitting on the floor. “Speaking of which, how do you know about this meet anyway?”
“I helped her set it up,” Pavel replied, puzzled. “One of the opposing clubs is from my hometown in Russia. It is an exchange program. Next year Joanna and her friends will visit Russia for their annual meet. You are aware of this fact, yes?”
McCoy turned his head and fixed Chekov with a chilling stare. The dark circles floating under his eyes accentuated the bright red waterlines that faded into bloodshot whites, obscuring the natural color of the doctor’s brownish-green eyes. Bulldozing straight past Chekov’s mention of an overseas trip, McCoy instead questioned, “When have you been talking to my daughter?”
“We have been talking since we met at the Enterprise’s launch party,” Pavel replied, drawing out his answer as a bit of a trepidation colored his tone. “We have informed you that we are friends, Doctor.”
“The hell you have!” Bones hollered. He leaned forward in his chair, sending the decorate pillow someone helpfully placed there before the ship left spacedock toppling to the floor. Pointing one finger towards Chekov, McCoy was about to open his mouth to lay into the younger man when the sound of the outer door to his quarters whooshing open caught his attention. He swiveled in place, craning his neck as far as it would stretch to glare at his uninvited guests.
Jim Kirk filed in, followed closely by Uhura and Sulu, the latter carrying armloads of food and beverages. “Stick those on the counter,” Kirk ordered Uhura, pointing to the small breakfast bar that made up most of McCoy’s kitchenette. He gave the various knick-nacks on the counter a quick shove over in order to make room for the two overflowing trays of vegetables, meat and cheese the galley helpfully prepared on a whim teetering precariously in the communications officer’s arms. Turning his head to Sulu and the cases of alcohol he toted, Jim added, “The beer goes in the tub next to the couch. I don’t want to have to get up to get a drink.”
“The fuck is this shit?!” McCoy protested loudly as he watched the tornado of un-choreographed activity whirling around him.
“A spontaneous party, Bones. Or, as you might call it, an invasion,” Kirk replied, not even breaking stride long enough to address his slightly flabbergasted friend. Jim stopped, squatted next to the couch, and plopped a big tub brimming to the top with ice within inches of McCoy’s bare toes. He clapped the doctor on the shoulder as he and Sulu exchanged high fives and insisted, “But either way, it’ll be fun. I promise you.”
“Let’s get a few things straight, kid,” McCoy began, heedless of the fact he was addressing both his captain and superior officer. “I didn’t ask for this to happen here, I don’t need your brand of fun, and I sure as hell didn’t invite you all here. Who’s brilliant goddamn idea was this?”
Four sets of eyes, two brown, one green and one blue, slipped towards the innocent looking blonde haired young man clamoring up from his space on the doctor’s floor. Sheepishly, Pavel looked down at his hands and shrugged. He sent McCoy and apologetic glance before he admitted, “I might have invited the Keptin and Mister Sulu to watch the meet with me earlier this afternoon, and when Lt. Uhura overheard it, I thought it would be impolite not to include her, too. And then the Keptin decided that it might be better to watch it with you, here in your quarters, so we called the galley for food, and, well…”
“Unbelievable. Tell me again why we have locks on the doors on this ship?”
Kirk ‘phssed’ out loud. “Like locks are going to stop anyone in this command group,” he said, maintaining a perfectly straight face.
“Pot, kettle. And you’re cleaning this shit up when we’re done here. Just sayin’,” McCoy informed the group, looking each and every one of them in the eyes as he huffed loudly and sunk back into the couch.
“Fair enough. Not like I’ve never cleaned up after you before, roommate,” Jim said easily, hopping over the back of the couch to take his seat between his best friend and the beer. Propping his feet up on the table, Kirk reached into the bucket, grabbed a cold one, and popped the top. “Man, if you guys only knew. Don’t buy the ‘straight laced doctor’ routine. He’s not. Believe me.”
Uhura’s eyes lit up as she moved without conscious thought, perching herself on the armrest next to Kirk. “Oh! Academy roomie stories! I want to hear these! Gaila will love them!”
Jim threw back his head and laughed. “What do you want to hear?”
“I don’t care. Something juicy,” she said, settling in, eagerly waiting like a baby bird at dinner time.
Snorting indignantly, McCoy leapt off the couch and physically grabbed Jim from behind, clapping one of his hands over the blonde man’s mouth before one more word could spill from it. “Like hell you’re going to tell her any of those stories, not if you don’t want me murdering you in your sleep.”
Uhura raised one eyebrow, her gesture reminding the group that she was, in fact, Spock’s better half. “That bad, huh Len?”
“Worse. ‘O course it doesn’t help when you have a roommate who embellishes the hell outta’ everything.”
“Like you don’t do the same thing, Bones,” Kirk chimed in.
“I can separate fact from fiction, which is a skill your infant brain hasn’t mastered yet,” McCoy insisted, whirling around the stick one finger in Jim’s face.
Kirk responded by raising his left arm out to his shoulder, and with the beer still dangling from the fingertips of his right hand, made a sawing motion back and forth above his bicep. “You want some cheese with that whine?”
“These are my quarters. I’m free to bitch inside them as I see fit. And furthermore,” McCoy ranted, the vein in his forehead poking out at attention as his blood pressure spiked another ten points, “The only reason I use my quarters is to get away from you assholes, and you overrun it anyway.” the doctor asked the instant before his eyes slid over to the displeased face of Nyota Uhura. Cringing at his lack of manners, McCoy added, “Present company not included, of course.”
Uhura tilted her head and rolled her eyes. “Please, Len. Don’t insult me with that chivalrous bullshit. You know better than to front.”
The simultaneous sounds of two snickers (Chekov and Sulu) and a wolf whistle (Kirk) bounced around the CMO’s quarters in response to Uhura’s remark. “Careful, Doctor,” Sulu began lightly while he playfully nudged Pavel in the shoulder. “I think we’ve found a challenger to the ‘Best Glare on the Enterprise’ contest.”
The captain watched as Uhura stood up, set her jaw, shifted her weight to one foot and crossed her arms over her chest as she fixed McCoy with a challenging stare. He leaned over towards his helmsman and said, “No way. Uhura’d kick Bones’ ass.”
“For once, Jim, I actually agree with you,” she insisted before she jerked her thumb towards McCoy. “He’d lose. It wouldn’t even be a fair fight.”
Kirk’s eyebrows jumped up and down. Turning to the ship’s CMO, he admitted, “Uhura’s got a point. Her practice is trading facial expressions with Spock, and he pisses you off just by breathing.”
McCoy snorted out loud and slammed the remainder of his drink before he collapsed back down to the couch. “And here I thought you never noticed anything.”
“I notice plenty, Bones,” Kirk replied nonchalantly as McCoy reached for the bottle of bourbon on the table. “And right now, I’m noticing that you’re on your third drink after being up for almost two days.”
“Jesus H. Christ. If it isn’t Chapel mothering me - at your insistence I might add - it’s you. What the fuck do you care what and how much I’m drinking? My hangover that much of a concern to you now, Captain?” McCoy snarked at Kirk, the effect of the bourbon and the exhaustion loosening his tongue to just the proper side of insubordination.
Kirk, well acquainted with McCoy’s alcohol induced mood swings, simply shrugged off his friend’s tirade. He picked up the glass and poured himself a drink, draining it without so much as a flinch. He set it gently back on the table and said, “Nah, I’m not your mother. I’m just wondering how you plan on staying awake for Jo’s meet when you’re drinking at that rate.”
Wordlessly, the doctor shifted so most of his weight was on his left hip and reached into the pocket of his sweats. Pulling out a hypo and small cartridge, he tossed both items haphazardly on the table. While the silver hypo delivery vehicle simply skidded across the black surface, the small, orange container spun in an oblong circle, finally coming to rest face up next to McCoy’s glass. “That’s how.”
Jim leveled himself up to a seated position, leaned forward, and picked up the hypo cartridge. Flipping it right side up, he squinted in the low light. “A stim shot? I thought you didn’t like using these things.”
“I don’t, especially since I’ve been awake for so long. But I want to watch my little girl do her thing, and this is the only way I know will take me through to the end,” McCoy answered, trailing off as he turned his head towards the screen. For a fleeting moment, a sad, almost whimsical expression graced his features, visible only to those who knew him well enough to catch it.
Continue to Part 1B
Author: Gixxer Pilot
Summary: McCoy might be a cranky, snarky bastard, but even he's not immune to 'proud papa' moments when it comes to Joanna. It would have been nice if she'd picked a sport that wouldn't scare him into a heart attack, but beggars can't be choosers.
Author’s Notes: As a former gymnast converted to springboard diving when I was in high school, gymnastics has always held a special place in my heart. Even though I quit both sports after high school, I continued to follow gymnastics. I’m glad, too, because it gave me a bunch of great ideas. I started this fic before the 2012 London Olympics, and watching the games solidified my resolve to actually finish it. For it, I’ve drawn inspiration from quite a few of my favorite gymnasts over the years. Some is technical and some is artistic, but I hope I’ve done a sufficient job of describing what’s going on, both from a spectator’s standpoint, and from a gymnasts’. You know, because flipping through the air is just win.
Also, I wrote this story well before Into Failure was even in production, so consider it an AU of sorts.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of the gymnastics referenced herein. I only own this idea and a giant bag of dark chocolate Raisinets.
Chapter | 1A | 1B | 1C | 1D | 1E |
========
“I’m not doing it. You do it.”
Christine Chapel rolled her eyes and waved one hand towards the sleeping physician sprawled inelegantly across his very disorderly desk. Turning her head, she replaced her hands to her hips and sent an exasperated glare towards the man standing to her immediate left. Incredulously, she whispered, “Oh, good lord. You’re kidding me, right? You’re the captain. This is your job.”
“He’s your boss,” Kirk stated, his tone bordering just the right side of a childish whine.
“And your subordinate,” Chapel fired right back, barely restraining the urge to poke the blonde man in the chest with one painted fingernail.
Kirk folded his arms across his chest in a freakish impersonation of their object of contention. “Exactly,” he huffed, puffing his chest up just a little bit. “And as the captain, I’m pulling rank. The last time I woke him up when he was sleeping like that, he hypoed me into oblivion.”
Christine’s sharp blue eyes narrowed. She waved one finger through the air at her boss’ boss while he clicked her tongue. “Remind me one more time how you decided to do that?”
Kirk fidgeted in place for a brief moment before he admitted, “Okay, dumping a mug of his cold coffee over Bones’ head wasn’t the best way to wake him up. But we were in a jam, and I needed his attention in a hurry.”
“You’re lucky he didn’t murder you with his bare hands,” she said, idly picking at a stubborn hangnail on her right hand. “And it was a pity, too. Cost me two hundred credits.”
Jim’s mouth fell open. “You-Christine, I’m disappointed. You bet against the greatness of James T. Kirk?”
“No, I bet for the angry, uncaffeinated abomination that is Leonard H. McCoy!”
Jim took a breath to refute Chapel’s revelation but stopped right before the words tumbled from his mouth. “Bones without caffeine in the morning is kind of a scary thing, I won’t lie. But still, he’d never do that to me. He’s honor bound by that physician’s code…whatchamacallit to do no harm. Besides, if he murdered me, who would be left for him to bitch about?” He grinned at the Enterprise’s head nurse while he waggled his eyebrows. “And I’m telling your boss that you just called him an abomination.”
With an emphatic nod of her head, Chapel concluded, “Leonard’s right. You’re a pain in the ass.”
Jim, wondering if Christine had taken lessons in non-verbal intimidation from her boss, took an instinctive step backwards at Chapel’s bone-chilling glare. Kirk cleared his throat, changed his tone to something he hoped resembled maturity, and went for Plan B. “Christine, I’ve thought about this. You’re the best person for this job. I know he won’t do anything to you, because he needs you.”
“And we don’t need you, Captain?” Christine asked, making sure to emphasize Jim’s rank.
Kirk shrugged. “Well, according to Bones, no we don’t. You know him - he thinks the ship flies itself and that I have rocks in my head. How many times have you heard him curse Pike and stupid field promotions?”
Chapel snorted and pointed to her own temple. “Well, he’s got a point.”
“Hey!” Kirk hissed, attempting to keep his voice down. He straightened, pulled his uniform shirt down and cracked is neck. In the most official tone he could muster, Jim half-ordered, “Nurse, I leave sickbay in your very capable hands. You and I both know that Dr. McCoy’s been on his feet for the past thirty hours, and he needs a break in a real bed. Please make sure he gets there,” before he turned and walked out the door.
Chapel stared at Kirk’s retreating back with righteous indignation. “Men!” she griped to the nearly silent sickbay. She threw her hands up in the air and added, “I am deserting Earth for Betazed. I will never understand how we evolved past the amoeba phase with you simple-minded idiots in charge.” Marching over to the lump of humanity sacked out on the desk, Christine leaned down and put her mouth two inches from her boss’ ear. “Dr. McCoy. Doctor. Len. Leonard!” Chapel finally hollered, her voice arching in a sharp crescendo with each salutation.
At the sound of his head nurse’s combat bark, McCoy’s head bolted upright from the smooth surface. His spine snapped to attention and his hands moved of their own volition, sending data PADDs scattering across the floor. Medical charts, research and a couple of journals all wound up in separate corners of the room as the man startled awake. Wide, unfocused and slightly glassy green eyes darted around the room as awareness flooded back. “Dammit, woman!” McCoy yelled as he zeroed in on the familiar figure standing at the corner of his desk. He willed his heartbeat to slow through a couple of deep breaths before he asked Chapel, “Are you trying to scare me into an early grave?”
Christine simply shook her head and held his steely gaze. “No, I’m trying to pull that foot you already have in it right back out. Look what you’re doing to yourself, working yourself to death like you are.”
“It would have been nice to get the personnel memo, telling me that my mother is now on board a starship,” the doctor muttered as he searched instinctively for a cup of a coffee.
“I’m not your mother,” she replied wryly. “But I bet I could give her a run for her money. It’s a tough job, being your keeper, but you need it.”
Len swiped one hand over his face, took a deep breath and glared at his head nurse. “I am not working myself to death, and I sure as hell don’t need a babysitter. Working every second of every day is Spock’s thing, not mine.”
“Like hell,” Chapel said bluntly. Shifting her stance, she told him frankly, “You need to get some rest, and I’m under orders to make sure it happens.”
“I was resting,” McCoy retorted with a little more heat in his tone than necessary. “I was resting just fine until someone decided they needed to wake me up by yelling in my damned ear!”
“Your desk is not a bed, Leonard.”
“It’s good enough for me. Besides, I have patients,” he replied, busying his hands by searching for the various data PADDs he launched when Chapel woke him.
“The fact that you were not only out cold on top of your desk, but that you also slept through an argument between your head nurse and your pain in the ass captain suggests that you most certainly need some sleep. Real sleep, in a real bed, away from patients and annoying captains,” Christine answered, undeterred.
McCoy blinked owlishly. “You argued with Jim? And I slept through it?”
Chapel’s face softened. “You can be disappointed later. I promise to give you the play-by-play breakdown when your brain is actually capable of processing information. But for now,” she said, stepping forward and gently pulling at his elbow, “You need to take your own advice and get the hell out of here. Relax. Sleep. Read. Do something that’s not related to your work for at least the next twelve hours.”
“But--” he began in protest.
“Come on, Len. You’re no good to anyone if you’re ready to drop. Everyone is stable for now. M’Benga is here, and we can handle it. And, I promise I’ll call you if anything huge happens.” Tsking her tongue at her stubborn boss, she added, “You trust us, right? It’ll be fine.”
The room swayed in front of him as McCoy stood from his chair. Suddenly aware of every sore part of his exhausted body (even those parts he’d forgotten existed), the Enterprise CMO reached one hand up and massaged the baseball sized knot lodged in the muscle near the edge of his scapula. He hated to admit it, but perhaps Christine had a point. His feet felt heavy and his head fuzzy, and if the fate of the universe depended on it, he doubted he could formulate a coherent insult. “Tell M’Benga to comm me if anything changes.”
“We will. Now go,” Chapel replied, arms crossed over her chest as she leaned against his desk.
McCoy waved his hand through the air as he forced his feet to move in proper rhythm. Nodding wearily to the gamma crew on duty, he trudged out the door and down the corridor of the ship. He walked on autopilot, navigating the hallways of the Enterprise with a combination of will and muscle memory alone.
Thumbing in the code to the door of his quarters, a trail of clothing followed McCoy’s path from his door to his bedroom as he unceremoniously stripped and headed for the sonic. A real hot water shower sounded amazing, but he was far too tired for anything other something quick and easy. In and out, Len threw on a pair of underwear and wandered out into the living area, intent on grabbing a bit of real food and a strong drink (not necessarily in that order) before he crashed until the next Kirk-induced crisis.
He rounded the corner, yawning and stretching as he passed the small couch and chair set in the living area. McCoy’s foot broke the threshold of the small kitchenette off to the side of his quarters when movement out of the ordinary finally registered in his sluggish brain. The feeling of the cold tile on his bare feet jerked him back to reality as he blinked once, then again. Len silently cursed himself for such lax attention to his surroundings while he wished he’d thought to stash a phaser in his kitchen. Shaking his head, the ship’s physician took two steps backwards, and, ever so slowly, craned his neck and head around the curve of the wall.
The source of the noise stopped abruptly when he realized another set of eyes was on him. He popped up from his place on the floor and sent an enthusiastic wave to the shell-shocked man. “Doctor McCoy! Privyet!” Pavel Chekov called happily, leaning back on his haunches.
McCoy let out a silent breath of relief that his intruder was none other than the Enterprise’s navigator, and not an assassin hell-bent on killing him slowly and painfully. Holding up one hand, he made a quick pit stop to his bedroom for some pants and a shirt he hoped was blood-free. Pulling them on with a series of annoyed grunts, he exited and silently padded back into the kitchen in search of a glass and the bottle of bourbon in the cabinet. Items in hand, he walked back into the living room and set both on the coffee table, collapsing into the soft cushions on his favorite chair.
Throughout the entire excursion, the Enterprise’s residence Russian genius remained silent, content to aim his focus at the mishmash of technology spread out before him. McCoy narrowed his eyes at the young man, and as he poured himself a tall glass, asked, “What the hell are you doing in here, Chekov? Is this more of Jim’s meddling into my life?”
“Nyet, Doctor,” Pavel answered distractedly as he reached for the stylus and one of three PADDs within his arms’ reach.
Feeling his heart rate spike, McCoy sucked in a breath through his nose and vowed not to simply sedate the young man before throwing him into the corridor outside his quarters. ‘Sunshine, rainbows and happy bullshit,’ he thought while he counted backwards from twenty in his head, closing his eyes at the same time. When he reopened them, he asked slowly and deliberately, “Then what are you doing here? And why are you screwing with my vidscreen? Because Chekov, so help your genius Russian ass if I miss the Superbowl--”
“You will not miss your American football game. That I can promise,” Pavel said with a barely contained shudder of fear. God forbid; the entire ship’s compliment knew McCoy might blow up the Federation’s flagship if someone or something interrupted his annual foray into football fanaticism. “I am young, but I am not insane!”
McCoy’s expression softened as he took another long pull from the glass, draining the contents. He could feel the blessed slightly warm, tingling sensation snaking its way through his body as the alcohol worked its magic. Reaching forward to pour another glass, he said, “Fair ‘nough. Now, are you gonna tell me why you broke into my quarters?”
Confused, Chekov tilted his head to the side. “You do not remember today’s date?”
“I’ve had my hands in more chest cavities today than I have fingers to count them on,” the doctor admitted with a sigh. He tipped his head back into the cushion of the couch and closed his eyes, rubbing the pads of his fingers in them for good measure. Levering his half-lidded gaze towards the young Russian, he added, “I’m too tired for mind fucks. Just tell me why’re here.”
“It would be better to show you.” Chekov turned towards his work wordlessly, and punching in a couple of final commands, smiled proudly at the image suddenly projected on the screen.
The picture cut in and out for the first initial seconds upon connection. When it finally cleared, the feed gave way to a view of a large, cavernous warehouse-looking room with high ceilings and bright, white walls. Blue and red racing stripes, one apiece, was painted at the top of the wall running parallel to the ceiling. Large, high intensity lamps hung from the white metal catwalks in the ceiling, illuminating the floor and several odd looking pieces of equipment scattered about.
It took a second for his overtaxed brain to register why, exactly, Chekov saw fit to bring up a feed from a gym, but McCoy nearly slapped himself once recognition set in. He rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “Joanna’s gymnastics meet. Shit - I forgot all about it.”
“When you did not show up to the recreation room tonight, I figured that was the case, yes. But you have a reason.”
“That doesn’t make forgettin’ about my own kid any easier,” McCoy grumped back. Scrunching his face up, he pointed one finger towards the young Russian sitting on the floor. “Speaking of which, how do you know about this meet anyway?”
“I helped her set it up,” Pavel replied, puzzled. “One of the opposing clubs is from my hometown in Russia. It is an exchange program. Next year Joanna and her friends will visit Russia for their annual meet. You are aware of this fact, yes?”
McCoy turned his head and fixed Chekov with a chilling stare. The dark circles floating under his eyes accentuated the bright red waterlines that faded into bloodshot whites, obscuring the natural color of the doctor’s brownish-green eyes. Bulldozing straight past Chekov’s mention of an overseas trip, McCoy instead questioned, “When have you been talking to my daughter?”
“We have been talking since we met at the Enterprise’s launch party,” Pavel replied, drawing out his answer as a bit of a trepidation colored his tone. “We have informed you that we are friends, Doctor.”
“The hell you have!” Bones hollered. He leaned forward in his chair, sending the decorate pillow someone helpfully placed there before the ship left spacedock toppling to the floor. Pointing one finger towards Chekov, McCoy was about to open his mouth to lay into the younger man when the sound of the outer door to his quarters whooshing open caught his attention. He swiveled in place, craning his neck as far as it would stretch to glare at his uninvited guests.
Jim Kirk filed in, followed closely by Uhura and Sulu, the latter carrying armloads of food and beverages. “Stick those on the counter,” Kirk ordered Uhura, pointing to the small breakfast bar that made up most of McCoy’s kitchenette. He gave the various knick-nacks on the counter a quick shove over in order to make room for the two overflowing trays of vegetables, meat and cheese the galley helpfully prepared on a whim teetering precariously in the communications officer’s arms. Turning his head to Sulu and the cases of alcohol he toted, Jim added, “The beer goes in the tub next to the couch. I don’t want to have to get up to get a drink.”
“The fuck is this shit?!” McCoy protested loudly as he watched the tornado of un-choreographed activity whirling around him.
“A spontaneous party, Bones. Or, as you might call it, an invasion,” Kirk replied, not even breaking stride long enough to address his slightly flabbergasted friend. Jim stopped, squatted next to the couch, and plopped a big tub brimming to the top with ice within inches of McCoy’s bare toes. He clapped the doctor on the shoulder as he and Sulu exchanged high fives and insisted, “But either way, it’ll be fun. I promise you.”
“Let’s get a few things straight, kid,” McCoy began, heedless of the fact he was addressing both his captain and superior officer. “I didn’t ask for this to happen here, I don’t need your brand of fun, and I sure as hell didn’t invite you all here. Who’s brilliant goddamn idea was this?”
Four sets of eyes, two brown, one green and one blue, slipped towards the innocent looking blonde haired young man clamoring up from his space on the doctor’s floor. Sheepishly, Pavel looked down at his hands and shrugged. He sent McCoy and apologetic glance before he admitted, “I might have invited the Keptin and Mister Sulu to watch the meet with me earlier this afternoon, and when Lt. Uhura overheard it, I thought it would be impolite not to include her, too. And then the Keptin decided that it might be better to watch it with you, here in your quarters, so we called the galley for food, and, well…”
“Unbelievable. Tell me again why we have locks on the doors on this ship?”
Kirk ‘phssed’ out loud. “Like locks are going to stop anyone in this command group,” he said, maintaining a perfectly straight face.
“Pot, kettle. And you’re cleaning this shit up when we’re done here. Just sayin’,” McCoy informed the group, looking each and every one of them in the eyes as he huffed loudly and sunk back into the couch.
“Fair enough. Not like I’ve never cleaned up after you before, roommate,” Jim said easily, hopping over the back of the couch to take his seat between his best friend and the beer. Propping his feet up on the table, Kirk reached into the bucket, grabbed a cold one, and popped the top. “Man, if you guys only knew. Don’t buy the ‘straight laced doctor’ routine. He’s not. Believe me.”
Uhura’s eyes lit up as she moved without conscious thought, perching herself on the armrest next to Kirk. “Oh! Academy roomie stories! I want to hear these! Gaila will love them!”
Jim threw back his head and laughed. “What do you want to hear?”
“I don’t care. Something juicy,” she said, settling in, eagerly waiting like a baby bird at dinner time.
Snorting indignantly, McCoy leapt off the couch and physically grabbed Jim from behind, clapping one of his hands over the blonde man’s mouth before one more word could spill from it. “Like hell you’re going to tell her any of those stories, not if you don’t want me murdering you in your sleep.”
Uhura raised one eyebrow, her gesture reminding the group that she was, in fact, Spock’s better half. “That bad, huh Len?”
“Worse. ‘O course it doesn’t help when you have a roommate who embellishes the hell outta’ everything.”
“Like you don’t do the same thing, Bones,” Kirk chimed in.
“I can separate fact from fiction, which is a skill your infant brain hasn’t mastered yet,” McCoy insisted, whirling around the stick one finger in Jim’s face.
Kirk responded by raising his left arm out to his shoulder, and with the beer still dangling from the fingertips of his right hand, made a sawing motion back and forth above his bicep. “You want some cheese with that whine?”
“These are my quarters. I’m free to bitch inside them as I see fit. And furthermore,” McCoy ranted, the vein in his forehead poking out at attention as his blood pressure spiked another ten points, “The only reason I use my quarters is to get away from you assholes, and you overrun it anyway.” the doctor asked the instant before his eyes slid over to the displeased face of Nyota Uhura. Cringing at his lack of manners, McCoy added, “Present company not included, of course.”
Uhura tilted her head and rolled her eyes. “Please, Len. Don’t insult me with that chivalrous bullshit. You know better than to front.”
The simultaneous sounds of two snickers (Chekov and Sulu) and a wolf whistle (Kirk) bounced around the CMO’s quarters in response to Uhura’s remark. “Careful, Doctor,” Sulu began lightly while he playfully nudged Pavel in the shoulder. “I think we’ve found a challenger to the ‘Best Glare on the Enterprise’ contest.”
The captain watched as Uhura stood up, set her jaw, shifted her weight to one foot and crossed her arms over her chest as she fixed McCoy with a challenging stare. He leaned over towards his helmsman and said, “No way. Uhura’d kick Bones’ ass.”
“For once, Jim, I actually agree with you,” she insisted before she jerked her thumb towards McCoy. “He’d lose. It wouldn’t even be a fair fight.”
Kirk’s eyebrows jumped up and down. Turning to the ship’s CMO, he admitted, “Uhura’s got a point. Her practice is trading facial expressions with Spock, and he pisses you off just by breathing.”
McCoy snorted out loud and slammed the remainder of his drink before he collapsed back down to the couch. “And here I thought you never noticed anything.”
“I notice plenty, Bones,” Kirk replied nonchalantly as McCoy reached for the bottle of bourbon on the table. “And right now, I’m noticing that you’re on your third drink after being up for almost two days.”
“Jesus H. Christ. If it isn’t Chapel mothering me - at your insistence I might add - it’s you. What the fuck do you care what and how much I’m drinking? My hangover that much of a concern to you now, Captain?” McCoy snarked at Kirk, the effect of the bourbon and the exhaustion loosening his tongue to just the proper side of insubordination.
Kirk, well acquainted with McCoy’s alcohol induced mood swings, simply shrugged off his friend’s tirade. He picked up the glass and poured himself a drink, draining it without so much as a flinch. He set it gently back on the table and said, “Nah, I’m not your mother. I’m just wondering how you plan on staying awake for Jo’s meet when you’re drinking at that rate.”
Wordlessly, the doctor shifted so most of his weight was on his left hip and reached into the pocket of his sweats. Pulling out a hypo and small cartridge, he tossed both items haphazardly on the table. While the silver hypo delivery vehicle simply skidded across the black surface, the small, orange container spun in an oblong circle, finally coming to rest face up next to McCoy’s glass. “That’s how.”
Jim leveled himself up to a seated position, leaned forward, and picked up the hypo cartridge. Flipping it right side up, he squinted in the low light. “A stim shot? I thought you didn’t like using these things.”
“I don’t, especially since I’ve been awake for so long. But I want to watch my little girl do her thing, and this is the only way I know will take me through to the end,” McCoy answered, trailing off as he turned his head towards the screen. For a fleeting moment, a sad, almost whimsical expression graced his features, visible only to those who knew him well enough to catch it.
Continue to Part 1B