Fic: The People He Sees (3/7)
Title: The People He Sees
Author: EstelWolfe (posting on a shared art account)
Characters: McCoy, Spock
Pairing: Could read mentions of Spock/Uhura, but strong friendship between the two also works
Rating: PG-13 for medical descriptions and some language
Summary: They should have seen it coming, really. They want him to be more human, but humans aren't the only species in the galaxy given to open displays of emotion.
Notes: This is the third in a series of loosely connected shorts featuring McCoy acting as doctor for various officers. I've linked to the other two (the newest is on the bottom). This one got away from me a bit, but I hope you enjoy! Cross-posted to trekfics.
Word Count: 5850
The People He Sees: Puri
The People He Sees: Scotty
The third Starfleet officer he treats is the last one he expected to. Jim’s involved in the incident, though, so expectations don’t matter all that much.
“Bones!”
Jim’s shout is easily recognized, a forceful bellow that could carry over just about anything. In the silence of sick bay during the second day of shore leave, it’s more than a bit of overkill.
“Bones!”
McCoy sighs and punches the button to send his terminal into sleep mode. He rubs at the back of his neck as he gets up and heads out of his office. Jim’s only been planet-side for-six hours? He can’t have gotten himself into that much trouble. “So what was it this time? Pretty girl? Or-”
The tableau that greets him as he walks out into sickbay freezes him in his tracks, but only for a split second. Jim and Uhura flank Spock, and it’s obvious that they’re supporting most of the gangly Vulcan’s weight. The three are in street clothes, Jim’s outfit outlandish and chest-baring, Spock’s elegant and clean-cut, Uhura’s simple but gorgeous. Hectic splashes of green stain all of them, and he has to forcibly remind his brain to process it as blood.
A lot of blood.
“What-how-” Grabbing a scanner as he walks by, he barely manages to keep his eyes on his patient rather than on Jim. “Please don’t tell me you managed to get Spock into a bar fight. Really-”
“I didn’t do it.” Affronted indignation color’s the captain’s words. “He got me into a bar fight.”
“A fact… you shouldn’t find… so amusing.” The Vulcan’s breathing is labored but steady, his voice merely a quieter version of his usual precise tone despite the blood coating his face. “Captain, as I said before… the man… the one that I…”
Spock’s voice falters and his face pales, deathly yellow bruises suddenly showing far too clearly.
McCoy doesn’t need any other prompting. “Get him on a bed. Nurse!”
He doesn’t wait to see if the woman who had been unlucky enough to draw the short stick with him this evening is actually responding to his words before belting out orders. His people know that tone of voice. She’ll get done what he needs her to get done.
“I want three monitors set up. Two with standard physiological data for humans and Vulcans, one with Lieutenant Spock’s previous medical scans. Prep a kit for surgery, too.”
Spock’s brows draw together. “Doctor, I assure you…” The first officer draws a deep breath and winces. “My injuries are… not that severe. I-”
“Shut up.”
Spock blinks up at him, expression… confounded, at least. It’s a small victory.
“Shut up, sit still, and get an exam. You’re bleeding, you’re shaky on your feet, and I damn sure am not having you try to shrug it off because of-” McCoy realizes belatedly that he doesn’t really know why his current patient is trying to be an idiot. “Anything. And you two-why didn’t anyone call me from the transporter room? A heads up would have been nice. We could have even, I don’t know, gotten a stretcher for the injured man rather than making him walk and leave bloodstains that will have to be treated as technicolor biohazard, thank you very much.”
“I’m sorry, Bones.” Kirk sounds properly contrite.
Which most likely means he’s trying to get away with something. McCoy spares a moment to glare at the man. “What is it you’re trying to hide?”
It’s Uhura who answers. Her tone is calm, though her expression is anything but, and she holds Spock’s left hand tightly in hers. “A punk from the Intrepid broke a chair over the captain’s head and back. I think he’s bleeding down the back of his shirt.”
“Bones, it’s not serious, I swear.” Jim holds up his hands in surrender. “Please, see to him first.”
“Doctor, most of the blood… is from a broken nose.” Spock grabs at McCoy’s arm, holding it tightly, preventing movement. “There are others… in worse shape. And likely… more hurt. The captain-”
McCoy turns his head away from the Vulcan. “Jim, I’m going to ask you a question that you will answer honestly or you will regret it for the rest of your life. Are you well enough to go back down planet-side and take care of whatever mess you guys left there?”
Jim actually thinks for a moment before nodding. “I should be. You know I’ve had concussions before, and this doesn’t feel like one.”
“Good.” McCoy turns back to his patient, startled to find the Vulcan looking even paler than before. “They’ll go take care of it, you’ll get an exam, and then when you don’t look like death warmed over you can go help them.”
“I-” The Vulcan swallows and nods. “Thank you. Nyota, will you go with him and make sure-”
“Done.” The woman tightens her hand once around Spock’s before standing with a smile. “We’ll be back before you know it, and I’m sure you don’t have anything to worry about.”
Spock’s lips twitch slightly as he watches Uhura walk away. It’s easy to see her determination in her stride, a sure-footed stalk despite high heels that isn’t impeded at all by her grabbing Jim’s arm to drag him along. There is indeed human blood on the back of Jim’s neck and lightly staining his shirt, but it already looks like it’s drying.
The doors close behind the two officers. Turning to his patient McCoy finds that Spock’s eyes are closed, his expression focused, as if trying to overcome pain-
Or keep from vomiting, which he fails to do, lurching up and leaning over the side of the bed. McCoy doesn’t like the dark green tinge to the liquid mess.
Or the way Spock lays back limply, eyes half-lidded, breathing harsher than before.
Or the way the blood pressure readings on his scans are doing a steady nosedive.
Well, shit. So much for this being a somewhat amusing incident to relate about the normally stoic first officer.
Cath’s almost done setting up the monitors, stepping carefully around the mess the Vulcan made, no distaste showing on her face. Bones likes working with the woman, and he’s suddenly very glad it’s the two of them on duty.
A quick scan and visual inspection of Spock’s exterior doesn’t give any indication why his blood pressure’s dropping. Given how low normal Vulcan levels are, and Spock’s half human heritage… “Spock? Are you still with me?”
The first officer murmurs something under his breath, something with syllables McCoy doesn’t think he could imitate to save his life.
“Right. Cath, have you ever done anesthetic maintenance on a Vulcan before?”
The woman shakes her head, brown ponytail bobbing. “No, sir. I’ve only done one non-human before, and that was…”
He doesn’t need to look up from his scans again to know he’s led her thoughts down exactly the wrong path. He wishes he could remember which of the dead men she’d helped him with, but his own coping mechanism involves trying very hard not to think about individual cases.
“Doesn’t matter, anyway.” He smiles at the woman as he prepares a hypo, handing it over to her. “Our lieutenant’s a hybrid, meaning he does everything just a little bit differently than both parent species. Don’t get caught up trying to remember all your schoolwork. Watch his stats and compare them to the ones from his record. Get my attention if anything seems too odd. Ready?”
She nods, lips tight, brows drawn together in a look of quiet determination.
It takes them less than a minute to prep the Vulcan for surgery.
It takes several long minutes to find the damned internal bleed that’s slowly killing him, and McCoy invents several new and inventive terms for hybrids that he hopes will never leave the medical bay. It’s just too frustrating. He’s golden on human biology, and he’s been spending most of his down time studying up on the biology of all the various aliens they’ve got aboard. If Spock were human, he would have been able to pinpoint the problem blindfolded. If Spock were built like a normal Vulcan, he would have been able to actually calibrate the scanner properly, and though he wouldn’t have been willing to do surgery blindfolded, he would have felt fine doing it with one hand tied behind his back.
But no. The man’s built mostly like a Vulcan, but just when McCoy thinks he’s getting his bearings something will be off.
Hell, it would even be all right if all the changes were from Vulcan to Human. That would make things too easy, though. Instead the damn hybrid has to invent whole new ways of doing perfectly normal things, like shunting blood to the liver or, in this case, helpfully pumping it into a useless pool in the man’s abdominal cavity.
Once he locates the problem it’s easy enough to fix, and he watches in relief as his first officer’s blood pressure slowly climbs back up to its rather limp normal value. He gives Spock a little bit of time to stabilize before setting to work on the myriad other problems he found while searching for the more pressing one.
With each injury he works on he can feel his own blood pressure rising. He’s seen a lot in his short time as chief medical examiner for the Enterprise, had seen a lot even before then. He’s seen good men die in a myriad of horrible ways. But what he sees as he works on his first officer is something he hasn’t seen before, something he never really expected to see.
He sees malice. He sees hatred, vented in blunt force on another living body. He sees systematic, brutal abuse that amounts to attempted murder.
Whatever happened down on the planet, it sure as hell wasn’t a simple bar fight.
He’s ready for a rush of casualties. He’s ready for Jim to come back and explain things. He’s ready for anything but the continued silence of sick bay, broken only by the quiet blips from the monitors scanning Spock.
He works for almost an hour on the Vulcan hybrid, more because it gives his hands and mind something to do other than fret than because Spock really needs the extra care. Even with all he does, the Vulcan’s going to hurt like hell when he wakes up.
Finally admitting that he’s done all that he possibly can, McCoy helps Cath ease their patient into a fresh uniform. He hopes the first officer wasn’t terribly fond of his street clothes, because the blood stained rags are incinerator food. When he’s certain that the Vulcan’s well on his way to waking up, he sends Cath back to her own studies and pulls up a chair next to the medical bed.
He doesn’t have long to wait. Whatever else may be true, Spock’s got a bit of hybrid vigor going for him, and he’s blinking before either a Human or a Vulcan should be.
“Hey there.” McCoy keeps his tone light and even, trying not to startle his patient. “How’re you feeling?”
“Doctor McCoy.” Spock turns his head just enough for McCoy to see both eyes-or, rather, the swelling and bruising around both eyes and his nose.
“Yep.” Bones tries to reign in his impatience, giving the Vulcan a chance to get his bearings again before hitting him with all the questions he has.
“Have the captain and n-” The Vulcan pauses and swallows before continuing, his expression growing more alert. “Have the captain and Lieutenant Uhura returned?”
“Not yet. And I asked you a question first.”
“I feel much better, thank you.” Annoyance lightly traces the Vulcan’s words as he stares straight ahead, expression a mask of indifference.
McCoy struggles not to clench his fists. He’s going to be patient and kind if it kills him. “So, most of the blood was from a broken nose and there were others in worse shape, huh?”
“I’m not a doctor, Doctor.” Still not meeting his gaze, Spock flexes his shoulders experimentally.
“If you sit up I will put you so far under you won’t wake up until next week.” Bones is proud of the serenity in his tone as makes the suggestion. “Now, care to tell me what the hell happened down there?”
There’s a moment of silence before Spock states, quite simply, “No.”
“No?” McCoy leans forward in the chair. “Someone systematically beat you, Spock. You’ve got a concussion. You had two cracked ribs. You were bleeding internally because someone left a roughly size twelve steel-toed boot print in your liver and pancreas. How the hell they found them I don’t know, given how much work it takes me to find them, but from the looks of things they weren’t above trial and error. I want to know why someone tried to beat my first officer to death, okay?”
Another long moment of silence stretches, and McCoy is starting to wonder whether he’s pushed too hard or not hard enough when Spock finally speaks. His voice is a whisper, hollow, empty.
“They believed I was a Romulan.”
“So they tried to kill you?” The words are out before the gears are finished turning in his head, horrified realization dawning. The Narada, Vulcan, the loss of over ninety percent of the senior cadets from the Academy…
“Yes, Doctor.” It’s the same tone, soft, empty, haunting, and McCoy fights the urge to shudder. “They wished revenge for lost companions. Recompense for Vulcan. They would not tolerate filthy evil monstrous creatures keeping company with them.”
“How the hell could they… I mean…” Bones can’t grasp the argument he wants to make. Things like that don’t happen anymore. Not in this day and age, not in a Starfleet port. But he knows people, and he’s seen the bitter truth of the sentiment stamped into living flesh, so he doesn’t tackle the bigger problem. “Did you tell them you were Vulcan?”
“They did not believe me. I… look too human, one said. I have human eyes. I allowed myself to smile at one of the captain’s attempts at humor. I did not strike them as being Vulcan, and the only closely related species are the Romulans.” The edge is still missing from Spock’s tone, the sharp wit and swift sarcasm that he usually wields.
“Why didn’t Jim and Uhura-”
“The captain was otherwise engaged. He evidently finds taverns a fascinating place. Lieutenant Uhura was with me, but her opinion seemed only to increase their ire.” The first hint of life bleeds back into the Vulcan’s voice. “Perhaps due to the names she used when debating with them.”
“Are there even Romulans in Starfleet? We’re not terribly fond of them, last time I checked.” McCoy winces the moment the words are out of his mouth. He doesn’t say that by ‘not fond’ he means ‘at cold war with’, rather than the more personal ‘beating the hell out of at every opportunity’. It shouldn’t need saying.
“There are six Romulans currently employed by Starfleet. Three are defectors from the Empire. Three are hybrids.”
“Hybrids? With what species? First contact was only what, twenty-four years ago?”
“Humanity has always been eager to explore new… territories, Doctor.” The edge is creeping back into Spock’s voice, the cultured Vulcan disdain for everything not-Vulcan.
It’s the first and hopefully the last time McCoy will ever have to admit to himself that he’s glad to hear it. “You’d be up a creek without a paddle if we didn’t.”
“If you are referring to the fact I would not be alive if you didn’t, I concur.” Spock shifts slightly, almost restlessly compared to his usual behavior, though he’s smart enough not to sit up. “There has truly been no word from the captain?”
“I would tell you if there had been.” Bones studies his patient. “What’s so important that you didn’t want to come get checked out and had to send him back down there?”
“During the altercation, I put a man’s head through the tavern wall.” Spock’s voice is perfectly, deadly calm, the only possible hint of emotion the fact that it’s quieter than usual.
McCoy stares down at his patient. “Through a metal wall?”
“No. The tavern was… retro, I believe is the word the captain used. The walls were wooden.” The Vulcan continues to stare straight ahead. “I do not believe a metal wall would have yielded before-”
“It was wooden. All right.” Bones tries hard not to think about what would happen to a human skull caught between the irresistible force of an irate Vulcan and the immoveable object of a solid metal wall. He mostly succeeds. “Was he… alive?”
“I do not know, Doctor.” Spock’s words are precise, almost clipped, the Standard that a computer might produce. “I was otherwise occupied at the time.”
Occupied getting beaten half to death. Sometimes McCoy hates people. Spock lost everything to the Narada. He had very nearly sacrificed himself to save Earth, and this was the thanks he got for it.
Bones resists the urge to reach over and pat his first officer comfortingly on the shoulder. If it was Jim, he would have in a heartbeat, but this is one patient for whom standard physical contact would probably be more stressful rather than less. “Jim’ll take care of it. I’m sure there was an emergency response team there, anyway. Bar fights involving property damage always get the owner’s piqued.”
“I need to know the man’s condition so that I can determine what my next course of action should be.” Spock’s still staring straight ahead, burning a hole in the ceiling. It’s starting to get disconcerting.
“I don’t see how there’s much doubt as to your next course of action. You stay here, you rest and recuperate, you go back to the bridge in a few days, and you make Jim find a better spot for shore leave next time.”
“I do not think it will be that simple. I might very well have killed a man, Doctor.”
Spock shifts his head to meet McCoy’s gaze, and Bones has to work hard not to draw in a sharp breath. The hybrid’s eyes are human. It’s hard to tell where exactly the emotional expression comes from-slight shifts in the positions of his eyebrows, a coordinated tightening of small ocular muscles, maybe even a minute shift in the position of his lips. It doesn’t matter where the small changes are located, though, because added all together they show very clearly that the Vulcan is in agony.
“Spock…” McCoy gropes for words. He’s never tried to defend attempted murder before. He never thought he’d have any reason to. “They were trying to kill you.”
“No. At that point they were trying to hurt and humiliate me.” Turning away again, Spock resumes his staring contest with the ceiling. “My action was unprofessional and out of line.”
“When you say hurt and humiliate-”
“Yes, Doctor, they had struck me. But there were other ways I could have responded. Vulcan techniques of combat that would have disabled but not permanently harmed them.” A shudder runs the length of the man’s body. “What I did was respond in a childish, emotional outburst. It was unbecoming of my rank and heritage.”
“You think they were right.” The pieces finally fall into place. “Spock, do not tell me you’re letting a bunch of fucking stupid human idiots convince you that you’re not Vulcan enough. Because listening to stupid people is stupid. And because even if it was true, guess what? You’re not a full-blooded Vulcan. Being half-human makes it all right to, you know, be human.”
“As my attackers were human?” Spock’s looking at him again, and there’s fire in the half-Vulcan’s stare. Anger-no, rage, coupled with confusion and fear and God knows what else. “There is a reason Vulcans eliminate their emotions, Doctor. Logic is not supposed to allow for fear of the unknown. Logic does not allow for rash actions.”
“Logic does not allow for love of one’s family. Logic does not allow for love of one’s children. Logic does not allow for love of one’s shipmates.” He’s not supposed to be yelling at his patient, but what the hell, bedside manner has never been his selling point.
Spock’s shaking his head before McCoy’s done talking. “On the contrary. Logic allows for sacrifice far more easily than emotion. The good of the many over the good of the few. Those who will serve the future over those who have served in the past. For example, the captain’s father acted logically when he sacrificed himself to save his crew.”
“The captain’s father acted emotionally to save his wife and child and the people he cared about because he worked with them.” It was the first story Jim ever told him about home, during their second week of Academy. Logic, emotion, duty, everything had led George Kirk to that irrevocable, terrible decision that shaped his son’s life. “Bad example with that one. Logic and emotion both screwed the man over. But it wasn’t logic that saved Earth from the Narada.”
“But it was emotion that destroyed Vulcan. Senseless rage and despair over the loss of loved ones driving the genocide of billions of people who had no part in the loss.” Spock is sitting up on his elbows, muscles tight, every inch of his being devoted to the conversation.
“Senseless determination and indomitable will driving the salvation of billions.” McCoy gropes for the right words, because he’s got a crazy, illogical feeling that Spock’s actually looking to lose this argument. “Infinite diversity in infinite combinations, right? That’s what you Vulcans believe. The same parts strung together in a variety of ways creating innumerable possibilities. It’s not emotion itself that’s wrong. It’s what you do with it. Just like it’s not logic itself that’s right. Logic would suggest that sacrificing a few in medical trials to save many would be perfectly all right.”
“Only if argued by a sociopath or someone with little knowledge of ethical background.” Spock settles back down, expression thoughtful. “This is an old debate, Doctor. It does not change the fact that I should not have acted as I did. The captain may be required to turn me over for court martial.”
“Over my dead body.”
It’s gratifying to have startled the Vulcan twice in one evening. “You would-”
“I would protest someone stealing my patient and putting him on trial for trying to save his own life. And I have medical proof that you were indeed in danger of death, so.” Bones grins. “Just let them try.”
“I was asking you to assist justice, not…” Spock trails off. “We will see what transpires.”
What transpires is a long night of waiting. The late-night staff arrive at midnight, and Bones is gratified to see that though they’re all relaxed none of them are the least bit drunk. It had been hard, trying to strike a middle ground between letting them enjoy their shore leave and reminding them that they couldn’t afford to be reckless if they were on the rotation list.
Jim doesn’t come back, though, and attempts to contact him via communicator only get a terse, “Later.”
So McCoy sits with his first officer, and the two of them talk, debate, argue, and otherwise engage in verbal dueling that is both exhausting and enlightening. The hybrid is methodical and implacable in driving home his points. Bones hasn’t had to defend his basic tenets with so much vigor since his freshmen medical ethics class, and that was a small lifetime ago.
At three he insists the Vulcan sleep, or meditate, or whatever else he’ll willingly do that involves rest and not staring at the door to sick bay hoping for the captain to suddenly materialize. McCoy takes up a perch on the bed beside his first officer, intending to keep an eye on him and make sure he actually does what he claims he’s going to do.
Which makes it quite a shock when the next thing he knows Jim’s shaking his shoulder.
“Bones. Come on. Rise and shine. Bright new morning and all that jazz.”
Jim’s in uniform, and there are dark circles under his eyes and bruises all over his face but he’s grinning like an idiot anyway.
“Where the hell have you been?” The words come out slightly garbled, sleep tangling his tongue as McCoy struggles to orient himself. Right. Sickbay. Stubborn Vulcan. Attempted murder in self defense. “What happened down there?”
“I was just taking care of things with authorities. Is it all right to wake him up?” Jim nods toward where Spock is lying serenely on his back, arms at his side.
For one horrifying moment Bones finds himself thinking of coffins, the Vulcan laid out for his final rest. Then the man’s leg twitches slightly, just the faintest human sign of dreaming, and the illusion shatters.
“What time is it?” There are simply not enough clocks in sick bay. He’s going to have to have Scotty fix that. Blinking blearily at his watch, McCoy nods. “Yeah. He’s been out for seven hours. Besides, he’ll sleep better if he knows how things turned out.”
“Good.” There’s an edge to Jim’s grin, the wolf successfully carrying back ill-gotten gains to the pack. Taking the two steps to stand by his first officer, Jim reaches down with his right hand to tap him sharply on the shoulder. “Spock.”
The Vulcan is instantly awake and alert, sitting up on his elbows again with only the faintest wince. “Captain.”
“First officer.” Jim’s grin widens as he extends his left hand, which is clenched into a fist. “I believe these belong to you.”
Opening his hand, Jim allows a half-dozen rank insignia to flutter down onto the Vulcan’s bed.
Spock stares at the small stripes, reaching down tentatively to finger one. “I… do not understand.”
“The gang who started the mess. They’ve been court-martialed and demoted as low as they can go, with no prospect of rising in rank again for the next ten years or so.” The hunter’s grin is back on Jim’s face. “I thought you’d appreciate that. Seems kind of like your style.”
“I do appreciate it. Thank you, captain.” Spock’s voice is soft and strained, barely audible as he raises his eyes to meet Kirk’s. “There were seven men, though.”
“There were. One Ensign Charles Dayton is currently being treated for his injuries. Upon his release from the Intrepid’s sick bay he will be court marshaled and dishonorably discharged for striking two superior officers and otherwise inciting activities unbecoming of Starfleet personnel.”
Spock’s hand clenches spasmodically around the insignia he’s holding. His eyes close, and Bones could swear the man’s trying with all his might not to mirror his captain’s smile. “Thank you, Jim.”
It would be an overstatement to say that the entire medical bay went silent. But not by much.
“You are very welcome, Spock.” Jim’s voice is gentle, the hunter’s edge gone as he gently pushes at his first officer’s shoulder, urging the man to lie down again. “I don’t take kindly to anyone hurting my crew. Lieutenant Uhura said to tell you she’ll be up as soon as she can. She’s taking care of some last-minute business. For now I’m going to guess at doctor’s orders and suggest you are to lie down and rest more. How close am I, Bones?”
“Close enough.” McCoy scrambles up to his feet, inspecting the latest stats on his patient and calling up the scans from when he was asleep. Everything looks good-great, considering the condition the Vulcan had been in. “I’d suggest you order breakfast first and then lie down and rest more. We’ll see about getting you back on your feet this afternoon. And before you try to run away, Jim, I am going to look at your head.”
“Bones, it’s fine. I’ve been running around for over twelve hours and I-” Kirk meets his eyes and sighs. “I am going to come with you and sit still and have a thorough physical exam. Got it. Do I at least get points for saying I want to go and sleep?”
Rolling his eyes, McCoy grabs his captain’s arm and leads him away from Spock. He chooses a location where the first officer’s obnoxious pointy Vulcan ears won’t be able to hear them. “Nice work, Jim. Though I very much doubt you were able to hold a court-martial and get a verdict in fourteen hours.”
“Well, I may have been stretching things there. But it’s what’s going to happen. I’ve made damn sure of it.” The grimness in Kirk’s voice is still new, a tone that he’s been developing more and more since Starfleet gave him the Enterprise. “I’m the one who brought him down there, Bones.”
“To enjoy himself, I imagine.” Scanning the back of Jim’s head reveals no serious injuries. Even the scalp wound that had been bleeding is relatively minor. “You couldn’t have known there’d be bigoted assholes there who don’t even know how to differentiate species.”
“No. But I should have noticed earlier something was up. He and Uhura were just sitting together, hiding at the back of the bar. I didn’t think they’d get into trouble. Next thing I know Spock’s got a split lip and some idiots trying to kick him in the balls and he’s just taking it. Me, he tries to choke to death. Them, he talks to. Until Uhura gets in the way and they hit her, too. Then he puts their leader’s head through the wall and starts a freakin’ inter-ship riot.” Jim sighs. He smiles, but the expression seems forced, tired, drained. “Vulcans. You can’t take them anywhere.”
“He was trying to reason with them. They were accusing him of being a Romulan.” Interesting, too, the few details Spock had left out of his version of events.
“They were drunk, Bones. Drunk and mean and looking for a fight. Trust me, I know.” Jim looks down at his own hands, self-deprecation in his tone and his smile. “They picked what they thought would be an easy target and prodded at him until they got a reaction.”
“If you hadn’t brought him back up here he really could have died, Jim. There was legitimate hate in that attack.” McCoy considers the results of his scans a moment before prepping a hypo.
“Do not stick me with that until you tell me what it is and ask my permission.” Jim leans away from the offending instrument. “He’s going to be all right?”
“He’ll be fine. I’m good at my job. And stop fidgeting so damn much, it’s just a painkiller.” He resists the urge to use more force than necessary when administering the medication. Really, one series of unfortunate medical events and some people lose all respect. “Now, same orders I gave him. Go get something to eat and then sleep. If I hear you’ve been on the bridge today you will not be on the bridge tomorrow. You will be sleeping here under my supervision with medical intervention if necessary.”
“Bones, I just spent thirteen hours of my shore leave calling in emergency personnel, ensuring that a sub-human wretch I would very much like to see castrated and flayed alive got the best possible medical care, seeing that none of the Enterprise’s crew ended up in planetary custody, arguing with the Intrepid’s gorgeous but hideously practical captain, and all with a splitting headache. I would like nothing more than to go sleep in my own bed.”
Jim’s got an I’m-so-pathetic face that would do a hurt puppy proud, and he uses it to good effect. McCoy doesn’t have it in him to confine the man to sickbay.
The day is filled with a steady trickle of minor injuries as people wake up, sober up, and realize that they’re sore. The skeleton crew he’s got on rotation throughout the duration of shore leave doesn’t have a problem handling the load. It’s almost relaxing, dealing with minor scrapes, sprains, cuts and bruises.
Which is maybe why Bones also doesn’t have it in him to get too upset when he hears Jim’s on the bridge that evening. It’s not like there’s anything stressful to do up there while they orbit a planet.
Spock’s out of sick bay on the second day, and though McCoy knows the Vulcan must still be sore he can’t tell it from the way Spock moves. He probably should have kept the man for another day or two, but he was obviously uncomfortable being confined. Bones can’t blame him. As much as he tries to keep his people professional, the oddity of having their first officer under their care coupled with the wild tales surrounding how he’d come to be in the condition he was in meant the Vulcan was under near-constant scrutiny.
On the fourth day Jim calls down to sick bay and asks him if he can take Spock out for dinner. It’s not the best phrasing he could have used, and McCoy can hear the laughter from the bridge as well as the muffled giggles from his people behind him. A glare quiets the people on Bones’ end, while Jim seems to be laughing along with the people on his end.
“What I meant, Bones, was is he medically fit for transport to the surface. And are you free tonight, if he is.”
There’s another round of laughter, and McCoy can just see Jim’s face as he revels in it. The captain should not enjoy being the in-flight entertainment as much as he does.
“Yes and yes, Captain. Medical out.” He doesn’t give Jim the pleasure of prolonging the conversation. Some of them have work to do, shore leave or no.
But he does give Jim the pleasure of his company that night, despite the fact that it means digging around in his closet for non-uniform clothes. Damn planets with stupid regulations about off-duty personnel being in civilian clothes.
They make a good-sized party, himself, Jim, Spock, Scotty and Uhura, but Jim’s obviously put some thought and planning into the outing. The places they go are more upscale than the usual haunts Jim drags him to, though not too fancy. Nice enough that they can hear each other over the music, which occasionally even shows signs of class; not so nice that McCoy feels out of place, despite the fact that Jim, Spock and Uhura are all still sporting bruises.
It’s relaxing, a chance to talk about things other than work, a chance to drink without desperately needing to get drunk, a chance to laugh without having to worry about who’s watching and what they’re going to think. A chance to be himself, just Bones, Jim’s best friend, not the chief medical examiner of the Enterprise who’s responsible for keeping everyone alive despite their best efforts to the contrary. He revels in it, and he suspects the rest of the officers do, too.
Even Spock, who he maybe, just maybe, catches smiling for a moment, human eyes shining in his serene Vulcan face.
Author: EstelWolfe (posting on a shared art account)
Characters: McCoy, Spock
Pairing: Could read mentions of Spock/Uhura, but strong friendship between the two also works
Rating: PG-13 for medical descriptions and some language
Summary: They should have seen it coming, really. They want him to be more human, but humans aren't the only species in the galaxy given to open displays of emotion.
Notes: This is the third in a series of loosely connected shorts featuring McCoy acting as doctor for various officers. I've linked to the other two (the newest is on the bottom). This one got away from me a bit, but I hope you enjoy! Cross-posted to trekfics.
Word Count: 5850
The People He Sees: Puri
The People He Sees: Scotty
The third Starfleet officer he treats is the last one he expected to. Jim’s involved in the incident, though, so expectations don’t matter all that much.
“Bones!”
Jim’s shout is easily recognized, a forceful bellow that could carry over just about anything. In the silence of sick bay during the second day of shore leave, it’s more than a bit of overkill.
“Bones!”
McCoy sighs and punches the button to send his terminal into sleep mode. He rubs at the back of his neck as he gets up and heads out of his office. Jim’s only been planet-side for-six hours? He can’t have gotten himself into that much trouble. “So what was it this time? Pretty girl? Or-”
The tableau that greets him as he walks out into sickbay freezes him in his tracks, but only for a split second. Jim and Uhura flank Spock, and it’s obvious that they’re supporting most of the gangly Vulcan’s weight. The three are in street clothes, Jim’s outfit outlandish and chest-baring, Spock’s elegant and clean-cut, Uhura’s simple but gorgeous. Hectic splashes of green stain all of them, and he has to forcibly remind his brain to process it as blood.
A lot of blood.
“What-how-” Grabbing a scanner as he walks by, he barely manages to keep his eyes on his patient rather than on Jim. “Please don’t tell me you managed to get Spock into a bar fight. Really-”
“I didn’t do it.” Affronted indignation color’s the captain’s words. “He got me into a bar fight.”
“A fact… you shouldn’t find… so amusing.” The Vulcan’s breathing is labored but steady, his voice merely a quieter version of his usual precise tone despite the blood coating his face. “Captain, as I said before… the man… the one that I…”
Spock’s voice falters and his face pales, deathly yellow bruises suddenly showing far too clearly.
McCoy doesn’t need any other prompting. “Get him on a bed. Nurse!”
He doesn’t wait to see if the woman who had been unlucky enough to draw the short stick with him this evening is actually responding to his words before belting out orders. His people know that tone of voice. She’ll get done what he needs her to get done.
“I want three monitors set up. Two with standard physiological data for humans and Vulcans, one with Lieutenant Spock’s previous medical scans. Prep a kit for surgery, too.”
Spock’s brows draw together. “Doctor, I assure you…” The first officer draws a deep breath and winces. “My injuries are… not that severe. I-”
“Shut up.”
Spock blinks up at him, expression… confounded, at least. It’s a small victory.
“Shut up, sit still, and get an exam. You’re bleeding, you’re shaky on your feet, and I damn sure am not having you try to shrug it off because of-” McCoy realizes belatedly that he doesn’t really know why his current patient is trying to be an idiot. “Anything. And you two-why didn’t anyone call me from the transporter room? A heads up would have been nice. We could have even, I don’t know, gotten a stretcher for the injured man rather than making him walk and leave bloodstains that will have to be treated as technicolor biohazard, thank you very much.”
“I’m sorry, Bones.” Kirk sounds properly contrite.
Which most likely means he’s trying to get away with something. McCoy spares a moment to glare at the man. “What is it you’re trying to hide?”
It’s Uhura who answers. Her tone is calm, though her expression is anything but, and she holds Spock’s left hand tightly in hers. “A punk from the Intrepid broke a chair over the captain’s head and back. I think he’s bleeding down the back of his shirt.”
“Bones, it’s not serious, I swear.” Jim holds up his hands in surrender. “Please, see to him first.”
“Doctor, most of the blood… is from a broken nose.” Spock grabs at McCoy’s arm, holding it tightly, preventing movement. “There are others… in worse shape. And likely… more hurt. The captain-”
McCoy turns his head away from the Vulcan. “Jim, I’m going to ask you a question that you will answer honestly or you will regret it for the rest of your life. Are you well enough to go back down planet-side and take care of whatever mess you guys left there?”
Jim actually thinks for a moment before nodding. “I should be. You know I’ve had concussions before, and this doesn’t feel like one.”
“Good.” McCoy turns back to his patient, startled to find the Vulcan looking even paler than before. “They’ll go take care of it, you’ll get an exam, and then when you don’t look like death warmed over you can go help them.”
“I-” The Vulcan swallows and nods. “Thank you. Nyota, will you go with him and make sure-”
“Done.” The woman tightens her hand once around Spock’s before standing with a smile. “We’ll be back before you know it, and I’m sure you don’t have anything to worry about.”
Spock’s lips twitch slightly as he watches Uhura walk away. It’s easy to see her determination in her stride, a sure-footed stalk despite high heels that isn’t impeded at all by her grabbing Jim’s arm to drag him along. There is indeed human blood on the back of Jim’s neck and lightly staining his shirt, but it already looks like it’s drying.
The doors close behind the two officers. Turning to his patient McCoy finds that Spock’s eyes are closed, his expression focused, as if trying to overcome pain-
Or keep from vomiting, which he fails to do, lurching up and leaning over the side of the bed. McCoy doesn’t like the dark green tinge to the liquid mess.
Or the way Spock lays back limply, eyes half-lidded, breathing harsher than before.
Or the way the blood pressure readings on his scans are doing a steady nosedive.
Well, shit. So much for this being a somewhat amusing incident to relate about the normally stoic first officer.
Cath’s almost done setting up the monitors, stepping carefully around the mess the Vulcan made, no distaste showing on her face. Bones likes working with the woman, and he’s suddenly very glad it’s the two of them on duty.
A quick scan and visual inspection of Spock’s exterior doesn’t give any indication why his blood pressure’s dropping. Given how low normal Vulcan levels are, and Spock’s half human heritage… “Spock? Are you still with me?”
The first officer murmurs something under his breath, something with syllables McCoy doesn’t think he could imitate to save his life.
“Right. Cath, have you ever done anesthetic maintenance on a Vulcan before?”
The woman shakes her head, brown ponytail bobbing. “No, sir. I’ve only done one non-human before, and that was…”
He doesn’t need to look up from his scans again to know he’s led her thoughts down exactly the wrong path. He wishes he could remember which of the dead men she’d helped him with, but his own coping mechanism involves trying very hard not to think about individual cases.
“Doesn’t matter, anyway.” He smiles at the woman as he prepares a hypo, handing it over to her. “Our lieutenant’s a hybrid, meaning he does everything just a little bit differently than both parent species. Don’t get caught up trying to remember all your schoolwork. Watch his stats and compare them to the ones from his record. Get my attention if anything seems too odd. Ready?”
She nods, lips tight, brows drawn together in a look of quiet determination.
It takes them less than a minute to prep the Vulcan for surgery.
It takes several long minutes to find the damned internal bleed that’s slowly killing him, and McCoy invents several new and inventive terms for hybrids that he hopes will never leave the medical bay. It’s just too frustrating. He’s golden on human biology, and he’s been spending most of his down time studying up on the biology of all the various aliens they’ve got aboard. If Spock were human, he would have been able to pinpoint the problem blindfolded. If Spock were built like a normal Vulcan, he would have been able to actually calibrate the scanner properly, and though he wouldn’t have been willing to do surgery blindfolded, he would have felt fine doing it with one hand tied behind his back.
But no. The man’s built mostly like a Vulcan, but just when McCoy thinks he’s getting his bearings something will be off.
Hell, it would even be all right if all the changes were from Vulcan to Human. That would make things too easy, though. Instead the damn hybrid has to invent whole new ways of doing perfectly normal things, like shunting blood to the liver or, in this case, helpfully pumping it into a useless pool in the man’s abdominal cavity.
Once he locates the problem it’s easy enough to fix, and he watches in relief as his first officer’s blood pressure slowly climbs back up to its rather limp normal value. He gives Spock a little bit of time to stabilize before setting to work on the myriad other problems he found while searching for the more pressing one.
With each injury he works on he can feel his own blood pressure rising. He’s seen a lot in his short time as chief medical examiner for the Enterprise, had seen a lot even before then. He’s seen good men die in a myriad of horrible ways. But what he sees as he works on his first officer is something he hasn’t seen before, something he never really expected to see.
He sees malice. He sees hatred, vented in blunt force on another living body. He sees systematic, brutal abuse that amounts to attempted murder.
Whatever happened down on the planet, it sure as hell wasn’t a simple bar fight.
He’s ready for a rush of casualties. He’s ready for Jim to come back and explain things. He’s ready for anything but the continued silence of sick bay, broken only by the quiet blips from the monitors scanning Spock.
He works for almost an hour on the Vulcan hybrid, more because it gives his hands and mind something to do other than fret than because Spock really needs the extra care. Even with all he does, the Vulcan’s going to hurt like hell when he wakes up.
Finally admitting that he’s done all that he possibly can, McCoy helps Cath ease their patient into a fresh uniform. He hopes the first officer wasn’t terribly fond of his street clothes, because the blood stained rags are incinerator food. When he’s certain that the Vulcan’s well on his way to waking up, he sends Cath back to her own studies and pulls up a chair next to the medical bed.
He doesn’t have long to wait. Whatever else may be true, Spock’s got a bit of hybrid vigor going for him, and he’s blinking before either a Human or a Vulcan should be.
“Hey there.” McCoy keeps his tone light and even, trying not to startle his patient. “How’re you feeling?”
“Doctor McCoy.” Spock turns his head just enough for McCoy to see both eyes-or, rather, the swelling and bruising around both eyes and his nose.
“Yep.” Bones tries to reign in his impatience, giving the Vulcan a chance to get his bearings again before hitting him with all the questions he has.
“Have the captain and n-” The Vulcan pauses and swallows before continuing, his expression growing more alert. “Have the captain and Lieutenant Uhura returned?”
“Not yet. And I asked you a question first.”
“I feel much better, thank you.” Annoyance lightly traces the Vulcan’s words as he stares straight ahead, expression a mask of indifference.
McCoy struggles not to clench his fists. He’s going to be patient and kind if it kills him. “So, most of the blood was from a broken nose and there were others in worse shape, huh?”
“I’m not a doctor, Doctor.” Still not meeting his gaze, Spock flexes his shoulders experimentally.
“If you sit up I will put you so far under you won’t wake up until next week.” Bones is proud of the serenity in his tone as makes the suggestion. “Now, care to tell me what the hell happened down there?”
There’s a moment of silence before Spock states, quite simply, “No.”
“No?” McCoy leans forward in the chair. “Someone systematically beat you, Spock. You’ve got a concussion. You had two cracked ribs. You were bleeding internally because someone left a roughly size twelve steel-toed boot print in your liver and pancreas. How the hell they found them I don’t know, given how much work it takes me to find them, but from the looks of things they weren’t above trial and error. I want to know why someone tried to beat my first officer to death, okay?”
Another long moment of silence stretches, and McCoy is starting to wonder whether he’s pushed too hard or not hard enough when Spock finally speaks. His voice is a whisper, hollow, empty.
“They believed I was a Romulan.”
“So they tried to kill you?” The words are out before the gears are finished turning in his head, horrified realization dawning. The Narada, Vulcan, the loss of over ninety percent of the senior cadets from the Academy…
“Yes, Doctor.” It’s the same tone, soft, empty, haunting, and McCoy fights the urge to shudder. “They wished revenge for lost companions. Recompense for Vulcan. They would not tolerate filthy evil monstrous creatures keeping company with them.”
“How the hell could they… I mean…” Bones can’t grasp the argument he wants to make. Things like that don’t happen anymore. Not in this day and age, not in a Starfleet port. But he knows people, and he’s seen the bitter truth of the sentiment stamped into living flesh, so he doesn’t tackle the bigger problem. “Did you tell them you were Vulcan?”
“They did not believe me. I… look too human, one said. I have human eyes. I allowed myself to smile at one of the captain’s attempts at humor. I did not strike them as being Vulcan, and the only closely related species are the Romulans.” The edge is still missing from Spock’s tone, the sharp wit and swift sarcasm that he usually wields.
“Why didn’t Jim and Uhura-”
“The captain was otherwise engaged. He evidently finds taverns a fascinating place. Lieutenant Uhura was with me, but her opinion seemed only to increase their ire.” The first hint of life bleeds back into the Vulcan’s voice. “Perhaps due to the names she used when debating with them.”
“Are there even Romulans in Starfleet? We’re not terribly fond of them, last time I checked.” McCoy winces the moment the words are out of his mouth. He doesn’t say that by ‘not fond’ he means ‘at cold war with’, rather than the more personal ‘beating the hell out of at every opportunity’. It shouldn’t need saying.
“There are six Romulans currently employed by Starfleet. Three are defectors from the Empire. Three are hybrids.”
“Hybrids? With what species? First contact was only what, twenty-four years ago?”
“Humanity has always been eager to explore new… territories, Doctor.” The edge is creeping back into Spock’s voice, the cultured Vulcan disdain for everything not-Vulcan.
It’s the first and hopefully the last time McCoy will ever have to admit to himself that he’s glad to hear it. “You’d be up a creek without a paddle if we didn’t.”
“If you are referring to the fact I would not be alive if you didn’t, I concur.” Spock shifts slightly, almost restlessly compared to his usual behavior, though he’s smart enough not to sit up. “There has truly been no word from the captain?”
“I would tell you if there had been.” Bones studies his patient. “What’s so important that you didn’t want to come get checked out and had to send him back down there?”
“During the altercation, I put a man’s head through the tavern wall.” Spock’s voice is perfectly, deadly calm, the only possible hint of emotion the fact that it’s quieter than usual.
McCoy stares down at his patient. “Through a metal wall?”
“No. The tavern was… retro, I believe is the word the captain used. The walls were wooden.” The Vulcan continues to stare straight ahead. “I do not believe a metal wall would have yielded before-”
“It was wooden. All right.” Bones tries hard not to think about what would happen to a human skull caught between the irresistible force of an irate Vulcan and the immoveable object of a solid metal wall. He mostly succeeds. “Was he… alive?”
“I do not know, Doctor.” Spock’s words are precise, almost clipped, the Standard that a computer might produce. “I was otherwise occupied at the time.”
Occupied getting beaten half to death. Sometimes McCoy hates people. Spock lost everything to the Narada. He had very nearly sacrificed himself to save Earth, and this was the thanks he got for it.
Bones resists the urge to reach over and pat his first officer comfortingly on the shoulder. If it was Jim, he would have in a heartbeat, but this is one patient for whom standard physical contact would probably be more stressful rather than less. “Jim’ll take care of it. I’m sure there was an emergency response team there, anyway. Bar fights involving property damage always get the owner’s piqued.”
“I need to know the man’s condition so that I can determine what my next course of action should be.” Spock’s still staring straight ahead, burning a hole in the ceiling. It’s starting to get disconcerting.
“I don’t see how there’s much doubt as to your next course of action. You stay here, you rest and recuperate, you go back to the bridge in a few days, and you make Jim find a better spot for shore leave next time.”
“I do not think it will be that simple. I might very well have killed a man, Doctor.”
Spock shifts his head to meet McCoy’s gaze, and Bones has to work hard not to draw in a sharp breath. The hybrid’s eyes are human. It’s hard to tell where exactly the emotional expression comes from-slight shifts in the positions of his eyebrows, a coordinated tightening of small ocular muscles, maybe even a minute shift in the position of his lips. It doesn’t matter where the small changes are located, though, because added all together they show very clearly that the Vulcan is in agony.
“Spock…” McCoy gropes for words. He’s never tried to defend attempted murder before. He never thought he’d have any reason to. “They were trying to kill you.”
“No. At that point they were trying to hurt and humiliate me.” Turning away again, Spock resumes his staring contest with the ceiling. “My action was unprofessional and out of line.”
“When you say hurt and humiliate-”
“Yes, Doctor, they had struck me. But there were other ways I could have responded. Vulcan techniques of combat that would have disabled but not permanently harmed them.” A shudder runs the length of the man’s body. “What I did was respond in a childish, emotional outburst. It was unbecoming of my rank and heritage.”
“You think they were right.” The pieces finally fall into place. “Spock, do not tell me you’re letting a bunch of fucking stupid human idiots convince you that you’re not Vulcan enough. Because listening to stupid people is stupid. And because even if it was true, guess what? You’re not a full-blooded Vulcan. Being half-human makes it all right to, you know, be human.”
“As my attackers were human?” Spock’s looking at him again, and there’s fire in the half-Vulcan’s stare. Anger-no, rage, coupled with confusion and fear and God knows what else. “There is a reason Vulcans eliminate their emotions, Doctor. Logic is not supposed to allow for fear of the unknown. Logic does not allow for rash actions.”
“Logic does not allow for love of one’s family. Logic does not allow for love of one’s children. Logic does not allow for love of one’s shipmates.” He’s not supposed to be yelling at his patient, but what the hell, bedside manner has never been his selling point.
Spock’s shaking his head before McCoy’s done talking. “On the contrary. Logic allows for sacrifice far more easily than emotion. The good of the many over the good of the few. Those who will serve the future over those who have served in the past. For example, the captain’s father acted logically when he sacrificed himself to save his crew.”
“The captain’s father acted emotionally to save his wife and child and the people he cared about because he worked with them.” It was the first story Jim ever told him about home, during their second week of Academy. Logic, emotion, duty, everything had led George Kirk to that irrevocable, terrible decision that shaped his son’s life. “Bad example with that one. Logic and emotion both screwed the man over. But it wasn’t logic that saved Earth from the Narada.”
“But it was emotion that destroyed Vulcan. Senseless rage and despair over the loss of loved ones driving the genocide of billions of people who had no part in the loss.” Spock is sitting up on his elbows, muscles tight, every inch of his being devoted to the conversation.
“Senseless determination and indomitable will driving the salvation of billions.” McCoy gropes for the right words, because he’s got a crazy, illogical feeling that Spock’s actually looking to lose this argument. “Infinite diversity in infinite combinations, right? That’s what you Vulcans believe. The same parts strung together in a variety of ways creating innumerable possibilities. It’s not emotion itself that’s wrong. It’s what you do with it. Just like it’s not logic itself that’s right. Logic would suggest that sacrificing a few in medical trials to save many would be perfectly all right.”
“Only if argued by a sociopath or someone with little knowledge of ethical background.” Spock settles back down, expression thoughtful. “This is an old debate, Doctor. It does not change the fact that I should not have acted as I did. The captain may be required to turn me over for court martial.”
“Over my dead body.”
It’s gratifying to have startled the Vulcan twice in one evening. “You would-”
“I would protest someone stealing my patient and putting him on trial for trying to save his own life. And I have medical proof that you were indeed in danger of death, so.” Bones grins. “Just let them try.”
“I was asking you to assist justice, not…” Spock trails off. “We will see what transpires.”
What transpires is a long night of waiting. The late-night staff arrive at midnight, and Bones is gratified to see that though they’re all relaxed none of them are the least bit drunk. It had been hard, trying to strike a middle ground between letting them enjoy their shore leave and reminding them that they couldn’t afford to be reckless if they were on the rotation list.
Jim doesn’t come back, though, and attempts to contact him via communicator only get a terse, “Later.”
So McCoy sits with his first officer, and the two of them talk, debate, argue, and otherwise engage in verbal dueling that is both exhausting and enlightening. The hybrid is methodical and implacable in driving home his points. Bones hasn’t had to defend his basic tenets with so much vigor since his freshmen medical ethics class, and that was a small lifetime ago.
At three he insists the Vulcan sleep, or meditate, or whatever else he’ll willingly do that involves rest and not staring at the door to sick bay hoping for the captain to suddenly materialize. McCoy takes up a perch on the bed beside his first officer, intending to keep an eye on him and make sure he actually does what he claims he’s going to do.
Which makes it quite a shock when the next thing he knows Jim’s shaking his shoulder.
“Bones. Come on. Rise and shine. Bright new morning and all that jazz.”
Jim’s in uniform, and there are dark circles under his eyes and bruises all over his face but he’s grinning like an idiot anyway.
“Where the hell have you been?” The words come out slightly garbled, sleep tangling his tongue as McCoy struggles to orient himself. Right. Sickbay. Stubborn Vulcan. Attempted murder in self defense. “What happened down there?”
“I was just taking care of things with authorities. Is it all right to wake him up?” Jim nods toward where Spock is lying serenely on his back, arms at his side.
For one horrifying moment Bones finds himself thinking of coffins, the Vulcan laid out for his final rest. Then the man’s leg twitches slightly, just the faintest human sign of dreaming, and the illusion shatters.
“What time is it?” There are simply not enough clocks in sick bay. He’s going to have to have Scotty fix that. Blinking blearily at his watch, McCoy nods. “Yeah. He’s been out for seven hours. Besides, he’ll sleep better if he knows how things turned out.”
“Good.” There’s an edge to Jim’s grin, the wolf successfully carrying back ill-gotten gains to the pack. Taking the two steps to stand by his first officer, Jim reaches down with his right hand to tap him sharply on the shoulder. “Spock.”
The Vulcan is instantly awake and alert, sitting up on his elbows again with only the faintest wince. “Captain.”
“First officer.” Jim’s grin widens as he extends his left hand, which is clenched into a fist. “I believe these belong to you.”
Opening his hand, Jim allows a half-dozen rank insignia to flutter down onto the Vulcan’s bed.
Spock stares at the small stripes, reaching down tentatively to finger one. “I… do not understand.”
“The gang who started the mess. They’ve been court-martialed and demoted as low as they can go, with no prospect of rising in rank again for the next ten years or so.” The hunter’s grin is back on Jim’s face. “I thought you’d appreciate that. Seems kind of like your style.”
“I do appreciate it. Thank you, captain.” Spock’s voice is soft and strained, barely audible as he raises his eyes to meet Kirk’s. “There were seven men, though.”
“There were. One Ensign Charles Dayton is currently being treated for his injuries. Upon his release from the Intrepid’s sick bay he will be court marshaled and dishonorably discharged for striking two superior officers and otherwise inciting activities unbecoming of Starfleet personnel.”
Spock’s hand clenches spasmodically around the insignia he’s holding. His eyes close, and Bones could swear the man’s trying with all his might not to mirror his captain’s smile. “Thank you, Jim.”
It would be an overstatement to say that the entire medical bay went silent. But not by much.
“You are very welcome, Spock.” Jim’s voice is gentle, the hunter’s edge gone as he gently pushes at his first officer’s shoulder, urging the man to lie down again. “I don’t take kindly to anyone hurting my crew. Lieutenant Uhura said to tell you she’ll be up as soon as she can. She’s taking care of some last-minute business. For now I’m going to guess at doctor’s orders and suggest you are to lie down and rest more. How close am I, Bones?”
“Close enough.” McCoy scrambles up to his feet, inspecting the latest stats on his patient and calling up the scans from when he was asleep. Everything looks good-great, considering the condition the Vulcan had been in. “I’d suggest you order breakfast first and then lie down and rest more. We’ll see about getting you back on your feet this afternoon. And before you try to run away, Jim, I am going to look at your head.”
“Bones, it’s fine. I’ve been running around for over twelve hours and I-” Kirk meets his eyes and sighs. “I am going to come with you and sit still and have a thorough physical exam. Got it. Do I at least get points for saying I want to go and sleep?”
Rolling his eyes, McCoy grabs his captain’s arm and leads him away from Spock. He chooses a location where the first officer’s obnoxious pointy Vulcan ears won’t be able to hear them. “Nice work, Jim. Though I very much doubt you were able to hold a court-martial and get a verdict in fourteen hours.”
“Well, I may have been stretching things there. But it’s what’s going to happen. I’ve made damn sure of it.” The grimness in Kirk’s voice is still new, a tone that he’s been developing more and more since Starfleet gave him the Enterprise. “I’m the one who brought him down there, Bones.”
“To enjoy himself, I imagine.” Scanning the back of Jim’s head reveals no serious injuries. Even the scalp wound that had been bleeding is relatively minor. “You couldn’t have known there’d be bigoted assholes there who don’t even know how to differentiate species.”
“No. But I should have noticed earlier something was up. He and Uhura were just sitting together, hiding at the back of the bar. I didn’t think they’d get into trouble. Next thing I know Spock’s got a split lip and some idiots trying to kick him in the balls and he’s just taking it. Me, he tries to choke to death. Them, he talks to. Until Uhura gets in the way and they hit her, too. Then he puts their leader’s head through the wall and starts a freakin’ inter-ship riot.” Jim sighs. He smiles, but the expression seems forced, tired, drained. “Vulcans. You can’t take them anywhere.”
“He was trying to reason with them. They were accusing him of being a Romulan.” Interesting, too, the few details Spock had left out of his version of events.
“They were drunk, Bones. Drunk and mean and looking for a fight. Trust me, I know.” Jim looks down at his own hands, self-deprecation in his tone and his smile. “They picked what they thought would be an easy target and prodded at him until they got a reaction.”
“If you hadn’t brought him back up here he really could have died, Jim. There was legitimate hate in that attack.” McCoy considers the results of his scans a moment before prepping a hypo.
“Do not stick me with that until you tell me what it is and ask my permission.” Jim leans away from the offending instrument. “He’s going to be all right?”
“He’ll be fine. I’m good at my job. And stop fidgeting so damn much, it’s just a painkiller.” He resists the urge to use more force than necessary when administering the medication. Really, one series of unfortunate medical events and some people lose all respect. “Now, same orders I gave him. Go get something to eat and then sleep. If I hear you’ve been on the bridge today you will not be on the bridge tomorrow. You will be sleeping here under my supervision with medical intervention if necessary.”
“Bones, I just spent thirteen hours of my shore leave calling in emergency personnel, ensuring that a sub-human wretch I would very much like to see castrated and flayed alive got the best possible medical care, seeing that none of the Enterprise’s crew ended up in planetary custody, arguing with the Intrepid’s gorgeous but hideously practical captain, and all with a splitting headache. I would like nothing more than to go sleep in my own bed.”
Jim’s got an I’m-so-pathetic face that would do a hurt puppy proud, and he uses it to good effect. McCoy doesn’t have it in him to confine the man to sickbay.
The day is filled with a steady trickle of minor injuries as people wake up, sober up, and realize that they’re sore. The skeleton crew he’s got on rotation throughout the duration of shore leave doesn’t have a problem handling the load. It’s almost relaxing, dealing with minor scrapes, sprains, cuts and bruises.
Which is maybe why Bones also doesn’t have it in him to get too upset when he hears Jim’s on the bridge that evening. It’s not like there’s anything stressful to do up there while they orbit a planet.
Spock’s out of sick bay on the second day, and though McCoy knows the Vulcan must still be sore he can’t tell it from the way Spock moves. He probably should have kept the man for another day or two, but he was obviously uncomfortable being confined. Bones can’t blame him. As much as he tries to keep his people professional, the oddity of having their first officer under their care coupled with the wild tales surrounding how he’d come to be in the condition he was in meant the Vulcan was under near-constant scrutiny.
On the fourth day Jim calls down to sick bay and asks him if he can take Spock out for dinner. It’s not the best phrasing he could have used, and McCoy can hear the laughter from the bridge as well as the muffled giggles from his people behind him. A glare quiets the people on Bones’ end, while Jim seems to be laughing along with the people on his end.
“What I meant, Bones, was is he medically fit for transport to the surface. And are you free tonight, if he is.”
There’s another round of laughter, and McCoy can just see Jim’s face as he revels in it. The captain should not enjoy being the in-flight entertainment as much as he does.
“Yes and yes, Captain. Medical out.” He doesn’t give Jim the pleasure of prolonging the conversation. Some of them have work to do, shore leave or no.
But he does give Jim the pleasure of his company that night, despite the fact that it means digging around in his closet for non-uniform clothes. Damn planets with stupid regulations about off-duty personnel being in civilian clothes.
They make a good-sized party, himself, Jim, Spock, Scotty and Uhura, but Jim’s obviously put some thought and planning into the outing. The places they go are more upscale than the usual haunts Jim drags him to, though not too fancy. Nice enough that they can hear each other over the music, which occasionally even shows signs of class; not so nice that McCoy feels out of place, despite the fact that Jim, Spock and Uhura are all still sporting bruises.
It’s relaxing, a chance to talk about things other than work, a chance to drink without desperately needing to get drunk, a chance to laugh without having to worry about who’s watching and what they’re going to think. A chance to be himself, just Bones, Jim’s best friend, not the chief medical examiner of the Enterprise who’s responsible for keeping everyone alive despite their best efforts to the contrary. He revels in it, and he suspects the rest of the officers do, too.
Even Spock, who he maybe, just maybe, catches smiling for a moment, human eyes shining in his serene Vulcan face.