Author's note— This particular story is based on the TOS episode "The Naked Time" (Honestly--Most. Deceptive. Title. Ever. It's not "theeeeee NAKED TIME!" It's "The. Naked. Time." Give it a chance. I swear it's good.) where the crew become infected with a poison found on a planet they have been exploring. This particular poison removes their inhibitions. I wanted to play around with the NuTrek crew's reactions to this poison in contrast to their TOS counterparts. Particularly Kirk--Shatner!Kirk is different than Pine!Kirk. Also, I wanted something lighthearted since my other fic, Remnants, is…well, kind of a downer :) Anyway, please read and review! This will be in two parts…
Disclaimer: I don't own Spock, Kirk, McCoy (--Yeah, Team Awesome!), or Star Trek in general.
Inhibitions--Part I
"Doctor McCoy!"
Chekov waved wildly with a hand.
"Doctor McCoy!" he called again, louder.
"Heard you the first time," McCoy grumbled under his breath looking up from his work collecting plant samples. Honestly, the kid sometimes acted like an over-eager four-year-old when it came to visiting new places.
"Don't wet yourself, kid, I'm coming," he said, taking his time to stand up and dust off the knees of his Starfleet issue uniform. "Now what is it?"
Chekov looked excited. Which wasn't something new. The kid always looked excited even when Kirk asked him to do something like calculate the area of the second largest space amoeba in existence or find the gravitational pull of Spock's ego on the moon or whatever the hell else the captain felt he needed to know at that exact moment in time. So it was without curiosity or enthusiasm that McCoy made his way over to Chekov to investigate the source of his glee.
"Sir!" Chekov exclaimed as McCoy drew nearer, "Sir! These plants—zey are amazing, sir! Zey seem to have powerful defense mechanisms where zey—"
"—Release a toxin that paralyzes the nervous system of small beings they come in contact with? Yes, Mr. Chekov I did. You see I have been doing my job for the past hour whereas you and the rest of the away team seems to have run amok on this God-forsaken rock. Where have you been, anyway? And how in the hell did you discover those plants could poison you without the proper instrumentation? You didn't stick your hand down the goddamn flower, did you?" McCoy finished in exasperation.
Chekov looked a bit abashed. "No, of course not sir," he said hastily stowing a rapidly swelling hand behind his back.
"Oh, for God's sake," said McCoy grabbing the Ensign's puffy arm and pulling him forward. He forced Chekov down onto a nearby rock. "What's gotten into you? Common sense, Mr. Chekov! It's not difficult!"
"Ze plant looked nice, sir," Chekov explained simply, "I just wanted to see it closer."
"Sticking your hand into a foreign object just because it 'looked nice'?" McCoy scolded in disbelief as he pulled out his medical equipment and examined Chekov's bloated hand. "Space," he muttered more to himself than Chekov, "Blasted foreign contaminants around every blasted corner and a captain who doesn't have the blasted sense to stay away from it all. Where is the rest of the away team anyway?"
"Ower zat hill zere," Chekov said indicating with his good hand where the other four members of the landing party must have been waiting. McCoy glanced in the direction of the hill, but declined the impulse to go round up the rest of the away team before they found trouble (particularly Jim), and turned his full attention to the Ensign's hand. He was in the process of taking out his tricorder when Chekov suddenly intervened.
"I kan do zat, sir, if you think it would be easier," he said.
McCoy stared at him for a second, keeping a firm grip on the tricorder which Chekov had just tried to grab. "If I'm not mistaken, Chekov, I'm the one with a medical degree here, not you. So no, I don't think it would be easier. Now sit back and let me do my job."
Chekov's eyes widened but he complied. McCoy glared at him for a second, but Chekov didn't protest any more. Perhaps the plant poison in Chekov's blood was clouding his judgement—he had never tried to cross paths with the doctor before. Satisfied for the moment, however, McCoy set to work scanning Chekov's arm while Chekov fidgeted.
"You know, sir," Chekov began again, "It would actually be more efficient if you—"
"That does it, Mr. Chekov!" McCoy jumped up, "I'm a doctor, not a tactician—fixing people up is what I do, but if you think you can do it better, then go ahead! Be my guest!"
"Actually sir, I think I kan do it better!" Chekov answered brightly snatching the tricorder from McCoy.
This brash answer, however, was not the response that McCoy had been expecting. He had expected the normally shy Ensign to hang his head, apologize and let McCoy scan his injured arm without complaint as per usual, but Chekov seemed to have other ideas. He was in the process of attempting to scan his own arm, but he held the medical scanner upside-down and he was having difficulty taking readings. McCoy wavered, trying to choose between acting upon amusement, shock, or anger. Finally he settled upon anger—also as per usual—but Chekov spoke before McCoy could succumb to the impulse to throttle his young counterpart.
"See, sir? It is obwiously more efficient for me to do the exam. I kan be a doctor, too!" He said it with such naïve enthusiasm that McCoy forgot for a moment to be angry. Instead he became intrigued. Chekov was normally enthusiastic, but this level was new even for him. He usually stuck to his job as a tactician officer and while he did it incredibly well, he never strayed into others' areas of expertise with this sort of fervor. He always wanted to impress people, McCoy had observed, but it had never come to the point where he stole other people's tricorders before. Something was seriously wrong.
"Chekov," McCoy said, inflating his chest and using his most commanding tone of voice, "You are not a doctor. But lucky for you I am, so why don't you just give me that tricorder and sit back, all right?"
But McCoy didn't wait for Chekov to hand him the tricorder; he wrestled it from the younger man's hands and placed a hand on his shoulder to restrain him. "Now," McCoy said firmly, "Here's what you are going to do. You are going to let me examine you and then you're going to let me treat you. Without a fuss. Can you do that, Mr. Chekov? Can you do that, please?"
McCoy didn't wait for an answer but simply started to scan Chekov again—this time taking readings from his entire body rather than just his arm. Chekov looked meek for a grand total of about three seconds, and then started fidgeting again.
"But, sir—"
Chekov didn't get any further. "No!" McCoy scolded, "No buts! You are my patient, and I am your doctor. And as your doctor, I reserve the right to sedate your ass when you annoy me. So I strongly suggest that you—"
"But sir!" Chekov interrupted, "I kan do zat!"
"Can do what, annoy the crap out of me? Why yes, I think you've proved that—multiple times actually, so--SIT DOWN."
Chekov had gotten up and made a grab for the tricorder again. McCoy caught the Ensign's good arm and rammed him back onto the rock upon which he had been sitting. He regarded the fussing Ensign for a few moments, carefully holding his tricorder out of reach.
"What in the hell is wrong with you?"
McCoy kept a restraining hand on the Ensign while he looked at the readings from the tricorder in his other hand. The only irregularity seemed to be coming from the small dose of plant poison in Chekov's right arm, but McCoy had checked the properties of the poison before this little incident and had determined that it was non-lethal to humans. This fact, however, did not mean that Chekov couldn't be experiencing some sort of bizarre side effect. The answer to this problem was clear: they had to call the planet exploration mission short and head back to the Enterprise. Jim wouldn't be happy about it, but quite frankly McCoy didn't care. Chekov wasn't a threat particularly, but there was clearly something wrong with him and McCoy did not have adequate medical supplies on planet to take care of the issue. He would be a lot more comfortable if they were safe back on board their ship with all the proper instrumentation.
But the only way they could get back to the Enterprise was all together by shuttlecraft. Something in the planet's atmosphere interfered with the Enterprise's instruments and a very worried Scotty had been hesitant to let the away team beam down to the surface. Instead, much to McCoy's dismay, they had flown down. Chekov, McCoy remembered, wasn't even supposed to have been on the mission. He had requested (more like begged) that the captain let him accompany them to the surface since he "newwer got to get off the ship."
Turning his full attention back to the Ensign, McCoy pulled out his communicator with difficulty. Chekov was apparently feeling fidgety again and kept making random grabs for the tricorder.
"McCoy to the Captain," McCoy said into the communicator.
Nothing but silence greeted him.
"McCoy to Kirk," McCoy tried again.
Still nothing.
McCoy tried to fight back a growing feeling of unease. Jim was probably busy sightseeing and wasn't paying attention to his communicator. It was nothing to worry about. Absolutely nothing.
McCoy decided to try Mr. Spock. If Spock didn't answer, then McCoy was sure something was wrong.
"McCoy to Spock."
Silence.
"Where did you say the rest of them were?" McCoy shot at Chekov.
Chekov stopped fidgeting abruptly and stared at McCoy as if Christmas had come early. "I know where zey are! Zey are ower zat hill! I kan show you if you like!"
"Sure, knock yourself out," McCoy grumbled and followed as Chekov jumped up and blazed a trail over the nearby hill.
Whatever McCoy had been expecting when he crested the hill, it wasn't what he saw. He froze momentarily in shock as he took in the bizarre scene below him.
The rest of the away team—except for Jim who was quite noticeably absent—was on the shore of a small lake. Lieutenant O'Reilly, a science officer, appeared to be serenading the other two unaware crewmembers with an Irish drinking song—a badly sung Irish drinking song, McCoy noted, screwing up his face against the noise. Sulu, completely oblivious to O'Reilly had his shirt off and his sword out, swinging it around and around in some sort of relentless dance. And Spock, oddest of all, sat sprawled out—Vulcans never sprawl, McCoy thought—on the shore, gazing into the distance absentmindedly. All of them were soaking wet.
"Zere zey are, sir!" Chekov pointed out unnecessarily. He then set off down the hill to join O'Reilly in his song, all the time insisting that he knew a Russian one that was better.
"What the hell...?" McCoy finally managed weakly.
Recovering himself, McCoy set off down the hill after Chekov at a trot making his way toward Spock.
"Spock!" McCoy called out as he approached. Spock did not appear to have heard.
"Spock!" McCoy repeated, coming up and bending down next to the absently staring Vulcan. "What's wrong? What's happened?" McCoy took out his tricorder once again and began scanning without preamble.
Spock did not even acknowledge his presence at first but once McCoy started scanning him, he looked over at the doctor with an expression of deepest sadness in his dark eyes. The appearance of such raw emotion in the otherwise cold first officer startled McCoy even after all the other odd things he had seen that day. Something is seriously wrong, McCoy thought for about the hundredth time. The iceberg is showing emotion.
"Spock, are you all right?" McCoy asked gently.
"I—" Spock faltered. He faltered? McCoy thought in shock. "I am… conflicted" Much to McCoy's disbelief a tear rolled down Spock's cheek sliding across his already soaking skin. "All those years," he murmured, "all those years as a child and I could never tell my mother that I loved her… And now I never can."
If McCoy had been anyone else, his mouth would have dropped open. Instead, he set his jaw, determined.
"Spock," he began, "I need you to focus. It appears you and the rest of the away team have been poisoned. Do you know how it happened? Did you come into contact with the plants in any way?" McCoy already had a half formed hypothesis brewing in his mind after the incident with Chekov.
Spock appeared be pulling himself back from some far away place with tremendous effort. His eyes fully focused on McCoy for the first time. "I am uncertain," he replied. "My recollections seem to be vague at best. I--" For a second, Spock's eyes faded back into heartbreaking sadness, but when he blinked the sadness was gone as if it had never been, "—I can, however, be quite certain that I did not touch the plant life that would cause injury."
"You didn't touch those plants with the giant blue flowers?"
Spock shook his head minutely once.
"You didn't brush up against them accidentally?"
Spock shook his head again.
"How would you know if you didn't accidentally brush up against them?" McCoy grumbled, more to himself than to Spock, but the readings his tricorder fed him confirmed Spock's conclusion. The tricorder had not picked up even the smallest trace of the plant's poison in Spock's blood. In fact, the tricorder was not picking up anything wrong with Spock at all—aside from the elevated heart rate and ridiculously high blood pressure but that was only due to Spock's Vulcan heritage. "Damn space diseases," McCoy muttered, again to himself. "Can't pick up a damn thing… Wait a second." McCoy paused, staring at Spock, "Why are you all wet?"
Spock stared down at his sopping uniform as if noticing it for the first time. He squinted slightly, his eyebrows furrowing the barest amount. "Lieutenant O'Reilly lost his balance," he began, "He fell into the lake. Captain Kirk, Lieutenant Sulu and I attempted to pull him out, but the bank gave in, ultimately immersing us as well."
"And it was after that that you started feeling odd?"
"I believe so, Doctor." Spock replied, "My recollections, however, are unsatisfactory. I cannot recall much beyond—" he broke off and his face clouded with genuine heartbreak once again.
"Spock!" McCoy cried, trying to force the Vulcan back into the present, "Spock, you can't pay attention to these memories—they're a reaction to… well, whatever this poison is. If you listen to them, you'll drive yourself crazy! Just focus on me—focus on this problem right now and you'll be all right. I think it's the water that's doing it—it was the water all along--"
But McCoy's thoughts were interrupted rather abruptly as O'Reilly began a particularly rousing chorus of "I'll Take You Home Again Kathleen." McCoy, his temper ever close to the boiling point, snapped.
"That's it!" he shouted, jumping up, "If I hear one more rendition of whatever the hell it is you're singing, O'Reilly, I'll be completely justified in knocking you out with a sedative so strong you'll wake up next month without a clue of what happened. Now you are all to go back to the shuttle immediately and we're going back to the Enterprise!"
Spock, O'Reilly, Sulu and Chekov (who had both come over to investigate the source of commotion) all stared at the fuming McCoy blankly. McCoy glared at them all for another few seconds before he realized that he had forgotten something.
"Wait a second," he said, worry tingeing his expression "Where the hell is Jim?"
Spock, O'Reilly, Sulu and Chekov exchanged puzzled glances as if noticing for the first time that Jim had gone missing. Spock answered him first. "The captain, I believe, saw something that required his investigation," he explained simply.
"And you didn't go with him?" McCoy yelped, "Spock, the man's a walking disaster factory! We gotta find him--we gotta find him now."
And with that, McCoy snatched up his tricorder once again and stumbled backward in a desperate attempt to find Jim before he did something stupid. From McCoy's observations the poison appeared to bring hidden personality traits to the surface. If Jim had been poisoned (and McCoy was sure that he had), then McCoy could be sure with dreadful certainty that the already reckless captain would become a downright danger to himself.
Unfortunately McCoy was so desperate to find his friend that he misjudged his proximity to the poisoned lake stationed behind him. He stepped backward, slipped on the steep bank, and fell in with an almighty crash sending his tricorder and medical equipment flying in all directions.
The four left on the bank stared at the place where McCoy had disappeared beneath the surface.
"You know what his problem is?" O'Reilly said to no one in particular, "He wasn't born an Irishman."