Small Needs
By Junior Mint Julep
He didn't look up. Refused to look up. But the black boots didn't move.
There were other medics. He decided that the owner of the black boots, still safely anonymous, could damn well go find someone else. McCoy hadn't released anyone from duty yet, despite the horror and exhaustion he read in their eyes. The battle was over, Nero was dead, but the work in sickbay was just beginning to ease up as the influx of new patients began slowing to a trickle now. Most of the screaming had stopped—those who were going to make it were either in triage or out of surgery and heavily sedated; those who weren't going to make it had been made comfortable. Comfortable. As if that made it less heinous. He stood in a corner, out of the way of the staff—strike that, his staff now—and tried to focus on the PADD in his hand, knowing that he really just needed to stop for a minute and regroup before he faced another patient.
But ignoring the boots wasn't making them go away. The owner was apparently a match for McCoy's stubbornness. He sighed to himself and spoke without looking up.
"What do you need?" The words came out more harshly than he intended, but it was too late to take them back now, and by god, if there were any day he was entitled to sound like a cantankerous bastard, today was it.
"Leo." Her voice, cool and calm as always, was soft enough to undercut the commotion and chaos surrounding them. He felt a pang of guilt as he lowered the PADD and met her gaze.
"Nyota. Are you hurt?"
She shook her head and the ponytail, still somehow perfect after a day like this, fluttered so close to his face he imagined he felt the tiny breeze it created.
"Gaila. She hasn't come back to our quarters. I was—" she faltered, and a flash of something he couldn't quite name passed over her features so quickly he almost missed it. She squared her jaw and looked him in the eye. "Have you seen her?"
He hesitated.
It was just a split second, but that was long enough. She stiffened, bracing herself, and his thoughts tumbled back to the last time he'd seen her like this, fists balled at her side, glaring at him, challenging him wordlessly to just say it and get it over with.
**************
She wouldn't go to the clinic at first. And wouldn't tell him what was wrong, either. She had cornered him as he was leaving the library, and he was so preoccupied with his forensic pathology exam tomorrow that he didn't even notice at first as she sidled up to him and matched his pace.
"I can't tell you. Not yet."
"Well, how the hell am I supposed to help you, then?" he demanded. "I'm a doctor, not a mindreader, you know. And why are you coming to me, anyway? You know Jim Kirk and I—"
"Yes," she cut in, "I know all about Jim Kirk, believe me, and how you're always together, and I won't hold that against you. In fact," she continued, even as he opened his mouth to protest, "I know you take care of him and I know you don't take any shit from him, and that tells me that maybe, just maybe, you're above his level of cretinism."
He glared at her, unsure how to respond.
"Look," she said, before he could protest again, "I need help with something." She paused, her lips pressed so tightly together they trembled, and he considered how much that admission had cost her. He knew from overheard conversations and sidelong glances that Cadet Uhura was widely respected for her ambition, admired for her intelligence, and sometimes envied for her beauty—but always from afar. Although she rarely turned down an opportunity to party, she had a reputation as a fiercely private individual who was never known to need or be needed by anyone. Her aloofness was legendary—nobody even seemed to know her first name, for god sakes.
"Uhura," he said gently, "they have your records at the clinic, and all the equipment and supplies they could need for..." he gestured uncertainly, "for whatever you might need. So follow protocol and go get proper treatment. Or consultation. Or whatever," he finished lamely.
She grabbed his arm so abruptly he nearly stumbled, then stared at him with such intensity that he felt his cheeks redden and he had to fight the urge to look away.
"No."
He looked at her blankly.
"No? No...what?" In his discomfiture, he bit back a sarcastic remark about her communication skills and choice of career path. She scowled and leaned in so close he could smell the heady blend of floral and citrus that wafted from her hair.
"No. No, they do not have all of my records," she hissed through clenched teeth, and held up a data chip between her thumb and forefinger.
He blinked at her as half a dozen possibilities flickered through his brain, and, with a sinking feeling, he dismissed all but one.
"So can I trust you, or was I terribly mistaken about you?" Her tone was challenging, even derisive, but the taut lines of her mouth and the way she hugged her arms to herself betrayed her emotions. It was that tiny glimpse of her vulnerability that triggered something reflexive in him, some impulse that he knew he couldn't deny. He rolled his eyes at his own weakness and sighed in resignation.
"Dammit, woman, this could get both of us in trouble, you know," he grumbled as he plucked the chip from her fingers. He pretended not to notice when her shoulders slumped in relief.
In the end, though, they didn't get in trouble. McCoy's offer to cover the triage doc's next weekend shift earned them a lecherous look, which he pointedly ignored, and an empty exam room in a deserted wing of the clinic.
Once there, he kept his face impassive to hide the wrenching in his heart as he reviewed the data chip, and she kept her stony glare trained on the wall behind him as he scanned and tested and examined; and when he tried to reassure her that she would be fine, it would just take a simple procedure, she pulled away.
"Just get it over with."
So he did what had to be done, and when it was over, she gave him a small, tight smile and touched his hand. She never cried.
He overrode her protests and walked her back to the dorms slowly, carefully. Her door slid open to reveal a green-skinned girl lounging on the sofa, clad in little more than her birthday suit. He forced his eyes to stay on her face, and he was surprised and relieved when she jumped up in alarm.
"Are you hurt, sweetie? What's wrong?" She turned a fierce look upon McCoy. "Did you—"
Uhura swayed in the doorway. "No. I'm fine, Gaila," she gasped. "He's...a friend."
"Fine, my ass," he muttered and half-carried her to what he assumed was her bunk, as it was the slightly neater of the two. "Don't worry, she'll be all right," he said over his shoulder to Gaila, who was hovering protectively. "She just needs some rest."
He snapped a vial into a hypo and double-checked the dosage before he pressed it against Uhura's neck. "The local I gave you will wear off soon. This'll ease the pain, and help you sleep." His fingers settled out of habit against her wrist for a moment, and she looked up at him and gave him a loopy grin.
"I knew there was a rebel in there, Leo. Can I call you Leo?" Her words slurred as the lines of fatigue around her eyes began to ease. "And everyone says you're such a goody-goody two shoes."
"Hush now," he replied gruffly. "You—" He twisted around to look at the Orion, relieved to find that she'd wrapped herself up in a robe. "You'll stay here with her? Good. I want you to call me if she wakes up and complains of pain or if she seems feverish. That's more than thirty-eight degrees or so," he added, just to be safe. He grabbed a notepad from the night table and scribbled his comm extension. "I'll be back in a few hours to check on her." She nodded mutely and he resisted the urge to let his gaze linger on her bouncy hair and the soft curve of her neck. Damned pheromones.
He thought Uhura was asleep, but as he rose, her hand fluttered against his and she murmured something. He leaned close to her.
"What did you say?"
"Nyota," she whispered. "My name is Nyota."
*************************
So here they were again, a year later, and the both of them much, much older now. Once he knew it was there, he'd recognized the closeness between the two women when he saw them around campus and at the occasional happy hour; and he gladly returned the rare warm smile she favored him with when they found themselves in the same group. Although she was still as distant as ever in her usual demeanor, just today he'd glimpsed something on Uhura's face in the transporter room, when Jim and Pike and Spock beamed back from the Narada--a look she and the Vulcan exchanged that he would file away in his memory with her secret medical records and take to his grave. Because of these things, he hesitated for a second, knowing more than anyone, perhaps, how much this would hurt her soul.
In that brief hesitation, she knew the truth, and he didn't make it worse by offering empty platitudes about how quick it was, or how she didn't feel a thing, not least because he suspected neither was true in Gaila's case. She nodded once, her expression unreadable, and turned to leave.
"Nyota. Wait." He tried to gentle his voice, but the events of the day, the shouting and the smoke and the goddamn tears he'd shoved down inside, had left him hoarse.
She stopped abruptly, hands on her hips, but did not turn to face him. "I'm tired, McCoy, and I'm off duty. I'd like to sleep now, if that's all right with you." Underneath the sarcasm, her voice was rough, too. He stepped to the replicator and requested a glass of water for her.
"Yeah, sure, but not yet."
She twisted to face him and slammed her hand against the wall. He almost dropped the water before hastily placing it on the edge of a nearby desk. "Not yet?" she demanded, eyes narrowed. "Can't you just leave me the fuck alone? Can't you just stop talking for once, stop digging, and let it be?" Her voice rose until it cracked. Around them, the activity in sickbay continued unabated, the crew seemingly oblivious to more shouting and pain.
He had to bite his lip and breathe before he could speak deliberately and without rancor. "I was going to offer you a sedative. That's all."
She seemed thrown off-balance by his mild tone, and looked away to hide her confusion, but made no move toward the exit. He debated whether to just let it be, as she asked, but then took a step toward her. She drew her arms across her chest as if to shield herself and he studied her, searching for signals that would suggest where she wanted to lead him.
"Nyota, look at me." To his surprise, she did, and a tiny, ashamed part of him wanted to turn away, because in her eyes he recognized a precipice he had once seen in his own soul, and the raw, sucking emptiness beyond. She was close, so close, and dear gods he didn't want to push her over. She was shaking uncontrollably now and he touched her shoulder to ground her, to pull her back, and she tolerated him but simply stood there, rigid, for a long silent moment with her breath coming in short painful gasps. He knew what was coming now and waited patiently until she could believe him when he said it's all right, just let it come, let me take some of it, and when something dreadful finally gave way inside of her he closed his eyes and steadied her against the flood.