AN: Italics within quotation marks represent the thoughts of whoever's POV the current chapter is following.
MCCOY
"Goddamnit Jim, what have you gotten yourself into this time…"
Spock had just commed through to the transporter room and sickbay with an emergency request for transportation and medical backup for the landing party. His definitely not panicking it is logical to speak quickly in an emergency message, stated that the Captain had accepted the offer of a drink from some local dignitary. He had subsequently collapsed approximately 7.64 seconds later. Spock also managed to report that the Captain's heart rate was slightly lower than usual ("Of course he knows what Jim's 'usual' heart rate is…"), and that his breathing was similarly slow, although not laboured. The Captain was not displaying signs of pain or distress, but was falling in and out of consciousness.
This planet had been visited by the Federation before, and the medical records from previous trips had warned, in slightly less colourful language than Mccoy was about to berate his caution-averse Captain, not to eat any of the goddamned food.
"I warned him, Christine, you heard me warn him, not two hours ago. 'Don't eat any of the food, Jim, the plant life on the planet has a toxic effect on most humanoids.' I told him, damnit! , I said, 'Now whilst the effects aren't fully documented, I do not intend on supplementin' those documents with a report on how the Captain of the Federation's Flagship got himself damn near incapacitated, or worse, by some damned flowers'. I told him, 'Don't eat any of the damned food'. But does he listen? Does he my eye. Now look what he's gone and gotten himself into. Another fine mess for me to sort out."
Mccoy's muttered grumblings, more under his breath than to his long suffering head Nurse, dissipated as the transporter room doors swished open. First Officer Spock, ever stoic ("Ha!"), was standing on the transporter pad, the incapacitated Captain protectively cradled in his arms. Said First Officer's face, Mccoy noted, was wearing that particular drawn expression reserved for those times when the Captain was injured, endangered, or in any way not his usual sunshine-y self.
Kirk stirred, whimpered quietly, and attempted to lift his head. "Spock?" He mumbled, voice slurred, "Wher'm'I? Wh'r's Spock…"
Spock tightened his grip, and Mccoy noticed him gently squeezing and releasing Jim's arm, in a manner not dissimilar to the way a cat pushes its paws into the person it'd taken a particular shine to. Said Captain to whom this particular Vulcan had taken a shine, it should be noted, currently had his arms draped around that same Vulcan's neck. His head was resting on a blue-uniformed shoulder, dishevelled hair brushing up against the the Enterprise's First Officer's drawn cheek.
"I am here, Jim."
He spoke softly, barely audible over the hurried bustle of the med techs setting up the stretcher. Unless of course you were paying close attention to the pair, as Mccoy always was. The Captain's head moved in a small nod, before dropping back to a position of easy rest in his friend's arms. Loathe as he was to pay any compliment to Spock, Mccoy had to admit (at least to himself, anyway), their First Officer had an excellent bedside manner. Especially when it came to Jim.
"What have you done to yourself this time?" Mccoy shook his head as he carefully helped remove the Captain from his distraught friend's arms and onto a stretcher. Spock's anxious puppy-dog stare implored Mccoy to answer a thousand unasked questions, all centred on the general theme: "Please can you please fix my Captain now please?"
Mccoy ran a scanner over Kirk, and frowned. "He's in and out of consciousness. I could give him a hypo to knock him out or wake him up, but I don't wanna be pumpin' him full'a anything until I know for certain what it is that's already in his system. Sometimes the reaction with medication can be worse than the toxin itself. Spock, did you you bring up a sample of what he ate?"
Spock nodded, and removed a vial from his TriCorder bag. It contained a swirling, oily looking liquid of black and orange, with flecks ("seeds?" Mccoy wondered,) of a worryingly luminous green. There was a small white flower sitting daintily on the top.
Mccoy eyed it dubiously.
"You're telling me he drank that witches' brew?!"
"Yes. He also ate one of the flowers, although apparently they were only intended as decoration or garnish and not for -"
"Now why in the hell would he do a thing like that!?"
"I believe the Captain was unaware that the plant was only placed in the drink for aesthetic purposes, and so -"
The Doctor rolled his eyes and held up his hands in a shushing gesture.
"Spock, I didn't actually want an answer." He gestured to a medical technician and ordered her to take the ominous looking liquid straight down to the med labs for analysis. As she darted off, Mccoy ran his scanner again over the semi-conscious Captain.
"His vitals are all functioning, no internal damage that I can pick up on. Heart rate and breathing are on a little on the low side, but no less than you would see during a particularly deep sleep. For the present I'd say he is in no immediate danger. We can certainly move him to sick bay safely, get him rested up, and assess the damage from there." Mccoy glanced up at Spock, still hovering annoyingly close, "So don't you be frettin' your pointed ears about it."
Spock's retort along the lines of "Vulcans do not 'fret' and even if they did, it would not be via their ears" reassured Mccoy that his medical assessment was understood and accepted. "When the hobgoblin starts arguin' back, you know he has stopped freaking out". The doctor sighed at the semi-conscious Captain. "At least someone listens to my medical expertise…"
