"McCoy to Bridge. Where is he, dammit?"
"Spock here," replied the calm voice. "If you are referring to Acting Captain Kirk, he left the Bridge fifteen minutes ago. He looked quite pale, and he said that he was going to Medical Bay. Did he not arrive?"
"Obviously he didn't," McCoy said impatiently. "Never mind, I'll find him." As far as he knew, Jim hadn't yet been assigned living quarters. Pike might have given him an instant field promotion, but that didn't necessarily come with a bed and a bureaucratic welcome mat.
The computer located him instantly, in a corner of the Deck Seven Lounge. McCoy hailed him over the intercom, but there was no response. A second buzz eventually produced an answering grunt, but nothing more. The lounge would have comfortable couches and chairs; Jim must have fallen into a heavy sleep.
Should've let myself have that nap, he thought ruefully. "Computer, hail again, 60-second alarm, pending response," he instructed, and waited.
Forty seconds later, Jim's irate voice came bellowing over the intercom, accompanied by a loud, piercing siren. "Shut that fucking thing off! Kirk here!" he yelled. The alarm silenced instantly. "What the hell, Bones, I was sleeping!"
"Obviously," he said dryly. "I told you to come down to Medical, remember?"
"Later, Bones, I'm really tired, you have no idea—"
"Now, Jim. I need to check you over and then I can get some sleep."
"I'm fine, it can wait till morning—"
"And if you're not here in three minutes, I'm sending two orderlies to grab you and drag you here."
"Fuck," he muttered. "Kirk out."
Jim poked his head in the entrance to Medbay three and a half minutes later. He looked exhausted. That's good, McCoy thought. His defenses will be down. He looked him over critically, then waved him to a biobed near his office, to give himself a chance to observe his movements as he walked across the room. As Jim moved past, McCoy noted that he was favoring his right leg and breathing shallowly. The fabric of his black shirt seemed to pull against his skin, as if it were sticking to his back. Jim sat down heavily on the bed McCoy had indicated, swaying slightly with drowsiness.
"What's wrong with your back?" McCoy asked, eyes narrowed. "Take off that shirt."
"Easier said than done, Bones," Jim said with a pained smile. "Give me a hand." He hissed as McCoy drew the shirt up; it was clotted with dried blood from a deep, bloody gash across his back.
"Where the hell did you get that?"
"It's nothing, Bones," he said, twisting his neck around to try to see it. "It's just a scratch—"
McCoy sighed and shook his head. "Take off the rest of your clothes, moron. Let's see what else you're hiding."
Kirk slowly removed his boots and pants, leaving him in his briefs. There was a florid bruise at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. McCoy felt a twinge of guilt, recalling Jim's howls of pain each time he injected him. Maybe he'd been a little rough on him after all.
McCoy was silent and focused, occasionally reaching over to probe a contusion or examine a cut, all the while making notes on the hand-held chart. A long, bloody gouge traveled from just under Jim's left shoulder blade to his waist. His neck was bruised and swollen, covered with abrasions; there was evidence of damage to the trachea. His left ankle was swollen and stiff. McCoy gently moved Jim's left hand and manipulated his fingers, finally eliciting a gasp from his patient.
Yet throughout most of the examination, even when McCoy palpated a spot that must have been quite painful, Jim remained remarkably stoic and seemed strangely detached. McCoy looked at the biobed monitor, noting Jim's elevated blood pressure and his racing heart rate. He's stressed, but he doesn't want to show it.
"OK, you fool," he began, "Would you care to define 'I'm fine' for me? I'm not sure I follow your meaning."
"Come off it, Bones. These are badges of honor. I've had a really long, really hard day. Saving the planet, you know, that kind of thing…" Jim flashed him a tired, cocky grin.
McCoy glared.
"Take it easy, Bones, it was a joke," he said hastily. "Okay. It's my hand. It hurts. A little."
"That's because you have a metacarpal fracture," McCoy told him. "That's a broken hand."
"I know what a metacarpal fracture is!" Jim said irritably. "That Romulan guy stamped on my hand a couple of times. Fine. Go ahead and fix it, so I can get some sleep."
"Not just yet." McCoy locked his hands behind his back and looked up at Jim, as if considering how to proceed. "That's all? Isn't there anything else you'd like to tell me as your doctor?"
"You bet there is. Do I see a bottle of something on your desk over there? You shouldn't drink alone, you know, Bones, it's not healthy. I could keep you company if you want."
"Don't change the subject."
"Look, Bones, you wanna treat the hand or not?" he asked, annoyed. "You're the one who woke me out of a sound sleep to come here. If you're too busy, I'll just crawl back to my couch in the lounge. Actually, that would be fine by me," he said, yawning. "That's all I really need. The hand can wait."
McCoy grunted, unimpressed. "Listen to me. You're supposed to be a mature Acting Captain now, not rebel-without-a-cause Cadet Kirk. You have a responsibility to your crew, and that includes being honest enough to admit when you need help or medical treatment."
"Leave it till tomorrow."
McCoy glanced at the monitor again. Jim's voice was calm, but his blood pressure was rising and his respiratory rate was increasing. "Your hand is broken, Jim, and your ribs—"
"It's nothing I can't handle. I had plenty of fractures when I was a kid," he assured McCoy with seeming unconcern, and McCoy frowned. "This can wait till morning, believe me. Get some rest." He slapped McCoy on the back and jumped off the bed, grabbing his clothes in the same quick movement. "See you in the morning."
McCoy caught him by the arm. "Not so fast, champ. You'll leave when I say that you're released, and I'm not finished with you…"
Jim jerked his arm away. "Let go." A tone of annoyance was creeping into his raspy voice, which he quickly masked with a sheepish smile. "Aw, the hell with it, Bones. Let's go get drunk."
"Bar's closed for the night. What else is bothering you?"
"Look, I'm tired. I'm really tired. Can't we do this some other time?"
"Stop stalling. I don't have all day. Pretend you're a responsible captain who takes his own health and welfare seriously, and tell me what's wrong."
"You're the doctor," he said sullenly. "Guess that means that you know what I feel better than I do. Just ask your fancy gadgets, they'll tell you. What do you need me for?"
"I need you to give me a report that I can trust! I can't treat you if you won't cooperate."
"Fine. My neck. Right here," he said, glowering at the doctor and pointing in illustration, "where you kept stabbing me with that hypo thing. It's killing me. I can hardly turn my head." Kirk rubbed the swollen spot resentfully. "You're downright trigger-happy with those shots. And you can tell our friendly First Officer to keep his wicked finger grip off me, too." He shook his head. "What the hell was that, anyway?"
Distraction's not gonna work, kid. "I'm going to ask him to teach it to me. I can see that it'll come in handy with you. And stop being such an infant with the hypo," he scolded, as Jim flushed red. "It's quick and efficient! Come on, Jim. Give me the rundown."
"Tomorrow," he said firmly, giving McCoy his best command look and moving determinedly toward the door. "I promise."
"Jim, stop kidding around. You're not going anywhere, and you know it." McCoy advanced toward him, but kept his arms at his sides. Don't grab him again, he told himself. He needs some space. "You're acting like a child."
All traces of congeniality faded from his voice. "Why, because I won't jump when you snap your fingers, doctor?" he retorted. "Don't be such a bastard."
McCoy was startled momentarily by the coldness in Jim's eyes, by the viciousness of the reply. He recognized the barb for what it was: a warning sign, a glimpse of the rage simmering beneath, perilously held in check for now. Go slowly, he thought.
"Calm down, Jim…"
"I am calm."
"Then sit down."
Jim shook his head. "I'm leaving, unless you plan to stop me using brute force, and I'm warning you, I may be tired, but I'll kick your ass. Out of my way!" he said angrily, turning toward the door again.
Moving quickly, McCoy got between Jim and the exit. He pointed at the biobed. "Get back on the bed. Jim, you're being ridiculous. Why don't you just cooperate with the exam? It'll make things a lot quicker."
"For God's sake, leave me alone. That's an order. I'm going to bed! Come on, Bones," he pleaded, "All I need is some sleep."
"Well, Captain," he said in exasperation, "I override your order! You've got multiple injuries, and you need to be treated and monitored. And I have better things to do with my time than argue with you. In my professional opinion, you're medically unfit and your judgment's impaired. So sit down!"
Jim took a slow, deep breath, wincing a little and pressing a hand to his rib cage. Then he said calmly, "There's a limit to how much crap I'm going to take from you, Bones, even if we are friends. Funny, I never figured you for the type to let a little power go to your head!"
"Now, Jim, and I mean it," McCoy said, but Jim turned and began striding toward the exit.
Push him a little.
"Make another move toward that door," he said quietly, saying each word carefully, "and I'll have you strapped down to that table and sedated before your eyes stop spinning."
Jim jerked, as if slapped by McCoy's words. For a moment, his expression was blank, and then McCoy could see nothing but naked rage on his face, coupled with a hint of panic. Jim whirled around, clutching the edge of the bed so tightly with his undamaged right hand that the doctor could see the muscles bunch in his back and shoulders. McCoy could hear him breathing fast and deep, trying to get control of himself. That shook him, he thought.
Still, he felt like an asshole, kicking him when he was down. He wasn't unsympathetic to Jim's desire to bolt. But having had a chance to see the extent of his injuries, he felt that psychological considerations aside, he had no choice, medically speaking. And Jim would be no use to the crew if he were expending energy and concentration trying to hide his condition from them. He might have been able to do it earlier, but McCoy knew that the adrenaline high wouldn't last, and he'd soon be hurting pretty badly—if he wasn't already.
Jim slowly relaxed his grip and stretched his shoulders, wincing. He coughed painfully, then slowly turned back around to face the doctor. McCoy could see the exhaustion in his face. His eyes were bloodshot, watery from the coughing bout, and lined with red. His face was pale, his breathing labored, and his shoulder muscles taut with tension.
But the defiant stare was gone, replaced by a look of hurt that made him seem years younger.
"What's the matter with you, Bones?"
"Nothing. I'm doing my job. You're injured! Any fool can see that."
"You know me, dammit! I hate hospitals and I hate doctors—including you--and it's been a very long day and I'm tired."
McCoy raised an eyebrow, but otherwise didn't respond.
"So what's the problem?" Jim asked sarcastically. "I have to give you an alphabetized list of every bump and bruise, is that it? You won't let me go until I say 'ouch'?"
"What would be so awful if you did?"
Jim ran a hand through his hair, frowning. "You want me to give you the rundown? Fine! This morning, I was facing a kangaroo court in front of the entire cadet class, and by the way, I think I'm still on academic suspension and AWOL to boot.... Then you decide to give me the bubonic plague." Despite himself, McCoy had to chuckle at the memory.
"The captain gives me the privilege of becoming a human cannonball," Jim continued, pointedly ignoring him, "with hand-to-hand combat thrown in for fun, at 3,000 meters. I wind up nearly having a goddam heart attack in free fall and crashing into the transporter pad, and that fucking hurt, trust me. Then Spock jettisons me back to the Ice Age and I have to fight a saber tooth tiger and some kind of spidery dinosaur, and then I met…Well, never mind who I met!" He paused, seeming flustered. "And when I finally get back to the ship, Spock beats the shit out of me and nearly strangles me…"
"I get it. You've had a bad day. Most of it is your own fault, mind you. You've got more dumb luck than brains," he admonished, watching Kirk scowl at him. "But you have to acknowledge injuries and you have to get them treated."
Jim closed his eyes and yawned ferociously. McCoy raised an eyebrow; he needed to change tactics. Jim was stonewalling. Maybe he should unsettle him a bit.
Poke him again.
Regarding him carefully, hoping he wasn't about to make a huge mistake, he said slowly, "You're not thirteen years old anymore."
That got his attention. Jim's eyes snapped open. He glanced sideways at McCoy and said guardedly, "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that you're not the child you were."
"What the hell do you know about the kind of child I was?"
McCoy sighed. "Jim, you think that you have to pretend that you can't be hurt, or no one will respect you. But you're wrong there. You earned the crew's respect today, and…" He paused, then said softly, "you were brilliant, kid, even I'll admit that." The corner of Jim's mouth quirked despite his anger; he was obviously pleased by McCoy's admission.
"Fine. Be a hero. But don't be indestructible. Be real," he said forcefully, looking Jim in the eye. "Be human, and then the crew will be able to identify with you. Show them that you know your limits. Let them care about you."
He paused, then said quietly, "And let me take care of you. Let me do my job. Relax, Jim. I'm a doctor. I'm here to help, not to hurt you."
Jim was silent and wary, eyes averted. McCoy saw him swallow, grimacing a little at the pain in his throat.
Finally he sighed, walked back to the bed, and sat down. He raised his eyes to McCoy's and admitted, "Okay, my throat feels like it's on fire."
"Not surprising. Go on."
"And it hurts when I breathe too deeply. I think I stabbed myself in the lung a minute ago when I was coughing."
"That's because you have two broken ribs."
"Like you really care… And my head's killing me."
"You have a concussion." McCoy said sympathetically. "Any dizziness? Nausea?"
"Yes, and I think this time I really will throw up on you. Don't think you don't deserve it, either."
"How's the back?"
"It's killing me, if you have to know."
"How'd you get those nasty lacerations?"
"I fell down a snow-covered ravine and gashed my back against a rock or something. And before you ask me any more stupid questions, I'm pretty sure I sprained my ankle, too. Ouch, dammit!" he yelped, pushing McCoy's hand away. "Don't touch it!"
McCoy allowed himself a slight smile. "That'll do for a start. Lie down, you're not going anywhere for a while."
"Might as well sleep here," Jim grumbled, lying back on the bed and turning on his side so as not to irritate the injured tissues on his back, "since I guess I don't have anywhere to go on this ship anyway. Acting Captain, and I don't even have a bed," he complained, closing his eyes.
