- 3 -
Of course, even if my secrets aren't the only painful ones the ship has to offer, they're certainly the strangest, from a muggle perspective. I'm reminded of that the next time I wander up to the bridge to check the wards there.
I know that the crew wonder why their CMO spends so much time loitering in places he really has no business being: the bridge, the shuttle bay, engineering. I cover as best I can; heckling the bridge crew, doing the cognitive retraining exercises prescribed for my aviophobia, shooting the shit with Scottie and Keenser – snide little bugger bears a disturbing resemblance to the few goblins I've interacted with. And while all those excuses have the benefit of actually being true – they're some of my favorite pastimes, barring the aviophobia exercises – that doesn't erase the fact that they remain excuses.
Even if I hated going to the bridge, I'd still have to do it at least once week to accomplish my real purpose: testing and refreshing the wards that I placed there pretty much the moment we shipped out with Jim in the big chair. It's not an optional chore; without the wards between me and the equipment, every chip and fuse in a three meter vicinity would have blown the moment I cast my first spell. When you take into account the fact that I do the vast majority of my spellwork under red-alert conditions, that possibility falls into the category of 'really fucking bad'.
If I was feeling generous, I could admit that this is probably part of the reason why magical law decrees that magicals living as muggles are forbidden to use their magic in a professional context. But I'm not a particularly generous man, and as far as I'm concerned, the law can go to hell. As a fully trained mediwizard as well as a muggle physician, I took two sets of oaths swearing to do everything within my power to ease pain and preserve life. That means that when magic can accomplish those ends better than tech can, magic gets my vote every time.
Oaths aren't things to be taken lightly, after all. I have the scarred remnant of a magical brand on my left forearm, hidden under a perpetual glamour but not forgotten, as a souvenir of that lesson.
Needless to say, I've done magic on the Enterprise. Wandless, wordless, high-powered stuff. That means that any place on the ship where there's likely to be a crisis obligating me to do spellwork needs to be warded to hell and back. Top contenders outside of medical itself are – you guessed it – engineering, the shuttles, and the bridge. Hence my current errand.
I follow the usual routine: give and get updates; flirt harmlessly with Nyota or one of the other ladies if the mood seems right; needle Jim or Spock a bit, depending on which of them's being more insufferable at the moment. Then, when the business of the bridge starts washing over my head, as it inevitably does, I let myself fade into the background, shifting my focus to things they can't sense.
I feel along the edge of the wards, bright and strong in my mind's eye. I feel the electricity trapped behind them, too, humming as angrily as a whole swarm of bees in its etheric cage. It sets my teeth on edge.
Electrical energy and magical energy, scientifically undetectable though the latter is, do not get along. They're inimical elements, as the alchemists would say; and on the Enterprise, everywhere except those few critical places where I actively impose my magic, electricity reigns unchallenged. I know that I'm paying a price for surrounding myself with all this unfriendly energy; at the least, it's slowly leeching years off my lifespan. If I stay this course, I doubt I'll live any longer than my muggle colleagues. I'm still deciding how I feel about that fact.
At the worst, when I'm actively attempting to do magic, difficult magic, in such an adverse environment... well, it hurts. Long experience lets me ignore the bone-deep ache and get on with things. I feed my own energy into the wards, shoring them up, reminding them of their purpose, while my magical core practically vibrates with the strain. The two magical artifacts that I keep on me are literally vibrating in response, as they always do; a subtle, high-frequency motion that's only just perceptible to a keen human eye. I can most assuredly feel it, though.
My wand, always tucked into my right boot as a sort of crisis insurance – and I've had to use it twice, though thankfully no one noticed in the chaos – isn't really a problem, cushioned as it is by my sock and trouser leg. The ring anchoring the complex set of spells that disguise my true appearance is another matter, unfortunately. I haven't removed it from the smallest finger of my left hand since I first placed it there six years ago. I can't, as the casting of the glamour was a one-shot deal that will be irrevocably broken if the ring is removed. The ring is charmed into place, and its current oscillations are distracting, to say the least. I absently twist it around my finger, trying with limited success to relieve the discomfort.
"Credit for your thoughts, Doc?" someone asks, seemingly out of nowhere. It's sheer luck that I'm done with the actual wardwork, because I snap back to normal attention hard.
"What makes you think they're worth that much?" I counter automatically, finally orienting myself to the speaker. Sulu grins at me and points toward my hands.
"You always do that when you're thinking deep ones," he says, with the air of someone stating the obvious.
"He's right, Bones," Jim chimes in, amused. "You always seem to be fiddling with your ring when you get your best ideas."
Of course I do – those "deep thoughts" have the benefit of magical insight behind them. I shove both hands in my pockets, scowling. I used to be more self-aware when it came to avoiding tells like that. Drawing attention to the talisman that underlies my entire muggle identity is almost unspeakably careless.
It's a sobering realization, and a sharp reminder of the risk I take if I let myself get too comfortable in Leonard McCoy's skin. I can't afford to buy into my own illusion.
No matter how much I wish that illusion was reality.
I shake my head and move toward the lift doors. "I gotta get back to medical." It's a retreat and a clumsy one at that, and it earns me several puzzled glances. Jim's is tinted with concern. I'm almost gone when Chekov's light voice drifts over my shoulder.
"But, Doctor? What vere you thinking about so hard?"
What, indeed? About lives, I suppose. Magical and muggle, real and fabricated, the thin lines between and the relative values thereof.
I sigh. "Nothing important, kid." The lift doors swish closed between us.