A/N: You've got ColtDancer and her prodding PMs to thank for this one I never intended to go more than a week between updates, but gah, how time escapes me. I think STers need to start writing worse fic, because then I wouldn't burn so many hours *reading* instead of writing. But thank you to all my reviewers—I'm afraid this is more of a transition chapter than anything, but I already have part of the next chapter written, so it won't be a week this time! I hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer/Warning: Yeah, because I'd be writing fic if I owned them. As before, rated for mild potty mouth, but it's all perfectly gen.
The moment McCoy was satisfied that Jim was safely tucked in bed and under the influence of some serious drugs, he turned on his heel and strode out the door. The younger man would be out for at least an hour, and McCoy had something—someone, actually—to take care of. Someone whose logical ass was going to get handed to him, and without Jim's interference.
On entering Sickbay, Nurse Chapel was at his side in an instant, justifiably worried after seeing him take off out of his office in a dead sprint earlier in the morning. She knew McCoy didn't overreact, and he certainly didn't run without just cause—and that cause was usually Captain James T. Kirk.
"How's the Captain," she asked, some worry audible through her professionalism. She was glancing with particular concern at his shirt, which had suffered the indignity of being vomited on when McCoy had picked Jim up to shuttle him back to bed. But, being a doctor as well as the father of a former newborn, he was used to being covered in random body fluids, so a dirty uniform was really the last thing on his mind.
"Run this immediately, with an extra panel for all identified meningeal diseases," he said tersely, handing over a sample of Jim's blood and hoping to convey the gravity of the situation without having to explain further. Christine, bless her, got the unspoken message loud and clear and took the vial. She paused for a moment, clearly debating internally before speaking.
"Sir, may I suggest you make use of the extra shirt you keep in your desk drawer, before you go anywhere else? Non-medical crew members may not be as comfortable with . . . contaminants, as we are in here." Nodding briskly, she turned and went to work without waiting for a response.
Knowing she was right, but mourning the loss of what would have been a great dramatic effect, McCoy stripped off his blue overshirt and pulled on a fresh one, before sitting down heavily to punch his comm.
"Sickbay to Bridge, Commander Spock is needed in the CMO's office immediately. Yesterday, actually. McCoy out."
He was not interested in waiting for responses right now; the image of Jim propped against the bathroom wall, deathly pale and hyperventilating from the pain in his head, was too, too fresh in his mind.
Apparently, though, his rudeness had done the trick, because Spock appeared at his door mere minutes later. McCoy was on him before he even settled in his seat.
"Why in the hell didn't you tell me that Jim was this sick?" Spock opened his mouth to answer, but McCoy didn't let him cut in. "And don't give me any bullshit about him saying that he was 'fine,' either. You may be an infuriating sonofabitch, but you're not stupid."
McCoy took a breath, of which Spock tried to take advantage, but was again shut down.
"Do you know where I found him this morning? On the bathroom floor, crying, in his own vomit. Unable to move because he hurt so badly. And half-delirious with fever. That man is about as far from fine as you can get, so don't even try to tell me that this just popped up overnight."
Dammit, Jim. McCoy scrubbed at his face, part of his brain still organizing the symptoms and trying to figure out what he had missed when, just a few days ago, Jim had been sitting right where Spock was now. He should have just forced his way into that damn ready room. Or, better yet, shouldn't have let him walk away the first time around. Hindsight, as they say.
"Are you going to let me speak now, Doctor McCoy?" The Vulcan, in typical fashion, arched an eyebrow, but the eyes beneath betrayed a trace of concern. McCoy waved him on.
"Working in such close quarters with him, I, of course, noticed that he was not at his physical peak. I contented myself with close observation, since any attempt on my part to encourage Captain Kirk to seek medical attention was met . . . rather aggressively. His condition didn't seem to be deteriorating, so I felt it unnecessary to incapacitate him and bring him to you—as that is surely the only way he would have come."
McCoy swallowed down the guilt rising up the back of his throat. Getting injured on an away mission was one thing; working yourself to death under the supposedly watchful eyes of your best friend and First Officer was something else entirely. It shouldn't have gotten to this point. And never would again, if he had anything to say about it.
"Well, he's incapacitated now, no thanks to either of us. And now he's spurting some crap about the Attrosities declaring war if he, specifically, is not down there. Wouldn't even let me take him out of his room. So please, for the love of God, tell me it's just the fever talking." McCoy looked at Spock in a way that could be called 'imploring,' if you wanted a hypo to the neck, but he knew from the hard look in the other man's eyes that Jim had been telling the truth. Actually, he had known from the look in Jim's fever-bright eyes that Jim was telling to the truth, but he had still been holding out hope—
"That is one of the reasons I did not push Captain Kirk to come to you, Doctor McCoy." McCoy knew that, were he fully human, Spock would be fidgeting right now; undoubtedly, they were both feeling the same rush of uncomfortable guilt. "He is essential to the success of this mission, and the Admiralty has made abundantly clear the consequences of failure on Attros. To understate: They are not favorable."
McCoy dropped his head into his hands, grinding his palms into his eyes to try to stave off the headache he could already feel building. "So there's no way he can get out of this? We can't postpone? Because, and I'm not understating, Jim's life could be on the line here. It goes against every instinct in me to let him go down there; I'm still sorely tempted to do a medical override, the Admiralty and Attros be damned."
Spock stood up swiftly. "You know I would not put the Captain at risk were the circumstances not exigent. This is a moment when our individual concerns are eclipsed by the greater mission of the Federation, and though sending the Captain—Jim—down goes against all of my instincts as well, he must, and so we must help him do what is required."
McCoy bristled at the Starfleet rhetoric, but fortunately for Spock, his response was interrupted by a knock at the door as Christine poked her head in.
"I'm sorry to intrude, Doctor, Commander," she said, acknowledging both men, "but I thought you would want to see these test results immediately." Her face looked strained; McCoy knew his fears had been confirmed.
He stood up and grabbed the paper from her hand, passing it silently to Spock when he was finished scanning it. The other man was the first to speak, looking up from the test results to fix McCoy with a level gaze.
"You will come with us, and do everything you can to help the Captain." Finally, he could hear some urgency in Spock's tone—which was far more discomforting than he had imagined.
"Of course I will, idiot," McCoy mumbled under his breath as he started packing a medkit, already cataloguing the supplies he would need to bring down to the planet with him. Only Jim Kirk would require patching up before away mission. "I'll go shoot him up with everything he can handle. As long as the negotiations don't last too long, the meds should carry him through, though I can't guarantee how functional he'll actually be."
"Understood. Hopefully the Attrosities will be satisfied by his presence, if the bulk of the talking falls to me." Spock paused on his way out the door. "I will be at his side every moment that you are not, Doctor McCoy. I promise you."
McCoy knew the man was sincere and nodded a dismissal, but soon made his own way out of Sickbay and back to the Captain's Quarters. The room was fully dark, for Jim's sake, but he would need some light while administering the meds.
"Lights, 20 percent." When even the minimal brightness made Jim wince and moan in his sleep, McCoy sighed and began to line up his hypos on the edge of the bed.
"This is a damn fool idea," he grumbled, after sweeping the sweat-soaked hair from Jim's forehead and rechecking his temp. Still too high, even after the earlier dose of antipyretics. The younger man's eyelids began to tremble as resurfaced, the blue of his eyes becoming visible even in semi-darkness.
"Mornin', Sunshine. How are you feeling?" Hopefully Jim was still too dazed to hear the tremor in his voice.
"Aghgoway'onessmushblagh," Jim gargled, followed by something impossibly more incoherent.
McCoy chuckled darkly; this was going to be a very, very long day.