11.

McCoy received the notice that he'd passed his nav practical a week later, just as he was coming through the door to his apartment after finishing his evening history class.

The score wasn't high, and he felt a ridiculous stab of disappointment mixed with the relief. Stop being such a perfectionist, he chided himself, at least it's over. He decided to console himself with a few fingers of Woodford Reserve and The Starfleet Journal of Surgery. Sitting at his desk, he sipped the drink, enjoying the mellow, woody flavor and savoring the quiet.

The comm beeped again ten minutes later. He read the brief message and hurled the device at the bed in disgust.

Oh, hell no.


12.

He saw Jim at their weekly lunch. It had been Jim's suggestion, when he discovered that their schedules coincided enough for them to meet conveniently once a week. Leonard took his tray and headed for the small side table where Jim was already waiting for him. "Bones!" Jim beamed at him. "You passed your practical!"

He slammed down his tray. He'd intended to tell Jim the news during lunch and thank him, but he'd beaten Leonard to the punch. "Dammit, kid, how the hell do you know that?"

Jim looked no more than slightly abashed. "That's not the point. Congratulations, now you can—"

"No, that is the point, jackass. You have no right to go poking around in my mail!"

"But that's not—"

"I'm a doctor and some of my messages contain confidential patient information!"

"I know that. Listen—"

"Were you raised in a barn, for God's sake?" he thundered on. "Don't you have any sense of boundaries?"

Jim looked hurt. "Calm down, of course I didn't read your private messages, Bones. I wouldn't do that." He picked half-heartedly at the remains of his meal.

Sure you wouldn't. Leonard shoved a fork into his food and began eating. "So tell me how you know the results of my practical sent to me by my advisor."

"You weren't the only one taking a practical exam, Bones. Everybody had one last week: navigation, communications, engineering, whatever. They posted the lists in my dorm. I saw your ID number and your score. I'll show you, if you want."

Leonard shook his head in frustration, deciding not to bother asking how Jim knew his ID number.

"Don't feel bad, Bones, one of my roommates scored even lower than you did."

"What was your practical?" he asked sullenly. "Breaking and entering?"

Jim winced. "Why're you so grumpy, Bones? I didn't hack into your mail and I didn't read anything private, okay? If you really want to know, I had the first stage of basic combat training." He looked at Leonard expectantly, but Leonard scowled at him in irritation. "And since you're obviously not going to ask me, let me just tell you, I aced it."

Leonard sighed. Jim was right; he was using him as a convenient target to lash out at, but it wasn't his fault. "Look, I'm sorry. I just thought that if I passed the nav exam, that would be the end of it. But now I'm supposed to do another basic skills course, this time in hand weapons."

Jim laughed. "Well, what did you expect, Bones? Starfleet is a military organization. Of course you have to know how to fire a phaser. Didn't you think about that when you enlisted?"

"Never mind what I was thinking about when I enlisted," he growled, not wanting to mention how smugly satisfied he'd been at Jocelyn's look of fury when he told her. "I'm a doctor, not a sharpshooter! Do you have any idea what kind of damage a phaser can do to an arm or a leg on its lowest setting?"

"Don't tell me you joined Starfleet and only just now realized that you're a pacifist."

"I'm not a pacifist, I'm a healer. I don't cause injury, I treat it!"

"Relax, you're not being trained to be a sniper. You have to know how to defend yourself. Take out the enemy so that you can stay alive to treat your shipmates. Do you think the Romulans are going to listen to you if you start yelling 'I'm a healer, don't shoot at me'?"

Leonard grunted, unwilling to concede the point. Jim had already cleaned his plate completely as usual, and was leaning back in the chair, looking amused. He was scanning the cafeteria and smiling. "Forget combat. Let's talk about something more interesting."

Leonard followed his gaze: he was watching a pair of female cadets at a nearby table to their right. The one facing them was dark-skinned with her hair pulled into a tight ponytail, wearing a serious expression and speaking in a low voice to her companion, a woman with long, wavy red hair. She saw Jim looking at them and rolled her eyes haughtily.

"I don't think you've got much of a chance there, kid."

"Orions, Bones." He inclined his head meaningfully toward the women. "I've been reading up on them. Comparative xenophysiology, you know…"

Oh, for God's sake. "Wipe that stupid grin off your face, Jim. Orion pheromones are highly potent, not to mention dangerous, especially to farmboy fools like you."

The red-haired cadet had turned slightly, allowing Leonard a glimpse of her face; she was, indeed, Orion. "And addictive," he said, slapping the back of Jim's head to make him turn around.

"Ouch!"

"I'm telling you, as a doctor, to stay away from her. You don't know what you're getting into."

"You're exaggerating," he said, although he seemed a little uncertain. "She looks nice."

"Read a little further along in your textbook, kid."

"Well, never mind about Orions," he said, shaking his head as if to clear it. "Let's change the subject. We've got a game this Friday. Plebes against second years. You should come."

"I have better things to do with my afternoon. Like heal people who are bleeding."

"Let someone else have a turn. It wouldn't kill you to get out in the fresh air. I told you, we're really good. It'll be fun."

"I never even played soccer as a kid. It's not my thing."

"Yeah, I know you said that, but—"

"And my shift at the hospital doesn't end till four."

Jim nodded, mask shuttering into place behind his smile. "Well…that's okay, Bones. It's just a stupid game…And don't worry about the phaser stuff, I'll help you." He stood abruptly, grabbing his tray. "Well, take it easy, I gotta go."

Shit. Damn the sensitive infant.

"Jim," he said with a sigh, "what time's your game?"

"You don't have to come, Bones."

"What time?"

"Four-thirty," he said, smiling for real this time. "West intramural field. I'll send you a basic tutorial so you can follow the game."

"I know the rules!" he called after him. Jim raised a hand in acknowledgement as he headed toward the exit. "Fucking waste of an afternoon," he grumbled, mostly to himself.


13.

Based on what Jim had said about needing to be a team player, Leonard had expected him to hog the ball or focus solely on scoring himself, but Jim rarely kept the ball for more than a few seconds, passing it off smoothly to his teammates. The other team seemed to catch on quickly that he was the one to stop, and he wasn't allowed much room to move before one of his opponents latched onto him.

After a while, despite his lack of interest in the sport, Leonard found himself watching Jim breathlessly, caught up in the excitement of the cheering crowd. Jim's control of the ball seemed effortless as he maneuvered it down the field in a series of cuts, feints, and stepovers. One of the opposing players seemed to be an equal match for him in technique, and Jim struggled time after time to break away from him, changing pace and direction so often that Leonard felt a sympathetic exhaustion overtaking him.

It occurred to him that until now, he'd never seen Jim in the company of other cadets. From the conversation he'd overheard in the ER and the little Jim had told him about his dorm life, he'd built up a mental picture of him as a sort of pariah, an admittedly-brilliant but socially unpolished misfit. For all of Jim's insistence that he was going to take command track, he had wondered if that wasn't mostly wishful thinking on his part, or a vast overestimation of his leadership abilities and social standing.

But here, on the playing field, Jim was in his element. He exuded physical charisma, slapping the other players' backs affectionately when they performed well and offering a hand up when they landed in an uncomfortable skid on the grassy field. He seemed to be fully aware of where his teammates were as he ran, signaling to them occasionally using hand movements and issuing vocal instructions that Leonard was too far away to hear. Regardless of what was happening in other aspects of his Academy experience, here, at least, Jim seemed to be a natural leader.

For all his resentment of Finnegan and his punishing workout sessions, Leonard had to admit that Jim was in top physical condition. He was in almost constant motion on the soccer field. Leonard found himself smiling at the sight of him: he was graceful, quick, and completely focused. He's beautiful, he thought absently, watching Jim bounce restlessly on his toes, following the ball with his eyes, primed to move.

Jim scored once, near the end of the first half, and even far away in the stands, Leonard could see how elated he was. Leonard was gratified to see him revel in the congratulations of his teammates, as they pummeled him on the back and slapped his shoulder.

The first-years won 2-1, and Leonard followed the crowd as it spilled onto the field at the end of the game.

Jim found him first, throwing his arm around Leonard's shoulder. "Told you, Bones! We're awesome!"

"You weren't too bad," Leonard agreed, ducking out from under Jim's arm. "Keep away, kid, you're sweaty and you need a shower."

Jim laughed. "Thanks for coming, Bones," he said, and began walking toward the locker room. He was limping faintly.

"Something wrong with your leg, Jim?" he called after him.

"Naw, it's nothing."


14.

Jim called him the next morning. "My feet are killing me," he said, sounding worried. "I gotta see you, man. There's something wrong."

Figures, he thought. "You probably pulled a muscle during all that prancing around with the ball yesterday," he said. "Come over to the clinic at five when my shift ends."

Jim was late, arriving several minutes after he did, walking slowly and wincing. Leonard was surprised to see that he was unable even to hop onto the biobed for the exam, and lifted himself up using his arm and shoulder muscles.

"Both feet started aching yesterday during the game," he said, "especially the right one, but…." He paused. "I felt better this morning, but then I could barely walk to my first class. That's when I called you."

McCoy scanned his lower legs and feet, frowning. "What happened between the game and this morning? What else were you doing?" He pressed his thumb down on the top of Jim's right foot on the navicular spot.

Jim gave a yelp of pain. "Ow, that hurts!" He glared at Leonard, who was probing his left ankle and heel. Jim hissed. "I had a private session with Finnegan. As fucking usual."

"After your game?" he asked, astounded. "Where you ran around like a maniac for an hour and a half?"

"I've had IPT for the past three nights."

"Remind me, IPT stands for…?"

"Intensive PT. Physical Training."

"You should call it Irresponsible PT instead. What did you do this time to deserve that?"

"I…uh, broke curfew on Saturday night." At Leonard's questioning eyebrow, he explained with a grin, "I was learning Orion with Gaila. Language lessons."

"You just don't listen, do you?" he said in disgust. "I told you to stay away from Orions! You're way out of your league and those pheromones will mess up your mind. How long have your feet been hurting like this?"

Jim scoffed. "It's not all the time, Bones. Maybe two weeks, off and on. They hurt mostly at night or during a workout."

"I guess all that exercise is good for you, isn't it, Mr. Command Track."

"I always feel better in the morning, so I thought…"

"No, you didn't think, dumbass."

"What are you so upset about?"

"You're an idiot. Acute pain is an indicator and you should've stopped and reported it. You have stress fractures in both feet, here," he said, pointing to the top of Jim's right foot, "in the navicular bone, and here," he gestured to Jim's left heel, "in the calcaneus."

"Oh." Jim didn't seem overly concerned, but he looked up at Leonard warily, sensing his anger. "Well, that makes sense."

"Yes, in fact it does. Do you know what causes stress fractures?"

Jim gave him a weak smile. "Stress, I guess."

"You could say that. It's an indication of cumulative trauma to the muscles and bones of the feet. You've been overexerting yourself for a long time, between the soccer and the IPT and whatever else you've been doing."

Jim began to protest, but Leonard held up his hand, silencing him irritably. "Your muscles are overtired, and they can't handle the shock of repeated impact anymore. They transfer the stress to the bones, and that's what causes the fractures."

"I get it, Bones. Just fix them."

"I don't think you do. You should have come to me weeks ago when the symptoms first appeared! If exercising made the pain worse, then you should have stopped the workout and figured out what was wrong."

"That wasn't an option," he said sullenly.

"Why? Because you have to prove to that jackass Finnegan that you can take anything he can dish out?"

"I don't need the lecture."

"Obviously you do, so shut up! In your case," he continued, "there might also be a predisposition to bone fractures. Your osteoscan showed some anomalies in bone mineral density, which might be related to nutritional deficits." Jim froze; the expression on his face was dark and unfathomable. "I don't suppose you want to tell me, now, what that's all about."

Jim shook his head.

Of course not. Leonard gave a long-suffering sigh. "Well, I'm going to set up an osteogenic stimulator. Better cancel your evening plans. This is going to take a while."

Jim looked confused. "Can't you just use a bone regenerator? I have a hand-to-hand seminar tomorrow and I have to be there."

Leonard laughed harshly. "You ignorant moron, there's no such thing as an osteoregenerator. That's a common misconception. This may be the 23rd century, but we can't make the body heal instantaneously. We can augment and accelerate its natural healing process, stimulate osteoblast aggregation at the fracture site, but it's not magic. We can speed up the healing, so it takes two weeks instead of six." He cocked an eyebrow at Jim. "But you must know that. You've had fractures treated before."

"That was a long time ago," he said, looking down at his right hand and slowly flexing and extending the fingers. "I guess I wasn't paying attention to how long it took…"

"After we finish here tonight, you'll still have to stay off your feet completely for a week, and then light activity only for another week. That means no IPT, soccer, or hand-to-hand combat." He grabbed a PADD off his desk, accessed Jim's file, and began making notes.

"A week!" Jim looked shocked. "I can't stay in bed for a week!"

"You can still go to class. I'll arrange for a hoverchair." At Jim's horrified expression, he rolled his eyes. "Or you can ignore my instructions, and you'll be out for longer."

"Bones," Jim pleaded. "I'll get too far behind. Two weeks is too long. I have my first combat sim this week. I can't miss it!"

"You'll have to," he said absently, outlining the treatment plan in Jim's chart. "It's just a few weeks, Jim. You can make it up later."

"It's the only one this month. Look, the bones will be mostly healed after the osteo stim treatment, right?"

"Partially healed."

"So, it'll hurt a little. That's okay, I can take a little pain. I'll just—"

"You'll just do what I tell you to do for once, Jim!" he exploded. "Running through the pain is what got you into this situation in the first place, remember? Having a high pain threshold doesn't mean you can ignore your body's signals!"

"Take it easy, Bones…" he said placatingly. "I understand what you're saying, and I'll be careful…"

"No, Jim. You've got this twisted idea that being able to withstand punishment somehow makes you stronger, but you're wrong. It's reckless and self-destructive, and I'll be damned if I let you cause yourself permanent damage."

Jim glared at him. "A commander has to know how to hide his weaknesses and keep going even when it hurts."

"No, a good commander knows his limits and behaves responsibly!" he shot back.

"This is going to screw up my whole semester!"

"Take it up with your advisor."

"You're not being reasonable. This is Starfleet, not some cushy Atlanta clinic! I don't have time for this!"

"Then I guess you should have thought about that before you ran yourself into the ground. You're officially on medical leave for the next fourteen days."

"Don't do this, Bones."

"It's not up for discussion."

Leonard completed the treatment in silence.


A/N: Thanks so much for all the wonderful reviews and support! And please...add a few more words now.