Rating: PG-13 for language
Disclaimer: Would love to own ST, but I just borrow the characters and return them intact
**************************************
"Doctor." Nurse Beckworth greeted him the minute he walked into the medical bay the following morning, feeling refreshed after a solid six hours sleep. He'd arrived early in the hopes of catching up on paperwork before morning sickcall. They were only three days from Starbase 17 and, by the time they arrived, he needed to have everything in tip-top shape.
"How is our prized patient this morning?" He assumed Pike's status was relatively unchanged because, if there'd been any major developments during the night, the duty nurse would have called.
"In good spirits, although the rotational paralysis is continuing. I'm not sure the Pyrodine is having much effect."
"Then let's discontinue it. I don't like the strain it puts on his liver and if it's not working . . . ." McCoy shook his head. Another brilliant idea gone down in flames.
"Captain Pike wants to see you."
Of course he did. What was he going to say? Sorry, Captain, I did my best but you still can't move various body parts and still sound like a two-year-old?
He swallowed hard and took a deep breath before entering Pike's room. He was Pike's doctor. He was, for better or worse, the CMO. Time to face the music.
"Captain Pike," he said formally. "Good morning."
Pike was smiling. "Good morning. Doc . . . tor McCoy."
Did he hear what he thought he'd heard? "Say that again."
"I want to . . . tell you. Your treat . . . ment. I think it worked. Thank you."
Leonard McCoy had never cried in his life. Not when his father died. Not when children died under his scalpel. Not when his wife had left him. Hearing the words coming from Pike's mouth and seeing the boyish grin back on his patient's face brought tears to his eyes.
***********************************************
"You cured him," Jim was saying.
McCoy and the Acting Captain were watching a boxing match between Ensigns Pavel Chekov from Command and Joe Dupree from Science. Jim had gotten his wish for an athletic event that would, they all hoped, bolster crew morale. At Jim's direction, Lt. Sulu had organized what was actually a series of events – boxing, fencing, martial arts – pitting crewmembers from different divisions against each other in friendly battle. To the victors would go bragging rights and extra shore leave when they reached Starbase 17.
"Cured who?"
"Pike. He said you cured him."
"I appreciate the vote of confidence, but Captain Pike is far from cured." McCoy kept his voice low. "Hopefully, they'll be able to do more for him at Starbase 17."
"Well, at least he can carry on a conversation, which is more than he could do two days ago." Jim's gaze returned to the ring where the final match of the evening was playing out. "Chekov looks pretty good, doesn't he?"
It was killing Jim to be sitting on the sidelines, and he was there only because McCoy had finally managed to convince him that the Acting Captain was supposed to watch the event and support his crew, not get his own face beaten to a pulp. In fairness, Jim was more than a decent boxer, combining natural instinct with the formal training they'd received at the Academy. He'd nearly been the class boxing champ; he'd made it to the finals only to lose on points to a larger and more experienced opponent after giving the guy all he could handle and then some.
"He's certainly holding his own." McCoy was knowledgeable about the sport, even if his personal athletic tastes went more to distance running.
The opponents were evenly matched, and their aggression soon had the onlookers rooting heavily (and betting heavily, McCoy suspected) on their favorite.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the second round. From where he sat, McCoy had a good view of both fighters. He would do his best to stay out of it. Minor cuts and bruises could easily be patched up later; the referee and trainers knew he was there and would alert him to any serious medical issues.
Sixty seconds later, the combatants were back at it and, knowing it was the final round, both men were giving it their all. Chekov saw an opening and pressed his advantage, pushing his opponent back into the ropes and pummeling him with punches. The crowd became even more excited.
Chekov must have gotten too cocky and let down his guard, and his hand, because suddenly Dupree's right arm swung out, hitting him squarely in the chin and sending him flying back onto the canvas. The referee immediately pushed Dupree toward a neutral corner and started the mandatory ten-count, audience counting along with him.
He'd only reached the count of "four," when Dupree unexpectedly rushed back to where Chekov was slowly rising to his feet and began punching him again, sending him back to the canvas. Chekov, unprepared for the attack, tried his best to cover up even as Dupree continued to pound his head into the mat.
"Dupree, get off him!" The referee reached for him, trying to pull him away.
What the hell was going on? McCoy grabbed his medikit and pushed his way toward the ring, Jim right beside him.
The referee and trainers managed to pull Dupree away from Chekov. Dupree's face was red, his eyes wild. "Let go of me. Let me at him. It's his fault. He killed her."
"Easy, son," McCoy said, doing his best to diffuse the situation.
"Dupree!" Jim called is his strongest command voice.
It had no effect. Dupree continued to strain against the men holding him, still screaming at Chekov.
McCoy had had enough. He pulled a hypospray from his kit and set it. "Hold him still!" Somehow he managed to find an exposed patch of skin on Dupree's neck. A hiss later, Dupree collapsed like a sack of potatoes. "Take him to medical and put him in restraints. Tell them I'll be right there."
Chekov, who had been helped to his feet, was wiping blood from his nose and lip. McCoy stepped closer and lifted Chekov's chin with his fingers, studying the injuries. "You'd better come along too, Chekov. Some of those cuts will need to be closed."
The navigator looked reluctant.
"Go on, Chekov," Jim prodded in an unexpected show of support, then pulled McCoy aside.
"What happened to Dupree, Bones?"
He shrugged. "Don't know. I'll check him out, see what I find." With Chekov in tow, he headed back for medical.
Behind him, he could hear Jim's voice. "All right, everyone. Show's over. Let's get back . . . ."
**********************************8
Several hours later, McCoy poured two glasses of scotch and pushed one across his desk toward Jim. "Here."
"Thanks, Bones." Jim took a hefty sip. "Whew! You brought out the really good stuff."
"Only the best for the Captain." McCoy took a sip from his own glass, the liquid sliding down his throat. It was the first alcohol he'd allowed himself in days and, truth be told, he'd missed his evening nightcap.
He and Jim were camped in McCoy's office, feet propped up on his desk. It was late in the evening and the medical bay was quiet.
"How's Chekov?"
"His face is beautiful as ever," McCoy replied with a smile. "Just some facial lacs – nothing serious. In a couple of days, you won't even know he was hit."
"And Dupree?" Jim gazed through the glass office walls to where the young Ensign lay asleep on one of the biobeds.
"From what I've been able to piece together, his fiancée was aboard the Farragut." Which meant that she was dead, killed in the battle with the Romulans. "For some unknown reason, he transferred his anger at Nero to Chekov."
"Will he be okay?"
"I think so. I'll do some therapy with him in the next couple of days. Starbase 17 has a great psychiatric staff; he'll get the best of care."
Jim took another sip from his glass and let it settle in his mouth a few seconds before swallowing. "Guess the boxing match was a bad idea."
"On the contrary, it was a great idea. From what I've heard, it was exactly what people needed."
"Like Dupree?"
"Jim, he has some serious psychological issues. If they hadn't manifested themselves tonight, they'd have come out some other time when the damage he caused might have been a lot more severe than a few cuts to Chekov's face."
Jim's eyes roamed the small room. "It still looks like Puri's office."
"Yeah, my nurse said the same thing. But I can't bring myself to put away her things. And, besides, who knows how long I'll be the occupant."
"Planning on going somewhere?"
"You know Starfleet's offering transfers." The Enterprise would be in space dock while repairs were made to her warp drive. For that and other reasons, Starfleet was at least considering reassignments for some of the crew.
"Are you going to put in for one?"
McCoy poured himself a bit more scotch. "I'm thinking about it."
The response clearly surprised Jim, who dropped his feet from the desk and leaned forward in his chair. "You're joking, right?"
"No, Jim, I'm not. Look, I'm a surgeon; putting bodies back together again is what I do best. This," he gestured around the office, "isn't me."
"Where would you go?"
"Maybe where we're headed. Starbase 17. It has the best medical facilities outside of Earth, and a huge surgical department that handles some of the toughest cases."
"Bones, I need you here."
"That presupposes you're going to be here."
"Touché."
"I haven't made up my mind. I'm just not sure this is where I belong."
"Promise me that if they don't court martial me and if, by some miracle, I end up as Captain, that you'll at least consider staying."
"That's a lot of 'ifs.'"
"Bones!"
"Okay, I'll consider it." Jim's glass was empty. McCoy held up the bottle of scotch. "More?"
"No, thanks." Jim stood up. "Time to call it a night."
McCoy raised his glass. "Night, Jim."