A/N: So sorry for the delays. There will likely be more...
He knows that it's probably a good idea to run. Now.
He'd been stalling long enough. It'd barely been a minute and he was already starting to sweat.
That's what you got when you went to the ship's track in a hoodie. He was going to run at least two miles. The hardest part was getting started.
The track was fairly empty, as were most of the rec rooms at this hour. McCoy'd just gone off duty, and he was determined to get his run in if it killed him. Right now, he was just standing on the track, waiting. One or two other people were taking laps, but he didn't want to have to rely on someone else for motivation.
Well, the best thing to do is start. He took a deep breath, stepped out into his desired lane, and got going.
Running wasn't something he did particularly well. He ran cross country in high school, but those were the days where they'd take anyone and everyone, provided you could run a seven minute mile. His coaches preferred quantity to quality, and he was perfectly middle-of-the-road.
The first lap was easy enough. After the twang had left his ankles, it was pretty smooth sailing. McCoy synced up his breathing with his footsteps. Four in, four out. Steady. Consistent. That was important. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He'd even devised a little hand-dance to keep him on rhythm: close fist, palm up, on the inhale, then release, palm down, on the exhale. Matched up with his footsteps, it kept him steady.
It was six laps in that things started getting harder. He could feel the tightness in his abs. Not to mention general soreness throughout his legs. From his hips to his ankles, he was feeling it. It burned something good. Sweat was much more forthcoming. His forehead was wet, some of his hair soaked, and still six more laps to go. Halfway never felt so short a distance.
Ten laps in and things were pretty hard. He'd had to shed the hoodie and tie it around his waist. McCoy knew he was getting close to overheating. His lungs were starting to burn. It'd been too long since he'd had such a long, fast run. The muscles in his legs were probably starting to liquefy. Probably. They'd been worked over well enough anyhow.
Eleven and a half. He was so close. Chekov had taken the track some time ago. The little navigator was zipping around like a shuttlecraft at warp. McCoy had entertained the idea of sticking a leg out a couple of times, but then that was like shooting himself in the foot. He'd just make more work for himself. No, he'd be content with his twelve. Who cares what the kid was running? He'd made it without stopping, without giving up. That was what mattered.
Twelve at last. McCoy fought the urge to just collapse. Running was great. Super.
Around then, Chekov stepped off the track and came alongside the doctor. "Oh, Doctor McCoy! Are you finished warming up as well?"
"Warming up?"
"Yes! I haff just finished my warmup lap. If you would like to join me, I am meeting Sulu in the weight room."
McCoy weighed his options. It was a good idea. He chose.
He chose wrong.
The next morning was pain. He rolled off his bed. He didn't want to get up from the floor. Getting dressed was a Herculean Task. His shift was even worse. Sitting down became a procedure, standing up a feat of its own.
Later in the day, Sulu came in for a visit. McCoy about strangled him.
"Are you and Chekov trying to kill me?" He snarled from behind his desk. Every muscle screamed.
"What? No. When?" Sulu noticed McCoy's stiff posture. "Oh. Oh I see. Ok. When you get off shift, meet me in the rec room."
"For more torture? No thanks."
Sulu looked at him with genuine concern. "No. No more, I promise. You'll see." He left with one last glance over his shoulder. McCoy rolled his eyes and went back to work. It was hard to write reports when he could hardly lift a PADD.
The rec room was less than deserted. McCoy, in a sensible t shirt and sweat pants, made his way over to the weights section where he found Sulu and Chekov waiting.
"All right. What's this all about?"
Sulu, not saying a word, gestured to the bench in front of him. Slowly, painfully, McCoy sat.
"Now what?"
Sulu bent over and picked up what looked like a stiff foam cylinder.
"And that is?" McCoy growled. This was a waste of time.
Chekov waved a hand at him. He was to lie down on his stomach. McCoy, deciding nothing could be worse than his current situation, did so.
He felt the pressure of the cylinder on his calf. And he thought his pain had been bad before.
"AUGH! Sulu! What are you doing?" Chekov grabbed onto his flailing foot while Sulu continued to steamroll McCoy's calf. At last, the agony ended.
"Flex your foot, Doc." Sulu responded.
McCoy was reluctant. Such movements had ended in fire and death all morning. But, then again, Sulu did this kind of thing more often than he did. He flexed his foot.
No searing armageddon. No pleas to end the suffering. Nothing but relief.
"Sulu, how would you like Nurse Stacey's job, effective immediately?"
Sulu chuckled. "No can do, Doc. I have a ship to fly. But, I could always roll the other le-"
"Do it."
"… Okay. Chekov, hold his foot."
A/N: The roll thing is magic I swear.