I successfully hid the bruises for two days.
And avoided the ship's CMO during that time which is an accomplishment given McCoy's knack for being everywhere, invariably turning up when least expected. I swear he has created at least five self-clones to do his bidding.
This morning he is suddenly behind me at the replicator in the mess hall leaning over my shoulder, whispering an endearment before I can tug the uniform sleeve down hiding the evidence.
When it comes to one in his care, McCoy misses nothing.
He cradles my lower arm in his hand while gingerly stroking the purple-red marks encircling my injured wrist, examining it. "When?" he asks barely masking annoyance.
"A couple of days ago. It's nothing. A minor accident …"
"Medbay, my office, 10 minutes," is the terse reply.
Accepting there is no choice but compliance with an order from the ship's Chief Medical Officer, I enter his office precisely at the requested time and start the rehearsed explanation. "I was in the gym …"
"Cut the crap," he interrupts, his voice booming, his tone brusque. Gruff is McCoy's default persona when those close to him are in peril or injured. "The bruise's color variations contradict your story. Someone was twisting your wrist; hard." He holds out his hand; it is a command. I roll up your uniform sleeve.
His breath hitches.
The bruise extends up my right arm.
"Are there more?" he asks in a soft voice.
Nodding I slowly remove my uniform tunic and its undershirt.
McCoy traces the bruise on my upper arm, it is unmistakably a handprint. A matching one covers the left side of my waist. Immediately the scanner in his hand is whirling. His manner has gentled. "They must hurt like hell, have you applied cold packs?" Not waiting for an answer he murmurs, complaining, "Oughta let you suffer a bit longer so next time you come to me right away … but I'm a soft touch."
I snort. Chuckling at the irony of his self-assessment feels out of place.
After administering pain meds via a hypospray, he kisses my temple then helps me into the shirt, smoothing it down with a caress. I lean against his chest; now grateful he knows the secret. With a hand on the small of my back, McCoy guides us to the sofa. Both settle on it. "Is my assumption wrong?"
"No." My voice is so quiet he can scarcely hear it.
"Does anyone else know?"
My head shake is almost imperceptible. "I … I can't go through that again. Please."
He sighs. "OK. I get it, I really do. We'll keep this between us." McCoy knows with a few more days of support and coaxing, I will come forward in order to protect others. And when you do sweetheart, I will be by your side all the way, he promises in his head. "Who?"
"I don't want to say …"
"It's the price of my silence. The name." Satisfied he says, "You're relieved for the rest of the day; I'll check on you later."
ooooo
"Lieutenant, a word if you please?" McCoy asks politely.
"Of course, sir."
McCoy gestures to the turbolift. "Ride with me."
The lift screeches to a halt seconds after the doors close. "Nice thing about being CMO, all those priority override codes," McCoy muses aloud. When he faces the junior officer, his southern drawl thickens. "One thing y'all forget about me is I grew up on a farm. A big one."
McCoy's elbow thrusts into the other man's stomach winding him.
"A working farm," McCoy adds as he clutches a wrist and twists it until the object of his ire protests with a squeal.
"Without robots, my pappy didn't believe in them. Neither did my grandpappy. Nope, I was out everyday mendin' fences, milkin' cows, wrastlin' pigs into their pin. In fact, there wasn't a pig I couldn't catch in five counties."
He delivers an upper cut, blood trickles down the side of the other man's mouth.
"Those were the days, eh? Anyways, thing about all that manual labor is, I got strong, really strong, very strong. In places you wouldn't believe. In ways you wouldn't expect."
McCoy wrenches an arm behind the other's back, dislocating his shoulder.
"And I aced all those anatomy classes. So I know if I apply pressure just like this …" McCoy grasps either side of his foe's knee, "and twist … you're gonna cry out from the pain. Yep, just like that."
"Court martial … going to have your ass …" the other man spits out between pants.
"Maybe, but then I know a little secret about you too. As for the latter, you're not that lucky." McCoy puts the lift back into service. Before exiting he says with a smirk, "Have a nice day now, ya hear?"
ooooo
"Dr. McCoy," the nurse says as she steps into his office, "will you see this patient? He has a dislocated shoulder, several serious bruises, and blames all of it on an accident in the zero-g gym, but I don't know … that seems unlikely …"
Stepping into the open treatment area of the Medbay, McCoy glances at the output from the monitors and then makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. "He's fine; dispense a couple of aspirin and he can return to duty. After popping his shoulder back in place that is. And there is no need to anesthetize for that."
"What about his knee? The bone knitter perhaps?" the nurse suggests.
McCoy returns to the scanner output. "Hmmmm. Not broken." His mouth curls into a faint smile. "Traction will work nicely."
"Traction? No one uses that anymore sir."
"Traction, four hours," McCoy confirms. "See to it. I'll make the report. Oh and he can make up any missed duty hours when released."
"Yes sir."
Later, McCoy whispers to his patient, "If this happens again to anyone on this ship, whether you're the culprit or not, I'm gonna blame you." The CMO ratchets up the tension of the traction. "And if there is a next time … I won't be feeling as gentlemanly."
