Leonard McCoy felt a menacing presence move up behind his chair in the dark room. Instinctively, his hand darted out toward the computer screen that gave off the only eerie light in the room.
A hand grabbed his fiercely. "Don't," the man warned.
The Doctor's mouth twitched. He stared at the words he'd written into the report: they had lingered there so long their letters were burned into his retina.
"As a Senior Officer on this ship, as Chief Medical Officer, as a Doctor—as a man: I have to." He reached out with his other hand then, but the man knocked it away and used his own hand to send the report into oblivion somewhere.
"I'll just have to rewrite it now, " McCoy rasped, disgruntled.
"You won't. I'll block it."
The Doctor sat silently in the dark. He had no doubt the man would continue to find ways to thwart any such report from the ship's Chief Surgeon. He twisted his wrist against the resistance then, to no avail. The fingers only bit tighter into his arm.
McCoy sighed heavily and stared ahead into the darkness, seeing nothing. The warmth from the fingers still wrapped around his wrist was the only sensation he was aware of and it ate away at him. Despite the threatening nature of the grasp, there was an unnerving gentleness there as well. Suddenly, he yanked at the ring he always wore on his trapped left hand furiously.
The hand was jerked away from him.
The Doctor growled low as the man sank to his knees beside him. Fingers drifted gently and moved into McCoy's hand instead. A thumb brushed over the ring reverently.
"Don't take it off. It was too hard earned."
"It doesn't even fit anymore," he muttered in return. It didn't start off on his pinky finger. "First do no harm," the Chief Surgeon's voice ebbed heavily into the dark then. "First do no harm."
The fingers tightened around the Doctor's. "A definition of harm seems to be required."
McCoy turned and met Chekov's soulful eyes, their depths gleaming in the dark. His steel blue eyes drifted carefully over the man's wholesome, perfect face. "Who did that?"
"Dr. M'Benga."
"It's good work. There's nothing left of the cut."
"Yes, well, I can't imagine you have any bad Doctors in your sickbay."
McCoy's eyes widened. "There's something I never thought I'd hear you say. I thought we had an agreement: I'm the only Doctor you see unless it's an emergency. That's our contract."
"A Captain's orders elevate required treatment to the emergency level," Chekov observed.
"I suppose they do," McCoy agreed blandly.
Chekov was remarkably immune to viruses and infection, but the universe had retaliated with its perverse sense of irony. Life had ravaged the young man's body with overwhelming injuries instead—right when he was on the verge of living. He had stubbornly fought his way through them and refused to acknowledge their importance. That he had endured to pass Starfleet Academy's strict physical requirements was a testament to his sheer will power—and a miracle.
Chekov carried that fighting nature forward into all medical facilities he encountered. He was a fiercely uncooperative, combative patient that inherently distrusted the entire medical profession.
What McCoy saw in the young man quickly, however, was that the bravado was a defense mechanism nurtured to fend off well-developed fear. Chekov's fierce determination had created and maintained his athletic, well-toned physique more than any medical treatment he had ever received. The concept of allowing anyone else control over a body that he had literally fought with to get where he wanted to be in life terrified him.
The Enterprise's Chief Medical Officer immediately saw why in the man's medical records. The man hadn't released his entire file to McCoy but the Doctor recognized both hopelessness in the medical notes passed onto him and the perverse curiosity that it sometime prompted in the members of his profession. This young man had been subjected to a mind-numbing, exhaustive number of procedures and tests after his injuries. Chekov rightly suspected they had very little to do with treatment and more to do with the medical profession's stupefied minds.
Pavel Chekov's file had settled on Leonard McCoy like a rock. It had made him determined to never again—if he ever had—treat anyone that ever came to him like a medical experiment. The Chief Navigator always knew what McCoy was doing and why: and approved it.
The young man didn't fail to put up a fuss over it anyway. It was his way of reminding the Doctor he was in control still—even if the older man fought back as fiercely to keep Chekov manageable. McCoy didn't restrain from employing techniques found useful by his former Doctor either. This had become part of their well-negotiated and firmly understood contract.
"I believe I need to rethink my bedside technique: especially when it comes to you and Spock," he observed quietly.
"I think Mr. Spock relies on you to routinely challenge his human nature."
"What have you two been doing in the Science labs after duty?" McCoy demanded irritably.
Chekov looked indignant. "I have been assisting him with his personal research projects."
"I know."
"You're the one who suggested it."
"You get bored easily. An idle mind is the Devil's playground. How did you know it was my idea?
"Mr. Spock told me."
"Mouthy fellow, isn't he?" McCoy growled. "I don't think Spock has any inherent need to have his human nature challenged regularly," he added,
"Than he has the only human mother in existence that didn't do it for him. You get trained by both parents, you know," the Navigator observed.
"I seem to remember hearing something about that in medical school," McCoy rasped under his breath. He cocked his head and eyed the young man's features in the dim room. The Doctor knew Spock had a human mother, of course. That she would act like every other human mother had actually never occurred to him. With Chekov's innate ability to judge people's nature and his extraordinary powers of observation, the Doctor had often thought he'd make an exceptional Security officer. He suspected the fiercely competitive young man had trained himself in an attempt to rival his father's photographic memory.
"Does M'Benga still have that scar on his arm?"
"Which…" Chekov stopped and shot McCoy an irritated look, clearly knowing the man was testing him. M'Benga had three scars the Navigator had noticed. He'd wondered why a Doctor hadn't had them fixed.
McCoy tossed out the idea of Chekov in Security: it would only give him more excuses to get injured. "Anyway, I don't see how a mother's guilt trips could work on someone without feelings," he maintained.
The irritation on the Navigator's face deepened into a scowl. "You know very well Vulcans have feelings. History has demonstrated they're much more passionate than humans, in fact. It's a miracle they were able to embrace Surak's philosophy of logic and save their civilization."
"You believe in miracles, don't you?" McCoy reflected.
The young man's dark eyes sank inward as he gazed up at the Doctor. "Belief is something you use on things you've never seen, Doc."
The older man held his gaze a long moment. "I'll try to remember that."
Chekov placed his right hand over McCoy's then, laying his fingers on top of the ones he already held. The Doctor's left hand still resting in his, he stroked the fingers there in silent thought. "Have you ever heard me talk about my Godfather?"
"Son, I don't recall us spending any off-duty time together."
"No," Chekov agreed. "You remind me of him: of Sergie."
"I have hands like him?" McCoy asked, watching as the man continued to compare their fingers.
"No," the Navigator intoned absently. "You have hands like mine, like my fathers: long, expressive fingers. Like Mr. Spock's.
"Good hands for a Doctor. Sergie's hands are thick and rough," Chekov continued.
McCoy nodded in understanding. "Men who work for a living often have a clear understanding of life's basics," he acknowledged.
"Like you."
McCoy drew his hand away then and shifted his gaze into the dark. "You need to go: I have a report to write."
"He's more business like than you. Dr. M'Benga, that is."
"Every Doctor has their own bedside manner that they're constantly developing with experience."
"So you'll be adding a back-hand to your right cross?" Chekov asked with amusement.
"I'm a Doctor, not a bantamweight," McCoy growled in return. He added quickly: "Is everything a joke to you?" How the hell did he find out about the right cross?
The Navigator shrugged and then nodded. "If it's not going to end up in a history book, it's not worth worrying about."
"An odd point of view."
Shrugging again, Chekov smirked. "I seem to recall you telling me that I'm an odd sort of person."
"I obviously talk too much, as well."
"It sounds like you're ready to renegotiate our contract," the Navigator observed, sitting back on his heels. "That would mean every clause is up to scrutiny."
"Meaning what?" McCoy asked darkly, glancing back sharply at the younger man.
A sly grin crept over Chekov's features. "I can bite you if I want," he pronounced with satisfaction.
"That is NOT up for renegotiation!" the Doctor roared, alarm flashing across his face. "Cannibalism is strictly forbidden in my sickbay."
A croaked, wild grin split the Navigator's face then and he laughed gleefully. "If anything is up for renegotiation, everything is, Doc."
McCoy's mouth twitched and his face clouded. "Does Robert Chapman really still have scars?"
"Dr. Bob? How would I know? I haven't seen him in years."
McCoy knew that Chapman still had the scars Chekov had inflicted. The man, noted for being a rehabilitation miracle worker, had told the Enterprise's Chief Surgeon he regarded them as permanent reminders that his patients were, in fact, people first of all. The best Doctors learned from those they were privileged to treat.
McCoy also knew full well that Chekov still kept in contact with 'Dr. Bob.' "Dr. Chapman is a genius," he commented.
"Yes," the Navigator agreed, finally climbing to his feet. "He listens—and he deals with every person the way they need to be dealt with. Like you."
The Doctor sighed.
The Navigator turned to leave, but McCoy's voice stopped him at the door.
"Chekov, I still have a report to write," he observed quietly.
"Don't. I already told you that I won't let you. If you do, I'll have to write my own report in return," he said, glancing back at the older man darkly. "Then the Captain will remand me to hours refreshing my hand-to-hand combat skills: probably with him, God forbid. He's ruthless."
Like you, McCoy thought. "Why would he do that?" he asked incredulously.
Chekov smirked, with a gesture of simplicity. "I didn't duck this time.
"Doctor," he continued. "One of the most important things Sergie taught me was that there are certain people who just desperately need a knock upside the head every so often.
"Don't renegotiate our contract," Chekov said. "Sergie's counting on you."
The Navigator hesitated at the door again. "I didn't sprain my ankle," he said quietly after a moment.
"What?"
"Last week. I didn't sprain my ankle."
"I know that," McCoy replied. "I examined you."
"I mean I didn't think I sprained my ankle," Chekov intoned without turning.
"I know that. I'm a Doctor.
"Son," he continued, leaning back in his chair. "You know where my office is. Stop faking injuries to talk to me. It requires an exam you don't want and a mountain of paperwork that I don't want to do."
Chekov glanced back at him tentatively. "New clause?"
"New clause," McCoy agreed. "Oh, and Chekov…"
"Yes?"
"Get me Sergie's address. He may just have some more pointers for me."