The Contract
He'd never admit it to that damned Vulcan. After years in space, Leonard McCoy had found that humans were by far still the strangest beings a Doctor could encounter.
That thought weighed heavily on his mind as he stared at the medical record displayed on the computer screen before him. The Enterprise's Chief Medical Officer had noted instantly the sparse number of encounters the Star Fleet Academy medical staff had with the new Ensign. Far fewer than normal, McCoy thought ruefully: probably the bare minimum required. He didn't blame them.
The medical jargon in the reports of the Doctor who treated the young man prior to his entrance into the Academy did very little to disguise the gruesome facts contained within them. The words there settled a somber, metallic hollowness deep within McCoy. He wished he could truthfully say the details of the boy's earlier injuries soaked empty his well of empathy for his patient: but McCoy knew it was the man's interactions with the previous medical staff that left the Enterprise's Chief Surgeon pale.
Why did Jim Kirk have to be so thrilled with his newest acquisition for the ship's command complement? The Captain had complained broadly for months that the ship needed another officer in navigation. With careful calculation, however, he had waited until the graduating class at Starfleet Academy was thrown open to the annual frenzy of senior officers scrambling to acquire new, raw talent in the posting draft. James Kirk had waited specifically for this boy to get his commission.
Everyone thought the kid's reported genius in navigation prompted the Enterprise's Captain to go after him with such unparalleled gusto. McCoy knew better. The new Ensign's navigation skills were just an added bonus to Kirk. What McCoy's friend regaled him with after an early review of the First Level Class records was the sheer abundance of both honor and character this particular cadet possessed. The Doctor knew from experience that honor and character in a person meant more to Jim Kirk than the finest training available. He would have passed over a highly skilled person for one that showed character.
You could teach skills. Character was within a person, or it was not.
Leonard McCoy hadn't seen the kid's personnel record, so he didn't know what it contained to convince the Captain he had character. The Doctor wished beyond anyone's ability to comprehend that he could show Kirk the medical records he now stared at. This horror story made no allusion to either honor or character.
Of course, medical records were confidential. Not even the Commanding Officer had access to anything that didn't directly relate to a person's ability to do their job or find their niche in the ship's social structure. Damm it, thought McCoy with irritation. Why couldn't he convince himself that a person's relationship with his Doctor qualified in either of these categories? Why couldn't he just come out and tell Jim the brutal truth about the boy he'd welcomed aboard his ship with such self-satisfaction?
McCoy coaxed the last of his now cold coffee down his throat: eyes still transfixed on the medical record before him. The hair on the back of his neck crawled in anticipation. He set down the cup with a difficult sigh and pulled the tape out of the reader. Pressing it hard between his fingers, he growled, as though either action could change what the tape contained.
"Len, are you okay?"
"Ya," McCoy answered M'Benga, who had poked his head into the office. "It's just that…" He stopped suddenly and eyed the man. "As a matter of fact," he carefully drew out after a moment, "I'm a little under the weather this morning and I've got a physical on my schedule.
"Can you take care of it?" he asked rhetorically, standing and moving over to push the tape into the other Doctor's hand before he responded. "Thanks: I owe you."
"Perhaps I should look you over," the other Doctor observed with genuine concern.
"Oh, no: that's not necessary. It's just a little too much off-duty recreation," McCoy said, thinking the answer inspired. "I sometimes forget I'm not as young as I used to be. I need a little time today to let my body and brain catch up to each other, if you know what I mean."
M'Benga eyed the tape as McCoy spoke, dark lines creasing his brow. "Len..." he intoned curiously.
"Doctor," he maintained more formally. "This is an initial physical: and for an officer, no less. You know Starfleet regulations require that all initial physicals for incoming crew be conducted by the Chief Medical Officer."
An officer . . . M'Benga's words turned over in his mind slowly. An officer owes the Fleet three years service for his Academy education. Three years: Damn it.
Maybe the kid will get transferred, McCoy thought hopefully. Maybe I can help a transfer along. Damn it all to hell: there are definite down sides to being a Fleet Doctor. I'm trapped on this ship with this boy in my practice.
"Never mind," he relented, retrieving the tape. "I'll do it."
"Are you sure?" the other Doctor pressed, concern still in his voice. "You should reschedule the physical."
McCoy considered the idea. Putting the exam off would only prolong the dread he felt building within. "You can assist me," he answered after a moment.
M'Benga followed him into the exam room. "You want me to assist in a physical," he repeated, eyeing the Chief Medical Officer strangely. A simple exam certainly didn't require tying up the ships two most senior medical staff.
"Yes," McCoy rasped, shooting a steely glare at him while placing the tape next to the exam bed. "Do you have a problem with that, Doctor?"
The larger man studied him a long moment before answering. "No, Sir," he said. "You did ask me to complete those tests in the lab, however."
McCoy shifted his jaw, wondering if he appeared as much an idiot as he felt. "Yes, I did. I can start the physical and you can join me when you're finished."
"Fine," the man replied, eyeing him. "He's here, I think." He indicated the outer room with his head. "Early," he added, knowing physicals were always scheduled on the hour.
"Yes," McCoy agreed as he recognized the young man from his file. "Obviously a personality trait." The kid had even been born early, he remembered as he eyed the Ensign with trepidation.
More striking in person than on a computer screen was the clean-cut, wholesome, good looks of the all-American, boy-next-door. Huge, soulful, brown puppy-dog eyes full of innocence shifted and met McCoy's steady gaze. The kid had a face of an angel.
No wonder the other Doctors had been taken in so easily.
McCoy was not going to make that mistake. He remained frozen where he was. He couldn't very well act like he hadn't been staring at the boy now.
Edging tentatively toward the door to the exam room, he gave the Doctor a weak smile.
"Excuse me, Sir. Are you Dr. McCoy?"
McCoy blinked hard, forcing himself to swallow the instantaneous burst of laughter at himself. The words were laced with a thick accent.
So much for the all-American, boy-next-door look.
"Yes, Ensign: come in."
Hurry, damn you, M'Benga: don't leave me here alone too long.
"I'd better get to the lab," the man commented and left, showing no signs of picking up McCoy's futile attempt at telepathy.
The newest member of the ship's complement moved into the room, dark eyes fixed on the Doctor warily.
"Doctor McCoy?" he asked.
In the wholesome, good looks, McCoy now clearly saw the young man's heritage. Under fine brown hair he had wide, Slavic cheekbones and a fine nose and lips. The big, deep eyes dominated his features: utterly expressive wells of emotion one often found on Russians. A pretty fellow, he appeared even younger than his twenty-one years. McCoy wondered how long it would take in space service before he lost the bright-eyed appearance all newly commissioned officers came aboard with.
"Welcome aboard, Mr. Chekov." He flashed a bright, fake smile. For good measure he took the boy's hand and gave him a resounding handshake. "How are you?"
The depthless brown eyes widened, regarding McCoy with outright trepidation as the Ensign tried to rescue his hand from the Doctor's pummeling. "I'm fine," he replied carefully.
"Good!" The ship's Chief Medical Officer said enthusiastically. "You look fine to me too. Well, you have a good tour: she's a fine ship. If you ever need anything, you know where to find me."
The young man frowned, eyeing the Doctor strangely. "That's….it?"
McCoy's smile turned rueful and he sighed. "Sadly, no." He winked at met the Ensign, blue eyes sparkling. "But we both had our hopes up there for a minute, didn't we?"
Startled, Chekov straightened and watched as the older man move further into the exam room.
"Join me," the Doctor prompted. He sighed again, not failing to notice the continued hesitancy with which the Ensign approached.
"I understand that you're going to be our new navigator," he commented amiably.
"Currently, that is the plan."
McCoy turned, eying him darkly. "Meaning?"
The kid shrugged innocently. "As a command officer on my first posting, regulations require that I serve in every department before receiving my final assignment from the Captain. Plans often change."
The Doctor felt himself grow cold, even though he saw nothing methodical in the man's warm brown eyes. "You're saying that you don't want to be a navigator?" he questioned guardedly.
The man's eyes remained frozen on McCoy, unreadable, a long moment. The Doctor felt his skin crawl and shifted to ease the sensation.
"I am a navigator," Chekov finally answered bluntly. "I want to be a Captain." Then he smiled: a sudden, wild, grin that lit up his entire face and shone brilliantly in the melted chocolate depths of his eyes.
McCoy inhaled sharply at the abrupt, unexpected radiance in the previously dismal Ensign.
The boy must have heard it…or sensed it, because the smile vanished instantly. The brown eyes dropped into instant darkness again and fixed on the Doctor with complete distrust.
"I like to start with just some basic tests of your level of fitness," McCoy ploughed on as though he didn't see the look he was getting. "Let me see if you can touch your toes, Ensign."
The kid hesitated, eying the Doctor a moment. Then with a graceful, fluid movement, the Ensign swept his right leg up against his head and caught onto his foot with his left hand. "Like this?" he asked with great, big innocent eyes. "Or did you want me to touch my left foot?" He exchanged legs easily.
McCoy shifted his jaw, eyes narrowing. Wiseass. "Can you touch them both at the same time?" he quickly demanded, knowing any inch he gave this man might prove his ultimate undoing. In this case, that would be extraordinarily bad.
The new Navigator dropped his leg, bent in half, and flattened his palms on the top of his feet.
The Doctor planted a hand on his hip and scowled fiercely. The young man was quickly proving the notations about his brash, outgoing personality true. That meant everything in the record might be true, which McCoy had secretly hoped against.
He admitted the flesh and blood human that faced him now did intrigue him, however. He knew from the medical records that the Ensign's five six, small framed body was the solid muscle of an athlete. He didn't know how limber the man was. "Can you do that sitting down?" he asked with professional interest.
The Ensign glanced down at the deck beneath his feet, then back at the Doctor suspiciously. "Regulations prohibit officers from being on the floor in uniform, Sir."
McCoy scowled. "Mister, either consider that an order to make an exception," he rasped, "Or go ahead and take your clothes off. I don't care which: just do it."
Chekov's eyes narrowed, fixing the Doctor with a dark, pointed look as his jaw hardened. McCoy had swiftly yanked control back away from the boy's skillful, comedic efforts. He's won an early battle and the Doctor felt empowered by it. As for the kid, he sat down on the floor without comment, stretched his legs out before him, and easily leaned forward until his hands grasped his feet and his chest pressed tight against his thighs. "Yes, I can," he replied.
"Oh, my word!" The Head Nurse exclaimed, startled, as she paused at the exam room's door to the main sickbay. "Just how long did you study ballet, Ensign?" she asked, smiling easily.
The young man's head snapped up and McCoy grinned without shame. You're busted, boy. "How did you know it was ballet?" the Doctor questioned Chapel.
The Nurse smiled, eyes sparkling. "In humans, only men who study ballet or gymnastics as children can do that. The Ensign doesn't appear to have the upper body development to be a gymnast."
"All children in Russia study ballet for at least a few years," the boy replied sheepishly, his wide eyes completely vulnerable. A wantonly charming smile entirely took over his features as he climbed to his feet. "It's a school requirement, Ma'am. Ballet is considered the foundation for all other athletics and basic fitness."
"It probably should be everywhere," McCoy agreed. "Ballet establishes a center of balance, innate coordination, grace: many professional athletes are sent for ballet lessons to improve their game. It's standard for American Football players."
Chekov's remarkable flexibility at twenty-one was not a carry-over of childhood lessons, however, the Doctor knew. Such physical training simply didn't stay with you on its own.
"Human boys permanently lose most of their flexibility by the time they're eight if they're not trained properly," the Ensign observed, as though the medical personnel didn't know that already.
"Can you do the splits?" Chapel continued, her interest peaked.
The new Navigator made a dramatic show of tipping over to study his legs. Glancing up, his soulful eyes filled with wounded pity and he flashed a devilishly brilliant smile. "Not in these pants, Ma'am.
"Perhaps another day in the gym," he continued as he straightened again. The brilliant smile completely took over the melted chocolate of his eyes. "Do you like ballet?" he asked brightly.
She pressed the clipboard in her hand against her chest as several other female sickbay staff gathered behind her, drawn by the scene. "I am a devoted fan of Boris Alexesandrovich," she confessed, referring to the current lead male dancer at the Marinisky Theater. "Which company do you prefer? The Marinisky? The Bolshoi? The Ballet Russe?"
"The Marinisky continues to provide the best and purest classical training on Earth," Chekov stated matter-of-factly. "You can always tell if a dancer started in St. Petersburg."
McCoy eyed the boy in curiosity, wondering if it were true. The Doctor only appreciated ballet for the profound effects it had on the human body and had no idea differences in training were actually noticeable to followers of the art.
"You haven't actually seen Boris perform in person, have you?" Chapel continued wistfully.
"Yes, Ma'am. In fact, I actually studied in the same class with him."
"No!"
"I do not lie: especially not to such beautiful ladies!" Chekov protested with innocent indignation, his accent growing thicker as he outright pouted.
She smiled at him warmly, her eyes sparkling. "If you studied with Boris, why didn't you continue your training?"
"He was good, I was not so good," he expounded sorrowfully. "I will arrange for the two of you to exchange messages, if you like."
"You're not serious!"
"I do not lie," the young man insisted petulantly, his injured pout taking over his face.
The boy's big brown eyes and toying smile made him appear both utterly vulnerable and temptingly, rakishly, dangerous. The way his features shifted seamlessly from utterly shy to overpowering was mesmerizing. The depth of his accent varied with the shifts on his countenance.
Manipulative little shit, McCoy growled to himself. He's doing it on purpose.
He is dangerous.
The Doctor straightened, reminded of the medical record. "Mr. Chekov," he bit out sharply, ending the exercise in manipulation. "I have other patients to see."
The brilliant smile instantly dropped off the young man's face and he glanced sharply at the Doctor menacingly. "Yes, Sir," was his subdued answer, however.
McCoy fixed the women with a pointed look as he closed the door that led into the main sickbay. "Up on the bed, boy," he instructed Chekov.
He watched as the man eyed the bed warily before he carefully edged onto it. The Ensign started as the bed's display sprang on. McCoy strolled closer slowly, intrigued with the way the kid lay down gingerly, as if half expecting the bed itself to turn on him.
"You aren't going to hurt me, are you?" the young man asked suspiciously as the Doctor paused by the bedside.
"Not if you don't hurt me," McCoy instantly retorted.
Chekov sat up quickly, leaning on his palms as he shot the Doctor a dark look. "Did you just threaten me?" he demanded.
McCoy hesitated and raised his thick eyebrows to emphasize the steely eyes. "Let's call it a contract, boy: you don't hurt me and I won't hurt you."
The younger man eyed him a moment, with a dark, calculating look. "A contract?" he ventured leerily.
"Yes," the older man confirmed. "That condition will be the main contract. We'll negotiate the individual clauses as we go along. Lie back down," he ordered. Downright smug, McCoy felt truly in control of the situation for the first time.
The Navigator complied, noticeably jerking in response to every sound the exam equipment made.
The Doctor stood and carefully watched both the bed's readout and the boy lying on it. Moved by the kid's distress, he reached across the bed to eliminate the sound. Chekov lurched up suddenly and McCoy jerked back, stumbling away from the bed in primal cowardice.
The Ensign's dark eyes raked over the Enterprise's Chief Medical Officer blatantly. "What did Doctor Chapman write in my medical file?" he demanded.
"The truth."
"He hurt me," Chekov pronounced.
"He obviously didn't have a contract with you," McCoy commented, refusing to be cowed by the kid's attempt to do so.
He changed tactics and walked around to the other side of the bed before silencing it. Directing Chekov's attention to the various bar readings displayed, he was careful to keep his arm behind the younger man's head as he took the time to explain each of them.
"Blood pressure, good: heart rate, also good."
"High," the kid remarked, his wide eyes on the readings as he twisted back to look at them.
"They're high for you?" McCoy repeated with mild interest, although without surprise. Athletes tended to have lower base readings. "Your record will confirm that." McCoy cleared his throat uncomfortably at the reminder of the man's record, feeling his heart seize up despite all professionalism. He pushed on through the attack of nerves.
"This reading," he continued, pointing to an actual lack of reading. "Is the amount of pain you're feeling: none. I guess I'm safe at the moment," the Doctor said light-heartedly as he purposely skipped the next sky-high, angry streak of red and continued on through the rest of the readings. The actual interest the Navigator was showing in McCoy's explanation both calmed the older man. Involve the kid, he thought shrewdly. Take his mind off the exam.
Chekov's voice interrupted his train of thought. "What is that one?"
Okay, the Doctor thought as he stared at the reading he had avoided. The kid is sharp. He shifted while he thought of an answer. "That tells me the amount of adrenalin in your system," he replied blandly. "This particular reading most likely explains the rise you noticed in your blood pressure and heart rate."
The scattered abnormalities McCoy could see in the seemingly normal readings confirmed what the medical records had already told him. The increased pulse and blood pressure, the shallow breathing, and the dilated pupils all informed the Doctor the sky-high adrenalin reading was accurate. Reaction to such a surge of adrenalin was universal in the entire animal kingdom: either fight or flight.
He could already tell that flight was simply unknown to Pavel Chekov.
McCoy didn't need the medical records to tell him that: he saw it shining in the kid's dark eyes.
Unfortunately, McCoy also saw in the eyes that the record was accurate in its clear statement that nothing signaled danger to Chekov more than a medical facility. The boy had come to know Doctor's as agents of torment who too easily ripped away his very ability to protect himself from potential peril. Any organism's most basic need was to protect itself at any cost. His medical record showed Chekov had learned to do just that: any way he had to.
McCoy considered the readings soberly. Hell, he's terrified. Given his personality and history, the boy is handling it a hell of a lot better than I'd expect.
He straightened slowly. No one deserves the utter panic that comes from rampant loss of control over your own safety.
"Go ahead and sit up," he advised. "I'll be right back." Disappearing back into his office, he began to rummage through rarely used storage cabinets.
He hesitated as he heard a sound that made him look up and notice that M'Benga had entered the private exam room. As though watching an accident in slow motion, riveted by morbid curiosity, the Chief Medical Officer watched as the other Doctor attempted to initiate what should have been routine tests.
Chekov lashed out violently and recoiled with a vicious snarl. McCoy grinned slyly, feeling victorious. The boy wasn't impossible to treat, he just required his own unique and delicate bedside manner.
The Chief Medical Officer returned to the exam room and the new officer swiftly, carrying a clipboard, stylus and worn black leather case. The Doctor rested them on the bed next to the Ensign.
"Mr. Chekov…" he began
"Sir, I do not think it is necessary to have two Doctors present for a simple physical." The dark eyes that bore through him were downright demonic, the all-too polite words snarled through almost gasped breaths.
Yes, the words were polite. From what the readings said about the increased anxiety Chekov was feeling, McCoy expected something more along the lines of get him the hell out of here. Maybe Kirk knew something about this kid after all.
His blue eyes forcefully sought out and held the pained brown eyes of the Ensign. Despite the clear discomfort in their dark depths, the soft gaze was unwavering. The Chief Medical Officer fought off a pleased smile.
"Doctor M'Benga, thank-you. That'll be all."
The tall, dark man looked at him as though he had lost his mind before leaving again without comment.
"Ensign," McCoy continued amiably as he pulled open the weathered bag he had brought in with him. "Those readings are considered accurate, but I always worry about impersonal computers when they judge living beings. Do you know what this is?"
"It's an antique stethoscope," Chekov replied with an indignant scowl.
"Smart boy," the Doctor commented, handing it to him. "Here, use it," he urged as he dug through the bag again. He pulled out a more complicated device.
"So what do you hear?"
"My heartbeat," Chekov retorted, eyeing the Doctor with a look no less strange than M'Benga had.
"I suppose that means we have to continue on with this physical. Here, give me your arm. Have you seen this before?"
Chekov eyed the device curiously. McCoy wrapped a soft, wide belt around his upper arm. "In a museum, but I don't know what it is."
"It's a sphygmomanometer," the Doctor replied, carefully enunciating every syllable. "It measures your blood pressure. I inflate it on your arm and you tell me what your blood pressure is by using the stethoscope. Tell me when your pulse starts, then when it stops."
"If it stops, I die," the Navigator declared bluntly. The edge in his voice betrayed a suspicion that McCoy might actually have plans to stop his heart for some bizarre reason. He really doesn't trust Doctors, McCoy reflected.
"The sound: just the sound," he rasped, matching the boy's indignation. "Tell me when you hear the sound start and stop."
"Oh. Yes, Sir." The Ensign tensed as McCoy pressed the stethoscope end against the crook of his arm and took hold of the inflator bulb. "Is this going to hurt?" he demanded quickly, managing to glare at both the device and the Doctor at the same time.
"No," the Doctor began, but stopped to actually consider the question. His steely blue eyes held the younger man's wide, distrustful gaze a long moment. "Yes," he corrected. "Yes, it's going to hurt a bit: but if you can't take this pain, you sure as hell don't belong in Starfleet."
The distrust, the panic, dimmed in Chekov's eyes. "Yes, Sir." Together, they took the man's blood pressure: a process which McCoy noticed seemed to fascinate the Ensign. "I need your pulse," the Doctor added as he stored his Grandmother's equipment back into the bag. Not surprisingly, Chekov had the number by the time he closed the bag. It was also not surprising to the Doctor that it was lower than the exam bed's initial reading. He felt vindicated.
Control. A simple key buried invisibly between the written words of a medical record. M'Benga had failed to explain what he was doing and why. He had run roughshod ahead, instinctively assuming he had advantage of the 'white coat syndrome': the innate trust patients had that the Doctor knew not only what he was doing, but was far better equipped to make basic medical decisions without being encumbered with drawn-out explanations.
It was an erroneous assumption. Chekov had long since lost such trust and had steeled himself with rock-hard suspicion against every move by the medical community. He'd learned to protect himself, McCoy thought again. Pavel Chekov's life had taught him that he had to stay in control to stay safe. A Doctor could almost always count on his instinctive bedside manner: but here were occasional patients one had to struggle to find footing to deal with effectively. As a Starfleet Doctor, he didn't have the luxury of passing on such patients to another practice. He wasn't the kind of Doctor who would have done so anyway.
Kid, McCoy thought vehemently. If you need control, you'll have it.
The whole prospect was daunting and exhausting. If his confidence was misplace because he was wrong, or if he misstepped, the consequences would be dire. The boy's medical record made that clear.
The Doctor pulled the case that M'Benga had brought into the room over to the bed. "I assume that you've seen one of these before?" he asked, holding up the hypo.
Chekov nodded sullenly and furtively glanced away: but not before the Doctor saw the shadow of pain in the depths of his eyes.
"Do you know how to operate one?"
The Ensign nodded sullenly again without looking back at the Doctor.
"Are you sure?" McCoy persisted, eyes studying the boy's now ashen features.
Chekov glanced back reluctantly at the Chief Medical Officer, his huge brown eyes so complete with the echoed memory of suffering that it was excruciating to hold their gaze. "Doctor," the Ensign said in a thick, hollow voice. "At the Chapman Clinic I administered my own meds: many times a day, every day. Many times a day."
McCoy held his gaze despite how difficult it was. No one could truly know the suffering of another, but it was important to the Doctor that the Ensign understand McCoy would have been willing to go there with him if it was possible.
Chekov's eyes narrowed and he tilted his head as he studied the Doctor carefully. He smiled then: a slow, sly smirk. "You know, Dr. Bob was simply freeing up his medical staff by having me do it myself."
"Good," the Doctor responded quickly. "Than you won't have any problem pitching in here." He didn't mention the haunted memory he saw in the brown eyes and silently marveled at the kid's skillful ability to swiftly turn the situation around with humor.
"They didn't trust me."
"It only works as a two way street," McCoy attested. "For a complete, initial physical," he continued, "Starfleet requires an entire host of samples for various tests. Probably just to annoy both of us," he rasped good-humoredly.
"There's the hypo: it's set to collect, not administer. The vials are there and they match the settings on the hypo. I'm sure you can figure it out, I'm told you're a bright boy.
"I'll be back soon," McCoy added over his shoulder as he disappeared back into his office. He sat down heavily and stared at the blank computer monitor, as if he could see the new Ensign's medical file there. The Doctor had reread it so often that he practically could.
There wasn't any doubt in his mind that Dr. Robert Chapman had written the truth in the record. While Chekov had charmed Nurse Chapel, McCoy had seen the current of fear and demonic possession in the depths of his dark eyes. The boy was prepared to defend himself against any perceived threat and that spelled danger for all medical personnel.
McCoy knew it was better for everyone concerned: sickbay staff and the kid as well, that he had decided to be the one to deal with him. The Enterprise's Chief Medical Officer was sure that he had secured the key to a successful Doctor/Patient relationship with Chekov. He simply had to let the kid be in control of what they were doing.
Harder than it sounded, such a tack would require constant rethinking and second guessing of the way he did everything. Frankly, McCoy was still afraid of the kid: and he was not above admitting it.
"Bones, how about a coffee break?" Kirk suggested, grabbing onto the doorframe and leaning into the room.
"Sorry, I'm doing a physical." He indicated the exam room beyond his office's one-way observation mirror.
Scant lines furrowed through Kirk's forehead as he watched the young man's activities. "Chekov," he identified. "I didn't realize you had the crew doing their own physicals now," he chided with a wry grin.
"Hell of a time saver," McCoy rasped. "Do you want any advice on how to run the ship?"
With a raised eyebrow, the Captain smirked. "I'd be surprised if you stopped now." He glanced at the new Ensign before continuing, easily recognizing McCoy's off mood. "Is there something I should know about Chekov?"
McCoy hesitated and raised his eyes to his commanding officer. Hell, yes, he thought, wanting desperately to spew out the alarming contents of the medical record. None of the Captain's business, he chided himself dismally, unless it related to ship's business. I want this kid transferred, Jim, he thought vehemently. He takes too much energy: Spock is enough of a headache.
"What I can tell you so far," was his verbal reply, "Is that he's in very good shape physically. A small build, but he's very athletic: quite muscular. He's limber," he added as an afterthought, a glint in his steel blue eyes. "Very limber."
Kirk's scrutiny of his friend turned quizzical. "Limber?"
"Don't ask," McCoy advised with a wry grin. "I'll catch you later, Jim," he added as he got up to rejoin his patient. The Doctor saw that the Ensign had finished his assigned task and it didn't seem particularly wise to leave Chekov unoccupied for too long.
"All set?" he asked as he examined the tray. It was not only complete but in meticulous order: much better than required. The Doctor recognized it as another hint into the kid's obsessive personality quirks. "Looks good," he commented.
McCoy turned to place the tray aside, but the man's clear voice made him hesitate.
"This is a clause in our contract?"
The Doctor gave him a sidelong glance, studying the deep brown eyes and the tentative curiosity in them. He nodded after a moment. "Yes," he agreed. "Our contract. I'll tell you what I need to do and why."
Straightening noticeably, this idea seemed to set well with the Navigator. "And you will have me perform anything I am able to do myself?"
"Hell of a time saver," McCoy said again. "Of course, you can refuse any procedure." He leaned in closer to the Ensign. "Then I'll tell you why I'm doing it anyway.
"Lie down," he added as he turned away. "We'll get through the rest of this as quickly as possible. Then you can come back later for the second half of the exam, when I've gone over the results."
Chekov's head shot up, clear horror deep in his eyes as he glared at the Doctor. "Come back?"
"Get used to it, boy. Lie down," McCoy snarled. He actually pushed the man's head back down. Despite himself, his hand still trembled slightly when he touched the man.