Rating: PG-13 for language

Disclaimer: Would love to own ST, but I just borrow the characters and return them intact

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The fact that Jim hadn't offered more than token resistance to the exam spoke volumes about the extent – or at least the pain associated with – his injuries. Of course, Jim was like most Starfleet personnel McCoy had run across in the past three years in that he viewed a visit to medical as a sign of personal weakness. This attribute was so common among the command types that Starfleet Medical had designed a special course on just that subject. McCoy had taken it. A few more days with Kirk as Acting Captain and he'd not only be able to teach the course but write the whole damned book.

He pointed at the diagnostic bed. "Sit down and take off your shirt."

"I bet that line goes over well with your female patients."

McCoy smiled. "Medicine has its perks." In addition to the banter, there was a reason behind the request. Although his mediscanner could take readings through clothing, the act of removing a uniform tunic involved the use of multiple body parts and muscles and thus invariably caused the patient to reveal how seriously he was hurting. In Jim's case, the process elicited more than a few winces and at least one hiss.

"Feeling fine, my ass." McCoy couldn't help but grimace at the mottling of black, blue and red that covered Jim's torso. He stepped around the exam table to get a look at Jim's back – more of the same.

He grabbed a scanner from the bedside table, ignoring the evil glare from Jim, who hated the thing almost as much as the hypospray, probably because the scanner inevitably led to the hypospray. Starting at Jim's head, he slowly worked his way downward. Clucking sounds, punctuated by sighs, emerged from his mouth as the scanner reported its results. Individually, none of the injuries was life-threatening but the sheer number of them made him wince sympathetically with the pain Jim had obviously endured. He cursed himself for not seeing to Kirk earlier – yeah, he'd been focused on the more seriously injured Pike but in the future couldn't forget that the acting captain was always his primary responsibility.

McCoy put down the scanner and allowed his hands to probe Jim's injured neck and shoulder. In addition to seeing his patient's injuries, McCoy was a firm believer in the power of touch, both to diagnose and to comfort his patients. Unlike most patients, however, Jim was always restless beneath his fingers.

"Dammit, Bones. Enough already." Jim tried to push his hands away.

He just as insistently replaced them. "It's enough when I'm finished, not before. Now be still so I can finish. I do have other patients, you know."

McCoy was rewarded with a scowl but at least Jim let him continue his examination. There was one last thing he needed to check. From the minute Jim had hoisted himself onto the exam table, he'd clearly been favoring his right side and now sat in a position that minimized pressure on his hip. "I want to take a look at your hip and then we'll be done."

"You've already scanned it. Come on, Bones, I'm Acting Captain. Busy man, you know."

No time like the present to lay down some ground rules. He crossed his arms and favored Jim with the stern chief surgeon face he'd used to terrify interns in Atlanta. "Scanners don't show everything. I want to see it."

Jim glared at him, furious. McCoy met his eyes with a look that said, not working.

"You're a bastard, you know that."

Yeah, that's what my ex-wife always called me. To Jim, he replied simply, "So I've been told."

McCoy waited until Jim had positioned himself on his left side and pulled down his shorts, allowing him access to the injured region. Bruising went deep to the bone but, thankfully, no fractures, dislocation, or serious lacerations. Satisfied, he helped Jim sit up. "You'll live," he said, with a wry grimace.

Jim reached for his shirt. "Great. Then I'm out of here. Let me know when Captain Pike—"

McCoy pulled him back onto the table. "Not so fast. I said you'd live, not that you were fine. You need about two days of treatment—"

"Bones, I can't stay here." Jim's voice had taken on an almost pleading tone. "The Enterprisecan't have both of its COs in medical. I've been doing okay so far – a little while more won't kill me."

"A little while more just might kill you." McCoy tried not to let his fatigue and exasperation creep into his voice. The only way to deal with Kirk when he started acting like this was to remain firm and tenacious. "Jim, your injuries need treatment. Without it, they're going to get worse and you'll spend ten days in here, not two."

"Can't we do this in my quarters?"

"What quarters?"

"Ha, ha. Don't give up your day job."

"I'm trying to do my day job." Still, Jim had a point. It wasn't great for morale to have both captains in medical and a first officer who was still reeling from the loss of his mother, not to mention his entire planet. And, while Jim's injuries needed attention, they really weren't life threatening – assuming he didn't get himself into more trouble until they healed. Maybe a compromise was in order. "I'll make you a deal. You give me two hours now to knit those broken bones. And you agree to a mild sedative tonight."

"I can't be knocked out—"

"I said a mild sedative. And you come back twice a day to continue your treatment until I decide you're sufficiently recovered." He shrugged. "Or I admit you. Take your pick."

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24 hours as CMO. Shit. He was too old for this. He'd joined Starfleet because, at the time, it seemed the best way to get as far away as possible from Atlanta, his ex-wife, her friends, his colleagues, and everything else that reminded him of his failed marriage. Some men dealt with mid-life crisis by having an affair or buying a hot new hovercraft. He'd fled the galaxy. Go figure.

True to his word, Jim had surrendered to medical treatment without too much complaining. McCoy had focused on the worst of it – knitting rib and phalange fractures as well as closing a couple of lacerations. At the end of exactly 120 minutes, Jim had demanded to be released. There was still more McCoy would have liked to do in terms of treatment, but at least he'd been able to make Jim's physical condition a bit less painful.

"Let me get you an analgesic for when those painkillers wear off."

"Forget it, Bones. Those things turn my head into a fog bank. And if you shoot me with one more hypo. . . ."

McCoy shook his head and held up a skin patch. "Not as good as the hypo but it will take the edge off. And it won't dull your obnoxious personality one bit."

Jim eyed the patch suspiciously but allowed it to be attached to his wrist. He started to ease his shirt over his head and seemed pleasantly surprised to find that his body was no longer a mass of pain.

"Treatment helped, didn't it?" McCoy asked smugly.

"Well, I assumed you weren't going to make me worse."

It was as close to a compliment as he 'd get. "They found quarters for you on Deck 4 -- 414B." He handed Jim a small vial. "Sedative. It won't knock you out – just help you get a decent eight hours sleep."

Jim had accepted it with the look of a man who had no intention of actually taking it.

"Jim, you will take that. The alternative is a hypo and a medical bay bed."

Much to McCoy's surprise, when he'd checked on Kirk later that evening, using the medical override to enter his quarters, he'd found the Acting Captain sound asleep. Sedative or not, the result was satisfactory.

Now, McCoy leaned back in his office chair and stretched. A quick glance at his computer revealed that all of his patients were asleep. Pike's condition had stabilized to the point where the nurses could handle the occasional blips in body functions. He judged that, based on the medications Pike had been given to date – probably only a few short of the entire onboard pharmacy – he too would sleep for at least the next eight hours.

Pike's neuro tests remained a source of concern. They weren't terrible; they just seemed "off." He'd be hard pressed to explain how or why; it was just a sense that something wasn't right – an impression based on experience. The science department had yet to come up with more information on the arthropod and McCoy wasn't a neuro specialist. He'd considered contacting the experts at Starfleet Medical but, until Pike was awake, there wasn't much he could say other than a CMO with 24 hours experience had a "hunch" that something was wrong.

McCoy took inventory of his "to do" list, starting with autopsies of crewmembers killed in the Romulan attack. Starfleet believed there was something to be learned from understanding how an enemy weapon penetrated the human, or non-human body. Glad somebody thought so. In McCoy's view, there wasn't much question what had killed them or much of them left to autopsy for that matter.

He needed to dictate surgical notes for Pike and review his staff's charting for the other patients still in the medical bay. Needed to update Kirk's file to reflect his injuries and treatment. Then there was the routine stuff – sanitation checks, arranging for grief counseling, and the daily medical report for the First Officer. He probably should have a staff meeting for what was now his staff. And probably another half dozen things that must not be too important because he couldn't think of what they were.

Most of it could wait. As the only MD aboard, he needed to take advantage of the fact his patients were sleeping to get some sleep himself. Pike would likely awaken in the morning and that would demand his full attention. He'd finish up surgical notes on Pike and medical notes on Jim, and still have time to grab dinner and a few hours of shut-eye.

The immediate question was where he was going to sack out. His assigned quarters were too far from the medical bay for his liking. Puri's were only a few doors away but he wasn't ready to sleep in his dead boss' bed. He'd have to get the quartermaster to find him a cot so he could sleep in his office. One more item on his list.

Right now, he could really use a drink. But Dr. Puri either didn't drink or didn't store alcohol in the office and he was too tired to go back to his cabin for his own stash. Better to go without it. He poured himself another glass of water and hit the dictation switch.

"Medical Record for Pike, Christopher. Patient was admitted to the medical bay following rescue from a Romulan warship where he had been held captive for approximately 24 hours. Initial assessment revealed . . ."