It's a well known fact that Doctors, of any day and age become used to their schedules being interrupted. McCoy expected it or he never would have gone to medical school. Mind you, when he joined Starfleet that happened less and less, even as chief medical officer, he had a team of well trained physician's under him, and unless it was a crisis he was perfectly willing to let them take their turn, he was no good to anyone worn to a frazzle.
He hadn't been woken up in the middle of the night by a tentative hand on his shoulder since he'd left his little girl back in the states.
"Doctor."
He tried to bury his face deeper into the pillow, stubble scratching on the cool sheets. But the hand was just as persistent as any six year olds, tapping gently on his shoulder. As the soft rumbling voice, deeper from sleep, interrupted him.
"Dr. McCoy, it is most urgent that you awaken and come with me at once."
He groaned so that his own morning breath swept in warm clouds over his face.
"Leave me alone."
"I cannot, Doctor. You must come with me now. "
There was a definite steel tone to that voice, but he was too grumpy and sleepy to think of anything but the few precious hours of peaceful darkness he would never get.
"Go away, Spock. There is this little thing called sleep that we humans like to do sometimes. It keeps us from acting like bears in the morning."
"In your case I don't note much difference," came the familiar insult, but the Vulcan cut it short. "It is most urgent that you get up now."
McCoy sat straight up, propping himself up with his arms and glaring blearily at the first officer. Spock never used that voice, it was on the edge of emotion, quivering on the very border between Humanity, and Vulcan discipline.
"What's wrong?" he demanded from the pale face, hovering before him under its dark cap of hair, eyes and other features hidden in shadows.
Spock's answer was oddly short and simple, almost childlike, and urgent with concern.
"Jim is sick."
The Jim boy was sick. In fact their captain was leaning over the primitive toilet, doing his best to make his insides his outsides. His officers stood forlornly in the hallway, watching the spectacle before McCoy remembered that he was a Doctor, and knelt beside the suffering man.
"Aw Jim…it's alright boy, let it all out."
Jim didn't need any encouragement, but he moaned helpfully to let Bones know of his condition.
He put his arm around the heaving shoulders and turned back to Spock, who stood awkwardly in the hall, hands locked behind him. "How long has he been like this, Spock?"
"I do not know," said the Vulcan, sadly. "But judging from the accumulation of debris and gastric—"
Jim retched and McCoy glared at the unhelpful science officer. "Thanks for that Spock…heaven only knows why they used to make these toilets out of white porcelain…" and as Jim whimpered, "It's gonna be alright Jim. Don't just stand there like a Vulcan lump, Spock. Make yourself useful." Worry made the medic gruff.
"I admit that I am unfamiliar with this type of illness, Dr. McCoy…"
"Just get me a wet cloth!"
Spock turned on his heel into the darkened apartment, heading for the kitchen.
McCoy turned back to his patient, patting the sweat-soaked back of the tunic. Jim's stomach was giving him a brief respite and he sat slumped against the toilet, gasping for breath and gagging at the foul taste in his mouth. It was a shame they were not on the enterprise, the advanced medical equipment would have made this whole messy process totally unnecessary, and no doubt Jim was unused to it.
"I know it looks bad, but it's gonna be okay."
"Bones…please stop…I'm gonna—" whatever Kirk meant was lost in another unpleasant reflex, and after it was done Bones flushed the toilet, wrinkling his nose. Jim sure could pack away a lot of food in that dense frame of his.
The Captain leaned exhaustedly, pressing his head against the cool porcelain. Spock returned at that same moment, brandishing a damp cloth. To his everlasting credit in McCoy's eyes, he made no sign of smelling anything at all.
"Thanks," McCoy took the cloth and used it to wipe Jim's running, clammy face. He looked like a bit of unbaked dough that 'd been left out too long and was starting to turn grey. He groaned eloquently.
"Bones…wha's wrong with me?"
"Looks like stomach flu to me, Jim."
"No doubt a primitive viral strain, Captain. One that would have been extinct on earth by now."
"Wonderful," moaned the Captian, voice echoing in the now empty bowl.
"Do you think you're going to let up any more?" McCoy asked gently. He wanted to move Jim as soon as possible, the tiled floor was cold, and would do nothing for a shivering, sweating patient.
"I don't want to move," choked out Kirk, curling up to illustrate the point. Bones noticed one arm was completely wrapped around the taught stomach.
"Does it ache down here?" McCoy asked, gently probing, more than muscle strain?"
Jim nodded tightly.
"Yeah its some sort of stomach virus. We need to get you laid out, Jim, and relaxed. You'll feel much better…"
Kirk let out a muffled noise at the prospect but didn't object as the Doctor took hold of his arm.
"Spock…"
The Vulcan jerked his head, slightly surprised. His eyes had been fixed on Jim, and his brows were drawn in a dark, narrow line.
McCoy blinked but said nothing about it. "Help me get him to his feet."
Spock moved readily to the Captain's other side, prised his hand off the toilet seat and lifted.
The moment Kirk began to uncurl he let out a heartfelt whimper and collapsed, trying to pull his legs up into his stomach. Spock froze instantly, he raised cautionary eyes to the Doctor.
"I do not think this action is advisable, McCoy."
"He can't stay here on the floor. He needs to lie down, or his body will just get more stressed," snapped Bones, who looked just as reluctant and nearly as pained as Jim himself.
"Affirmative. But if you will permit me, I have a more plausible solution to the dilemma."
And without waiting for approval, Spock released Jim's arm, weaved his own beneath the Captain's shoulders, and hooked the other beneath the buckled legs.
"Spock," murmured Bones, half in surprise, half in caution, but made no move to interrupt.
The Vulcan lifted the human easily, and slowly, so as not to upset his stomach further. Kirk settled awkwardly, but gently into his arms, holding his stomach and moaning again.
McCoy hurried ahead to ready Jim's bed as Spock followed behind, they moved like this sometimes, in unison without discussion, especially in times of JimCrisis.
The room was primitive, like everything else on this gangster-run planet. But it was regularly cleaned and comfortably furnished. There was even a dresser with a bowl, a pitcher, and a mirror on one side. It was in this that McCoy found a too-large set of old fashioned flannel pajamas. He pulled them out as Spock set the Captain on the bed.
"Lets get these on him, Spock. He's soaked."
The Vulcan examined the clothing with a dubious eyebrow, but silently obeyed, helping to relieve the captain of his command tunic, shirt and trousers before redressing him.
Kirk moaned through much of this operation, and in fact it seemed to agitate him more than the move from the bathroom had done. He was curled into a ball now, and holding his stomach tightly.
McCoy sat on the bed and took out the med-scanner to examine him. Jim even groaned at the dip in the mattress.
"I feel horrible."
"I know, Jim."
"What kind of…universe is this…there's no reason for it." this too trailed off into a moan. It was not one of kirk's more inspiring speeches.
"Nature's way I suppose. Just try to relax."
Jim let out a whimpering laugh at what he obviously considered a very ironic statement and tried to curl up tighter around the agonizingly cramped stomach muscles, to smother them out.
McCoy scanned him, familiar whirring (which was not of much comfort at this point) filled the air, and the Doctor turned grimly to his medical kit.
"I can treat it, Jim. Keep it from getting worse. But I don't actually have anything to get rid of it. You're body will have to do that itself." He took out a hypospray, pressed it into the slick neck…and that was it. No change, no relief accompanied the injection. Kirk muffled another drawn-out noise of pain as the deep ache continued to tear apart his stomach and everything else just below his ribcage. He was still nauseous, as though he could be sick again any moment, but he dreaded the release of such an action for the pain it would bring to his stomach. His skin was slick and cold and disgusting. He felt rotten from the inside out, and tucked his face into the pillow, wishing for death if it only meant an end to this horrible, primitive experience.
Spock, who had been hovering beside the bed, now seated himself on the side opposite McCoy. He put a hand on the Captain's shoulder…and Jim could have cried from the warmth and firmness that touch brought, even more than McCoy's steady pats on his back. His first officer was a rock, a wonderful sun-warmed rock in a sea of nauseating waves, and he clung to the sensation gratefully.