So, I've decided to continiue this and get rid of all the pictures and scenes dancing about in my head.

Once again, they get him into trouble. With a firefight looming ahread, McCoy realizes he truly is a docor, not a soldier.

Word Count: 1,962

Do Harm

And never do harm to anyone.

That very translation of the Oath might have been outdated, but to him, it was the general message. I was natural – of course he wouldn't do harm, he was becoming a doctor and no butcher, after all.

He spoke those words a second time when he graduated at Starfleet Academy, and they still sounded simple, then. Almost natural.

McCoy had been a good doctor and a good surgeon for humans, and now, he was a good doctor and surgeon for aliens, too. He had taken dozens of courses in Xenobiology. He had spent more time sampling and analyzing the specialties of his future patients in the crew and had prepared himself better than practically every other doctor on any other tin-can out there. He had spent hours practicing and trying things out in Holo-simulations, had read – and even written – so much literature he was certain his brain had letters on it, by now.

All of that to help and heal and never to do harm.

And then, the tin-can launched to stay up and out there making new contacts and suddenly, the oath not to do harm had become one of the most difficult things in his life.

He watched as Jim picked up the rapid-fire assault rifle and switched the safety off, watched as Spock – the ultimate pacifist, the man who would defend the life of acid-coated, crawling rocks, creatures that consisted mostly of teeth and claws, of furry moths, tribbles and anything at least remotely sentient one could think of against everyone else, including Jim, if necessary – did the same.

The gun in his hands felt cold and heavy and somehow evil.

He was no soldier. He was trained to deal with victims of assaults of any kind. He was trained to cut out shards and shrapnel and knives out of bodies. He was trained to patch up soldiers after battle. He wasn't trained to pick up a gun and walk into battle.

Also…This was no civilized, little phaser. This would disintegrate its target in the ugliest way possible. This would not leave cauterized holes, this would tear through flesh and bone, would spread blood, tear limbs off and pulverize heads. This would not be set to stun, this would kill.

He wished he had not studied the impact of old-fashioned, bullet-loaded guns. If he hadn't seen the pictures – photographs and videos from earth's and other planet's wars – he would not know what he held in his hands.

His palms became sweaty. He looked up at the other two men and wondered: Did they know what they held in their hands? Did they know what would happen if they pulled the trigger? Would they be shocked to hear the sound of a bullet being fired if they did, to see the victim being perforated to die screaming and bleeding? Or rather: did they know and were trained to do it anyway?

Was Jim, the man who would break every law from Fleet's to physics' to save his friends' and crew's lives, ready to order slaughter?

"….then," Jim said, and McCoy suddenly became aware he had been speaking all along. "Ready, Bones?"

He nodded, even though he really wasn't. Spock seemed content with that – he looked away and at the door, easily holding the heavy gun with one hand – but Jim looked at him, frowning, and McCoy knew him well enough to see the worry in his face. He'd been scanned by those piercing eyes often enough.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," he snapped, trying not to let his voice shake, burying his horror and disgust in anger. "An' when you're done with that, git your ass movin'! I wanna be out of here when this bastards come back!"

"Screaming at your Captain will not help this situation, Doctor," Spock calmly intoned. "Neither will giving in to your…"

"Will you shut up for once you…" He was more than ready to forget what he was about to do, or at least to delay it, by starting a full-on shouting match with that haughty, hypocritical, wannabe-pacifist space-elf; but Jim ruined it by clapping his hands, once, sharply, and much louder than it should have been.

"That's enough, both of you. Mr. Spock, open that door. Dr. McCoy, you bring up the rear. We'll go fast, no stopping, no hesitation. They won't show us mercy…." He trailed of, but McCoy knew what he had meant to say. "Bones, get that gun ready. You might need it."

McCoy looked at the ugly killing machine in his hands, feeling almost furious hatred against it. The safety was still on. He took a deep breath and switched it off. Readied it to kill. They had a right to harm those people. Pirates. Slave traders. Formerly federation. Former fleet, partially. Now terrorizing this outpost…they had a right to meet violence with violence…had a right, a permission to kill…

His hands shook when he stepped out of their shelter right behind Jim, barely seeing where he was stepping, and the rest of it was a blur, following the two combat-trained officers through corridors and streets and later, he couldn't have said how any of it had looked to save his life.

All he remembered was the warming metal in his hands, its heaviness, and their steps, multiplying in a way that had him thinking their potential targets were lining up just around the corner.

He did not fire a shot that day. None of them did.

The first time McCoy would kill was, though he did not know yet, still seven months ahead, and then he would do it with a phaser, and it would be to save Jim's life. After that, he would start to prepare himself for those situations, would begin to use the Holodeck to harden himself against the dangers that awaited them.

But that day, as soon as they were off the planet and back on the ship, all he could do was not to instantly drop the gun onto the transporter pad. Instead, he pressed it into Sulu's hands (whose eyes took on a very disturbing gleam), and simply walked off, making his way back to sickbay to sign out for the rest of the day and then retreated into his quarters to blend the world out for a while.

Only the world didn't blend him out in return. No five minutes later, Jim appeared in his doorframe without ringing first, his usually piercing eyes soft with concern. He didn't say anything, he just sat onto a chair and waited.

Instead of acknowledging him, McCoy stood up, slowly poured himself a drink – the first one for this evening, he had felt too sick to touch anything so far – and sat back down onto his bunk.

Jim's brows drew together a little further – another expression McCoy saw more and more often since Jim had taken this damned post on this damned ship, and the finally showing signs of maturity should be good, but instead they just reminded him what exactly they were losing here, every day – but still, he kept silent.

When it had been silent for too long, he waved his still untouched glass in a wide curve towards the ceiling. "Shouldn't you be up there…Captainin'?"

"Spock can handle it," Jim calmly answered. His voice was expressionless, a trick he must have picked up from said hobgoblin.

"Yeah, good call, maybe he'll make someone cry this time," he grouched back, but there was no real venom behind it. It was a try, and a rather pathetic one, too, to get the topic off him and back to their familiar every-day banter and they both knew it.

"Then I'll deal with that later," Jim said, his lips twitching, but his face became serious just as fast. "Bones, listen, I know that stressed you today and…"

"Jim, if we had…would you really have just killed them?"

Instead of answering, Jim leaned forward, placed his elbows on his thighs and locked his clasped hands between his knees. He faced downward, but his shoulders were straight. He was ready to defend the decision he had just made.

"Bones, I…did not want to kill anyone. But if they had captured us?"

McCoy opened his mouth, but before he could talk, Jim stopped him with a raised hand, something he had never done before, but what really shut him up was the expression in his eyes, how sparkling blue had suddenly become iced steel.

"If they had captured us, opposed to just gunning us down, they either would have tried to use us as hostages against Starfleet or they would have sold us. Me, as a Captain of a Fleet vessel, I'd probably have ended up with the Klingons. You, as my Doctor and friend, maybe too. And Spock most likely would have wound up on an Orion black market being sold to the highest bidder. As they did to anyone else they captured so far."

And no matter how much did he want to tell Jim he was exaggerating and could can this pathetic speech, he couldn't. Jim was right. Had they been caught, the rest of their lives probably wouldn't have been pretty.

"We still had the ship," he finally said.

"And we could have used the ship's stun setting?" Jim smiled ruefully and shook his head. "Her Phasers aren't that precise. We would have had to stun the entire block…and there were civilians there. People driving and standing on ladders and in front of stoves..."

"Yeah, I get it," he snapped before he could stop himself. "A lot of reasons to use machine guns."

"That's not fair, Leonard."

Taken aback, McCoy stared at him. He could barely remember when Jim had last used his name.

"I didn't look for reasons to kill. I made a decision to defend our lives."

"Jim, I…" McCoy shook his head and shuffled forward, horrified at how his friend had taken his words. "I didn't mean it like that. You know I didn't mean it like that. I'm just…" He leaned back and gestured wildly, almost sloshing his drink all over himself and his bed. "I'm no soldier, Jim. I'm not…not trained for this."

Jim sighed and finally, this foreign hardness vanished from his eyes. "I know, man. I'm worn out, too. And I'm sorry I dragged you into this today. I shouldn't have ordered you to come along when I knew we could get into gunfights – I should have sent the saved captives up to you when we were done…that is, if there had been any."

"'s okay, kid." Finally, he downed his shot and stood up to refill his glass. "Nothing happened, no harm done. I'm just overreacting a little. Want one, too?"

Jim grinned ruefully and shook his head. "Officially, I'm still on duty."

…and how could he be angry with this guy, who left his post and would have to work extra-hours afterwards just to see after a friend?

"Then get going an' reclaim your ship before the hobgoblin gets too comfortable in your chair," he growled, making a sharp, shooing motion into his direction and when Jim's face still was soft and worried, he rolled his eyes. "I'm fine Jim. Just gimme a day to come down, will you?"

Jim stood up and grinned broadly. "You know, 'fine' has many variable…"

"Get out!"

Laughing, Jim danced out of his quarters before McCoy could hit him with the Padd he was threatingly waving into his direction, and he slumped back into the chair Jim had just left, feeling more exasperated than ever before.

Exasperated…but better.

Still, for weeks, he could not suppress the wave of disgusted hatred that chocked him every time he saw somebody waving around one of those dreadful phasers.

Honestly, I had doubts about this piece. I can't seem to get Jim's voice right.

This is set before 'The Man Trap' (In wich McCoy kills a salt-vampire who has taken the form of a former girlfriend of his) and seeing how severly he reacted there, I guess he would have reacted pretty badly to a gunfight before that. I imagined it set after STID, but you can read it as set between the movies.

Liked it? Hated it? Please comment!

Lots of Love, KandyKitten