The second time he asks the question, it's just a month or so after the Enterprise defeats Nero and the crew pretty much saves the entire world. Everyone seems settled in after a couple days and McCoy finds he rather enjoys his new position as Chief Medical Officer. The job's a little hectic at the moment, what with filing out paperwork for every new crew member and all, but it keeps him busy enough.
He's doing his daily rounds on his patients when an injured teenager comes shuffling into medbay, his right hand gingerly cradling his left arm. McCoy recognizes the boy instantly. It's Ensign Chekov; the navigator from the bridge. McCoy hasn't had much interaction from anyone outside of medbay in the past few weeks. It's even been days since he's seen Kirk, whose annoying banter McCoy begrudgingly admits he's begun to miss. He makes a mental note to head up there later and check in on everyone.
For the time being, he focuses his attention on his latest patient. Chekov is awkwardly standing at the edge of the entrance, sheepishly glancing around in search of someone who can help.
"Mr. Chekov," McCoy calls.
Chekov glances up and a look of relief crosses his face as he finally sees someone he recognizes. McCoy motions for Chekov to come meet him by one of the empty beds. He watches as Chekov moves slowly; taking tiny steps as he goes along to make very sure his left arm doesn't move.
McCoy pats the edge of the biobed and Chekov gingerly begins to lift himself onto it. He cries out suddenly as his left arm hits the edge and his right hand slips. McCoy quickly catches him before he can tumble forward.
"Easy, kid," he instructs as he helps lift the boy carefully onto the bed. Chekov winces as he struggles to sit up without jostling his arm.
"Sorry," Chekov mumbles.
"No need to apologize," McCoy responds. He reaches for the tricorder at his side. As he goes to perform a preliminary scan, he notices the dirt and grease smeared all across Chekov's shirt.
"Jesus, kid, what did you do? Fall into the garbage chute?"
Chekov casts a glance down at his uniform and his cheeks begin to flush in embarrassment.
"No, I…I have been helping Mister Scott in engineering the past few days. I didn't have a chance to change before I came here. Mister Scott was very clear that I not stop anywhere else and that I come straight here."
McCoy internally laughs thinking about that; wondering what kind of threat Scotty had laid upon the poor kid should he try and skip out on getting his injury treated. A quick beep indicates the tricorder is finished its scan.
"Well it's a good thing you did come straight here," McCoy says as he reads down the scan results. "Looks like you pulled your arm clean out of its socket. How the hell did you manage that?"
Chekov purses his lips, hesitant to answer. He begins messing with the hem of his sleeve.
"Fell," he replies without making eye contact.
McCoy raises an eyebrow, not believing that excuse for one second.
"How'd you fall?"
"Tripped."
"Uh huh," McCoy says skeptically. "So you just happened to trip, fall, and dislocate your shoulder all by yourself?"
Chekov does not answer, but has since stopped fumbling with the ends of his shirt.
"You wanna go ahead and tell me what really happened?"
Chekov hesitates for a moment before sighing. He stares at the floor.
"You cannot tell Mister Scott," he whispers.
"Patient confidentiality," McCoy says. "What's said here stays here."
"One of the other engineers-he…well, he wasn't happy because Mister Scott had assigned me to shadow him for the day. I didn't mean to impose on his authority... I thought I was helping him when I pointed out a mistake. It...it was stupid to do so. I shouldn't have said anything, but he-well I suppose he was very irritated about it so…"
"So he took it out on you," McCoy finishes, already fuming. What jackass takes his problems out on a teenager? And physically at that?
Chekov fumbles again with the sleeve of his shirt and mumbles a barely audible "yes".
McCoy's jaw clenches and he straightens up.
"Please," Chekov begs, wide eyes pleading with a youthful innocence that instantly wakes a fierce protective instinct within McCoy. "You cannot tell anyone. It will only make things worse and I do not want Mister Scott to remove me from duty."
"I can't exactly turn my head when I know another crewman attacked you, kid. Not to mention if I lie on the medical report and get caught? Then we're both up shit creek for failure to report an incident like this. Me especially. I don't fancy losing my position just because you don't want to make a fuss over something that you very well should be making a fuss over."
Chekov gears up to argue again but stops short when he sees McCoy sternly cross his arms. He sighs, head dropping along with the last ounce of protest he has left. McCoy feels like he's just delivered a debilitating kick to an already limping puppy and it goes without saying that the notion of such does not feel great.
Damn it, he thinks. He sighs, reaching over to grab a med kit so he can start treating the kid's injury.
"Look," McCoy says, prepping a hypospray. "I know you'd rather just keep this whole thing on the down low and ignore that it ever happened, but I do have to fill out a report. And I can't just say someone physically assaulted you and not list a name when you know who it is. But, I'll make sure only the necessary people know about this, okay? The less drama the better anyway."
Chekov thinks on it for a moment before giving a small half-smile.
"Thank you," he says.
McCoy nods.
A few seconds of silence pass as McCoy fills and sets the hypospray. He wants to delve deeper into the incident, but he supposes he can have that talk later. Instead, he opts for a different topic of discussion.
"So…engineering duty?" He asks curiously. "Didn't really peg you as the hands-on type. Bridge not all it's cracked up to be?"
Chekov shakes his head.
"I love working on the bridge," he says. "Very much so. Navigation is what I enjoy. Charting stars and nebulas and galaxies; it is all I dreamed of. And more."
McCoy doesn't miss the excitement and wonder in the boy's voice. He sometimes forgets what passion like that feels like. Then again, it's been a while since he was that young. That hopeful.
Chekov continues.
"But I also love engineering. Learning how everything works; how everything lives. It is something that has interested me ever since I was young."
Younger, McCoy thinks. Jesus, how old does this kid even think he is?
"So when Mister Scott offered to teach me, I could not say no. I have only been learning for two weeks and already I know more about this ship than I ever imagined."
McCoy injects the hypospray on the shoulder of Chekov's injured arm.
"For the pain," he says, tossing the tube in the nearest garbage bin. "Well, sounds like you've got a pretty nice setup with Scotty then. I honestly doubt he'll ban you from down there over something that wasn't even your fault, kid."
Chekov does his best one-shouldered shrug.
"I hope so."
McCoy closes his med kit and sets it on an adjacent tabletop. They've unfortunately reached the least pleasant part of tending to a dislocated shoulder.
"So now comes the time for me to return your arm to its rightful place," he says.
Chekov's eyes widen ever so slightly.
"I'll be quick," McCoy reassures him as best he can. Chekov nods and squeezes his eyes shut as McCoy puts one hand on the kid's wrist and the other on his abdomen for support.
"3…2…"
He feels Chekov tense beneath his grip and suddenly, just as before, McCoy has a moment of hesitation as he remembers the tactic he used on Jim that one time at the Academy. He guesses it wouldn't hurt to try it again.
"Actually," McCoy says, and instantly Chekov relaxes with a relieved sigh. "I just have a quick question for you before I do this."
Thoroughly puzzled, Chekov looks to the doctor expectantly.
"What's your favorite color?"
"Favorite…what? Doctor McCoy I-"
And suddenly McCoy yanks Chekov's arm down 90 degrees until he feels the bone slip snuggly back into place.
He's glad he has free use of both hands following that because he's most certainly sure he'd go deaf if he didn't. The close proximity coupled with the kid's surprisingly strong lungs has McCoy pressing both hands over his ears so tightly he's pretty sure he's created an airless vacuum inside his head. The kid screams for a good three or four straight seconds. When Chekov finally stops, McCoy hesitantly removes his hands from his ears.
Chekov whispers something in Russian and, from the forceful venom behind the words, McCoy can safely assume it's some kind of swear.
"It's supposed to hurt less if you don't know it's coming," McCoy explains.
Chekov glances up, expression halfway between overwhelming pain and incredulous disbelief.
"Yeah, Jim didn't really buy that either," McCoy admits. "But hey, it's over and done with now, right?"
Chekov grumbles something inaudibly and rubs his sure to be sore arm.
"You say something, kid?" McCoy asks.
Chekov doesn't hesitate this time when speaking.
"Asking that question because you thought it would be less painful was…"
"Ineffective?"
"I was going to say: 'stupid'," Chekov replies. "But I suppose that works too."
And McCoy can't help but laugh at that. He heads towards the supply closet to grab another sedative for pain. Kid has a little fire to his personality after all, he thinks. It actually almost reminds him of Jim.
That thought stops McCoy cold in his tracks and he whips his head back to stare at Chekov, who has begun to swing his legs and absentmindedly glance around the room. Surely Kirk, the energetic troublemaker and eternal strain on McCoy's psyche and sanity wouldn't greatly influence this young, highly impressionable, and eager-to-please teenager. Right?
McCoy can only pray.
