Amelia Fairchild
One difference that a starship has from a Deep Space station or a Federation colony is that a starship, no matter how large, can be claustrophobic. You're trapped hurtling through space at warp speed and there's no easy way to get off. Freighters don't dock at starships, nor can you just walk until you reach the end of civilization. It's taken Amelia Fairchild some getting used to, but over the past six weeks since her arrival, she's mostly adjusted. One thing she hasn't adjusted to, however? How thin the walls are between sickbay and her office.
It's to be expected. You have to walk through sickbay to get to her office, so there would be some overlap in what you hear. Today, as she uses a free hour in her schedule to go over some paperwork for a report (most people are circulating in for their first therapy session at this point), she can't help but overhear a muffled disturbance from sickbay.
"Doctor, is this really necessary? This…" The person on the other side of the wall hesitates, voice dripping with disdain. "Medication?"
"I wouldn't be administering it if it wasn't, Mr. Chekov." Chekov… ah. She remembers him.
"Because Counselor Fairchild thinks I'm a little anxious." No, that's not accurate. She thinks he's very anxious. Enough to recommend him for medication management and continued counseling.
"That's right. Now, hold still." Despite being on the other side of the wall, she grimaces. No one enjoys being hyposprayed. Or at least, she doesn't. "There. You should begin feeling the effects sometime today. They'll last for the rest of the month, and then we can reassess if you need a dosage change."
"You know Doctor, you don't even like Counselor Fairchild. So why-"
"Liking her has nothing to do with it, Chekov. I agree with her diagnosis from a medical standpoint as well, and even if I didn't, she's the psychologist." Chekov mutters something quiet, and all she can make out is the word 'shrink'. "Now, none of that. You can leave that attitude about psychology in the twentieth century where it belongs. Counselor Fairchild spent eight years of her life learning her specialty. That takes a hell of a lot of dedication, so it's safe to say that she takes her job seriously. That includes recommending patients for medication management." It's silent for a few moments, then- "How often does she want to see you?"
"Every week."
"It could be worse. If you were really in a bad way, she'd want to see you twice a week."
"So, I'm not crazy?"
"No one on this ship is crazy. Except maybe Mr. Spock." She snickers as she scrolls to a different page on her PADD. Now, that was an interesting assessment to perform.
"What are the effects of this medication, Doctor?"
"It'll just make it a little easier to breathe. Slow those racing thoughts of yours."
"Will it make it more difficult to do my job?"
"It won't make any aspect of your life more difficult. Based on your body chemistry, this is a perfect fit, but if by chance there's any issue, you can always report back here and we'll try a different combination. Now, you're free to return to your station."
Shaking her head to clear it, Amelia turns back to her report. Her esteem for Dr. McCoy just rose by a few points. Until now, she has to admit, she was uncertain about how he'd approach medication management when it came to psychiatric meds. Not that she doubted his ability, but she was concerned that the bedside manner might be lacking. But he put Chekov's fears to rest while maintaining control of the situation. And he showed respect for her job as well, which was unexpected. Maybe they can work together more effectively than she anticipated. Either way, she's willing to try a little harder, give him the benefit of the doubt.
It takes another thirty minutes to put the finishing touches on the last of her reports, but when she's done, she's pleased with them. They're professional but not detached, thorough but not invasive. Overall, she doesn't anticipate any issues when she submits them to the captain. But first, she needs to go over them with McCoy.
He's still in the exam room when she emerges, disposing of the used hypospray. The door sliding open makes him look up from the task at hand. "What can I do for you, Counselor?"
"I have another batch of reports to go over if you have a minute."
"Well, you're in luck. I don't have anyone else scheduled for another hour. My office?" She nods and starts towards the room in question.
His office is the same size as hers, but it feels larger with the lack of oversized chairs. She takes a seat on the other side of his desk and places her PADD where they'll both be able to see it. The man in question steps inside and sits.
"You done with the latest batch?" She nods.
"I am, and it should be the last. Everyone else has either been dismissed with a 'come by as needed' or has a follow-up appointment scheduled." Tapping the screen, she pulls up her patient list. "The plan is to work on a triage basis. Those who are marked in the red column are scheduled first. Those in the yellow will be further out and those in the green get a free pass."
"It's a good system."
"I've used a few different ones over the years, but this is the one that's made the most sense to me, so I keep coming back to it."
"Do you have anyone in the red from the group you've just completed?"
"Three, I'm afraid." She indicates the screen. "Jefferson, Abrams and Menendez."
"That makes sense. I think I flagged all three of them on their yearly physicals."
"You did."
"So, do you want all three to receive medication management, or-"
"That won't be necessary, Doctor. Just Menendez is in need of it. The other two should be okay for now with adequate counseling, but I'll let you know if that changes."
"Just out of curiosity, where did I fall on your list?"
"The yellow column."
"So not good but not bad."
"There isn't really a good or bad. Just different levels of intervention." He chuckles.
"Spoken like a true therapist."
"I try my best." The door to McCoy's office slides open, and Nurse Chapel steps in.
"Doctor-"
"Yes?" Amelia says it at the same time he does and she immediately realizes her mistake. Nurse Chapel ducks her head and offers a sheepish smile.
"I meant Dr. McCoy."
"Of course."
"Doctor, I have the results of the tests you ordered on the Rigelian canine-" Amelia looks down at her PADD, studying it to give them some privacy while they go over the results. It's not a test on a person, so she doesn't feel the need to leave the room, but there's no reason to eavesdrop anymore than she already has today, unintentionally or not.
"Thank you, Nurse." Chapel retreats and McCoy sets down his device. "Have you ever studied the Rigelian canine, Dr. Fairchild?"
"I can't say that I have, Dr. McCoy."
"It's an interesting creature. Smaller than the dogs found on Earth. It has regenerative properties like a starfish. Cut one leg off and it'll regrow."
"Were you interested in it because you were hoping the properties could be transferred to humanoids?" He nods.
"I wasn't overly hopeful. It's more of a hobby." Huh. A doctor with an interest in zoology. "Do you have any?"
"Any what?"
"Hobbies, Fairchild."
"Yes."
"Care to elaborate?" She starts to explain herself, but then stops. The last person she told about her hobbies... no. She'll keep that close to the vest. It's for the best.
"Not particularly."
"You're just an open book, aren't you, Counselor?"
"In my job, I generally ask the questions, Doctor. Not answer them." That provokes a smirk.
"So, what, you can dish it out but you can't take it?"
"Something like that." She scrolls to the next page of her report and pulls up Menendez's file. "I believe Menendez is severely depressed. Combined with what she told me and reports from engineering, I've gathered that her work is suffering. Particularly from loss of concentration."
"She'd lost quite a bit of weight last time I examined her and mentioned that she was having trouble sleeping." Classic signs of depression. "Did she confide in you? Any suicidal thoughts or ideation?"
"Yes, but she insists that it's still passive. She doesn't have a plan. Just wishes she could go to sleep one day and never wake up." His brow knits as he frowns.
"That's still dangerous."
"I thought so too."
"In your opinion, should she be relieved of duty?"
"She's already dealing with feelings of guilt and worthlessness, so I think that would push her, if not completely over the edge, then closer to it. I would recommend reduced hours for now and reevaluate in a few weeks after she's had time to adjust to having medication in her system combined with counseling twice weekly." He nods.
"You write up the recommendation and I'll sign off on it."
"Thank you, Doctor."
"You're welcome, Counselor."
Leonard McCoy
Leonard's first counseling session is scheduled for eleven hundred hours exactly two weeks after his assessment. At ten fifty-five, he finds himself outside the door to Counselor Fairchild's office. Despite not dreading it as much as he dreaded his assessment, he's not exactly looking forward to today's session. It is therapy after all. Much like a visit to the dentist, most people don't find it enjoyable. Especially if they've screwed themselves over by giving surly answers to the intake questions.
This time around, he doesn't have to wait. The doors open at eleven hundred hours on the dot, and a lieutenant he vaguely recognizes steps out, Fairchild close behind him.
"I'll schedule you for a month from now. Does that sound okay?"
"Fine, Counselor." The lieutenant smiles, a gesture that Fairchild returns.
"Alright. And if you need anything before then, feel free to message me." Does she always say that after a session, he wonders.
"Will do."
"Good. Then you're free to return to duty." Giving Fairchild a parting wave, the lieutenant starts towards the sickbay doors. She turns to him, those piercing blue eyes peering up at him.
"Are you ready, Doctor?"
"As ready as I'll ever be, Counselor." She chuckles.
"That's the spirit. Take a seat wherever you like." He chooses the same seat as last time, and like last time, she ignores her desk, instead sitting in the chair almost directly across from him.
"How are you feeling today, Dr. McCoy?"
"I'm fine. Not particularly anxious, if that's what you're asking."
"I'm glad to hear it." She shifts a little in her chair so that her body is facing him full-on. "Normally, I'd ask what brings you here, but in this case, I think I know the answer."
"I was summoned."
"You were. So instead, I'm going to ask you what you expect from counseling." He hasn't thought about that much.
"I guess I expect a lot of probing and personal questions."
"But what do you expect to get out of our meetings?" Nothing. He still doesn't believe he's anxious. Maybe a little edgier than he admitted to during the assessment, but not 'Generalized Anxiety Disorder' anxious.
"To be frank Counselor, I still don't think this is entirely necessary." She starts to reply, but he's faster. "Actually, I was wondering if I could be reassessed. I wasn't entirely truthful when we spoke last time, and I think we could save ourselves a lot of trouble if we just started over."
"I appreciate your honesty now, but I'm afraid that's not possible. If I let you redo your assessment, I'll have to let everyone do that. For now, let's try to work with what we have and reassess in a few months." So much for that idea. "Have you ever been in counseling before?"
"I've never had the pleasure." Sarcasm. He needs to cut that out, or else she'll write down that he's hostile again.
"Well, this is your time to talk about the problems you're facing and together we'll work out a plan to face them. I'll ask questions occasionally to try and guide us through, but you're the one who's ultimately in control here."
"So you're not going to ask me about my childhood trauma or my relationship with my mother?"
"I can if you want, but I usually lull my patients into a state of complacency before I ask the hard-hitting questions."
"Was that a joke, Counselor?" Her lips twitch upwards into a brief smile, and it changes her whole face. She looks… softer, somehow.
"Do you think it was a joke?"
"I wasn't aware you were capable of making them." A few moments pass in silence, and then she asks,
"Would you like to talk about the problem that brings you in today?"
"Apparently, you think I'm anxious."
"Do you think you're anxious?"
"I thought we'd already established that I don't."
"And why is that?"
"Well, I don't have problems concentrating. I'm not experiencing an increased heart rate or sweating. I don't feel like the sky is falling or have any obsessive behaviors."
"Have you noticed any irritability?"
"Only when I breathe. That's more of a personality trait than a symptom."
"I see. What about hypervigilance?"
"Sure, but I'm a doctor. That's part of the job."
"Does it still occur when you're off duty?"
"Yes, but-" There she goes. He was wondering when she was going to start typing. "-I'm the chief medical officer. It's my job to worry about the crew even when I'm off duty."
"Is that what you worry most about? The crew?"
"That and my daughter." And now he's brought Joanna into this.
"I suppose that brings us to the questions about your family. Are your parents still living?"
"My mom is. My dad…" Is a subject he'd rather not discuss. "…he's been gone for years."
"You mentioned your daughter. How old is she?"
"She'll be twenty this year. Her name's Joanna."
"What about her mother?" He sighs.
"We're divorced. Have been since Joanna was little."
"I'm sorry to bring up painful memories."
"It's not painful. Not anymore." Hasn't been in a long time. "I don't have any regrets there. I just wish things were different with Joanna."
"How so?"
"I haven't seen her for three years for one. And even before this mission began, I only saw her in person occasionally. It was mostly just transmissions."
"Is that your choice or hers?" He considers it. Who is to blame for the distance between himself and his daughter? He's her father, so the rational answer is that responsibility falls at his door.
"I could've done a better job at communicating. She used to stay with me whenever I was on shore leave between missions when she was younger. Then she got to the teenage years and didn't want to be uprooted from her life with her mom every few months. We still talked. Sent video transmissions. But they got farther and farther apart and my missions got longer and longer. Eventually they stopped except on birthdays and Christmas."
"Would you like to see that situation change?"
"Of course I would. But-" Should he say it? "-it might be too little too late at this point."
"You won't know that unless you try." Fairchild types something on her PADD. "Would you say it's a goal of yours to improve your relationship with Joanna?"
"I guess so."
"And would you like to work on that goal here? Maybe come up with a plan?" That might not be such a bad idea. The job of a counselor is just that: to counsel. And God knows he could use some good counsel when it comes to Joanna. Still…
"Not right now."
"Alright." It's quiet. Too quiet. Has he stunned her with his unwillingness to accept her help?
"I guess you think that makes me a bad father."
"Do you think you're a bad father?" He really should've seen that coming.
"I could've done better. That's what you're thinking too, isn't it?"
"What I'm thinking is that you carry tremendous guilt and worry, and I would like to help you out with that. But it's your choice."
"You're not going to try to convince me, get me on board with some sort of twelve-step plan to a better father-daughter relationship?"
"No. I'm not." That just doesn't sit right with him. Crossing his arms, he asks,
"Then what's the point of therapy?"
"The point is to help you in any way you want to be helped. I can't do that unless you're willing to let me. It all hinges on you. You get out of therapy what you put into therapy. If that's little effort, then expect to see little results. If it's a lot of effort, the results will corelate." A 'ding' rings through the room, and she looks down at her PADD. "I think that's all of our time for today. I'm going to schedule you for two weeks from now." It's on the tip of his tongue to ask if that's really necessary, but he knows what she'll say.
"Alright." She stands at the same time he does and walks with him to the door.
"If you need me before then-"
"It's not a long walk here from sickbay." There's the smile again.
"Exactly." He's intent on opening the door and going out, but something makes him hesitate. She's still looking at him with those blue eyes, and it takes all of his efforts not to shy away. He feels… naked, somehow. Like she's seeing directly through him.
"I hope that wasn't too much of a waste of your time."
"It wasn't for me. Do you feel like it was a waste of time?"
"No." He swallows hard. "No, I don't."
Amelia Fairchild
Amelia is rubbing at her temples, trying to relieve some pressure when a buzzing alerts her that someone is at her office door.
"Enter." She closes her eyes for a moment, willing herself to present an amiable face to whoever it is despite the fact that it's late and she still has a mountain of work to do.
"Alright, that's it." Her eyes snap open at a familiar voice. Dr. McCoy is striding across the room, approaching her desk. "Do you have any idea what time it is, Fairchild?"
"Twenty-two thirty hours."
"Exactly. Your shift ended four and a half hours ago, and you're still here." She should really respond with good grace, explain that she's putting in a little extra time since she has to go over the meetings she's had in the past week (most people are only on their first session, and there's always a lot to report during that time period), but instead what comes out is,
"So are you."
"I'm here because I was looking up Menendez's chart and I saw it had been updated five minutes ago." She could point out that he was working after hours too, but that would require more energy than she currently possesses. "You weren't in the mess hall earlier tonight, and unless you made a trip up there that I'm not aware of, that means you haven't eaten since that sorry thirty-minute break you call lunch." She looks up at that, receiving a frown in response. "Don't think I haven't noticed that too. You're burning the candle at both ends, Counselor, and if you're not careful you're going to burn out. In your eight years of higher education, didn't anyone ever teach you about that?"
"I'm not in danger of burning out, Doctor. I just have a few more items to go over-"
"No, you don't. What you have to do is eat and then get some sleep."
"I'll head up to the mess hall in a few minutes-"
"No. Now." She narrows her eyes at him.
"Is that an order, Doctor?"
"It's about to be if you won't take it as a suggestion from one professional to another." With a sigh, she turns back to her PADD and saves the page she was working on.
"Alright. I'll go."
"Damn right you will." She stands, ignoring the crick in her neck and starts towards the office doors. They slide open and, ordering the computer to turn off lights, she steps into the semi-darkness of sickbay.
It makes sense for McCoy to follow her out of her office. It even makes sense for him to follow her out of sickbay. What doesn't make sense is when, instead of heading towards his quarters (which just so happen to be right next to hers), he follows her towards the turbolift.
"Is there something I can do for you, Doctor?"
"I already told you. You can eat and then sleep." She sighs.
"What I mean is, where are you headed?"
"To the mess hall. I thought that was obvious."
"Doctor, it's late-"
"It is." He nods. "But one of my patients is still up, and I don't trust her to not return to her post instead of following my orders, so I'm escorting her to make sure she gets where she's going."
"That's really not necessary-"
"I'll decide what is and isn't necessary for my patients, thank you Counselor." Swallowing down the urge to groan or stomp her feet or do something else that's just as sophomoric, she steps inside the turbolift.
This time of night, there's not many people milling around. It's the middle of a shift, so everyone is either working, sleeping, or otherwise enjoying leisure time. When they arrive, the mess hall is completely empty. There's none of the usual buzz of conversation, giving the room an unsettling feeling. She grabs a tray and proceeds to the replicator, only to hear,
"You'd better choose something with nutritional value."
"Maybe you'd like to just do it for me." For reasons that are beyond her, that makes him snicker.
"You know, I think I like you better when you're running on fumes."
"Why's that?" Chicken pot pie, she thinks. That, and water.
"Because you're more honest."
"I'm always honest." The replicator produces what she needs, and she settles in at the nearest table.
"Alright." He takes a seat across from her. "Then you're less professional."
"And that's a good thing?"
"It can be at the right time. One thing you'll learn once you get your sea legs is that out here, you can't be a consummate professional. You'll drive yourself and everybody else crazy. Sometimes it's okay to show a little humanity."
"So you're saying I'm inhuman?" She takes a bite of the pot pie. It's not great, but it's not the worst meal she's ever had.
"I'm saying that for someone who's so big on emotional openness, you play your cards pretty close to the vest. I mean, you've been aboard for what, six weeks?"
"That's right."
"Have you made any friends yet?"
"I have a few acquaintances."
"Uh-huh." He nods. "And how many of them do you see in your free time?" 'What free time' is what she wants to say, but she keeps that to herself.
"It's been busy. It always is whenever you arrive at a new posting."
"That may be the case, but you've got to make time for something other than work. Isn't that what you preach? Self-care?"
"Self-care is important, yes." He offers her a triumphant grin.
"Great. Then I guess I'll be seeing you tomorrow for your physical, since you've been skipping out on it for the past month and a half."
"Doctor, I really don't think-"
"That it's necessary? Like I don't think that biweekly counseling sessions are necessary?"
"With all due respect, you're not a psychologist-"
"And you're not a doctor."
"Actually, I am a doctor-"
"Yeah, I realized it as soon as I said it." He chuckles. "You know what they say about doctors. They make the worst patients."
"I tend to agree."
"So, you're saying I'm not your ideal psych patient?"
"I thought the point of me taking a break was to get away from the job for a little while."
"See? I knew you'd catch on." A few seconds pass in silence and then- "So what exactly have you done in the past six weeks besides work?"
"I've visited the training rooms."
"Which is a requirement. I mean what have you done for fun?" For fun… there's been precious little time for that.
"I've explored a few texts from the ship's library. Listened to some music."
"So you like music?" She shrugs.
"I'm an appreciator, but I wouldn't say I'm well versed in it."
"What about the observation deck? Have you been there?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Or the recreation rooms?" She shakes her head. "So you've barely seen the ship."
"There hasn't been time." Or more accurately… "I haven't made time."
"Well, do it. The Enterprise is a nice place to call home once you get used to it."
"I'll give it a try, Doctor." At that, he frowns.
"And you can stow the whole 'doctor' thing. We're not on duty. My name is Leonard."
"Leonard." The name feels foreign on her tongue. "I'll agree to it if you'll call me Amelia."
"Amelia. Nice to finally meet you." She means to say something back, but a yawn overtakes her, forcing the words back down her throat. "And I believe that's my cue to escort you back up to your quarters for a good night's sleep." She could argue, but the truth is she's exhausted. She has been doing too much for too long, and it's starting to catch up with her.
"Alright. Just let me drop off my tray and I'll be ready."
The ride back to deck seven is quiet, on her part because she's dead on her feet. The doors open and she nearly stumbles out, only just managing to right herself. It's not a long distance to her quarters, but in her state, it feels like miles instead of feet. She stops outside her door and turns to… Leonard. That's going to take some getting used to.
"Thank you. For checking on me." He waves her off.
"It's part of the job description. Just don't tell anyone else I make house calls."
"Your secret's safe with me."
"Good. Now go straight to bed. If you try to get anymore work in, I'll know about it."
"I didn't know you were omniscient, Leonard."
"I'm just good at my job. That and I get a notification whenever a chart is updated." That explains how he found her out.
"I guess I'll turn in then."
"Goodnight, Amelia." Maybe it's because she's so tired, but she smiles over at him.
"Goodnight, Leonard."
Leonard McCoy
Leonard is sitting in his office with Jim, listening to the captain going on about the fascinating and beautiful woman he ran into on their last mission, but not much is sinking in. His mind is instead on the physical he performed this morning. That and the dismaying results of it.
"Am I boring you, Bones?"
"Hm?" He looks up from his drink (and from his contemplation of what Dr. Fairchild… Amelia, her name is Amelia… would think of his drinking habits).
"You seem preoccupied." He sighs.
"I just have a stubborn patient on my mind is all."
"Stubborn how?" Where to begin?
"Well, she refused a physical for over a month after joining the crew. She regularly puts in sixteen-hour shifts when she's scheduled for eight and admits to forgetting to do little things like eat or sleep. She's lost seven pounds in six weeks and she didn't have seven pounds to lose in the first place.
Her sleep schedule is abysmal, she barely takes breaks, and she hasn't established any personal connections with the crew."
"That sounds like a concerning pattern."
"That's what I told her, but she didn't seem worried." The captain frowns.
"Which crewman is it?"
"Amelia." He remembers himself too late. "Dr. Fairchild."
"Our ship's counselor?"
"One and the same." The frown deepens.
"Don't tell me the psychologist needs a psychologist." That was his first thought too, but-
"I don't think so. I looked over her medical file and this is a pattern for her following a new posting. She'll work herself nearly to the bone before finding an equilibrium."
"But she does eventually find one."
"In the past, she has. Weight goes back to normal, she reports a full eight hours of sleep, and she's been observed taking advantage of the station or colony's recreation facilities."
"So why does it bother you?"
"That's the thing. I can't put my finger on it." According to her files, her mental health has stayed steady across the board. Her physical health takes a dip for a while, but not so seriously that she doesn't recover. So why is he worried? "Something just seems… off with her."
"Off?"
"She's a little too well adjusted. You have to either really bait her or catch her in a state of exhaustion to get any reaction other than complete passivity."
"I know you've baited her thanks to the incident in the situation room, but when have you caught her in a state of exhaustion?" For some reason, he hesitates to tell Jim about last night. It feels a little too personal to share.
"I've run into her a few times when she was working late."
"Your medical opinion is that she's not in need of intervention."
"Not at this time, no."
"And what's your personal opinion of her?" That's more difficult to answer. He can admit (albeit begrudgingly) that she's good at her job. The few times that he's managed to see past the surface level, she's shown a biting wit. She might not rise to his bait all the time, but when she does, she gives as good as she gets. Overall, he's beginning to like her.
"I think she'd be an interesting person if she'd allow herself that freedom. For now, I'd say she's an enigma."
"Hm." Jim nods. "Well, do me a favor and keep an eye on her in case she starts slipping. We're far enough out in space that we can't pick up another counselor if she succumbs to her own habits."
"So you want me to babysit her?"
"No. Just look out for her. Don't you medical types watch out for each other anyway?"
"She's a psychologist, not a doctor." Or at least, a PhD instead of an MD.
"Your fields aren't all that different. She deals with the mind and you deal with the body. Both have to exist to make up a living person." He supposes that's true. It's health care no matter which way you slice it.
"I'll look out for her as much as she'll let me. But she's-"
"Stubborn? Yes, you mentioned that." Jim stands and, clapping him on the shoulder, starts towards the door. "You'll figure it out. You figured out how to work together after all, and that seemed impossible at the time. How much harder could this be?" That's the real question, isn't it? As the door slides shut behind Jim, Leonard sinks back in his seat. Keep an eye on Amelia. Look out for her. Those are his orders. Maybe that won't be as painful of a task as would've estimated it to be six weeks ago.