Leonard McCoy
"Tell me about your childhood." Leonard looks up from where he was studying the floor to the woman sitting opposite him. Amelia has her PADD out, but nothing he's said so far this session has made her type a note. Maybe that's because she was saving the sucker punch for now.
"So, you think I've been sufficiently lulled into complacency?"
"I thought you might be." These therapy sessions have become a lot less difficult to sit through since he uncovered that Amelia has a sense of humor and sardonic wit. Or maybe it's just the fact that recently, he's mysteriously been getting a full night's sleep and so he's better equipped when he gets up to complete tasks that can be irksome.
"What do you want to know?"
"Anything you want to tell me, really. But let's start with your parents." That's a safe enough subject he supposes.
"Their names were David and Sarah McCoy. My dad was a doctor. Mom was a schoolteacher."
"Did you become a doctor because of your father?"
"I guess so, but not because I wanted to impress him. I broke my arm when I was seven and he set it. I watched the entire time. After that, I knew I wanted to be a doctor too."
"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"
"No. Just me." He thinks about mentioning that his parents were older when they had him, but she didn't ask, so he doesn't tell.
"And how would you describe your childhood in one word?"
"Just one?" She nods.
"Usually, it's whatever first pops into your head."
"Carefree." There wasn't a lot to worry about back then. His needs were met, as were most of his wants. He got teased a little in school, but it wasn't full-on bullying. He had the best grades out of anyone in his class, and while he wasn't the prom king, he was liked well enough.
"You mentioned that your father has passed. Did that happen when you were a child, or-"
"No, I was an adult. Already had my degree."
"How did he die, if you don't mind my asking?" He swallows hard. This is a subject he was hoping to avoid.
"I killed him." Her eyes widen a fraction at that, but she doesn't say anything. "Medically assisted suicide. He was in a lot of pain for a long time, and he wanted to go with dignity. When he first asked me, I said no, but I couldn't watch him suffer." Why is he telling her all of this? "Pretty soon after, they found a cure."
"Leonard, I'm so sorry." Those blue eyes are trained on him, but instead of feeling exposed, this time he just feels… seen. Like she doesn't quite understand, but she's trying to. It occurs to him that right now, he's sitting with Amelia, not Counselor Fairchild.
"It's in the past."
"But the past can affect the present." He sighs.
"I thought I was following my oath. 'Do no harm'. Turns out, I was doing him the greatest harm possible."
"You didn't know that at the time." She leans towards him, the PADD nearly sliding off her lap. "What you did, you did out of love."
"That doesn't mean it was the right decision."
"No, but it means you made it for the right reasons." He doesn't have a good response to that. "Has that experience changed the way you handle your responsibilities as a doctor?"
"It did for a while. I was a lot more careful, hesitant to play God. But I couldn't do my job effectively if I kept hesitating every time a difficult call had to be made."
"Did it increase your anxiety to practice medicine after such a traumatic event?" That snaps him out of it.
"I'm not falling for that. I'm not anxious." The corners of her lips quirk up at that, but her expression quickly returns to something neutral.
"Everyone is anxious to a certain degree. Can we agree on that?"
"I suppose."
"So, keeping that in mind, have you noticed any changes to your existing anxiety since beginning these sessions?"
"In need of some reassurances, Counselor?" There it is again. She's trying hard not to smile.
"I have my anxieties just like everyone else."
"Well, it hasn't produced a spike."
"That's a start." She turns to her PADD, and what he wouldn't give to know what's in those notes of hers. The silence lasts a little too long for his taste, so he asks,
"What about your childhood?"
"What about it?"
"Tell me about it." Good. That's at least made her look up.
"That's not really how this works. This is your time-"
"And if you want to get another word out of me, you'll answer the question. It's only fair." She sighs.
"Alright. You get three questions. Use them wisely." This should be fun. Mimicking her words from earlier, he tells her,
"Let's start with your parents."
"My parents are Collin Fairchild and Marsha Addler. Collin is the captain of a small botanical vessel, and Marsha is a botanist." She said 'is', so that means they're both living. He could ask about siblings, or he could just wait until later and look over her personnel file. Ultimately, he decides it's not worth wasting a question and moves on to-
"What was your childhood like?"
"I grew up on my father's ship. We moved from place to place across the discovered galaxy. By the time I was five years old, I had visited over 100 planets."
"It sounds interesting."
"Was that a question?"
"Just an observation." He's only got one question left. Best to make it a good one.
"Can you describe your childhood in one phrase?"
"A phrase and not just a word?"
"I'm feeling generous." She ducks her head, but not quickly enough to hide that he's done it. She's cracked a smile.
"'Children should be seen and not heard.' That's my phrase, and I believe we're done."
"Not so fast."
"You've used up your questions." That's true, but… ah.
"You didn't put a limit on comments and observations."
"Then make it fast. There's only five minutes left until I have to start my next session." Alright. What can he say to provoke the most informative reaction?
"'Children should be seen and not heard' sounds like a difficult way to spend your childhood."
"It was. My parents weren't exactly expecting to have a child, so they weren't prepared to raise one. As long as I remained silent, there weren't any issues. When I acted like a child, it was a less pleasant experience for everyone involved. So, I didn't act like a child." That… explains a lot, actually.
"No one should grow up like that. I'm sorry it happened to you."
"Well, I've had years of therapy and time to process. I've adjusted to it." Sure, she has. "And that's our time for today." She stands at the same time he does.
"Same time two weeks from now?"
"I think we can knock things back to once a month if you're comfortable with that." He frowns.
"Really?"
"Mm-hm." She nods. "I'm satisfied with the progress you're making."
"So, all I had to do to get a reduced sentence was to say that therapy doesn't make things worse?" The smile is back.
"Easy, isn't it?" Shaking his head, he steps through the door.
"Counselors are a strange breed."
"Funny. I was thinking the same thing about doctors." She motions to the ensign waiting in the hallway. "You can come in whenever you're ready."
He's back in sickbay going over the results of a stress test he'd ordered when it occurs to him: he's not as thrilled about his 'reduced sentence' as he expected to be. Maybe… is it possible… is he getting something out of this? His sleep has improved, and come to think of it, he usually doesn't feel the need for a drink in the evening on the days he has therapy. He still doesn't think he's anxious, but he can begrudgingly admit that maybe it's not a bad thing to have a place to unload your thoughts. That's what friendships are about. Amelia's a friend (albeit a tentative one), so it makes sense that he'd feel better after talking to her, even if that's in the name of therapy. That's all it is. He's almost one hundred percent certain of it. Well, maybe more like ninety.
Amelia Fairchild
It's been three months since Amelia joined the crew of the Enterprise, and yet she's only just getting around to exploring the ship. Well, to put it more accurately, to studying a map of the ship and going to whatever location looks interesting. Her shift ended an hour ago, which gave her enough time to eat, visit her quarters to gather up a few supplies, and make her way to the botanical room in the life sciences department.
She'd be lying if she didn't admit that at least part of her reason for choosing tonight's location has something to do with reminiscing about her parents during a session she had earlier in the day. Specifically, one that got out of hand. She mentally chides herself as she enters the botanical room and surveys the various plants inside, searching for just the right subject. For some reason, all her sessions with Leonard go off the rails to varying degrees. Out of all the individuals she's met on this starship, he's the only one who makes her forget how to be a professional, instead giving into annoyance, anger, and at times, amusement. That shouldn't happen. She's had fifteen years to learn how to avoid that outcome. And yet for some reason, it keeps occurring.
"Can I help you, Counselor?" The intrusion into her thoughts is so unexpected that she almost drops what she's holding. There's a man standing in the middle of the botanical room, studying… is that… a moving plant?
"Sulu, right?" He nods and offers her a smile. "Actually, I was wondering if you could give me some advice."
"I'll do my best."
"Which is your most photogenic plant?" He chuckles and turns back to the plant that, now that she's getting a good look at it, is definitely moving.
"That would be this one. Beauregard."
"Beauregard?"
"That's his name, although some people call him 'Gertrude'. He's a carnivorous plant." At that, Sulu proceeds to feed… something… to Beauregard. "Why do you ask?"
"No particular reason." She isn't prepared to let another person know about her hobby. Not at present. "Is it alright if I look around for a bit?"
"Suit yourself, Counselor. Just don't touch anything. Some of these plants might try to touch you back." With that unsettling sentiment in place, she begins her surveyal of the facility.
She recognizes quite a few of the plants from her childhood, but there's a few outliers which she can only assume are more recent discoveries. After she's seen them all, she concludes that Sulu was right. Beauregard is the star of the show. Speaking of Sulu… the navigator has left the botanical room, leaving her all alone. Settling at a table, she sets down her sketchbook and pencil case, then removes a single charcoal pencil. It'll be a challenge to sketch something as animated as Beauregard, but she thinks she's up for it. She has several hours to kill, after all.
Time always seems to pass more quickly when she's doing something she really enjoys, and by the time she thinks she's got the rough essence of the plant, the clock reads twenty-two hundred hours. She carefully replaces the charcoal pencil in its case and closes her sketchpad. The paper is starting to come loose from the binding, so she goes ahead and pulls it completely free, tucking it back into the front of the pad. Satisfied that everything is secured, she steps out of the door and into the hallway.
She's not paying much attention to where she's going, too busy trying to recall the details of Beauregard's coloring (at a later date, she would like to attempt painting him), so it's no small wonder that she bumps into someone, dropping her sketchpad in the process.
"I'm so sorry-"
"Sorry, I-" That voice is all too familiar. She looks up at the person who she rear-ended, and sure enough, it's him. "-well. I guess that answers the question of where you jetted off to after mess."
"Hello, Leonard."
"Amelia, what are you doing in the life sciences department?"
"Taking advice from a colleague and exploring the ship." Has he noticed the sketchpad? "What about you?"
"Spock said there was a new acquisition down here that I had to see. Couldn't wait until morning."
"Well, I'll let you get to it." Bending down, she retrieves the sketchpad. As she straightens, something falls out of it.
"Hold on. I think you dropped a page."
"Thanks, I'll-" It's too late. He's already picked it up and… great… is staring at it.
"Is this-" He looks down at her, forehead creasing. "-did you draw this?"
"Yes, I did."
"So that's your mysterious hobby. You're an artist."
"I'm an amateur."
"This doesn't look like amateur work."
"It's just a rough sketch. It isn't finished yet."
"Beauregard, right?" She nods, trying to think of the quickest way to get him to stop looking at the paper. "That plant is Sulu's baby. It started wilting a year or so back, and he was like an anxious parent, checking on it at all hours, even bringing it up to sickbay. I had to remind him that I'm a doctor, not a botanist, but between him, Spock, and myself, we managed to pull it through."
"Is that the strangest patient you've ever had?" He shakes his head, a smile in place.
"Not even close." Finally, he holds out the paper to her. "You said it isn't finished yet?"
"No. There's still a lot to add. The lines are too harsh, and I don't have the contrasts quite right-" Why is she telling him all of this? It's doubtful that he's finding this interesting. Nicholas never did.
"Well, let me know when you do finish it. I'd be interested in seeing the end result." That's about as likely as her changing her name to Methuselah and walking around with a cane. But she can't exactly say that, so instead she goes with,
"Maybe."
"Maybe?"
"If you're still interested. It could take a while."
"I'll keep my calendar open." That's what she was afraid of. Taking the paper from his grasp, she slides it back into the sketchpad, away from prying eyes.
"Goodnight, Leonard. Don't let Mr. Spock keep you up too late."
"Goodnight, Amelia, and who's the doctor here?" She opens her mouth to remind him of the obvious, but he holds up a hand. "Forget it. Force of habit." As he retreats towards the life sciences department, she forces herself to take a few deep breaths and slowly exhale. So, he's seen her sketch. The sky isn't falling. No one is dying. It's not that big of a deal. Does she feel more exposed than if she'd flashed him her underwear? Yes, but the truth is that no one understands how intimate art is except another artist. This probably wasn't even a blip on Leonard's radar, and he definitely won't remember to ask about it at a later date. Content in that knowledge, she heads towards the turbolift. Crisis averted.
Leonard McCoy
There's nothing inherently wrong with looking up a crew member's personnel file, especially if you're a doctor and are trying to get a better feel for a patient. That's what Leonard tells himself as he settles in front of his computer and prepares to perform a massive invasion of privacy. The truth is, this patient in particular hasn't been very forthcoming with answering questions about her past, and since she can't exactly go to herself for counseling (or at least she won't because she might be biased), that leaves him to be her sounding board when it comes to mental health. Really, this is the only option.
"Computer, access files on Dr. Amelia Fairchild."
"Accessing files on Dr. Amelia Fairchild. Name: Amelia Jane Fairchild. Date of birth: September second, 2236. Age, thirty-three years, seven months, twenty-eight days. Parents: Captain Collin Fairchild, Dr. Marsha Addler. Siblings: none. Postings: Tolton XV, duration: six months, Deep Space Six, duration: eighteen months. Deep Space seven, duration: sixty-four months-"
"Stop." All of that is information that he already knew, at least approximately. Time to take a deep dive. "Service record of Captain Collin Fairchild."
"Accessing. Name: Collin Andrew Fairchild. Date of birth: October thirty-first, 2202. Age-"
"Stop. Marital status of Captain Collin Fairchild."
"Marital status: single." So he's not married to Amelia's mother. The computer would have said divorced if they had simply split up. That begs the question of whether there was ever a romantic relationship or just a physical one.
"Return to service record of Captain Collin Fairchild." The computer spouts a long list of postings and a slow rise through the ranks of Starfleet. It's mostly boring, but what grabs his attention is a demotion and several reprimands. So, Collin isn't the model of a Starfleet officer. The next rational step is to ask for the service record of Marsha. "Access service record of Marsha Addler."
"Access denied. This file is sealed." He frowns.
"Access on authorization of McCoy, Leonard H."
"Access denied. This file is sealed." That's strange, to say the least. Why would a botanist's file be sealed? It's not as if they handle particularly sensitive matters.
"Return to files on Amelia Fairchild."
"Accessing. Amelia Fairchild was educated aboard the U.S.S. Archer."
"Stop. U.S.S. Archer class."
"Accessing. Class: botanical vessel." Well, at least that part's what he expected.
"Resume files on Amelia Fairchild."
"Accessing. Amelia Fairchild graduated from Johns Hopkins University in 2262 with a doctorate in psychology. Class ranking: first. Honors: cum laude. Amelia Fairchild joined Starfleet in 2258."
"Stop. Did Starfleet pay for her to get her doctorate?"
"Affirmative." Considering that she proved to be a proverbial 'shining star', that was a good investment.
"Resume files on Amelia Fairchild."
"Accessing. Amelia Fairchild was posted on Tolton XV in 2262. Rank: Ensign. She was transferred when war broke out on Tolton XV in 2263. She received a promotion to Lieutenant Junior Grade in 2263." That was fast. She must've distinguished herself. "Amelia Fairchild was posted on Deep Space Station Six in 2263. Rank: Lieutenant Junior Grade. Amelia Fairchild was posted to Deep Space Seven in 2264. Rank: Lieutenant Junior Grade. She received the promotion to Lieutenant in 2265. Amelia Fairchild was posted to the U.S.S. Enterprise in 2269. Rank: Lieutenant."
"And she's been there ever since." He startles, banging his leg on the desk. Amelia is standing in the doorway of his office, lips curving upward into what can only be a smirk. "Were you spying on me?" He clears his throat before speaking.
"I was just getting a little background information on a new patient."
"I see." She approaches his desk, PADD in hand.
"I assume if you're here, you have something for me."
"I needed your opinion on something."
"Take a seat." Settling into the chair opposite him, she holds out the device.
"It's Menendez. She's making great strides in counseling. She's no longer suicidal, passively or otherwise. Reporting a full eight hours of sleep and better concentration. Her work in engineering seems to support that."
"When I saw her last, she was putting the weight she lost back on." He nods. "So, what do you need my opinion on?"
"I think she should be returned to duty full time."
"You don't think she's still a little too fragile for that?"
"I did at first, but it's all she can talk about. She's really putting in the work to improve her mental health. How's her medication management going?"
"Well, I had to adjust her dosage a few weeks ago, but since then, it's been smooth sailing."
"It takes both of us to return an officer to their position once they've been relieved of it, even if that's only partially." He's well aware of that regulation.
"What's her treatment plan?"
"She's scheduled once a week, but if she returns to her post full time, I'll be scheduling her twice weekly, at least for the first month." It's a good call. One he'd make if the situations were reversed.
"Alright. I'll sign off on it so long as she stops by here twice a month to monitor her weight."
"Good. I just need you to sign here-" He takes the PADD from her and completes his signature. "-thank you." She starts to stand, and he should really let her go, but since she's caught him red handed, he might as well explore the subject further.
"Can I ask you something?"
"I believe you just did."
"Several somethings, then." Settling back into her seat, she nods.
"I'm listening."
"Did you really join Starfleet just because you're used to the lifestyle, or was there something more behind it?"
"You've reviewed my personnel file. You know that the fleet paid for my education."
"Yes, at Johns Hopkins. It's impressive."
"Thank you."
"But that was only after you already had a bachelor's. Usually, Starfleet is interested in fresh blood, so to speak."
"I think the brass believed that they owed me something. Because of my mother."
"I tried to access her file. It was sealed. Do you know why?" Her brow furrows.
"I have no idea. She's just a botanist." A few seconds pass in silence before he broaches the subject again.
"You still haven't answered my question. Why did you join Starfleet?"
"Because…" Amelia hesitates. "…I didn't want to just go into a field and grow complacent. I wanted to grow. Learn everything I could and maybe even make a difference. In my opinion, that's what Starfleet is doing. So, when they knocked on my door, I answered."
"It wasn't because of your father?" She chuckles.
"No, definitely not. I'm sure you know, but my father's career is spotty at best."
"The subject came up, yes."
"Well, he wanted me to be a starship captain, something he didn't manage to achieve. Not a psychologist."
"Then why did you choose psychology?"
"For the same reason you chose medicine. I started attending therapy to deal with childhood trauma when I went to college, and I couldn't look away. It was fascinating to me how the mind works, and I fell in love."
"It wasn't your original major?"
"No. That was galactic art history." He really should've guessed that. Which reminds him…
"Did you ever finish that sketch?" Something in her demeanor changes at that. It's hard to put his finger on, but it's like for a moment, that passive mask slips, revealing… what, exactly?
"I did."
"Well, can I see it?"
"If you want to. I'll stop by sickbay tomorrow with it, or-" She stops short.
"Or?"
"You can come by my quarters before mess tonight." Now there's an interesting idea. Seeing the inside of Amelia's quarters. There's very little personal space available on a starship. Your quarters are all you get, your home away from home. It might lend him some insight into this enigma of a woman.
"I'll do that. Say, eighteen hundred thirty hours?"
"Alright." This time, when she stands, he doesn't stop her. "Do you want to alert Menendez of the good news, or should I?"
"You do it. She sees you more often than she does me."
"I have a session with her this afternoon. I'll tell her then." Amelia steps through the office doors and he watches her retreat. What he told Jim a few weeks ago about her being an interesting person if she'd let herself be is turning out to be more accurate than he would've thought. And another piece is set to click into place tonight. Standing, he starts towards the lab. This puzzle might be one he's interested in solving, but for now, he's got a job to do.
Amelia Fairchild
Amelia is a fool. That's what she's thinking as she furiously cleans her cabin. A damn fool. No, that's not accurate. She's an intelligent woman who made a foolish choice. That of inviting another person to her quarters. What was she thinking? The place is a mess! There's no way she can get it up to regulation in just thirty minutes! That's not even mentioning the implications of her invitation.
What if she was being too forward? Leonard is a friend (there's something she never thought she'd say), and it's not an uncommon practice for friends to visit the equivalent of each other's houses. Still, she only just started to find the man tolerable a month ago, and she's fairly certain the feeling is mutual. The last person she let inside her quarters was Nicholas, and that was only after three months of dating. It took another six before she showed him her art, and now she's up and offered to do that for someone she barely knows.
The question is why? She asks herself that as she shoves uniforms into a drawer. Why did she, even for a moment, feel comfortable enough to reveal this part of herself? She doesn't have a chance to examine it further because that's when a buzzing lets her know that there's someone outside of her quarters asking for admittance. She surveys the room for a moment before calling out, "Enter." It's still messy, strewn with canvases, papers, and other art supplies, but she's disposed of all the trash and hidden her clothes. The bed is made, at least.
The doors slide open, and Leonard steps inside, stopping a few feet away from her. "So, this is what a psychologist's quarters look like."
"I'm sure it's the same as yours. Just with a few additions." Settling at the desk, she pulls out a folder and removes the paper in question from inside. "Here's the sketch. It didn't come out quite how I'd like, but I've hit a wall, so I'm calling it done." He approaches, leaning over her shoulder to get a better look.
"What part of it is giving you trouble?"
"I don't feel like I've quite captured the motion of the plant."
"It's a sketch, Amelia. It can't move."
"I know. It's just the idea of motion that I'm trying to emulate."
"I can practically see him moving."
"You can?" He nods.
"It looks very life-like."
"I think I'd have better luck if I tried another medium. Maybe watercolors…"
"It's not just charcoal?" She shakes her head.
"No. I dabble a little in everything." Should she… it'll probably be okay. Hesitantly, she stands and motions for him to follow. He does, trailing far enough behind that she feels like she has at least a modicum of privacy. With trembling fingers, she lifts one of the canvases and places it on the sofa where there's better lighting. "This is probably my favorite out of everything I've done."
"Are those the northern lights-"
"On Rigel VII. Yes. I visited there on shore leave three years ago." With Nicholas. "It was so beautiful. I tried taking pictures so that I'd have something for comparison, but it was a poor representation compared to the real thing. So, I decided to paint it from memory." Since Nicholas didn't want her bringing any of her art supplies with them, 'Because this weekend is supposed to be about us, Amelia. Not your infatuation with capturing things other people have already captured.'
"I've been there."
"When?"
"Hiking expedition back before I took over as CMO here."
"Is it an accurate representation?"
"It's accurate, alright. But..." He frowns.
"But?"
"There's something extra to it. Like looking through a different filter." So, she didn't get it right after all. "I think it's because you're an artist. I didn't notice the colors as much when I was seeing the real thing, but you would have."
"It was an interesting exploration of color theory to say the least." He chuckles.
"So that's what they're calling it these days." Turning away from the canvas he looks down at her, blue eyes locked with hers. "It's good, Amelia. You've got a gift."
"It keeps me occupied."
"Can't you just accept a compliment?"
"I suppose so." She nods. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. Thanks for showing me." She swallows hard at that. No one's ever thanked her for going on about her art before. Usually, they glaze over after five minutes. But if he's bored, he's doing a good job of concealing it.
"We should probably head up to the mess hall. It's getting late."
"Alright." Ordering the computer to lower lights (she'd turn them off altogether, but she doesn't feel like stumbling around when she comes back here later on), she starts towards the door. That wasn't as painful as she was expecting. Nothing bad happened. He didn't remind her that she'll never be one of the great painters of the galaxy or point out that her work is derivative of some other artist. As she steps into the turbolift, she thinks to herself that maybe Leonard McCoy is a safe person to trust after all.