Leonard McCoy
"Are you sure about this, Jim?" Leonard McCoy speaks at a barely audible level. Currently, he's in the transporter room with his captain, waiting for the latest addition to the Enterprise's crew.
"It doesn't matter if I'm sure about it or not. We have our orders."
"Yes, but a psychologist?" Has Starfleet Command lost their collective marbles, ordering that all starships of a certain class are to now be equipped with a ship counselor? "Any fool knows that they can't be trusted." Kirk chuckles.
"Didn't you study psychology?"
"Enough to get by." Enough, he was under the impression, to serve in this capacity on a starship. "That's how I know that psychologists can't be trusted. It's a slippery specialty. All these years after its genesis, and it's still fifty percent guesswork."
"Be that as it may, I have assurances that Dr. Fairchild is one of the best and brightest in her field." In his opinion that's like saying you've got the best and brightest fortune teller. His thoughts must be obvious, because Jim leans closer and tells him, "You're going to have to work closely with her, Bones, so you might want to stow the skepticism. It's not good for morale." He manages a grunt in reply and nothing more because that's when Scotty asks,
"Are ye ready te beam her up, Captain?"
"Aye, Mr. Scott." The chief engineer nods and adjusts something on the transporter panel.
"Transporter engaged." A whirring fills the room, atoms flickering into existence on the transporter, and then she's there, fully formed, and… not what he was expecting.
What Leonard was expecting was a severe-looking woman in her fifties. Instead, Dr. Fairchild appears to be in her thirties, petite and… well, he's human. He might as well admit it. Pretty. Her hair is up, but if he had to venture a guess, he'd say the red locks fall past her shoulders. She's already dressed in the standard Enterprise medical uniform, PADD in hand.
"Permission to come aboard, Captain?" Fairchild asks. Kirk gives him a knowing look before turning to their newest crew member.
"Granted." Dr. Fairchild steps down from the platform and comes to stand in front of them. "Dr. Fairchild, this is our chief medical officer, Dr. Leonard McCoy. Dr. McCoy, Dr. Amelia Fairchild." She has blue eyes. Light blue, like the Georgia sky on a clear spring day. Blue eyes that are focused on him, studying him. He holds out his hand for her to shake.
"It's a pleasure." She takes his hand, shaking it, but doesn't look away.
"Likewise." That gaze… it makes him feel… naked, somehow.
"Your luggage will be delivered to your quarters once we beam it aboard." Finally, her attention is on something else.
"Thank you, Captain." Jim nods.
"You're to report to me at fifteen hundred hours to go over your requirements from the crew. That should give you enough time to get sufficiently settled in." The captain motions towards the door. "Doctor, if you'll show her the way-"
"Sir."
It's a short walk to the turbolift from the transporter room, and they don't exchange a word until they're safe inside, headed towards sickbay. Finally, Fairchild breaks the silence.
"How many people are aboard this ship?"
"We usually hover at around four hundred and thirty, but it changes with births and deaths." Her forehead wrinkles at that. "Is that number not to your liking, Doctor?"
"It's fine. I'm just running the calculations on how long it will take me to conduct an assessment with each crew member."
"So your plan is to individually assess the entire crew?" When she nods, he fights down a laugh.
"I don't see how it's any different from you performing a physical on every crew member." When she puts it like that… oh hell. 'Every' means him too.
"You could just look at the existing files I have. See who's been flagged as most likely to need psychological intervention, and then let the rest come to you as needed."
"Is that how you perform your job? Just let everyone come to you when they feel like it without a preliminary exam or regular follow ups?"
"Well, no-"
"It's not how I operate either, and I'm not entirely sure why that should surprise you. Unless you believe that mental health is less important than physical health."
"Of course not. I have a degree in psychology as well-"
"Which I'm sure means you appreciate the need for thoroughness."
"You don't believe I'm thorough? Because I'm the one who's been doing the assessments on this ship for the past three years-"
"And how long does that take you, doctor?" She crosses her arms. "Maybe ten minutes out of an hour long exam, if that much?" Mimicking her posture, he asks
"Are you suggesting that I'm shirking my responsibilities as chief medical officer?"
"No. Only that I'd be shirking mine as ship's counselor if I just relied on your word instead of conducting my own research." That makes sense. He can't fault the logic. Still-
"Look, Fairchild, I've been doing this for a long time. Far longer than you have." He gives the woman standing next to him an appraising look. "I mean, how old are you? Thirty, thirty-one-"
"Thirty-three." So, nine years younger than he is. That means unless she's a genius who skipped grades in school or worked through summers to get her degree sooner, she's been doing this for less than ten years. In other words, she's still wet behind the ears.
"Well, I've been doing this long enough to get pretty good at my job. Sometimes ten minutes is all you need. Plus, I know this crew. So, you can waste your time looking for cracks in the walls where there aren't any, or you can patch up the ones that the building inspector has already made a note of."
"Be that as it may, I'm more interested in potential cracks in the foundation than a few in the walls, and as much as I appreciate the building inspector's opinion on the matter, I'd like to take a look for myself." The doors to the turbolift slide open, putting a stop to conversation.
"Suit yourself." He steps outside and motions for her to follow. "Sickbay's this way." The sickbay is empty except for Nurse Chapel. She looks up as they enter the room but doesn't say anything. "Chapel, this is Dr. Fairchild. The new ship's counselor. Fairchild, head nurse Chapel." The two women exchange pleasantries and then Fairchild is studying him again. He almost snaps 'What?' in her direction, but then realizes the obvious. "Your office is over there." On the opposite side of sickbay. Fairchild approaches the room and tells the computer to turn on the lights, revealing a desk, chair tucked into it, and-
"A couch, I see."
"It is a psychologist's office." She turns to him.
"Do you know if there are any comfortable chairs in ship's storage that I could exchange out for this?"
"Should be. But why-"
"Because, in my experience which, granted, is not as extensive as yours, people get nervous when they have to see a shrink and the first thing their eyes land on is a couch. They feel like they're about to spend an hour with Sigmund Freud." That might be the first thing she's said that he agrees with.
"Submit a requisition request and it should be done sometime today."
"I'll do that once I find my quarters."
"Do you know what deck they're on?"
"Deck seven, where we are now." Tapping her PADD, she pulls up the paperwork, revealing…
"Straight across the hall, two doors down." Right next to his.
"Thank you." She turns and starts towards the sickbay doors. Working in the same general vicinity, and then bunking next door. When Jim told him they'd be working closely together, he failed to mention how closely. Specifically, too close for comfort.
Amelia Fairchild
It should take Amelia nine weeks to assess every member of the crew on board the Enterprise. Should, assuming she's working eight-hour days. Except the day when she arrived, she's been doubling that, putting in sixteen-hour shifts. Is it more than is required? Yes. It barely allots her time to eat, go over her notes, and shower with six hours left over for sleep. It's not ideal or sustainable long-term, but she can manage it for now. In fact, she has been for the past two weeks since her arrival.
If it weren't for the alert on her PADD, she would've completely forgotten about dinner, but at eighteen hundred hours, it pops up, reminding her that she needs to take a break. So, setting down the device, she tells the patient she's currently assessing,
"I believe that's all of the time we have today, but I'd like to see you for a follow-up session next week."
"It's already been an hour?" Amelia nods.
"I'm afraid so."
"Does that mean the assessment is over?" The assessment was over fifteen minutes ago. With poor appetite and sleep, little interest in activities she once enjoyed, and feelings of worthlessness and guilt that plague her every day (particularly in reference to her job in engineering), it wasn't difficult to tell that the young woman sitting across from her is depressed. The only question was how severely, and now she knows: not enough to recommend her for medication management, but enough to continue counseling sessions on a weekly basis.
"It's over."
"Did I pass?" Amelia offers what she hopes is a sympathetic smile.
"It's not about passing or failing, ensign. Do you remember what we talked about?"
"There are no wrong answers."
"That's right. You told me what's on your mind and now we can work together to make sure you have what you need while you're aboard this ship." The ensign starts to leave but hesitates just outside the door.
"Do you think I'm crazy?" Amelia shakes her head.
"No. I think you're having a hard time right now and I want to see you feel better." Finally, the ensign smiles.
"Thank you, Counselor."
"You're welcome. I'll send a memo to your PADD with your appointment time for next week, but feel free to message me if you need anything between now and then."
"I will." The door slides shut behind her and Amelia sinks into her chair. Right. She's got thirty minutes until her next appointment. That means she should hurry down to the mess hall and eat as quickly as possible. Possibly bring her PADD with her to put in a few notes from the appointments she's had since lunch. But no, she needs to take the break, short as it may be. Telling the computer to turn off lights, she starts towards the turbolift.
At this time of day, the turbolift is packed and makes multiple stops, so what should only be a thirty second trip takes nearly five minutes. It's just as well. She spends that time focusing on her breathing, trying to decompress from the day she's had so far. Self-care has taken a nosedive in the name of playing catchup (most crew members have been without more psychological care than a yearly checkup since deploying), but she has no desire to run herself completely into the ground. For the next twenty-five minutes, work can be placed in a box. This is her time.
It's no surprise that the mess hall is just as busy as the turbolift. Many people are getting off their day shift while others are just getting up for the evening shift. There are familiar faces, a few individuals who even wave to her as she fills her tray. She starts towards a mostly empty table only to hear her name being called. She turns towards the voice… only to realize it belongs to Captain Kirk. He's sitting at a table in the corner of the mess hall with a Vulcan she knows can only be First Officer Spock, and Dr. McCoy.
"Care to join us, Doctor?" She would really rather spend the time alone to recover from an intense afternoon, but she nods and takes a seat at the table.
"Thank you, Captain." Kirk offers her a smile and turns to the man sitting next to him.
"This is Mr. Spock, our science officer."
"Doctor." Spock acknowledges.
"Mr. Spock."
"And of course, you know Dr. McCoy." Not very well, she doesn't. For someone she's supposed to be working closely with, so far, the man has done an exceptional job of avoiding being in the same room with her. She's sent him notes and he's signed off on a few things, but they have yet to have any sort of meeting.
"How are you finding life on the ship?" Kirk asks.
"It's very different from working on a Deep Space station." Mr. Spock nods.
"Your personnel file stated that you have primarily worked on Deep Space stations and in colonies since joining Starfleet seven years ago."
"That's correct." She takes a sip of her water.
"And what made you decide to join?" The question comes from Kirk.
"My family, I suppose. My father was a Starfleet captain." That earns her a curious glance from Kirk. "Nothing so fancy as a starship. He was captain of a botanical vessel. My mother was a fleet botanist. I grew up on a ship, so when the time came and I had my doctorate, it just felt natural to return to that lifestyle."
"You didn't have to get a doctorate, you know." McCoy points out. "If you wanted to work in psychology, all that you needed was a six-year degree to become a therapist. It's basically the same job."
"And you didn't have to become a doctor. If you wanted to work in medicine, all that you needed was a four-year degree to become a nurse, since it's basically the same job." She regrets the words as soon as she says them, and that's even before Kirk snickers and Spock raises an eyebrow. The last thing she needs to do is antagonize McCoy. That will just make her job harder.
"I understand that you're assessing every member of the crew." Spock continues.
"That's right."
"Were you aware that Dr. McCoy performs psychological assessments as part of each crew member's yearly physical?"
"I was, yes."
"Have his notes been useful?" Now is her chance to steer the conversation back into safer waters.
"Yes, they've provided valuable insight."
"Not valuable enough apparently." It's muttered by the man sitting next to her.
"What was that, Bones?" McCoy frowns.
"I was just saying that I still don't think it's necessary to put the entire crew through the stress of individual assessment. A few people that have shown signs of psychological disturbance, sure. But everyone?" His eyes lock on her. "I think the counselor is wasting her time. Not to mention the valuable time of the crew."
"Counselor?" Holding McCoy's gaze, she tells them,
"I don't think I'm wasting time. A lot can happen in the months that take place between physicals. For example, surely things have happened to you that have changed you at least a little in the past year, Dr. McCoy." He shakes his head.
"I can't say that they have."
"Really, Bones? Nothing that's happened in the past year has affected you?" He's not looking away, despite the captain speaking to him.
"No. I'm the same as I always was."
"What about in the past three years, since your file says that's how long it's been since your last assessment." His eyes widen a fraction at that, and Amelia feels a small surge of pride. Clearly he wasn't expecting her to have that piece of information.
"I haven't-"
"That isn't strictly true, Doctor." Spock interjects. "I have noted several changes in your demeanor since taking over as the Enterprise's chief medical officer. That would seem to indicate an evolving psyche."
"I have to agree with Spock on this one." The captain offers. Sighing, McCoy looks away.
"My psyche is just fine, thanks."
"Then you shouldn't have a problem with the counselor performing an assessment. When is that, by the way, counselor?" She hasn't scheduled any of the more senior officers yet, but going at the pace she's set, then…
"It should be sometime within the next two weeks." Kirk grins triumphantly.
"See, Bones? That should give you plenty of time to prepare." With a groan, the man in question stands.
"Think I've lost my appetite." She waits for him to retreat before telling the captain and first officer,
"I'm afraid I have to be going as well. I've got another appointment."
"Isn't your shift over, Doctor?" Technically yes, but since she's putting in a few extra hours-
"Not quite yet." Kirk frowns, but he nods.
"Go. And make sure you set up that assessment for Bones."
"Yes, Captain."
As she makes her way towards the turbolift, mentally preparing herself to go back to work, Amelia comes to an unsatisfactory conclusion. She doesn't like Dr. McCoy very much, and she's certain the feeling is mutual. How is she supposed to work, and work closely, with someone like that? She shakes her head and steps inside. She'll just have to. Dr. McCoy is a professional after all. He might have some personal grievance against her, but she has to believe he won't let that interfere with patient care.
Leonard McCoy
Leonard finds himself pacing in front of the counselor's office five minutes after what should have been the beginning time of his assessment. As a medical professional, he's more than familiar with the concept of an appointment running over, but as a patient, he doesn't appreciate it. Especially since this is already taking an hour out of his workday. He'd rather treat a Klingon for a bad case of hemorrhoids than have a nosey shrink asking him personal questions. Speaking of… said nosey shrink's door finally opens, revealing a teary-eyed lieutenant standing next to Dr. Fairchild.
"I think you've made a lot of progress today, Lieutenant Hanson. I'd still like to schedule you for another session next week, if that works okay for you." The lieutenant wipes at his nose and nods.
"Sure, counselor."
"Wonderful. If you need me before then, don't hesitate to send me a message." Hanson nods and walks towards the turbolift, almost running into him.
"Easy, Hanson."
"Sorry, Doc. I didn't see you there." Hanson sniffs and steps around Leonard. Funny, he remembers conducting Hanson's physical not three months ago, and he didn't flag him as in need of psychological care. That means either he missed something, or-
"Feel free to come in whenever you're ready, Dr. McCoy." He didn't miss anything. He's certain of it. As he steps into the room, he asks,
"What had Hanson so upset?" Fairchild shakes her head.
"I can't break counselor/patient confidentiality."
"I'll see your report anyway once you submit it."
"Yes, you will." The doors slide closed behind her. "Please, take a seat." There are three chairs arranged in a loose circle. No matter where he sits, she'll be able to see him.
"Is this some kind of test? Will you make an assumption about my mental health depending on where I sit?" For a moment, he thinks he catches a smirk on her face, but it's gone as soon as he registers it.
"You're not the first person to ask that, believe it or not. And no. It's not a test." He takes the seat farthest from the desk and… fantastic… she chooses to sit across from him. Taking out her PADD, she asks, "How are you feeling today, Dr. McCoy?"
"Well and properly annoyed, Dr. Fairchild. I'm being taken away from my work for an examination when my medical files could simply be taken into account and render all of this unnecessary." If that upsets her, she doesn't show it, instead focusing on him and telling him,
"I'm sorry you feel that way. I'll try not to take up any more of your time than is strictly necessary." He starts to say that none of this is strictly necessary, but before he can, she's diving back in. "Are you experiencing any mental health symptoms?"
"No."
"Any worries or preoccupation?"
"No."
"What about changes in mood?"
"None."
"Are you seeing or hearing anything that isn't real?" He crosses his arms.
"You mean unicorns in pink tutus or stars appearing whenever someone bumps their head?"
"That depends." She taps something on her PADD. "Are you seeing any of those things?"
"I was being facetious, Counselor. Surely you're familiar with the concept." She nods.
"I see. What about recent changes in sleep or appetite?" She's angling for a diagnosis of depression with that question.
"No, and before you ask, there's been no changes in concentration or memory either." He's not depressed. A little world-weary maybe, but that's to be expected after years in space.
"Alright. In the past two weeks, how often have you been bothered by little or no pleasure in doing things? Not at all, several days, more than half of the days, or nearly every day?"
"Not at all." He enjoys life just fine, thanks.
"What about feeling down, depressed or hopeless?"
"Not at all."
"And you're sleeping alright? Not too much or too little?"
"You already asked me about my sleep patterns."
"Some of these questions will be repetitive, I'm afraid."
"No. The answer's no. I sleep fine." Somewhat restlessly thanks to always being on high alert for someone to pop into sickbay while he's not there, but he's not about to tell her that. She'll pin 'generalized anxiety disorder' on him faster than you can say 'snake oil'.
"Any thoughts that you'd be better off dead or of hurting yourself?"
"I'd have to admit myself for my own safety if I did, and since I'm here instead of confined to sickbay, one could deduce-" She's typing. What could he possibly have said to make her type?
"What about feeling nervous, anxious, or on edge?"
"So we're moving onto anxiety now?"
"That's right." At least she isn't denying it.
"I can save us both some time, Counselor. I'm not edgy, I don't worry any more than the average Joe, I'm capable of sitting still and relaxing, and I don't have an impending sense of doom."
"What about becoming easily annoyed or irritable?" He desperately wants to tell her, 'What do you think?' but tamps down the desire.
"No. Not at all." There she goes again with the typing.
"Have you ever had periods in your life where you were so irritable that you ended up shouting at people?" Of course. If you haven't (or at least, haven't had the desire to) then you're not human.
"No."
"Have you gone through periods of time where you were sleeping a lot less and didn't miss it or having a lot more energy than usual?" Oh. She's moved on to-
"If you had read my medical files, then you would know that I don't have Bipolar Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, or Schizophrenia." Her lips turn down just a bit at the corners and she tells him,
"Just answer the question, please."
"No. I haven't had any periods of time when I'm manic or hypomanic."
"So no risky behaviors? Increased sex drive, spending more than you should, perhaps ignoring your safety on away missions?" That last one, maybe, but all of the others-
"No."
"Moving on, then." She scrolls down and tells him, "Now I'm going to make some statements and I want you to rate them on a scale of one to ten, one being strongly disagree and ten being strongly agree. Does that sound alright?" Does he really have a choice?
"Fine."
"Good. Here's the first one: I am content with my friendships and relationships."
"Ten." He's got friends. There's Jim and although he'd never admit it to the pointy-eared bastard, Spock. As for relationships, his last one ended when he left Natira on her planet, but he's not about to go over that with Fairchild.
"My relationships are as satisfying as I would want them to be."
"Ten." Well, except for the one with Joanna, his daughter, but again, he's not about to explain that one to Fairchild.
"Good. Now, how often do you feel lonely?" It takes all of his effort not to roll his eyes.
"It's a big ship, Counselor. There's no chance to feel lonely."
"So you don't get lonely?"
"No, I don't." And she's typing again.
"If you were in trouble, do you have family or friends that you could rely on?"
"I do."
"Any substance or alcohol use?"
"No substances, but I'll occasionally have a drink."
"How occasionally?" Every night, but that's not something she needs to know.
"Not enough to be dependent."
"Would that be less than five times a week? More?"
"Like I said, not enough to be dependent." There's no audible change, but from the rise and fall of her shoulders, he thinks he's provoked a sigh.
"Are you having any difficulties focusing on your work or in your leisure time?" She's back to depression. Alright, he's about had it with these questions.
"My focus is just fine counselor. What about yours?" Her brow furrows, those blue eyes peering into his.
"This isn't about me, Doctor. This time is yours."
"One would almost think from that answer that you don't enjoy people prying into your personal life when it isn't necessary."
"One might assume that, yes."
"And yet you've made a career out of doing it to other people." This time he's sure of it. She sighs. He's getting under her skin, and rightly so. If she can go poking around his psyche, then he can poke back.
"Doctor, none of these questions are meant as a personal attack on you or anyone else. They're just a way to assess-"
"My mental health, because apparently what's in my file doesn't meet your lofty standards."
"Okay." She leans towards him. "If you don't mind answering, when was your last mental health exam?" She knows the answer to that. She dragged it out at lunch last week.
"Three years ago when I took over the post of chief medical officer."
"And who performed the exam?" Oh hell. She's going to hang him on his own hook.
"I did."
"I see. Now, is it at all possible that you might be biased?"
"No. It's not." There it is. That small frown again.
"Not at all possible?"
"No. And while we're on the subject, when was your last mental health exam?"
"It was just before I was assigned to the Enterprise. And no, I didn't perform it myself because I might be biased."
"So you just assume since you're biased that every medical and mental health professional is as well?" She narrows her eyes at him.
"There's a reason that it isn't advised that you be your own physician. That's all I'm attempting to point out."
"Well, you'll find that the rules are different this far out in space. We don't always have the luxury of delegating tasks to other people because it might make us uncomfortable, so we have to push through and do our jobs, even when it comes to ourselves." She swallows hard.
"Duly noted." Glancing down at her PADD, Fairchild informs him, "I believe that's our time for today. Would you like to schedule a follow-up appointment?" 'No way in hell'' seems like a good way to get himself reported (and she seems like just the type to do it), so instead he goes with,
"That won't be necessary." Much like the last fifty-five minutes of his life.
"Then I suppose you'll see a copy of my report when I submit it." Stone cold. The woman is stone cold.
"I suppose so." He stands and starts towards the door. It slides open, revealing- "Mr. Spock. What brings you here?" The Vulcan simply raises an eyebrow.
"I'm here for my assessment, which I assume is why you're here as well." Oh, if only he could be a fly on the wall for that meeting. Shooting a grin at Fairchild, he bids her,
"Godspeed, Counselor." Now this might be one report he'll find interesting.
Amelia Fairchild
Amelia has had her fair share of nerve-wracking experiences, but she always considers the meeting with her new commanding officer after her work is evaluated to be one of the worst. However, there's no getting around it. Captain Kirk has called for a meeting now that she's submitted the last report on her assessment of the crew. Counting backwards from thirty, she stands outside the conference room and wills herself to step through the doors. She can do this. Pressing the button outside the door, she waits for a command.
"Enter."
She steps inside, only to see that Captain Kirk isn't alone. No, Dr. McCoy is with him. The captain is sitting at the table, but McCoy is pacing. Should she sit? Should she stand? The decision is made for her when the captain tells her,
"Have a seat, counselor." As she pulls out a chair, Kirk motions to McCoy. "Bones, will you stop pacing and sit down?"
"Fine." He sits, and Kirk places his folded hands on the table.
"I've gone over your reports, Dr. Fairchild, and I want to congratulate you on a job well done. You're very thorough."
"Thank you, sir." Out of the corner of her eye, she catches McCoy's grimace.
"Problems, Bones?"
"Well as a matter of fact-" The doctor turns towards her. "-I disagree with a good number of the counselor's reports. Out of 432 individuals on board the Enterprise, she's made 80 diagnoses of Generalized Anxiety Disorder and thirty of depression. That's not to mention the smattering of Bipolar II and PTSD. Now, I'm a doctor, not a psychologist, but those numbers seem a little too high to me."
"And why is that?" The words slip out before she can think better of them, gathering both men's attention. "Begging your pardon, Captain, but statistically, one out of four humans experience some form of mental illness. In a highly stressful situation, those numbers rise. What my reports show is to be expected."
"The numbers seem alright to me." Kirk informs them.
"Yes, but this is a group of Starfleet Academy graduates we're talking about here. There are screenings as part of the admission process. Surely those numbers should be lower." McCoy insists.
"Actually, if we look back at history, the number of individuals with some form of mental illness has been even higher in military installations-"
"Starfleet isn't the military." She fights down the urge to sigh.
"No, but there are similarities that even you can't deny, Doctor."
"'Even I can't deny'? Because apparently I hold some sort of personal bias?"
"That's not what I was implying."
"Then what was it?" Kirk holds up a hand, stopping her from answering.
"This is an interesting discussion, but it's not the reason we're here today. Fairchild, I want you and McCoy to coordinate care for these individuals, whether that be further counseling or medication management." McCoy shakes his head.
"Jim, I still say those numbers should be lower. This is a contented crew. Most of the folks that I examine report that they're satisfied with life. Now, clearly either Fairchild has it wrong or I do."
"In my experience, there are things that a person will tell a counselor and not a physician." She keeps her eyes on Kirk as she says it even though she's addressing the other man in the room.
"And how expansive is your experience?" McCoy leans back, studying her. "You've only been a Starfleet counselor for what, seven years? And you've had three postings in that time, none of them on a starship before." This time she does look over at him, meeting his eyes as she tells him,
"I fail to see how that's relevant."
"And I fail to see how you could have possibly made it this far without realizing that your viewpoint isn't always the correct one."
"I assure you, doctor, that the feeling is mutual."
"Alright!" This time Kirk is nearly shouting. "That's enough. The two of you are professionals, so I suggest you put away whatever petty disagreements you're having and act like it for the sake of the crew! Go down to sickbay. Find a way to work together, and don't come out until you do! Dismissed." Her chair scrapes as she stands and starts towards the door. This is fantastic. She's just ticked off her commanding officer. And all because she couldn't resist trading a few barbs with the local curmudgeon.
She's all set to head towards sickbay when she hears, "Hold the door." It's so tempting to let the turbolift doors slide shut, but she presses the button to open them, allowing McCoy to slip inside. "Sickbay." He orders the computer, and they plummet towards deck seven. "Well, counselor, I hope you're satisfied with yourself."
"As a general state of affairs, I am. But why exactly do you hope that?"
"Because you just earned us a practical banishment for the foreseeable future." He's baiting her, and she won't rise to it. She's already made that mistake once today.
"It's not the foreseeable future. Just until we can work out our differences."
"And do you anticipate that happening anytime soon?" The truth is that she doesn't. She's trying to keep an open mind, but today seems to cement what she already thought: Leonard McCoy is not a man she can work with. If it weren't for the fact that she's already burned through her goodwill with Starfleet by asking for a transfer to the Enterprise, she'd ask for another transfer to nearly anywhere else.
"We'll just have to put any personal feelings that may exist aside and rely on professionalism to do the job to the best of our abilities."
"Is that what you did when you marked my chart, 'in need of further psychological intervention'?" She frowns. Is that what this is about?
"Doctor, I assure you, that wasn't personal."
"It wasn't?" He scowls. "'The patient is hostile, irritable, and uncooperative.' Those were your words."
"Again, that wasn't personal. It was simply a combination of my observations and your answers to the questions."
"You couldn't even come up with a diagnosis!"
"I did come up with a diagnosis, but as a courtesy from one professional to another, I refrained from putting it in your file." She shouldn't be saying this.
"Well, what was it?"
"Generalized Anxiety Disorder."
"Why didn't you say so, counselor?" The doors to the turbolift slide open. "I could've saved us both a lot of effort by just hypo-ing myself."
"That isn't necessary currently." She steps outside and turns towards sickbay.
"Not currently?" He's right behind her, practically on her heels. "What does that mean?"
"It means that if you don't work to get this under control now, you will be in need of medication management."
"Based on what symptoms?" They're in the middle of sickbay now, and she looks around to make sure that no one is listening before murmuring,
"The entire time you were speaking with me, you didn't stop tapping your foot. That can mean nervousness or anxiety. Since it didn't dissipate, I'm inclined to lean towards anxiety. You were uncooperative, particularly when I asked about your drinking habits. That leads me to believe that your consumption is higher than you'd like to admit-"
"You just assume that I have an alcohol problem-"
"-and you were clearly irritable throughout the session."
"I could argue that you were just antagonizing." Amelia can feel the fury rising in her, but she fights against it. Turning to face him, she informs him,
"Then I would have to be antagonizing towards every patient I've seen, because they were standardized questions, and no one else reacted with that much hostility."
"Maybe that's because no one else has had the experience-" No, the fury isn't going away. "-to realize those questions were meant to diagnose them with a disorder. They're supposed to goad you into an emotional response."
"Well, if they were, then they failed to perform, because out of all of the assessments I performed, yours was the most emotionally constipated!" She ends up hissing the words in his direction. Something in McCoy's expression changes. His face is no longer a mask of anger. Instead he's… smirking?
"Mine was the most emotionally constipated? Are you sure you assessed Spock?" Damn it. She's really done it now.
"I can't break counselor/patient confidentiality-"
"Here's another question for you, Counselor. Do you feel better now that you've gotten that off your chest?"
"Dr. McCoy, I owe you an apology." The smirk disappears, instead replaced with a slight frown.
"You know Fairchild, I don't think you do." He sighs. "In fact, I think I've been a real bastard to you."
"You have been." What's a little more unprofessionalism, since she's basically called the man a dick already? "My question is why."
"Because I don't like anyone interfering with the people on this ship, and from what I've seen, that's all psychologists know how to do."
"I never wanted to interfere, Doctor." A few seconds pass in silence, and then-
"Eighty cases of generalized anxiety disorder and another fifty of depression?"
"Some of the cases overlap. It's more like 100 people with some form of a mental illness. Not 130."
"Then clearly I've been missing something. Or maybe there really is some truth to what you said about patients telling their doctor and their counselor different things."
"I think that's why Starfleet wanted counselors on board the starships." He chuckles.
"I guess it is. So now what do we do, Counselor?"
"We still have the medication management cases to go over."
"Right." He indicates a room across the sickbay. "My office okay?"
"I don't see why not. I'll get my PADD and then we can get started."
"Alright." She starts towards her office only to hear, "Oh, and counselor?"
"Yes?" The smirk is back.
"Now that we've cracked that perfect professional veneer of yours, I think we'll work together just fine." Despite herself, she finds the corners of her lips quirking up into a smile of her own.
"I think so too. Now if we can only figure out your emotional blockage."