Chapter Text
Starfleet Academy Training Center
Stardate: 2257.335
McCoy stood tight-lipped and scowling, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he glared at the scene in front of him. From his position at the back of the arena, he had a good view of the stage, as did the rest of the medical staff who waited as captive spectators to the Advanced Close Combat Training finals.
The last three trainees circled the instructor who stood waiting with a surprisingly relaxed stance, despite the fact that he was outmanned and bleeding profusely from a split lip. No one ‘won’ until they defeated the instructor, and became the last man standing. And wasn’t that a perfect ending to a shit day?
Idiots.
McCoy had been assigned here all morning, forced to watch the parade of overeager cadets try to punch, strike, toss or pin their instructors in an effort to earn their level 3 certificate. Those with injuries resulting from their attempts eventually made their way to the medical station, limping and bleeding, presenting the staff with a multitude of trauma-induced injuries ranging from gashes to broken noses to torn muscles to, several times, fractures.
It wasn’t bad enough that the class was an elective and that the idiots on stage had voluntarily subjected themselves to what amounted to a Starfleet-sanctioned beating. Far worse than that, in McCoy’s opinion, was that Medical wasn’t allowed to interfere in any way with the matches. In fact, McCoy had been explicitly warned by Boyce to stay in his lane.
“You’re overseeing the medical station, Leonard, not running triage, or playing traffic cop,” Boyce said sternly. “Let’s not have a repeat of last year. I don’t want to see any formal complaints from the hand-to-hand instructors bearing your name cross my desk. Understood?”
“I’d prefer not to see the asinine demonstration of out-of-control testosterone at all.”
“Tough. You’re an experienced medical doctor and an advanced third-year cadet. Your attendance will kill two birds with one stone. They get the benefit of having a trauma surgeon present and you get to complete the third-year requirement for supervisory experience by running the med station. It’s a win-win for everyone.”
McCoy started at him, incredulous. “I get plenty of ‘supervisory experience’ in the OR.”
"Doesn’t count,” Boyce said, leaning back in his chair. “You’re not classified as a cadet when you work at Starfleet General, so those hours don’t fulfill any academic requirements.”
“That’s bullshit.”
Boyce shrugged. “I don’t make the rules, Leonard. I just enforce them. Now shut up and get out of my office. You can thank me later, when you graduate a full year ahead of time, having successfully met all Academy requirements.”
He and Boyce hadn’t exactly been seeing eye to eye lately, and McCoy suspected that his assignment as lead medical officer for the mid-term ACCT finals was more a punishment than any desire to help him complete curriculum requirements.
Not to mention being a complete and utter waste of McCoy’s time.
A collective groan sounded from the audience as the agile instructor delivered a particularly hard punch to the jaw of one of the cadets, snapping his head back and sending him crashing to the mat with a thud so loud it made McCoy wince. The last two cadets immediately took advantage of the opening their fallen comrade had created, launching an aggressive attack on the instructor, almost certainly in the hope of taking him down once and for all.
McCoy wished them luck. They were going to need it.
Medical personnel weren’t allowed on the stage under any circumstances. Teaching Assistants – glorified observers in McCoy’s opinion – had the honor of transporting cadets who couldn’t make it here under their own steam, meaning the trainees arrived either unconscious or were suspected to have a severe injury, or both.
McCoy chafed at all the rules and restrictions, finding them counterproductive at best, and at worst, a contributing factor in the delay of vital care. Placing the Med Station at the back of the room and restricting the medical team’s movements to its confines, making them wait for injured cadets to stagger inside, holding broken limbs and trailing a line of blood behind them, bordered on the criminal in his opinion.
McCoy suspected the poor bastard lying on the mat, whether just stunned or unconscious, would be his next ‘patient’.
He watched, frowning, as the instructor fought off the two remaining offensive attacks. It was brutal and raw, but the level of skill and strength were difficult not to appreciate on some level. The ACCT finals were not intended to be a martial arts competition, and the rules of engagement were liberal. The training finals were trying to simulate face-to-face combat with an enemy intent on killing. No one got points for good form or following the rules, which was only fair, because this instructor was using every dirty trick he knew in the matches.
One of the cadets now had the instructor in a choke-hold, while the other delivered a vicious punch to the man’s ribs. McCoy winced at the way the instructor was driven back by the sheer force of the blow, blood droplets flying from his lip to spatter on the floor. He could practically see the fractured ribs from where he was standing.
But it didn’t seem to faze the instructor, or slow him down. He adroitly took advantage of the cadet’s close proximity to lash out with his legs, using the cadet who had him in a chokehold as leverage. It was an impressive show of strength and determination.
In seconds, the cadet in front of the instructor was down with a swift kick to his face. The remaining cadet, arm still locked around the instructor’s neck, abruptly switched tactics. Grasping for a hold on the instructor’s arm, the young man used his greater height and weight to pull the instructor off balance. A dismayed murmur filled the room as the instructor’s arm was wretched back, clearly dislocating the shoulder.
The maneuver quickly backfired, however.
If the cadet thought he’d gotten the upper hand on the instructor, he was swiftly disabused of the notion. The instructor moved with unbelievable speed despite his injury, sweeping the cadet’s legs out from under him and following it up with a brutal punch to the solar plexus, stunning the cadet, and leaving him limp and unmoving on the floor.
A loud round of cheers suddenly erupted from the audience as the instructor slowly straightened, swaying slightly as he came fully erect, and faced the audience with a smug grin, obviously enjoying his status of being undefeated.
“Jackass,” McCoy muttered, and turned away from the stage, to prepare for the new wave of incoming patients.
The medical station was technically a state-of-the-art mobile clinic, the kind regularly carried by Starfleet ships, with enough specialized equipment to stabilize most major injuries. They could suture open wounds, replace fluids by IV, administer drugs, all of which gave them enough resources to treat a patient to the point they could be safely released or stabilized for transport to Starfleet General.
Today’s injuries had mostly been the typical abrasions and contusions caused by fists and feet, and he hadn’t needed to transport anyone. That record might be broken, however, once he examined the instructor from the last round.
“That was the last match,” Eze said. He was the acting charge nurse for the station, and had a no-nonsense personality, which perfectly suited McCoy’s mood. “We can pack up shop as soon as we finish we those four.”
McCoy nodded and moved toward the biobeds that lined the pop-up station. Six other nurses stood by, waiting for the remaining cadets to arrive. According to regulations, both the cadets and the instructors were required to be seen and evaluated by medical as soon as they concluded their matches, but as seemed to be the custom, the threesome took their sweet time to arrive.
The men threaded their way unsteadily through the crowd of spectators, enduring accolades and heckles from their peers as they advanced slowly toward the medical station. ACCT always drew a crowd. McCoy frowned, his mood darkening. Why didn’t these jackasses go home? The show was over.
By the time they arrived, McCoy’s mood had soured even more.
A red-haired cadet entered the station, sporting an impressively swollen jaw. “Cadet Wills reporting, sir.”
Wills had been the first to fall on the stage but had held his own for some time prior to being defeated, and his body now bore the evidence of his fight. In addition to the damage to his face, large bruises covered his torso and upper legs, dark and ugly-looking against his fair, freckled skin.
McCoy suspected only the resilience of being young and fit had kept him on his feet long enough to make it the medical area, unaided. With the exception of the instructor, they were all fourth-year cadets, which put them all under the age of twenty-five, an age that made most young men feel invincible.
These final three challengers were no exception.
“On the bed,” he ordered, pointing.
Eyes lowered, Wills did as he was ordered and hobbled to the indicated bed where a nurse immediately began the intake process.
The Andorian was next, bleeding from his nose, antennae drooping.
“V’lan, escort this cadet to biobed five and get some nasal packs in place.”
Gary Mitchell staggered in next, groaning, and holding a hand to his upper abdomen.
Jim referred to him as a friend, although that label was overly generous in McCoy’s opinion. Mitchell was more a rival than a friend. The arrogant cadet was two years younger than Jim, but they were in the same final year of classes, which put them – in Mitchell’s mind – in competition with each other. Mitchell had been playing catch-up to Jim all year, chasing after the same academic records, but Jim had remained at the top of his classes with Mitchell close behind him. Recently, though, the margin between the two had widened.
“I thought you had him, Wills,” the smaller Andorian cadet occupying biobed five said. He was still bleeding profusely from his nose and trying to stem the flow of blood with the edge of his sleeve.
Wills cautiously shook his head. The nurse batted the hand hovering over his swollen jaw to the side and began scanning him. “He got in a cheap shot.”
The Andorian hissed out a chuckle that turned to a moan, as V’lan inserted the thick nasal packs into his nostrils. “Maybe you’ve just got a soft head.”
“Like you, Shran? You were bleeding like a stuck pig out there.”
Shran’s antennas lowered menacingly. “Made it longer than you, Wills.”
“By sixty seconds,” the redhead scoffed.
McCoy tuned out their jeers and focused on the information filling his PADD as the nurses forwarded the registration data and intake histories, along with the initial scan findings, on the cadets. The sooner they completed the assessments and began treatment, the sooner he could get out of here. He was off duty after this, and the plan was to meet Jim for dinner and drinks at O’Rourke’s as soon as he finished.
If the goddamned instructor hadn’t shot that plan to bloody pieces with his injuries.
So far, based on the data from their charts, the cadets looked fairly stable, bruises, lacerations, and – in the Andorian’s case – broken nose notwithstanding. None of their injuries should take long to fix. McCoy glanced around the bay to make sure treatment had begun and was proceeding smoothly.
Eze was running a regen unit over Will’s jaw. Kadie was blushing as she ran a scanner over Mitchell’s torso, which probably meant Mitchell had said something suggestive. Durz wheeled a full-body regenerator over to Eze, and V’Lan put a restraining hand on Shran’s shoulder. A moment later Brin activated the auto-cautery imbedded in the nasal packs, and Schran yelped, raising a hand made even more blue by his dried blood, to his nose. Everything looked under control.
Now if the instructor would just get his ass in here…
Mitchell chuckled, then winced and rubbed his solar plexus. “A hot body turns me on too, sweetheart,” he said to Kadie, his smile oozing charm. “But it takes more than a jacked build to be a good fighter. I don’t find those two’s looks or their fighting capabilities much to write home about, do you?”
“Don’t get me involved,” she said, and returned her attention to the scanner.
“Give me your comm number, and I’ll call you soon for a date. We can meet and I’ll demonstrate how a real man handles close physical contact.”
“Maybe she’s not interested in someone who just got their ass kicked,” Wills sneered at Mitchell, while Schran pantomimed gagging from his biobed. “I thought this was the year you were going to take him, Mitchell. Always number two.”
Mitchell’s expression darkened. “Fuck you, Wills.”
“Enough,” McCoy barked. “Stop harassing my nurses, or I’ll see to it you all get enemas to clear the shit from your brains before you leave.”
Whether they thought McCoy was going to follow through on his threat or not, it shut them up. With peace restored, McCoy stood at the small circulation desk, tapping an impatient toe, while he signed off on treatment orders.
A flicker of movement caught his eye and he looked up in time to see Jim enter the med station. He was still wearing the same smug grin he’d displayed on the match stage after dispatching Gary. His left arm supported his right, and he was holding the limb tightly to his body. He was listing just slightly to the right as he walked – no swaggered – into the room.
Scowling, McCoy growled, “You took your goddamned time.”
Jim’s blue eyes sparkled, and his grin widened. He was looking extremely pleased with himself despite the blood dripping from his chin. “I couldn’t disappoint my admirers, Bones. It’s not every day cadets get to see a two-time champion crowned. I couldn’t disappoint everyone by running off too quickly.”
McCoy jabbed a finger at the closest empty biobed. “Sit.”
“Hey, Kirk,” Wills said, leaning forward to see around the nurse blocking his view. “Mitchell has something to say to you.”
With both his arms occupied, Jim needed more than a little assistance to get up onto the biobed without jarring his shoulder. Nurse D’Mar – a tall Arkarian – gave him a steadying hand, carefully maneuvering Jim until he was resting back against the bank of pillows, then quickly applied a pressure bandage to Jim’s lip. McCoy noticed the tight lines around Jim’s eyes that betrayed the fact that he was in considerable pain.
McCoy could also see that Jim’s shoulder had been dislocated.
Again.
Before he could proceed with his exam, Mitchell interrupted.
“How’s your shoulder?” Mitchell asked, with faux innocence. He wasn’t even looking at Jim. Instead, his gaze followed Kadie as she walked over to the equipment cabinet.
“I think you dislocated it,” Jim said with a grin.
McCoy frowned, waiting for D’Mar to complete Jim’s scan.
Mitchell gave Jim a lazy once-over. “You weren’t supposed to shift.”
“You had me in a chokehold,” Jim replied, using the same nonchalant tone. “What did you think I was going to do?”
Wills snorted loudly.
Mitchell bristled slightly, but quickly got control of his reaction. He gave Jim one of his practiced smiles, one that McCoy had seen Mitchell employ all too often. Calculating and meaningless, masked in charm, it was the weapon Mitchel used to disarm the unwary.
“You taught me that chokehold, Jim.”
“Yeah, and maybe you should have paid more attention when I taught you how to get out of it.”
Shran let out a series of hisses, the Andorian version of a belly-laugh.
Jim had taught Advanced Hand-to-Hand for the past seven months and had earned his Level 3 ACCT certification six months ago, over the summer break. McCoy had treated him for a litany of minor injuries after the match was over, and Jim had recovered quickly.
This was Mitchell’s first time going up against Jim. They had practiced together for weeks, but Mitchell was no match for Jim’s fighting skills, despite all his boasting prior to the event. According to Jim, Mitchell was too afraid of marring his pretty face to be a truly formidable opponent.
The monitor chimed, indicating Jim’s scan was finished. McCoy studied the scan results as they appeared on the monitor. Not surprisingly, Jim’s blood-pressure was higher than normal, as was his heartrate. The endorphin rush Jim got from a good fight was receding and, predictably, he was crashing as the pain from his injuries was no longer blocked by the hormone.
Amazingly, the scan showed that Jim’s ribs were only bruised, not broken. If he didn’t know better, McCoy would swear Jim’s ribs were made of tritanium, instead of bone. It wasn’t the first time he’d expected to see fractures, only to find heavy bruising instead. Jim’s lean, muscular frame had protected him from serious, internal damage, but the ribs were going to be tender for a day or two, even with treatment.
“D’Mar, get a closer scan of that right shoulder,” he ordered. While he could see that it was dislocated without the benefit of a scan, he wanted to make sure there was no collateral damage to the tissue or nerves surrounding the joint. This wasn’t the first time McCoy had had to perform a shoulder reduction on Jim, and he’d warned Jim that a surgical fix was required in order to keep the problem from reoccurring.
Jim had, surprise, surprise, claimed he was too busy for elective surgery.
McCoy’s PADD chimed with an incoming message. He tapped the screen and an update from V’Lan popped open.
Shran’s nose packs were out and he had stopped bleeding. The broken nose was ready to be set. No time like the present, McCoy thought. By the time he finished with Shran, Jim’s focused shoulder scan should be done.
He walked over to the Andorian’s biobed. “Seat yourself on the side of the bed,” he said, taking the nasal speculum V’Lan held out. He waited for the cadet to get repositioned. “When did he last have something for pain?”
“Thirty minutes ago, doctor.”
“Perfect. Now, don’t move Cadet. I wouldn’t want to accidentally puncture your brain with my speculum.”
V’Lan laughed. Schran froze.
“Hold right there,” McCoy ordered, and swiftly realigned the cartilage and fractured bones. “Run a regen on that, Nurse V’Lan. Once it’s done, he can go.”
“Yes, doctor.”
“Fuck, Doc, that hurt,” Shran whined, his hands hovering protectively over his nose.
“Maybe you’ll think twice next time before allowing someone to use your face as a punching bag.” He didn’t look up from charting the treatment and his follow-up orders. “You’re lucky you’re not a permanent mouth-breather.”
V’Lan laughed again.
McCoy made his way back to Jim’s bed. In his absence, the nurse had cleaned the blood from Jim’s chin and closed the gash in his lip with the regenerator. Jim was going to need another treatment to prevent it from scarring but a least it was no longer bleeding. Faint bruises were now visible near his left eye, which had also begun to swell. D’Mar had cut away Jim’s shirt and McCoy could see the right shoulder was swollen and mottled with deep purple bruises. He reached out for the chart in D’Mar’s hand. The scans showed no damage other than a severe dislocation. Jim had been damn lucky.
Jim looked sheepish and more than a little satisfied as he said, “I’m undefeated, Bones.”
“Congratulations,” he said dryly. He set the chart aside and gently pressed on Jim’s injured shoulder, searching for landmarks.
Jim hissed at McCoy’s examination. “It’s dislocated, Bones. It’s clear as day on the scan. You don’t have to try and confirm it with your fingers.”
McCoy stopped his probing but kept his hands on the swollen shoulder as he glared at Jim. “Are you a doctor now, too, hotshot?”
“I know what a dislocated shoulder feels like.”
“Then you know the drill.” He was going to have to reduce it here, before the swelling got any worse. His tactile exam had revealed the growing tension in Jim’s shoulder muscles, which was going to make the reduction more difficult. Waiting wasn’t an option.
Jim grimaced and ducked his head. “Yeah.”
“Nurse D’Mar, please get this undefeated instructor a chair,” McCoy said, stepping back. “And one for me, too. I’m going to use the Cunningham technique on the dislocation.”
“Coming right up, Doctor McCoy.”
Jim frowned and eyed him suspiciously. “Can’t you just do it from here?
“No, I can’t. I need a better angle.”
D’Mar arrived with the chairs. “Okay, let Nurse D'Mar and I provide the muscle. I don’t want you stressing that joint any more than it already is.” He slipped an arm beneath Jim’s lower back, while D’Mar took hold of Jim’s good arm. “On the count of three. One. Two. Three. Up you go.”
They pulled him into a sitting position on the bed. Jim carefully maneuvered his legs over the side of the bed, wincing as his shoulder shifted.
“Good job,” McCoy said. “Now, two steps to the chair.”
Getting Jim seated in the chair was a much easier undertaking, and McCoy breathed a sigh of relief when Jim was finally settled, his right arm clasped close to his body.
McCoy adjusted his chair so that, when seated, he would be facing Jim with their knees touching.
Sitting down, he tapped Jim’s right hand. “I want you to place that hand on my left shoulder.” McCoy slipped his right hand around the crease at Jim’s elbow. “Let me have the arm’s weight. Don’t try to hold it up. Good. Take your time. If it hurts, stop and relax.”
Jim’s hand slowly moved toward his shoulder, then jerked to a halt. Jim growled softly, and beads of sweat dotted his upper lip. “Relax,” McCoy said quietly. “Keep breathing. The pain will pass, I promise.”
Patients tended to tense up during a reduction, making the process more painful and time-consuming. On the previous occasions, Jim had been a cooperative patient, easily coached through the procedure. But on those occasions, he hadn’t been as battered as he was right now. Still, if anyone could do this, it would be Jim.
“Better?”
“Yeah.”
McCoy took a deep breath when he felt Jim’s hand come to rest on his shoulder. “Good job. That’s the hardest part for you. The rest is up to me.” He smiled at Jim encouragingly. “Now, all you need to do is sit up straight and pull your shoulder blades together.”
“I suppose you want me to try and relax while I do that?”
McCoy nodded. “As much as you can.” He leaned forward, taking care not to move Jim’s arm. “I’m going to start massaging your shoulder muscles. If anything twinges, try not to stiffen up – it’ll set off a muscle spasm, which will be painful. Just breathe and relax.”
Slowly, starting with the trapezius, McCoy began to firmly massage the knotted muscle, taking his time as he coaxed the rock-hard muscle to relax. Jim’s breathing slowed and some of the tension eased in his face. When Jim started to slump a little in the chair, McCoy quietly instructed, “Sit up straight, Jim. Mind those shoulders,” waiting until Jim corrected his posture before proceeding.
After several long minutes, McCoy felt the trapezius muscle soften and he moved his hand lower on Jim’s arm, to his deltoid muscle. McCoy massaged the area, pressing firmly into the well-developed contours of the long, triangular muscle as he stroked.
“You doing okay?” he asked as the muscle softened beneath his ministrations.
“Yeah,” Jim murmured, lids at half mast, “I’m fine.”
“You’re doing great,” McCoy said, lowering his hand until it rested on Jim’s biceps. Repeating the routine of kneading and stroking, he worked at the three muscles with patient fingers. On a firm downward stroke, he felt the humeral bone vibrate slightly in his right hand as it started to move.
Jim cried out as the joint suddenly slipped into place with a muffled pop.
McCoy heard Shran hissing in amusement. He turned his head, shooting the asshole a warning look, and the hissing abruptly ceased.
“Okay,” McCoy said to Jim, “how does it feel?
Jim tentatively rotated his arm, relief brightening his eyes. “Much better, Bones. A little sore.”
“That will pass.”
He grinned. “I know. I forget how good you are at this.”
McCoy scowled. “You’ve been in a chair like this too many times. You do realize that’s not normal?”
“Normal is boring.”
“Normal is good,” McCoy corrected, continuing to massage the tender shoulder. He felt the swelling along the joint and raised his gaze to D’Mar. “Give Cadet Kirk 25cc’s of Florazine once he’s back in bed. That should help with the swelling. And get me the plastics regen unit.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
To Jim, he said, “Get some rest and let the medication work on the swelling. I’ll finish with these other idiots, and then I’ll walk you out once I’m done with your lip.”
McCoy made rounds, reviewing each cadet’s chart at their bedside. He released Shran and put him on medical leave for the rest of the day, although he suspected the Andorian wasn’t going to be anywhere near his dorm. There was always a big celebration after the ACCT, and most of the fourth-year cadets would be there, boasting of their accomplishments.
Shran’s departure was followed quickly by Wills, leaving Mitchell and Jim in the compact treatment bay.
Jim was sitting up, flirting with D’Mar who had found him a clean shirt. McCoy stepped over to Mitchell, reviewing his chart and scowling. “You’ve got a mild concussion. You’re on medical leave for twenty-four hours pending further evaluation.”
“For a bump on my head?”
McCoy ignored him. “I’m going to schedule a follow up for tomorrow at SF General. If you clear, you can return to your classes. No hand-to-hand for three days.”
“Come on, Doc.” Mitchell smiled but his eyes were cold. “I’ve got to keep practicing, if I’m going to beat this guy.” He jerked a thumb in Jim’s direction.
“Care to make it five days?”
“Take the three, Mitch,” Jim said, scratching at his chest. “It’s the best offer you’re going to get. McCoy never reduces sentences.”
Mitchell threw Jim an exasperated look, but kept his mouth shut.
McCoy loaded a hypo with an analgesic. “For your headache,” he said, and delivered it with swift precision to the side of Mitchell’s neck, catching Mitchell off guard, and causing him to flinch. Smiling to himself, McCoy finished writing his orders.
Mitchell hopped off the bed and walked past Jim with a casual wave.
“Next time,” Mitchell said.
McCoy shook his head, signing the orders and hitting send. There was only so much of Gary Mitchell he could take, and he’d hit his limit today.
“Can I go now?” Jim said.
“You got some place to be?” McCoy scowled as he saw Jim scratching at his neck.
“About a hundred beings owe me a drink, Bones.” Jim moved his hand to scratch at his torso. “I intend to collect.”
“I thought we were on for dinner at O’Rourke’s?”
“Plenty of time for both,” Jim said.
“You damn well better not show up drunk.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you,” Jim promised, grinning. He fidgeted, and scratched at his chest, again.
McCoy’s eyes narrowed as he strode to the side of Jim’s biobed. Lightly grasping Jim’s chin, he tipped Jim’s head from side to side. Just above the collar of the shirt, a red, patchy rash marred the pale skin. “What the….” With his other hand, he quickly pulled the collar away and peered under the fabric. “Son of a—”
“What?” Jim asked trying to turn his head to see, all the while continuing to scratch at his chest.
“D’Mar,” McCoy barked. “Get me 50cc’s of Solu-Cortef. Now.”
“What is it?” Jim asked, frowning. “What’s happening?”
McCoy lifted the hem of Jim’s shirt. Jim’s entire chest was red with hives. “Damnit,” he swore softly. “You’re having an allergic reaction to the Florazine.”
“Fuck,” Jim said, pulling his shirt away from his chest to peer down inside. The hives had begun to creep up his neck.
“To put it mildly,” McCoy said grimly.
Jim scratched at his neck.
“Stop that,” McCoy said, grabbing hold of his wrists and pulling them away from his body. “You’ll make it worse.”
“That’s not possible.”
McCoy grabbed a scanner. “Are you breathing okay?”
Jim nodded.
This was Jim’s fourth allergic reaction in two years, the most severe having occurred when Jim had been injured during maneuvers when another cadet had sliced open his quad. McCoy had discovered the hard way that Jim was allergic to the most common antibiotic and narcotics available. His reaction had been so severe he’d stopped breathing and gone into cardiac arrest. It had taken McCoy weeks to stabilize him and McCoy didn’t want a repeat of the nightmarish event.
Jim’s vitals were slightly elevated, but his respiratory system didn’t seem to be affected at the moment.
D’Mar returned quickly with a loaded hypo and handed it to McCoy. He double-checked the medication and the dosage before pressing the hypo to Jim’s cardioid artery. Jim winced as the medication went in.
“Give that a minute or two to work, and just sit tight.” McCoy grabbed Jim’s chart and updated his allergy history, then entered an updated treatment note regarding the allergy. Florazine was a common anti-inflammatory, so naturally Jim was allergic to it.
Jim scratched at his shoulder.
“Stop scratching, you infant,” McCoy said, glaring at him from over the chart.
“It itches.” Squirming, Jim peeled back the shirt collar. “I feel hot. Is that normal?”
“That should go away once the cortisone takes effect. Let me know immediately if you feel any tightness in your chest or change in symptoms.”
“How long is this going to last?” Jim asked, examining the hives with concern.
“It could take the cortisone a few hours to eliminate the hives, depending on your body chemistry. Just don’t scratch. It’ll increase the histamine reaction, and you’ll itch even more.”
“I can’t go out looking like this, Bones. My face is starting to tingle and it feels hot.” Jim pulled the shirt away from his skin, and began to flap the fabric in an effort to fan himself.
McCoy sighed and looked up from Jim’s chart. “Jim, I’m sorry, but you’re not going anywhere now except SF General.”
Jim’s head snapped up and he scowled. “I don’t need to go to the hospital for this.”
“You had an allergic reaction to medication. It’s regulation.”
“I’ll go tomorrow.”
“You’re going now,” he said sternly. He’d already signed the orders. Even if it hadn’t been regulation, with Jim’s history of allergies, he would have insisted. “It’s not optional.”
“Bones—”
“The transport’s here, Doctor McCoy,” D’Mar said.
“Fuck,” Jim said, his jaw set. “I’m not going.”
McCoy scowled. He could understand Jim’s reticent at going to the hospital, but he had rank, both as the Med Station lead, as well as being Jim’s physician of record. He didn’t appreciate Jim’s insubordination. “Like hell.”
“It’s just hives, Bones. It’s not a big deal.”
“Jim, that’s not the point and I’m not going to argue. You’re going to the hospital.”
Jim’s eyes darkened the way they always did when he was angry and trying to control his temper. McCoy saw his bruised fingers curl into fists as the younger man weighed his options. Classic Jim Kirk. Always ready to fight for what he believed to be right. McCoy knew his friend’s quicksilver mind was sorting and rationalizing, seeking a path to his goal, no matter how impossible that seemed to others.
This situation was a no-win, had been as soon as the first hives appeared, but Jim’s mind didn’t work like anyone else’s. He could combine facts in ways that seemed prescient, and he rarely conformed to strict logic. This confrontation could go south in a heartbeat.
McCoy wanted to prevent Jim from creating one of his epic, openly defiant scenes, the kind of scene that would force McCoy into the difficult position of having to order Jim restrained and escorted to SF General.
McCoy tried another tactic.
“I’m sorry, Jim. I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t have to. I have regulations to follow, too.” He knew how hard Jim had worked and trained. Being undefeated at ACCT – an accomplishment McCoy personally thought the height of Starfleet stupidity – was a feat that very few cadets achieved, much less doing it twice. Jim deserved his celebration.
Something shifted in Jim’s gaze, not quite resignation, but close enough that McCoy felt relief wash through his chest.
Jim slid off the bed, stony-faced.
“We’ll make it fast,” McCoy said. “I’ll stay with you, and clear you to join the celebration as soon as you meet discharge parameters.”
He had been careful to make no promises he couldn’t keep. With Jim’s medical history, anything could – and often did – take an unexpected direction. McCoy would have to do a full physical workup, draw labs, and monitor Jim’s respiratory status, just in case. Fortunately, Jim was the last of the patients in the medical station, so he could accompany him on the transport and conduct the examination himself, which would save time.
Jim said nothing and began walking toward the exit when he came to an unsteady halt, swaying slightly.
McCoy was at his side instantly with a supporting hand on his elbow. “You okay?”
Jim’s face was pale, and he was sweating. “Yeah.”
McCoy watched him closely, noting that Jim’s eyes were glassy and dazed. He moved his hand to rest on Jim’s wrist, taking a quick pulse. “You dizzy?”
Jim took a few deep breaths. “I’m fine.”
“You breathing okay?”
“I’m fine, Bones. Just got a little dizzy.”
“Jim, don’t lie to me,” he said harshly. “If you’re having trouble breathing, I need to know.”
“I’m not,” Jim said a little forcibly. “I just got dizzy for a minute.”
McCoy continued to study him, his mind quickly reviewing a list of things that could cause dizziness that were not related to his allergic reaction. Given that Jim had just spent the last three hours getting the shit beaten out of him, the list was rather long.
“I can walk by myself.” Jim pulled his wrist free of McCoy’s grasp and continued walking toward the door. “Let’s just get this over with.”
McCoy followed, his expression grim. His hopes that the examination and mandatory observation period were going to be easy and short were evaporating with each passing second.
By the time they arrived at the hospital on the other end of campus, Jim’s breathing had worsened, and McCoy had been forced to put him on oxygen as a precaution.
“Stay on the gurney,” McCoy ordered as Jim tried to stand up.
The oxygen canula was positioned under Jim’s nose and looped around his ears, connected to a small box that supplied the oxygen. Jim scowled. “I can walk.”
“You don’t get points for walking in, Jim. And it’s regulation.” McCoy ducked out of the medical shuttle as the medics handled the stretcher. He made his way toward the entrance to check Jim in.
In some ways, McCoy thought, the Emergency Department at Starfleet General felt more like home than his own dorm room. The thought made him rueful as he stepped up to the triage station.
Paula looked surprised as she glanced up from her console. “Dr. McCoy! I didn’t expect to see you today.” Her dark eyes flicked to the stretcher and the EMTs following in his wake. “But, from the looks of things, you found yourself a patient. Are you staying to treat him or just dropping him off?”
“Staying,” McCoy replied, grimly. “Is room six available?” Treatment room six had a window, a rarity, something that seemed to reassure Jim on a subconscious level.
“It must be your lucky day. The last patient to use that room was discharged over an hour ago. It’s all yours.”
Lucky day, my ass, he thought.
Her fingers began tapping on her computer keyboard. “Kasia and Theo are up next for a patient assignment. Who would you prefer?”
“Kasia.” Jim always did better with female nurses. He tended to flirt with them, instead of becoming defiant and resistive, as he did with their male counterparts. McCoy knew Jim was plenty pissed off already and spoiling for an argument. No need to make Theo’s shift any harder than it already was.
Paula tapped on her keyboard again. “All set, unless you want me to register him before you go back.”
McCoy lifted the PADD in his left hand. “Did that on the ride over.”
With a nod, Paula indicated the EMTs could proceed to the treatment room and the stretcher moved past them.
“All I need is his name in case anyone comes in asking about him.” The middle-aged woman grinned. “He’s a handsome boy beneath all those bumps and bruises, even with that nasal cannula in his nose. I bet he doesn’t often sleep in a cold bed.”
You have no idea, McCoy thought. “Kirk. James T.”
By the time McCoy entered the treatment room Jim had been transferred to the biobed. Kasia came in as the EMTs were departing.
“Hi, Dr. McCoy. You want me to start a line?” the pretty blond asked cheerfully. “From the looks of things, we’ll be needing the regen unit, too.”
“Please, regular and plastics. I’ll need a total body scan, an enhanced lung scan with augmented auscultation, a Chem Panel, CBC with diff, ELISA, and a full RAST. Cadet Kirk is having an allergic reaction to Florazine. He’s already had 50 mg of Solu-Cortef at the med station. On top of the damage caused by being crowned king of the hill in today’s ACCT finals.”
“I heard,” Kasia said, bestowing her long-lashed, big brown-eyed look of sympathy on Jim. “Undefeated. Congratulations. Don’t worry, Cadet. Dr. McCoy is the best. He’ll have you feeling better in no time.”
“He’s the one who caused this,” Jim groused, audibly wheezing as he spoke.
“And I’m the one who fixed your goddamned dislocated shoulder. Again. So, stop your bellyaching.”
Kasia laughed as she hooked Jim up to the room’s oxygen source. “Sounds like you two know each other pretty well.”
“Unfortunately,” McCoy growled.
“What percentage of oxygen do you want, Dr. McCoy?”
“5 liters per minute. Hang a bag of normal saline, instead of the usual Lactated Ringers. I want to push another fifty of Solu-Cortef and then add a drip as soon as it’s ready.”
“How long ago did he receive the first dose?”
“Twenty minutes.”
Kasia looked surprised and discomfited. “He’s still wheezing quite a bit.” She patted Jim’s hand. “Florazine must really not agree with you. But don’t worry, you’re in good hands.”
Jim said nothing. A silent Jim was never a good sign.
McCoy opened Jim’s chart and began entering his orders. The glowing red icon he’d been ignoring glared at him from the bottom of the treatment page – Starfleet’s dreaded form 343-A. In his nearly three years at the Academy, he’d only had to fill out the form once prior to today. And that was on a cadet in the computer analysis and programming track, where many of the report’s sections had been waived as inapplicable because the cadet would not be serving aboard a ship in space.
For someone like Jim, who was in the command track, every section would have to be completed – and approved by the Incident Review Board – and McCoy was on edge. Whether Jim knew it or not, his continued future in Starfleet was in McCoy’s hands.
“Let me know as soon as the body scan finishes,” he said tersely.
The next twenty minutes were busy ones, with both himself and Kasia moving in synchronization around Jim’s biobed, gathering information and initiating treatments.
McCoy inserted the ear buds which would allow him to listen to Jim’s lungs. He’d already visually reviewed the scan results and had been greatly relieved to see that Jim’s wheezing was largely the result of large airway constriction. Now he wanted to be sure that Jim had good air exchange in all lung quadrants, particularly the lower lobes. Images of two years earlier when Jim was in full anaphylactic shock flashed through his mind.
“Computer, play auscultation component of pulmonary scan.” He listened intently, closing his eyes and focusing on the breath sounds being relayed.
High-pitched wheezing, and a few crackles, as Jim exhaled greeted his ears. Not bad. The second dose of Solu-Cortef, which he’d just administered, was already working and should eliminate the remaining airway constriction completely.
Popping out the devices, he handed them to Kasia and said, “Give him 50 mg of diphenhydramine and 10 mg of Nuperol.”
“C’mon, Bones,” Jim protested impatiently. “I want to get out of here. There’s a party going on and, if you don’t hurry up, I’m going to miss it. I don’t need any more meds.”
“I can’t discharge you until your lungs are back to normal. That means no wheezing and normal oxygen saturation readings on room air. The diphenhydramine will help you relax and doze while the steroids calm the inflammation in your lungs.”
“Fuck. Fine, but I don’t need anything else.”
“Says you.” McCoy scowled, and crossed his arms. “I’m going to begin the regen therapy on your ribs and face. Nuperol is a mild pain medication and will buffer the discomfort caused by the regenerator.”
“He’s got a lot of bruising on his shoulder, and hands and legs, too,” Kasia chimed in as she adjusted the IV flow rate after pushing the new drugs.
“Hit those, too, while we wait for his respiratory status to normalize.” McCoy placed a careful hand on Jim’s arm, avoiding the bruises. “I won’t keep you a moment longer than necessary. You have my word.”
“Some celebration,” Jim said sullenly.
“There’s always tomorrow.”
“By tomorrow, I’ll be old news.” He shifted restlessly, trying to hide his winces of pain. “Everyone will be heading home for the holiday break. There won’t be anyone left on campus.”
“I’ll be here, and I promise I’ll buy you a drink, so relax and stop whining.”
Jim looked mutinous, but he complied, lying back and closing his eyes.
McCoy felt guilty. Jim had worked his ass off during his time at the Academy. He’d carried a brutal load every semester, even taking classes during summer break, and despite the grueling pace, had managed to be at the top of his class. McCoy knew his friend thrived on the challenges, especially those involving physical tests. HTH, the daunting Academy obstacle course, the ACCT trials, Annual maneuvers… Jim had taken on all of them, and more, with a kind of gleeful determination to excel.
McCoy suspected that, on some level, they satisfied a dark need, born out of a traumatic childhood, to prove to the world that he was worthy, fully capable of protecting himself and others. And, even more deeply buried, the need to be connected. Whether emerging victorious from a fight or successfully fucking his way to orgasm, the effort sated Jim’s need to feel.
McCoy sighed. Jim’s future Chief Medical Officers were going to have their hands full.
“Regen initiated, Dr. McCoy. I’ve instructed the computer to notify you as soon as they finish. Is there anything else I can do?”
“Thanks, Kasia. Nothing for now unless you can find me a semi-decent cup of coffee to keep me company while I work on some paperwork.”
“Consider it done,” she said promptly, smiling, and practically skipped out of the room.
McCoy hooked a stool with his foot and sat down. Opening Jim’s chart on the PADD, he updated his orders, then with a heavy sigh, tapped the flashing 343-A icon. The first page of the long and detailed form filled the screen.
Gritting his teeth, McCoy began to carefully respond to the first set of questions.
It was past oh two hundred hours when Jim entered his dorm. The door slid shut behind him. He didn’t bother increasing the lights. The low glow of the safety lights hidden in the wall panels a few centimeters above the floor were enough to find his way.
Bones had finally released him from the fucking hospital after hours of tests and treatments and more than one lecture on ‘you need to take better care of yourself, you moron.’ As if Jim had planned to have an allergic reaction to the damn drug he had administered.
Bones just didn’t understand. A few bruises and cuts were a small price to pay for maintaining his title. He had been determined to remain undefeated in the ACCT. He’d already failed the Kobayashi Maru, the only test he’d ever failed in his life. He needed to prove to all those watching him, day in and day out, that it had been a fluke.
Everyone at the Academy knew he was George Kirk’s son. And that was part of the problem. He’d grown up in the shadow of George Kirk’s accomplishments, and the public’s expectations had been chasing him down for years. But it had been easier to hide out in the real world as one of the countless ruffians on the back of a motorbike than it was at Starfleet Academy where the ghost of George Kirk reigned.
He pressed a hand to the back of his stiff neck. The steroid injections he’d gotten hours earlier had helped reduce the spread of the hives, but it was the antihistamine that Bones had given him later in the emergency room that was making him groggy. Between the medication and the fatigue weighing down his bruised body, it had been easy to drift off. He’d fallen asleep on the biobed in the hospital without any effort, only to awaken in alarm as Bones covered him with a blanket. He had been shocked to discover the regen equipment, and the oxygen and IV lines, were gone, and that most of the evening had passed while he slept.
Angry, feeling both trapped and deceived, he’d thrown the blanket off and demanded Bones release him to his own bed. Okay, maybe it had sounded more like begging, but he had been adamant that he wasn’t going to spend the night in the hospital, like some kind of invalid. It was bad enough he’d missed the celebration in honor of his achievement because of a little wheezing. Which was all McCoy’s fault, anyway.
Why the fuck were doctors so addicted to their damn hyposprays?
A soft snore sounded from the corner of the room. D’Vani, his roommate, was asleep on his bunk. It was late and the dorm was quiet. The celebration had no doubt ended hours ago and most of the fourth-year cadets were settled for the night – either in their own dorms, or if they were lucky, someone else’s. D’Vani was a third-year cadet and only a year younger than Jim. They’d shared a dorm room for the past four months of the new semester, but Jim knew little about him, except that he was introverted, had a decent sense of humor, and excelled at physics.
D’Vani stayed asleep as Jim made his way to the small bathroom. His room, unlike Bones’, was minuscule and cramped. A narrow aisle of space divided the room, with a bed pressed against each of the longer walls, each bed bookended with a closet and a short divider, just tall enough to function as a headboard. Beyond the divider, a small desk with a shelf above it took up the remaining space. Next to Jim’s desk, a narrow sliding door led to a shared bathroom, while on D’Vani’s side of the room, the same space held a communal bookcase.
D’Vani had filled his side with personal mementos and accoutrements, while Jim’s side of the room was bare. He had left the few personal items still in his possession at the farmhouse in Iowa when he’d left. He didn’t even know if they were still there. Frank the Fucker might have thrown them out.
He hadn’t been back to Riverside in three years and he wasn’t yet ready to bring any of his past into his new life. Maybe he’d never be ready to blend those two realities. He was Jim Kirk, son of George Kirk – hero of the Kelvin. Every cadet and professor in the Academy knew his family history. His own history was checquered. Personal items would only attract unwanted attention.
The door to the bathroom slid open with a soft hiss, the lights coming on automatically. He was dead on his feet, long past tired, but he needed to wash away the smell of the hospital.
It took some effort to peel off the black undershirt Bones had loaned him – his previous one so stiff with blood and sweat it was unwearable – his muscles protesting the movements. The regen process took care of bruises and pulled muscles, but the treatment always left him feeling a little stiff and sore. In the past, Bones had said it was due to electrolyte depletion, advising him to drink plenty of enhanced water and to rest – which was, in his opinion, pretty much Bones’ prescription for everything.
He caught a glimpse of his naked chest in the small mirror, and stared, the shirt falling, unheeded, from his hand.
“Fuck.”
Most of his chest was still covered in a patchy red rash, the raised hives reduced to faint, itchy bumps. He turned to inspect his back and grimaced at the splotchy red patterns that stretched from his hips to his shoulders.
“Fucking allergies.”
Maybe the hours at the hospital hadn’t been the unnecessary disaster he thought they were, after all. Even utilizing all his charms, he wouldn’t have been able to talk any female – regardless of species – into his bed while looking like the victim of some contagious plague. With a disgusted sound, he turned away and finished undressing.
Ten minutes later, showered and dressed in a simple pair of loose-fitting sleeping bottoms and top, he exited the bathroom. Suppressing a groan as he eased his aching body into bed, he took a moment to settle the bedclothes around his shoulders, before closing his eyes.
“Still undefeated?” D’Vani asked sleepily, his voice muffled by his blanket. He didn’t bother to roll over.
“Of course.”
D’Vani hummed approvingly. “Not surprised. Thought you’d be staying the night with someone, though, to celebrate.”
So had he.
Jim sighed. The day, which he had started with such high hopes, had ended on a sour note. Stop thinking about it, he ordered himself. If he got to sleep now, he’d get a full six hours before his first class tomorrow. He hated Saturday morning classes, but they’d been a necessary evil. Bones, at least, hadn’t put him on medical leave. With only two weeks left before the semester ended and the holiday break began, being prohibited from attending classes would have been a disaster of a different kind.
“That Orion girl came by.”
Gaila.
He smiled for the first time in hours.
Gorgeous Gaila, with her smooth, curvy, and incredibly erotic body. Smart, pretty Gaila, unfazed by nudity and ready to indulge in intercourse at a moment’s notice. She had a way of moving against him that made him crazy. Not to mention the pheromones that oozed from her during sex. He got hard just thinking about their last romp in bed.
The bedclothes rustled as D’Vani changing positions. “You okay?”
“I’m good. A few bruises.” Which wasn’t exactly the truth, but D’Vani didn’t need to know it.
“Your PADD’s been pinging all night,” his roommate said, yawning.
Jim opened his eyes and turned his head toward his desk. He’d been working on a paper for his Advanced Tactical class before he’d headed out for the trials. With stiff arms, he reached over the divider to grab the device. Maybe reading some congratulatory messages would improve his mood.
Balancing the PADD on his chest, he unlocked it with his fingerprint and immediately saw the rows of messages queued up. He scanned the senders’ names, recognizing a myriad of individuals, from classmates, to his old hand-to-hand instructor, to the professor of his physics class. He stopped when he saw Pike’s name and he grinned. Pike’s praise was always the sweetest, although he’d die before admitting it. With the flick of his finger, he opened the message.
Congratulations on successfully defending your title. But remember, Jim, not every contest can be won. As James M. Barrie said, life is one long lesson in humility. Don’t let a single day’s victory go to your head. Be in my office tomorrow at 13:00.
He frowned. What kind of a half-assed, passive-aggressive congratulatory message was this? Pike was quoting Barrie, the author of Peter Pan, the author of an ancient, kid’s bedtime story, which made no sense.
Fuck humility. He was unbeaten. Twice. He wanted everyone to know, to acknowledge the magnitude of his achievement, to admire his win. What was wrong with having a little pride in his accomplishments?
He reread the message, doubts and uneasiness mounting. Maybe he was misreading the situation.
Pike probably just wanted to congratulate him in person. Or perhaps Pike wanted to pass along congratulations from other officers in Starfleet. He was the only cadet to ever hold the undefeated title, after all.
Or maybe the meeting had nothing to do with his win. Maybe Pike was going to finally inform him which ship he was going to serve on after graduation. He was only five months away from graduation, making good on his vow to complete the Academy in three years. And he would be graduating with top honors, to boot. Like his fellow fourth-year cadets, he had begun applying for positions, his selections all on constellation-class starships.
He’d excelled at everything, including – to the surprise of his professors – diplomacy and tactics. He would get a duty assignment aboard a good ship, he was sure of it. He was top of his class, and already had accommodations and awards on his record. What Starship Captain wouldn’t want him to serve as part of their crew?
Jim continued to scan the remaining messages of congratulations, his pride swelling as he read them. His smile disappeared as his gaze settled on a disconcerting name in his inbox: Kirk, Winona.
He stared at the name for a long time, a sudden upswell of emotions churning his stomach. What did she want? She was on the Lexington halfway across the galaxy. It had been less than twelve hours since he’d won, and news of his victory couldn’t have reached her this quickly, although Winona had strong connections within the fleet and the Academy. He’d been aware that she was keeping tabs on him for years now.
He closed his message box without opening her message and laid the device back on his desk.
He deliberately forced his thoughts away from his mother and, resettling beneath the covers, closed his eyes. He didn’t remember falling asleep.