Notes: A short oneshot that I dug out of the depths of my computer. I've busted an arm (well, collarbone) so I'm slow and lazy at the moment. Hey, it's New Year, it's cool.
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek 2009, and I make no profit from this work.
Technically speaking, in matters medical, Dr. McCoy outranked even the captain. Technically. In fact, there was not one incident in the history of Starfleet whereupon the orders of the CMO had not been supported and approved by the Captain of the vessel, station or base in question.
There was a precedent, however, for the CMO overruling the First Officer. And even if there hadn't been, Spock was reasonably certain (eighty percent) that Dr. McCoy would do so regardless. And Captain Kirk would support him, because if the good doctor was threatening somebody else with the hyposprays, the captain would be fully behind such treatments.
Spock was thinking of some distinctly unpleasant nouns to describe his commanding officer at this present time. It was unprofessional, certainly, and against several of Surak's core teachings, but in light of having been released from his bridge duty specifically to report to Sickbay for his overdue medical...
For once, he simply did not care.
By the time he reached the open doors of the Sickbay, he had recited all fourteen insults in High Vulcan no less than eight times each, and interspersed with several of the more crass, colloquial ones in Standard Vulcan. They would not (with two exceptions) be considered swearing in Standard Human, but then Humans did not regard aspersions as to their telepathic capabilities to be insulting. To them, 'mind-blind' was simply factual.
Dr. McCoy was mind-blind, Spock reflected, or he would not have been so ridiculously pleased (smug) to see him.
"Finally!" he announced, loudly and cheerfully. "Now you've decided to grace my doors with your presence, Commander, we can get started. Pick a biobed and get your shirt off."
Spock obeyed. He did not want a physical at the best of times; now was particularly inopportune. If he could encourage the doctor to be quick, then perhaps he would not pick up on the changes.
"Doctor, I have a shift to return to shortly."
"Good for you," McCoy replied genially. "First things first, I want to check how that shoulder's healed up after Altaria II. How's it feeling?"
Spock squashed the irritable thought, and replied, "Adequate."
"Uh-huh," McCoy snapped on a pair of gloves - the only compromise he had ever made, in Spock's memory, to their species difference - and probed the shoulder blade with gentle hands. For all his gruffness, the doctor did have a gentle touch when he so chose. Which was not often. "Any pain when I press here?"
"No, doctor. Your instruments could detect pain."
"Not unless it's provoked," McCoy replied. He was too genial. Spock turned to eye him suspiciously, and was pushed to face forward again. "Roll your shoulder. Like this. You'd think you never had a goddamn physical before."
"My last physical was six months ago, so I fail to..."
"Because since then, you've had two illnesses - one still unexplained, thank you very much - five injuries and one intensive surgery. Don't tell me how to do my job, Commander."
Another irritable thought was crushed; McCoy snorted, and Spock wondered (rather frivolously) if he were indeed mind-blind after all.
"You'd think you had a phobia of doctors."
"I simply do not relish unnecessary time-wasting and attention."
"Uh-huh. Put your hand on the back of the bed and lean forward."
"For what purpose?"
"Stretches out the muscles. Just do it," McCoy ordered, and waved a scanner almost vaguely up the arm. "Keep it there. Hm. Lean a bit more."
Spock did so - and the metal snapped shut around his wrist. He jerked the moment that he heard it, but the shnick was too late, and his arm was trapped in the cuff. He twisted to stare at the smirking doctor, who locked the restraints to prevent their tightening further, and placed the key out of reach.
"There," he said. "Now, you can just sit tight and have your goddamn physical."
"Doctor." The irritation was rising again, and the cool metal around his wrist didn't help.
"Can it," McCoy said flatly. "You've been ducking out of this physical for weeks, ignoring every goddamn regulation in the book. I am your doctor, and if I say you're having a physical, then you're having a goddamn physical."
"It is not..."
"If the next word outta your smart mouth is necessary, then I'm gonna do this the slow way."
Spock shut his mouth.
"Thought so," McCoy said grimly, coming around the bed to face him and glower from a closer range. "To top it off, I can do somethin' about the muscle ache you're havin' in that shoulder, and that developin' knot beside your neck. Your diet card needs tweaking - or you need to start obeying it - and we'll see what we do about the insomnia while we're at it."
Spock narrowed his eyes. "Doctor..."
"Quiet." The scanner was abruptly jabbed into one cheek. Spock wondered if McCoy had even heard of the Hippocratic Oath.
Spock tried again. "I do not have insomnia."
"No, you just keep wakin' up on the hour every hour, and you twitch about while you're at it. You might be fine on that little sleep, but I'm not, and if I have to sedate you every night this week, I will get you to goddamn sleep."
A tiny, warm pool of guilt bloomed in the pit of his stomach somewhere; McCoy eyed his scanner suspiciously, and shook his head in mock disgust.
"Now stay still, and shut up."
Spock pulled on the restraint around his wrist. Romulan-grade. He could free himself, but it would result in breaking the bar on the biobed. He would be placed on report, at the very least, for damage to Starfleet property.
He eyed the forming creases between McCoy's eyebrows - not overly familiar signs of stress - and subsided.
Perhaps, if the doctor were quick about it, it would not be so bad.