Title: The Wrong Kind of Work (2/3)
Fandom: Star Trek TOS
Characters: Kirk, Spock, McCoy (Scotty and others)
Summary: Things get stirred up on the Enterprise after a lesson gone awry. Humor.
Previous Parts: 1
Okay, so this is going to be a tad bit longer than I anticipated. Enjoy!
Chapel is frowning over a report when M’Benga pokes his head into the main area with a strange look on his face. They both told Mr. Scott very firmly that if a patient is bleeding, half-dead or just generally sick, then to get one of the nurses or Dr. M’Benga. (“No exceptions, Mr. Scott!”) So it couldn’t be to warn her about another diverted disaster like two hours ago. (Christine had walked in an isolation room to find the Chief Engineer dismantling a bio-scanner while it was attached to a patient; he said, in his defense, “It was makin’ a queer noise, lass. Dinnae sound right, thought I’d take a peek.”) Now there is always a med-tech or some on-duty staff personnel in whichever part of Sickbay Mr. Scott happens to be poking about.
“Christine,” M’Benga says. “Doctor McCoy’s on the comm. For you.”
She drops the report into his hands as she brushes past. “I’ll take it in the CMO’s office.”
“Leonard!” she says into the speaker. “I don’t care what you did; I don’t care whose fault it was. Apologize to Scotty and Mr. Spock AND GET BACK UP HERE!”
There is a short silence, as if McCoy is surprised at her ferocity. (His surprise doesn’t last long.) “Why, darlin’, you sound a mite agitated.”
“I’m not playing with you, Doctor,” Christine warns.
“Neither am I, Chris. How many patients has Scotty terminated so far?”
She snorts. “None, fortunately. But we’ve had a couple of close calls. That’s why we need you here, Len. This is ridiculous.“
“You’re telling me, sweetheart. I’ve got dirt on my hands, Christine. DIRT. A doctor can’t have dirty hands, for Christ’s sake!”
She sighs. Why is this all such a mess? Christine feels for Mr. Spock, deeply, but his disciplinary skills suck. Besides, doesn’t this endanger the entire ship? She’d love to give that Vulcan a piece of her mind right about now, no matter how attractive the points of his ears are.
“Is that why you comm-ed, Len, to ask about Mr. Scott?”
“Well, no I didn’t. Though, keep him out of Isolation, okay? I don’t want Envers to have a set-back.”
She makes no comment on that request, though her brain goes too late. “What else?”
The speaker squeaks with static for a moment. Then McCoy asks, “I need a few things. Can you send down a spare laser-scapel set? Oh, and that old bag I keep between my desk and the wall.”
“Is there a medical emergency? Do you need assistance?”
“Ah no, that won’t be necessary.” His Southern twang deepens a little, which makes Chapel’s inner McCoy-compass swing to Suspicious Behavior. “Just need my tools—nothing medical involved, scout’s honor.”
“Leonard,” she draws out the name. “What are you up to?”
There is a short peel of laughter over the comm unit. “Chris, I’m just an old doctor. What kinda trouble could I possibly get into down here?”
Her mind flies through the possibilities. Warp-drive engines, power supply posts. Crap. Life-support room. Christine decides to go for broke. “Keep Sickbay off your radar, Doctor McCoy. Or I’ll comm Mr. Spock and the Captain.”
“We’re on the same team,” he reminds her. “McCoy, out.”
The Captain is relaxing on top of a pile of paperwork. He was rewarded with a quiet day on the Bridge, a prompt meal from his yeoman, and some well-deserved down-time. Well. If this paperwork would magically disappear.
Jim picks up his head, a nearby PADD pen and resigns himself to another hour of translating and signing Command reports. Why does each department have to send him twenty-page dissertations just to conclude that all’s functional in their part of the ship? The life of a Captain is not so glamorous as the media makes it seem. Jim chuckles at the thought of hosting a promotional ad for the Fleet behind a loaded desk of forms, requisitions, and reports.
Ten minutes of bored pen-tapping and Kirk is more than happy to entertain the visitor buzzing at his door. “Mr. Spock!” he crows and bounces up from around the desk. “How are you today? All in order on the Bridge? Of course it is! Why do I bother asking? Tea?” He is already fiddling with replicator by the time Spock is allowed to interrupt the Captain’s enthusiastic greeting.
“Captain.” The Vulcan speaks in the same monotone he has since they first met. “I feel that I must report the behavior of two senior officers.”
Kirk slides a cup across the desk to Spock. “There aren’t that many senior officers aboard, Spock. If we’re discounting ourselves, then…”
“Correct. I speak of the Chief Engineer and CMO.”
Kirk tries to put on his shocked face, but it’s rebelliously turning into a grin. “What’s Bones and Scotty done now?”
“Captain, I do not believe that their conduct calls for amusement.”
The Captain clears his throat and says in a more serious voice, “Report, Mr. Spock.”
“At 2310 hours, the two officers were engaged in a mutual… disagreement of a disturbing nature.”
Spock pauses as Kirk leans back in his chair, listening intently. “There were derogatory words used in both cases, I believe, to describe the other’s position on the Enterprise.”
“They were insulting each other. Okay. That’s not new, Spock. Bones gets riled pretty easily and Scotty won’t take a word said against the Enterprise.”
Spock blinks. “Each crewmember must learn respect for his peers and superiors, Captain. Without respect, and understanding, for the integrated aspects of ship functionality, the Enterprise will lose its cohesion as a unit.”
Kirk sighs. “Mr. Spock, you are not wrong. Trust me, I do realize the implications of a crew-at-war, but Bones and Scotty… they don’t mean their words, not to each other.”
It’s the subtle shift that Spock makes, sitting in his chair so straight-backed, that clues Jim in. “Spock,” he asks cautiously. “What did you—”
“I administered a corrective assignment within the bounds of Starfleet regulation, Captain.”
Jim feels his jaw drop. “What?”
“I believe that Terrans refer to it as ‘walking in another’s shoes.'”
There is a brief stunned silence as Jim absorbs the full impact of Spock’s words. Finally, he begs, “Please tell me that you didn’t put McCoy—”
“—in Engineering and Mr. Scott in Medical. Yes, Captain.”
Jim places a hand over his mouth. Whether he’s attempting to smother a hysterical laugh or a whimper, he’s not sure (and never will be). Then it strikes him.
Bones is near the engines.
He’s out of his seat and practically to the door, barking, “With me, Mr. Spock! We’ve got to get McCoy!”
The Vulcan displays muted signs of confusion as they hustle down the corridor to the nearest lift. He says, “I do not understand your urgency, Jim. Why—”
Jim slaps the button to call the turbolift and rounds on Mr. Spock. “You may not have known Doctor McCoy as long as I have, Spock, but I can tell you this—the last time Bones had to help out anywhere near a ship’s engine—and this is unfortunately during our first meeting, we were so desperate for extra hands, I’ll never forget it—well, let’s just say that the ship had a scare that nearly retired my first Captain.”
Apparently Spock does not find it too difficult to picture Leonard McCoy mixing wires on a reactor. He’s in the lift before Jim steps foot inside and dragging the Captain behind him.
The lift glides down into the ship… slowly. Spock looks to Jim. “I may have been remiss in my decision, Sir.”
Jim shakes his head a little with a smile. “We’re all prone to mistakes, Spock. Besides, who’d expect McCoy to fell an entire starship?”
That infamous eyebrow goes up. “Indeed.”
The tip of Len’s tongue is visible as he works diligently. “Hand me another roll of that—uh—metal stuff, Lieutenant.”
“Sir,” the red-shirt says as he reluctantly proffers the item to the doctor, “maybe you shouldn’t—”
McCoy turns to glare at the young man. “Did Mr. Spock or did he not confine me to this area of the ship for Alpha shift?”
“Well, son, what do you think I’m going to do all day? Twiddle my thumbs?”
Under that glare, the man manages, “No, Sir.”
“That’s right. If Spock wants to make an engineer outta me then, by God, that’s what he’ll get! Damn Vulcan—” The rest of the words are string of vivid curses not meant for delicate ears. If the subject of said-cursing were present, he might be intrigued and inquire after the doctor’s wealth of dialectal expressions.
When McCoy demands another tool from an old sagging (strange) black bag, the lieutenant complies without much complaint—though, he briefly marvels at the long blade with wide eyes. Doctor McCoy snatches it from his hands and admonishes him for keeping the sharp end pointed at his chest with “You’d think the Fleet pulled ya’ll out of the swamp for all the safety training you fools got! No wonder Engineering has the highest injury-rating…”
It goes on like this for quite so time, but a crowd is gathering, not to listen, to stare at the doctor’s handy work. However, there is one crucial member missing—and perhaps the vital piece: the Chief Engineer. Were Mr. Scott there, he would have herded his staff to higher ground in an instant.
And boggled over the monstrosity on which McCoy is “performing surgery.”
And then, in another heart-beat, set off the alarms for immediate evacuation of the Enterprise.
Sadly, Scotty is not about; there is only a group of curious red-shirts… and one determined, unstoppable Doctor McCoy.