Author's Note: My first attempt at a ST fic longer than one chapter. This is just a little intro, barely any plot yet, but I wanted to test the waters. I'm still not entirely comfortable with these characters (if you have any suggests on how to make the characterizations better, PLEASE do tell), but I hope you enjoy!

It was his third cup of coffee, but no amount of caffeine could keep McCoy's eyes from itching with tiredness. His body was used to functioning on minimal sleep, but an all-nighter was still a strain. He had stayed up all night watching the kid.

Even now, though his vision was out of focus with tiredness, he stared at the young ensign who lay still in the bed in front of him. He was at his desk, a few yards from the patient's bed, his head resting in his hand and tilting ever more so that there was a decent chance he would fall asleep right there. But he forced himself awake, because Chekov's heart rate was still down and his blood pressure was too low and at any moment things could go very wrong.

Things had gone very wrong already. It had been Chekov's first ground mission and he had been so eager. McCoy still wasn't entirely sure what had happened, but he hardly wanted to think about it. All he needed to know was that Chekov had suffered some blunt force trauma to the head, a few severe gashes and a fractured shin bone. And that Jim had rescued him. Jim always did the rescuing.

A small moan wrenched McCoy from his thoughts and caused him to jerk his head up almost painfully. Rubbing his neck, he ran over to the bedside of the young ensign and checked his stats again. His heart rate had gone up marginally, and although McCoy was still not pleased with the blood pressure, it seemed stable. Chekov was awake.

"Keptain?" he muttered, blinking his eyes repeatedly in the dim light of the medic bay.

"He's not here kid, but you're lucky you are," McCoy said quietly, still fiddling with the machines hooked up to his patient.

Recognizing the voice, Chekov realized where he was before his eyes had adjusted to the light. He struggled to sit up, resting his back on the mass of pillows behind him.

"Is he alright?" he asked.

McCoy nodded, finally satisfied that Chekov wasn't in immediate danger and looking at him again. "You were the only one injured on that mission."

Chekov looked a little embarrassed. He sighed and allowed his shoulders to relax in defeat.

"I suppose I am not meant for missions," he said forlornly.

McCoy didn't really know what to say. There was a fierce, paternal voice in his head that wanted to say, 'no, you are not meant for missions, they're too fucking risky and you should stay in the ship where there is, at least, the illusion of safety'. Instead he swallowed a hard lump in his throat and avoided eye contact.

There was a woosh of doors sliding open and McCoy turned to see Kirk striding towards them. Chekov was craning his neck to see who was approaching, and as he caught sight of his captain his face broke into an easy smile. McCoy tried not to notice how Chekov's eyes seemed to brighten at Kirk's appearance.

"Chekov!" Kirk called out, walking to the side of the bed opposite McCoy and beaming. "Glad to see you're awake. How are you feeling?"

"Very fine, sir," Chekov said cheerfully, without a trace of the melancholy that he'd had moments ago.

"Good! I'm glad to hear it," he lowered himself onto his knees so that he was eye level with the ensign. "Look, I hope that you're not too discouraged by what happened."

Chekov opened his mouth as if to say something, but thought better of it and closed it again, gazing sheepishly at Kirk.

"It could have happened to anyone; you didn't do anything wrong."

McCoy left Kirk to his conversation with Chekov, and wandered back into his office. It was now 1130 according to his watch, which meant he'd been awake for 27 hours. 10 of which had been solely devoted to making sure the kid survived the night.

And he still couldn't cheer him up like 5 seconds of Jim Kirk could.

McCoy collapsed into a lounge chair in the corner of his office, closing his eyes and ignoring the ache of bad posture. For some reason he wanted Chekov to look at him the same way he looked at Kirk. It was beyond admiration, it was…idolization. It was unadulterated trust, and McCoy had seen it only once before.

It was in the eyes of his baby girl the last time he had held her. She had gazed up at him in exactly the same way the day he left.

And he knew that she would never look at him like that again.

He longed to be able to earn that look.