Title: Strange Way of Showing

Rating: There's a bit of language, some injuries, so maybe PG? PG-13, to be safe?

Summary: Some people have a very strange way of showing they care. Bones is one of them.

Warnings: Language, a bit of character torture. Nothing too bad, honestly.

Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Star Trek. Also, the line Spock speaks to Jim near the end was taken from some fiction I read several months ago; it's stayed with me for all that time, and it found it's way in here. If that person wants me to change it, just let me know.

Notes: I can only hope I've kept everyone in character; if I haven't, tell me. Hell, if there's anything that needs work, let me know, critique and reviews are welcome! Flames and nasty comments, however, will result in the commenter being covered in rapidly reproducing Tribbles.

The thing you had to understand first off, if you were trying to understand CMO Leonard McCoy, was that he only groused at people he liked. He would bitch, snarl, complain, yell, hiss and generally grump at you for hours over every little perceived thing, but not once had he meant it to be honestly hurtful. That's just how he was. And he mostly did it, to be perfectly honest, because the people he spent the most time snarking at seemed to make it their hobby and life's work to constantly
scare the hell out of him. And when McCoy got scared was when he most often got porcupine-prickly towards the universe as a general whole.

After all, not only did the Captain and the First Officer , but his two best friends, seem to throw themselves into any and all available danger, but they proceeded to ignore 'little scratches' like gaping wounds and 'mild bugs' like rare, life-threatening illnesses. By the time they actually came to him-if, in fact, they ever did, and did not simply collapse somewhere to be hauled bodily into the med bay- a wound or illness that might have been easily dealt with had usually gotten far more serious. He had long since learned that the phrases, 'it's nothing, Bones', or, 'I'm fine, Bones', translated from Jim-speak into 'I'm bleeding internally, Bones', or, 'I've broken my arm in two places, Bones'.

And that was just Kirk. He would not even get started on the stubborn, hard-headed space elf that was Spock. If Jim bluffed, lied, wriggled and bullied his way out of every medical situation, Spock simply didn't let anyone know he was hurt. Of course, if it was an injury that incapacitated him or something that put another at risk, the story changed; he would willingly admit to injury. Hell, Jim, too, for that matter. But if it was some wound they didn't think any major problem, they tended to ignore it. He usually found out they'd been hurt only by pushing himself on them the second he had the chance, or (in one particularly harrowing case involving Jim) by finding blood on a discarded shirt.

What, he would snarl, was the point of having a medical officer anywhere if you didn't let him do his job?

Add to that the fact that, as brilliant as McCoy was, he still did not know everything about every race. And he did not only have a Vulcan to worry about patching, he had someone lucky enough to have both Vulcan and human anatomy. He seemed, just as in appearance, to be primarily Vulcan; his blood pressure, his heart rate, his body tempter, his- (McCoy still could not completely adjust to it)-green blood were all Vulcan. But when it came to drugs, primarily, one was never sure how his body was going to react. What kept Jim out for an hour might knock Spock out an entire day. What eased pain for McCoy might kill the First Officer in the same dosage.

And people wondered why he was perpetually testy.

And then there was the sheer bull-headedness of the men he was forced to work with. If ever there had been a more stubborn man born then James T. Kirk, McCoy had always said, he did not know him and did not want to. This had become something of a mantra in their younger years, even before the Enterprise and the danger and wonders she brought.

And then McCoy had met Spock, and thrown the mantra out the window, because the high-and-haughty bastard matched Jim in nearly every way. Complete opposites but with distinct similarities and thick as thieves almost from the moment they'd met; the pair together was enough to drive McCoy to drink.

Apparently it was just as often logical for Spock to throw himself in the path of whatever danger rushed their way 'for the good of the many' as it was necessary for Jim to hurl himself off the edge of a cliff for the same reason. He'd quickly come to loath both words. One of the things his two friends had in common was a martyr complex a mile wide. Therefore, McCoy often found himself fighting to heal injures that never should have happened to begin with. And usually these were not able to be ignored; he remembered anytime he closed his eyes wounds that oozed green or red onto the ground and bodies that crumpled, barely conscious through sheer stubbornness or gone already to that black place where there was, for a time, no pain until they woke.

And then the running off half-cocked; that was, truthfully, a problem Jim often had more then Spock. A plan would formulate and he wouldn't bother letting it solidify or explaining it to anyone else, half the time; he'd just do things, and expect them to work.

Granted, usually, they did. Through a combination of extraordinary luck, the will of God (or so it seemed), skill, and friends that, thank the good Lord, understood how he thought, they usually did. That did not ease McCoy's heart or mind anytime danger struck just a little too close to home. Anytime they'd avoid disaster by a hair's breath, or skirt around death by moments.

And once Jim got an idea in his head, it took nothing short of shaking him until his brains fell out his ears to change his mind. He would sacrifice himself without pause for the ship and its crew; it was as if he thought he was invincible, or, failing that, just not as important. (Too often he would give an order that narrowed down to 'abandon me and get the ship out'; and what were they supposed to do, when it was an order?) Charging recklessly into a situation, throwing himself headlong into the thick of the enemy; Jim flirted constantly with injury and death, and usually to keep others from doing the same. He would step without pause in front of someone to protect them, and that was an amazingly selfless, brave character trait.

It was also one that drove McCoy out of his head.

But Spock had his instances, too. Hijacking the ship had been one of them, one of the bigger moments that stood out rather clearly for McCoy. That had, granted, been more emotional pain then physical, and an incredibly selfish, remarkably human move on Spock's part.

(He still remembered Jim's agony at the thought of having to see one of his closest friends court marshaled, possibly put to death. Of having to be a part of that choice, and his own self-abuse at the end of it. "I voted guilty, Bones," he'd said, "without even knowing the whole story." It had turned out to be, in the end, an illusion, but the conflict in Jim it had created had been real enough. The deception had been real enough.)

But there had also been plenty of moments that had resulted in Spock's bleeding all over McCoy or his sickbay; and more then one from stepping in front and taking a blow meant for himself or Jim, or lingering behind to hold at bay whatever was pursuing them. He would guard his body and his secrets so closely you practically had to climb into his head to find out when something wasn't right and what that something was. He would rather be left behind -and had often tried to make that choice for others- when something went askew. He was better at avoiding physical injury then Jim but every bit as bad at dealing with it. McCoy had practically been forced to take a separate course in Learning Your Vulcan just to read the man's subtle facial expressions; the tension of the jaw that meant pain, the furrowing of the brow, the inward look, the harder breathing. He'd learned, slowly, how to recognize these things, but Spock never made it easy for him. (Jim was even better then McCoy at picking up on those signals; one of the more amusing situations he'd ever wandered in on was a rather hypocritical Jim ranting down Spock for hiding an injury, loudly, firmly, in his quarters.)

And when he finally got them in his medbay, got the bandaged and medicated, hypoed and closed up or whatever needed to be done, there came the seemingly simple matter of keeping them in bed. You would think a pair of injured, exhausted men, or sick, weak men, would have no problem laying quietly in a pleasant med-bay, with McCoy's not always unpleasant company, and the nurses and medical staff fussing over them, with anything to read or do they wanted so long as they stayed laying down. But no. No, inevitably someone would disappear from his sickbay the second he let his guard down. And not just those two, either; it tended to happen with many of the more hard-headed crewmen, Riley being an especially memorable run to deal with.

But Riley was young and full of energy and rash and stubborn. Jim Kirk was well past the age of knowing better, and well past the age of having an excuse. So, for that matter, was his half-Vulcan first officer. To be fair, there were times he understood their motivation, times when they felt they were needed on the bridge and when they felt that way they usually were- but damn it, when you had broken skin and broken bones what good were you to anyone?

And the excuses of 'feeling fine' or 'not wanting to seem failable' in Jim's case only succeeded in McCoy threatening to strap him down and keep him sedated until he healed more then once. He understood, and even had empathy, but that didn't change that he was hurt or sick and needed to stay. Still. Damn it.

The first time he'd ever had Spock in his sickbay, he didn't figure he'd encounter a single problem. And he hadn't; until Jim had appeared on the scene. Spock had declared himself fine, healthy, and walked out of the room despite McCoy's snarled threats. That had wound up with a little visit to McCoy for both of them, at the end of the day, one with newly reopened wounds and the other with a plethora of damages. He'd fixed them up and told them if they so much as twitched he'd sedate them and keep them that way, yes, you too, Mr. Spock, I am fully aware of just how much discomfort that would cause you, just stay still like a good space-elf and we won't have the problem.

He'd put them on opposite sides of the room, not really thinking too much; they'd both been badly hurt and, luckily for his nerves, slept through most of their recovery. But then Jim had woken up, and barely a full minute later Spock, too, and they'd started to talk. Back and forth, across the room; first of the unpleasantness that had brought them down, the repairs needing to be made, any deaths, any other injuries. But once they'd run out of that, they'd moved on to more pleasant topics, varying in topic and all of it light hearted banter. It had, McCoy was forced to admit, given the medbay a warm, contented feel, and his nurses had walked around with little smiles for most of the day. It had been good for both of them, and McCoy had discovered how to keep them in the bio-beds; if they had each other to entertain themselves, they wouldn't end up disappearing on him.

Of course, that didn't always work out, but he still had the threat of hypo-ing one or the other until they didn't know their own name let alone have the ability to walk, so that was okay, then.

So yes, it was true. In dealing with his rash, impulsive, emotional, hard headed, stubborn best friends, Bones is as abrasive as sand in an eye. But they accept it, and him, because they have long since learned that when McCoy grouses, it is only because he cares deeply for them, as is his job to do.

As is his pleasure to do.

Oh, don't get all sentimental; someone has to. Otherwise, these fools would all be dead years ago.

He brings the sheet gently up around Jim's shoulders, pulling away with a sigh and pushing a hand through his hair. He watches his friend stir, slightly, brow furrowed, and touches his shoulder soothingly. "Easy." He says, "Easy, Jim, you're alright."

Miraculously, he is, too. He'd done what Jim always did; something stupid.

Jim, Spock, McCoy and two other men had come down to this unknown planet days before; composing mostly of jungle and marsh, with bugs twice the size they should be and apparently, a highly developed race that found humans to be entertaining prey. They had managed to escape only because Jim had talked them into a proper hunt (his Captain was now forbidden to read The Most Dangerous Game ever again) of himself as long as they let the others go. He'd goaded them into accepting his terms- taunted them, mocked them, and angered them into accepting his terms.

And by the time McCoy had formed a rescue party and found Jim again, the man had been, for one and a half minutes, legally dead. McCoy had kept track; kept track while they had fought to bring him back, while Spock had, at last, reached forward to tug McCoy back. "You will only harm him worse." He'd said, impatience coloring his tone; he'd reached out with one slender hand and pressed it to the meld points of Jim's forehead. "Jim," He had muttered (not Captain, but Jim), so low that McCoy hadn't been sure he was hearing anything at all, "Jim, you must breathe or you will die. Jim. Breathe." And then he'd gone quiet, and closed his eyes, and while his lips had moved from time to time as if speaking there had been no sound. (McCoy, to this moment, remembers the odd little jolt that shocked him when he'd heard Spock say 'or you will die' rather then 'remain dead'. The jolt of hope when he realized that his Captain and friend hadn't left them yet.)

And then Jim had gasped a breath, and McCoy had shoved past Spock- who was already backing away- and fallen into his role as surgeon.

He had broken ribs, and he'd been bitten and clawed savagely (one gash was scant inches off from the spine. Jim was going to have a lovely scar to show for that one.) There was a nice bump near his temple-(He doubts Jim will be able to remember certain things about those days for a while, perhaps forever), and a dislocated shoulder. The worst of it was the blood loss.

But now he is recovering, laying under a thin sheet on a bio-bed wrapped up like a mummy, breathing steady and deep, and McCoy will never, ever admit it, but he's restless for the moment when Jim will open his eyes and start to whine, and complain, and try to escape.

When he will be healthy, and strong enough to return to the bridge, will be Jim again, whole and well.

Because from that point on-

From that point on…..

He'll be Spock's problem to deal with.