My Star Trek One-Shots

McCoy PT 2

The lights were dimmed to evening settings. Sickbay was quiet—no alarms, no chaos, just the steady beep of vitals and the low hum of biobed systems. Sahri sat on a biobed in an undershirt and medical wrap, her ribs patched, arm bandaged. A light bruise traced her temple, and her hair was down, tousled from rest.

She didn't flinch when McCoy entered.

"I thought I told you not to play hero," McCoy said, stepping into her space like he always did—without permission but never unwelcome.

"I didn't," she said lightly. "I played wind. Totally different."

He narrowed his eyes, scanning her with a tricorder. "Fracture's healing clean. No internal bleeding. But you'll have bruises for a week, and your smart mouth might not recover."

Sahri grinned faintly. "You always say that."

There was a pause. McCoy didn't leave. Instead, he pulled the stool closer and sat down beside her. He was still in uniform, sleeves rolled up, hands slightly stained from hours of post-mission care. But his shoulders were tense. His eyes not quite meeting hers.

"You scared me."

The words were quiet. Honest.

Sahri blinked, caught off guard. "I'm sorry."

McCoy shook his head. "It's not just you."

She tilted her head, waiting.

He looked down at his hands for a long moment, then spoke—flat, almost clinical at first.

"I have a daughter. Joanna. She's twelve now. Lives with her mother in Atlanta. I don't see her much. Part of the job. Part of . . . me being the kind of man who ends up in space rather than at birthday parties."

Sahri's expression softened, her usual teasing edge gone. "I didn't know. You never talk about her."

"Not much point. Talking doesn't change what I missed." He paused. "I check in. I send messages. I get updates through back channels—don't tell Jim. But I think about her every time someone like you walks back from a mission bleeding and too damn proud to say they're hurt."

He finally met her gaze. "She's going to grow up strong. Fierce. Stubborn as hell. She's going to get into trouble. Fight for people. Maybe even join Starfleet. And some poor bastard's going to be standing in my shoes, patching her up and wondering if this is the day she doesn't come back."

Sahri didn't say anything for a moment. Just watched him. Then, gently, said, "Is that how you see me?"

He gave a dry huff. "You're not my daughter, Sahri. That's not what I meant."

She smiled. "I know. But you do care."

"I do," he admitted. "More than I should."

The air between them changed—still, but charged. She didn't tease him this time. She didn't deflect. Instead, she slid her hand over his, fingers barely brushing.

"I care too," she said, quiet. "More than I should."

He looked down at her hand. Didn't pull away. Didn't speak. But he didn't leave. They sat like that for a long time—two stubborn hearts holding onto silence, but finally beginning to hear each other.

When Sahri was finally healed, she went back to the gym as soon as possible. The gym lights were low, set to evening cycle. Just the steady hum of systems and the faint squeak of shoes against polished mats.

Sahri flipped high into the air and landed on her hands, then pushed off into a perfect back somersault. She hit the mat with a soft thud, a small gust of wind following her like a gentle exhale. She winced slightly—her ribs still sore—but pushed through it. She always did.