Red Means Dead

Medicine

I hate my feet. I am in a mood and I have to blame something so my feet are receiving the brunt of my anger then my heart and then my brain. Anger is burning in my chest and no amount of rubbing my sternum can get it to go away. It is clear why it feels this way and why my brain is at constant warp, racing images and thoughts at such a pace that I constantly feel queasy. My feet, though, have betrayed me, have carried me down the hall to 3F 127 and keep me rooted to the deck outside the door until I decide to do something about it. Even though I am dressed in my sleep clothes, I am uncomfortably hot and constricted, like I can't take a deep enough breath and I realize I am rubbing my sternum again.

The dreams have returned. I had been doing so well and then McCoy had started going out of his way to take care of me and they had started with raging ferocity again.

Sighing, I press the call button and can here the faint whistle through the door. I will my feet to move, to sprint me back to my room and allow me to save some fraction of dignity.

I don't get that chance as the door slides open and McCoy's impressive frame is filling the small expanse. He registers my presence with a smirk and grabs the top of the doorframe with both hands, arching his back slightly so that a small strip of skin shows at the hem of his shirt. He looks tired around his eyes, his hair a bit unruly and his uniform slightly rumpled but he looks the same perfect McCoy to me.

Taking a deep breath, I pull his scent into me, both clean and comforting and unkempt and exciting, like a man who has worked all day.

"What can I do you for, Peaches?"

I blink at him, not expecting that question because I really don't know the answer myself. "I'm not exactly sure. Can I come in?"

He removes a hand and ushers me into his room, only rotating slightly to give me the smallest of space to pass. My shoulders brush against his chest and doorframe and I can't tell which is more immovable.

Wandering slowly into his room because, while it is bigger than mine, I can walk to the other side in less than twenty paces, I curse my feet again. He keeps it neat and tidy, his PADD on the desk, a glass of water beside it and on the other corner one small picture of a little girl cheesing rather largely for the camera to show off her missing tooth. His chair is pushed away from the desk from where he pushed it when he answered the door and beyond that is the bed, larger than mine and messily made.

His presence is heavy behind me, close enough for a trust fall but miles too far away to do such a thing. Turning, I cross my arms under my chest and stare blankly at him leaning against a bulkhead, watching me intently. We stay like that for far too long, my brain finally figuring out why my feet have come here. It seems so obvious now, an epiphany that has me buzzing with anticipation.

"You wanna sit or just stand here collecting dust?"

Glancing over my shoulder at the viable seating options and mindful of perception, I move to the table and slide onto it, pressing my back against the wall, closing my eyes and adjusting slightly as the edge of the desk bites into the back of my bare legs. I rest my hands against the smooth, cold metal, splaying my fingers by my thighs.

McCoy moves, too, and when I open my eyes, he is sitting in the chair, hands laced behind his head and a pensive look tightening his face.

"Sorry. Imma bit of a damp squib right now."

"It's quite all right. I'm barely coherent myself. I just got off shift."

"Eventful?"

"Sprained ankle and a bad plasma torch burn but nothing too out of the ordinary."