Chapter Two

The physical was polite, McCoy noted with frustrated amusement. He normally wasn't bothered too much by the attitudes of his patients and fellow crewmembers; most were intimidated by him and the rest were either overly talkative or cooperative.

Hutchinson seemed to fit into that last category, but her general lack of conversation and stiff manner created an atmosphere of passive aggression that didn't help matters along at all. He proceeded, trying hard to ignore her sullen attitude, and checked the biofunction monitor periodically as he checked her pupil response, throat, nose, ears and pulse for himself. Her respiration and temperature were within normal, but her stress levels were definitely a concern.

"What's the point of doing my pulse last?" she snapped. "Shouldn't you do that first, to see if I was still alive?"

"I know you're alive; I just like to let your agitation build to a good level first," McCoy murmured nonchalantly. "It's petty, but I get my little perks in where I can."

She fought an eye roll, and that was a good sign as far as McCoy was concerned. He held her wrist, fingers against her pulse point and glanced up at the biomonitor, noting the sharp drop of stress.

Interesting.

McCoy filed it away, and concentrated on Hutchinson's pulse, speaking in a low and conversational tone, aware of how soft her skin was. "So I see the dye job has faded, and I'm going to assume mother and sprouts are doing well?"

"Yep."

"And let's see--eating well, getting enough hydration?"

"Who, me, sir? Or the Chivills?" Hutchinson asked, deadpan.

McCoy pursed his mouth and leaned closer, slightly irritated.

"Leave it outside, Lieutenant," he advised. "You don't want to get into this with me; not on my turf. I can have you confined to quarters, and that's just the beginning."

She thinned her lips and gave one small nod, shoulders relaxing a bit. McCoy waited a beat, letting his authority establish itself, then he leaned back. "All right then. I've got the blood workup from last week, so let's get a scan and see if there are any discrepancies."

He glanced at the biofunction board has he reached to pick up her hand for the phlebotomy scan, noting Hutchinson's stress levels were high again. The minute McCoy touched her, they dropped.

Odd.

There were discrepancies between the two blood scans, but in areas he hadn't been expecting, and McCoy stared at the results for a long moment, letting the information shift around in his thoughts. He'd been expecting anemia, and possibly some enzyme imbalances, but the jump of cortisol was definitely alarming.

Impassively, McCoy set the clipboard aside and was debating what to say when his communicator pinged; he tapped his chest irritably. "McCoy here."

"Doc, thank the Glowing Deity I got you! It's Solly Diltomok from the freighter Grolgel. McCoy, you and your entire crew have been exposed to Tikimati Fever."

"Tikimati Fever?" McCoy repeated, focusing on this new and alarming information. "Oh for the love of Hippocrates--Thanks, Solly--nice parting gift."

"Not on purpose, Doc, believe me. I just broke out myself, thanks to my youngest sprat. Since the damned fever's airborne and approximately one hundred percent contagious, I had to let you know as soon as I could," came the remorseful tone of the captain. "A minor disease, usually nonfatal to humanoids, according to Starfleet, but I'd advise you to quarantine yourselves for the next week while it runs its course. And it's small consolation, but I really am sorry."

McCoy had already pulled up the information on the computer and gave a soft grunt. "Yeah, I know you are, Captain--and thanks for the heads up. See you soon; McCoy out."

Hutchinson was already slipping off the med table, her expression concerned. "Trouble?"

"Yep," McCoy sighed, and raised his voice. "Tsan, Chapel, Schmitt!"

Three medical personnel came swiftly from various points in Sickbay, converging in front of McCoy, who briefly made eye contact with each of them. "We're quarantining the Enterprise. Tikimati Fever. Any of you treated any patients for a low-grade fever, headache or spots this morning?"

All three of them nodded. McCoy sighed. "Tsan, you're already breaking out yourself."

The petite nurse blinked, and the others looked at her; small mocha and green spots swirled lazily across her forehead and cheeks.

McCoy shook his head. "Probably picked it up from me, damn it. All right people, ship-wide, so we'll need stations in Engineering--you head that one, Christine-- the labs and the quarters--Schmitt you take those, and I'll handle the bridge. I want fever reducers for the humanoids, and accountability for other personnel who might be harder hit by this. Tsan, you're on bed rest for at least a day. Go."

Within minutes, Sickbay was nearly empty. McCoy shot a look at Hutchinson, who stood uncertainly, looking towards the doors. He motioned to a chair in front of the computer. "I need you here, Jessamyn. Pull up a list of personnel by non-human species or cross-species for printout, and let me know when you see any spots on me. I've got to alert the captain and cross-check some drugs."

"I'm a xenobotanist, not a doctor," she grumbled, but typed anyway. "So I'm in the clear?"

"No," McCoy called as he strode towards the pharmacy, "but you've been bumped down the list for the moment."

The Tikimati Quarantine took effect within ten minutes of Captain Diltomok's transmission, and fifteen cases were confirmed within the first half-hour after that. Up on the bridge, one of the patients was Kirk himself, who now bore spots of bright orange and blue that drifted across his un-amused expression as he stared into a mirror. "Okay, that's . . . not normal."

"Apparently the spots are collected, free-floating points of pigment unique to the body chemistry of the individual," Spock informed him, "And prone to acceleration in moments of stress or emotion."

"So yours will be pretty much stationary," Kirk murmured back. "Charming. I suppose I should be grateful that this is minor, and we don't have any major diplomatic events to attend."

"We'd fit in on planet Dalmatian," groused McCoy, who now wore shifting dots of aqua and silver gliding around his sour expression. "According to the latest information on this, it's no worse than most varicellas, and we should be in the clear in a few days at the least, Jim."

"I suppose we could do with a general maintenance check and general inspection until then," Kirk sighed. "Anyone seriously sick?"

"Two: a Caitian ensign and a half-Rigellian lieutenant. I've got both of them in Sickbay right now, so if you'll excuse me," McCoy moved to the doors adding over his shoulder, "and if any of you feel worse than mild fatigue or headache, bed rest. Doctor's orders."

Down in Sickbay, the line of crewmembers needing analgesics was thinning out, and most of them were amused at each other's new pigmentation. McCoy was glad to see that no one was panicking, and that things were orderly. Lieutenant Hutchinson was still there, helping Doctor Nagazy dispensing meds, and she shot McCoy a quick glance. "Nice spots."

"You'll get yours soon enough," he grunted at her. "Trust me."

"I know," she told him wryly, "I wonder what colors they'll be?"

"Pink," McCoy told her with mock-authority. "All the prettiest Hatfields get pink."

"Are you . . . flirting with me, McCoy?" Hutchinson pretended to be shocked. "Your fever must be worse than we thought."

"How much would you care to bet that a percentage of your spots actually will be pink?" he sidestepped, moving to check the temperature of a familiar figure.

Ilda batted her eyes at him, doing her best to look feverish. "Oh doctor, I'm so glad you're the one treating me!"

"Ensign," McCoy muttered, not sure what else to say. Ilda's face looked like a kaleidoscope as spots of six different colors swirled across her features. McCoy backed up a bit as she leaned closer, swooning.

"I'm SO hot!" she announced loudly. "And dappled!"

"And dramatic," someone further behind her snickered, making other people chuckle and taking some of the tension out of the moment.

McCoy studied her spots with interest. "You look like an explosion in a confetti factory. You've got no fever though, and that's good. Headache?"

"Oh yes," Ilda jumped on the symptom, "Pounding at my temples like gongs, doctor!"

"Confined to quarters," McCoy announced firmly. "Take two of these every four hours, and get some rest, my dear. I'll have someone check on you before dinner. Next."

Pouting, she took the little bottle of pills and slunk away; Hutchinson gave a sigh. "She's going to be insufferable for about a day. Thanks a lot."

"And I've got people who are really sick," came his quiet counter-reply. "No time for medical groupies today."

Hutchinson snorted, and kept refilling bottles.

The general atmosphere of the ship was one of itchy amusement; only one in five of the crew had the latter symptom of Tikimati Fever, fortunately, but McCoy himself was one that did. He tried not to scratch and set a bad example, but it was difficult, and when Tsan caught him attempting to rub his spine against the edge of the computer console, she took pity and brought him a backscratcher.

"It's an antique, so be careful with it," she'd warned him, smirking.

"So am I," McCoy assured her, but took the tool gratefully and applied it with discretion as he continued to monitor the two most critical patients, who were in the ICU of Sickbay.


The Morale, Welfare and Recreation staff took it upon themselves to stage a "Connect the Dots" party in the Main Rec room by the middle of the week in an attempt to lighten the mood of the quarantine, and it ran through all three shifts. Some wit had found a ball of mirrors and it gave off extra dots of light throughout the dimly lit room, making it seem as if the Enterprise herself had a case of Tikimati as well. There were exotic drinks of all sorts, and a dance floor, and all around it, dozens of tables covered with dotted tablecloths.

McCoy allowed himself to be goaded into stopping in; Chapel had firmly shooed him out of Sickbay. So far the Caitian was on the mend, but the half-Rigellian boy was still serious, and McCoy was reluctant to leave until Chapel promised to page him if he worsened.

The entire shift seemed to be there; McCoy noted Scotty holding court with a cluster of other engineers in one corner, all of them involved in some drinking game, while out on the dance floor, Uhura was doing the samba with a young and very dazzled crewman in the middle of the floor. Crossing his arms, McCoy settled against one of the bulkhead walls and contented himself with watching.

There was a lot to see. Apparently MWR had brought in a whiteboard wall and was encouraging people to write poetry to their spots on it; on the other side of the room, a few brave souls were in fact trying to connect dots with washable markers, failing as the spots shifted from position to position across various points of anatomy. Through it all was a cheerful mood, and McCoy was glad to see that spirits were high and morale good.

They were lucky this time, he knew. At any point the ship could be infected with something far more lethal, accidently or on purpose, and although the transporters and air locks were equipped with the highest level of bio-filters, it was only a matter of time before another contaminant or virus slipped through again. McCoy tensed at the thought.

"You look thrilled to be here," came a familiar voice. He glanced over to see Hutchinson sipping a bizarre drink of some sort from a tall glass. McCoy couldn't tell what it was, but the scent was potent.

"It's good to see the crew handling this medical crisis well," he drawled in reply, making her laugh. She came over to lean against the wall with him, and McCoy gestured to her glass.

Hutchinson grinned. "Yridian brandy, with some peach juice in it," she replied. "I'm stopping at one, but they are good."

"I bet," he nodded with a small smile. "Help you sleep?"

She stiffened a moment, then relaxed. "Sometimes," Hutchinson admitted. McCoy noted with satisfaction that her spots were pink, a nice mix of light and dark, sailing along gently in a circuit around her expression.

Someone bumped into them, murmuring good-natured apologies; McCoy reached out to steady the man, who turned out to be Ensign Callahan. "Easy there."

"Hey Doctor," came the shy acknowledgement. The ensign turned and looked at Hutchinson; his expression sharpened for a moment, intently. "Oh! I know *you,*" came his surprised murmur. "The woman of my dream!"

"That's quite a line," Hutchinson replied, startled, but amused. "Use it often?"

"No, I mean it," he mumbled. "That is--I've, um, probably seen you in the halls of deck five or something, right?"

"Most likely," Hutchinson countered, looking a bit more uncomfortable with Callahan's staring. McCoy took her drink and set it down on an empty table, then towed her away, onto the dance floor. Hutchinson followed him reluctantly, caught between any further embarrassment by the ensign, or making a scene by having McCoy drag her. Relenting finally, she stepped into his arms as the lovely strains of "Chattanooga Rocket" began to play.

They danced, a little awkwardly at first, but as the music played on, both of them relaxed into it and found a common rhythm. Hutchinson looked at McCoy with a skeptical grin on her face. "You don't strike me as the dancing type."

"I'm not," he assured her, "but clearly you are."

She snorted, but looked down, pleased at the compliment. McCoy let himself enjoy the moment, feeling glad to give her some pleasure, and wondering if she knew how pretty she looked, spots and all.

"You look . . . smug," Hutchinson observed after a moment.

"Just realizing my prediction came true," he told her, pointing with his chin to her face. "Pink."

"Pink? Oh, the spots," she nodded. "Yeah, you were right. Why did you think pink anyway?"

McCoy took his time answering. Under his fingers, he felt her tension lessen, and even though he couldn't read Hutchinson's blood pressure, he hypothesized it was clearly down a few points from moments before. "I figured it was the most flattering color for you."

Her skeptical look wavered for a moment, and she laughed, shaking her head slightly. "Oh you silver-tongued devil McCoy! Allow me a moment of suspicion as to your motives."

"My name," he growled in a slightly playful tone, "Is Leonard. Len to those who think kindly of me. I'd prefer that, Jessamyn."

Hutchinson nodded. "Len it is, although I reserve the right to shift back when in a cantankerous mood."

She seemed to be in anything but, he noted, and felt a pang of loss when the song came to an end. They stood together a moment longer as the spell faded, and a quicker, more modern tune began. Hutchinson showed her chagrin and McCoy nodded, leading the way back to the wall as other couples took to the floor in their wake. In unspoken agreement, they made their way out of the room and into the hall, away from the crowds and noise.

Fewer people were here, and the lighting was brighter--but not by much. Hutchinson flashed McCoy a wry smile. "That was . . . nice. Thank you."

"Thank you," McCoy replied courteously. He waited a moment; Hutchinson gave a little sigh and began to walk towards the lift, her actions making it clear that she aware that he was going to see her to her cabin regardless of anything she might say about the matter.

In a courtly gesture, he motioned her into the lift and then followed behind. The car was empty of anyone else, and McCoy looked to her since he was standing near the panel. "Deck?"

"Five. I really can find my way, you know. Even without a map or trail of breadcrumbs," Hutchinson told him, but her words were more automatic reaction and lacked any animosity.

McCoy merely shot her a look of gruff affection and hit the appropriate button before speaking. "I pity any stepmother trying to lose you in the woods, missy."

"Hatfields live in the woods," she agreed with a quick, shy smile. "It's said a distant ancestor of ours was the originator of the gingerbread cottage."

"I'll just hold off on any invitations involving home-cooked meals then," McCoy replied, poker-faced. Hutchinson laughed. The lift moved quickly and quietly, gliding to the destination.

Once there, McCoy waited until Hutchinson let the way, following in her wake for the first few moments and once again admiring the view she presented. This time, however, she glanced over her shoulder and caught his glance. McCoy shifted his gaze upward, not apologizing, and she gave a slightly forgiving sigh.

"I should be annoyed," she began, still walking, "but seeing you go slightly pink behind those dancing dots is enough to quell my wrath."

McCoy wisely, said nothing.