Later,
after he returned to his own cabin--a
mere level
above and three doors left of
Hutchinson's he
noted--McCoy brushed his teeth, got into
his pajama
bottoms and climbed into his bunk, trying to relax. He was sure he
would have trouble sleeping; between the Rigellian boy and the minor
itch of the Tikimati, he was certain
he'd be awake a
while.
There was
Hutchinson--Jessamyn--to
consider too. The evening had been more enjoyable than he wanted to
admit, and that left him feeling wary. His marriage to Bonnie
hadn't lasted long, but the pain was
still under the
skin. Muted now; McCoy had begun to make peace with the idea that they
each deserved blame for the animosity and rancor towards the end, but
it still bothered him that their rift was the one grievous hurt that he
had seen coming and couldn't stop or
heal.
He slept, dropping smoothly into the low deep dream state that touched
to the core of the mind. McCoy moved through the slow drift of images
familiar and unfamiliar as he slept. Here was a glimpse of a long
forgotten medical textbook; a moment chatting with a vaguely
recognizable actor from a play he'd seen
on Torva 12.
Then she appeared, out of the corner of his thoughts, shadowy but with
enough form for McCoy to know her. He breathed more deeply, his body
responding again.
/need/ came the thought, but whether it rose from
her or
himself, McCoy couldn't tell. The
thought was an
emotion; a response; a desire, and he watched as she drifted closer to
him. They were in a cabin; details beyond that were unimportant. McCoy
felt a surge of sheer physical desire build between his hips.
He'd been attracted to Hutchinson for
her mind and
quick wit, but under it all, she was a woman as well, and his own
hormones reminded him of that now, blatantly.
/need/ came the thought once more, and he rolled
towards her,
reaching for Jessamyn as she came closer to the bunk. Her face grew
clearer, eyes bright and hungry. She bent over him, mouth dropping to
his.
McCoy kissed her, hard, trying to reach up to hold her, pull her to him
but he couldn't make himself move. The
paralysis
charged him with frustration, and McCoy strained harder, trying to draw
Jessamyn down as she kissed him again---
The blare of his communicator broke into his dream and groggily McCoy
opened his eyes, orienting himself quickly. Cabin,
night--and yet the ghostly outline of a
woman still
there, lingering over him on the bunk. He blinked, staring even as it
quickly drifted down and disappeared, vanishing into the dimness of his
cabin walls.
Chapel's voice broke into his thoughts,
her tone
urgent. "Doctor,
I'm sorry to
wake you, but we have a potential surgical issue
here--"
He gruffly demanded the details as he reached for his clothes and made
his way out the door, relieved to discover that it was appendicitis and
not any further complications with his current patients. By the time
McCoy made it into Sick Bay, the patient was already prepped and it
took only a few minutes' work to
neutralize the
infection and stimulate the appendix to repair itself. Chapel assisted,
and McCoy shot her a few glances during the procedure.
"You could have done this yourself,
Chris," he murmured in an undertone.
"You know the process;
I've run
you through it twice on the simulator."
Chapel had the grace to blush a bit. "I
know, but I
didn't want to go in my first time
without you
overseeing."
McCoy nodded wearily. "Understood. But
next
time--" he flashed her a grin,
"--on
your own, nurse. Some of us need our beauty sleep, you
know."
That made Chapel laugh, but kindly, and she agreed with a nod.
"All right. Oh, and Alban Jorns, our
Rigellian?
Doing much better. We'll be able to let
him go by
tomorrow, I'm sure."
McCoy took that in and relaxed a bit.
"Good. Remind
me to write up the specifics on his case and send it off as an
appendiary note for Starfleet. How's the
Caitian--M'ralla--doing?"
"Asked for anchovies for
dinner,"
Chapel replied. "Nagazy released her a
few hours
ago."
"Anchovies," came
the wince.
"Good thing
she's out of
here."
Leaving Christine to chuckle and deal with the surgical cleanup, McCoy
drifted over to the ship-wide monitor and punch up a few commands on
the keyboard. The screen obligingly zeroed in on a single cabin, and
began to relay the medical statistics of the occupant within while
McCoy eyed them critically.
He didn't like being a Peeping Tom, but
as the CMO
of the ship he had both the right and obligation when circumstances
demanded it. The capacity to monitor any being on the ship at any given
moment was a useful privilege, and McCoy tried not to use the capacity
unless he could prove necessity, and given the events of an hour
before, he believed he had that.
"Woman, just what is
it about
you?" he muttered to the screen, noting the rapid
breathing and elevated cortisol that were at odds with the REM sleep
level she was in.
"Doctor, I am not an
oneirologist,"
Spock told him flatly. McCoy had called the First Officer down to Sick
Bay, and the two of them were in his office, looking at one of the
diagnostic computer screens.
Despite his spots of purple, Spock looked as solemn as ever.
McCoy gave a pained sigh. "Neither am I,
but I
can't be certain that
I'm dealing
with something that's strictly a medical
condition
anymore, Spock. Now I've pulled up every
topic I can
think of that covers sleep-related psychoses, and while some of them
have a symptom or two that correlates to the
Lieutenant's condition, none of them are
a direct
match."
"Have you discussed your concerns with
your patient?" Spock asked, ever logical.
McCoy fidgeted a little before replying."Not . . .
precisely."
"Why not?" came the
question.
"Because
I'm pretty sure
she's unaware of any
phenomenon," McCoy
admitted. "And her stress levels are
already
elevated. At the moment, there's nothing
I can put
forward medically to justify my concern other than four similar dreams
and the locality of her cabin."
Spock crossed his arms and shifted his gaze from McCoy to the computer
screen, thinking for a moment. "Then the
next
logical step is to isolate and observe your patient. You have the
authority to confine her to Sick Bay for an unspecified amount of time,
and all the equipment you need to monitor her closely. In the meantime,
I will search Starfleet's non-medical
databases for
anything pertinent that may apply."
"Thank you," McCoy
muttered, slightly
embarrassed, but relieved. With Spock's
help the
chances of figuring out what was going on had just gotten a hell of a
lot better.
"No thanks are
necessary," Spock
reminded him mildly. "I am sure you will
find a
convincing reason for her to relocate to Sick Bay."
"A sleep study,"
McCoy agreed. "That will
do."
"Indeed. Is the Lieutenant
human?" Spock asked, turning for the door.
McCoy nodded. "She is, but from what
I've gathered, her family moved from
planet to
planet with the Botanical Corps."
Spock nodded, and left; McCoy rubbed his chin and thought hard how best
to approach a prickly xenobotanist without blushing.
Lieutenant Hutchinson was . . . less than pleased. She glared down at
him from the top of her ladder, and if her hands
hadn't been full of fruit, McCoy had the
impression
she would have smacked them on the rungs.
"You're
kidding me, right? A
sleep study?"
"The best way to get to the bottom of
your
insomniatic problems is to monitor you for a few
nights,"
McCoy pointed out patiently. "None of
your other
physicians ever took the time to do that."
Hutchinson gave a little growl and all but shoved the pink grapefruit
at him. McCoy took them from her, stowing them along his arm as she
spoke up. "Damn it, I really
don't need this right now, but I
can't exactly refuse to comply unless I
want an
official reprimand, so I guess I'm stuck
with it. Am I right, McCoy?"
"That's
pretty much the size of
it," he agreed, realizing that as Hutchinson
descended the
ladder, she was nearly in the same position
she'd
been in his dream of the night before. It was slightly unsettling and
arousing, so he shifted the grapefruit to busy himself.
"Grapefruit?"
"Grapefruit. I need them to feed the
cobra
vines," Hutchinson sourly told him.
"Come on--" She
glided down the ladder
and set it aside, then led the way across part of the arboretum. McCoy
followed; tempted to juggle the grapefruit, but he refrained. Over her
shoulder, Hutchinson spoke shortly.
"Cobra vines
require citric acid, and generally root near trees that have it, but of
course here on the ship, we're not
always able to
accommodate the natural conditions . . ."
In fascination, McCoy watched her reach for one of the grapefruits and
peel it, then fling bits of both pulp and rind towards what looked like
a tangle of shaggy garden hose coiled along one bulkhead. Instantly the
vines slithered across the ground, smaller tendrils reaching out for
the bits of fruit, dragging it to the nested tangle. McCoy cocked his
head, intrigued, but not quite willing to go any closer.
Hutchinson nodded. "Best to stay
back--they get overenthusiastic and
sometimes tangle
around your arm or leg--nothing
dangerous, but a bit
scary to the uninitiated."
"Oh I'm
not scared of them; I
just find it hard to believe that any living thing can get that worked
up about breakfast citrus," McCoy drawled.
Hutchinson blinked and then laughed, the husky sound low and sweet.
"I never thought of it that
way," she
confessed, and reached for another from his hands. Her fingers brushed
his, and McCoy noted the sudden drop of her shoulders when she made
contact. He followed along to the next coiled clump, watching her peel
and toss more grapefruit to it.
"You're a
natural at this--true
vocation?"
"Hereditary," she
agreed.
"My parents were farmers who moved from
planet to
planet. I never met a plant I didn't
like, although
there have been a few that scared the fertilizer out of
me."
"Plants?"
McCoy's skepticism made her look over at
him, but she smiled.
"Ever been sprayed in the face with hot
acid? Had
six inch thorns fired at your eyes?" His alarmed
look was
answer enough, and Hutchinson nodded in satisfaction.
"Okay then. Botany
isn't all
clipping roses and digging up potatoes, Len, no more than medicine is
all bandaging knees and treating headaches. Out here
we get handed some real doozies--but we
both know that, right?"
He nodded ruefully, handing her the grapefruit with reluctance.
"It's not
the word
‘frontier'
that worries me;
it's the word
‘final,'"
he
admitted, making her chuckle once more.
"All right
then; I'll expect you at twenty two
hundred; you can
bring your own pillow and nightwear."
"Sick Bay
sleepover," Hutchinson sighed.
"Oh goodie."
The little room was dark, and McCoy leaned back in the chair on the
other side of the observation window, absently noting the readings over
it. The sense of being a voyeur returned, but he pushed it aside and
let his gaze move to the figure on the bed.
It amused him that she curled on her left side, much the way he did
when sleeping. So far Hutchinson was in the lightest stage of sleep; an
uneasy level prone to waking and not conducive to good rest. Still, she
was relaxed enough to have begun a sleep cycle so
that was a good response, especially in light of a new environment.
McCoy watched her quietly for over an hour, trying hard not to note the
gentle and appealing characteristics of his patient, but it was
difficult. He couldn't remember the last
time
he'd watched a woman sleep, and the
thought saddened
him a little.
Hutchinson gave a soft sigh; the monitor picked it up, and McCoy noted
a shift in her level of sleep. Alert, he noted that while she was
shifting into non-REM, her stress indicators were beginning to move up
in small increments. McCoy rose, nose pressed almost to the force field
as he watched her restlessness. By rights, Hutchinson
shouldn't be moving, not in N sleep, but
she was
clearly stirring, agitated. He debated for a moment longer, and then
moved to the door, slipping into the observation room silently.
McCoy reached the bedside and observed her more closely; her head
rolled from side to side on the pillow, and though asleep, her facial
expression was tense. He wanted to reach out and touch her, but held
back, glad that everything here was being recorded. McCoy forced
himself to wait.
A moment later, a pale vapor began to rise from Hutchinson, passing
through the sheet and coalescing over her supine form. McCoy held his
breath, fascinated, appalled and concerned. The mist had a pearly
quality, and began to sift form, taking on a familiar shape.
"Jessamyn," McCoy
whispered to the
ghostlike wraith, and reached out, placing a warm hand on her shoulder.
The apparition vanished.
Nonplussed, McCoy searched, scanning the space above the bed, straining
in the dim light, but there was no trace, not even the faintest glimmer
anywhere. He looked down at Hutchinson; she was completely relaxed now
in classic N4 sleep.
McCoy blinked, trying to process what
he'd observed
into some sort of reasonable explanation or hypothesis but nothing
seemed to make any sense. He shifted his touch, moving gently to find
her carotid pulse, which was strong and steady under his fingers.
He sighed. When he lifted his hand away, she stirred again; without
thinking, McCoy lightly dropped his hand on her shoulder once more, and
she settled back into sleep, easily and naturally.
McCoy sat lightly along the edge of the mattress, and
didn't move for another two hours.
Finally, stiff and slightly cramped, he risked moving his hand from her
shoulder, watching carefully the entire time for any reaction.
Hutchinson sighed, shifting to roll over. McCoy waited, holding his
breath to see if the bizarre shape manifested itself above her again.
Hutchinson settled on her back, arms moving restlessly; she nearly
touched him, and on impulse, McCoy let her fingers brush his. The light
contact was enough to soothe her and she let her hand drop next to his,
relaxing instantly.
McCoy kept his best poker face as Hutchinson stepped out of the Sick
Bay bathroom, running her tongue over her freshly brushed teeth before
looking at him. "I still
can't
believe you watched me all night, Len. Did anything
weird happen? Did I talk in my sleep?" she
murmured, unsure of his expression.
He resisted the impulse to be glib or to lie.
"Actually Jess; yeah. Something . . .
somnambulistic is
going on with you, but I'll be damned if
I can give
it a label--yet," he
reassured her with
a wry look.
"You're
kidding. I can't believe I actually slept,
let alone moved around when I did!" came her
retort.
"You slept pretty good last
night,"
McCoy assured her.
"Didn't
you?"
Reluctantly, Hutchinson nodded. "Okay,
last night
was the exception, though. Generally I swear I
don't
get any sleep . . . unless I'm, um,
dreaming."
"Erotic dreams,"
McCoy elaborated,
feeling a pang of irritation within.
"And now
I've got a theory about
that."
A bosun's whistle broke into whatever
reply
Hutchinson was going to make, followed by
Ilda's
voice, sounding as if she was holding her nose.
"Um,
Lieutenant? Can you come help me? The Xxilligan
hedge--"
"Tribble crap--She forgot to oil
it,"
Hutchinson groused. "Len,
I'm
cleared for day duty, right? Because I have to go.
You know where to find me."
"Yeah," he agreed,
reluctantly.
"But if I page you,
I'm going to
want you back here, pronto."
"If you page me,"
Hutchinson replied
with cheeky exasperation,
"I'm
going to want more than a theory."
