"There must be more wrong with you than a tricorder’s manufactured to record," McCoy scoffed. Disturbing possibilities had begun creeping through his mind. Chekov spent an inordinate amount of time in his medical bay and—here, he double checked—never when McCoy himself was off duty. He stayed silent through an uncomfortable pause. "—you’re serious, aren’t you?"
Chekov sat a little straighter at the edge of the examination table, reining in his smile.
"Wery serious, Doctor." (That smile crept right back.)
McCoy made a face.
"Exactly what d’you expect?"
The question seemed to baffle the ensign.
"Nothing. I don’t expect anything."
At this point, McCoy had to face some uncomfortable possibilities. The least of which was that the kid idolized him. Seventeen, fresh out of Starfleet Academy, manning one of the most important positions on the ship, and maybe Chekov saw him as some kind of living proof that you could do this job—be a Starfleet officer—and not let it change you or make you into a real military man. There remained more disturbing options. McCoy eyed the distance of the nurses and other medical staff from the table the ensign sat on before lowering his voice.
"Ensign, I can’t help but get the feeling something inappropriate’s going on here. You don’t strike me as a hypochondriac. I need you to stay out of my med bay unless you’re suffering an actual medical emergency."
Chekov weighed his words, a sadness gathering at the corners of his eyes, threatening at any moment to storm into some kind of kicked puppy look. It dissipated just as quickly. His lips upturned again, but slyer now – dare McCoy say flirtatious?
"Maybe, sometime, I could wisit you in your quarters, Doctor?"