Poking and Prodding
Posted on 08 Feb 2026 @ 2:30am by Lieutenant Commander Claire Dunross MD & Lieutenant Commander Grayson McKinney
2,621 words; about a 13 minute read
Mission:
Lathira Shoreleave
Location: Deck 7 Sickbay
Timeline: After the Senior Staff Briefing, Time: 1430 Hours
The soft chime marked his entry.
Lieutenant Commander Grayson McKinney stepped through the doors into Sickbay with the deliberate casualness of a man who knew he was being watched. At six-four and built like he’d been engineered for impact, he couldn’t help making an entrance. He’d accepted that years ago. The trick was owning it.
He paused three steps in, letting his eyes adjust. The overhead panels pulsed with a low blue light, the bio-neural interfaces humming beneath the audible range but felt in the bones. Diagnostic consoles cycled through data streams in soft bursts. Everything was crisp, efficient, and absolutely clinical.
Grayson hated it.
Not the medicine. He respected the work. But the place—sterile air, humming machinery, the sense of being measured before you even opened your mouth. He’d spent enough time in wards to know they all smelled the same: antiseptic and inevitability.
He rolled his left shoulder, testing the pull. The bruise from T’Mara’s rib strike was making itself known. Dull. Persistent. The kind of ache that said you’re getting older and stop sparring with Vulcans in the same breath.
He let his hand drop.
“Commander McKinney.”
The voice came from his right, and it hit him before he’d fully turned. Clear. Confident. And lilted with something he hadn’t heard in years.
Not clipped like the Academy instructors. Not drawled like the colony-born crew. There was a rolling softness to her consonants, vowels rounded and rising, as if every word carried mist off Atlantic cliffs. Highland Scots. The old country. The kind of voice his grandmother would’ve called proper before switching to Portuguese and pulling him into the kitchen.
The memory surfaced unbidden. His paternal grandmother, sun-browned and sharp-eyed, kneading dough at her Rio kitchen table while the air thickened with mango and rising bread. Her voice had that same music, that same blend of heather and sea, proof that the Highlands could cross oceans and centuries if someone carried them. Grayson had learned to trust that sound before he’d learned to walk.
Now it tugged something loose in his chest. He hadn’t expected that.
He turned.
Dr. Claire Dunross stood near the primary diagnostic console, PADD in hand, white medical coat over her teal sciences uniform. She held herself the way good officers did: weight balanced, shoulders squared, eyes direct without challenge. Professional. Composed. Assessing.
And assessing him.
For a half-second, Grayson wondered if she’d already cataloged the shoulder, the slight favoring of his right side, the tell in how he’d paused. Doctors and snipers shared that look. Both measured what you didn’t say.
He offered his trademark half-smile, that ambiguous curve he’d weaponized years ago. Part charm, part deflection, entirely deliberate.
Her brow lifted. Just enough. As if she’d seen that smile before and wasn’t buying it.
A flicker of amusement touched her mouth. Not quite acceptance. Not quite dismissal. An invitation to try harder.
Grayson felt the ground shift. Just slightly.
“Doctor,” he said, letting the smile widen a fraction. “Reporting for my mandatory poking and prodding.”
The words came out light, practiced. He’d learned long ago that humor was armor in places like this. Keep it easy. Keep moving. Don’t let them get a good look.
But something in her expression told him she was already looking.
“Lieutenant Commander Grayson McKinney,” she said, stepping forward. Her tone was even, precise. “I’m Lieutenant Commander Claire Dunross. Assistant Chief Medical Officer.”
She offered her hand.
He took it. Her grip was firm, professional, and completely unshowy. Up close, the impression sharpened. She carried herself with a quiet strength, her frame both lean and resilient. Not fragile. Built for long shifts and hard decisions.
And she was noticing him. Not the rank pips. Not the uniform. The body beneath it.
“This should be fairly routine,” she continued, gesturing toward the nearest biobed. “Baseline scans, musculoskeletal check, the usual questions. Any issues I should know about up front?”
The phrasing was casual. Almost companionable.
Grayson crossed to the biobed, letting his mass settle onto it with more care than he’d admit. The left side twinged. He shifted his weight instinctively, easing the pull.
Claire’s eyes tracked him. Not directly. Through the reflection in the console.
He didn’t settle fully. Couldn’t. The ache along his ribs made lying flat a negotiation.
“And before you say it’s nothing worth mentioning,” she added, her voice warming just slightly, “you’re not relaxing into your left side. Shoulder and ribs look involved. You’re compensating to avoid pulling on something that hurts.”
Her gaze lifted. Met his.
“What’s going on with your left side, Commander?”
Claire Dunross had seen many officers walk into Sickbay over the years.
Most fell into predictable categories: the stoics who pretended nothing was wrong until they collapsed, the hypochondriacs who treated every sneeze like a biogenic plague, and the charmers who thought a smile could deflect a medical scan.
Lieutenant Commander Grayson McKinney, she suspected, was attempting the latter.
The smile he’d offered at the door was textbook deflection. She’d seen it before, on her older brother RJ, who’d used that exact expression to talk his way out of trouble. Disarming. Deflective. Meant to soften the situation before it could press back.
All right then, she thought. Let’s see how long it lasts.
She’d clocked the injury the moment he’d walked in. The way he held his left shoulder was a shade higher. The slight hitch in his gait, favoring the right leg to keep weight off the left ribs. The small, instinctive adjustments of a body negotiating with pain while the mind pretended otherwise.
She’d done her clinical inventory in under ten seconds: probable deep tissue bruising, possible intercostal strain, no visible signs of fracture or internal bleed. Functional but uncomfortable.
What she hadn’t expected was the rest of it.
The sheer presence of the man.
He wasn’t just tall. He was dense. The kind of build that suggested mass was carefully earned and deliberately controlled. A walking reminder of physics and intent. The sort of man who took up space without trying, and who could, if needed, turn that presence into something far more decisive.
That’s a great deal of man, she thought, keeping her expression neutral.
Her gaze lingered just long enough to map him. Posture. Balance. The small negotiations of a body that knew pain and had learned to argue with it.
And there it was. Subtle enough to slip past anyone not trained to see it.
He wasn’t settling properly. Even seated, he kept his weight off his left side, easing the pull along his ribs.
There you are, she thought. Pretending it’s nothing doesn’t make it behave.
She stepped closer, PADD in hand, and asked the question she already knew the answer to.
“I was sparring on the Cairo,” he admitted, his voice dropping from playful to sincere. “My partner was a Vulcan who doesn’t believe in going easy—and she’s got a real talent for aiming at the ribs.”
He finally allowed himself to settle, weight distributed evenly as he accepted the dull tug on his left side. Since she’d already figured out the injury, there was no sense pretending. It would only waste energy and make no tactical sense.
“And she’s at least seventy percent tougher than she looks. That’s saying something, considering she seems fully capable of taking apart a Klingon honor guard without even breaking a sweat.”
She noted his admission and nodded once. The story fit the evidence.
But what caught her off guard was the shift in his expression.
The practiced deflection gave way to something more genuine: appreciation. He’d realized she’d read him in under thirty seconds, tracked compensatory movements most people wouldn’t notice until he was actively limping.
And he liked it.
His fingers drummed against the biobed’s edge—thrum-thrum-tap—a thinking tell. A tactical brain recalculating.
Professional, she thought, wasn’t quite the right word anymore.
Dangerous fit better.
In a good way.
“All right,” she said, voice calm and matter-of-fact. “Let’s have a look and make sure your tactical miscalculation doesn’t become a liability.”
The tricorder sweep confirmed it. No fractures. No internal bleed. Just a deep, blooming contusion along the left ribs and some inflamed tissue.
“Nothing broken,” she said. “You’re structurally sound. Just a rather impressive bruise.”
Her eyes lifted to his. “Take your tunic off, please.”
She didn’t pause. “And before you argue about it, I’m sure you’re enjoying the reminder of the sparring mistake, but think of it tactically. If I could see you favoring it from across the ward, your next opponent may too. Since you don’t know if that will be a friend or an actual enemy on a starship, you’d better have it treated.”
She touched the control panel. A privacy curtain slid into place around the biobed, softening the wider sounds of Sickbay.
She turned back just as he pulled the tunic free.
The shift in the air was subtle but immediate.
Sandalwood. Clean, warm, with something deeper beneath it. Not overpowering. Just present.
Combined with the sudden reality of broad shoulders and bare skin at close range, it caught her off guard for half a heartbeat.
Heat rose at the back of her neck.
Oh, for the love of—steady. You’re a physician, no’ a schoolgirl. Get a grip, Claire.
She stepped in, professional mask firmly in place, and let her fingers brush lightly across the bruised area. The skin there was warm from inflammation, the muscle beneath tight but intact. He held still under her touch, solid as bedrock.
Warm. Of course he is. Built like a bloody bulkhead.
Then she saw the ink on his left deltoid.
A stylized figure. Flowing lines. Unmistakable.
“A river god,” she said, curiosity slipping through despite herself. “Carranca, if I’m not mistaken.”
Her gaze flicked up to his. “Are you superstitious, Commander?”
She activated the dermal regenerator and began working along the bruise, movements precise and efficient. The soft hum of the device filled the small space, encouraging healing beneath the skin.
“You should feel less pull once I’m finished,” she continued, tone even. “It won’t slow you down. Provided you don’t immediately return to letting intelligence officers use you as a practice target.”
A faint pause. Then, just lightly: “I’d rather not see you back here for the same mistake next week.”
Her eyes met his again. Steady. Assessing.
Though something tells me you might give me reason.
“Superstitious?” Grayson considered the question, fingers brushing the Carranca absently. “Maybe. My grandmother would say it’s not superstition if it works.”
He met Claire’s gaze, letting the humor drop for a moment. “The Carranca is a Brazilian river spirit. Guardian against bad luck. She made me get one before my first deep-space posting, fresh out of the Academy. Said vacuum was just another kind of river, and I’d need protection from both.”
He paused. “I’ve been pulled out of depressurized sections, survived hull breaches, even walked away from a shuttle crash. So maybe she was right. Or maybe I’m just stubborn. I’d rather not test which.”
The dermal regenerator hummed as Claire worked. Grayson watched her, not cataloging threats this time, just noticing. The way her brow furrowed in concentration. The precision in her hands. The quiet authority in how she commanded her space.
She worked with certainty. No hesitation. No wasted motion.
He caught himself wondering what that kind of certainty looked like outside Sickbay. Whether she carried that same calm into chaos. Whether she’d hold her ground if the ship took fire and half the crew was screaming.
He suspected she would.
The warmth spread through his ribs as she worked, the sharp pull easing into something manageable. The scent of the regenerator’s bioactive gel reminded him, oddly, of his grandmother’s garden—herbal, faintly medicinal, and strangely comforting.
“Better?” she asked.
“Much.” He rolled his shoulder, testing it. The ache was still there, but muted. Manageable. “Definitely better.”
She nodded once, satisfied, then turned to her console and brought up a small blank panel. Not his official chart. Something else.
Her stylus moved without hesitation.
Grayson couldn’t see what she was writing, but he saw the pause afterward. The way her gaze lingered on the screen before she locked it with a quick tap.
He reached for his tunic but didn’t put it on immediately. Let the moment linger.
“I’ll make you a deal, Doctor,” he said, meeting her eyes. “I’ll try not to be a repeat offender if you’ll do something for me.”
Her brow arched. “And what would that be, Commander?”
“Consider seeing me as a colleague instead. Ten-Forward. Off-duty. No biobeds, no tricorders. Just you and me, debating whether the replicators can manage decent coffee.”
He grinned, the expression bright and genuine, a warmth in his eyes that didn’t fade. “The lighting’s less clinical. The company’s promising. And I promise not to bring any medical emergencies with me.”
He slipped his tunic back on, movements unhurried, but his gaze lingered on her. Open. Inviting.
Waiting.
Claire listened without interrupting, arms folding loosely as he finished. When he fell quiet, she stepped closer and flipped the PADD around, angling it so he could see the locked screen.
Then she unlocked it with a quick tap.
Two lines appeared.
Reassign McKinney to another primary doctor.
Ask him out.
She let them sit there for a beat.
“Those,” she said lightly, “would not have made it into your chart file.”
Her eyes lifted to his. Steady. Open.
She’d never met a man and, in the space of an exam, wanted to know him better. Would be easier if it were just lust, simple, manageable, something to file away and forget. But damn, he was interesting. The way he carried himself. The way he spoke. The way he’d shifted from deflection to honesty the moment she’d called him on it.
Out loud, she kept it simple. “So yes. I’m intrigued.”
She lowered the PADD and set it aside. “I’d like to hear more about your grandmother. And the McKinneys in Brazil.”
A faint smirk curved her mouth. “Family stories tend to tell you more than service records ever will.”
A pause. Deliberate.
“Ten-Forward,” she agreed. “Off-duty.”
There. Clean. Honest.
She stepped back, professionalism settling comfortably into place, though something warmer lingered beneath it.
Grayson’s grin widened. “You won’t regret it, Doc.”
“I’d better not,” she said. “And Commander?”
“Yes?”
“Next time you decide to spar with a Vulcan, at least have the sense to dodge.”
He laughed, a low, rolling sound that filled the small space. “No promises. But I’ll try.”
He turned toward the door, then paused. Looked back.
“For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “I think my avó would’ve liked you.”
And with that, he was gone.
Claire stood there for a moment, listening to the hum of the diagnostic equipment, the distant murmur of Sickbay beyond the privacy curtain.
Then she unlocked her PADD again and added a third line beneath the first two:
This one’s different.
She smiled despite herself and got back to work.
End Log
Lt.Commander Grayson Oliveira McKinney
Chief Tactical Officer
USS Arawyn
&
LtCommander Claire Dunross
Asst Chief Medical Officer
USS Arawyn
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