Friends in Low Places
Posted on Fri Oct 3rd, 2025 @ 12:02am by Lieutenant JG Maël "Gideon" Beauregard & Lieutenant Nelar
3,388 words; about a 17 minute read
Mission:
EPISODE 1: SHAKEDOWN
Location: Sickbay
Timeline: MD35
Gideon stepped through the doors of Sickbay, his boots thudding against the carpeted deck. It was the air that hit him first: a sharp antiseptic, a faint sweetness beneath it, and the metallic tang of super-clean medical instruments. He tugged at his undershirt, trying to peel it free of the sweat that seemed to cling to his chest.
His eyes wandered over the room. “A fine day to get poked at and lectured,” he muttered under his breath.
Despite his low muttering, Nelar’s keen Vulcan sense of hearing picked up on the lieutenant’s distinctive New Orleans drawl. She stood up from her desk and crossed the floor of Sickbay to where Maël was standing.
“I can promise you minimal poking and prodding,” Nelar stated seriously. “Whether or not a lecture is in order depends entirely on you.”
“Presuming that you are here for your physical, please come with me.” Nelar gestured with her palm toward a biobed in the far corner.
“You’ll forgive me if I ain’t too eager,” he said, his eyes roving over the neat rows of instruments, scanners, and readouts. His mouth twisted into a lopsided grin. “Every time I wind up in one of these places, I feel like I’m sittin’ for my own autopsy. Only difference is I get to walk out afterward.”
He settled himself on the edge of the bed and leaned back on his palms, shoulders broad enough to cover the glow of the wall readout behind him.
“I assure you that there are very few similarities between an autopsy and an annual physical, Lieutenant,” Nelar responded dryly. “If you will please take a seat on the biobed.”
Gideon eased himself back onto the biobed like it could have been a church pew–respectful enough to sit, reluctant enough to keep shifting until it felt just right.
“Fair enough, doc,” he said, his usual drawl warm but spiky. “Still–don’t matter how many times I have to do these, my pulse runs higher than it ought to. Guess ya’ll call that a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
He tapped a restless rhythm against the edge of the biobed with two fingers. His eyes drifted over to Nelar–she stood with that unyielding stillness that was all-to-common for Vulcans, her spine a plumb line, her expression smoothed into a near-void expression the rest of the galaxy could never quite read. Gideon didn’t let his eyes linger long–no sense getting caught staring–but the thought that had struck him back on Pinnacle smacked him again now: there was no denying her beauty. Cold beauty. Okay, icy beauty.
“It is not unusual for Humans to show an elevated heart rate and blood pressure when undergoing a medical examination. Such factors are taken into account as part of the final health assessment,” Nelar explained without ceremony. She then turned away from the biobed briefly to pick up a tricorder from a nearby equipment table. Before beginning her scans she gave Maël a look that was serious, almost bordering on concern.
“It is not logical, but apparently it is common among your race to be nervous around physicians,” she stated. “There is no reason to be nervous, Lieutenant.”
He followed the faint green glow of the tricorder as if it were a small, poisonous predator circling too close. “Doc, where I’m from, if you wound up sittin’ in a room with somebody carryin’ somethin’ looks like that, it usually meant you weren’t walkin’ out again.”
Nelar lowered the tricorder slightly. “Curious, Lieutenant. What were the conditions that contributed to this mortality rate?” She asked. “I was under the impression that you are from Earth.”
Gideon gave a short laugh that sounded more nasal than he'd have preferred.
"Yeah," he said matter-of-factly. "I'm Earth-born. Plaquemines Parish. Louisiana. But you gotta understand, doc--where I come from, we don't exactly go lookin' for doctors unless somethin's already gone real wrong. My granddad used to say: 'If you sittin' on a biobed, chances are you're either broke, bleedin', or already half-dead.'"
“That way of thinking is archaic and disregards the value of preventative care,” Nelar stated dryly. “It is no wonder why Humans remained a technologically primitive race for as long as they did.”
He smirked. “Primitive, huh? You make it sound like we were runnin’ around in bear hides til your people came knockin’.”
“If my understanding of Human history is correct, leathers and furs were still commonly used materials in Human apparel when First Contact was made.” She delivered the statement as a casual fact, said in passing as she continued her medical scans.
Gideon’s smirk widened into a mischievous grin. He lifted his brows at her and tilted his head.
“Well, hell, doc,” he drawled, voice honey-slow. “If you’re keepin’ score on who wore what when, I reckon you must’ve spent a fair bit of time picturin’ humans in nothin’ but hides and furs. Don’t tell me a proper Vulcan mind wasted cycles imaginin’ me in a raccoon pelt and buckskin britches.”
“I can assure you that Vulcans do not waste time fostering any sort of imagination, nor would I personally spend any time creating a mental picture of you when I am not required to be in your presence.” Nelar’s dry tone was beginning to take on the slightest hint of disdain as Maël continued with his attempts to engage her in light-hearted banter.
“Now see, doc, that right there’s the problem,” he said, drawl stretching into words. “You’re tellin’ me you don’t waste time imaginin’ nothin’. No daydreams, no wonderin’, no idle thoughts when you’re sittin’ at your desk. Nothin’ at all? ‘Cause from where I’m sittin’, that sounds less like bein’ logical and more like bein’ half-dead.”
“Speaking of where you are seated, I am going to need to change positions,” Nelar stated. “My scans are showing a slightly abnormal reading coming from your epidermis in your gluteal region. Please lay down on your stomach so that I may get a more accurate scan,” she directed.
Maël rolled onto his stomach without protest, boots dangling off the edge of the biobed. He folded his arms under himself in a casual manner, as though she’d just asked him something perfunctory and normal.
“Alright, doc,” he said, voice muffled in the crooked of his elbow. “If you say so. Lord knows it ain’t the first time somebody’s told–”
Then her phrasing and his new position caught up with him. He lifted his head a fraction, eyes narrowing toward her.
“Wait a damn second,” he said slowly. “Did you just say you’re pickin’ up an abnormal reading from my epidermis in my gluteal region?”
His drawl stretched the words into something nearly obscene, every syllable dripping with disbelief. He propped himself on one elbow, twisting just enough to squint at her over his shoulder.
“Doc… did you just tell me I got a problem with my ass skin?”
Nelar displayed no outward reaction to Maël’s crude turn of phrase, noting that he never seemed to grow weary of reframing concepts into the simplest of terms. Nevertheless, he was her patient, and proper bedside manner was imperative.
“It is most likely nothing to be alarmed about, Lieutenant. However, I do need to obtain a more accurate reading,” Nelar stated calmly. “Did you suffer from periodic sunburns as a child?” She asked.
Gideon let his head drop back down into the crook of his arm and sighed.
“Sunburns? Doc, I was no shut-in. Baseball, swimmin’, jiggin’, climbin’ trees… sunburns were a seasonal tradition.” He sighed again, realizing he’d likely be asked to expose his buttocks in a matter of seconds. “So you’re sayin’ all that sittin’ on levees and crawfishin’ left a mark on my backside?”
He turned his head just enough to watch Nelar move, precise as a metronome, the tricorder in her hand blinking steadily.
“Indeed, though it is almost certain that genetics were a contributing factor as well,” Nelar replied, the medical tricorder poised over Maël’s posterior. “The tricorder is indicating the presence of precancerous cells in a concentrated location on your left buttocks. I apologize for the intrusion, but I will need to examine the area. I will have a nurse provide you with a dressing gown.”
For long moment, Maël stared down at the carpeted deck of Sickbay, as though searching for a wormhole to get him out of there. Then he pushed up on his palms and swung his legs off the biobed in a very smooth motion.
“Alright, doc,” he said, hopping down to the deck with a bounce. “You had me goin’ there for a minute, but now I see what this is. Little ruse to get me outta these pants, huh?”
Gideon made a show of tugging his uniform’s waistband higher, a wide, ridiculous grin on his face. “Some sort of Vulcan prank, am I right?”
“I am afraid not, Lieutenant. Vulcans do not prank,” Nelar looked him in the eyes as she spoke, she kept her tone measured, calm, yet serious. “I understand your desire for modesty; however, I am a physician. The dressing gown will ensure that you are able to keep yourself well covered while I examine only the area necessary for a proper diagnosis and potential treatment.”
Gideon froze with the grin still plastered on. “Now, hold on just tick,” he said, both palms raised high in surrender, his drawl widening long and lazy. “Doc, you’re tellin’ me you want me to go put on a lil’ backless dress so you can take a peek at somethin’ wrong with my…” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Ass?”
“That would be an overgeneralization, Lieutenant,” Nelar stated plainly. “According to my readings your… ass appears to have no functional issues. A small area of the epidermis is showing cause for further examination. If you prefer we can do this another time, but I would like to see you within the next week.” Nelar spoke with practiced patience, a skill she had honed as a medical provider. Given the circumstances she was inclined to give the Lieutenant more grace than he typically warranted.
Maël considered Nelar’s offer, his eyes settling on an idle medical display behind her. On the one hand, a reprieve could be worthwhile. He could leave Sickbay and simply avoid Nelar for the next few months. Or, he could face up to his discomfort and simply change into a gown now and get the whole thing over with in a matter of minutes.
“Alright, doc,” he said, hands raised in supplication. “Let’s do this. Where’s the gown?”
Nelar nodded to the nurse who had been standing by who walked over and led Maël to a private examination room. The young man couldn’t have been more than 20 Human years, though he carried himself through Sickbay with confidence.
“Feel free to take your time, Lieutenant Beauregard, the Doctor will be back with you shortly,” the young man instructed.
Gideon blinked at the nurse as though he’d been asked to assist with an amputation. He followed him through the curtained doorway, his boots making soft sounds on the carpeted deck. The room was smaller, quieter, and smelled as though it could have used an airing-out to make it more tolerable. He stopped at a stack of neatly-folded dressing gowns, eyeing them warily.
“Well, would ya look at that,” he muttered, running a hesitant hand over the fabric. “All these years and nobody ever warned me Starfleet’s idea of modesty was a glorified sheet with sleeves.”
The nurse stood patiently, arms crossed behind his back, face neutral. Gideon snorted and muttered under his breath, “You ever notice how every time a fella gets told he’s gotta wear one o’ these, it feels like a punishment?”
He grabbed a gown and slipped it over his shoulders in an awkward shuffle like it was armour forged for humiliation. Satisfied, he strode out of the changing room with the young nurse in tow.
Returning to the biobed, he stood uncomfortably while the male nurse left to fetch Nelar. The gown was shorter than Maël would have preferred–and any movement that required him to bend, lunge, or jump, would easily threaten his modesty.
Nelar approached the biobed with a calm professionalism. “If you will resume the prone position, I will continue the examination. Is there anything that we could provide to make you more at ease, Lieutenant?” Her question was asked with sincerity. Despite her usual Vulcan stoicism, her years in Starfleet had softened her to adjusting to various needs of her more emotional colleagues, particularly when it came to providing medical care.
“Doc, I reckon I’m about as at ease as a cat on a porch full of rockin’ chairs.”
He stretched himself out again on the biobed, the paper-thin gown tugging at the back of his thighs as he rested his chin on folded arms. The biobed was cold against his skin–clinical cold, like a January wind sneaking under a door.
Gideon let out a tiny chuckle and shook his head. “Whole galaxy out there. Stars burnin’ for billions of years. And me, I’m layin’ here half-naked in front of you with a tricorder hoverin’ over my rear.”
“I apologize for the inconvenience. However, I am detecting a lesion of some concern. With your consent, I would like to remove it. It is a painless procedure, and you will be able to resume to regular work duties immediately,” Nelar stated, her tone even and measured as usual, showing no reaction to Mael’s attempts at humorous turns of phrases.
Maël craned his neck like he was trying to catch his own shadow. The gown bunched-up at his shoulder, and he twisted far enough on the biobed that the garment gave a sudden and complaining rip.
“Lesion?” His voice was light but filled with unease. “Is that some sort of ten-credit word for a freckle, or should I be writin’ my will?”
He tried again, glancing back over his shoulder, but all he caught was the slight curve of his own hip under the thin cloth.
“Hell, Doc, you sayin’ there’s somethin’ sittin’ on my backside, but I can’t see a blessed thing. That just don’t sit right with me.” He propped himself up on an elbow, another futile attempt to glimpse the lesion. “Show me where, please. Point it out. Man’s got a right to know what’s hitchin’ a ride on his own behind.”
“Of course.” Nelar nodded in agreement. “Ijoshe can you please bring over a handheld mirror?” Nelar requested, prompting the Andorian nurse’s assistant into action as Nelar reached into a nearby drawer and took out a pair of medical gloves.
Ijoshe returned with the mirror and Nelar took it with a gloved hand and positioned the mirror strategically near the lieutenant’s left glute. She stood next to him so she could point to the defect in the mirror. “This concentration of melanized cells, or freckle as you called it, contains some cellular irregularities indicative of precancerous lesions. The recommended treatment protocol would be to remove the affected cells and surrounding cells and conduct a follow-up scan in six months.” Nelar handed the mirror to Maël before continuing.
“The procedure is minimally invasive, Lieutenant. I would proffer that you have already spent more time in debate over the examination than the amount of time I would spend on the actual procedure,” she explained, a hint of sternness now reflected on her face.
Gideon pinched the mirror between his index and middle fingers, angling it down awkwardly. He squinted, tilting it this way and that in some fine-precision struggle.
“All I see’s a whole lotta pale, doc,” he muttered.
“So, you have no objection to the procedure?” Nelar pressed.
Gideon sighed. “I just can’t see this lesion you keep talkin’ about.”
Nelar gently took control of the mirror and angled it back toward a small, irregular discoloration in the skin, approximately 15 centimeters below the waistline. With her finger she pointed at the discoloration. “Would you like me to take an image, so that you may visualize it more clearly?” She asked.
Suddenly, his face lit up with recognition. A bark of laughter escaped his lips before he could stop it.
“Well, hell,” he said, shaking his head, “that’s no lesion, doc. That’s Boudreaux.”
“Excuse me?” Nelar asked. “What did you say?”
“Boudreaux,” Gideon repeated, as if he could convince the Vulcan physician she somehow might remember a mole on his own asscheek. “He’s been with me since I was knee-high. He’s just a small mole.”
Maël angled the mirror with slightly more precision until he could see the mole on his right buttock.
Despite herself, Nelar’s expression showed a hint of surprise as the Lieutenant explained. “Are you indicating that you have anthropomorphized a mole on your buttocks by giving it a name and referring to it with masculine pronouns?” She asked incredulously.
He set the mirror aside, shaking his head at the absurdity of explaining all this while half-naked under Vulcan scrutiny. “A harmless nickname, really. Nothin’ sinister about it.”
Nelar looked at Maël, momentarily speechless until Ijoshe walked over to remove the mirror and then returned, standing by to assist. The Chief Medical Officer checked herself and then calmly responded. “Of course not, Lieutenant. I apologize if the exercise has afforded you an emotional attachment to your… mole…, however, I do recommend that removal is the best course of action. If you prefer, we can replace it with a cosmetically similar one so that your appearance remains unchanged.”
Her words landed just hard enough to knock the grin from his face. Then he blew out a heavy breath and muttered, “Well, damn. Guess it’s better to bury Boudreaux now than let him do me in later.” Gideon sighed again. “No sense in replacin’ him with somethin’ cosmetic. Alright, doc. You got my consent. Let’s go ahead and evict the ol’ boy.”
“A wise decision, Lieutenant,” Nelar replied softly, bowing her head slightly in the Lieutenant’s direction. “I’ll have Nurse Laukaitis prepare 5 cc’s of terakine to administer locally to avoid any discomfort.”
Though she spoke to Maël, her words had the effect of a direct order to the young nurse who had assisted Maël with his dressing gown earlier. In less than a minute he was handing off a hypospray to Dr. Nelar and affirming the dosage and medication before stepping away to prepare the equipment for the procedure. Dr. Nelar took quiet note of the officer’s efficiency before redirecting her attention back to Maël. hypospray now poised in her hand.
“Are you ready, Lieutenant,” she asked. “This is a mild analgesic. You should not feel any pain from the procedure, but it will not affect your other senses. I am more than willing to provide you with a medical excuse should you wish to take the next day or two off of work or on light duty, however.”
Gideon, who had buried his mouth into the crook of his elbow, lifted his face a fraction. “Thanks, doc, but I don’t do much sittin’ unless it’s on the bridge.” He paused for a thoughtful moment, considering the demise of his mole.
“Goodbye, Boudreaux.”
Nelar was beginning to regard the Lieutenant’s emotional display as more of a performance, but as a professional she chose to ignore the comment and set aside personal judgment. She pressed the cool nozzle of the hypospray into the skin near Maël’s hip.
“Lieutenant, once I begin the procedure, I will need you to remain still,” Nelar instructed. Without missing a beat she then turned to her nurse. “Please prepare the laser scalpel, .25 millimeters.”
A Post by
Lieutenant Nelar
Chief Medical Officer
USS Hecate
&
Lieutenant JG Maël "Gideon" Beauregard
Chief Operations Officer
USS Hecate
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