“Jump?” You echoed, incredulous. “As in—leap? Into that?”

“YES, THAT!” McCoy shouted back, arms flailing as he teetered on the ledge of the crimson-leafed tree canopy. “Unless you’ve got a better plan that doesn’t involve being vaporized by a Klingon scout drone in the next ten seconds!”

You glanced down. It was a long drop. Too long.

McCoy’s face was a mask of raw panic. He didn't exactly feel like dying. “We’re doctors, dammit, not daredevils! But if one more explosion goes off behind me, I’m jumping whether I like it or not!”

Another blast rocked the platform.

“JUMP!”

He didn’t wait for you to reply. With a strangled, half-cursed yell, Bones launched himself off the ledge. Robes billowing, limbs flailing, mouth open in a scream of something you'd most definitely tease him once you got back to the Enterprise.

“I HATE THIS PART OF THE JOB!!” He howled midair, crashing into the crashing waves below.

You blinked.

“Well,” you muttered, bracing yourself, “if he can survive it…”

And with that, you followed. Feet off the ground, stomach in your throat, and the wind filled with the sound of your collective trauma.

The water caught you hard—but Bones’ groan as you resurfaced let you know he’d survived. You landed nearly on top of him.

“I told you,” he spluttered, uselessly wiping water off his face. “This is why I hate field missions.”

You coughed, a bit of the ocean dripping from your lips. “You looked graceful.”

“Shut up.”