doc
Title: at length did cross an albatross (Part 3)
Rating: pg (mccoy has a bit of a potty mouth)
Word Count: This part: 1650, Total so far: 3678. Give or take.
Pairing: K/S
Summary: The Enterprise's crew is forced to relive their darkest memories. Fun times? Not so much.
Disclaimer: I don't even own the action figures.
A/N: Written for the 'Kirk must cry!' prompt at the xi kink meme. Not sure if the OP saw it - I took my sweet time in posting - so I decided to venture outside the kink meme. Unbeta'd (the horror! (seriously, maybe?)) The title is from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Coleridge.
A/N reboot: I'm SO sorry for how long this took, in the unlikely chance anyone was waiting for it. There were MCATs, and applications, and theses and a whole mountain of other excuses I could throw at you that would be...woefully inadequate. I apologize. Hopefully it won't take me another two months to write the next 1500 words.
Parts 1&2
Spock had warp capability restored within the hour. While he found the Captain’s lack of assistance to be of little hindrance, he confessed himself discomfited. Kirk had responded to simple requests, altering control panels which were physically out of the reach of his Vulcan First, but beyond that had made no effort to aid him. A course of action at odds with the moderately intrusive style of command Spock knew the Captain to favor.
“The warp engines are back on-line,” Spock said, turning. “While not fully functional, a warp factor of three or below can be maintained. At that maximum, I estimate an eleven point seven minute period before the Enterprise has exited the anomaly’s sphere of influence.”
Kirk, crouched beside his unconscious engineer, inclined his head slightly but did not move. Mr. Scott’s injuries were not life-threatening. The vigil was unnecessary, and yet he continued it.
“Captain?” Spock prompted but resisted the impulse to advance towards the man. Given the previous results, he was unwilling to provoke a similarly negative response.
Addressed by his station, as much a reminder of his obligations as it was a request for his attention, Kirk collected himself quickly. He rose, casting a final, apologetic glance at Scott’s prone form, and made his way off the platform, leaving Spock to follow.
Together they crossed the engineering deck at an accelerated pace. With no other personnel fit to make use of it, the turbolift had remained on level, its doors opening immediately. After directing the lift, Spock returned his attention to Kirk.
The Captain stood almost flush to the lift door, posture rigid. Anxious, it appeared, to vacate the small chamber, though for desire to be free of such confinement or free of Spock’s proximity, the Vulcan could not be certain. Perhaps both. But he seemed in control of himself. Aware of his duty and intending to perform it. The man was stable at the moment, if rattled, Spock decided. Fit for duty.
The lift opened onto the bridge. Immediately, Kirk seated himself in the command chair and directed his attention to his console. “Take the helm, Spock.
“Set course for-“ Kirk paused, “anywhere but here. Warp factor three.”
Spock’s lips pursed marginally at the inadequate command. He entered coordinates for the nearest starbase. “Course laid in. Engines on-line and ready.”
“Get us the hell out of here, Commander.”
The next eleven point seven minutes were endured silently. With the increasing distance, Spock could feel the anomaly’s penetrative strength waning, the electromagnetic tendrils weeded from his mind. Illogical, given the incontrovertible physics upon which he had based his prediction, but Spock was relieved.
Steadily, the presence diminished, growing fainter still until Spock could no longer detect it within his mind. Returning briefly to his science station, he ran an analysis of the radiation readouts to confirm. “Captain, we have reached a distance beyond the anomaly’s influence. I recommend dropping out of warp and maintaining position until the crew and ship have been sufficiently tended to.”
“Do it.” Kirk nodded, his expression unrevealing. “I’ll go wake Bones.”
Spock’s fingers flew across the console. “If you will delay momentarily, I shall accompany you.” The Captain’s visage flickered. “I believe,” Spock continued, “Doctor McCoy will require confirmation of our fitness for duty.” A partial truth, perhaps, but enough to elicit an agreement from Kirk.
The turbolift ride was again taken in silence. Upon entering the medical bay, the Captain retrieved a hypospray containing the sedative’s counteracting stimulant. The Doctor, in a brief moment of foresight, had instructed the skeleton crew on its administration, in the event all medical personnel were necessarily incapacitated. Kirk approached the Doctor, lying unconscious upon a bio-bed, touched the device to his skin and depressed the trigger.
The effect was nearly instantaneous. The Doctor’s heart rate increased, his blood pressure rising, his neurological outputs spiking. Kirk dropped the spent canister into a nearby bin.
“I finally get to shove a hypo into your neck,” he muttered as the Doctor stirred, “and you don’t even have the decency to be conscious for it.”
Kirk reached out, his hand hovering for a moment before it dropped upon the Doctor's shoulder and shook him gently. McCoy answered with a groan, clumsily drawing a hand across his face, eyelids clenching against the halogen lighting. “Bones?”
“Give a man a minute.” McCoy mumbled, blinking, shifting his body, testing his motor control. Soon, with a grunt, he levered himself up. He rolled his shoulders and glanced at the monitor overhanging the bed.
Kirk pulled his lips into the semblance of a grin and folded his arms across his body. “What's up, Doc?”
McCoy’s expression was withering. “How long was I out?”
“27.87 hours, Doctor,” Spock supplied, resting his hands behind his back.
McCoy slid off the cot with a pinched exhale. “Is everyone still alive?” he asked bluntly.
The question was directed to Kirk, but he did not seem particularly inclined to answer. “I am not aware of any casualties,” Spock replied after a moment.
“Injuries?” He rubbed his eyes. “The last thing I remember is helping Chapel strap Rogers down…”
“No serious injuries have been reported,” Spock again answered, raising an eyebrow at Kirk’s silence.
A frown pulled at McCoy’s lips. “Sedation, even with fluids and monitoring, is risky. Coming out of this whole mess clean...” It was perhaps more telling that the Doctor had failed to produce a suitably illogical idiom. His meaning, however, was clear and accurate. Spock estimated the likelihood of casualties, as yet unreported, to be eighty-four point three percent.
Clearing his throat, McCoy forced his attention upon the two men in front of him. “It won’t do a damn bit of good to have you two keeling over while I’m trying to see a ship-full of patients.” He moved a critical eye over them. Both had bruising, earned through attempts to subdue afflicted crew. Spock was unsure of his own appearance, but the Captain’s pallor was unhealthy, his exhaustion plain. McCoy’s gaze lingered on Scott’s blood, still splattered across Kirk’s sleeve.
“You,” he barked, eyes on the Captain. “On the bed.”
As the Captain settled himself, surprisingly cooperative, the monitor readings fluctuated, numbers and colors flashing across the screen. The Doctor’s eyes narrowed. “When was the last time you slept?”
Kirk smiled tightly. “No rest for the wicked.” McCoy frowned and pressed a hypo to Kirk’s neck before the Captain could react. “The hell, Bones!”
“Vitamin shot with a little something to ease the crash,” he said, tossing the empty container in a biohazard bin, “which will happen, Jim. Six hours. Max." He picked up a tricorder and ran it in front of Kirk's face. "That’s all I’m clearing you for, six hours. You’re off for twelve after that.”
“Don't you think that's kind of overkill, Bones?” The words were clipped. “My entire crew has bounced between insane and unconscious for last two days. Twiddling my thumbs in my quarters just doesn't seem like the best way to spend my time.”
“Soon there will be plenty of people, fresh from two day naps, to pick up the slack," McCoy shot back. "Your ship will survive. You can either take the twelve hours voluntarily, or not.” The Doctor held up a hypospray. "Your choice. Captain."
Kirk looked murderous, but his CMO showed no signs of backing down. “Are we done here?” he asked sharply. He pushed himself off the bed and the bio-monitor cleared. “I’ve got a ship to fix and you’re booked to play prince charming to about four hundred sleeping beauties.”
”Fine. Go.” McCoy snapped, hardly pleased. “But I want you in for a follow up as soon as I’m done with the rest of the crew. And you'd better be off duty in six hours, if you know what's good for you.” The volume of McCoy’s voice steadily increased, proportional to the amount of distance Kirk put between them in his hasty exit from sickbay. “You hear me, Jim!” Kirk waved his acknowledgment without glancing backwards as the doors shut behind him.
”Damn idiot.” McCoy heaved an irritated sigh, ran a hand through his hair and glanced at Spock. “Your turn. Lord knows what that green blood of yours-”
“Doctor,” Spock cut off the impending diatribe, “I detect no complications due to that, or any other aspect of my physiology.”
“Oh?” McCoy challenged distractedly. The bio-monitors were resisting the Doctor’s attempts at calibration to Vulcan specifics. “I don't recall medical doctor being one of your many talents, Mr. Spock.”
“As with all Vulcans, I am capable of accurately assessing the condition of my person.”
With no open beds available, the Doctor swore and rebooted the system. “Do you honestly think I'm going to clear you for duty on your say so?”
“It would be an appropriate course of action. The experience has caused me no lasting damage, physically or psychologically.”
McCoy snorted and tapped the screen in futile encouragement, lapsing into silence. With the Captain gone, sickbay, similar to engineering, was quiet. The sounds of human breathing, shallow and rhythmic, the muted beeping of stable vitals formed a familiar backdrop, but it was unsatisfactory. On Vulcan, Spock had gone days at a time without hearing another’s voice; it seemed that living among humans had accustomed him to it. He felt its absence acutely.
Perhaps it was only for the wake of this, their latest crisis, that he found himself so affected. The impact of the previous days was staggering. Spock had not lied when he claimed mental fitness, but the things he had seen, both born of his own mind and of the actions of others, required meditation to integrate. McCoy, he noted, seemed largely unperturbed by recent events, at least not beyond minor physical strain. The memory of his Captain's fear, his anger, did not predict this outcome.
“Doctor," Spock said quietly, "as I maintained my wits throughout the whole of the encounter, I was witness to many crew members’ initial madness, including your own. An event which you seem unable to recall.”
"I told you Spock, last thing I remember I was wrestling Rogers into soft restraints."
Spock nodded. “The sedative appears to have muted your memory of the episode, a finding which is likely universal given the small-scale amnesiac effects of such drugs.” He paused, glancing towards the sealed sickbay entrance. “However, were one to endure such an experience without the benefit of sedation…”
McCoy looked sharply at Spock, deciphering his meaning at once. “Did you witness any of this ‘madness’ from Jim?”
Spock fixed his gaze on a far corner of sickbay. “The Captain maintained a firm control over himself throughout the majority of the crisis.”
”Majority," McCoy repeated softly. "God dammit." His shoulders dropped and Spock felt something akin to guilt pricking slowly through his veins. Such action was necessary, he told himself firmly. Starfleet medical needed to be informed of the situation and Spock estimated the likelihood of the Captain supplying the pertinent details to be less than five percent. As First Officer, he was obligated.
“And what about you?” the Doctor asked, finally. The bio-monitor beeped, ready for use. “How did your control hold up?”
“I am Vulcan, Doctor.”
His glare lacking its usual emotion, McCoy replied, “Just…shut up and get on the bed.”
On to part 4!
Rating: pg (mccoy has a bit of a potty mouth)
Word Count: This part: 1650, Total so far: 3678. Give or take.
Pairing: K/S
Summary: The Enterprise's crew is forced to relive their darkest memories. Fun times? Not so much.
Disclaimer: I don't even own the action figures.
A/N: Written for the 'Kirk must cry!' prompt at the xi kink meme. Not sure if the OP saw it - I took my sweet time in posting - so I decided to venture outside the kink meme. Unbeta'd (the horror! (seriously, maybe?)) The title is from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Coleridge.
A/N reboot: I'm SO sorry for how long this took, in the unlikely chance anyone was waiting for it. There were MCATs, and applications, and theses and a whole mountain of other excuses I could throw at you that would be...woefully inadequate. I apologize. Hopefully it won't take me another two months to write the next 1500 words.
Parts 1&2
Spock had warp capability restored within the hour. While he found the Captain’s lack of assistance to be of little hindrance, he confessed himself discomfited. Kirk had responded to simple requests, altering control panels which were physically out of the reach of his Vulcan First, but beyond that had made no effort to aid him. A course of action at odds with the moderately intrusive style of command Spock knew the Captain to favor.
“The warp engines are back on-line,” Spock said, turning. “While not fully functional, a warp factor of three or below can be maintained. At that maximum, I estimate an eleven point seven minute period before the Enterprise has exited the anomaly’s sphere of influence.”
Kirk, crouched beside his unconscious engineer, inclined his head slightly but did not move. Mr. Scott’s injuries were not life-threatening. The vigil was unnecessary, and yet he continued it.
“Captain?” Spock prompted but resisted the impulse to advance towards the man. Given the previous results, he was unwilling to provoke a similarly negative response.
Addressed by his station, as much a reminder of his obligations as it was a request for his attention, Kirk collected himself quickly. He rose, casting a final, apologetic glance at Scott’s prone form, and made his way off the platform, leaving Spock to follow.
Together they crossed the engineering deck at an accelerated pace. With no other personnel fit to make use of it, the turbolift had remained on level, its doors opening immediately. After directing the lift, Spock returned his attention to Kirk.
The Captain stood almost flush to the lift door, posture rigid. Anxious, it appeared, to vacate the small chamber, though for desire to be free of such confinement or free of Spock’s proximity, the Vulcan could not be certain. Perhaps both. But he seemed in control of himself. Aware of his duty and intending to perform it. The man was stable at the moment, if rattled, Spock decided. Fit for duty.
The lift opened onto the bridge. Immediately, Kirk seated himself in the command chair and directed his attention to his console. “Take the helm, Spock.
“Set course for-“ Kirk paused, “anywhere but here. Warp factor three.”
Spock’s lips pursed marginally at the inadequate command. He entered coordinates for the nearest starbase. “Course laid in. Engines on-line and ready.”
“Get us the hell out of here, Commander.”
The next eleven point seven minutes were endured silently. With the increasing distance, Spock could feel the anomaly’s penetrative strength waning, the electromagnetic tendrils weeded from his mind. Illogical, given the incontrovertible physics upon which he had based his prediction, but Spock was relieved.
Steadily, the presence diminished, growing fainter still until Spock could no longer detect it within his mind. Returning briefly to his science station, he ran an analysis of the radiation readouts to confirm. “Captain, we have reached a distance beyond the anomaly’s influence. I recommend dropping out of warp and maintaining position until the crew and ship have been sufficiently tended to.”
“Do it.” Kirk nodded, his expression unrevealing. “I’ll go wake Bones.”
Spock’s fingers flew across the console. “If you will delay momentarily, I shall accompany you.” The Captain’s visage flickered. “I believe,” Spock continued, “Doctor McCoy will require confirmation of our fitness for duty.” A partial truth, perhaps, but enough to elicit an agreement from Kirk.
The turbolift ride was again taken in silence. Upon entering the medical bay, the Captain retrieved a hypospray containing the sedative’s counteracting stimulant. The Doctor, in a brief moment of foresight, had instructed the skeleton crew on its administration, in the event all medical personnel were necessarily incapacitated. Kirk approached the Doctor, lying unconscious upon a bio-bed, touched the device to his skin and depressed the trigger.
The effect was nearly instantaneous. The Doctor’s heart rate increased, his blood pressure rising, his neurological outputs spiking. Kirk dropped the spent canister into a nearby bin.
“I finally get to shove a hypo into your neck,” he muttered as the Doctor stirred, “and you don’t even have the decency to be conscious for it.”
Kirk reached out, his hand hovering for a moment before it dropped upon the Doctor's shoulder and shook him gently. McCoy answered with a groan, clumsily drawing a hand across his face, eyelids clenching against the halogen lighting. “Bones?”
“Give a man a minute.” McCoy mumbled, blinking, shifting his body, testing his motor control. Soon, with a grunt, he levered himself up. He rolled his shoulders and glanced at the monitor overhanging the bed.
Kirk pulled his lips into the semblance of a grin and folded his arms across his body. “What's up, Doc?”
McCoy’s expression was withering. “How long was I out?”
“27.87 hours, Doctor,” Spock supplied, resting his hands behind his back.
McCoy slid off the cot with a pinched exhale. “Is everyone still alive?” he asked bluntly.
The question was directed to Kirk, but he did not seem particularly inclined to answer. “I am not aware of any casualties,” Spock replied after a moment.
“Injuries?” He rubbed his eyes. “The last thing I remember is helping Chapel strap Rogers down…”
“No serious injuries have been reported,” Spock again answered, raising an eyebrow at Kirk’s silence.
A frown pulled at McCoy’s lips. “Sedation, even with fluids and monitoring, is risky. Coming out of this whole mess clean...” It was perhaps more telling that the Doctor had failed to produce a suitably illogical idiom. His meaning, however, was clear and accurate. Spock estimated the likelihood of casualties, as yet unreported, to be eighty-four point three percent.
Clearing his throat, McCoy forced his attention upon the two men in front of him. “It won’t do a damn bit of good to have you two keeling over while I’m trying to see a ship-full of patients.” He moved a critical eye over them. Both had bruising, earned through attempts to subdue afflicted crew. Spock was unsure of his own appearance, but the Captain’s pallor was unhealthy, his exhaustion plain. McCoy’s gaze lingered on Scott’s blood, still splattered across Kirk’s sleeve.
“You,” he barked, eyes on the Captain. “On the bed.”
As the Captain settled himself, surprisingly cooperative, the monitor readings fluctuated, numbers and colors flashing across the screen. The Doctor’s eyes narrowed. “When was the last time you slept?”
Kirk smiled tightly. “No rest for the wicked.” McCoy frowned and pressed a hypo to Kirk’s neck before the Captain could react. “The hell, Bones!”
“Vitamin shot with a little something to ease the crash,” he said, tossing the empty container in a biohazard bin, “which will happen, Jim. Six hours. Max." He picked up a tricorder and ran it in front of Kirk's face. "That’s all I’m clearing you for, six hours. You’re off for twelve after that.”
“Don't you think that's kind of overkill, Bones?” The words were clipped. “My entire crew has bounced between insane and unconscious for last two days. Twiddling my thumbs in my quarters just doesn't seem like the best way to spend my time.”
“Soon there will be plenty of people, fresh from two day naps, to pick up the slack," McCoy shot back. "Your ship will survive. You can either take the twelve hours voluntarily, or not.” The Doctor held up a hypospray. "Your choice. Captain."
Kirk looked murderous, but his CMO showed no signs of backing down. “Are we done here?” he asked sharply. He pushed himself off the bed and the bio-monitor cleared. “I’ve got a ship to fix and you’re booked to play prince charming to about four hundred sleeping beauties.”
”Fine. Go.” McCoy snapped, hardly pleased. “But I want you in for a follow up as soon as I’m done with the rest of the crew. And you'd better be off duty in six hours, if you know what's good for you.” The volume of McCoy’s voice steadily increased, proportional to the amount of distance Kirk put between them in his hasty exit from sickbay. “You hear me, Jim!” Kirk waved his acknowledgment without glancing backwards as the doors shut behind him.
”Damn idiot.” McCoy heaved an irritated sigh, ran a hand through his hair and glanced at Spock. “Your turn. Lord knows what that green blood of yours-”
“Doctor,” Spock cut off the impending diatribe, “I detect no complications due to that, or any other aspect of my physiology.”
“Oh?” McCoy challenged distractedly. The bio-monitors were resisting the Doctor’s attempts at calibration to Vulcan specifics. “I don't recall medical doctor being one of your many talents, Mr. Spock.”
“As with all Vulcans, I am capable of accurately assessing the condition of my person.”
With no open beds available, the Doctor swore and rebooted the system. “Do you honestly think I'm going to clear you for duty on your say so?”
“It would be an appropriate course of action. The experience has caused me no lasting damage, physically or psychologically.”
McCoy snorted and tapped the screen in futile encouragement, lapsing into silence. With the Captain gone, sickbay, similar to engineering, was quiet. The sounds of human breathing, shallow and rhythmic, the muted beeping of stable vitals formed a familiar backdrop, but it was unsatisfactory. On Vulcan, Spock had gone days at a time without hearing another’s voice; it seemed that living among humans had accustomed him to it. He felt its absence acutely.
Perhaps it was only for the wake of this, their latest crisis, that he found himself so affected. The impact of the previous days was staggering. Spock had not lied when he claimed mental fitness, but the things he had seen, both born of his own mind and of the actions of others, required meditation to integrate. McCoy, he noted, seemed largely unperturbed by recent events, at least not beyond minor physical strain. The memory of his Captain's fear, his anger, did not predict this outcome.
“Doctor," Spock said quietly, "as I maintained my wits throughout the whole of the encounter, I was witness to many crew members’ initial madness, including your own. An event which you seem unable to recall.”
"I told you Spock, last thing I remember I was wrestling Rogers into soft restraints."
Spock nodded. “The sedative appears to have muted your memory of the episode, a finding which is likely universal given the small-scale amnesiac effects of such drugs.” He paused, glancing towards the sealed sickbay entrance. “However, were one to endure such an experience without the benefit of sedation…”
McCoy looked sharply at Spock, deciphering his meaning at once. “Did you witness any of this ‘madness’ from Jim?”
Spock fixed his gaze on a far corner of sickbay. “The Captain maintained a firm control over himself throughout the majority of the crisis.”
”Majority," McCoy repeated softly. "God dammit." His shoulders dropped and Spock felt something akin to guilt pricking slowly through his veins. Such action was necessary, he told himself firmly. Starfleet medical needed to be informed of the situation and Spock estimated the likelihood of the Captain supplying the pertinent details to be less than five percent. As First Officer, he was obligated.
“And what about you?” the Doctor asked, finally. The bio-monitor beeped, ready for use. “How did your control hold up?”
“I am Vulcan, Doctor.”
His glare lacking its usual emotion, McCoy replied, “Just…shut up and get on the bed.”
On to part 4!