tian
Title: at length did cross an albatross (Part 4)
Rating: pg (mccoy kirk has a bit of a potty mouth)
Word Count: This part: 1348, Total so far: 5200. 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. The title is from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Coleridge.
A/N reboot: Less than a month, this time! ::hides:: Buckets of thanks to sahviere for sharing her awesome beta skillz. :)
A small portion of the officers’ break area had been sectioned apart, offering a narrow cot and minimal privacy should a bridge crew member require it. It was rare for Spock take advantage of the double-shift break Starfleet, in accordance with Federation law, extended to him. Unlike his human counterparts, the length of a combined alpha-beta shift did not strain him. Rest was unnecessary.
At present, however, he was grateful for the opportunity for solitude it afforded. His meditations of late had failed to fully center him. He was not so compromised that it reflected negatively, or was even apparent, in his performance, but allotting increased time to his meditations had become necessary.
Spock settled himself on the floor beside the bed, not bothering to pull completely shut the accordion-style room divider. The room was empty and quiet, a state unlikely to be altered so soon after a shift change. He stilled his body, slowed his breathing, closed his eyes and turned his attention inward. Mantras glided through his consciousness. His native tongue, though heard only by his mind’s ear, eased a multitude of aches as he processed the preceding days.
They had been, generally, without incident. Repair of the bridge and warp core had proceeded adequately once sufficient engineers had been cleared for duty; Spock estimated less than two days before full capacity was restored. Despite the statistical unlikelihood, there were no crew fatalities and though nearly two dozen suffered mild neurological deficiencies, Doctor McCoy predicted no lasting damage.
No crew member, save for Spock and, he believed, the Captain, retained any significant memories of the event. Kirk however, though McCoy cleared him for duty, still appeared disturbed. His efficiency ratings were excellent, his captaincy was not suffering, but Spock found Kirk’s demeanor to be slightly altered, his personality subdued and his tolerance for minor irritation vastly reduced. Physical manifestations had become observable. His features were increasingly pallid, his skin drawn. A reaction to increased stress or something more concerning, Spock could not yet tell.
For himself, Spock found the ramifications unsettling, though not debilitating. It was the first time his control had been so thoroughly tested since the Narada and, given the emotional extremes to which he had been subjected, he found it only logical that he experience some difficulty. He was dealing with it accordingly.
Spock remained in light meditation for thirteen point seven minutes. The sound of a door sliding open pulled him to the surface. Footsteps scuffed against the tile. Two pair, Spock noted.
“You’ve been avoiding me.” Doctor McCoy. Without thought Spock stilled, suspending his breath. A sliver of yellow flashed through a seam in the partition.
“Not you,” the Captain answered. “Just the needles you like to stick in my neck.”
“Well then, you’re in luck. Last I checked there aren’t any hyposprays involved in a psych eval.”
There was a muffled thud, as though one of the men - Kirk, Spock assumed - had dropped himself onto the sofa. “You think I’m crazy, Bones?” the Captain asked, his tone misleadingly light.
“Yes.”
A laugh. “You always say the sweetest things.” There was an unpleasant edge to man’s humor. Spock shifted himself toward the joint in the screen and, suppressing his increasing sense of impropriety, peered through. The Captain was, indeed, on the couch while the Doctor remained standing. Both were agitated, though Kirk attempted to project a casual indifference.
“Something else on your mind?” Kirk asked after a moment. “Don’t hold back for my sake.” A brief spike of irritation reminded Spock of his tentative emotional control. The Captain’s flippancy was grating.
“Oh, I wasn’t planning on it.” McCoy’s own irritation sharpened his words. “You may be a genius, kid, but I’m on to you. You’ll go to your quarters when I haul your smart ass there, but I don’t for a minute think you’re actually sleeping. And I know you’re not eating.” McCoy leaned forward and jabbed at the Captain’s abdomen.
“Jesus, Bones, get off!” Kirk roughly shoved him away and pushed himself up. “What the hell are you doing? Trying to pinch a fucking inch?”
“Look. Why don’t you just let me give you a sleep-aid--“
“Because I don’t need one.”
“--you take it, get a good night’s sleep under your belt, and then we can talk.”
“No.”
McCoy sighed. “If you don’t, I’ll--“
“You’ll what?” Kirk interrupted, his patience expended. “Take me off active duty? Because I didn’t finish my vegetables and stayed up past my bedtime?” The Captain snorted. “Right. Good luck with that.”
“Jim--“
“No. I haven’t fucked up. Not once. You’ve got nothing and until you can come up with some bullshit reason for why I’m a danger to the ship--“
“You idiot!” McCoy, red-faced, snapped. “It’s not the ship that I’m worried about!”
Kirk faltered. “Whatever,” he said after a moment. “I’m going to bed. Doctor’s orders.” The Captain turned, the door opening and closing as he left. McCoy sighed and rubbed his face, taking a step towards the door and out of Spock’s limited sight.
There were eight seconds of silence before Spock heard, “One would think eavesdropping would offend your Vulcan sensibilities.”
Rising easily, Spock tugged his uniform free of wrinkles, lifted his chin and emerged from behind the partition. “My apologies, Doctor. It was not my intention to be privileged to the Captain’s personal information. I--“
McCoy waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, can it, Spock. If he were that concerned over his privacy he would have let me drag him to my office when I tried.”
The Doctor cast a glance towards the door. “He’s a stubborn bastard, but he’s right, you know. He hasn’t fouled anything up, command-wise.” McCoy sighed. “My hands are tied until does something which damn near kills us all.”
The statement was untrue. A formal mandate requiring the Captain to submit to psychological evaluation could be sought; despite Kirk’s performance, the invasive nature of the experience would warrant it. However, such an action would result in a permanent notation made to the Captain’s file, casting irrevocable doubt upon his judgment regardless of the evaluation’s findings. Doctor McCoy would consider the option only as a last resort. Spock found himself in agreement.
“As long as I’ve got you here,” McCoy said, with an assessing scan of Spock’s person, “let me save you a trip to Sick Bay. Physically, you’re healthy as a horse.” A bizarre though positive comparison, given the Doctor’s inflection. “Mentally, you seem as sane as you ever were. Any lingering effects? Anxiety, trouble sleeping?”
“As you are well aware, Doctor, I was never under any misapprehensions as to the nature of the hallucinations. Any concern for my mental health is unnecessary.”
“Vulcan logic prevails.” The Doctor huffed. “Will wonders never cease?”
Spock ignored the jab and a silence fell over them, stretching on for a twelve point seven seconds. Spock knew he should return to the bridge; there was not enough time left in his break to achieve a second meditation. Likewise, Doctor McCoy was assigned to beta shift and should have already been in the medical bay for eleven point four minutes. Yet Spock did not move. The Doctor cleared his throat.
“Spock,” McCoy said quietly. “He needs help.”
The Vulcan simply inclined his head. “Indeed.”
“He’s backing me in to a corner. Pretty soon, I won’t have a choice.” McCoy caught Spock’s gaze and held it. “He respects you and, what’s more, you were there with him. He might listen if you talked.”
Spock hesitated. He was ill-equipped for such a task, lacking the ability to express himself in a manner comforting to most humans. McCoy certainly knew this, having accused him of such on multiple occasions. “It seems unlikely that my attempts would be well-received.”
“Just try and get him talking about what he saw,” McCoy replied. “The hard part’s getting him started.”
Spock considered the Doctor’s words and the concern which prompted them. Finding no superior alternative, he nodded.
Rating: pg (mccoy kirk has a bit of a potty mouth)
Word Count: This part: 1348, Total so far: 5200. 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. The title is from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Coleridge.
A/N reboot: Less than a month, this time! ::hides:: Buckets of thanks to sahviere for sharing her awesome beta skillz. :)
A small portion of the officers’ break area had been sectioned apart, offering a narrow cot and minimal privacy should a bridge crew member require it. It was rare for Spock take advantage of the double-shift break Starfleet, in accordance with Federation law, extended to him. Unlike his human counterparts, the length of a combined alpha-beta shift did not strain him. Rest was unnecessary.
At present, however, he was grateful for the opportunity for solitude it afforded. His meditations of late had failed to fully center him. He was not so compromised that it reflected negatively, or was even apparent, in his performance, but allotting increased time to his meditations had become necessary.
Spock settled himself on the floor beside the bed, not bothering to pull completely shut the accordion-style room divider. The room was empty and quiet, a state unlikely to be altered so soon after a shift change. He stilled his body, slowed his breathing, closed his eyes and turned his attention inward. Mantras glided through his consciousness. His native tongue, though heard only by his mind’s ear, eased a multitude of aches as he processed the preceding days.
They had been, generally, without incident. Repair of the bridge and warp core had proceeded adequately once sufficient engineers had been cleared for duty; Spock estimated less than two days before full capacity was restored. Despite the statistical unlikelihood, there were no crew fatalities and though nearly two dozen suffered mild neurological deficiencies, Doctor McCoy predicted no lasting damage.
No crew member, save for Spock and, he believed, the Captain, retained any significant memories of the event. Kirk however, though McCoy cleared him for duty, still appeared disturbed. His efficiency ratings were excellent, his captaincy was not suffering, but Spock found Kirk’s demeanor to be slightly altered, his personality subdued and his tolerance for minor irritation vastly reduced. Physical manifestations had become observable. His features were increasingly pallid, his skin drawn. A reaction to increased stress or something more concerning, Spock could not yet tell.
For himself, Spock found the ramifications unsettling, though not debilitating. It was the first time his control had been so thoroughly tested since the Narada and, given the emotional extremes to which he had been subjected, he found it only logical that he experience some difficulty. He was dealing with it accordingly.
Spock remained in light meditation for thirteen point seven minutes. The sound of a door sliding open pulled him to the surface. Footsteps scuffed against the tile. Two pair, Spock noted.
“You’ve been avoiding me.” Doctor McCoy. Without thought Spock stilled, suspending his breath. A sliver of yellow flashed through a seam in the partition.
“Not you,” the Captain answered. “Just the needles you like to stick in my neck.”
“Well then, you’re in luck. Last I checked there aren’t any hyposprays involved in a psych eval.”
There was a muffled thud, as though one of the men - Kirk, Spock assumed - had dropped himself onto the sofa. “You think I’m crazy, Bones?” the Captain asked, his tone misleadingly light.
“Yes.”
A laugh. “You always say the sweetest things.” There was an unpleasant edge to man’s humor. Spock shifted himself toward the joint in the screen and, suppressing his increasing sense of impropriety, peered through. The Captain was, indeed, on the couch while the Doctor remained standing. Both were agitated, though Kirk attempted to project a casual indifference.
“Something else on your mind?” Kirk asked after a moment. “Don’t hold back for my sake.” A brief spike of irritation reminded Spock of his tentative emotional control. The Captain’s flippancy was grating.
“Oh, I wasn’t planning on it.” McCoy’s own irritation sharpened his words. “You may be a genius, kid, but I’m on to you. You’ll go to your quarters when I haul your smart ass there, but I don’t for a minute think you’re actually sleeping. And I know you’re not eating.” McCoy leaned forward and jabbed at the Captain’s abdomen.
“Jesus, Bones, get off!” Kirk roughly shoved him away and pushed himself up. “What the hell are you doing? Trying to pinch a fucking inch?”
“Look. Why don’t you just let me give you a sleep-aid--“
“Because I don’t need one.”
“--you take it, get a good night’s sleep under your belt, and then we can talk.”
“No.”
McCoy sighed. “If you don’t, I’ll--“
“You’ll what?” Kirk interrupted, his patience expended. “Take me off active duty? Because I didn’t finish my vegetables and stayed up past my bedtime?” The Captain snorted. “Right. Good luck with that.”
“Jim--“
“No. I haven’t fucked up. Not once. You’ve got nothing and until you can come up with some bullshit reason for why I’m a danger to the ship--“
“You idiot!” McCoy, red-faced, snapped. “It’s not the ship that I’m worried about!”
Kirk faltered. “Whatever,” he said after a moment. “I’m going to bed. Doctor’s orders.” The Captain turned, the door opening and closing as he left. McCoy sighed and rubbed his face, taking a step towards the door and out of Spock’s limited sight.
There were eight seconds of silence before Spock heard, “One would think eavesdropping would offend your Vulcan sensibilities.”
Rising easily, Spock tugged his uniform free of wrinkles, lifted his chin and emerged from behind the partition. “My apologies, Doctor. It was not my intention to be privileged to the Captain’s personal information. I--“
McCoy waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, can it, Spock. If he were that concerned over his privacy he would have let me drag him to my office when I tried.”
The Doctor cast a glance towards the door. “He’s a stubborn bastard, but he’s right, you know. He hasn’t fouled anything up, command-wise.” McCoy sighed. “My hands are tied until does something which damn near kills us all.”
The statement was untrue. A formal mandate requiring the Captain to submit to psychological evaluation could be sought; despite Kirk’s performance, the invasive nature of the experience would warrant it. However, such an action would result in a permanent notation made to the Captain’s file, casting irrevocable doubt upon his judgment regardless of the evaluation’s findings. Doctor McCoy would consider the option only as a last resort. Spock found himself in agreement.
“As long as I’ve got you here,” McCoy said, with an assessing scan of Spock’s person, “let me save you a trip to Sick Bay. Physically, you’re healthy as a horse.” A bizarre though positive comparison, given the Doctor’s inflection. “Mentally, you seem as sane as you ever were. Any lingering effects? Anxiety, trouble sleeping?”
“As you are well aware, Doctor, I was never under any misapprehensions as to the nature of the hallucinations. Any concern for my mental health is unnecessary.”
“Vulcan logic prevails.” The Doctor huffed. “Will wonders never cease?”
Spock ignored the jab and a silence fell over them, stretching on for a twelve point seven seconds. Spock knew he should return to the bridge; there was not enough time left in his break to achieve a second meditation. Likewise, Doctor McCoy was assigned to beta shift and should have already been in the medical bay for eleven point four minutes. Yet Spock did not move. The Doctor cleared his throat.
“Spock,” McCoy said quietly. “He needs help.”
The Vulcan simply inclined his head. “Indeed.”
“He’s backing me in to a corner. Pretty soon, I won’t have a choice.” McCoy caught Spock’s gaze and held it. “He respects you and, what’s more, you were there with him. He might listen if you talked.”
Spock hesitated. He was ill-equipped for such a task, lacking the ability to express himself in a manner comforting to most humans. McCoy certainly knew this, having accused him of such on multiple occasions. “It seems unlikely that my attempts would be well-received.”
“Just try and get him talking about what he saw,” McCoy replied. “The hard part’s getting him started.”
Spock considered the Doctor’s words and the concern which prompted them. Finding no superior alternative, he nodded.