FIC: drabbles, Star Trek (5)
I've joined up at bridge2sickbay, and the prompts are wonderful. It's a neat little community, even if I will likely miss all the rounds when they're being posted. But it's a low pressure comm, so that's fine.
RANDOM: In chat the other night, I accidently typed 'I'll chek the comm. Now I want fic with that in it. NOW.
Anyway. Drabbles.
title: Ladies from Leningrad
words: 273
prompt: "What part of our history's reinvented and under rug swept?"
rating/warnings: PG13, fluff (sorta)
characters/pairings: Kirk/Chekov
original post: HERE
The lights are low and soft, keeping a glow about their limbs, twined together on the sheets. Shore leave for everyone, and here they are together in a room somewhere, ignoring the world.
Pavel shifts underneath Jim's shoulder, sticky from the heat and mildly uncomfortable. "Is hot in here. I'm going to turn down the temperature."
"It's nice," Jim sighs, and rolls over so his chest is flat against Pavel's back. "Nice and muggy. It's barely even warm in here."
"You are heavy," Pavel says, "And like a furnace. I should take you home to Russia and keep you inside my sweaters; I would not need a coat."
Jim grins against Pavel's neck. "I'll gladly travel to Russia inside your sweater - so long as you're also inside your sweater. ...you know what, it'd probably be better if neither of us were your sweater. Who likes warm clothing anyway."
Pavel makes a noise into the pillow and tries to peer at Jim over his shoulder. "Coats were invented in Russia, by a little mother of four from Anadyr."
"Were they," Jim prompts, amused.
"Yes," Pavel insists, and wriggles around until he and Jim are lying face-to-face. "Good Russian coats, of course. Proper ones meant to keep frostbites away."
"Frostbite - singular," Jim murmurs, and nips at Pavel's mouth. "And I still say that we should just skip coats entirely."
"Hm," Pavel hums, pleased, "Perhaps. If we are together."
Jim says, "No perhaps about that one."
Laughter echoes softly in their small, warm room, and though Pavel kicks at the blankets until they're scattered on the floor, he and Jim hold each other tighter.
title: With the ship
words: 314
prompt: "Take this sinking boat and point it home. We've still got time."
rating/warnings: PG
characters/pairings: Kirk/Sulu
original post: HERE
"I told you to get to a shuttle," Kirk yells over the sound of cracking hull, the shattering glass of the consoles and a dull, incessant beeping.
"Yes, sir," Sulu yells back, gripping the helm tightly. Everything in front of him flashes red, bright and angry, and a million times slower than the pounding of his heart.
"Don't you fucking 'yes sir' me, Sulu," Kirk staggers, trips over Chekov's fallen chair, and slams into Sulu's shoulder. "You get your ass to a shuttle."
Sulu runs his fingers over the console, brings up command lists and controls that were transferred to helm from the other stations of the bridge. "Fuck you, sir." Sulu snaps back, "All shuttles cleared for launch - medshuttle is already away. McCoy is trying to hail you."
Kirk laughs once against the back of Sulu's neck. The captain's knuckles are tight over the top of the chair, digging into Sulu's back. "Of course he is. Don't open a channel." Kirk reaches over Sulu to send a brief text-only message. "He'll just bust a vessel trying to scream at me, and he's got Spock and Chekov to look after."
Main power flickers out, and the bridge is lit by the helm console and the words 'CRASH IMMINENT' transparent over the enemy ship raised on the view screen. Sulu catches Kirk's wrist before his pulls completely away. They're both shaking, tired and on edge, and too much alive for what's about to happen.
"I swear to god, Jim," Sulu says, as lowly as he can manage while still being heard, "If you say something 'inspiring', I'm so kicking your ass in the afterlife."
Kirk's other hand slides over Sulu's shoulder, curls around the base of his neck. "You wish, man. Now take this sinking ship and point it home, Hikaru."
He's still grinning, still listening to Sulu swear, when the view screen breaks.
title: Boxes
words: 302
prompt: "I keep a close watch on this heart of mine."
rating/warnings: PG, swearing
characters/pairings: Kirk/McCoy
original post: HERE
"All right," McCoy says at length, in the small confines of the collapsed shuttle. "Now, I know we ain't gonna die or nothing, but there's nothing to do and I might as well be cliche about something as ridiculous as this."
Kirk squints at him from the other side of the fallen console, his head tilted back against the wall. "...what? Did I pass out and miss something?" He seems genuinely confused.
McCoy sighs irritably and shakes his head. "We talked about that thing - rather, you talked about that thing, and I went about doing my goddamn job, like most people during their shift."
"I honestly don't know what you're talking about, Bones. Did you hit your head on something?"
"We talked about that thing. We did. Us. The 'us' thing."
Kirk stares at him like the doctor's gone and outlawed hyposprays and he's thanking Kirk for being his inspiration. "...the 'us taking a shuttle down to the planet' thing?"
McCoy makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat, and in response throws a small object across the shuttle, in the general direction of Kirk's face. Kirk catches it easily, without really thinking about it, and stares blankly at the small velvet box in his hand.
"Good god, man," McCoy mutters.
The flash of gold in the box jolts Kirk's memory. "Oh," he says, with sudden understanding. "That 'us'."
"Yeah," McCoy says shortly, "And since you asked me and I've...done this, I think that constitutes as me saying 'yes', even though it's situations like this that makes me think it's gonna be a bad idea."
"I don't know what you mean," Jim asks, snapping the box shut and grinning up at McCoy, "I happen to think being trapped in a dark, wrecked shuttle with you is romantic."
"You would."
title: Running
words: 332
prompt: "It's only fear that makes you run / The demons that you're hiding from / When all your promises are gone, I'm the only one"
rating/warnings: PG
characters/pairings: Kirk/Mcoy
original post: HERE
You're so fucking fit, Bones. How the hell do you manage that?
Leonard's health is a reflection of his mind more than it's any careful concern for his wellbeing. Guilty conscious, trying to think, trying to work things out, too cluttered up there, too busy, too full, too much ---
And then he's running. Shorts, sweats, uniform, whatever he has the presence of mind to wear, but always with a narrow, chronometer PADD clenched in his hand. He watches his breathing and times his laps (but never counts them), moves through cycles of sprints and cool downs, until his skin his buzzing and his lungs are burning, and his body is sending him too many signals for the brain to properly think.
I run, Jim. I exercise. What else would I do?
You run.
Yeah, I run. Now get out of my sickbay.
Get out of the sickbay. That's first order of business. Walk to the turbolift, don't run - don't fucking run - not yet, no. Your back is a rigid line, your shoulders feel hunched, from surgery. Hunched over the table, over the readings, over the young, bloody lieutenant and her tangled wounds.
Now, add your fingers, and your scanners, and the soft beep of the tricorder. Add the sound of your heartbeat, and then the lieutenant's unconscious sigh. Add Chapel's sudden hitched breath. Add the straight line of the monitor, add the silence, add the soft relax of the patient's hands. Add another to the log and mark the time.
Don't run. Not yet. Not yet, not yet, notyet.
Now.
Hey Bones.
Yeah?
I run too.
You still visit the track. You still spend too much time running. You'll likely always spend too much time running. But now you're not running alone. Now you're not desperately pushing yourself around the track, endless loops and unforgiving miles. Now, perhaps half of those times, sometimes more, sometimes less, you're running to him - you're walking towards him - and he's walking towards you.
title: Oh good, he's seventeen
words: 245
prompt: "I was just a boy; you were so much more."
rating/warnings: PG
characters/pairings: Sulu/Chekov
original post: HERE
You'll hate me for saying it this way, because it'll make me sound older than I am, but it's like I was this boy, who went to school and became a pilot and got a job flying a starship. But you, I wonder sometimes if someone told you, "no - when you grow up, Pasha" and you said to them, "oh? I'll have that done before I go to the Academy, then."
I'd believe it. I believe pretty much anything you tell me. It's like I'm trying to keep up with you - your brain and your physics, your pen flicking across the data screens, probability patterns and course calculations, or your freaking stride after shift when you're hungry for dumplings... You know what you want, you know who you are, you always say 'I'm growing, Hikaru - stronger, taller, wiser', but never older, because you got that out of the way. Right?
Some people only see your bright eyes and dimpled smiles, your lazy-sleepy yawns on alpha shift, and the confused look you get when something doesn't translate quite right. I know there's fire in you, Russian lightning, or something, cold and sharp and beautiful. None of those metaphors go together, but that's what you're like; terrifying and brilliant and bright.
And then there's me, still that boy, with that post on that ship, sailing through space - all because a lieutenant came down with lungworm and because you saved my life.
__________________________________________________________________
TBH, I think Kirk/Sulu and the Kirk/McCoy (the running one) were my favourite. The other two were just me playing around. ...and I don't know why I chose so much Kirk, but....that's how it happened.
RANDOM: In chat the other night, I accidently typed 'I'll chek the comm. Now I want fic with that in it. NOW.
Anyway. Drabbles.
title: Ladies from Leningrad
words: 273
prompt: "What part of our history's reinvented and under rug swept?"
rating/warnings: PG13, fluff (sorta)
characters/pairings: Kirk/Chekov
original post: HERE
The lights are low and soft, keeping a glow about their limbs, twined together on the sheets. Shore leave for everyone, and here they are together in a room somewhere, ignoring the world.
Pavel shifts underneath Jim's shoulder, sticky from the heat and mildly uncomfortable. "Is hot in here. I'm going to turn down the temperature."
"It's nice," Jim sighs, and rolls over so his chest is flat against Pavel's back. "Nice and muggy. It's barely even warm in here."
"You are heavy," Pavel says, "And like a furnace. I should take you home to Russia and keep you inside my sweaters; I would not need a coat."
Jim grins against Pavel's neck. "I'll gladly travel to Russia inside your sweater - so long as you're also inside your sweater. ...you know what, it'd probably be better if neither of us were your sweater. Who likes warm clothing anyway."
Pavel makes a noise into the pillow and tries to peer at Jim over his shoulder. "Coats were invented in Russia, by a little mother of four from Anadyr."
"Were they," Jim prompts, amused.
"Yes," Pavel insists, and wriggles around until he and Jim are lying face-to-face. "Good Russian coats, of course. Proper ones meant to keep frostbites away."
"Frostbite - singular," Jim murmurs, and nips at Pavel's mouth. "And I still say that we should just skip coats entirely."
"Hm," Pavel hums, pleased, "Perhaps. If we are together."
Jim says, "No perhaps about that one."
Laughter echoes softly in their small, warm room, and though Pavel kicks at the blankets until they're scattered on the floor, he and Jim hold each other tighter.
title: With the ship
words: 314
prompt: "Take this sinking boat and point it home. We've still got time."
rating/warnings: PG
characters/pairings: Kirk/Sulu
original post: HERE
"I told you to get to a shuttle," Kirk yells over the sound of cracking hull, the shattering glass of the consoles and a dull, incessant beeping.
"Yes, sir," Sulu yells back, gripping the helm tightly. Everything in front of him flashes red, bright and angry, and a million times slower than the pounding of his heart.
"Don't you fucking 'yes sir' me, Sulu," Kirk staggers, trips over Chekov's fallen chair, and slams into Sulu's shoulder. "You get your ass to a shuttle."
Sulu runs his fingers over the console, brings up command lists and controls that were transferred to helm from the other stations of the bridge. "Fuck you, sir." Sulu snaps back, "All shuttles cleared for launch - medshuttle is already away. McCoy is trying to hail you."
Kirk laughs once against the back of Sulu's neck. The captain's knuckles are tight over the top of the chair, digging into Sulu's back. "Of course he is. Don't open a channel." Kirk reaches over Sulu to send a brief text-only message. "He'll just bust a vessel trying to scream at me, and he's got Spock and Chekov to look after."
Main power flickers out, and the bridge is lit by the helm console and the words 'CRASH IMMINENT' transparent over the enemy ship raised on the view screen. Sulu catches Kirk's wrist before his pulls completely away. They're both shaking, tired and on edge, and too much alive for what's about to happen.
"I swear to god, Jim," Sulu says, as lowly as he can manage while still being heard, "If you say something 'inspiring', I'm so kicking your ass in the afterlife."
Kirk's other hand slides over Sulu's shoulder, curls around the base of his neck. "You wish, man. Now take this sinking ship and point it home, Hikaru."
He's still grinning, still listening to Sulu swear, when the view screen breaks.
title: Boxes
words: 302
prompt: "I keep a close watch on this heart of mine."
rating/warnings: PG, swearing
characters/pairings: Kirk/McCoy
original post: HERE
"All right," McCoy says at length, in the small confines of the collapsed shuttle. "Now, I know we ain't gonna die or nothing, but there's nothing to do and I might as well be cliche about something as ridiculous as this."
Kirk squints at him from the other side of the fallen console, his head tilted back against the wall. "...what? Did I pass out and miss something?" He seems genuinely confused.
McCoy sighs irritably and shakes his head. "We talked about that thing - rather, you talked about that thing, and I went about doing my goddamn job, like most people during their shift."
"I honestly don't know what you're talking about, Bones. Did you hit your head on something?"
"We talked about that thing. We did. Us. The 'us' thing."
Kirk stares at him like the doctor's gone and outlawed hyposprays and he's thanking Kirk for being his inspiration. "...the 'us taking a shuttle down to the planet' thing?"
McCoy makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat, and in response throws a small object across the shuttle, in the general direction of Kirk's face. Kirk catches it easily, without really thinking about it, and stares blankly at the small velvet box in his hand.
"Good god, man," McCoy mutters.
The flash of gold in the box jolts Kirk's memory. "Oh," he says, with sudden understanding. "That 'us'."
"Yeah," McCoy says shortly, "And since you asked me and I've...done this, I think that constitutes as me saying 'yes', even though it's situations like this that makes me think it's gonna be a bad idea."
"I don't know what you mean," Jim asks, snapping the box shut and grinning up at McCoy, "I happen to think being trapped in a dark, wrecked shuttle with you is romantic."
"You would."
title: Running
words: 332
prompt: "It's only fear that makes you run / The demons that you're hiding from / When all your promises are gone, I'm the only one"
rating/warnings: PG
characters/pairings: Kirk/Mcoy
original post: HERE
You're so fucking fit, Bones. How the hell do you manage that?
Leonard's health is a reflection of his mind more than it's any careful concern for his wellbeing. Guilty conscious, trying to think, trying to work things out, too cluttered up there, too busy, too full, too much ---
And then he's running. Shorts, sweats, uniform, whatever he has the presence of mind to wear, but always with a narrow, chronometer PADD clenched in his hand. He watches his breathing and times his laps (but never counts them), moves through cycles of sprints and cool downs, until his skin his buzzing and his lungs are burning, and his body is sending him too many signals for the brain to properly think.
I run, Jim. I exercise. What else would I do?
You run.
Yeah, I run. Now get out of my sickbay.
Get out of the sickbay. That's first order of business. Walk to the turbolift, don't run - don't fucking run - not yet, no. Your back is a rigid line, your shoulders feel hunched, from surgery. Hunched over the table, over the readings, over the young, bloody lieutenant and her tangled wounds.
Now, add your fingers, and your scanners, and the soft beep of the tricorder. Add the sound of your heartbeat, and then the lieutenant's unconscious sigh. Add Chapel's sudden hitched breath. Add the straight line of the monitor, add the silence, add the soft relax of the patient's hands. Add another to the log and mark the time.
Don't run. Not yet. Not yet, not yet, notyet.
Now.
Hey Bones.
Yeah?
I run too.
You still visit the track. You still spend too much time running. You'll likely always spend too much time running. But now you're not running alone. Now you're not desperately pushing yourself around the track, endless loops and unforgiving miles. Now, perhaps half of those times, sometimes more, sometimes less, you're running to him - you're walking towards him - and he's walking towards you.
title: Oh good, he's seventeen
words: 245
prompt: "I was just a boy; you were so much more."
rating/warnings: PG
characters/pairings: Sulu/Chekov
original post: HERE
You'll hate me for saying it this way, because it'll make me sound older than I am, but it's like I was this boy, who went to school and became a pilot and got a job flying a starship. But you, I wonder sometimes if someone told you, "no - when you grow up, Pasha" and you said to them, "oh? I'll have that done before I go to the Academy, then."
I'd believe it. I believe pretty much anything you tell me. It's like I'm trying to keep up with you - your brain and your physics, your pen flicking across the data screens, probability patterns and course calculations, or your freaking stride after shift when you're hungry for dumplings... You know what you want, you know who you are, you always say 'I'm growing, Hikaru - stronger, taller, wiser', but never older, because you got that out of the way. Right?
Some people only see your bright eyes and dimpled smiles, your lazy-sleepy yawns on alpha shift, and the confused look you get when something doesn't translate quite right. I know there's fire in you, Russian lightning, or something, cold and sharp and beautiful. None of those metaphors go together, but that's what you're like; terrifying and brilliant and bright.
And then there's me, still that boy, with that post on that ship, sailing through space - all because a lieutenant came down with lungworm and because you saved my life.
__________________________________________________________________
TBH, I think Kirk/Sulu and the Kirk/McCoy (the running one) were my favourite. The other two were just me playing around. ...and I don't know why I chose so much Kirk, but....that's how it happened.