Night 56: M41-M50 Hallway
[M41]
If there was one thing the coup improved, it was the intercom announcements. Nothing long-winded, no rantings of a mad man. Short, efficient, or better yet, nothing at all.
Thank God for little miracles, McCoy thought sourly. Then he scowled. How sad was it that this was the kind of thing he looked forward to now? If he didn't feel like his brain was melting out his ears, McCoy might've wondered how his life had come down to this kinda thing. By the time the doors unlocked, the headache had bloomed back into the migraines and with a vengeance. If McCoy ever once entertained the thought that he just might get used to them after awhile, he found out he was dead wrong. The only saving grace was that no one else was around right now to see it.
So he was relieved of duty. McCoy rolled that around in his head. Toyed with the idea. It stung (slightly) less when he thought about it, now that he had time to get used to the idea. Still hurt though. Relieved of duty didn't equal being confined to his room. It just means I'm not practicing as part of the crew, McCoy told himself. He was on his own time now. Maybe he didn't quite now what to do with an unspecified amount of spare time, but he could figure something out. It didn't mean he had to sit around, and in fact, he didn't plan to. He could pull his own weight, be useful still. Was it him or was it hot in here? The room felt hot. Not even humid-hot. Dry, arid, desert hot.
That's what he could do. He could do his own scouting, maybe track down some medical supplies. Maybe Landels had something strong enough to suppress the headaches. McCoy wasn't fooling himself into thinking he'd come across an actual cure for them. It would still be there, lurking around, just dulled enough that he could work. At best it was a stop-gap measure. But at this point, he wasn't too picky. And even if they didn't have anything, he could still find something that might be useful for the rest of the crew.
Then several hours had passed since Doyleton and by then, it just wasn't going to happen. McCoy was able to change into his uniform and found that the migraines had progressed into something beyond humanly tolerable. That was about it for tonight. He sat back down on the bed, stripping off the medical tunic. He left the black undershirt and, not bothering to remove his boots, lay back down. Pushing his face into the pillow, he curled up on his side. He could think about what to do with his time in the morning. Plenty of time. Maybe when he could think straight.
Surprisingly, most of all to himself, McCoy was out almost as soon as he'd finished thinking it. He relaxed, eyes closed.
[For Spock?]
If there was one thing the coup improved, it was the intercom announcements. Nothing long-winded, no rantings of a mad man. Short, efficient, or better yet, nothing at all.
Thank God for little miracles, McCoy thought sourly. Then he scowled. How sad was it that this was the kind of thing he looked forward to now? If he didn't feel like his brain was melting out his ears, McCoy might've wondered how his life had come down to this kinda thing. By the time the doors unlocked, the headache had bloomed back into the migraines and with a vengeance. If McCoy ever once entertained the thought that he just might get used to them after awhile, he found out he was dead wrong. The only saving grace was that no one else was around right now to see it.
So he was relieved of duty. McCoy rolled that around in his head. Toyed with the idea. It stung (slightly) less when he thought about it, now that he had time to get used to the idea. Still hurt though. Relieved of duty didn't equal being confined to his room. It just means I'm not practicing as part of the crew, McCoy told himself. He was on his own time now. Maybe he didn't quite now what to do with an unspecified amount of spare time, but he could figure something out. It didn't mean he had to sit around, and in fact, he didn't plan to. He could pull his own weight, be useful still. Was it him or was it hot in here? The room felt hot. Not even humid-hot. Dry, arid, desert hot.
That's what he could do. He could do his own scouting, maybe track down some medical supplies. Maybe Landels had something strong enough to suppress the headaches. McCoy wasn't fooling himself into thinking he'd come across an actual cure for them. It would still be there, lurking around, just dulled enough that he could work. At best it was a stop-gap measure. But at this point, he wasn't too picky. And even if they didn't have anything, he could still find something that might be useful for the rest of the crew.
Then several hours had passed since Doyleton and by then, it just wasn't going to happen. McCoy was able to change into his uniform and found that the migraines had progressed into something beyond humanly tolerable. That was about it for tonight. He sat back down on the bed, stripping off the medical tunic. He left the black undershirt and, not bothering to remove his boots, lay back down. Pushing his face into the pillow, he curled up on his side. He could think about what to do with his time in the morning. Plenty of time. Maybe when he could think straight.
Surprisingly, most of all to himself, McCoy was out almost as soon as he'd finished thinking it. He relaxed, eyes closed.
[For Spock?]