SMITESMITESMITE
Somebody get me a flaming sword, damnit, I'm gonna freaking smite the neighbors. Somewheres around 7am today, after I'd stayed up till 2am and was exhaustedly trying to sleep, one of the neighbors started up a generator of some kind that made a loud humming droning noise. And it was so invasive a noise that even closing my window and making my room a sauna as a result was not enough to shut it out. And when I finally got up, in a thoroughly pissed-off mood and with a headache and a powerful anti-work desire to cry, they shut it off.
Effing sons of...of WHATEVER.
I do not feel well and am seriously considering scrapping my plans to see Trek just to cheer myself up today. But if I do I know it'll only make me a) tense with the high that comes with major squee, and b) sour for the remainder of the day when the high depletes, as well as c) want to watch more Trek TOS episodes instead of working.
So I'm gonna try and write a drabbly ficlet followup to a piece of delicious STXI Pon Farr porn I read last night. You should go read it yourself before this will make sense - actually, it probably won't make sense anyways, because I can't write Trek properly. But I'm too in love with McCoy not to.
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It's quiet in Sickbay when the communications alert bleeps. Leonard McCoy almost ignores it, engrossed as he is in medical journals on the computer, the condition of the ship's First Officer on his mind. Stubborn, pointy-eared bastard hadn't even explained just why his body was being boiled from the inside out, not until McCoy had threatened to go to the Captain. He'd gone to Jim anyways; this...Pon Farr thing was too big not to report. He hadn't seen Spock or Jim since.
The computer's inner-ship intercom bleeps again, and the voice of the very man he'd been worrying over asks, "Bones, you there?"
McCoy straightens up and presses the response button, leaning over the panel with a fleeting homesickness for proper, old fashioned handsets. Georgia had been slow to the technology rise; people still liked their tactile comforts back home. "Yeah Jim, I'm here. Still trying to find a solution for our friend's problem; so far I haven't come up with anything."
There's a moment's pause, and a second voice - calm, level baritone - replies, "The situation has resolved itself, Dr. McCoy. At this time I do not believe it necessary to continue your search."
Leonard feels his eyebrows climb up his forehead, then settle into a furrow, before smoothing out into an embarrassed, somewhat horrified expression as his brain works it out. Oh, not horrified that it's apparently JIM who became the receiver of the Vulcan's attentions. Horrified that, true to Jim's character, this call has probably come in minutes after the fact. And that means-
Leonard lets out a slow, calming breath. "Well...that's good, I suppose. Glad to hear it. Was that all you wanted to update me about?"
"Well..." Jim Kirk's Iowan drawl is positively dripping with sacarine innocence. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble, Bones, we could use a change of clothes."
A cold dread sinks and knots in the pit of the doctor's stomach. It feels a lot like indigestion. "In other words, rather than taking the matter to your quarters, you've-" Oh sweet God in Heaven he can't say it. The urge to kill is rising; he settles for entertaining thoughts of their next physicals. "I don't even want to know where you are right now."
"We're kinda locked in on the observation deck."
Damnit Jim!
"You OWE me for this," McCoy promises venomously and stabs the intercom silent with a finger, slumping back in his chair. A hand lifts to massage the headache building behind his temples, and after a moment, he rummages in his drawers for an aspirin and an antacid, dry-swallowing both and muttering under his breath as he stomps out to fetch the clothes. Because despite his irritation with them both, he's still relieved that for once, no one has wound up in his infirmary.
Yet.
------------------------------
As usual I can't finish stories properly. I'm calling this a GIFT for dreamlittleyo, for writing such awesome Pon Farr porn!
...writing that made me feel better. Slightly.
Effing sons of...of WHATEVER.
I do not feel well and am seriously considering scrapping my plans to see Trek just to cheer myself up today. But if I do I know it'll only make me a) tense with the high that comes with major squee, and b) sour for the remainder of the day when the high depletes, as well as c) want to watch more Trek TOS episodes instead of working.
So I'm gonna try and write a drabbly ficlet followup to a piece of delicious STXI Pon Farr porn I read last night. You should go read it yourself before this will make sense - actually, it probably won't make sense anyways, because I can't write Trek properly. But I'm too in love with McCoy not to.
---------------------------------
It's quiet in Sickbay when the communications alert bleeps. Leonard McCoy almost ignores it, engrossed as he is in medical journals on the computer, the condition of the ship's First Officer on his mind. Stubborn, pointy-eared bastard hadn't even explained just why his body was being boiled from the inside out, not until McCoy had threatened to go to the Captain. He'd gone to Jim anyways; this...Pon Farr thing was too big not to report. He hadn't seen Spock or Jim since.
The computer's inner-ship intercom bleeps again, and the voice of the very man he'd been worrying over asks, "Bones, you there?"
McCoy straightens up and presses the response button, leaning over the panel with a fleeting homesickness for proper, old fashioned handsets. Georgia had been slow to the technology rise; people still liked their tactile comforts back home. "Yeah Jim, I'm here. Still trying to find a solution for our friend's problem; so far I haven't come up with anything."
There's a moment's pause, and a second voice - calm, level baritone - replies, "The situation has resolved itself, Dr. McCoy. At this time I do not believe it necessary to continue your search."
Leonard feels his eyebrows climb up his forehead, then settle into a furrow, before smoothing out into an embarrassed, somewhat horrified expression as his brain works it out. Oh, not horrified that it's apparently JIM who became the receiver of the Vulcan's attentions. Horrified that, true to Jim's character, this call has probably come in minutes after the fact. And that means-
Leonard lets out a slow, calming breath. "Well...that's good, I suppose. Glad to hear it. Was that all you wanted to update me about?"
"Well..." Jim Kirk's Iowan drawl is positively dripping with sacarine innocence. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble, Bones, we could use a change of clothes."
A cold dread sinks and knots in the pit of the doctor's stomach. It feels a lot like indigestion. "In other words, rather than taking the matter to your quarters, you've-" Oh sweet God in Heaven he can't say it. The urge to kill is rising; he settles for entertaining thoughts of their next physicals. "I don't even want to know where you are right now."
"We're kinda locked in on the observation deck."
Damnit Jim!
"You OWE me for this," McCoy promises venomously and stabs the intercom silent with a finger, slumping back in his chair. A hand lifts to massage the headache building behind his temples, and after a moment, he rummages in his drawers for an aspirin and an antacid, dry-swallowing both and muttering under his breath as he stomps out to fetch the clothes. Because despite his irritation with them both, he's still relieved that for once, no one has wound up in his infirmary.
Yet.
------------------------------
As usual I can't finish stories properly. I'm calling this a GIFT for dreamlittleyo, for writing such awesome Pon Farr porn!
...writing that made me feel better. Slightly.