Through a Glass Dimly (2/?) McCoy, Kirk, OC. R.
Title: Through a Glass Dimly (2/?)
Author: Ninamonkey
Rating: R (language)
Category: Gen, Hurt/comfort. DARK.
Universe: ST:XI, ST:2009, reboot, AOS, etc.
Characters: McCoy, Kirk, OC (so far)
Summary: His chronic, undiagnosed condition endangers his life, his friends, and his position on the Enterprise.
Disclaimer: I wish I could call them mine, but they're not. Kudos to the new team for making me fall in love with them, all over again.
Warnings: Dark. Could be triggering for folks in recovery.
Author Notes: I thought about this for some time before putting pen to paper. Just...a darker insight to what might be going on in his head, and what might've happened in the past. Many, many thanks to my beta,
empath89 .
He wished he could whistle.
When Jim Kirk was young and still unsure of life or his stepfather-to-be, his mother would tell him stories about her strange quirk of whistling in the dark when she felt afraid or uncertain. "Any tune will do, Jimmy," she told him. "If you're not sure, make one up." And he would - and it worked, until Frank took issue with his whistling one day and employed unnecessary tactics to get him to stop. Jim never whistled like that again, but he always thought about it and whenever life threw him a curve he'd hear his mother's tune in his head and he'd always feel comforted or confident.
He was neither comforted nor confident now and even the idea of whistling sent him nervously adjusting his uniform and switching his feet. He wished for confidence he didn't feel and wished for strength he didn't have and the people he normally took comfort from weren't here...and that was that. He shook his head; he didn't need to be here. He had no idea what he was going to do and he doubted he'd do any good. But his instincts hadn't failed him yet. He'd jump and see what happened, like always.
The hospital wing was claustrophobic, scaldingly bright, eerily devoid of people, and bitterly cold. Kirk stopped short of an involuntary nose wrinkle; the smell seemed too antiseptic, as if hiding the smell of something rancid or foul. Like vomit, his mind retorted, and as his stomach rolled and lurched he realized that was their intent. The recycled air was pulling double duty but it couldn't quite mask the sickening smell. Best not to think about it, Jim thought, as he quickly traced the patterned arrows on the tight blue, Berber carpeting. The arrows curved 'round and joined the main desk, where a bored man (nurse?) in a white uniform held court before a secure, etched double door made from glass. Kirk watched cautiously as a medical officer breezed past, and the doors swung wide, embracing her entry. Jim made a face. He knew those doors locked from the other side, but only one desk person stood between him and the rest of the hospital...and those were damn good odds.
Jim took a small breath and stood straighter, calling on the skills that forced him wear the Captain's mantle when he didn't feel like it. He thought he kept down his nervous anxiety fairly well, actually, since he hated hospitals, hated orderlies, hated nurses, and hated doctors. The warped irony that his friend happened to be one didn't escape him, but he never viewed Bones as a regular doctor. Maybe because he'd seen him human one too many times.
The desk person folded his arms and smiled pleasantly as he approached. That's a good sign, Kirk thought.
"May I help you...Captain?" He barely gave Jim's command stripes a cursory glance.
"I hope you can," Jim said as pleasantly as he could. "I'm looking for a patient who was admitted eight days ago. Lieutenant Commander McCoy. Leonard H."
"Ah," the man - Newberg according to his name tag and lieutenant according to his command stripes - pursed his lips. His face was slightly less cheerful, but full of determination as he faced his computer. His monitor, opaque and fully shielded so no one (including Jim) could sneak a peek at so-called classified information, chirped happily as data filled the screen, but Kirk frowned since he couldn't see it. I bet I could get in there, he thought darkly, and part of him relished the challenge. He'd done more than a few illegal things in his youth, some of which included illegal encrypting and decrypting of software.
"Mm," Lieutenant Newberg said after a moment, and Jim's eyes narrowed as he recognized the tone; he wasn't going to like the news. "I'm sorry, sir, he’s not accepting visitors at the moment."
Jim's words came out more clipped than he liked. "When will he be expecting visitors?"
"Oh, not for another few weeks, at least."
"That's absolutely unacceptable. I need to see him now."
The eyes of the lieutenant-slash-desk jockey lost their sparkle and turned hard, despite the smile plastered on his face. "I'm sorry. Sir. It's just not possible."
"Then what is possible?" A small curl started at Jim's lips. His expression could've become a smirk or a snarl, but even Jim wasn’t sure if he had the skill for a smile at this point. He was tired, testy, and more than spoiling for a fight. The scrappy street kid grew up in the past couple of assignments, but he still hovered beneath the surface. "I’m his Captain," Kirk said, pulling the only card that might work. "I have a right to be informed."
"Informed, yes." Newberg sighed as if a little bored and Jim found his right fist slowly, and involuntarily, tightening. "And reports will be sent to you periodically. But at this point in his treatment his primary care physician left strict orders that he's not to communicate with anyone, except alpha level hospital personnel. I suggest-"
A soft-toned alarm interrupted their conversation. Jim wanted to ignore it even if Lt. Newberg couldn't, but a medical team made it impossible. The team rushed down the carpet, hurriedly pulling a cart from behind, and burst through the glass doors while shouting over their shoulder at Newberg. "Lieutenant, page Drs. Adams and Philips, and meet us in 158. He’ll wise up if you’re there. He listens to you."
"Good God," Newberg muttered. "No rest for the wicked, eh?" He tapped a few keystrokes, locked his monitor, and followed the cart without saying another word to Jim. The doors quietly and efficiently shut him out, and Jim was left staring at a blank desk.
And a golden opportunity.
"No rest for the wicked indeed," he muttered. He quickly looked around, but didn't really care if anyone caught him jumping behind the desk and feeling around for the door's manual override.
"Bingo," he muttered when a loud klik-klak ended his search. Then Jim Kirk, locksmithing genius, whistled softly and entered through pearly glass gates
Author: Ninamonkey
Rating: R (language)
Category: Gen, Hurt/comfort. DARK.
Universe: ST:XI, ST:2009, reboot, AOS, etc.
Characters: McCoy, Kirk, OC (so far)
Summary: His chronic, undiagnosed condition endangers his life, his friends, and his position on the Enterprise.
Disclaimer: I wish I could call them mine, but they're not. Kudos to the new team for making me fall in love with them, all over again.
Warnings: Dark. Could be triggering for folks in recovery.
Author Notes: I thought about this for some time before putting pen to paper. Just...a darker insight to what might be going on in his head, and what might've happened in the past. Many, many thanks to my beta,
empath89 .
He wished he could whistle.
When Jim Kirk was young and still unsure of life or his stepfather-to-be, his mother would tell him stories about her strange quirk of whistling in the dark when she felt afraid or uncertain. "Any tune will do, Jimmy," she told him. "If you're not sure, make one up." And he would - and it worked, until Frank took issue with his whistling one day and employed unnecessary tactics to get him to stop. Jim never whistled like that again, but he always thought about it and whenever life threw him a curve he'd hear his mother's tune in his head and he'd always feel comforted or confident.
He was neither comforted nor confident now and even the idea of whistling sent him nervously adjusting his uniform and switching his feet. He wished for confidence he didn't feel and wished for strength he didn't have and the people he normally took comfort from weren't here...and that was that. He shook his head; he didn't need to be here. He had no idea what he was going to do and he doubted he'd do any good. But his instincts hadn't failed him yet. He'd jump and see what happened, like always.
The hospital wing was claustrophobic, scaldingly bright, eerily devoid of people, and bitterly cold. Kirk stopped short of an involuntary nose wrinkle; the smell seemed too antiseptic, as if hiding the smell of something rancid or foul. Like vomit, his mind retorted, and as his stomach rolled and lurched he realized that was their intent. The recycled air was pulling double duty but it couldn't quite mask the sickening smell. Best not to think about it, Jim thought, as he quickly traced the patterned arrows on the tight blue, Berber carpeting. The arrows curved 'round and joined the main desk, where a bored man (nurse?) in a white uniform held court before a secure, etched double door made from glass. Kirk watched cautiously as a medical officer breezed past, and the doors swung wide, embracing her entry. Jim made a face. He knew those doors locked from the other side, but only one desk person stood between him and the rest of the hospital...and those were damn good odds.
Jim took a small breath and stood straighter, calling on the skills that forced him wear the Captain's mantle when he didn't feel like it. He thought he kept down his nervous anxiety fairly well, actually, since he hated hospitals, hated orderlies, hated nurses, and hated doctors. The warped irony that his friend happened to be one didn't escape him, but he never viewed Bones as a regular doctor. Maybe because he'd seen him human one too many times.
The desk person folded his arms and smiled pleasantly as he approached. That's a good sign, Kirk thought.
"May I help you...Captain?" He barely gave Jim's command stripes a cursory glance.
"I hope you can," Jim said as pleasantly as he could. "I'm looking for a patient who was admitted eight days ago. Lieutenant Commander McCoy. Leonard H."
"Ah," the man - Newberg according to his name tag and lieutenant according to his command stripes - pursed his lips. His face was slightly less cheerful, but full of determination as he faced his computer. His monitor, opaque and fully shielded so no one (including Jim) could sneak a peek at so-called classified information, chirped happily as data filled the screen, but Kirk frowned since he couldn't see it. I bet I could get in there, he thought darkly, and part of him relished the challenge. He'd done more than a few illegal things in his youth, some of which included illegal encrypting and decrypting of software.
"Mm," Lieutenant Newberg said after a moment, and Jim's eyes narrowed as he recognized the tone; he wasn't going to like the news. "I'm sorry, sir, he’s not accepting visitors at the moment."
Jim's words came out more clipped than he liked. "When will he be expecting visitors?"
"Oh, not for another few weeks, at least."
"That's absolutely unacceptable. I need to see him now."
The eyes of the lieutenant-slash-desk jockey lost their sparkle and turned hard, despite the smile plastered on his face. "I'm sorry. Sir. It's just not possible."
"Then what is possible?" A small curl started at Jim's lips. His expression could've become a smirk or a snarl, but even Jim wasn’t sure if he had the skill for a smile at this point. He was tired, testy, and more than spoiling for a fight. The scrappy street kid grew up in the past couple of assignments, but he still hovered beneath the surface. "I’m his Captain," Kirk said, pulling the only card that might work. "I have a right to be informed."
"Informed, yes." Newberg sighed as if a little bored and Jim found his right fist slowly, and involuntarily, tightening. "And reports will be sent to you periodically. But at this point in his treatment his primary care physician left strict orders that he's not to communicate with anyone, except alpha level hospital personnel. I suggest-"
A soft-toned alarm interrupted their conversation. Jim wanted to ignore it even if Lt. Newberg couldn't, but a medical team made it impossible. The team rushed down the carpet, hurriedly pulling a cart from behind, and burst through the glass doors while shouting over their shoulder at Newberg. "Lieutenant, page Drs. Adams and Philips, and meet us in 158. He’ll wise up if you’re there. He listens to you."
"Good God," Newberg muttered. "No rest for the wicked, eh?" He tapped a few keystrokes, locked his monitor, and followed the cart without saying another word to Jim. The doors quietly and efficiently shut him out, and Jim was left staring at a blank desk.
And a golden opportunity.
"No rest for the wicked indeed," he muttered. He quickly looked around, but didn't really care if anyone caught him jumping behind the desk and feeling around for the door's manual override.
"Bingo," he muttered when a loud klik-klak ended his search. Then Jim Kirk, locksmithing genius, whistled softly and entered through pearly glass gates