oh god, Monday, it *looms*
It's funny how much vomiting looks like crying, when someone else is doing it. And feels like crying, under her hands. The way his body jerks and jerks.
"Shh," Nyota says, after a moment's thought.
Where she's crouched, she can only see the smooth skin that goes from temple to jaw, boyish and sort of amazing and completely impersonal except for the dark slant of damp lashes, the very corner of his eye wrapping around the edge of his cheek. It's. It's really unpleasant to think about. Not that she knows Kirk well to start with, but he's hard to miss and everyone remembers his eyes and this anonymity that comes in broken flashes as he moans and twists his head repeatedly against his shoulder, like a dog dreaming of thunder: it makes her want to wash her hands.
Instead she strokes the hard ridge of his spine. She is not particularly good at comforting people, but, "You are such a trooper," she tells him, putting her mouth to his ear, or as close as she can manage, and pitching her voice low in what she hopes is a soothing register, although after this many Cardassian sunrises her control leaves a lot to be desired. Everything really.
He makes vomit-noises, perhaps by way of reply, retching dryly now that he's evacuated his guts into the box. Strings of drool and bile hang iridescent from his lower lip. It's something of an improvement on his usual dialogue, all told.
The door slides open.
"Hey," says Gaila, sounding tired and self-satisfied. Then she says "What the fuck?", a lot less so.
"He got roofie'd," she explains.
"Didn't McCoy--"
"I don't know. There wasn't anyone there."
This is true. Not even him, really.
"That makes no sense," says Gaila, her brow furrowing. "Why didn't you just--"
Nyota makes the universal sign for "Sense is for boring and sober people", not uite one-handed. As if reacting to the shift in pressure, Kirk sags, chin catching on the edge of the box. Together she and Gaila only just manage to save him from a nasty reintroduction to his innards.
In silence they lay him out on the floor, on his side so he won't choke. His hair brushes up against Nyota's second-best boots, his socked toes threatening the pharmaceuticals Gaila keeps under her bed where she won't have to look at them.
"I have to say, this is not what I pictured myself doing with my evening," says Gaila.
"It's morning," says Nyota.
Kirk groans.
Gaila vanishes into the bathroom, and reappears a minute later, armed with steaming towels.
Nyota stares at her blankly. She's never seen Gaila doing anything with a towel other than wrap it attractively around bits of herself or clean a PADD screen, but Gaila goes about wiping off Jim's chin briskly. Not that that's maybe so different from cleaning a PADD. Seeing his face full-on should have been a relief but still there was the absence, the sense of unformed things, or things refusing to be formed.
It probably doesn't help that her vision is going doubled a bit.
"Mm," Kirk sighs, into the cloth, pink rising in raw splotches where Gaila passes her towel over cold flesh.
Nyota thinks about falling over.
"I guess it could be worse," Gaila says, distantly. She's left the towel draped over the upper half of Kirk's face, and she is tracing his lower lip with her thumb and forefinger, the tip of her forefinger dipping in and out of his slack mouth. In his sleep, Kirk smiles faintly. Nyota wonders whether what she's hearing is the scrape of eyeteeth on sleek green flesh or the rasp of her alcohol-poisoned pulse in her ears. Maybe it doesn't matter.
"That's kind of," she says, "uh."
"I'm sorry," says Gaila, her eyes a gas-flame blue. "Was that inappropriate?"
so this is, as kayliemalinza put it, pleasantly problematic, and later I will probably add a proper author's note about it because I find my own brain interesting, but in the meantime I guess what I am saying is, I welcome all thoughts!
"Shh," Nyota says, after a moment's thought.
Where she's crouched, she can only see the smooth skin that goes from temple to jaw, boyish and sort of amazing and completely impersonal except for the dark slant of damp lashes, the very corner of his eye wrapping around the edge of his cheek. It's. It's really unpleasant to think about. Not that she knows Kirk well to start with, but he's hard to miss and everyone remembers his eyes and this anonymity that comes in broken flashes as he moans and twists his head repeatedly against his shoulder, like a dog dreaming of thunder: it makes her want to wash her hands.
Instead she strokes the hard ridge of his spine. She is not particularly good at comforting people, but, "You are such a trooper," she tells him, putting her mouth to his ear, or as close as she can manage, and pitching her voice low in what she hopes is a soothing register, although after this many Cardassian sunrises her control leaves a lot to be desired. Everything really.
He makes vomit-noises, perhaps by way of reply, retching dryly now that he's evacuated his guts into the box. Strings of drool and bile hang iridescent from his lower lip. It's something of an improvement on his usual dialogue, all told.
The door slides open.
"Hey," says Gaila, sounding tired and self-satisfied. Then she says "What the fuck?", a lot less so.
"He got roofie'd," she explains.
"Didn't McCoy--"
"I don't know. There wasn't anyone there."
This is true. Not even him, really.
"That makes no sense," says Gaila, her brow furrowing. "Why didn't you just--"
Nyota makes the universal sign for "Sense is for boring and sober people", not uite one-handed. As if reacting to the shift in pressure, Kirk sags, chin catching on the edge of the box. Together she and Gaila only just manage to save him from a nasty reintroduction to his innards.
In silence they lay him out on the floor, on his side so he won't choke. His hair brushes up against Nyota's second-best boots, his socked toes threatening the pharmaceuticals Gaila keeps under her bed where she won't have to look at them.
"I have to say, this is not what I pictured myself doing with my evening," says Gaila.
"It's morning," says Nyota.
Kirk groans.
Gaila vanishes into the bathroom, and reappears a minute later, armed with steaming towels.
Nyota stares at her blankly. She's never seen Gaila doing anything with a towel other than wrap it attractively around bits of herself or clean a PADD screen, but Gaila goes about wiping off Jim's chin briskly. Not that that's maybe so different from cleaning a PADD. Seeing his face full-on should have been a relief but still there was the absence, the sense of unformed things, or things refusing to be formed.
It probably doesn't help that her vision is going doubled a bit.
"Mm," Kirk sighs, into the cloth, pink rising in raw splotches where Gaila passes her towel over cold flesh.
Nyota thinks about falling over.
"I guess it could be worse," Gaila says, distantly. She's left the towel draped over the upper half of Kirk's face, and she is tracing his lower lip with her thumb and forefinger, the tip of her forefinger dipping in and out of his slack mouth. In his sleep, Kirk smiles faintly. Nyota wonders whether what she's hearing is the scrape of eyeteeth on sleek green flesh or the rasp of her alcohol-poisoned pulse in her ears. Maybe it doesn't matter.
"That's kind of," she says, "uh."
"I'm sorry," says Gaila, her eyes a gas-flame blue. "Was that inappropriate?"
so this is, as kayliemalinza put it, pleasantly problematic, and later I will probably add a proper author's note about it because I find my own brain interesting, but in the meantime I guess what I am saying is, I welcome all thoughts!