MandC: Aftermath
Title: Aftermath
Author: thedeepeekay
Fandom: MandC
Pairing, Characters: Stephen, Jack, Pullings
Rating: PG-13 for drug use
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Not mine, never has been, never will be.
Length: 426 words
Status: One-shot
Summary: Post-battle, Stephen doesn't feel like celebrating.
Author's Note: This is all the Gilly's fault. She threatened to withhold the naturalist!porn and thus blackmailed me into writing "drunk!Stephen". ...There was going to be happy!drunk!Stephen, possibly with a fond "Stephen, joy, I think you are drunk!" from Jack, and. Well. The happiness? Kind of didn't happen. As always, not beta'd.
Written: November 2008
Crossposted to: My personal journal
here and perfect_duet here.
Aftermath
Stephen has seen his share of warfare in his life. He has heard the ominous "Beat to quarters!" more times than he cares to remember, surely more often than some of the youths so inexplicably titled midshipmen. And he is the one soul on this ship most intimately familiar with the gruesome, bloody consequences of the call that never fails to excite his shipmates. After all, while they are causing damage, he is the one who has to look at it afterwards, and try to retransform broken bones and mangled bodies into healthy men. He is the doctor, they are not.
He has grown accustomed to occasions such as this one, he thinks as he reaches for his glass and then leans back in his chair, in an attempt to escape the conversation between Jack and young Tom Pullings, both thankfully alive and mostly unharmed. Those around him are in highest spirits, recounting the day's highlights time and time again, nautical manoeuvres, heroic actions, to then suddenly turn concerned when the state of the ship is brought up. Ripped sails, splintered wood... It can't be too bad, he thinks, after all, they are under sail, have not even lost a mast.
No, normally Stephen feels even more distant from those around him during a dinner such as this one, in mind still with his patients, still caught up in the battle for life and death everybody else seems to have already left behind. This time though it is for a different reason that he finds it hard to join his friends' celebration, to at least fake a smile, for Jack's sake.
What occupies his mind tonight is the image of shattered glass, of his precious liquid sleep seeping into the wooden boards of the floor.
What worries him is not the thought of men tossing and turning all night in his sick-berth, but the knowledge that, without his regular dosage, he will spend the night tossing and turning, chasing after sleep that will evade him.
Then he finds his attention drawn back to the celebration around him through a hand on his arm, the weight and warmth familiar. Looking up, he consciously smoothes his frown and struggles to at least show a neutral expression, as he can't find it in him to join the laughter around him.
Still, when he accepts yet another glass pressed into his hand (he optimistically hopes it might help him get at least some rest later on) he finds that, somehow, he does manage to fake a smile. For Jack's sake.
Author: thedeepeekay
Fandom: MandC
Pairing, Characters: Stephen, Jack, Pullings
Rating: PG-13 for drug use
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Not mine, never has been, never will be.
Length: 426 words
Status: One-shot
Summary: Post-battle, Stephen doesn't feel like celebrating.
Author's Note: This is all the Gilly's fault. She threatened to withhold the naturalist!porn and thus blackmailed me into writing "drunk!Stephen". ...There was going to be happy!drunk!Stephen, possibly with a fond "Stephen, joy, I think you are drunk!" from Jack, and. Well. The happiness? Kind of didn't happen. As always, not beta'd.
Written: November 2008
Crossposted to: My personal journal
here and perfect_duet here.
Aftermath
Stephen has seen his share of warfare in his life. He has heard the ominous "Beat to quarters!" more times than he cares to remember, surely more often than some of the youths so inexplicably titled midshipmen. And he is the one soul on this ship most intimately familiar with the gruesome, bloody consequences of the call that never fails to excite his shipmates. After all, while they are causing damage, he is the one who has to look at it afterwards, and try to retransform broken bones and mangled bodies into healthy men. He is the doctor, they are not.
He has grown accustomed to occasions such as this one, he thinks as he reaches for his glass and then leans back in his chair, in an attempt to escape the conversation between Jack and young Tom Pullings, both thankfully alive and mostly unharmed. Those around him are in highest spirits, recounting the day's highlights time and time again, nautical manoeuvres, heroic actions, to then suddenly turn concerned when the state of the ship is brought up. Ripped sails, splintered wood... It can't be too bad, he thinks, after all, they are under sail, have not even lost a mast.
No, normally Stephen feels even more distant from those around him during a dinner such as this one, in mind still with his patients, still caught up in the battle for life and death everybody else seems to have already left behind. This time though it is for a different reason that he finds it hard to join his friends' celebration, to at least fake a smile, for Jack's sake.
What occupies his mind tonight is the image of shattered glass, of his precious liquid sleep seeping into the wooden boards of the floor.
What worries him is not the thought of men tossing and turning all night in his sick-berth, but the knowledge that, without his regular dosage, he will spend the night tossing and turning, chasing after sleep that will evade him.
Then he finds his attention drawn back to the celebration around him through a hand on his arm, the weight and warmth familiar. Looking up, he consciously smoothes his frown and struggles to at least show a neutral expression, as he can't find it in him to join the laughter around him.
Still, when he accepts yet another glass pressed into his hand (he optimistically hopes it might help him get at least some rest later on) he finds that, somehow, he does manage to fake a smile. For Jack's sake.