> And I discovered that my castles stand upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand | [Bones | Open]
[The Observation Deck. McCoy never cared much for this vicinity of Shtel Nor that the various pointy-eared bastards on the station took absolute delight in haunting. The doctor enjoyed the Promenade bar personally where he could drink himself into a comfortable stupor after his various tenures in Northern Sickbay.
But he found that he could not bring himself to pander to for his taste buds recently. Even the mere contemplation of drinking made his stomach protest. Instead, he found himself leaving the conference Jim has summoned and taking the turbolift for the Observation Deck.
It was completely deserted... for now, anyway and he stepped out the turbolift and began to stare at the stars through half-lidded eyes. Where Chapel had gone, he was not sure at this time, but now he was left alone with his thoughts in the stifling silence of the deck:
Spock had died. They had managed to bring him back, but he remained in an unresponsive condition in the Northern Sickbay while his older self stormed around and waved his arms in a foul mood about something, before he was dismissed after an… encounter McCoy found himself having trouble recalling. Although a part of him was annoyed at being dismissed by Commander McCoy, he left Sickbay without looking back.
Now tousled and dishevelled, he registered hazily that something was beginning to weigh heavily on his mind and quickly labelled it an inconvenience haunting him after that damn errant Holly wanted them to run.
Something was hanging over him. He felt like the silhouette of Mount Seleya in the golden- no.
It was an uncomfortable tingling sensation, but something not quite festering within his skull. This feeling; it was more like hovering like a long forgotten endearment or a word dancing on the tip of his tongue. Each time he tried to pin down what this was, it slipped through his fingers like the scorching sands of Shikahr- ... wait one damn second, how would he know that? He had never been to Vulcan sans that ill-fated rescue mission. As that thought crosses his mind, his chest becomes heavier and his eyes begin to burn.
He tries to knead away the vein throbbing at the side of his head with his fingers as images flash across his memory. They are not his. They can't be his. His mind is playing tricks on him; the crumbling of the rock all around them and a single scream ringing in his ears, drowning out the thousands of others, is not real. Just his imagination.
"It's okay, to be scared."
He finds his fingers linking together and curling around the short tresses of hair. No. Leonard H. McCoy, Chief Medical Officer aboard the USS Enterprise, just wants some peace and quiet.]
But he found that he could not bring himself to pander to for his taste buds recently. Even the mere contemplation of drinking made his stomach protest. Instead, he found himself leaving the conference Jim has summoned and taking the turbolift for the Observation Deck.
It was completely deserted... for now, anyway and he stepped out the turbolift and began to stare at the stars through half-lidded eyes. Where Chapel had gone, he was not sure at this time, but now he was left alone with his thoughts in the stifling silence of the deck:
Spock had died. They had managed to bring him back, but he remained in an unresponsive condition in the Northern Sickbay while his older self stormed around and waved his arms in a foul mood about something, before he was dismissed after an… encounter McCoy found himself having trouble recalling. Although a part of him was annoyed at being dismissed by Commander McCoy, he left Sickbay without looking back.
Now tousled and dishevelled, he registered hazily that something was beginning to weigh heavily on his mind and quickly labelled it an inconvenience haunting him after that damn errant Holly wanted them to run.
Something was hanging over him. He felt like the silhouette of Mount Seleya in the golden- no.
It was an uncomfortable tingling sensation, but something not quite festering within his skull. This feeling; it was more like hovering like a long forgotten endearment or a word dancing on the tip of his tongue. Each time he tried to pin down what this was, it slipped through his fingers like the scorching sands of Shikahr- ... wait one damn second, how would he know that? He had never been to Vulcan sans that ill-fated rescue mission. As that thought crosses his mind, his chest becomes heavier and his eyes begin to burn.
He tries to knead away the vein throbbing at the side of his head with his fingers as images flash across his memory. They are not his. They can't be his. His mind is playing tricks on him; the crumbling of the rock all around them and a single scream ringing in his ears, drowning out the thousands of others, is not real. Just his imagination.
"It's okay, to be scared."
He finds his fingers linking together and curling around the short tresses of hair. No. Leonard H. McCoy, Chief Medical Officer aboard the USS Enterprise, just wants some peace and quiet.]