Fic: Phobia
Title: Phobia
Series: AOS
Rating: light R for language
Characters/Pairing: Chapel, McCoy, pairing if you squint.
Summary: "I hate shuttlecraft," Christine says, "but it would seem I don't really have a choice." She does not sould bitter or angry or scared at all. Right.
"We're going to need you and Chapel to go down to the planet to assist with medical evaluations, treatment, and data collection," Jim says in a weary voice, and it dawns on Christine that the Captain probably hasn't slept in close to thirty hours. Stopping a famine-causing plague being spread by xenophobic terrorists without screwing the Prime Directive all to hell doesn't allow for much rest, she figures.
"Transport abilities are malfunctioning due to the solar flares occurring within the Aldbergian IV system--" Spock begins, and Christine feels a lurch in her stomach as McCoy surges up from his seat.
"I'll be damned if I'm taking a transport down to that godforsaken rock," McCoy spits, and Christine wholeheartedly agrees. "If we can't get close enough to even do long range sensor scans, then how the hell do you expect us to take a tin can through that much space?"
"I am afraid, Doctor McCoy," and Spock is decidedly less... cold than he normally is, "that there is no other option."
"You know we'd do it differently if we could, Bones," says the Captain, and Christine feels the eyes in the room turn to her.
"I hate shuttlecraft," she says, "but it seems I don't really have a choice." She does not sound bitter or angry or scared at all. Right.
Spock nods. "Please be prepared to transport to the surface at 0900."
Christine thinks she could wait 50 years and not be prepared for transport to the surface.
--
"I may throw up on you," McCoy hisses as the shuttlecraft disembarks from the Enterprise.
"Consummate professional as always, Doctor," Chapel hisses back, but she grabs his hand and hangs on for dear life, because she might throw up on him too if worst comes to worst.
She hates this, because there's no emergency, no triage, no crisis to distract her until they actually reach the surface and have to deal with the plague, which means the only thing to focus on at the moment are tricorders and sensors and data collection means and the sweaty grip of McCoy's hand in her own, but none of that fucking matters when it coms down to being turned into space debris or not.
But she wasn't thinking about that, she refused. She was not in space, she was not inches away from being sucked into oblivion or blown to smithereens or dying in a place where no one could hear you scream or even find the body--
"You think too loud, sometimes," Bones says, and the tension in his face hasn't eased up one bit, though his tone is decidedly softer.
"My dad died en route to a planet, and I had two other uncles die in space. Forgive me if I'm somewhat apprehensive," Christine says. She would berate herself later for being rude; right now she is too busy trying not to have a panic attack.
"Hey, hey," and McCoy is looking at her, straight in the eyes, and her breathe hitches for just a second, "don't think you're the only one who's scared shitless to be shot out into darkness and danger in nothing more then a tin can."
Christine could only nod.
"What's your excuse," and Christine was seriously probably going to get fired for being such an ass, but McCoy just grimaces.
"Don't have one. Damn illogical phobia, never been able to get more than about 10 feet off the ground without wanting to throw myself back down to the surface and kiss it." McCoy snorts. "Never understood lunatics like Jim who actually fucking wanted to go where they can't hear you scream--"
"-- they never found the bodies." Christine is shaking, and this is nothing fucking new, damnit, but the wounds never really heal, do they? "They never found the bodies, and there's just an empty tomb somewhere in Virginia, and that's what scares me the most and it doesn't make any sense, but there's nothing worse because there's a breach in the hull or an open airlock and then you are gone, there's no more off you, and conservation of matter and all that shit goes straight to hell--"
He lays a finger gently, gently across her lips. "Believe me when I say I understand completely," and she sees her abject terror reflected in his eyes and feels his fingers tighten around hers and she does believe him, "but we've both got to stop if we're going to help the Adbergians."
She can only nod, because opening her mouth just means more of the same. The shuttlecraft hums, and Christine focuses her energy on the strange comfort of hearing the sounds that ensure their safety for just a few seconds longer. McCoy grows more and more tense as time passes, his grip crossing the line into painful.
"You alright?" she whispers, knowing the answer even as he shakes his head with a tight-lipped smile. His grip lessens marginally.
Finally, blissfully, the swell of the oddly lavender planet is visible against the totality of the darkness that has permeated their porthole for so long, and Christine hears McCoy let out a huff of breath beside her.
She doesn't let go of McCoy's hand until they both get off the damned shuttlecraft and onto solid ground, the grime and grit of her work centering her.