(no subject)
Hello, people on the internets! How are you? I am okay! I decided to give myself a few days off from writing/the internet on account of I felt as though I were fast approaching the zone of burn-out, which is a place of great sadness and little productivity, and thus understandably unappealing.
Things I have done: read most of the TNG novel Death in Winter, which is, like much of Michael Jan Friedman's work, astonishingly mediocre/not at all great, BUT: Picard/Crusher homg (thanks to akscully for the heads up). Shifted the focus of my rpf_big_bang story and in so doing solved the vast majority of the then-crippling difficulties with the plot. Shopped for clothes, which is kind of a weird thing to do if you happen to be a Memlu, but I needed new pants and the tops were only $10 each, so whatever; apparently this is who I am now. Accidentally signed up for cliche_bingo. Slept.
It's been a pretty good couple of days.
I've been waiting and waiting and waiting for someone to write this story (see: the following), but NO ONE HAS WRITTEN IT, which I find amazing and kind of disheartening, but perhaps others have tried and found they, much like I, were not capable of doing the idea justice.
I'm posting the opening scene as a scrap because I'm not sure where to take it and I'm hoping someone else will read it and go, "Hey, this is a story I can write!" and then write that story. (Because I am so inspirational, you see.) (That was sarcasm, btw.) But I think if I can figure out where I want to take it and how to get there, I'll come back to it. I'd like to come back to it.
Which is to say, ha ha McCoy called Spock a green-blooded hobglobin, what a hilarious jerk that McCoy is, but, uh, that is kind of not cool.
In other news, WHY IS NO ONE POSTING TO where_no_woman. *refreshes obsessively*
Things I have done: read most of the TNG novel Death in Winter, which is, like much of Michael Jan Friedman's work, astonishingly mediocre/not at all great, BUT: Picard/Crusher homg (thanks to akscully for the heads up). Shifted the focus of my rpf_big_bang story and in so doing solved the vast majority of the then-crippling difficulties with the plot. Shopped for clothes, which is kind of a weird thing to do if you happen to be a Memlu, but I needed new pants and the tops were only $10 each, so whatever; apparently this is who I am now. Accidentally signed up for cliche_bingo. Slept.
It's been a pretty good couple of days.
I've been waiting and waiting and waiting for someone to write this story (see: the following), but NO ONE HAS WRITTEN IT, which I find amazing and kind of disheartening, but perhaps others have tried and found they, much like I, were not capable of doing the idea justice.
I'm posting the opening scene as a scrap because I'm not sure where to take it and I'm hoping someone else will read it and go, "Hey, this is a story I can write!" and then write that story. (Because I am so inspirational, you see.) (That was sarcasm, btw.) But I think if I can figure out where I want to take it and how to get there, I'll come back to it. I'd like to come back to it.
- "We need to talk."
McCoy didn't bother looking up. If you'd seen one Jim Kirk pedigree pout, you'd seen 'em all. "Can't. I'm busy. Come back later when I'm not up to my goddamn eyeballs in paperwork."
"It's not a request, McCoy," Jim said.
"Well, can it wait?"
"Not really," Jim said. He stepped into the office and slapped his hand against the palmkey, locking the door in place.
McCoy gestured expansively toward his desk, littered with unread reports and untouched datapadds, the early indications of another evening with too little sleep and too much work left undone: the pleasures of a man of his position. "Since you caught me at such a great time," he said.
Jim did not hook a chair with his foot and drag it over, as he had pretty much every other time he got it into his head that annoying McCoy while he was still on duty was just the thing to do. He stayed standing, arms loose at his sides, thumb in his pocket, shoulders squared: relaxed, but feigning it. He was good enough at it that he could have fooled nearly anyone else on board, but McCoy was wise to Jim's tricks and he recognized that particular set of his jaw for what it was.
"Who died?" McCoy said.
"No worries," Jim said. "I bring you no corpses."
"Thank God for small mercies."
Jim grimaced. "Probably a little too early to thank anyone. Listen," he said. "Here's the thing. I've received some complaints."
McCoy set his datapadd down. "Complaints?" he said. "Complaints about what? My bedside manner?"
"Those, too," Jim allowed.
"Jesus, Jim, we've been over this a hundred times. I'm here to do my job, not to mollycoddle every ensign that comes down with a case of tororian beetlepox because of their own stupidity."
"Your bedside manner's not the problem," Jim said. "Not this time, anyway. The Andorian ambassador's still requesting an apology, in case you were wondering. You should probably look into that."
"Sure, why not," McCoy said, leaning back in his chair. "I only saved the blue bastard's life."
"And that," said Jim, with some muted triumph, "brings us neatly back to the problem."
"Enlighten me."
"I hate to break it to you, doc," he said, "but you're a racist."
McCoy couldn't even speak, it was so fucking ridiculous.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" he demanded at last. "For Christ's sake! Why the hell would you even suggest that?"
Jim started counting down his fingers. "One, you referred to Spock as a green-blooded supercomputer on the bridge, which, creative use of the classic slur, by the way, that one never gets old. Two, if I started listing all the shit you've called Spock, I'd run out of fingers. Three, you told Ensign Ruvv'sok-ri that zie was a credit to zir species, a compliment you also saw fit to bestow on three lieutenants and the aforementioned Andorian ambassador. Four--"
"I'm not a goddamn racist," McCoy said. It came out louder than he expected it to, not quite a shout, but loud, too damn loud, like he was guilty.
Jim folded his hand up and let it fall to rest on his thigh. "I don't care if you think you're the most open-minded guy to ever serve in Starfleet," he said quietly, and goddamn if Jim couldn't pull off authority when he set his mind to it. "Your behavior is inappropriate and I'm putting a stop to it, now. Starfleet recommends a sixteen-week sensitivity course and Counselor Bolis is qualified to teach it."
McCoy pushed back from his desk. "I don't need a 'sensitivity course,' Jim, I--"
"Yeah," said Jim, "you do. You start tomorrow at oh eight hundred for a one hour session. You'll set up the next session with the counselor, so bring a schedule with you."
He didn't rip out his own hair, but sure as shooting he thought about it. "An hour?" he shouted. "Jim, I can't -- do you have any idea how much work I have to do? And you expect me to take an entire fucking hour out to go to some goddamn therapy class for a problem I don't have?"
"Yeah," said Jim, "I do. You're the chief medical officer. Delegate it." He slapped his hand against the palmkey again, unlocking the door, which whizzed into the wall casing with a soft pneumatic hiss. "The course isn't optional," he added, stepping back. "If you miss a session, you start the whole thing over, and you'll do it until you get it right. Don't be late."
McCoy stared at the empty doorframe, then swore under his breath, then swore again, louder. He didn't know what the hell Jim was on about; like shit McCoy was a racist. His dad, now, he was a racist, xenophobic and proud of it, but McCoy had no stomach for that kind of thing. Like hell McCoy was a goddamn racist.
Which is to say, ha ha McCoy called Spock a green-blooded hobglobin, what a hilarious jerk that McCoy is, but, uh, that is kind of not cool.
In other news, WHY IS NO ONE POSTING TO where_no_woman. *refreshes obsessively*