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ravenCan't sleep, can't do work, there are moths in my room.
Anyway.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
gamesiplay asked for a TOS drabble, with McCoy. This was a drabble four hours ago. Now, unfortunately, it is 935 words long. Sigh.
fic:: changes in sea level
by Raven
PG, Star Trek, gen, Kirk, McCoy.
On the observation deck, below the smeared view of stars arcing past the ship in warp, Kirk finds McCoy lying flat on the floor, arms crossed beneath his head. A minute passes slowly, quietly, marked by nothing but the deep-down sounds, the slow ticking-over of the ship. Kirk sits down cross-legged and waits.
Finally, McCoy looks up and says, tiredly, “How’d you find me?”
“Computers. Wonderful things.” Kirk smiles at him. “I went to your quarters, you weren’t there.”
“Can’t get any privacy on this damn ship.” The grumble is more well-formed than usual, more like a thought than a reflex. “How’d you know I wasn’t asleep?”
Kirk laughs, softly; the ship’s artificial night drew in hours ago, the skeleton shift barely noticing as their captain hurried quickly through dim-lit corridors. “You never are.”
“Right.” McCoy settles back onto the floor. The only light on this deck is dim, curiously yellow; some side-effect of night-time power conversation, Kirk thinks, but it’s pleasant. Above, the enormous vista of stars against black; below, he and the ship’s doctor and, now he comes to think of it, a bottle and two glasses.
McCoy grins at the sound of liquid sloshing. “That’s why you were looking for me?”
“It could have been.” Kirk is deliberately nonchalant, but he can’t keep it up; he’s laughing as McCoy sits up long enough to take a sip. “Here’s to you, Doctor. You did good work today.”
“It’d been a while since I’d delivered a baby,” says McCoy philosophically. “That is, without copper-based blood or non-temporal metabolism or fur in peculiar places. Earth-human, ten fingers and ten toes. Nice change.”
Kirk’s still smiling. “How’s she doing?”
“Ensign Laurie? She’s doing fine. So’s the little one. Doesn’t have a name yet.”
“Still,” Kirk says slowly, “maybe it’s a good thing you don’t do this too often, Bones. I mean – it’s dangerous out here, and newborn babies...”
“Jim, your crew’s not stupid. Neither is Ensign Laurie, at that – she came aboard this ship eight months and two weeks ago. These things happen. You figure it out.”
Kirk holds his hands up, putting his glass down to do it. He doesn’t worry about McCoy’s moods; he knows him too well for that, but tonight there’s something about the way his eyes stand out in the shadows, show up against the stabbing lines of starlight. “All right. Point taken.”
Something’s in the air. Kirk takes a deep breath and a long draught from his glass. The liquid glows yellow and burns pleasantly all the way down. McCoy’s learnt how to imbibe whilst horizontal, apparently. They drink in silence for a while, and Kirk’s aware again of the faint, distant vibrations beneath and above and around him, that indicate that metal and plastic and energy all meshed together are, in ways against nature, alive. He’s comfortable here.
McCoy looks up. “You know, I was born in Georgia.”
Kirk raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, Bones, I know.”
“Not that long ago.” Off Kirk’s look, he shrugs. “In the cosmic sense, in the great scheme of the universe, not that long ago. I was born, I’m living, I’ll die.” His accent is getting thicker, sweet and slow-moving as treacle. “I find this ship cold, Jim. I’m from the South, I think everywhere’s cold. I like long summer days, I like mint and warm water. I hold doors open. When I was in San Francisco, people made fun of how I talk.”
Kirk doesn’t say anything at all, thinks about the bottle and the amber liquid in it, thinks about his friend’s voice, which is warm in just the same way.
“I’ve got a bit of my home in my blood,” McCoy says quietly. “A bit of bourbon too, maybe. And it’s not just me. Look at Spock, who’s happiest when he’s being logical about deserts. It’s not his fault, he grew up on Vulcan. And you?”
Kirk raises his eyebrows. “I’m from Iowa,” he says, neutrally, but he’s thinking now about flat land and waving wheat and a sky so large it could be a canvas for starships.
”Local farm boy made good. When you go back, they’ll have a ticker-tape parade, won’t they?”
Kirk keeps his expression as non-responsive as possible.
“They will.” McCoy laughs. “So here I am, and here you are and here Spock is, and we’re grounded in something, all in different ways, maybe, but we have roots.”
Kirk sits absolutely still and McCoy relaxes, stretches out. “And now,” he says, and there’s a threat of something in his tone, “a baby girl on a five-year mission. She’s got this” – he raises his arms, brings ship and space and stars in warp all into one sweep – “for her first steps, her first words. Ten toes and ten fingers and no earth in her, no ground.”
Kirk says, “Bones...”
“That new life we’re seeking?” McCoy inclines his head. “I think... I think it came to us.”
As he falls silent, Kirk pours out another drink for them both, still cross-legged, feeling oddly zen-like as McCoy takes up as much room as humanly possible, limbs sprawled.
“You know something?” Kirk says, finally, placing the glass in his hand. “If you got more sleep, you wouldn’t have so much time to think.”
The answer is a slight smile, and McCoy sits up. He moves as though he’s waking from a dream.
“Where are we going, Jim?” he asks, softly.
“I don’t know,” Kirk answers, beneath the panorama of warped space. He reaches out and covers McCoy’s hand with his own. Above them, Enterprise’s lights shine out into the dark.
finis
Anyway.
gamesiplay asked for a TOS drabble, with McCoy. This was a drabble four hours ago. Now, unfortunately, it is 935 words long. Sigh.fic:: changes in sea level
by Raven
PG, Star Trek, gen, Kirk, McCoy.
On the observation deck, below the smeared view of stars arcing past the ship in warp, Kirk finds McCoy lying flat on the floor, arms crossed beneath his head. A minute passes slowly, quietly, marked by nothing but the deep-down sounds, the slow ticking-over of the ship. Kirk sits down cross-legged and waits.
Finally, McCoy looks up and says, tiredly, “How’d you find me?”
“Computers. Wonderful things.” Kirk smiles at him. “I went to your quarters, you weren’t there.”
“Can’t get any privacy on this damn ship.” The grumble is more well-formed than usual, more like a thought than a reflex. “How’d you know I wasn’t asleep?”
Kirk laughs, softly; the ship’s artificial night drew in hours ago, the skeleton shift barely noticing as their captain hurried quickly through dim-lit corridors. “You never are.”
“Right.” McCoy settles back onto the floor. The only light on this deck is dim, curiously yellow; some side-effect of night-time power conversation, Kirk thinks, but it’s pleasant. Above, the enormous vista of stars against black; below, he and the ship’s doctor and, now he comes to think of it, a bottle and two glasses.
McCoy grins at the sound of liquid sloshing. “That’s why you were looking for me?”
“It could have been.” Kirk is deliberately nonchalant, but he can’t keep it up; he’s laughing as McCoy sits up long enough to take a sip. “Here’s to you, Doctor. You did good work today.”
“It’d been a while since I’d delivered a baby,” says McCoy philosophically. “That is, without copper-based blood or non-temporal metabolism or fur in peculiar places. Earth-human, ten fingers and ten toes. Nice change.”
Kirk’s still smiling. “How’s she doing?”
“Ensign Laurie? She’s doing fine. So’s the little one. Doesn’t have a name yet.”
“Still,” Kirk says slowly, “maybe it’s a good thing you don’t do this too often, Bones. I mean – it’s dangerous out here, and newborn babies...”
“Jim, your crew’s not stupid. Neither is Ensign Laurie, at that – she came aboard this ship eight months and two weeks ago. These things happen. You figure it out.”
Kirk holds his hands up, putting his glass down to do it. He doesn’t worry about McCoy’s moods; he knows him too well for that, but tonight there’s something about the way his eyes stand out in the shadows, show up against the stabbing lines of starlight. “All right. Point taken.”
Something’s in the air. Kirk takes a deep breath and a long draught from his glass. The liquid glows yellow and burns pleasantly all the way down. McCoy’s learnt how to imbibe whilst horizontal, apparently. They drink in silence for a while, and Kirk’s aware again of the faint, distant vibrations beneath and above and around him, that indicate that metal and plastic and energy all meshed together are, in ways against nature, alive. He’s comfortable here.
McCoy looks up. “You know, I was born in Georgia.”
Kirk raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, Bones, I know.”
“Not that long ago.” Off Kirk’s look, he shrugs. “In the cosmic sense, in the great scheme of the universe, not that long ago. I was born, I’m living, I’ll die.” His accent is getting thicker, sweet and slow-moving as treacle. “I find this ship cold, Jim. I’m from the South, I think everywhere’s cold. I like long summer days, I like mint and warm water. I hold doors open. When I was in San Francisco, people made fun of how I talk.”
Kirk doesn’t say anything at all, thinks about the bottle and the amber liquid in it, thinks about his friend’s voice, which is warm in just the same way.
“I’ve got a bit of my home in my blood,” McCoy says quietly. “A bit of bourbon too, maybe. And it’s not just me. Look at Spock, who’s happiest when he’s being logical about deserts. It’s not his fault, he grew up on Vulcan. And you?”
Kirk raises his eyebrows. “I’m from Iowa,” he says, neutrally, but he’s thinking now about flat land and waving wheat and a sky so large it could be a canvas for starships.
”Local farm boy made good. When you go back, they’ll have a ticker-tape parade, won’t they?”
Kirk keeps his expression as non-responsive as possible.
“They will.” McCoy laughs. “So here I am, and here you are and here Spock is, and we’re grounded in something, all in different ways, maybe, but we have roots.”
Kirk sits absolutely still and McCoy relaxes, stretches out. “And now,” he says, and there’s a threat of something in his tone, “a baby girl on a five-year mission. She’s got this” – he raises his arms, brings ship and space and stars in warp all into one sweep – “for her first steps, her first words. Ten toes and ten fingers and no earth in her, no ground.”
Kirk says, “Bones...”
“That new life we’re seeking?” McCoy inclines his head. “I think... I think it came to us.”
As he falls silent, Kirk pours out another drink for them both, still cross-legged, feeling oddly zen-like as McCoy takes up as much room as humanly possible, limbs sprawled.
“You know something?” Kirk says, finally, placing the glass in his hand. “If you got more sleep, you wouldn’t have so much time to think.”
The answer is a slight smile, and McCoy sits up. He moves as though he’s waking from a dream.
“Where are we going, Jim?” he asks, softly.
“I don’t know,” Kirk answers, beneath the panorama of warped space. He reaches out and covers McCoy’s hand with his own. Above them, Enterprise’s lights shine out into the dark.
finis
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on 2008-01-15 02:56 am (UTC)no subject
on 2008-01-15 03:02 am (UTC)no subject
on 2008-01-15 03:07 am (UTC)no subject
on 2008-01-15 03:37 am (UTC)I feel your pain.
ohgod, can I just keep you in a little box on my desk and make you write TOS fic for me? Would that be creepy? Because this is just what I wanted, what we know is going on in the inner lives of these characters but doesn't often make it to the surface (through the layers and layers of bad costuming and excessive makeup). I especially love the bit on homelands--McCoy's thickening Southern accent (I always loved that on the show, too), "I think everywhere's cold," Kirk's ticker-tape parade! All of it. Thank you.
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on 2008-01-15 04:04 am (UTC)no subject
on 2008-01-15 04:13 am (UTC)no subject
on 2008-01-15 05:13 am (UTC)(Also, the phrase "being logical about deserts" makes me smile, a lot. :D )
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on 2008-01-15 05:25 am (UTC)no subject
on 2008-01-16 03:41 am (UTC)no subject
on 2008-01-16 03:41 am (UTC)no subject
on 2008-01-16 03:42 am (UTC)no subject
on 2008-01-16 03:43 am (UTC)Thank you for the prompt, too! I really enjoyed writing this little bit - and I love how Trek has this tradition of characters' accents thickening in times of stress, it's so true-to-life.
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on 2008-01-16 03:43 am (UTC)no subject
on 2008-01-16 03:44 am (UTC)no subject
on 2008-01-16 03:44 am (UTC)no subject
on 2008-01-16 03:44 am (UTC)no subject
on 2008-01-28 05:07 am (UTC)Well done.
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on 2008-01-29 01:35 am (UTC)no subject
on 2008-01-29 08:39 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2008-02-02 03:35 am (UTC)no subject
on 2008-03-03 11:07 am (UTC)no subject
on 2009-05-18 04:30 am (UTC)no subject
on 2009-05-18 02:22 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-05-20 04:00 am (UTC)Also your fic. *grins*
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on 2009-05-26 05:48 pm (UTC)(I've been trying to figure out how to get into TOS-fic, as I've been intimidated for years, and someone linked me.)
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on 2009-05-26 05:54 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-08-11 11:14 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-08-12 08:27 pm (UTC)