Bits and Pieces
Jun. 30th, 2004 11:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bodldopsFirst, wanna thank Artemis (artemis_85 for those who wanna look up her LJ) for the uber-cool Bob icon. I am gonna steal some of her others as well, because they are all so nifty. Curse the three-icon limit!
The main point of this post is to put up some of my little bits of stories that I wrote during really boring classes so I don't lose them. They're all scattered throughout my many notebooks, and since I want to start fresh in the Fall... they need to go somewhere. Right then, enough babbling. If anyone wants to comment on the grammar/plotline/lack thereof on any of these bits, I'd be obliged.
"Is she here yet?"
"Dear brother mine, if she were here, I think you would not have to ask." There was a soft click, and the lights over the dance floor flickered on. Two dark-haired elves skirted the bare square of smooth wood, one carrying a pile of brightly-colored cups and plates, the other hauling a massive barrel with a tengwar symbol stamped into the bowed wood.
"Very funny. Help me sort these out, oh ye of great wit." Elrohir snorted, carefully setting his shaky stack on one of the many tables that ringed the dance floor.
"Don't you elves ever stop arguing?" a tall, grim faced man asked, exasperated, as he followed the pair. He held onto the strings of a whole flock of balloons of all sizes and colors.
"We weren't arguing..." Elladan began.
"We were discussing." Elrohir finished, and both elves shot Sallyn disconcertingly cheerful grins. Sallyn shuddered.
"Stop discussing and start working, we haven't much time." a calm, silky voice broke into the confrontation. Glorfindel - tall, blond, and carrying a large assortment of party hats - dumped his burden on a table between Sallyn and the twins.
Arwen woke to find her husband was gone. Then memory returned, and she sighed. Of course he was. The queen of Gondor and Anor stared up at the startlingly blue sky through the crystal-paned window, wondering what Aragorn was doing.
(AN: And so was I. Thus the abrupt end of the story. *sigh*)
Julian Bashir was bored. Admittedly that was not a difficult feat to accomplish. When one was genetically engineered to habe an astronomically high IQ, boredom was bound to occur now and then. He just had not imagined being bored so quickly.
The young doctor sighed and tossed his datapad on the table. Idly he leanded back in his chair and watched teh stars streak by the viewports of Ten-Forward. He was not even two days away from DS9 and he already missed it. He missed the constantly changing flow of traders and tourists, he missed the sounds of Odo chewing out Quark for the umpteenth time. He even missed his lunches with Garek. Not that he'd ever tell that to the sly Cardassian. The deleterious effect an over-expanded ego would have on his friend's mental processes didn't bear imagining. Still, he woulding mind chatting with Garek right now.
It wasn't as though the USS Enterprise-D was a low-class ship. She was just very... regimented. Everyone had a job to do and did it well. Julian had to admit that the efficiency was very admirable... it just left him with precious little to do. One of the nurses had chased him out of sickbay a few hours before when she had discovered his plan to reorganize the entire contents of the emergency packs first by date of invention, then alphabetically. He had tried to explain how much easier such a system would make it to always find the most advanced tools, but she would have none of it. It wasn't as if thee was anything else to do in there - he hadn't seen such a quiet sickbay since medical school. No wonder starships were required to have counselors - the entire crew would go space happy within months in this self-contained microsm of militaristic jingoism.
Oh yes, he would be estatic when they arrived at Vulcan. He was beginning to regret his efforts (which bordered on blackmail) of getting Sisko to let him go to this conference. He was sure it would be positively facinating - nothing could quite compare to a wet lab for Andorian parasitology. That and other lectures and labs promised to keep him happily occupied for the entire week of the conference... he just had to survive the trip there.
He was quite disappointed that Sisko had not allowed him to bring the Defiant. He had made his argument well, pointing out that the Defiant could benefit from a safe cruse around the Alpha quadrant, able to settle her bugs without being shot to pieces in the process.
"Mind if we join you?" Bashir jerked out of his musings to look up at the two officers standing next to him, laden trays in hand. One he recognized as Commander Riker - they had met when he came on board. The other man he had never met personally, but Miles had described him often enough to make no mistake in identification - Geordi LaForge, Chief Engineer. Bashir's fingers itched to examine that visor for himself, but despite what Garak said, he had better manners than that.
"Oh no, plase, sit. I was just thinking what a... smooth journey we're having." Bashire replied politely, if less than perfectly honestly. Sisko would be proud. It was well known that Sisko had a personal grudge against the captain of the Enterprise. A few days before his departure, Bashire had found himsel fin a one-on-one meting with Sisko, the final message being - Be On Your Best Behavior. While Bashir was a bit insulted that Sisko thought it necessary to remind him to behave like a responsible adult, he was pleased that his commander was finally beginning to work through his grudges. Honestly, that man must hold the galaxy record for grudges.
"Boring, you mean." Bashir blinked in surprise. He hadn't known Riker was so blunt.
"I... well... to be perfectly honest..." Bashir hedged.
"We all know it. Ive got ensigns doing busy work down in Engineering, and it's driving them mad. Too much more of this, and I'm going to ask the captain to allow a few of Worf's emergency drills." LaForge groused good-naturedly as he tucked into his sandwich.
"I'll ask the captain about it." Riker volunteered, ignoring Geordi's grimace when he realized he might actually have to face one of Worf's legendary drills. "I know Beta shift has been dragging." Bashir recognized that tone - the musings of a command officer planning an unpleasant surprise for his subordinates.
"Captain? Captain!"
"Aubrey!" Stephan watched in horror as his friend slowly sagged towards the deck.
(AN: This needs much research into field surgery, bullet wounds, sea-going medicine in general, and medicine at the time in general. But the scene just begs to be written. Curse O'Brian for not writing it!)
Chief Medical Officer's Log, Stardate:
I can't believe this - of all the idiotic, short-sighted, ill-concieved...
(AN: To follow McCoy's discovery that the beat-up Enterprise is being sent after Sybok. I'd imagine he'd have a few things to say.)
The Problems of Reputation
“My God, Bones, I’m tired.” Kirk slumped into the offered chair in McCoy’s office and took the glass of brandy his friend was holding out for him. McCoy, who looked as exhausted as Kirk felt, filled another glass before stoppering the elaborate cut-crystal bottle and stowing the liquor safely in a locked cabinet. McCoy didn’t sit, and instead stood staring blankly at the wall separating the office from the rest of sickbay. Kirk sipped on the smooth alcohol and studied his CMO critically. He never really noticed the doctor’s age, but today McCoy showed every one of his years. Kirk knew why – Bones had spent the better part of the last twenty-four hours fighting for the lives of the away-team, and now only two of the six sent were still alive. There was only so much anyone could do against the awful devastation caused by that strange alien toxin. Spock, one of the two survivors, owed his life in part to his copper-based blood. The other, a young ensign from the xenobiology department, had just been uncommonly lucky – Spock had recognized the danger before she could inhale much of the toxin and had forced her back into the awaiting shuttlecraft with a rebreather unit while he had searched for the rest of the downed team. Kirk shook his head sadly. There was nothing anyone could have done differently. Scanners only pick up what they are designed to find, and this toxin was completely new to them. He was about to remind McCOy of this when the older man suddenly shook himself and offered Kirk a crooked, albeit thin, smile.
“Never thought I’d hear you say that, Jim-boy.” McCoy drawled, exhaustion strengthening his southern accent. “As Chief Medical Officer, I’m recommending shore leave at the earliest opportunity.” He continued seizing his chance. In his oft-stated opinion, the crew of the Enterprise did not get enough shore leave by a long shot. Kirk nodded absent-mindedly at McCoy’s familiar rant. He agreed, wholeheartedly, but things just never seemed to work out that way.
“And preferably on a planet where no one will try to shoot, brain-wash, enslave, eat, or otherwise bother us.” He clarified wryly. It seemed that the Enterprise’s penchant for getting into trouble followed her crew wherever they went.
“Preference noted, Doctor. Any other orders?” Kirk replied with the first bit of good humor he had felt all day. He wasn’t sure if it had more to do with the alcohol or the company, but he was thankful for it. Getting the away-team home safely, then dealing with the furious aliens who had objected to their presence, all the while wondering how many crewmates and friends he would lose… no wonder he was tense.
“Just that you go as well. Even if I have to knock you flat on your arse and have Scotty beam you down unconscious, you will take a break this time.” McCoy threatened sternly. Kirk shot his friend a mock-injured look.
“Bones, are you implying that…” Bones’ drawl cut across his overly-innocent protestation.
“Jim, it’d take a force of nature to get you off this ship if you’re unwilling. That, or a hypospray, and I promise I’m willing to use that.” McCoy snorted. He wore his habitual scowl, though Kirk could see the teasing gleam in the doctor’s steel-blue eyes. Kirk suspected that McCoy was never truly happy unless he had someone to boss around. He raised his free hand in surrender.
“Fine, fine. I promise to take shore leave.” Kirk sighed in fond exasperation.
“Just see that you do. I swear, sometimes I think you’ve got less sense than that overgrown green-blooded walking computer. Someday you two are both gonna collapse…” Kirk tuned out McCoy’s familiar rant. It was a very good sign that McCoy felt free to insult Spock again – he was too good of a physician to speak ill of patients he wasn’t sure of. Now, if he was certain of a recovery, he felt no need to curb that acerbic tongue. McCoy was always very free with his opinion, a frustrating but often-useful attribute in a CMO. Heavens knew Kirk caught enough heat about the informality of his crew. They worked well this way though, and he had no intention of changing any time soon. He was immensely proud of this crew and this ship. Even Starfleet had to admit that the Enterprise got jobs done faster and with better results than any other ship in the fleet. He knew his crewmembers, especially the bridge crew, recieved dozens of invitations from other ships captains, hoping they'd be willing to jump ship for the chance of a promotion. He was pleased to no end that not many ever accepted.
"Jim. Jim. Jim!" McCoy's voice finally broke through his musings. He looked up as McCoy leaned over him, taking away his nearly empty glass.
"Go to bed. Consider that a medical order, if it helps." Kirk nodded in agreement and pushed himself to his feet as McCoy moved to put the glasses on his desk.
"Right." He straightened his uniform. "Well, goodnight Bones."
Five days later, the Enterprise came into standard planetary orbit around Marksay Prime, a Starfleet base on a lush M-class planet. As it was located on heavily-used trade routes, it had become something of a 'party planet', with extensive bazzars, festivals, and many specialized resorts. Kirk looked up from the datapad on his desk at the sound of the doorchime.
"Enter." he called, distractedly. Somehow, he was not surprised when McCoy strolled into his ready-room.
"Jim, you promised." McCoy reminded Kirk sternly as he ignored the chair Kirk had waved him to and perched on the edge of the desk instead. "I was serious about that hypospray. You're exhausted." he growled. Kirk braced himself for a fight. He knew he should go on leave, but there was so much to be done before their next mission, he could not afford any leave time. The Enterprise needed him. McCoy picked up on his mulish mood, and frowned.
"Damnit Jim, I'm not going to let you work yourself into an early grave. You can either go willingly, or I'll declare you unfit for duty and force youout." McCoy threatened, and Kirk knew his CMO was serious. McCOy had done it before, and certainly wasn't afraid to do it again. Kirk frowned forbiddingly at McCoy, who was unmoved. If he was declared unfit, he'd have to submit to another physical exam before he could command again. Since he had been doing his best to stay out of McCoy's clutches, it irked him to be caught when there was nothing physically wrong with him. It wasn't that he didn't trust McCoy - he had utmost faith in the CMO's medical skills. It was just that most of the time, when he was called to the sickbay, he had failed his crew somehow.
"Fine, you win." he sighed, shutting down his PADD. "I'll hand over command to Spock and beam down to the planet. Happy?" He knew his behavior was a bit immature, but he didn't really care at the moment. He hated being bullied, even when it was for his own good.
"No." McCoy's flat answer surprised him, and he shot his friend a curious glance. McCoy frowned back, his arms folded over his chest.
"Spock goes on shore leave too. He may think he's fit for duty, but I'm not okaying him until I'm sure that toxin's cleared his system. Damn near killed himself, breathing that air straight for so long. Pointy-eared idiot." he muttered, glowering. "Give command to Scotty." he suggested.
"What? You don't want him to take leave too?" Kirk asked, more than a little sarcastically. McCoy shot him a quelling glare. Knowing that glare well, and not liking what it forboded, Kirk rose to his feet.
"Well, no time like the present. I'll go pack." he announced, then strode out of the room, McCoy at his heels. Only a couple of hours later, and with Bones in a much better mood, Kirk had sent orders to Spock to take leave, and was packed to leave ship himself. All that was left to to dwas to hand over command formally to Scotty, and to leave. McCoy still dogged him, making sure he didn't get caught up in some new project before he could beam down. As the pair stepped onto the bridge, Kirk felt a rush of pride.
Han tugged on the stays anchoring the emergency shelter to the surrounding ice shelf, noting with grim satisfaction as they held tauntly. Fastest shelter he'd ever built - after his taun-taun died, he knew he was going to follow the smelly brute if he didn't hurry. Speaking of which...
Hurridly he clambered over the drifting piles of snow to the dead mount's side. He nearly retched as he tugged the nearly frozen farmboy out of the protective warmth of the taun-taun's gut, but his spacers constitution held. Luke looked horrible. He wasn't even shivering any more, never a good sign. Cursing fingers made clumsy by thick gloves, Han tugged his friend, slowly, to the comparative safety of the shelter. The driving wind of the night-storm made movement difficult and draining, and the shelter seemed miles away as he dragged his friend's dead weight. It was only the fact that he did consider Luke a friend that he kept trying - he hadn't survived this long in the smuggling trade by being a soft touch. At least, not publically. There were ways, he well knew, of lending a helping hand without allowing the recipients know who he was.
Sweet burning stars, he wished Chewie was hee. Using stubborn willpower he hauled Luke over the frozen landscape with agonizing slowness. Ice was forming over Luke's clothing and skin as the fluid from the dead taun-taun was exposed to the harsh environment. Han grimaced - that wouldn't help Luke one bit. The kid needed to get warm before he lost fingers... or worse. He didn't think he could face Leia if he lost the kid. The princess was attached to Luke - only natural, Leia was one of the few people Luke knew in this galaxy, and Luke was one of the few people who cared about Leia the woman rather than Leia the figurehead. Force, he wanted to strangle the Rebel brass some days. And not only for their attitude about Leia either - as soon he could, he was going to leave their little party. He was tired of being their go-for boy, and getting only promises of future rewards for his pains. Why he continued to hang around, he had no idea. This need to become a martyr must be contagious. He laughed despite his situation. Who was he to knock their need to destroy themselves - he was going to be a permanent fixture on this ice cube soon enough.
He could have cried, if his face wasn't frozen, when he finally stumbled into the shelter on cold-numbed legs. Wearily, he stumbled back to the open flap and sealed them both in, blocking the the increasingly fierce storm outside. He let Luke lie on the floor for a moment as he started up the space heater. Stripping off his bulky gloves in order to manipulate the controls, he cursed the machine out soundly when it failed to engage. Furious, weary, and at the end of his very short patience, he banged on the machine. After all, it was one of Chewie's favorite repair techniques. To his surprise, it worked. The squat heater flared to life, and a rush of warm air slid over his hands. For the first time that evening, he genuinely smiled. Something had gone right, at least.
When he turned back to Luke, he knew he from one look that he had to work fast. The kid was just barely breathing, he was deathly pale with blue lips, and he was so still that Han feared he was dead already. Thanking the fates that the cold had dampened the taun-taun stench, he stripped the frozen pilot to his skivvies and shoved the stiff, unresponsive body into a thickly insulated sleeping bag. Han had been a spacer long enough that he knew basic treatment for hypothermia. When one was surrounded by cold space for most of one's life, it was only common sense to learn how to survive if life-support died. Quickly he propped his water containers near the heater and activated one of the self-heating food packs before stripping down as well. The insulation would do Luke no good if there was no heat to keep in the bag in the first place. Shivering in the bone-deep chill of the shelter's interior, he gingerly slid into the bag beside his frozen friend. Stars, but the kid was cold. Just as he had finally worked out the best way to share body heat, the food pack beeped.
It was only emergency rations - warm, tasteless blocks of greyish material that looked barely paletable, but Han knew he'd have to keep up his own strength if he wanted to keep Luke alive. The uninspiring blocks were just as disgusting as he had imagined, but he forced them down. Food meant more energy, which meant more heat, which meant a live Luke.
*rubs hands* Ow, lotsa typing. Now, if I could just finish one of those stories...
The main point of this post is to put up some of my little bits of stories that I wrote during really boring classes so I don't lose them. They're all scattered throughout my many notebooks, and since I want to start fresh in the Fall... they need to go somewhere. Right then, enough babbling. If anyone wants to comment on the grammar/plotline/lack thereof on any of these bits, I'd be obliged.
"Is she here yet?"
"Dear brother mine, if she were here, I think you would not have to ask." There was a soft click, and the lights over the dance floor flickered on. Two dark-haired elves skirted the bare square of smooth wood, one carrying a pile of brightly-colored cups and plates, the other hauling a massive barrel with a tengwar symbol stamped into the bowed wood.
"Very funny. Help me sort these out, oh ye of great wit." Elrohir snorted, carefully setting his shaky stack on one of the many tables that ringed the dance floor.
"Don't you elves ever stop arguing?" a tall, grim faced man asked, exasperated, as he followed the pair. He held onto the strings of a whole flock of balloons of all sizes and colors.
"We weren't arguing..." Elladan began.
"We were discussing." Elrohir finished, and both elves shot Sallyn disconcertingly cheerful grins. Sallyn shuddered.
"Stop discussing and start working, we haven't much time." a calm, silky voice broke into the confrontation. Glorfindel - tall, blond, and carrying a large assortment of party hats - dumped his burden on a table between Sallyn and the twins.
Arwen woke to find her husband was gone. Then memory returned, and she sighed. Of course he was. The queen of Gondor and Anor stared up at the startlingly blue sky through the crystal-paned window, wondering what Aragorn was doing.
(AN: And so was I. Thus the abrupt end of the story. *sigh*)
Julian Bashir was bored. Admittedly that was not a difficult feat to accomplish. When one was genetically engineered to habe an astronomically high IQ, boredom was bound to occur now and then. He just had not imagined being bored so quickly.
The young doctor sighed and tossed his datapad on the table. Idly he leanded back in his chair and watched teh stars streak by the viewports of Ten-Forward. He was not even two days away from DS9 and he already missed it. He missed the constantly changing flow of traders and tourists, he missed the sounds of Odo chewing out Quark for the umpteenth time. He even missed his lunches with Garek. Not that he'd ever tell that to the sly Cardassian. The deleterious effect an over-expanded ego would have on his friend's mental processes didn't bear imagining. Still, he woulding mind chatting with Garek right now.
It wasn't as though the USS Enterprise-D was a low-class ship. She was just very... regimented. Everyone had a job to do and did it well. Julian had to admit that the efficiency was very admirable... it just left him with precious little to do. One of the nurses had chased him out of sickbay a few hours before when she had discovered his plan to reorganize the entire contents of the emergency packs first by date of invention, then alphabetically. He had tried to explain how much easier such a system would make it to always find the most advanced tools, but she would have none of it. It wasn't as if thee was anything else to do in there - he hadn't seen such a quiet sickbay since medical school. No wonder starships were required to have counselors - the entire crew would go space happy within months in this self-contained microsm of militaristic jingoism.
Oh yes, he would be estatic when they arrived at Vulcan. He was beginning to regret his efforts (which bordered on blackmail) of getting Sisko to let him go to this conference. He was sure it would be positively facinating - nothing could quite compare to a wet lab for Andorian parasitology. That and other lectures and labs promised to keep him happily occupied for the entire week of the conference... he just had to survive the trip there.
He was quite disappointed that Sisko had not allowed him to bring the Defiant. He had made his argument well, pointing out that the Defiant could benefit from a safe cruse around the Alpha quadrant, able to settle her bugs without being shot to pieces in the process.
"Mind if we join you?" Bashir jerked out of his musings to look up at the two officers standing next to him, laden trays in hand. One he recognized as Commander Riker - they had met when he came on board. The other man he had never met personally, but Miles had described him often enough to make no mistake in identification - Geordi LaForge, Chief Engineer. Bashir's fingers itched to examine that visor for himself, but despite what Garak said, he had better manners than that.
"Oh no, plase, sit. I was just thinking what a... smooth journey we're having." Bashire replied politely, if less than perfectly honestly. Sisko would be proud. It was well known that Sisko had a personal grudge against the captain of the Enterprise. A few days before his departure, Bashire had found himsel fin a one-on-one meting with Sisko, the final message being - Be On Your Best Behavior. While Bashir was a bit insulted that Sisko thought it necessary to remind him to behave like a responsible adult, he was pleased that his commander was finally beginning to work through his grudges. Honestly, that man must hold the galaxy record for grudges.
"Boring, you mean." Bashir blinked in surprise. He hadn't known Riker was so blunt.
"I... well... to be perfectly honest..." Bashir hedged.
"We all know it. Ive got ensigns doing busy work down in Engineering, and it's driving them mad. Too much more of this, and I'm going to ask the captain to allow a few of Worf's emergency drills." LaForge groused good-naturedly as he tucked into his sandwich.
"I'll ask the captain about it." Riker volunteered, ignoring Geordi's grimace when he realized he might actually have to face one of Worf's legendary drills. "I know Beta shift has been dragging." Bashir recognized that tone - the musings of a command officer planning an unpleasant surprise for his subordinates.
"Captain? Captain!"
"Aubrey!" Stephan watched in horror as his friend slowly sagged towards the deck.
(AN: This needs much research into field surgery, bullet wounds, sea-going medicine in general, and medicine at the time in general. But the scene just begs to be written. Curse O'Brian for not writing it!)
Chief Medical Officer's Log, Stardate:
I can't believe this - of all the idiotic, short-sighted, ill-concieved...
(AN: To follow McCoy's discovery that the beat-up Enterprise is being sent after Sybok. I'd imagine he'd have a few things to say.)
The Problems of Reputation
“My God, Bones, I’m tired.” Kirk slumped into the offered chair in McCoy’s office and took the glass of brandy his friend was holding out for him. McCoy, who looked as exhausted as Kirk felt, filled another glass before stoppering the elaborate cut-crystal bottle and stowing the liquor safely in a locked cabinet. McCoy didn’t sit, and instead stood staring blankly at the wall separating the office from the rest of sickbay. Kirk sipped on the smooth alcohol and studied his CMO critically. He never really noticed the doctor’s age, but today McCoy showed every one of his years. Kirk knew why – Bones had spent the better part of the last twenty-four hours fighting for the lives of the away-team, and now only two of the six sent were still alive. There was only so much anyone could do against the awful devastation caused by that strange alien toxin. Spock, one of the two survivors, owed his life in part to his copper-based blood. The other, a young ensign from the xenobiology department, had just been uncommonly lucky – Spock had recognized the danger before she could inhale much of the toxin and had forced her back into the awaiting shuttlecraft with a rebreather unit while he had searched for the rest of the downed team. Kirk shook his head sadly. There was nothing anyone could have done differently. Scanners only pick up what they are designed to find, and this toxin was completely new to them. He was about to remind McCOy of this when the older man suddenly shook himself and offered Kirk a crooked, albeit thin, smile.
“Never thought I’d hear you say that, Jim-boy.” McCoy drawled, exhaustion strengthening his southern accent. “As Chief Medical Officer, I’m recommending shore leave at the earliest opportunity.” He continued seizing his chance. In his oft-stated opinion, the crew of the Enterprise did not get enough shore leave by a long shot. Kirk nodded absent-mindedly at McCoy’s familiar rant. He agreed, wholeheartedly, but things just never seemed to work out that way.
“And preferably on a planet where no one will try to shoot, brain-wash, enslave, eat, or otherwise bother us.” He clarified wryly. It seemed that the Enterprise’s penchant for getting into trouble followed her crew wherever they went.
“Preference noted, Doctor. Any other orders?” Kirk replied with the first bit of good humor he had felt all day. He wasn’t sure if it had more to do with the alcohol or the company, but he was thankful for it. Getting the away-team home safely, then dealing with the furious aliens who had objected to their presence, all the while wondering how many crewmates and friends he would lose… no wonder he was tense.
“Just that you go as well. Even if I have to knock you flat on your arse and have Scotty beam you down unconscious, you will take a break this time.” McCoy threatened sternly. Kirk shot his friend a mock-injured look.
“Bones, are you implying that…” Bones’ drawl cut across his overly-innocent protestation.
“Jim, it’d take a force of nature to get you off this ship if you’re unwilling. That, or a hypospray, and I promise I’m willing to use that.” McCoy snorted. He wore his habitual scowl, though Kirk could see the teasing gleam in the doctor’s steel-blue eyes. Kirk suspected that McCoy was never truly happy unless he had someone to boss around. He raised his free hand in surrender.
“Fine, fine. I promise to take shore leave.” Kirk sighed in fond exasperation.
“Just see that you do. I swear, sometimes I think you’ve got less sense than that overgrown green-blooded walking computer. Someday you two are both gonna collapse…” Kirk tuned out McCoy’s familiar rant. It was a very good sign that McCoy felt free to insult Spock again – he was too good of a physician to speak ill of patients he wasn’t sure of. Now, if he was certain of a recovery, he felt no need to curb that acerbic tongue. McCoy was always very free with his opinion, a frustrating but often-useful attribute in a CMO. Heavens knew Kirk caught enough heat about the informality of his crew. They worked well this way though, and he had no intention of changing any time soon. He was immensely proud of this crew and this ship. Even Starfleet had to admit that the Enterprise got jobs done faster and with better results than any other ship in the fleet. He knew his crewmembers, especially the bridge crew, recieved dozens of invitations from other ships captains, hoping they'd be willing to jump ship for the chance of a promotion. He was pleased to no end that not many ever accepted.
"Jim. Jim. Jim!" McCoy's voice finally broke through his musings. He looked up as McCoy leaned over him, taking away his nearly empty glass.
"Go to bed. Consider that a medical order, if it helps." Kirk nodded in agreement and pushed himself to his feet as McCoy moved to put the glasses on his desk.
"Right." He straightened his uniform. "Well, goodnight Bones."
Five days later, the Enterprise came into standard planetary orbit around Marksay Prime, a Starfleet base on a lush M-class planet. As it was located on heavily-used trade routes, it had become something of a 'party planet', with extensive bazzars, festivals, and many specialized resorts. Kirk looked up from the datapad on his desk at the sound of the doorchime.
"Enter." he called, distractedly. Somehow, he was not surprised when McCoy strolled into his ready-room.
"Jim, you promised." McCoy reminded Kirk sternly as he ignored the chair Kirk had waved him to and perched on the edge of the desk instead. "I was serious about that hypospray. You're exhausted." he growled. Kirk braced himself for a fight. He knew he should go on leave, but there was so much to be done before their next mission, he could not afford any leave time. The Enterprise needed him. McCoy picked up on his mulish mood, and frowned.
"Damnit Jim, I'm not going to let you work yourself into an early grave. You can either go willingly, or I'll declare you unfit for duty and force youout." McCoy threatened, and Kirk knew his CMO was serious. McCOy had done it before, and certainly wasn't afraid to do it again. Kirk frowned forbiddingly at McCoy, who was unmoved. If he was declared unfit, he'd have to submit to another physical exam before he could command again. Since he had been doing his best to stay out of McCoy's clutches, it irked him to be caught when there was nothing physically wrong with him. It wasn't that he didn't trust McCoy - he had utmost faith in the CMO's medical skills. It was just that most of the time, when he was called to the sickbay, he had failed his crew somehow.
"Fine, you win." he sighed, shutting down his PADD. "I'll hand over command to Spock and beam down to the planet. Happy?" He knew his behavior was a bit immature, but he didn't really care at the moment. He hated being bullied, even when it was for his own good.
"No." McCoy's flat answer surprised him, and he shot his friend a curious glance. McCoy frowned back, his arms folded over his chest.
"Spock goes on shore leave too. He may think he's fit for duty, but I'm not okaying him until I'm sure that toxin's cleared his system. Damn near killed himself, breathing that air straight for so long. Pointy-eared idiot." he muttered, glowering. "Give command to Scotty." he suggested.
"What? You don't want him to take leave too?" Kirk asked, more than a little sarcastically. McCoy shot him a quelling glare. Knowing that glare well, and not liking what it forboded, Kirk rose to his feet.
"Well, no time like the present. I'll go pack." he announced, then strode out of the room, McCoy at his heels. Only a couple of hours later, and with Bones in a much better mood, Kirk had sent orders to Spock to take leave, and was packed to leave ship himself. All that was left to to dwas to hand over command formally to Scotty, and to leave. McCoy still dogged him, making sure he didn't get caught up in some new project before he could beam down. As the pair stepped onto the bridge, Kirk felt a rush of pride.
Han tugged on the stays anchoring the emergency shelter to the surrounding ice shelf, noting with grim satisfaction as they held tauntly. Fastest shelter he'd ever built - after his taun-taun died, he knew he was going to follow the smelly brute if he didn't hurry. Speaking of which...
Hurridly he clambered over the drifting piles of snow to the dead mount's side. He nearly retched as he tugged the nearly frozen farmboy out of the protective warmth of the taun-taun's gut, but his spacers constitution held. Luke looked horrible. He wasn't even shivering any more, never a good sign. Cursing fingers made clumsy by thick gloves, Han tugged his friend, slowly, to the comparative safety of the shelter. The driving wind of the night-storm made movement difficult and draining, and the shelter seemed miles away as he dragged his friend's dead weight. It was only the fact that he did consider Luke a friend that he kept trying - he hadn't survived this long in the smuggling trade by being a soft touch. At least, not publically. There were ways, he well knew, of lending a helping hand without allowing the recipients know who he was.
Sweet burning stars, he wished Chewie was hee. Using stubborn willpower he hauled Luke over the frozen landscape with agonizing slowness. Ice was forming over Luke's clothing and skin as the fluid from the dead taun-taun was exposed to the harsh environment. Han grimaced - that wouldn't help Luke one bit. The kid needed to get warm before he lost fingers... or worse. He didn't think he could face Leia if he lost the kid. The princess was attached to Luke - only natural, Leia was one of the few people Luke knew in this galaxy, and Luke was one of the few people who cared about Leia the woman rather than Leia the figurehead. Force, he wanted to strangle the Rebel brass some days. And not only for their attitude about Leia either - as soon he could, he was going to leave their little party. He was tired of being their go-for boy, and getting only promises of future rewards for his pains. Why he continued to hang around, he had no idea. This need to become a martyr must be contagious. He laughed despite his situation. Who was he to knock their need to destroy themselves - he was going to be a permanent fixture on this ice cube soon enough.
He could have cried, if his face wasn't frozen, when he finally stumbled into the shelter on cold-numbed legs. Wearily, he stumbled back to the open flap and sealed them both in, blocking the the increasingly fierce storm outside. He let Luke lie on the floor for a moment as he started up the space heater. Stripping off his bulky gloves in order to manipulate the controls, he cursed the machine out soundly when it failed to engage. Furious, weary, and at the end of his very short patience, he banged on the machine. After all, it was one of Chewie's favorite repair techniques. To his surprise, it worked. The squat heater flared to life, and a rush of warm air slid over his hands. For the first time that evening, he genuinely smiled. Something had gone right, at least.
When he turned back to Luke, he knew he from one look that he had to work fast. The kid was just barely breathing, he was deathly pale with blue lips, and he was so still that Han feared he was dead already. Thanking the fates that the cold had dampened the taun-taun stench, he stripped the frozen pilot to his skivvies and shoved the stiff, unresponsive body into a thickly insulated sleeping bag. Han had been a spacer long enough that he knew basic treatment for hypothermia. When one was surrounded by cold space for most of one's life, it was only common sense to learn how to survive if life-support died. Quickly he propped his water containers near the heater and activated one of the self-heating food packs before stripping down as well. The insulation would do Luke no good if there was no heat to keep in the bag in the first place. Shivering in the bone-deep chill of the shelter's interior, he gingerly slid into the bag beside his frozen friend. Stars, but the kid was cold. Just as he had finally worked out the best way to share body heat, the food pack beeped.
It was only emergency rations - warm, tasteless blocks of greyish material that looked barely paletable, but Han knew he'd have to keep up his own strength if he wanted to keep Luke alive. The uninspiring blocks were just as disgusting as he had imagined, but he forced them down. Food meant more energy, which meant more heat, which meant a live Luke.
*rubs hands* Ow, lotsa typing. Now, if I could just finish one of those stories...
