Rebuilding the Enterprise is a massive undertaking - not as massive as it would have been three years ago, given the existence of Yorktown and its impossibly advanced construction bays, but this is still a rebuild from complete scratch, far eclipsing even the extensive repairs she's had in the past. And, Jim thinks with a bittersweet (heavy on the bitter) pang, it was probably time for a complete rebuild even if she hadn't been so thoroughly destroyed. Those were no simple patch-jobs after Nero or Marcus - the mileage on the flagship has, frankly, been brutal. A familiar thought: wondering if it's his fault, if the Enterprise would have survived her first five year journey under another captain, or if instead the universe continues to hurl him and his crew on all these collision courses because they're the only ones who can handle them.
He doesn't stay on the starbase for the entire duration of construction, but for long bouts at the beginning and end; he'll know her inside and out this time, every panel, ever nerve, every expanse of glass and insert of cabin carpet. He scratches For Christopher on the floor of the bridge before the final covering goes in, barely a centimeter high, never to be seen by anyone but him.
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Hey guess what Yorktown has: bars!! Probably a bunch of them. Jim's not the drinker he used to be, but he's still definitely a drinker. He's also not the Lothario he used to be, either, but you know, old habits.
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San Fransisco is Captain Kirk's temporary home for several months, doing guest lectures at the Academy and terrorizing cadets of all kinds. He teaches a month-long survival course, even, which involves dragging a senior class into the woods and scaring the shit out of them with stories of everyone nearly dying all the time up in the black.
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It's not like he's on vacation, though. Starfleet Command sends several missions down the tubes and Jim runs them with the same dogged adventurism he runs his ship. Who wants to go check in on a wayward science team?
Lucy McClane is... well, that's difficult to quantify. He father is well-known in Starfleet - when Lucy was practically still in diapers he saved the ship he was stationed on from attack. By himself. Barefoot, for some reason. He'd been a hero. But he was also rash, and troubled, and got himself into more sticky messes (and the aftermath's insubordinations) than he really should have. As a result his history was rocky. He'd get dismissed, then called back when someone needed him again. As much as he complained, he always came through in the end. He just has a reputation.
Lucy isn't brand new. She graduated the academy at the top of her class but since then she's been ping-ponged around between postings and assignments because no one seems to believe she's calmer and more in-tune with taking orders than her father, no matter how much she protests the idea. She doesn't have heroics under her belt to get her a solid assignment. She blames John, perhaps unfairly, and because of this their relationship is often on the outs. She tries to distance herself from him, from his name, going so far once as to briefly change her registration to her mother's maiden name, Gennero.
Problem is, she really is exactly like her father. Sure, she's willing to do anything to get the job done, but there's an idea that floats around about an inability to maintain order in her vicinity. She works hard. It's just that being in the wrong place at the wrong time runs in the family. Which is why she's surprised to be given the assignment she is - with who she is, but she thinks that maybe shoving her toward Captain James Kirk is some kind of last-ditch effort at maybe you'll take her. Checking in on a wayward science team isn't supposed to be much of an issue - shouldn't be, anyway, hopefully - but somehow she still has a sense of nervous energy about her despite hardly being fresh out of the Academy.
It's not like Jim tells Command Send me the crazy ones, it's cool-- and not the opposite, either; he doesn't say much of anything about the pool new members of his crew comes from, figuring he's annoying TPTB enough as it is on a regular basis. Up front, anyway. He's demanded certain recruits back after transfer and kicked other ones out, all ordinary crew management business. Unordinary is the fact that he knows names, faces, favorite drinks, Academy grades, dating woes, of all one hundred and fourteen of them.
He knows Command thinks it was smugness, the fact that he hadn't lost a single crew member in all that time, and not the fierce, hard-won pride it was. Not pride in himself. Pride in everyone. And then the USS Vengeance happened (what a name), and Krall... no, Edison. Hundreds lost, both times. Now, welcoming aboard new additions (replacements) to the crew is a sobering experience.
The construction break gives Jim a unique opportunity to meet and vet potential transfers before they're locked in - though honestly, he's not much inclined to fuss with what's made its way to his (virtual) desk. On (digital) paper it's the usual mix of excellent cadets scoring well enough to warrant time on the flagship and proactive junior officers being put to more demanding work. He's not sure exactly where Ensign McClane falls on that particular spectrum just yet, but he figures by the time they've made their hike to the remote viewing cabin where Doctor Mills should be, he'll have figured it out.
"I bet this guy's an asshole," he muses after a few minutes of silence. Who else gets punted out to the sticks when you're already in the sticks? Aren't scientists supposed to all get along? Nerd bonding, or something.
The worst part of Lucy's issues are that she knows why it's happening. If she were blissfully unaware that she was being shipped around because people think she's nuts, she wouldn't have to care. But it just makes her angry and frustrated in turns. She wants to get in good, somehow, somewhere, but there's always some reason. She thinks she probably just rubs a lot of people the wrong way. If this opportunity works out though, she'll be glad enough for it. Which is an understatement. She doesn't seem like she fits in with either group quite well enough, like a slightly oval block trying to fit into a perfectly round space. Almost, but not quite.
She's a little worried she'll fuck this up, honestly. She sure as hell isn't going home with her tail between her legs even if she does, but it still feels like her last chance at proving that she really can before someone tries to lock her into a dead-end desk job someplace that she won't be a liability. When he speaks her reply is automatic. "Thankfully, Captain, I'm used to dealing with assholes." Wry. Thankfully it doesn't sound like she's talking about her earlier commanding officers. Probably. She has the same kinds of speech patterns as John too, which is usually funny for anyone familiar with him in any capacity since the same quips coming out of a twenty-something woman with hair is something people seem to think is amusing.
He probably is an asshole though, she thinks. It isn't as though Lucy minds having to slough out to this fabled viewing cabin in the middle of nowhere but it's still a little much picking their way through, like they've tried to get him as far out of the way as possible. She understands the sentiment. "Well, either an asshole or one of those real reclusive types." Married to science and unable to socialize with anyone, or a jerk. Or both. Both's a possibility. Now she genuinely wonders which option it is, and some of that nervousness seems to have left her or at least gotten sorted away somewhere invisible as they continue.
But seriously, maybe she should not continue talking because it always gets her in trouble.
Jim resolutely does not laugh, but if she happens to catch the brief look he casts over to her, she might pick up on the fact that he's fine with the way she's speaking. Maybe even entertained. You know-- for now. Serious and formal situations are wholly different cans of worms compared to following your captain's lead on talking ambiguous shit.
"Usually the reclusive ones don't join Starfleet." The Federation has plenty of other organizations that aren't quite so paramilitary and mission-oriented, after all, though none with the same kind of ubiquity. "What do you think about the survey work they're doing? Seems like a lot of effort for something that should be getting the M-class planet rubber stamp."
And at most of his classes, there's a gentleman in a rather strange looking version of the Starfleet uniform who settles into the back, leaning into his seat thoughtfully as he listens. He seems somewhat serious for the most part, but every once in a while, he cracks a smile and even at times, an all out grin.
'Rather strange' is a day ending in y around these parts, but that doesn't mean unfamiliar uniforms attached to familiar places are routine enough to go unnoticed.
It takes Jim more days than he'd like to be able to catch up - his superiors are really working his time on Earth down to the last minute - but he does, eventually, catch up. He falls in step alongside the other man one day after his lecture is dismissed, though for a while, he says nothing.
Eventually,
"Q didn't send you here, did he?"
Well.
Jim can't help that his tone of voice has too many layers. Wry exasperation, buried, darker ire over the subject of his inquiry, but there's unmistakable relief and fondness. Like he's speaking to someone he already knows.
...and he has never seen a man look as offended in that moment as Benjamin Sisko looks right then. Because, I'm sorry, did you- did you just- did you just ask if Q-
He makes a noise somewhere between a grunt of displeasure and an actual growl before lifting his chin.
"No," he says firmly, "Q most certainly did not send me. I sent myself, thank you very much. Though I'm curious as to what gave you the idea that he did."
That reaction is in actual fact glorious. So much so that Jim exhales in a rush, artfully hidden tension leaving him in a snap-- he laughs, loud, and has to pause to bend over and press his hands against his knees for a brief moment. "Well, thank god for that," he says in a half-groan as he straightens back up, semi-hysterical laughter only hanging around in his voice for a few words before he manages to shake it off.
"No reason. Don't worry about it. Everything's fine-- why are you here? And watching me, specifically."
Amazing, really, the emotional gamut his demeanor can run in a matter of seconds; he ends on sincere curiosity, hoping the other man's not in some kind of trouble.
The extensive rebuilding of the Enterprise ought to be a time to breathe, and perhaps back to back meetings, commissions, diplomatic visitations, reports, consultations still constitute as downtime when you consider the kinds of adventures that mark up the terrain of Spock's Starfleet career under Jim's captaincy. Suffice to say they all find ways to keep busy, together and apart. For instance: the day that Spock arrives on Yorktown after accompanying a diplomatic envoy to the Vulcan colony is met with administrative settling, catching up on paperwork, an interception by Nyota, a debrief as to his last venture, and a subsequent assignment for a routine six month check-in on a science excursion bordering the neutral zone. An assignment that would put him amidst familiar faces once again.
Ergo, awaiting the construction of the Enterprise is not, in fact, a time to breathe, but on his way through the docks, Spock finds one anyway. The ship has made astounding advances in the time he has been away from Yorktown, and he stands in place as he regards the impressive shape of what would be, a tall, serene presence in the bustle of the space station.
In isolation, a twinge of sentiment is analysed, filed away, buried. Probably no one saw it.
Jim lets him go for a while, actually; he spies his first officer when he's en route to engineering with breakfast for Scotty and Keenser, who of course haven't taken the same breaks from Yorktown as everyone else. He's spent a lot of time down there himself, watching her knit together with steel and plasma. You're an engineer at heart, an instructor at the Academy had told him once, and he didn't know what to say; sure, he gets it, he really gets the science and machinery and the metal muscle and art of it all, but he feels pulled in so many directions. Every direction.
"I thought about getting you a 'Vulcan Mocha'," says a familiar voice, edging into roughness from his typical sleep deprivation, "but I don't think it was actually Vulcan."
He comes to stand beside Spock and offers the man a covered up of plain black coffee. Boring and utilitarian, like Jim drinks it.
Spock glances side along as Jim steps into his periphery, with the proffered coffee granted more attention with a side-eye of some scepticism. "You surmised correctly, captain. Coffee and its many iterations are a human conceit, and the components that determine a mocha would be inappropriate for me to consume while on-duty."
He knows what a mocha is. He dates Nyota, aware of cafe adventures and her lengthy orders that result in products as rich as the language that describes it.
Dated.
To be determined.
Nevertheless, he takes the coffee, if on a delay. He can get behind something boring and utilitarian, at the very least, off-guard just enough in his reminiscing up at the shadow of the as yet unchristened vessel. He uncaps it, investigatory.
No surprises lie in wait within the cup. It's not even from a chain, but the nondescript offerings of the communal mess hall in the officers' barracks here at the HQ. So much of him is volume and flash, weaponized extroversion, that it's easy to forget Jim Kirk is a kid from Nowhere, Iowa, raised in a bare bones, workaholic Starfleet officer's household. Simple things as a comforting baseline holds true, despite the chaotic turn his childhood took (not that anybody besides one Doctor McCoy knows anything about that; Jim's never let on, and most of it's been sealed in an iron-clad juvenile record anyway).
There's no need to fill the air with smalltalk. Sometimes, he can just shut up, too.
After a while,
"Have you ever very nearly made a fatal error, like almost slipping off a ledge because you weren't looking, and you're left with that... unhelpful adrenaline that's not actually fight-or-flight, because it's relief as much as it is terror?"
Know what's in bars? - Nyota, sometimes, usually with Jim. Like now, leaning her elbows up against the high standing table they've acquired (there aren't chairs, because they have not yet accepted that they're too old for dance clubs, but they are upstairs overlooking the floor where they can actually hear themselves), a few empty shot glasses scattered across it and the half-empty glass she's still drinking from when she opens with -
"-I have definitely explained the bro code to him," Jim answers, immediate and serious, because he handles all situations with the exact amount of gravity they deserve. "Four times, probably. But he was always looking at me like I was speaking another language and he was trying to figure out what planet the word 'brohcoed' came from."
He knocks back the shot portion of his boilermaker (because you can take the delinquent out of rural Iowa, and so on) before leaning his forearms on the table, snagging his beer bottle with the ends of his fingers, almost idle. Jim knows he's here because Spock is being even more of a dick than usual, but he also knows that Spock really and truly tries his best. But he knows that Nyota knows he knows. You know, finally.
"So." So. "Did he come clean or did Chekov crack?"
"Chekov was suspiciously specific and kept looking at McCoy." She tilts her glass; "Also, he ran away. I did the math." And the math got her 'Chekov is prone to exhibiting nervous behaviours', so she's not sure whether Spock intended to finish the sentence the way that he did or if he just looked at her face and decided he really likes his green Vulcan balls where they are.
Not that she would've done anything to his genitalia. Not that she would have done anything permanent to his genitalia.
(Okay, or anything. Just. They all know a lot of things, one of the things she knows is just that Spock can be a pain in the ass on a good day. Maybe it's a balance thing, because when it's good -
she's wearing the necklace, still, is what we're saying.)
Lieutenant Malcolm Reed is meant to get on a shuttle to get on a ship to get to Yorktown to join the crew of the (in)famous Enterprise once she's rebuilt properly. But he's got time enough to hang around the city, enough spare time to actually...spare. He doesn't care to not have something to do, therefore: recon.
Everyone knows of Captain Kirk, James T., fastest climb to captaincy in Starfleet history, always finding creative ways around situations that may or may not flagrantly break the rules set in place. Still, settling himself into the back of a class for one of his guest lectures, Malcolm is surprised at how young the man looks. Despite the years and the events, there's still a youthful exuberance about him, an enthusiasm and charisma that is infectious. The even younger faces around the lecture hall show him that much, how enthralled they are. Only in the past few years has the Academy gotten back up to the numbers it boasted before the Narada.
It's an unsettling feeling in his gut that he has the understanding enough to call something like jealousy, envy?, some barbaric thought about how someone like himself, who has worked hard in his career to get where he is now, should not have to serve under someone who got a command on what at times feels like a whim, favouritism, in spite of Admiral Pike and in spite of the rescue of the crew while still being a third year student at the top of his class. Something to swallow down, because Malcolm is nothing if not professional. He's tempted to leave it at that, but even after the lecture is over, he lingers, waiting for the students trying to vie for Kirk's attention (either for questions of clarification or to be more akin to groupies) before approaching himself.
He'd look more professional if he was in uniform, but technically he isn't on duty for a few more days, therefore screw that. Still, he feels underdressed to be introducing himself to his future captain.
"I hope not to take up too much of your time, Captain," is how he starts in his clipped English tones, offers a crisp salute first before then offering his hand. "Lieutenant Reed, sir, assigned to the Enterprise as of two days ago, security. That was quite the informative and rousing lecture you gave the students. I believe they were rather awestruck."
An interesting word. At it, something shutters behind Kirk's eyes - he maintains his media-friendly smile, but there's a brief instance like a camera lens switching gears. It's over almost as soon as it begins, and he grasps Malcolm's hand in his, firm.
"Lieutenant Reed," he greets, and continues walking, herding the man along with him so that the cluster of cadets might finally get the point without him having to slam a door in someone's face. "I recognize your name, I think. Are you the one who made my CMO rail at me about finally having somebody on board who can compete with my level of catastrophic allergies?"
There's no I think about it. Jim knows every crew member's name, every transfer, every temp, every soul lost. His career has been punctuated from day one by loss-- hell, more than his career. His life. The Kelvin to the destruction of Vulcan, and what's happened most recently on the planet Altamid. And he knows, too, the thinly veiled resentment (willful or not) carried by plenty of those names; every survivor of his graduating class was automatically given rank and post due to the decimation of Starfleet personnel in 2258, but no one stood out like the cadet under academic suspension who got handed the flagship.
There's a half-second of hesitation before following along a step behind. Of all the details in his personnel file, he wasn't expecting that tidbit to get brought up. With a cleared throat: "I suppose so, sir. I do have a number of allergies that shouldn't pose any problems in most situations, although who knows what new and unexplored allergens my sinuses will react to in the unknown."
He would hardly call them catastrophic nevertheless. What a rude doctor. "I doubt my health will be of any concern given that by all accounts you, sir, tend to accrue the worst of the injuries and illnesses."
Honestly, McCoy's not sure at all how he lets Jim talk him into these things. It's not like Starfleet gave him a direct order to go off on some ridiculous snipe hunt on some ridiculous tin can barely larger than the swarm ship he, ah, stole (and then crashed into the plaza because he never did figure out how to land the goddamn thing. Last he saw, construction crews still hadn't fixed the furrow he'd dug into the sidewalks.) No, they gave Captain Kirk an order and good ol' Captain Kirk, good friend that he is, just didn't want to let his friend and chief medical officer languish at Yorktown.
For all that Yorktown is a giant snow globe waiting to break apart at the slightest solar wind, McCoy really doesn't mind languishing -- especially if he has a drink in hand. It's not like McCoy has a great skill set for this mission... no, he can't even lie to himself on that one. He can fly the slightly-larger-than-average shuttle in a pinch and, if they're truly going out to check on/bring supplies to small scientific outpost not far from Yorktown, then having a doctor on board might not be a bad idea. Scientists get supplies and a check-up. Then Starfleet's happy, Jim's happy, and McCoy can go back to languishing in peace.
Win-win.
He approaches the shuttle with a goddamn spring his step, bag slung over his shoulder, and snarling at anybody who deigns to get in his way. Bones on a good day, really. He steps up next to Jim, arms crossed and rocks back on heels. "We just gonna stand here all day or we gonna get this over with?"
He's had enough adventure to last him at least three lifetimes and you're dragging him back out.
At least they're not going through a nebula.
Right?
yeesss also sorry weekends are busy for me /crawls to internet
Right! No nebulas. (Nebulae?) Nothing will go wrong with this, at all.
"There you are, sleeping beauty," Jim greets. It's not said with the barely-restrained-vibrating-energy he had in the formative stage of their friendship, but he sounds livelier than he has in-- well, years, at this point. His smiles in public are starting to reach his eyes again. The change is by degrees - unlike the jagged knife-cut of Pike's death and his own resurrection that left Jim too old by decades and draining of color - but it's steady.
"Thought I was going to have to dump ice water on you or something. I know how much you like getting up early for space travel."
you're fine - weekends are hit or miss for me usually. i just managed to hit for once in my life.
Famous last words, Jim. Nothing will go wrong. With their luck -- and, honestly, McCoy's not sure if it's his luck or Jim's that's this ridiculously horrible -- they'll be adrift with failing life support, no engines and no communications (and no Montgomery Scott to fix any of it.)
For all the he'll grump and grouse, McCoy's honestly pretty damned observant. He's a doctor -- a scientist, even, by some definitions -- and being observant is practically in the job description. Jim's had a rough go of things in the last few years; that some wounds are still raw has not escaped McCoy's notice.
Seeing Jim actually, honestly looking good does McCoy a world of good. It's one thing to notice and another thing entirely to say, so he does what he always does best: provide what silent (well, silent about certain subjects but certainly not silent) support he can and don't change the status quo.
In other words, remain a cranky asshole. Easiest job ever. He snorts. "I'm not late."
Armory Officer Baek Ji-seok is known among his crew-mates for a couple of things: his almost alarming efficiency rate and his charming personality. While charming personality is often heavily coded to mean someone that has their head so far up their ass they've never seen the light of day, Ji-seok really is personable. He's charming to a fault and keeps his head even in dire circumstances. His record is impeccable and he's been with the same crew for several years but now the ship is being decommissioned and the crew split up.
Perhaps it's no wonder then that he can often be found these days at Academy lectures, and more specifically those led by Captain James Kirk. He's quiet and attentive, sitting in the back out of politeness for others attending. There are a few times where he considers approaching the young Captain, but generally speaking someone else gets to him first and so instead he waits for the opportunity some more.
Captain Kirk is magnetic - not a celebrity magnetic, because there's nothing deliberately performative about it; instead there's something that's half enchanting and half infuriating about the way he holds himself and his bright eyes, drawing people in whether they like it or not. There's something deliberately withheld while he chats up the crowd, though, sedate and polite, still charming but clearly a little tired.
He passes by Ji-seok after saying goodbye to an old professor of his, but slows his step. "Mr Baek, right?"
For a brief second Ji-seok's eyebrows disappear into his hair but it's paired with a bright smile as he nods confirmation and then turns toward him to offer his hand to shake. "That would definitely be me, yes."
"I apologize for not introducing myself first, but I seem to have always been beaten to the punch." He doesn't seem too put off by it though, making a sort of easy communication. "I've been grateful to be able to sit in on your lectures while I have the free time." 'Free time' while he looks into transferring to a new post. It happens.
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varied starters for any time ✴
Rebuilding the Enterprise is a massive undertaking - not as massive as it would have been three years ago, given the existence of Yorktown and its impossibly advanced construction bays, but this is still a rebuild from complete scratch, far eclipsing even the extensive repairs she's had in the past. And, Jim thinks with a bittersweet (heavy on the bitter) pang, it was probably time for a complete rebuild even if she hadn't been so thoroughly destroyed. Those were no simple patch-jobs after Nero or Marcus - the mileage on the flagship has, frankly, been brutal. A familiar thought: wondering if it's his fault, if the Enterprise would have survived her first five year journey under another captain, or if instead the universe continues to hurl him and his crew on all these collision courses because they're the only ones who can handle them.
He doesn't stay on the starbase for the entire duration of construction, but for long bouts at the beginning and end; he'll know her inside and out this time, every panel, ever nerve, every expanse of glass and insert of cabin carpet. He scratches For Christopher on the floor of the bridge before the final covering goes in, barely a centimeter high, never to be seen by anyone but him.
( +1 )
Hey guess what Yorktown has: bars!! Probably a bunch of them. Jim's not the drinker he used to be, but he's still definitely a drinker. He's also not the Lothario he used to be, either, but you know, old habits.
( +2 )
San Fransisco is Captain Kirk's temporary home for several months, doing guest lectures at the Academy and terrorizing cadets of all kinds. He teaches a month-long survival course, even, which involves dragging a senior class into the woods and scaring the shit out of them with stories of everyone nearly dying all the time up in the black.
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It's not like he's on vacation, though. Starfleet Command sends several missions down the tubes and Jim runs them with the same dogged adventurism he runs his ship. Who wants to go check in on a wayward science team?
+3
Lucy isn't brand new. She graduated the academy at the top of her class but since then she's been ping-ponged around between postings and assignments because no one seems to believe she's calmer and more in-tune with taking orders than her father, no matter how much she protests the idea. She doesn't have heroics under her belt to get her a solid assignment. She blames John, perhaps unfairly, and because of this their relationship is often on the outs. She tries to distance herself from him, from his name, going so far once as to briefly change her registration to her mother's maiden name, Gennero.
Problem is, she really is exactly like her father. Sure, she's willing to do anything to get the job done, but there's an idea that floats around about an inability to maintain order in her vicinity. She works hard. It's just that being in the wrong place at the wrong time runs in the family. Which is why she's surprised to be given the assignment she is - with who she is, but she thinks that maybe shoving her toward Captain James Kirk is some kind of last-ditch effort at maybe you'll take her. Checking in on a wayward science team isn't supposed to be much of an issue - shouldn't be, anyway, hopefully - but somehow she still has a sense of nervous energy about her despite hardly being fresh out of the Academy.
Maybe things will actually go right. For once.
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He knows Command thinks it was smugness, the fact that he hadn't lost a single crew member in all that time, and not the fierce, hard-won pride it was. Not pride in himself. Pride in everyone. And then the USS Vengeance happened (what a name), and Krall... no, Edison. Hundreds lost, both times. Now, welcoming aboard new additions (replacements) to the crew is a sobering experience.
The construction break gives Jim a unique opportunity to meet and vet potential transfers before they're locked in - though honestly, he's not much inclined to fuss with what's made its way to his (virtual) desk. On (digital) paper it's the usual mix of excellent cadets scoring well enough to warrant time on the flagship and proactive junior officers being put to more demanding work. He's not sure exactly where Ensign McClane falls on that particular spectrum just yet, but he figures by the time they've made their hike to the remote viewing cabin where Doctor Mills should be, he'll have figured it out.
"I bet this guy's an asshole," he muses after a few minutes of silence. Who else gets punted out to the sticks when you're already in the sticks? Aren't scientists supposed to all get along? Nerd bonding, or something.
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She's a little worried she'll fuck this up, honestly. She sure as hell isn't going home with her tail between her legs even if she does, but it still feels like her last chance at proving that she really can before someone tries to lock her into a dead-end desk job someplace that she won't be a liability. When he speaks her reply is automatic. "Thankfully, Captain, I'm used to dealing with assholes." Wry. Thankfully it doesn't sound like she's talking about her earlier commanding officers. Probably. She has the same kinds of speech patterns as John too, which is usually funny for anyone familiar with him in any capacity since the same quips coming out of a twenty-something woman with hair is something people seem to think is amusing.
He probably is an asshole though, she thinks. It isn't as though Lucy minds having to slough out to this fabled viewing cabin in the middle of nowhere but it's still a little much picking their way through, like they've tried to get him as far out of the way as possible. She understands the sentiment. "Well, either an asshole or one of those real reclusive types." Married to science and unable to socialize with anyone, or a jerk. Or both. Both's a possibility. Now she genuinely wonders which option it is, and some of that nervousness seems to have left her or at least gotten sorted away somewhere invisible as they continue.
But seriously, maybe she should not continue talking because it always gets her in trouble.
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"Usually the reclusive ones don't join Starfleet." The Federation has plenty of other organizations that aren't quite so paramilitary and mission-oriented, after all, though none with the same kind of ubiquity. "What do you think about the survey work they're doing? Seems like a lot of effort for something that should be getting the M-class planet rubber stamp."
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It takes Jim more days than he'd like to be able to catch up - his superiors are really working his time on Earth down to the last minute - but he does, eventually, catch up. He falls in step alongside the other man one day after his lecture is dismissed, though for a while, he says nothing.
Eventually,
"Q didn't send you here, did he?"
Well.
Jim can't help that his tone of voice has too many layers. Wry exasperation, buried, darker ire over the subject of his inquiry, but there's unmistakable relief and fondness. Like he's speaking to someone he already knows.
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He makes a noise somewhere between a grunt of displeasure and an actual growl before lifting his chin.
"No," he says firmly, "Q most certainly did not send me. I sent myself, thank you very much. Though I'm curious as to what gave you the idea that he did."
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"No reason. Don't worry about it. Everything's fine-- why are you here? And watching me, specifically."
Amazing, really, the emotional gamut his demeanor can run in a matter of seconds; he ends on sincere curiosity, hoping the other man's not in some kind of trouble.
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general. or pre-3.
Ergo, awaiting the construction of the Enterprise is not, in fact, a time to breathe, but on his way through the docks, Spock finds one anyway. The ship has made astounding advances in the time he has been away from Yorktown, and he stands in place as he regards the impressive shape of what would be, a tall, serene presence in the bustle of the space station.
In isolation, a twinge of sentiment is analysed, filed away, buried. Probably no one saw it.
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Jim lets him go for a while, actually; he spies his first officer when he's en route to engineering with breakfast for Scotty and Keenser, who of course haven't taken the same breaks from Yorktown as everyone else. He's spent a lot of time down there himself, watching her knit together with steel and plasma. You're an engineer at heart, an instructor at the Academy had told him once, and he didn't know what to say; sure, he gets it, he really gets the science and machinery and the metal muscle and art of it all, but he feels pulled in so many directions. Every direction.
"I thought about getting you a 'Vulcan Mocha'," says a familiar voice, edging into roughness from his typical sleep deprivation, "but I don't think it was actually Vulcan."
He comes to stand beside Spock and offers the man a covered up of plain black coffee. Boring and utilitarian, like Jim drinks it.
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He knows what a mocha is. He dates Nyota, aware of cafe adventures and her lengthy orders that result in products as rich as the language that describes it.
Dated.
To be determined.
Nevertheless, he takes the coffee, if on a delay. He can get behind something boring and utilitarian, at the very least, off-guard just enough in his reminiscing up at the shadow of the as yet unchristened vessel. He uncaps it, investigatory.
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There's no need to fill the air with smalltalk. Sometimes, he can just shut up, too.
After a while,
"Have you ever very nearly made a fatal error, like almost slipping off a ledge because you weren't looking, and you're left with that... unhelpful adrenaline that's not actually fight-or-flight, because it's relief as much as it is terror?"
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+ 1
"Spock might ask you what the bro code is."
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He knocks back the shot portion of his boilermaker (because you can take the delinquent out of rural Iowa, and so on) before leaning his forearms on the table, snagging his beer bottle with the ends of his fingers, almost idle. Jim knows he's here because Spock is being even more of a dick than usual, but he also knows that Spock really and truly tries his best. But he knows that Nyota knows he knows. You know, finally.
"So." So. "Did he come clean or did Chekov crack?"
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Not that she would've done anything to his genitalia. Not that she would have done anything permanent to his genitalia.
(Okay, or anything. Just. They all know a lot of things, one of the things she knows is just that Spock can be a pain in the ass on a good day. Maybe it's a balance thing, because when it's good -
she's wearing the necklace, still, is what we're saying.)
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2
Everyone knows of Captain Kirk, James T., fastest climb to captaincy in Starfleet history, always finding creative ways around situations that may or may not flagrantly break the rules set in place. Still, settling himself into the back of a class for one of his guest lectures, Malcolm is surprised at how young the man looks. Despite the years and the events, there's still a youthful exuberance about him, an enthusiasm and charisma that is infectious. The even younger faces around the lecture hall show him that much, how enthralled they are. Only in the past few years has the Academy gotten back up to the numbers it boasted before the Narada.
It's an unsettling feeling in his gut that he has the understanding enough to call something like jealousy, envy?, some barbaric thought about how someone like himself, who has worked hard in his career to get where he is now, should not have to serve under someone who got a command on what at times feels like a whim, favouritism, in spite of Admiral Pike and in spite of the rescue of the crew while still being a third year student at the top of his class. Something to swallow down, because Malcolm is nothing if not professional. He's tempted to leave it at that, but even after the lecture is over, he lingers, waiting for the students trying to vie for Kirk's attention (either for questions of clarification or to be more akin to groupies) before approaching himself.
He'd look more professional if he was in uniform, but technically he isn't on duty for a few more days, therefore screw that. Still, he feels underdressed to be introducing himself to his future captain.
"I hope not to take up too much of your time, Captain," is how he starts in his clipped English tones, offers a crisp salute first before then offering his hand. "Lieutenant Reed, sir, assigned to the Enterprise as of two days ago, security. That was quite the informative and rousing lecture you gave the students. I believe they were rather awestruck."
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An interesting word. At it, something shutters behind Kirk's eyes - he maintains his media-friendly smile, but there's a brief instance like a camera lens switching gears. It's over almost as soon as it begins, and he grasps Malcolm's hand in his, firm.
"Lieutenant Reed," he greets, and continues walking, herding the man along with him so that the cluster of cadets might finally get the point without him having to slam a door in someone's face. "I recognize your name, I think. Are you the one who made my CMO rail at me about finally having somebody on board who can compete with my level of catastrophic allergies?"
There's no I think about it. Jim knows every crew member's name, every transfer, every temp, every soul lost. His career has been punctuated from day one by loss-- hell, more than his career. His life. The Kelvin to the destruction of Vulcan, and what's happened most recently on the planet Altamid. And he knows, too, the thinly veiled resentment (willful or not) carried by plenty of those names; every survivor of his graduating class was automatically given rank and post due to the decimation of Starfleet personnel in 2258, but no one stood out like the cadet under academic suspension who got handed the flagship.
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He would hardly call them catastrophic nevertheless. What a rude doctor. "I doubt my health will be of any concern given that by all accounts you, sir, tend to accrue the worst of the injuries and illnesses."
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+3 because why not?
For all that Yorktown is a giant snow globe waiting to break apart at the slightest solar wind, McCoy really doesn't mind languishing -- especially if he has a drink in hand. It's not like McCoy has a great skill set for this mission... no, he can't even lie to himself on that one. He can fly the slightly-larger-than-average shuttle in a pinch and, if they're truly going out to check on/bring supplies to small scientific outpost not far from Yorktown, then having a doctor on board might not be a bad idea. Scientists get supplies and a check-up. Then Starfleet's happy, Jim's happy, and McCoy can go back to languishing in peace.
Win-win.
He approaches the shuttle with a goddamn spring his step, bag slung over his shoulder, and snarling at anybody who deigns to get in his way. Bones on a good day, really. He steps up next to Jim, arms crossed and rocks back on heels. "We just gonna stand here all day or we gonna get this over with?"
He's had enough adventure to last him at least three lifetimes and you're dragging him back out.
At least they're not going through a nebula.
Right?
yeesss also sorry weekends are busy for me /crawls to internet
"There you are, sleeping beauty," Jim greets. It's not said with the barely-restrained-vibrating-energy he had in the formative stage of their friendship, but he sounds livelier than he has in-- well, years, at this point. His smiles in public are starting to reach his eyes again. The change is by degrees - unlike the jagged knife-cut of Pike's death and his own resurrection that left Jim too old by decades and draining of color - but it's steady.
"Thought I was going to have to dump ice water on you or something. I know how much you like getting up early for space travel."
you're fine - weekends are hit or miss for me usually. i just managed to hit for once in my life.
For all the he'll grump and grouse, McCoy's honestly pretty damned observant. He's a doctor -- a scientist, even, by some definitions -- and being observant is practically in the job description. Jim's had a rough go of things in the last few years; that some wounds are still raw has not escaped McCoy's notice.
Seeing Jim actually, honestly looking good does McCoy a world of good. It's one thing to notice and another thing entirely to say, so he does what he always does best: provide what silent (well, silent about certain subjects but certainly not silent) support he can and don't change the status quo.
In other words, remain a cranky asshole. Easiest job ever. He snorts. "I'm not late."
Just try the ice water, Captain.
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back from vacation, travel killed me @_@
i'm jealous of your vacation, tho
i am also jealous of past-me and would like to return
i know the feeling; i did the same after my vacation
z_z
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ah, the joys of tagging while Benadryl is kicking in...
tbh that's impressive for benadryl
i appreciate that, considering some of the weird punctuation that tag ended up with
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my dog 'helped' on this one; she sat on my shoulder and watched. this tag Molly-approved.
what a good doge
one of two best dogs. Gizmo and Molly: Best Dogs.
👍
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i'm alive
alive is good. i'm glad.
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Perhaps it's no wonder then that he can often be found these days at Academy lectures, and more specifically those led by Captain James Kirk. He's quiet and attentive, sitting in the back out of politeness for others attending. There are a few times where he considers approaching the young Captain, but generally speaking someone else gets to him first and so instead he waits for the opportunity some more.
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He passes by Ji-seok after saying goodbye to an old professor of his, but slows his step. "Mr Baek, right?"
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"I apologize for not introducing myself first, but I seem to have always been beaten to the punch." He doesn't seem too put off by it though, making a sort of easy communication. "I've been grateful to be able to sit in on your lectures while I have the free time." 'Free time' while he looks into transferring to a new post. It happens.
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