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."
What a rude doctor oH MAN YOU'RE IN FOR A RIDE, buddy. If only Jim was telepathic, he'd be cackling.
"Everyone loves saying that," Jim states, "but I think my first officer racks up more, he's just naturally more durable. Cheating if you ask me. Don't worry about it, though, Doctor McCoy's the best in the 'Fleet, and I've only nearly died from alien anaphylaxis once."
Apparently, this is friendly, rank-appropriate conversation with Captain Kirk. On his (relative) downtime, at least. If it helps: while he does sound amused, it isn't careless, but dry. There's something funny to him about the way plenty of people react to how he handles himself.
"Security on the Enterprise doesn't get many slow days once we're out there."
Dry, wry, dark humour is, thankfully, right up Malcolm's alley. "Good god, is that so? I thought they were shipping me off to a pleasure cruise. I'll have to talk to the brass about it."
It hasn't been quiet, by any means, since he first got out there, but it's true that Enterprise has a certain reputation. Good and bad. It might not get into half the scrapes it does if it wasn't for Captain Kirk, but on the other side, they also wouldn't manage to get out of them. Malcolm draws himself up straighter, not that it gains him any height on the captain. "I've read several reports." Damn near all of them, actually. "Sir, if I may speak freely, I hope to put a stop to your seemingly reckless self-endangerment. And Commander Spock's. A captain and his first officer should not so often be putting themselves in harm's way."
There's a brief bark of laughter at the pleasure cruise remark, and his affable mood doesn't diminish even when Reed throws the regulations gauntlet down. "I'll take it under advisement," Jim says, and it's to his credit that he doesn't sound patronizing - though the sense that he's had this conversation about a dozen times already can't be avoided. "How I run my ship is how I run my ship, though. I don't ask my crew to do anything I wouldn't."
And he might have to have this conversation a dozen times more. Malcolm is a good little soldier filled to the brim with rules and regs. Clearly someone thought that this would either make a good practical joke or was just that impressed with him. Hard to tell which.
"Still, you realize my job involves keeping all of the crew safe, including you. And I don't slack off, sir." But maybe don't get into a debate about how captains shouldn't be throwing themselves headfirst off of cliffs and such in the first five minutes, just maybe.
"Here's the thing - excuse me," Jim breaks formation to step around a Commodore in a hoverchair, saluting and giving a friendly smile, "The thing, is that you can either do your job in concert with us, or you can waste time arguing with me. If it's going to be rough for you at first, that's fine, let it be rough. But if you're going to end up in a position where you're hampering yourself or my crew because you're stuck on me, then we've all got a problem. You like the O Club?"
--The most antiquated way possible to refer to the officers' mess, which is at the end of this particular hall. Lord only knows who taught Jim to say it.
There are no friendly smiles when it comes to saluting superior officers. He can give Kirk a wry smirk and a quick joke, has learnt how to break the ice on occasion, but business is business, and for all of the discussion about the militarisation of Starfleet in a post-Khan galaxy, it still works like a military. Even out of uniform, Malcolm looks rather pressed and proper.
He's got a reply to the possibility of hampering anyone, but then he ends with that question, and Malcolm gets a pinched look of confusion for a moment. And, honestly, who does teach that to the younger crowd? At least he has the excuse of a long line of military in his history. "If you're inviting me to join you, I certainly won't decline." Oh boy. Casual encounters with superior officers. Must keep the awkward under control.
The 'O Club' is, of course, straying from the point, and with a short shake of his head, he resumes the original point. "I won't be stuck on you, sir. My concern is, of course, the entire crew, the safety of the ship, and to attempt to bring about the best case scenarios when engaging with anyone or anything."
It's sort of annoying that Jim knows his way around 'Fleet politics. Annoying to himself; he knows which superiors he should smile at because they knew Pike or served with his mother, he knows which ones he needs to straighten up around or shouldn't make eye contact with, and everything in between. He knows because his career has been under a microscope every step of the way, the same one his mother's been under. 'Well meaning'.
Sometimes he resents it, but sometimes it's fine to smile at someone. Especially if he knows they're not a dick.
"See." Jim flashes Malcolm a sunny smile - the kind he must know gets him out of all kinds of trouble. (Or, you know, into it.) "We're going to get along great."
Just outside the mess hall entrance, a cluster of cadets is waiting for an instructor. They pass, and Jim's half-blank, media friendly default expression settles back over his face. One of them's got their comm out to snap a picture or a video of Captain Kirk. Surprise, Reed. You're on social media.
Malcolm's never been close enough to the spotlight to need to train such a face on himself. Thankfully(?) his resting face is neutral enough to get him by, never needing to put on a false look for the camera, simply being. In the background, always. Still, the look is a curious thing on Kirk. From dazzling grin to politely blank smile without depth. It must get exhausting.
"Good to have it confirmed that you handle attention well," he muses once they're more out of earshot and into the mess.
How much they're going to get along is, of course, entirely up in the air. And will remain uncommented upon.
More political notes he wishes he didn't know. He's been needled by command for looking too morose (you're making Starfleet look bad), and for looking too energetic (you look like you aren't taking Starfleet seriously). This is the neutral, blandly positive setting he found pisses the fewest people off.
"They should offer a class about handling the press," he says, joking tone more dry than before. Captain Kirk's in a unique situation: maybe he'd be slightly less noticeable if he weren't George Kirk's son, the Kelvin baby, or if Starfleet didn't use him on occasion as a poster boy. Starfleet, of course, is far from the corrupt political monstrosities of the past, and for the most part Jim and his crew are protected (his Vulcan first officer gets his own unfair share of attention), but it's still tiring. And not exactly something he thought of when he was trying to save Earth.
Tables are for chumps, meanwhile. Jim sits himself down at the bar - a perk of the officers' mess - and flashes a small smile at the bartender.
There is most definitely a secret language of smiles that he quietly wonders if Kirk developed from his fame and infamy or if it's just from being naturally more social. Malcolm settles himself next to his new CO--drinks on the first meeting, he did not account for this--and rolls his shoulders in a short shrug. "And make it mandatory? I can't imagine it being an elective any but the most egotistical would want to take."
Generally, captains handle press, as a representative of their whole crew. First officers next down. Heads of departments if one has made a particular breakthrough. And that's if some Starfleet representative hasn't decided to speak for everyone first. He keeps his expectations realistic, he feels.
"I'm fully aware of the amount of attention you and your ship tends to accrue, sir, if you're worried about that."
"Naw. As a part of publicized crisis debriefing." Jim is, perhaps, too protective of his crew - but none of them signed up to be hounded after the destruction of Vulcan, the cadets who saved the Federation!, and Starfleet PR doesn't exactly extend to tabloid or social media 'coverage'.
But. It's a small thing overall. Just one that starts to drive him fucknuts the longer he's stagnating in San Francisco. The bartender asks what they'd like - Jim orders a sandwich or some description as his regular double shot of whiskey is being poured. It's okay whiskey, the kind an uncultured kid from the sticks might think is nice.
"Taking any courses while you're here? For intellectual stimulation," he adds, in case Reed thinks Jim's insinuating he's still a cadet, or something.
Not a bad name for it, really. Malcolm feels a little self-conscious about ordering a drink, would want to go for bourbon but that's not the kind of drink he socialises with. More like drowns his sorrows in. Fruity cocktail it is. So he has a bit of a sweet tooth, sue him.
"Haven't the time, if I'm honest. Only got the orders a few days ago, and in a few days more I'll be shipping out. I'll have plenty of time to get familiar with Yorktown as well as all your crew. I dropped by your lecture because I felt it prudent to introduce myself." Well, that's part of it. "Also to see for myself what kind of man you are." There we go, there's the rest of it. "Stories and reports only say so much, sir."
That is a very fancy drink. Jim doesn't raise an eyebrow (he just can't compete), but privately hopes there's a tiny umbrella in it when it's done.
"Yorktown is a hell of an installation." No comment on what kind of man Jim might or might not be - he'll let the security officer decide for himself. He's a different guy off-duty, anyway. "Staggering, almost."
When the tropical cocktail has been constructed, Jim slides his own glass over for a toast. "To going boldly," he says, and then knocks back more of the amber liquid than is strictly necessary.
Hope Kirk enjoys the tiny umbrella. Stupid tiny umbrellas.
"Only almost staggering? I was promised awe-inspiring."
Off-duty the man is complicated, and that much he can see from just the short time around him. Those cadets only think they see what he's like during a lecture and in the face of polite if boyish smiles. This is a man, Malcolm reminds himself, that has lost and lost and lost and still come out on top. Let him indulge in drink. His own sip is much smaller after the clinking of glasses.
This is a hell of a position to be granted, the magnitude of which is not lost on him. The dangers are inherent. He could just as easily die on any other posting. That the flagship just happens to get involved more frequently in dangerous missions is merely bad luck, coincidence, if one believes in either concept. And he's sitting here having a drink with Captain Kirk. It's almost surreal.
"How long will you be in the city for? I'm sure the brass has you flinging yourself at every lecture hall and every test and drill they can manage. You've become something of a living legend, for better or worse."
It's a beautiful tiny umbrella, and Jim appreciates it very much.
"Mmm, if you can rate reactions to hour-long talks about the best way to survive orbit-to-atmosphere combat space drops as potentially awestruck..." echoing something Malcolm said earlier. Is Jim teasing him? Could be.
Bad luck and coincidence. Hm. He'll have to decide for himself, once he's out there - Jim loathes considering concepts like fate, but sometimes that's what it feels like; something about the universe knows he's the one who'll do whatever it takes to solve a problem, so it throws the unsolvable shit at him. That is literally what happened, once, in an incident that didn't make it into any accessible reports. Goddamnit, Q.
"--A what?" Living legend. That sounds uncomfortable. Jim downs the rest of his whiskey then plunks the glass down, one finger on the edge of it, silently beckoning the bartender for another double shot. "A little over four weeks. In a few days I'm leaving to run a survival course, then I'm heading out to Georgia after debriefing."
"Oh, rest assured, I'm out of my giddy cadet awestruck days, but those kids? Stars in their eyes." Comes from being, y'know, a living legend, Kirk. Ah, to be that young again. Spending most of his days eyes deep in studying or casually chasing skirts. The exhilarating feeling of being away from his family and the freedom it offered him. Endlessly practicing new fighting techniques and rising near the top of at least some of his classes.
Some days he almost misses it. He'd say less chance of getting blown up, but that's before ships decide to crash into the city or planet drilling beams strike too near the Academy.
He'll let the incredulity slide. It's probably impolite to remind Kirk of his fame, after all, and he goes straight to the second point, eyebrows bobbing up in surprise. "Georgia? Whatever for?"
"Food and being yelled at," Jim says pleasantly, sounding like this is something he's genuinely looking forward to, and then adds, "Thanks" as his glass is refilled. "I want to try and hit up some rock climbing spots while I'm there, but I think-- Doctor McCoy," an odd bit of hesitation as Jim swerves around the use of a nickname but then apparently forgets his best friend's first name, "would have a stroke. Or just sedate me for the week. They've got an excellent indoor rock wall gym in Yorktown near Starfleet headquarters, if you're into it."
"A family visit?" he ventures, because food and being yelled at sounds like general family shenanigans. Maybe there's some Kirk family in Georgia. "I think Doctor McCoy can, quite frankly, stow it if he can't accept you having some fun, so long as it's in a safe manner."
God, please don't be trying to climb sheer rock faces without any rope...
His laugh is immediate and almost too loud, the mental image of anyone telling Bones to quite frankly, stow it way too fucking funny for its own good. Seriously, there's probably something wrong with Jim that he enjoys watching people vs his CMO. It's the familiarity of it, he thinks, especially after a crisis, that makes it a comfort. And yes, there's probably something else wrong with him that hearing Bones bitch about everything is comforting. But Uhura giving him shit and Spock making yes Captain and go fuck yourself sound calmly interchangeable have also become comforting. He just adores his crew.
"No, not my family," he says, still laughing a little and doing an admirable job of skimming over any emotion attached to his own. "Doctor McCoy's probably got some in Atlanta. We're uh, old friends, I guess. We've spent at least part of every leave together since the Academy. I've got to make sure he does something besides re-organize sickbay stock orders this year."
Then he's going to be absolutely rolling in the aisles when Malcolm first gets himself injured doing something extremely dangerous and possibly stupid, and having only stoic responses of 'for the sake of the crew' or somesuch fired back at the doctor. Bring popcorn.
The laughter at least gains something of a smile out of Malcolm, however awkward, not entirely in on the joke. But that's okay, he's got one of his own. "He certainly sounds more and more like a stick in the mud, sir." That means Malcolm will be at least partly in good company. (He wishes.) "He does realize he has an entire staff to mitigate some of that work, I hope." Pot and kettle.
"Oh, yeah, Bones runs the best sickbay in Starfleet," says Jim. "He's just-- particular. Probably has something to do with having his own practice before enrolling." Or with McCoy being a nutcase. That's fine though. (Yes, Jim did slip up and use the inexplicable nickname.)
And lo, his earlier ordered sandwich arrives, though he ends up sighing and nudging pickles off of it with a toothpick. How the hell does he keep forgetting to ask food allergies be left off of things at this age.
"...Bones," he repeats with a wry look. "That is an unfortunate name for a doctor to have, don't you think?" Look, the story of why he's called that isn't actually any better, so.
"Nickname! You know, sawbones, real old expression for a surgeon. It was popular casual terminology in the days where naval ranks only sounded off in an actual navy. Don't call him that, though, no one who's used it but me has survived."
He's so seamless and upbeat about the explanation that, really, it's no wonder this guy gets away with so much insane bullshit. He could be selling sand to a desert nomad. There's no hint of guile, except for the slight curve of his smile before he takes a bite of his sandwich that might suggest he's fucking with Reed. Only a little.
He shakes his head some, chuckling, incredulous at the man's enthusiasm and positive nature that only minutes before seemed so much more morose. "I'll be certain not to tempt fate in being so astoundingly casual around him, sir." In case he at all had given the impression that he makes a habit of being astoundingly casual around superior officers he doesn't know. "You know, I'm amazed you know that term at all--that's practically ancient."
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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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"Everyone loves saying that," Jim states, "but I think my first officer racks up more, he's just naturally more durable. Cheating if you ask me. Don't worry about it, though, Doctor McCoy's the best in the 'Fleet, and I've only nearly died from alien anaphylaxis once."
Apparently, this is friendly, rank-appropriate conversation with Captain Kirk. On his (relative) downtime, at least. If it helps: while he does sound amused, it isn't careless, but dry. There's something funny to him about the way plenty of people react to how he handles himself.
"Security on the Enterprise doesn't get many slow days once we're out there."
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Dry, wry, dark humour is, thankfully, right up Malcolm's alley. "Good god, is that so? I thought they were shipping me off to a pleasure cruise. I'll have to talk to the brass about it."
It hasn't been quiet, by any means, since he first got out there, but it's true that Enterprise has a certain reputation. Good and bad. It might not get into half the scrapes it does if it wasn't for Captain Kirk, but on the other side, they also wouldn't manage to get out of them. Malcolm draws himself up straighter, not that it gains him any height on the captain. "I've read several reports." Damn near all of them, actually. "Sir, if I may speak freely, I hope to put a stop to your seemingly reckless self-endangerment. And Commander Spock's. A captain and his first officer should not so often be putting themselves in harm's way."
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There's a brief bark of laughter at the pleasure cruise remark, and his affable mood doesn't diminish even when Reed throws the regulations gauntlet down. "I'll take it under advisement," Jim says, and it's to his credit that he doesn't sound patronizing - though the sense that he's had this conversation about a dozen times already can't be avoided. "How I run my ship is how I run my ship, though. I don't ask my crew to do anything I wouldn't."
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"Still, you realize my job involves keeping all of the crew safe, including you. And I don't slack off, sir." But maybe don't get into a debate about how captains shouldn't be throwing themselves headfirst off of cliffs and such in the first five minutes, just maybe.
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--The most antiquated way possible to refer to the officers' mess, which is at the end of this particular hall. Lord only knows who taught Jim to say it.
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He's got a reply to the possibility of hampering anyone, but then he ends with that question, and Malcolm gets a pinched look of confusion for a moment. And, honestly, who does teach that to the younger crowd? At least he has the excuse of a long line of military in his history. "If you're inviting me to join you, I certainly won't decline." Oh boy. Casual encounters with superior officers. Must keep the awkward under control.
The 'O Club' is, of course, straying from the point, and with a short shake of his head, he resumes the original point. "I won't be stuck on you, sir. My concern is, of course, the entire crew, the safety of the ship, and to attempt to bring about the best case scenarios when engaging with anyone or anything."
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Sometimes he resents it, but sometimes it's fine to smile at someone. Especially if he knows they're not a dick.
"See." Jim flashes Malcolm a sunny smile - the kind he must know gets him out of all kinds of trouble. (Or, you know, into it.) "We're going to get along great."
Just outside the mess hall entrance, a cluster of cadets is waiting for an instructor. They pass, and Jim's half-blank, media friendly default expression settles back over his face. One of them's got their comm out to snap a picture or a video of Captain Kirk. Surprise, Reed. You're on social media.
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"Good to have it confirmed that you handle attention well," he muses once they're more out of earshot and into the mess.
How much they're going to get along is, of course, entirely up in the air. And will remain uncommented upon.
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"They should offer a class about handling the press," he says, joking tone more dry than before. Captain Kirk's in a unique situation: maybe he'd be slightly less noticeable if he weren't George Kirk's son, the Kelvin baby, or if Starfleet didn't use him on occasion as a poster boy. Starfleet, of course, is far from the corrupt political monstrosities of the past, and for the most part Jim and his crew are protected (his Vulcan first officer gets his own unfair share of attention), but it's still tiring. And not exactly something he thought of when he was trying to save Earth.
Tables are for chumps, meanwhile. Jim sits himself down at the bar - a perk of the officers' mess - and flashes a small smile at the bartender.
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Generally, captains handle press, as a representative of their whole crew. First officers next down. Heads of departments if one has made a particular breakthrough. And that's if some Starfleet representative hasn't decided to speak for everyone first. He keeps his expectations realistic, he feels.
"I'm fully aware of the amount of attention you and your ship tends to accrue, sir, if you're worried about that."
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But. It's a small thing overall. Just one that starts to drive him fucknuts the longer he's stagnating in San Francisco. The bartender asks what they'd like - Jim orders a sandwich or some description as his regular double shot of whiskey is being poured. It's okay whiskey, the kind an uncultured kid from the sticks might think is nice.
"Taking any courses while you're here? For intellectual stimulation," he adds, in case Reed thinks Jim's insinuating he's still a cadet, or something.
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"Haven't the time, if I'm honest. Only got the orders a few days ago, and in a few days more I'll be shipping out. I'll have plenty of time to get familiar with Yorktown as well as all your crew. I dropped by your lecture because I felt it prudent to introduce myself." Well, that's part of it. "Also to see for myself what kind of man you are." There we go, there's the rest of it. "Stories and reports only say so much, sir."
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"Yorktown is a hell of an installation." No comment on what kind of man Jim might or might not be - he'll let the security officer decide for himself. He's a different guy off-duty, anyway. "Staggering, almost."
When the tropical cocktail has been constructed, Jim slides his own glass over for a toast. "To going boldly," he says, and then knocks back more of the amber liquid than is strictly necessary.
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"Only almost staggering? I was promised awe-inspiring."
Off-duty the man is complicated, and that much he can see from just the short time around him. Those cadets only think they see what he's like during a lecture and in the face of polite if boyish smiles. This is a man, Malcolm reminds himself, that has lost and lost and lost and still come out on top. Let him indulge in drink. His own sip is much smaller after the clinking of glasses.
This is a hell of a position to be granted, the magnitude of which is not lost on him. The dangers are inherent. He could just as easily die on any other posting. That the flagship just happens to get involved more frequently in dangerous missions is merely bad luck, coincidence, if one believes in either concept. And he's sitting here having a drink with Captain Kirk. It's almost surreal.
"How long will you be in the city for? I'm sure the brass has you flinging yourself at every lecture hall and every test and drill they can manage. You've become something of a living legend, for better or worse."
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"Mmm, if you can rate reactions to hour-long talks about the best way to survive orbit-to-atmosphere combat space drops as potentially awestruck..." echoing something Malcolm said earlier. Is Jim teasing him? Could be.
Bad luck and coincidence. Hm. He'll have to decide for himself, once he's out there - Jim loathes considering concepts like fate, but sometimes that's what it feels like; something about the universe knows he's the one who'll do whatever it takes to solve a problem, so it throws the unsolvable shit at him. That is literally what happened, once, in an incident that didn't make it into any accessible reports. Goddamnit, Q.
"--A what?" Living legend. That sounds uncomfortable. Jim downs the rest of his whiskey then plunks the glass down, one finger on the edge of it, silently beckoning the bartender for another double shot. "A little over four weeks. In a few days I'm leaving to run a survival course, then I'm heading out to Georgia after debriefing."
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Some days he almost misses it. He'd say less chance of getting blown up, but that's before ships decide to crash into the city or planet drilling beams strike too near the Academy.
He'll let the incredulity slide. It's probably impolite to remind Kirk of his fame, after all, and he goes straight to the second point, eyebrows bobbing up in surprise. "Georgia? Whatever for?"
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God, please don't be trying to climb sheer rock faces without any rope...
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"No, not my family," he says, still laughing a little and doing an admirable job of skimming over any emotion attached to his own. "Doctor McCoy's probably got some in Atlanta. We're uh, old friends, I guess. We've spent at least part of every leave together since the Academy. I've got to make sure he does something besides re-organize sickbay stock orders this year."
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The laughter at least gains something of a smile out of Malcolm, however awkward, not entirely in on the joke. But that's okay, he's got one of his own. "He certainly sounds more and more like a stick in the mud, sir." That means Malcolm will be at least partly in good company. (He wishes.) "He does realize he has an entire staff to mitigate some of that work, I hope." Pot and kettle.
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And lo, his earlier ordered sandwich arrives, though he ends up sighing and nudging pickles off of it with a toothpick. How the hell does he keep forgetting to ask food allergies be left off of things at this age.
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He's so seamless and upbeat about the explanation that, really, it's no wonder this guy gets away with so much insane bullshit. He could be selling sand to a desert nomad. There's no hint of guile, except for the slight curve of his smile before he takes a bite of his sandwich that might suggest he's fucking with Reed. Only a little.
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