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."
"I read a lot," he says simply, punctuated with a shrug. A lot a lot, for the record; Jim reads over-fast and retains all of it, a creepy, genius-level sponge hidden beneath the chipped shoulders and daredevil smiles. But maybe that's to be expected - to have been given his rank at his age, and having been able to maintain it (mostly) (except for that 24 hour period where he'd been demoted) (which would be more of a joke had it not been repealed due to Admiral Pike's death and is instead a twisted knot of grief he's never quite managed to undo), he surely can't be stupid.
"You're from a military family, right?"
A lot a lot. Reading. Novels and text books and personnel files alike. Jim figures the last one's only fair, though. Everyone already knows something about him when they meet.
There's reading and then there's reading. There's picking up trivia and generally mostly useless fluff and there's learning and retaining. Malcolm has his areas of particular expertise. Those areas of expertise just don't happen to involve everything.
This question, however, is always to be expected. The long-standing military traditions. He's proud of it, of course, but at the same time, it's a sore spot. His fingers at the base of his glass rotate the drink slowly, but he doesn't shy away from his captain's attention. "Yes, sir. Generations of primarily navymen."
"Is it weird to break tradition? --For the record, I think you're getting the better end of the deal."
He's not nitpicking, is what he's trying to say. Of course, Jim has enormous respect for the various military organizations of Earth and the Federation at large, but a.) there'll always be a part of him that sees it as sort of barbaric and antiquated, and b.) space is infinitely more fun.
No, no, this is not at all the way he imagined a first meeting with any captain was going to go, but here they are, drinking in the officer's mess, talking about Georgia and sawbones and tradition and legends. Though at last he casts his gaze away, reflecting, a corner of his mouth gives a wry lift. "So do I, if I'm honest. I've had quite some time to get used to all this by now, thankfully--as used as anyone can get to space exploration."
He doesn't talk about his family, much less their, let's say, communication issues. He barely talks about himself, honestly. So even just admitting it seems like a compromise. "And it is very strange, yes. It's swapping one navy out for another, and honestly the role on Earth is becoming more and more ceremonial and research-based with more general peace we have at home. Still, it's not how I envisioned my life when I was a lad."
Family is a weird, mysterious subject, as far as Jim's concerned. He views most of the notion of family through an outsider's lens; his brother is as estranged as it gets, his relationship with his mother is built on a house of cards that only began its construction after she found out Jim had been attending the Academy without letting her know. Also his father was blown up by evil time-traveling Romulans. Actual family, people who have traditions and relationships and know each other... it's as alien as some of the planets he's discovered.
"I think the research stuff, that's probably real important, right?" (Like what if someday it turns out the universe desperately needs whales to survive but whales go extinct.) "It's nice to think about not needing any kind of militarized organization, someday."
(Don't be ridiculous whales would never be that important.) "Someday we'll even have all of the oceans completely explored, and there will be nothing left on Earth to discover." He doesn't suggest it with any morose tones; it's just a fact. Someday, and it may be in ten years, it may be in a thousand, there will just simply stop being undiscovered places and creatures and materials in the natural world.
Good thing there's no reason at all to talk about family now that tradition is out of the way, haha. That would be a disaster otherwise. Who wants to talk about fucked up family dynamics? Not these boys. "Starfleet will always have to be paramilitary at the very least. We are going to need weapons. We need to be able to organise fleets for wars. Federation peace is difficult enough, galactic peace a dream, and universal peace?" He softly shakes his head. "It's nice to think about, yes. Just unfortunately unrealistic."
A little huff of unfunny laughter. "No one knows that better than I do." Jim's out of whiskey. Ugh. But he's got another lecture tomorrow, so he probably shouldn't get tanked-- even if he does have a handful of hangover-cure hypos Bones mixed him, he just hates the damn things.
"It's interesting. Especially here, the debate over who people think the Federation will crack for peace talks first, the Klingons or the Romulans. Klingons are the popular bet, last I heard." He toys with the empty shot glass, too coordinated to be absent. "Who's your money on?"
"Klingons," he says with a fair amount of certainty. "They don't like doing peace, and they aren't big fans of negotiation, and their pride is almost always their downfall, but in the end, they do tend to do what's best for themselves. And sometimes what's best is peace. They'll cave and then say it was the more honourable path. The Romulans, there's...too much history there for that to be as easy. Even with the impending supernova," yaaay temporal shenanigans!, "they'd rather turn to whatever allies they have themselves than reach out to the Federation for support. We're very low on the list of who to call in case of emergency. Besides, it hardly ended well for them before." Wait. "In that alternate future."
Jim nods, slow. He almost says They have the red matter, but of course, that's beyond classified. Nevermind that it was him and his crew who ended up on Romulus desperately trying to dissuade the Empire from using it, not anybody from Section 31.
"They want to believe that the Federation manufactured the destruction of Romulus," he says. And it's entirely likely he got that opinion from Nero and the other renegades-- Jim would be privy to anything Pike had said about his time with them, after all, in addition to his own exposure in combat. "But there has to be a portion of them that want, at the very least, to avoid another war. You know? Because we're still here. After the 'Fleet was devastated, and Vulcan... it would have been the opportune time to strike."
But there is a dissenting faction on Romulus. He knows, he's met the leaders. He thinks of them sometimes, wonders if they're all dead yet, or if any of them remember Ambassador Spock's final plea.
"I feel like we're going to end up sitting down with the Romulans, but it won't hold." And he huffs another laugh, this one less bleak. "Klingons in Starfleet. Can you imagine?"
He can read between the lines of the reports and logs on the Narada incident that propelled James Kirk into fame and captaincy to know there's still a lot that's classified as hell. He might never himself know the whole story. He's learned enough to have an opinion, at least. Maybe on Enterprise he'll get to experience some of this really fun but classified stuff for himself.
"With time... Perhaps not in our generation, but the next. I don't imagine they could ever go back to Kronos lest they dishonour their entire house, but I believe it will happen someday." Well, that's a strangely optimistic sentiment for him. "It'll be a hell of a culture shock, though." There we go. "And the Romulans, sir--you would know better than I would about how they are, but you're right, even if talks open, I doubt anything solid or lasting will come of it. There's too much duplicity and deception that goes around."
It'd be easy to let himself indulge in a moment of being, mentally, somewhere else. Thinking of Romulus, and Vulcan, and Ambassador Spock. But that's something he's put away-- it's not his place to get emotional about it.
"I think it'd be great. Klingons in uniform." That's either a joke about Klingons looking funny, or him being very inclusive. Hard to tell. Jim's got a lot of very strong opinions about the warrior culture, some of which are unfair, but some of which are oddly charitable. And then with a sigh, "Romulans..." Jim just shakes his head. "Maybe someday." A beat. "I'm not keeping you from anything, am I?"
"I, er. No, sir. I plan on visiting a few old haunts while I'm in town, but I haven't anything scheduled right now. My intent was to sit in on your lecture, introduce myself, and...well. I wasn't anticipating drinks. Not that I'm ungrateful for the time you've taken, sir." They'll get to know each other and their styles and their irritating eccentricities and habits of extreme self-sacrifice/suicidal tendencies soon enough. "I'm...not keeping you, I hope."
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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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"You're from a military family, right?"
A lot a lot. Reading. Novels and text books and personnel files alike. Jim figures the last one's only fair, though. Everyone already knows something about him when they meet.
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This question, however, is always to be expected. The long-standing military traditions. He's proud of it, of course, but at the same time, it's a sore spot. His fingers at the base of his glass rotate the drink slowly, but he doesn't shy away from his captain's attention. "Yes, sir. Generations of primarily navymen."
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He's not nitpicking, is what he's trying to say. Of course, Jim has enormous respect for the various military organizations of Earth and the Federation at large, but a.) there'll always be a part of him that sees it as sort of barbaric and antiquated, and b.) space is infinitely more fun.
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He doesn't talk about his family, much less their, let's say, communication issues. He barely talks about himself, honestly. So even just admitting it seems like a compromise. "And it is very strange, yes. It's swapping one navy out for another, and honestly the role on Earth is becoming more and more ceremonial and research-based with more general peace we have at home. Still, it's not how I envisioned my life when I was a lad."
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"I think the research stuff, that's probably real important, right?" (Like what if someday it turns out the universe desperately needs whales to survive but whales go extinct.) "It's nice to think about not needing any kind of militarized organization, someday."
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Good thing there's no reason at all to talk about family now that tradition is out of the way, haha. That would be a disaster otherwise. Who wants to talk about fucked up family dynamics? Not these boys. "Starfleet will always have to be paramilitary at the very least. We are going to need weapons. We need to be able to organise fleets for wars. Federation peace is difficult enough, galactic peace a dream, and universal peace?" He softly shakes his head. "It's nice to think about, yes. Just unfortunately unrealistic."
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"It's interesting. Especially here, the debate over who people think the Federation will crack for peace talks first, the Klingons or the Romulans. Klingons are the popular bet, last I heard." He toys with the empty shot glass, too coordinated to be absent. "Who's your money on?"
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"They want to believe that the Federation manufactured the destruction of Romulus," he says. And it's entirely likely he got that opinion from Nero and the other renegades-- Jim would be privy to anything Pike had said about his time with them, after all, in addition to his own exposure in combat. "But there has to be a portion of them that want, at the very least, to avoid another war. You know? Because we're still here. After the 'Fleet was devastated, and Vulcan... it would have been the opportune time to strike."
But there is a dissenting faction on Romulus. He knows, he's met the leaders. He thinks of them sometimes, wonders if they're all dead yet, or if any of them remember Ambassador Spock's final plea.
"I feel like we're going to end up sitting down with the Romulans, but it won't hold." And he huffs another laugh, this one less bleak. "Klingons in Starfleet. Can you imagine?"
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"With time... Perhaps not in our generation, but the next. I don't imagine they could ever go back to Kronos lest they dishonour their entire house, but I believe it will happen someday." Well, that's a strangely optimistic sentiment for him. "It'll be a hell of a culture shock, though." There we go. "And the Romulans, sir--you would know better than I would about how they are, but you're right, even if talks open, I doubt anything solid or lasting will come of it. There's too much duplicity and deception that goes around."
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"I think it'd be great. Klingons in uniform." That's either a joke about Klingons looking funny, or him being very inclusive. Hard to tell. Jim's got a lot of very strong opinions about the warrior culture, some of which are unfair, but some of which are oddly charitable. And then with a sigh, "Romulans..." Jim just shakes his head. "Maybe someday." A beat. "I'm not keeping you from anything, am I?"
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and habits of extreme self-sacrifice/suicidal tendenciessoon enough. "I'm...not keeping you, I hope."(no subject)
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