"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it (mostly) (except for that 24 hour period where he'd been demoted) (which would be more of a joke had it not been repealed due to Admiral Pike's death and is instead a twisted knot of grief he's never quite managed to undo), he surely can't be stupid.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."
"What you're saying is I've completely Shanghaied you." Jim sounds amused. "No, you're not. I've just got about.. uh, four hundred official comms to get back to, and about a year's worth of paperwork. So I do appreciate you humoring me for a little while, Lieutenant."
Jim is in no hurry to get back to all that, obviously, but he does have to. Alas.
Maybe you should've thought of that before accepting the captaincy, Jim.
"I have no problems keeping you from work you don't want to do." Until they're actually both on duty and on the ship and have things that need done. By got that armoury is going to be spit and polish clean before it's even done being built. "Unfortunately, duty does call. Part and parcel of the job."
He was warned about the paperwork, but dear god, it's just so much worse than he thought.
"Sure is." Jim sounds wry, but there's obvious fondness, too. He wouldn't be doing this if he didn't want to. And he does want to. Moment of uncertainty aside-- this is who he is. He's not a climber; he's never going to go into politics despite all his ingrained knowledge of it. He doesn't have to live his father's life, or Christopher's. It's okay to live for himself.
He stands up and gives Malcolm's shoulder a bracing touch that's firmer than an awkward pat but not quite an over-friendly slap. Is there a word for that. There should be.
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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
Jim is in no hurry to get back to all that, obviously, but he does have to. Alas.
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"I have no problems keeping you from work you don't want to do." Until they're actually both on duty and on the ship and have things that need done. By got that armoury is going to be spit and polish clean before it's even done being built. "Unfortunately, duty does call. Part and parcel of the job."
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"Sure is." Jim sounds wry, but there's obvious fondness, too. He wouldn't be doing this if he didn't want to. And he does want to. Moment of uncertainty aside-- this is who he is. He's not a climber; he's never going to go into politics despite all his ingrained knowledge of it. He doesn't have to live his father's life, or Christopher's. It's okay to live for himself.
He stands up and gives Malcolm's shoulder a bracing touch that's firmer than an awkward pat but not quite an over-friendly slap. Is there a word for that. There should be.
"I'll see you in a month, Reed."