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samingtonwilson · 7 years

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Loot - Part 7 - Jim Kirk

Loot masterlist Word count: 2,734 (GOD WHAT THE HELL) Warnings: language

A/N: let me start off by saying part 8 will be a lot better and will actually push the story along, i just wanted and needed some leonard mccoy in my life. i want to wrap this story up in 10-11 parts so we’ll see if i can actually do that. also the romulan in here is pulled right from memory alpha because im too lazy to look for more somewhere else. i also added uhura to this part because i would die for her. that’s all i guess. ENJOY N LEMME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK! tell me if you want to be tagged, etc.

You sat beside Lieutenant Nyota Uhura on the bridge. The officer usually in that place, Lieutenant Bashir was cooped up in the medbay with something resembling Legionnaires’ disease but of an unknown origin— McCoy assumed it came from the away mission Jim and six others carried out despite advice not to.

The doctor’s advice was sound considering the hostile natives of the planet that forced the away team into hiding. This wouldn’t have been much of a problem had there not been an ongoing storm— that interference rendered Scotty unable to beam the seven officers back on board and forced said seven to fend for themselves food-wise. Usually well-stocked with rations, Jim ensured the crew there would be absolutely no way they would miss any meals. This, of course, was wrong and poor Lieutenant Bashir, who filled the medbay with his groans and winces, likely ingested a foreign bacteria through the planet’s limited water and food supply.

While you were thankful to shadow probably the absolute best xenolinguist in Starfleet Academy history because of Jim’s decision to execute the away mission, his behavior worried you.

You’d always heard that Jim was daring, brave, and adventurous, but each decision he’d made in the last week was made without consideration for consequences. Being the last person to preach that, however, you kept quiet— and it wasn’t as if the two of you were speaking enough for you to say anything in the first place.

“Here— put this in,” Nyota told you, placing her metallic earphone in your hand. She rose from her chair next. “And sit here. I want to play you a recording from a few years ago.”

You nodded and stuck the speaker in your ear, a bobbled portion of it sticking out. You smoothed your hand over your tied hair and slid into her seat as she stood behind you.

You enjoyed Nyota’s company. She was a better teacher than most at the Academy. Her technique, her knowledge, and her humor helped beyond what any class would. Aside from her total brilliance, she was quick-witted, kind when merited, and extremely understanding— not to mention outrageously beautiful.

Her dark hair was usually pulled back and tied out of her striking features, her large brown eyes always lined impeccably with black eyeliner and the thickest frame of eyelashes, and her cappuccino skin managed to glow in even the abysmal lighting of the bridge and the commissary. You had to physically stop yourself from constantly flirting with her— especially around Commander Spock.

She reached over your shoulder and flipped a switch, the screen displaying several sound waves.

“Now, listen carefully. I want you to tell me what you hear— an origin planet of the dialect and a translation.”

You nodded again and listened as she played the recording at a louder volume. You bit down on your bottom lip and leaned forward. “It’s Romulan.”

“What’s it saying?”

You listened carefully and tilted your head a little.

“Setha-tri par trukatha. Setha-ki par trukatha. Setha-mille par trukatha.”

Your eyebrows came together and you repeated the message in your head. “Is it a self-destruction message?”

“Yes!” she said loudly, her hand clapping against your shoulder. She laughed when you winced quietly. “Oh, honey, you’d be surprised how many communications officers actually speak and understand any of the three Romulan dialects. It’s how I got this position— the officer before me couldn’t distinguish Romulan from Vulcan.”

“And he was the primary communications officer?” you snorted.

She motioned for you to move back to your original seat. “I know, I couldn’t believe it either. I guess not everyone has an aptitude for languages like you and I,” she said with a sigh, brushing her hair over her shoulder.

You laughed and sat back. You crossed your legs, setting your arms atop your knee. Your fingers went from being clasped together to twisting one another and the toe of your boot went from bouncing to kicking the air.

You knew your restlessness was a by-product of your anxiety caused by your presence on the bridge— and you thought that domino effect was awfully tiring.

Though the bridge crew was nice enough, Jim constant occupation of the captain’s chair was unnerving. Once aboard the bridge, Captain Mode was his default setting. His arms placed on the armrests so his fingers could dangle off the ends, he would sit with his icy blue eyes narrowed at the large window overlooking open space. He spoke only when he deemed necessary and rarely smiled in the way you were so used to.

As if you didn’t know, Nyota told you this was unlike him. Of course, he would behave as a captain should whilst on the bridge, however, he would rarely snap as he was beginning to and would rarely keep the atmosphere so full of tension. He usually spoke non-stop, expressing his observations to Spock, Chekov, or Sulu— depending on who he thought would be more interested in his musings. She said the behavioral change had come about in just the past two weeks or so.

He seemed vacant.

His eyes felt vacant, his voice sounded vacant, and his smiles appeared vacant. He didn’t look lost or uninterested, nor did he look sad or especially frustrated, he was just absent. Physically there, his features and behavior made you think he’d gone as far as he could in his mind and sat there without the ability to face what was before him. He reminded you of a shell.

You thought he might have sensed the intense emptiness of his actions and tried to make up for it with increasingly risky behavior— as if he was overcompensating.

From the execution of an unendorsed-by-his-crew away mission, to his blatant disregard for Spock’s warnings about the native population by poking the natives’ patience with a stick, Jim seemed to be hoping his riskiness would give his superficial frustration, his disingenuous lack of interest the appearance of substance. Like he really was an angry young man stereotype that thought himself above all else.

It was poor decision-making on his part considering each member of his crew knew him well enough to know he rarely embodied and relied on stereotypes— even you knew him well enough to know that.

But he stuck to it. He remained vacant and continued to overcompensate with bouts of anger and precarious behavior— and you couldn’t help but feel totally responsible.

The thought that you made Jim into the shell he’d assumably become when your intention was to prevent the occurrence of such a thing in the future pushed your tired body to the point of utter exhaustion— an exhaustion too deep for sleep to cure, an exhaustion inching you toward regretting coming on the bridge each morning.

You returned to the bridge like clockwork each day regardless.

You only observed Nyota for three hours and the objective benefits outweighed the subjective cons. Besides, you were beginning to think of going to the bridge and seeing Jim act this way as penance for your mistake-prone, likely blister-covered soul.

At the end of your three hours, you would find relief in solitude. Solitary turbolift ride, solitary walk from the lift to your quarters, solitary evening in your quarters. It was a relief like no other.

However, much to your dismay, today was a bit different.

Unfortunately, you were to head to the medbay for your weekly check-in with McCoy. Although it was only the second time you had one of these appointments, you were tired of them.

You loved Dr. McCoy— he was as funny as he was grumpy, and he was very grumpy— but the idea of needing to be checked over every week to make sure you hadn’t charred another part of your body felt a bit excessive.

As you rose from your chair after saying goodbye to Nyota, you pulled the left sleeve of your shirt to cover the scarring that remained over your palm and fingers and took a deep breath to sooth your lightheadedness.

You smiled at Chekov when you caught his eye as he turned around and silently waved.

He returned the wave, his action gaining Jim’s attention.

Jim twisted his neck a bit, a lock of his otherwise neat blonde hair falling over his forehead. His blue eyes met yours and you watched his eyebrows fall to a neutral position rather than furrowed. His frown straightened out and his usually clenched jaw came loose.

You smiled at him a little, nodding once. The lightheadedness, in turn, grew stronger.

He offered you a similar smile and turned to face the window again.

You took that as your cue to rush to the lift and not stop deep breathing exercises until it came to a halt upon your desired deck.

The medbay doors slid open as you approached them and the smell of antiseptic was overpowering. The pretty blonde nurse seated at the nurse’s station smiled at you politely.

You knew she recognized you. You felt in the medbay what frequent flyers probably felt in airports— you just didn’t like it.

“He’s in Exam Room 2,” she said, motioning towards the corridor to your left.

You nodded and, once you were two feet from entering the exam room, called out, “Bonesy, I’m still scarred.”

“Emotionally or physically?” was the response you received as you stepped through the door. You could hear the smirk in his gruff voice.

“Oh, both.” You smiled at him and hopped onto the biobed. “Obviously.”

He was leant against the counter on the far right of the room with his arms crossed over his chest. His dark hair was combed perfectly and his blue shirt was totally wrinkle-free— it was hard to believe he was on hour seven of an eight-hour shift. “What’s the damage this week?”

“Minimal,” you answered honestly, rolling your sleeves up. You held your arms out to him. “See? No new burns.”

He rolled his hazel eyes with a purse of his lips— his usual disbelieving expression. He stepped before you and began recording the many numbers displayed on the monitor. “Vitals are off. Heart rate is quick and temperature’s a little high. Have you been feelin’ a little sick lately?”

“No more so than usual.”

You wanted to back away from his hand as he laid it flat against your forehead, his lips forming an abyss-like scowl.

“Last time we did your bloodwork, your hemoglobin and sodium were low. Takin’ those iron supplements and salt tablets, I trust.” His expression said he did not trust.

You shrugged. “Whenever I remember to.”

“Not good enough.” He stared at his PADD again. “Eatin’ well?”

“We’re on a starship, Bones. No one is eating well.”

“Try to,” he said simply, looking up at you through his thick eyelashes. “What about sleep? Gettin’ enough of that?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Define ‘enough.’”

“Darlin’, have you been sleeping at all?”

“‘At all’ is, like, one minute and above, right?” you asked. “If so, yes, I have been sleeping at all.”

He offered you his most sarcastic look. “You’re not eating right, your vitals are all over the place, you only take your supplements when you remember to rather than when you’ve been asked to, and you aren’t sleepin’. This is what you’re callin’ minimal damage?”

“Yes, but all of those things were true last week, too. This week, I didn’t burn myself,” you pointed out with an almost pitiable amount of pride. “That’s real progress, my friend.”

“That’s real pathetic, my friend.”

“You’ll heal more flies with honey than vinegar.”

He snorted. “It’s ‘you’ll catch more flies with honey.’ Either your lack of sleep is already takin’ a toll on cognitive processes, or you’ve never been the sharpest tool in the shed.” He paused to frown in consideration before continuing, “Maybe a lil’ bit of both.”

“Has anyone ever told you to heal with love?”

“Ain’t a chance in hell I’ll be takin’ your advice after ‘you’ll heal more flies with honey,’” he told you with a laugh, shaking his head once. “I take it the lack of burns means Scotty fixed your replicator.”

“Something like that,” you shrugged. “He threw it out and gave me a new one.”

You’d thought that, in itself, would be a pain. You wouldn’t have an excuse to have forearms littered with crescent-shaped burns anymore. You would be forced into being careful— something you weren’t used to.

The artifact wasn’t giving you much trouble, however, and didn’t bother the ship much either. After you returned from the medbay and retrieved it from the storage closet that night, you tossed the burnt shirt aside and stared at the ancient metal in your hands. You ran your finger over the inscriptions and fought the urge to throw it against the wall. Instead, you once again placed it in your closet and prepared yourself for the worst.

But, over the last two weeks, a strange calm had come over the artifact. There were no temperature hikes, no increases in humidity, no spikes in volatility— an orange glow stayed over your clothes and a soft hum emitted from the closet. You assumed it was due to the artifact’s overcoming of the nebula’s magnetic impact and hoped for precisely that, extremely satisfied that you weren’t roped into heedful behavior.

“Wise man.”

“Wise snitch of a man,” you corrected, scowling.

McCoy snorted. “Don’t be such a child— he did the right thing.”

“Yeah, yeah— agree to disagree. Let’s move on.”

“Okay, new subject then.” He looked up from his PADD and set the tablet beside you on the biobed. “Is there a reason you aren’t able to eat or sleep?”

“Seamless topic change.”

“Thanks, I try. Answer the question.

“There’s a reason,” you nodded. “The food’s gross and my mattress is made of broken glass.”

He narrowed his eyes and raked his long fingers through his hair. “I’m bein’ serious. Did you notice a pick-up in your sleeplessness and lack of appetite?”

“Cut to the chase,” was becoming a common phrase for you since boarding the Enterprise and you used it again in that moment, crossing your arms over your chest and cocking a single eyebrow.

“In the last two weeks, you’ve barely been eating.”

He shook his head when you opened your mouth to speak. “Don’t try to defend yourself, sweetheart— I pulled your replicator logs.”

He nodded when you shut your mouth and continued, “Judging by the onset of your pale appearance, your lightheadedness, forgetfulness, obvious deficiency in knowledge of idioms, you haven’t been able to sleep for approximately the same amount of time.”

“Okay. I’ve been busier these last two weeks— with Uhura on the bridge and—”

“I make it a point not to get involved with Jim’s love life.” He shook his head and clicked his tongue, “Or rather, sex life. But I’ll interfere when I feel like it’s necessary.” He sighed and crossed his arms over his chest just as you had. “So, tell me, darlin’, what the fuck is wrong with the two of you that two weeks of nonsense aren’t enough?”

“What?” You sounded a bit annoyed— mostly because you were. “What are you talking about?”

“Botha y’all, I swear,” he said under his breath. “Fuck if I care who is sleepin’ with who, but when your health starts slipping, it becomes my concern. Same with Jim’s.”

“I’m fine, Jim is fine.”

“It’s like y’all fuckin’ rehearsed this shit. I can see who’s fine and who isn’t with objectivity, I don’t need your input or Jim’s input. Be adults, talk to one another, sort it out— there would be no reason for the both of you to be so upset if it was unsalvageable.”

“Bones, my reasons haven’t changed. Think of it as preventative measures, like a vaccine.”

He smiled at you softly. “Darlin’, dealing with people and dealing with diseases are two very different things. Stop worryin’ about what’ll happen in the future and causin’ yourself pain on a ‘what if.’”

“If the ‘what if’ comes true, it’s gonna be a lot worse than this.”

“Take it as it comes. This whole thing might be worth all of that.” He paused and raised a single eyebrow, frowning. “Hard to believe y’all have feelings for each other in the first place— you both have the emotional depth of goldfish and the attachment tendencies of nomads.”

“Please, God, no more analogies.”

tagged: @outside-the-government @daughterofthebrowncoats @multifandom-slytherin@buckyy3s @cinema212 @caaptain @dani-fae @wonders-of-the-enterprise @imaginesofdreams @the-witching-hours12-3 @kaitymccoy123

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