Fic: At His Station, Kirk/Spock, PG-13, Humour
“Captain, you are no doubt aware that these glass panels are titanium enriched. Were you trying to breach them and in effect, murder every being aboard the Enterprise, your drinking vessel would have been required to reach a terminal velocity of 329 metres per second-a force that your human arm is incapable of generating."
At His Station
Spock was at his station. Nothing new about that. The guy was almost always at his station. Heck, even when he wasn’t there, he was there. In that anal-retentive, I-never-leave-my-post, Vulcan-ish way. Spock was always at his station. Typing. Or reading. And being productive at something. At his station. Doing things that the station enabled him to do. Because stations are equipped for that kind of thing.
Kirk was staring long and hard at the Vulcan’s back, his eyebrows knitted together.
“Yes, Captain Kirk?” Spock didn’t even bother turning to face him. Kirk continued to scowl.
“Vhy are Cap’ten Kurk and Mister Spock angry at vun another again?!” Chekov whispered to Sulu. Despite being at the centre of the bridge, he was almost always out of the loop. He had signed up to Starfleet for the astrophysics, but he was beginning to understand that speculating about bridge politics was just as much a part of the job requirements.
Sulu lifted an eyebrow in a plausible imitation of Mr Spock. “You seriously don’t know?”
Somewhere in the background, Chekov could hear Scotty running after his pet alien. (“Ya bleedin, mis'rable, soddin’, hell-sent, piece-a-shit! I’m gonna skin ya, ya wretched beast, and use ya mengin’ hide to wallpaper my room and then I’m gonna jump on ya fuckin’ corpse once I’m done-”)
Everybody besides Spock startled as Kirk’s coffee mug shattered against the observation window. The science officer merely continued to study his monitor, his tone remarkably even despite being the first to break the silence.
“Captain, you are no doubt aware that these glass panels are titanium enriched. Were you trying to breach them and in effect, murder every being aboard the Enterprise, your drinking vessel would have been required to reach a terminal velocity of 329 metres per second-a force that your human arm is incapable of generating.”
Kirk didn’t seem to hear him. He stood up quickly and strode out of the bridge. If the captain’s chair hadn’t been bolted to the floor, it would have fallen over in a most dramatic fashion. Nobody threw a tantrum like Kirk. The man could sulk for Vulcan.
Actually, Chekov had to revise that thought. Lieutenant Uhura could definitely give him a run for his money. Lately, she had taken to ignoring everyone. Granted, her reports were as impeccable as ever and faithfully left on the Captain’s seat at the end of each day, but it was quickly becoming a highly awkward situation. On top of that, she seemed to have developed an obsession with eating. How she heard deep-space vibrations over the sound of crunching Maltesers was anyone’s guess. To make matters worse, Dr McCoy had taken to leaving a variety of post-it notes on her seat. (Today’s one read: If your ass breaks this chair, we’re taking it out of your salary.)
Chekov sighed. The first few days after Kirk’s inauguration had gone smoothly. Perfectly, in fact. Why did it now seem as though the Enterprise was home to the Federation’s most dysfunctional crew? This was one of those moments where he wished he had listened to his mother and just taken up that scholarship at MIT.
***
Bones secretly looked forward to mess hall. He was a doctor, for god's sake, and that meant he was a sadist. There was something wickedly delightful about dinner time. At 7:33pm on the dot, Spock would stride in to collect his tray of Plomeek soup and bread, utterly oblivious to the silence that would fall as four hundred eyes turned to follow him. He would sit at the third seat from the left, directly opposite the beet-red captain who would drop a fork and take a deliberately long time to retrieve it. Uhura would usually glare, eat ferociously and cross her legs a few times before getting up for another helping of dessert.
Dinner was a routine event. No matter what weird crap had happened during the day, you could always count on dinner being the same awkward affair. Though really, he did feel bad for Uhura. He made a mental note to have a word with James.
Tonight, however, was different. According to Scotty, Kirk had been pacing around the walkways all evening after his little outburst on the bridge, sniping at anyone he came across. Insults had been hurled willy nilly, and Scotty seemed utterly delighted in using his fingers to recreate his dramatic fight with the captain. (Bones sometimes wondered about Scotty’s apparent love for being hurled around. He’d have to explore that some time.)
7:33 came and went, and still no sign of the captain or Spock. Or Chekov, for that matter. The dining hall was due to close in a few minutes and Bones would be damned if any of the crew (besides Uhura) skipped a meal. Gathering a tray with a bit of everything on it, (soup for the pointy eared goblin, a sandwhich for the prissy captain and salad for the kid,) he made his way towards the living quarters.
He frowned as he approached Kirk’s door. Chekov was standing outside it, looking increasingly distraught. There were some rather violent noises coming from the other side.
“Doctor, I am so glad you are here! Mister Spock and the captain are fighting again- I’ve been knocking but they don’t seem to be able to hear-”
“Oh, god, Spock, fuck,”
Bones set the tray down at the door. “C’mon, kid. I reckon we leave those two alone to sort out their differences.”
Chekov looked unconvinced as another loud thump resonated, followed by the sound of ripping fabric. “But doctor, they could really hurt each other!” He reached forward to knock again, but McCoy caught his wrist.
“Are you really that naïve?” he asked, incredulous. Chekov still looked confused as hell. McCoy sighed. The reason he never had kids was to avoid situations like this. “C’mon. Grab that salad and walk with me. I think we need to have a talk.”
“About what, doctor?”
“The birds and the bees, kid. The birds and the bees.” McCoy grinned, draping an arm around the boy’s shoulders and steering him away.
Fin
At His Station
Spock was at his station. Nothing new about that. The guy was almost always at his station. Heck, even when he wasn’t there, he was there. In that anal-retentive, I-never-leave-my-post, Vulcan-ish way. Spock was always at his station. Typing. Or reading. And being productive at something. At his station. Doing things that the station enabled him to do. Because stations are equipped for that kind of thing.
Kirk was staring long and hard at the Vulcan’s back, his eyebrows knitted together.
“Yes, Captain Kirk?” Spock didn’t even bother turning to face him. Kirk continued to scowl.
“Vhy are Cap’ten Kurk and Mister Spock angry at vun another again?!” Chekov whispered to Sulu. Despite being at the centre of the bridge, he was almost always out of the loop. He had signed up to Starfleet for the astrophysics, but he was beginning to understand that speculating about bridge politics was just as much a part of the job requirements.
Sulu lifted an eyebrow in a plausible imitation of Mr Spock. “You seriously don’t know?”
Somewhere in the background, Chekov could hear Scotty running after his pet alien. (“Ya bleedin, mis'rable, soddin’, hell-sent, piece-a-shit! I’m gonna skin ya, ya wretched beast, and use ya mengin’ hide to wallpaper my room and then I’m gonna jump on ya fuckin’ corpse once I’m done-”)
Everybody besides Spock startled as Kirk’s coffee mug shattered against the observation window. The science officer merely continued to study his monitor, his tone remarkably even despite being the first to break the silence.
“Captain, you are no doubt aware that these glass panels are titanium enriched. Were you trying to breach them and in effect, murder every being aboard the Enterprise, your drinking vessel would have been required to reach a terminal velocity of 329 metres per second-a force that your human arm is incapable of generating.”
Kirk didn’t seem to hear him. He stood up quickly and strode out of the bridge. If the captain’s chair hadn’t been bolted to the floor, it would have fallen over in a most dramatic fashion. Nobody threw a tantrum like Kirk. The man could sulk for Vulcan.
Actually, Chekov had to revise that thought. Lieutenant Uhura could definitely give him a run for his money. Lately, she had taken to ignoring everyone. Granted, her reports were as impeccable as ever and faithfully left on the Captain’s seat at the end of each day, but it was quickly becoming a highly awkward situation. On top of that, she seemed to have developed an obsession with eating. How she heard deep-space vibrations over the sound of crunching Maltesers was anyone’s guess. To make matters worse, Dr McCoy had taken to leaving a variety of post-it notes on her seat. (Today’s one read: If your ass breaks this chair, we’re taking it out of your salary.)
Chekov sighed. The first few days after Kirk’s inauguration had gone smoothly. Perfectly, in fact. Why did it now seem as though the Enterprise was home to the Federation’s most dysfunctional crew? This was one of those moments where he wished he had listened to his mother and just taken up that scholarship at MIT.
***
Bones secretly looked forward to mess hall. He was a doctor, for god's sake, and that meant he was a sadist. There was something wickedly delightful about dinner time. At 7:33pm on the dot, Spock would stride in to collect his tray of Plomeek soup and bread, utterly oblivious to the silence that would fall as four hundred eyes turned to follow him. He would sit at the third seat from the left, directly opposite the beet-red captain who would drop a fork and take a deliberately long time to retrieve it. Uhura would usually glare, eat ferociously and cross her legs a few times before getting up for another helping of dessert.
Dinner was a routine event. No matter what weird crap had happened during the day, you could always count on dinner being the same awkward affair. Though really, he did feel bad for Uhura. He made a mental note to have a word with James.
Tonight, however, was different. According to Scotty, Kirk had been pacing around the walkways all evening after his little outburst on the bridge, sniping at anyone he came across. Insults had been hurled willy nilly, and Scotty seemed utterly delighted in using his fingers to recreate his dramatic fight with the captain. (Bones sometimes wondered about Scotty’s apparent love for being hurled around. He’d have to explore that some time.)
7:33 came and went, and still no sign of the captain or Spock. Or Chekov, for that matter. The dining hall was due to close in a few minutes and Bones would be damned if any of the crew (besides Uhura) skipped a meal. Gathering a tray with a bit of everything on it, (soup for the pointy eared goblin, a sandwhich for the prissy captain and salad for the kid,) he made his way towards the living quarters.
He frowned as he approached Kirk’s door. Chekov was standing outside it, looking increasingly distraught. There were some rather violent noises coming from the other side.
“Doctor, I am so glad you are here! Mister Spock and the captain are fighting again- I’ve been knocking but they don’t seem to be able to hear-”
“Oh, god, Spock, fuck,”
Bones set the tray down at the door. “C’mon, kid. I reckon we leave those two alone to sort out their differences.”
Chekov looked unconvinced as another loud thump resonated, followed by the sound of ripping fabric. “But doctor, they could really hurt each other!” He reached forward to knock again, but McCoy caught his wrist.
“Are you really that naïve?” he asked, incredulous. Chekov still looked confused as hell. McCoy sighed. The reason he never had kids was to avoid situations like this. “C’mon. Grab that salad and walk with me. I think we need to have a talk.”
“About what, doctor?”
“The birds and the bees, kid. The birds and the bees.” McCoy grinned, draping an arm around the boy’s shoulders and steering him away.
Fin