Nightmare (Kirk/McCoy, PG-13)
No excuses, just slightly cracky Flash!fic for the St. Patrick's weekend " Drinks!" challenge going on at jim_and_bones. A Nightmare is apparently a cocktail made with Gin, Madeira, cherry Brandy, and orange juice, which has nothing to do with the story but does in fact sound like a nightmare.
When a captain exits the turbolift onto the Bridge, all eyes and a few chairs swivel toward him. For someone who doesn’t mind a bit of drama--someone, say, like Jim Kirk--it’s a nice way to start a shift. Being the focus of attention puts a bit of spring in his step, makes him lift his chin and meet everyone’s eyes.
Except today, when Jim notices that everyone is looking at him, but no one’s looking at his face. Three steps onto the Bridge, halfway to his chair, Jim feels a draft where none is supposed to be and realizes he’s naked.
Jim is used to rapidly assessing threats and plotting courses of action. His main options now seem to be a) scream, cover his crotch with his hands and run back to the turbolift while everyone looks at his scuttling backside or b) pretend that nothing’s wrong. B is the obvious choice, one that allows for the likelihood that this is some unannounced psychological stress test or the result of a top-secret clothes-dissolving beam.
The faux leather seat of the captain’s chair is smooth and cool, the sensation rather pleasant, at least until bits that are usually well insulated dangle and then recoil. Jim hopes the crew remembers the basics of the effects of cold on venous hydrostatics.
“Captain,” Uhura says, swiveling her chair in his direction but keeping her eyes glued to the viewscreen, “we’ve received a hail from Lyndarius. The Lyndarian Ambassador is ready to conduct the pre-landing briefing at our convenience.”
“Fine,” Jim says. “Put him on screen.”
“Sir?” Jim hears heavy overtones of Are you nuts? in her voice. “Don’t you think we should review protocol one more time before initiating contact?”
“Why?” He turns his chair toward Uhura’s station and sees Chekov flinch. “We went over it ad nauseam at the staff meeting this morning.”
“I strongly recommend we review it again.” She exchanges a significant glance with Spock. “Over here.”
“Oh, all right.” He takes his time walking over, making sure to brush against Chekov just to mess with him, because by now he’s figured out exactly what’s going on.
Jim approaches Uhura’s station, not so close as to constitute harassment but near enough that he gets the long-suffering eyebrow, and she stands up to form a protective little gaggle with Spock that doesn’t change the fact that Jim’s bare ass is still pointing Bridgeward.
“Captain,” Spock says with appropriate gravity, “we have reason to believe that you may be suffering from some form of mental duress or outside influence.”
“Really.” Jim folds his arms to mirror Spock and Uhura’s. “And on what do you base that hypothesis, Mr. Spock?” Spock allows his gaze to dip, briefly. “Ah. Well, as it happens, I have a perfectly good explanation for this.”
“Please continue.”
“I’m having a dream. It’s extremely common for humans to dream that they’re naked in public. If the person in the dream feels humiliated, it means they fear exposure, and if they don’t--”
“It means they have a titanic ego,” Uhura finishes, “probably about the wrong things.”
“Or maybe are just comfortable in their own skin.” Jim gives his bare thigh a slap for emphasis, making Uhura jump a little.
Spock remains motionless. “Captain, may I ask if there’s any evidence--besides the absence of your attire--to support your conclusion?”
“Certainly. There’s the fact that I don’t remember how I got here, attire-less, and also that if this weren’t a dream, the Bridge wouldn’t be--” He looks around; the Bridge is, in fact, in perfect working order. “Or--hey, Sulu, you’re probably a werewolf or my long-lost brother or something, right?”
“Don’t think so, sir.”
“I do not find your argument convincing,” Spock says.
“Bullshit--I’ll prove it. Uhura, pinch me.” Without hesitation she does, hard, on the forearm, long nails biting into his skin. “Ow!” The room refuses to waver, go black, or fade away.
A second later, Bones steps onto the Bridge and almost drops his tricorder.
“Jim, what’s this about--sweet, fancy Jesus, why are you buck naked on the Bridge, man?”
Jim’s tempted to tease Bones for staring; it’s not like he hasn’t seen all this plenty of times before. “As I’ve been explaining to Spock and Uhura, it’s obviously a dream. You can prove that, right? That this is all a dream?”
“What do I look like, a philosopher?” Bones masters his shock enough to start feverishly scanning. “I couldn’t begin to guess what it is, but something ain’t right. I’m taking you down to Sickbay. After we get a uniform sent discreetly up here.”
Jim starts to back in the opposite direction from the door. “Now, Bones, there’s nothing--”
“We’re in a First Contact situation with the Lyndarians,” Uhura says. “We can’t afford anything...untoward.”
“That’s right, Jim.” Bones lowers the tricorder and reaches toward him. Jim notices the hypo holstered at his belt.
“No,” Jim says, breaking out in a sweat that goes cold faster than usual.
“C’mon, now.” Bones’s voice is ingratiating, husky. “Just come along quietly. Don’t make me pull Regulation 121 on you.” His hand touches Jim’s arm and Jim flinches.
“You wouldn’t--would you? It could take weeks to get the Admiralty to clear me for duty after that.” But Bones’s eyes are hard and implacable. Jim looks to Spock and Uhura for support and finds none. He can’t let Bones take him off the Bridge; if he does, Jim’s certain he won’t return as captain, although he hardly looks like a captain now, naked, shivering, surrounded by people he thought were his friends, but have probably been plotting this, all this while--
“No!” Jim shouts, and sits bolt upright.
“Good God almighty,” Bones mutters from halfway under a pillow. “What’s wrong? First you toss and turn like a Tasmanian devil half the night, next thing you’re yelling in my ear.”
“I thought--” Jim’s heart’s still pounding, the afterimage of the Bridge that had seemed so real still hovering before him in the darkness. “Bones.” Bones says nothing, so Jim grabs him by the shoulder and gives him a shake. “Hey. Tell me something.”
“What?” It’s 0314 by the chrono, and Bones sleeps like a ten-ton log anyway.
“If I ever did something--I don’t know, weird on the Bridge. Something you couldn’t explain...Would you give me the benefit of the doubt, or shoot me full of tranquilizers and haul me off to Sickbay and have me strapped to a bed?”
Bones gives a weary sigh and struggles up onto his elbow, sheet falling away from his bare chest. Like Jim, he sleeps naked; Jim wonders if that’s part of the problem.
“I’m not sure that kind of question would make any sense in broad daylight, but it sure doesn’t at 3 in the morning. You had a bad dream, Jim. You can tell me about it over coffee.”
“Okay, but--” Jim feels foolish, more than he did naked on his phantom Bridge. It’s absurd to ask for reassurance about hypotheticals; he knows that whatever happened, Bones would do his duty with the least damage to Jim possible. He tries to will his heart to calm and to look on the positive side: he’s still captain, he’s got four more hours to sleep, and he’s got Bones in bed beside him.
He flops back down on the pillow, into the divot he’s been making in the few months since he started sleeping two to a bed. Restless, he turns away from Bones so he can keep his eyes open and stare into the darkness.
After a few moments, Bones’s arm slips around his waist, and he feels the bed shift and the sudden warmth as Bones’s body pulls up solid behind him.
“Stressed out about Lyndarius, huh?” Jim loves the way Bones’ voice sounds when it’s gravelly with sleep.
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” He draws Bones’s arm in tighter, and holds onto his hand. Usually he’d wish for it to be a few inches lower, but right now it feels good resting on his belly.
“You’ll do fine. You always do. The situation hasn’t been built that you can’t handle.”
It feels good to hear him say it, even if Bones is on autopilot, his voice already trailing back into sleep. Even if Jim doesn’t really believe him. But at least he’s answered the question.
A few minutes later Jim sees the warm darkness closing in, and the next thing he knows, it’s morning.
When a captain exits the turbolift onto the Bridge, all eyes and a few chairs swivel toward him. For someone who doesn’t mind a bit of drama--someone, say, like Jim Kirk--it’s a nice way to start a shift. Being the focus of attention puts a bit of spring in his step, makes him lift his chin and meet everyone’s eyes.
Except today, when Jim notices that everyone is looking at him, but no one’s looking at his face. Three steps onto the Bridge, halfway to his chair, Jim feels a draft where none is supposed to be and realizes he’s naked.
Jim is used to rapidly assessing threats and plotting courses of action. His main options now seem to be a) scream, cover his crotch with his hands and run back to the turbolift while everyone looks at his scuttling backside or b) pretend that nothing’s wrong. B is the obvious choice, one that allows for the likelihood that this is some unannounced psychological stress test or the result of a top-secret clothes-dissolving beam.
The faux leather seat of the captain’s chair is smooth and cool, the sensation rather pleasant, at least until bits that are usually well insulated dangle and then recoil. Jim hopes the crew remembers the basics of the effects of cold on venous hydrostatics.
“Captain,” Uhura says, swiveling her chair in his direction but keeping her eyes glued to the viewscreen, “we’ve received a hail from Lyndarius. The Lyndarian Ambassador is ready to conduct the pre-landing briefing at our convenience.”
“Fine,” Jim says. “Put him on screen.”
“Sir?” Jim hears heavy overtones of Are you nuts? in her voice. “Don’t you think we should review protocol one more time before initiating contact?”
“Why?” He turns his chair toward Uhura’s station and sees Chekov flinch. “We went over it ad nauseam at the staff meeting this morning.”
“I strongly recommend we review it again.” She exchanges a significant glance with Spock. “Over here.”
“Oh, all right.” He takes his time walking over, making sure to brush against Chekov just to mess with him, because by now he’s figured out exactly what’s going on.
Jim approaches Uhura’s station, not so close as to constitute harassment but near enough that he gets the long-suffering eyebrow, and she stands up to form a protective little gaggle with Spock that doesn’t change the fact that Jim’s bare ass is still pointing Bridgeward.
“Captain,” Spock says with appropriate gravity, “we have reason to believe that you may be suffering from some form of mental duress or outside influence.”
“Really.” Jim folds his arms to mirror Spock and Uhura’s. “And on what do you base that hypothesis, Mr. Spock?” Spock allows his gaze to dip, briefly. “Ah. Well, as it happens, I have a perfectly good explanation for this.”
“Please continue.”
“I’m having a dream. It’s extremely common for humans to dream that they’re naked in public. If the person in the dream feels humiliated, it means they fear exposure, and if they don’t--”
“It means they have a titanic ego,” Uhura finishes, “probably about the wrong things.”
“Or maybe are just comfortable in their own skin.” Jim gives his bare thigh a slap for emphasis, making Uhura jump a little.
Spock remains motionless. “Captain, may I ask if there’s any evidence--besides the absence of your attire--to support your conclusion?”
“Certainly. There’s the fact that I don’t remember how I got here, attire-less, and also that if this weren’t a dream, the Bridge wouldn’t be--” He looks around; the Bridge is, in fact, in perfect working order. “Or--hey, Sulu, you’re probably a werewolf or my long-lost brother or something, right?”
“Don’t think so, sir.”
“I do not find your argument convincing,” Spock says.
“Bullshit--I’ll prove it. Uhura, pinch me.” Without hesitation she does, hard, on the forearm, long nails biting into his skin. “Ow!” The room refuses to waver, go black, or fade away.
A second later, Bones steps onto the Bridge and almost drops his tricorder.
“Jim, what’s this about--sweet, fancy Jesus, why are you buck naked on the Bridge, man?”
Jim’s tempted to tease Bones for staring; it’s not like he hasn’t seen all this plenty of times before. “As I’ve been explaining to Spock and Uhura, it’s obviously a dream. You can prove that, right? That this is all a dream?”
“What do I look like, a philosopher?” Bones masters his shock enough to start feverishly scanning. “I couldn’t begin to guess what it is, but something ain’t right. I’m taking you down to Sickbay. After we get a uniform sent discreetly up here.”
Jim starts to back in the opposite direction from the door. “Now, Bones, there’s nothing--”
“We’re in a First Contact situation with the Lyndarians,” Uhura says. “We can’t afford anything...untoward.”
“That’s right, Jim.” Bones lowers the tricorder and reaches toward him. Jim notices the hypo holstered at his belt.
“No,” Jim says, breaking out in a sweat that goes cold faster than usual.
“C’mon, now.” Bones’s voice is ingratiating, husky. “Just come along quietly. Don’t make me pull Regulation 121 on you.” His hand touches Jim’s arm and Jim flinches.
“You wouldn’t--would you? It could take weeks to get the Admiralty to clear me for duty after that.” But Bones’s eyes are hard and implacable. Jim looks to Spock and Uhura for support and finds none. He can’t let Bones take him off the Bridge; if he does, Jim’s certain he won’t return as captain, although he hardly looks like a captain now, naked, shivering, surrounded by people he thought were his friends, but have probably been plotting this, all this while--
“No!” Jim shouts, and sits bolt upright.
“Good God almighty,” Bones mutters from halfway under a pillow. “What’s wrong? First you toss and turn like a Tasmanian devil half the night, next thing you’re yelling in my ear.”
“I thought--” Jim’s heart’s still pounding, the afterimage of the Bridge that had seemed so real still hovering before him in the darkness. “Bones.” Bones says nothing, so Jim grabs him by the shoulder and gives him a shake. “Hey. Tell me something.”
“What?” It’s 0314 by the chrono, and Bones sleeps like a ten-ton log anyway.
“If I ever did something--I don’t know, weird on the Bridge. Something you couldn’t explain...Would you give me the benefit of the doubt, or shoot me full of tranquilizers and haul me off to Sickbay and have me strapped to a bed?”
Bones gives a weary sigh and struggles up onto his elbow, sheet falling away from his bare chest. Like Jim, he sleeps naked; Jim wonders if that’s part of the problem.
“I’m not sure that kind of question would make any sense in broad daylight, but it sure doesn’t at 3 in the morning. You had a bad dream, Jim. You can tell me about it over coffee.”
“Okay, but--” Jim feels foolish, more than he did naked on his phantom Bridge. It’s absurd to ask for reassurance about hypotheticals; he knows that whatever happened, Bones would do his duty with the least damage to Jim possible. He tries to will his heart to calm and to look on the positive side: he’s still captain, he’s got four more hours to sleep, and he’s got Bones in bed beside him.
He flops back down on the pillow, into the divot he’s been making in the few months since he started sleeping two to a bed. Restless, he turns away from Bones so he can keep his eyes open and stare into the darkness.
After a few moments, Bones’s arm slips around his waist, and he feels the bed shift and the sudden warmth as Bones’s body pulls up solid behind him.
“Stressed out about Lyndarius, huh?” Jim loves the way Bones’ voice sounds when it’s gravelly with sleep.
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” He draws Bones’s arm in tighter, and holds onto his hand. Usually he’d wish for it to be a few inches lower, but right now it feels good resting on his belly.
“You’ll do fine. You always do. The situation hasn’t been built that you can’t handle.”
It feels good to hear him say it, even if Bones is on autopilot, his voice already trailing back into sleep. Even if Jim doesn’t really believe him. But at least he’s answered the question.
A few minutes later Jim sees the warm darkness closing in, and the next thing he knows, it’s morning.