Angular Momentum (Kirk/McCoy, NC-17, ST:XI), 1/3
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James Kirk stared at the empty view screen and dreamed of Romulans.
Not that the view screen was really empty. As explained in agonizing detail by Spock, the ship was currently orbiting a ring singularity of hitherto unknown and theoretically exciting properties. And not that Kirk was hoping for combat-exactly-but before their detour, they’d been heading for the closest Federation outpost to the Neutral Zone. Even without the threat of Romulans, the mission to Kalan Seven presented a bracing logistical challenge. The Enterprise was stuffed to the gills with personnel and supplies for a complete refitting of the outpost, and beaming and shuttling everything to the right place while watching the skies for the enemy seemed more compelling than orbiting a gravity well. But when Spock had gone into comparative ecstasies over the readings, Kirk had felt compelled, as a professional courtesy and to keep peace on the Bridge, first to make a detour, then to allow him to formally request a longer stopover.
Spock was now staring at the sensor readings like a lover at his mistress-a lover whose actual mistress sat one station over on the Bridge, likely nearly as bored as Kirk but hiding it better. A whistle from the comm station made her jump.
“Captain,” Uhura said, “we’ve received a reply from Starfleet Command. We are approved to delay our mission by up to 18 hours to collect observational data about the singularity. Kalan Seven Base has been notified of our late arrival.”
“Thank you, Uhura.” Kirk pushed himself out of the captain’s chair, trying to make his body language convey enthusiasm even if his voice didn’t. “Clear the Bridge except for helm and communications and let the science team take the field. Mr. Spock, you have the conn. If you discover something interesting, I expect you to name it after me.”
“I shall endeavor to minimize our delay,” Spock said, as gracious a winner as always.
“Please do,” Kirk said as the Bridge doors swished closed. “And don’t let my ship fall into that thing.”
If the Enterprise had been less prepared for the mission, Kirk might have welcomed the extra hours. In fact, he’d planned it out to the last detail, a feat of logistics he’d hoped would show the Admiralty he was something more than their on-call crazy-ass miracle worker. He could have revisited every department, re-inspected every crate, but there was a fine line between maintaining morale and micromanaging, and he personally hated officers who strutted around trying to look busy. The original plan had been to grab a few hours’ sleep and star the ramp up for their arrival. Now, he’d been given those blissfully free hours he was always pining for, but could be damned if he could remember what he’d planned to do with them.
He worked out some of his frustration in the gym, and took a long shower afterward; that burned an hour and a half. He made a short and fruitless attempt to take a nap. He wandered down to the Rec Room, but found no one there who was likely to give him a fair match in whatever game they were playing. As a teenager, Kirk had developed great proficiency at loitering around and killing time, but as captain he found it hard to put those skills to use, as he tended to attract attention wherever he went.
After three hours, he gave up and went to the Medical Bay. McCoy was there, but not alone; he, M’Benga and a couple of the medics were threading their way through a maze of boxes, apparently conducting an inventory of the medical supplies bound for Kalan Seven. Kirk beckoned McCoy over, put a hand on his shoulder as if drawing him into a confidential and important conversation, and said, “I’m bored.”
McCoy rolled his eyes. “And I’m busy. Go find another little playmate.”
“I’m sure your crack team of medical geniuses can figure out how to do a job that’s usually done by robots,” Kirk said. “Please. I’m dying here. Another five minutes and I’m going to go back to the Bridge and beg Spock to let me calibrate the gravitometers.”
“Oh, fine. Just as long as you don’t want to-“
“Go to the Warp Engineering observation platform. Exactly. It’s the perfect time; the only way I’m going to get called to the Bridge is if that singularity decides to shoot at us. Let’s go.” McCoy went through his usual pantomime of unwillingness before handing his PADD to an amused M’Benga and letting himself be dragged away. McCoy waited with crossed arms and a long-suffering expression outside Kirk’s quarters for a few minutes, and outside the mess for a few more. He asked no questions about the contents of the satchel Kirk had strung around one shoulder, only commented, “I’d say you look like a Boy Scout headed out a camping trip, but I’m a hundred percent sure you were never a Boy Scout.”
Kirk actually did feel something like wholesome enthusiasm, now that he had a mission and someone to share it with. He hurried along the corridors as if they really were on urgent business, McCoy grumbling in his wake, through Main Engineering, past the dilithium chamber and between the water tanks, paralleling the Jeffries tubes on the long way aft. He slapped a few shoulders and got a few “Hi, captains” on the way, but no one asked him what he was doing there or made any protective moves to keep executive officer hands off the good stuff, which made Kirk feel proud. He’d earned the trust of the engineers and felt comfortable there, which was more than he could say for McCoy, who looked as if he thought some or all of it could blow up at any minute.
They finally reached the aft section and climbed up a narrow staircase to the observation platform. About 10 meters long, half as high, and perhaps three meters wide, it bore little resemblance to the well-furnished observation lounge on the hangar deck below. Its sole purpose was to provide nervous engineering chiefs a vantage on the nacelles, primarily at space dock but occasionally during repair EVAs in space. It offered nothing that sensor data and external video didn't, but Kirk mentally saluted the ship’s designers for their deep understanding of engineer psychology. The room was dimly lit, with just enough strip lighting to prevent bumping into the walls. The Enterprise herself had no illumination except her navigation and running lights; locked in orbit around the light-swallowing singularity, even her propulsion systems were dormant and dark. The tight orbit, combined with the narrow slice of space now visible, made the star field appear to be rotating past them, a pretty effect.
Kirk spent a moment in self-congratulatory contemplation and then, to preempt any complaining, began to unpack his bag. He produced a blanket that he spread on the anti-fatigue matting with a flourish.
“What is this,” McCoy asked warily, “a picnic?”
“Exactly.”
McCoy grinned, genuinely surprised, white teeth flashing in the dim light. “What else did you bring, egg salad sandwiches with the crusts cut off? Ants?”
“Better.” Kirk pulled out a couple of bottles of beer, a container of fried chicken, and another of cole slaw, a couple of forks, and a small LED lantern so they could see what they were eating.
“I’ll be damned,” McCoy said. “That wasn’t on the menu for tonight.”
“Captain’s prerogative.” He popped the cap off a beer, jabbed a fork into the cole slaw, and handed both to McCoy, whose uncomplicated look of pleasure made Kirk feel well rewarded for his effort. “OK, campfire under the stars. That calls for deep, heartfelt confessions. So admit it: were you ever a Scout?”
“No.” McCoy hesitated for a moment. “But I did Cotillion for a year.”
“Cotillion? Is that the thing with the white gloves and the dancing?”
“Yes,” McCoy said reluctantly.
“Oh god,” Kirk sputtered. “What on earth could have made you do that?”
“The greatest power known to man: my mother. Also, I figured out it was a good way to get my hands on girls. On their little crinoline dresses, anyway.”
“What a picture.” Kirk sketched it in the air with his fork. “Little Len in a suit with your sweaty little hand on the back of some girl a head taller than you.” He smiled at McCoy indulgently. “You must have been fucking adorable, so serious, with those big, brown eyes.”
“Never got me anywhere,” said McCoy, who might have been looking embarrassed, if Kirk could have seen him clearly. “I tried to kiss Annabelle Robertson in the coat closet and she stepped on my foot at least five times while we were dancing, in revenge.”
Kirk shook his head in mock amazement. “How a good-looking guy, a doctor, can be such a complete disaster when it comes to women…I should get the science team working on that mystery. If I’d had your natural advantages-“
“I shudder to think. But you didn’t exactly get stiffed in the gene pool, boy. Every reporter who writes a story about the defense budget manages to work your pretty blue eyes into it somehow.”
“They do not,” Kirk said, a little too quickly. His fame was a bit of a sore subject, and he knew McCoy knew it, so he added, “And anyway, you know whenever she reads something like that, the stick inches a little further up Admiral Subramanya’s ass. Pike said she was all ready to send the Exeter to Kalan Seven because she’s convinced I get a boner every time I get near the Neutral Zone.”
“Do you?”
“You mean a metaphorical boner? No.”
McCoy choked a little on his beer. “An actual boner, then?”
“I don’t know. I get so many, it’s impossible to say if there’s a one-to-one correlation with anything, Romulans included.” They both chuckled, dumb twelve-year-old chuckles that felt wonderful. It seemed like it had been a long time since Kirk had been able to relax with Bones this way, covering well-worn territory in their shared past, or digging around for the few things they still didn’t know about each other from the time before. Kirk felt light, as if a burden he had not been aware of had lifted, and by the time he popped the cap on his third beer, he felt giddy, and not just from the alcohol. There was something in the air, stale and slightly redolent of Scotty’s pipe tobacco though it was, a pregnant expectation, as if time were waiting for him to do something risky and meaningful.
There were few enough tools to work with here. He rolled the bottle cap between his fingers and glanced around.
“Hey. Bones,” he said finally, reaching over to jab McCoy’s shoulder, as he seemed to have fallen into a similar reverie, or possibly asleep.
“What?” he asked with a start.
“See that little shelf thing halfway up the edge of the viewport?” He pointed, squinting.
“Where the rivet is?”
“Yeah. Want to bet whether I can land this bottle cap on it?”
McCoy was skeptical; he had a long history with Kirk’s sucker bets. “Depends. What’s the prize, in case it doesn’t turn out that you were welterweight bottle cap-tossing champion of the Upper Midwest?”
“Anything you want,” Kirk said, gesturing grandly around the empty room.
“And if you win?”
“We’ll think of something.” Not waiting, he rubbed the cap against his uniform for luck, and then tossed it--not a forceful throw but an easy, arcing pitch. Sure enough, it landed on the little shelf, which absorbed most of the force. But the angle was just slightly wrong; it skidded to the inner rim of the viewport and then rebound. For a moment, it looked like it was going to run out of momentum, but an imperceptible vibration jolted it and it overbalanced, falling off and rolling down the slightly curved deck floor into the darkness.
“Shit,” Kirk said, as puzzled as he was disappointed; he felt, baselessly, as if a promise had been made and not delivered. “When I get that pool table, remind me not to install it on the main engine deck. OK, what do you want?”
“You said I could have anything?” McCoy was wide awake now, his voice unexpectedly serious.
“Sure. Anything within reason,” he said encouragingly, holding McCoy’s gaze.
McCoy abruptly dropped his eyes to Kirk’s hands; a flash from the running lights glinted off his eyelashes. It was not the first time Kirk had noticed how long they were, nor how and when McCoy used them, in unconscious imitation, perhaps, of those coquettish belles of his youth. Kirk waited, patiently, while McCoy seemed to consider and discard a dozen things, while Kirk asked himself whether there was anything he might be too shocked to hear, or too reluctant to give, and thought of nothing.
Finally, McCoy cleared his throat and met Kirk’s gaze. “Oh, within reason. I figured there was a catch. Then how about the rest of your beer?”
Part 2 >>