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carcinogen) wrote2010-09-30 09:10 am
carcinogen) wrote2010-09-30 09:10 am
fic: Obituary (Star Trek XI)
Obituary
Star Trek XI; McCoy.
450 words.
For the kink meme of olde, prompt: Is there such a thing as justifiable murder?
Leonard McCoy has a medical mind; sometimes it causes him as many problems as it solves. Staring into the dark, boneless maw of a pocket singularity over Saturn, he wishes that everything could be so quietly reverent of life as the living body itself. Muscles wrapping up the bones clutching the organs, sinews bracing joints. Teamwork. Sure; there'll be complications along the way, but too often it's the tiniest biological miscommunication that triggers the markers for pain, for a total shutdown, for decay.
Romulans, he doesn't know anything about them. Not their core temperature, not their threshold for pain, not why they would steal away starship captains or try to take worlds apart down to the last, lingering atom. Nero is the first he has ever seen, and just onscreen, but he's fascinated. Working from the Vulcan standard, McCoy decides he could probably ballpark the basic physiology and give them decent medical attention, save a few lives and soothe some pain. His thoughts are already skipping and skidding prudently around the treacherous patches in his morals. So far as he is concerned, even criminals deserve to live and function ably until they can stand trial.
No one is beamed aboard. Protocol, as McCoy understands it, demands that enemies of the Federation be taken into custody and made to face Federation laws in a court of justice. Punishment is meant to be a consequence for transgression, not a byproduct of personal animosity. He imagines helpless bodies being torn apart by tidal forces, beyond the knit of his trained hands and clever instruments. His fingerbones ache.
And Jim, his friend, Jim; he stands there next to Spock and the both of them watch the viewport with crocodile eyes, cold and hungry. Maybe Spock has the right, maybe he's entitled to a bit of savage satisfaction; even if he'd shown his teeth, McCoy couldn't have blamed him.
But it's Jim who smiles.
It's Jim who's smiling still, dressed in tawny yellow now, cradled in his centre seat like a kid on Christmas morning. Planets before him like presents waiting to be opened. Jim, his friend. He's glad for him, and he doesn't think too hard about Nero or the jointed, crawling things Pike muttered into the cool sterility of the medbay during the quick hop back to Earth; second chances, misunderstandings, yes she was beautiful, home is nowhere.
In his dreams, McCoy holds crumbling corpses that can't be preserved, and Jim is standing over him, his sleek smile sharpened to a mouthful of needles. He obscures the light. He says kindly: What ails you, Doctor? Show me the cut that made you cry.
Star Trek XI; McCoy.
450 words.
For the kink meme of olde, prompt: Is there such a thing as justifiable murder?
Leonard McCoy has a medical mind; sometimes it causes him as many problems as it solves. Staring into the dark, boneless maw of a pocket singularity over Saturn, he wishes that everything could be so quietly reverent of life as the living body itself. Muscles wrapping up the bones clutching the organs, sinews bracing joints. Teamwork. Sure; there'll be complications along the way, but too often it's the tiniest biological miscommunication that triggers the markers for pain, for a total shutdown, for decay.
Romulans, he doesn't know anything about them. Not their core temperature, not their threshold for pain, not why they would steal away starship captains or try to take worlds apart down to the last, lingering atom. Nero is the first he has ever seen, and just onscreen, but he's fascinated. Working from the Vulcan standard, McCoy decides he could probably ballpark the basic physiology and give them decent medical attention, save a few lives and soothe some pain. His thoughts are already skipping and skidding prudently around the treacherous patches in his morals. So far as he is concerned, even criminals deserve to live and function ably until they can stand trial.
No one is beamed aboard. Protocol, as McCoy understands it, demands that enemies of the Federation be taken into custody and made to face Federation laws in a court of justice. Punishment is meant to be a consequence for transgression, not a byproduct of personal animosity. He imagines helpless bodies being torn apart by tidal forces, beyond the knit of his trained hands and clever instruments. His fingerbones ache.
And Jim, his friend, Jim; he stands there next to Spock and the both of them watch the viewport with crocodile eyes, cold and hungry. Maybe Spock has the right, maybe he's entitled to a bit of savage satisfaction; even if he'd shown his teeth, McCoy couldn't have blamed him.
But it's Jim who smiles.
It's Jim who's smiling still, dressed in tawny yellow now, cradled in his centre seat like a kid on Christmas morning. Planets before him like presents waiting to be opened. Jim, his friend. He's glad for him, and he doesn't think too hard about Nero or the jointed, crawling things Pike muttered into the cool sterility of the medbay during the quick hop back to Earth; second chances, misunderstandings, yes she was beautiful, home is nowhere.
In his dreams, McCoy holds crumbling corpses that can't be preserved, and Jim is standing over him, his sleek smile sharpened to a mouthful of needles. He obscures the light. He says kindly: What ails you, Doctor? Show me the cut that made you cry.
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I think I am going to go cry now. But this is not a terribly bad thing.
Thanks so much for sharing!
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You are the best for dropping a word here, I appreciate it so much!
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And oh my goodness, I'm glad I did comment. I'm trying to get better! I go through stints, but I'm not always the best. I look forward to whatever you write next.
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