Jim sighs and kicks at the seat in front of him, watching it ease back and forth slowly. “Bored.”
“Stop that,” Spock says mildly, glancing up at him before returning to his guard post at the base of the ferris wheel.
“Mmm.” Jim hops onto the seat and squints off speculatively into the distance; he can make out the roof of the aquarium from here, and he wonders absently what happened to the dolphins. “They’re late,” he says, trying and failing to achieve a nonchalant tone. “Why d’you think they’re late?” He tries not to think of Sulu and Bones trapped in an alley, biters clawing for them through a chain link fence, grabbing at ankles, hair, clothing.
He thinks it anyway, and he curses himself thoroughly.
Spock opens his mouth, and Jim stops him with a snort. “Never mind.” He settles for rocking back and forth on the seat, wishing he has something more substantial than the Beretta on him. Spock has a Glock, the bastard, and Jim’s been wanting to make a joke with that since the day they met. The timing never seems right, though, and Spock has the kind of face that discourages any attempt at humor.
“We shouldn’t linger,” Spock says, turning away from Jim. “If Dr. McCoy and Mr. Sulu do not return within ten minutes, I suggest that we leave.”
Jim stares at his back, his hand clenching where it rests on his knee. “You’re right,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. “Damn you for it.”
Spock doesn’t say anything, and they both wait in the desolate city.
Jim spends the time swinging lazily, head tilted back and staring up through the struts of the ferris wheel. The seats at the top sway in the wind, and he listens to the haunting sounds of their distant creaking. Spock’s a ramrod statue, standing guard even though he can barely aim a gun. His mind is his strong point, his ability to glance at a blueprint or map and draw it perfectly, his errorless calculations of their chances of survival. The latter is fairly irritating, but legitimate, and Jim’s long since given up on trying to figure out how the guy does it.
Eight minutes later, Spock starts glancing back at him again, and Jim pretends not to notice. Hurry, Sulu, he thinks grimly. Then he thinks about Bones, and what if-
“Jim!” The call sounds awkward, like someone trying to whisper and shout at the same time, and Jim looks over his shoulder to see Sulu running towards him. Bones is right behind him and they both look in one piece, but the look on Bones’ face, and Jesus, they’re alone.
Jim stands, hearing Spock come up behind him. “You all right?” he demands, as soon as the other two are within hearing distance, and he’s listening for Sulu’s answer, but watching Bones’ eyes. A lot can be told from a man’s eyes, and Bones has the most vulnerable eyes Jim has ever seen in a world this hard and mad. Doesn’t mean he’s weak, he reminds himself. There’s a difference wider than the ocean between the two.
I don’t think so. I would love that, too.
imagine poor bones’ few days though. a crazy blond (with brilliant, entrancing blue eyes) falls into his cab, meets the weird old chris pike, starfleet recruits him for the cruise, suffers the crazy radio host with the stoic assistants, receives crazy stones from gaila, fights off nero and his minions, flies into the ‘frickin desert, goddammit jim’, saves the universe, & falls in love with the most perfect creature to ever exist.
set-phasers-to-bacon replied to your post:Oh but what about a blind pianoplayer!Bones who teams up with smooth Sinatra-voice Kirk?MoooooooOORE PLEASE?!?
The first time Jim heard Leonard McCoy play, he was twenty-two and suffering from last night’s hangover, two vodka shots, and a black eye. Judging at the atmosphere at the bar that night, he might be walking away with a few more grievances than he had walking in. The asshole du jour’s about to start a brawl with a bar stool when the first tinkling notes rise high over the rumbling crowd, and everyone glances over simultaneously at the piano.
It’s an old, battered baby grand, pushed over to a corner to make room for the pool table and largely forgotten by everyone, probably including the bar owner. But now, the tarp’s pushed back, the lid raised about six inches, and sitting with his back to Jim on the piano bench is a man.
Jim can’t see much from here, just the back of a dusty jacket and a dark head bent over the keyboard. He can see the cane, though, a long white stick with a red band leaning against the side of the piano, and he realizes with a start that the man’s blind.
But, God, can he play.
Jim doesn’t recognize the tune; it’s a tentative, melancholy piece that jerks at his heartstrings, brings to mind broken windows and empty houses and white sheets, and the man’s fingers never trip. But it’s not completely sad, and it’s a subtle distinction that Jim tries to grasp-
Unfortunately, asshole du jour breaks out of his brief reverie and breaks the bar stool over Jim’s head, and in the melee that follows, he loses sight of the piano player.
“It was amazing,” he assures his roommate the next morning, wincing as he holds a bag of ice over his left eye. “I almost cried.”
“You sure it wasn’t from the shiner?” Nyota asks wryly, topping off his coffee mug. “You’ve got a gig in a week, Jim. Don’t you think you should be at least trying to protect your face?”
“They don’t come for my face,” he mumbles dismissively.
“You need your face to sing, don’t you? Gimme that.” She takes the ice and punches it into a better shape before slapping it mercilessly back into place. “Rest up.”
“He was blind,” Jim says, thinking out loud, and Nyota pauses halfway to the sink with the breakfast dishes.
“Yeah. Saw the cane.” Jim makes a vague shape in the air with his hand. “It was incredible, Ny. Like nothing I’ve ever heard.”
“Blind, huh,” she murmurs, and he hears the clatter of the dishes as she sets them down and starts running the faucet. “Think I’ve heard of someone like that. I’ll ask around for you at the bar tonight.”
“I love you,” Jim says gratefully, and Nyota gives an unattractive snort.
“You love the music,” she says, and he gives a wry smile. It’s true enough, at any rate.
PIRATES! Happy birthday, nerd. <3
Like Mothers, Like Sons
“Come on!” Winona’s voice rang out sharply in the air, impatient and annoyed as she directed it towards a knot of men who were dawdling by examining the fine golden embroidery on a jacket instead of packing it up with their other loot. “Hurry your asses up!”
They didn’t seem to hear.
“Looks like you’re going to have to go kick those asses,” Amanda murmured, tone dry as she raised her eyebrow at her Captain. Winona simply huffed, narrowing her eyes and stomping over to the offending crewmembers. Amanda smirked, watching as they suddenly whirled, standing to attention too little, too late.
“This is disgraceful!”
Her eyes slid from the blonde woman to an almost-as-pretty blonde man, on his knees where she and Winona had ordered them to stay, hands up in the air. A scowl marred his otherwise lovely face—though she had to admit, her type leaned more towards his dark-haired friend kneeling next to him. He was cuter, and he actually looked properly afraid—not outraged and indignant in that useless fashion that only noblemen ever managed.
“I am the eldest son of the Duke of Kirk, and Sarek is a diplomat of highest standing. The disrespect you have shown the both of us will not be forgotten!”
The other man—Sarek—closed his eyes, exasperation written in every line of his face. Yes, she definitely liked him very much.
“Yes.” Though, she did have to admit, the cold blue eyes glaring up at her were quite pretty.
She lifted her sword, bright and silver and shining in the late afternoon sun, and examined it idly. “Then we’ll get a handsome ransom for you, won’t we?”
The Kirk boy’s face darkened. “My father will never deal with the likes of you. Not pirates, and certainly not women who don’t know their place.”
Amanda raised an eyebrow, refusing to take the bait. After all, he was about to regret that statement, and she only had to sit back and watch.
Not before Sarek spoke up, however. “For god’s sakes, George,” he snapped, exasperation growing. “Do you really think it wise to spew your backwards opinions here, of all places?”
Another sword, this one just as sharp and shining, pressed flat against the top of the Kirk boy’s nose. Amanda snorted as his eyes went cross-eyed trying to look at the blade reaching across his face, just a flick of the wrist away from ruining his looks permanently.
“He’s right, you know, laddie.” Winona examined the fingernails on one hand, keeping the sword in the other held steady. Amanda was fairly certain that George had stopped breathing. “You’re comin’ with us, and gonna fetch us some nice gold, too. And if I catch you runnin’ your mouth again, I’ll show you exactly where a woman’s place is on Broken Arrow.”
He continued to glare, but said nothing as Winona indicated for the crew to search him for weapons and bind his hands behind his back. At least he could learn—hopefully quickly, if the way Winona was looking at him was any indication. Instead of angry, she looked thoughtful. Alert.
Amanda had seen that look before: when Winona was considering exactly how much fun something would be—and expecting it to be quite so.
Shaking her head and turning back to Sarek, she offered her hand.
“We won’t bind you unless you cause trouble.” He accepted it warily, and she smiled, though it was faint. “The crew of Broken Arrow is quite hospitable to its guests—provided they’re not like him.” She jerked her head back in George’s direction, and was gratified to see a tiny, mostly-concealed smile in return. Still, it was something.
“I do apologize for that. He still has… much growing up to do.”
“Something we’re willing to offer in spades.” She grinned brightly. “Now, move along before I change my mind.”
The look of alarm on his face as he hurried towards their ship made her giggle, just a little.
Winona wasn’t the only one who was going to be having fun.
This is for omegabones for our little fic exchange! The two prompts I chose from her list were Bones getting pulled into the future and age swap. So you know…age swap by technicality. Enjoy!
Anomalies were a reality of their world. The theory behind them varied from culture to culture, some believed they were a punishment, others a blessing, some thought they were nothing at all. But no matter the belief, the scientific explanation, or the propaganda, the reality was that Anomalies happened. Hair colors changed, people found themselves suddenly ten years younger, missing months of their lives, or 5000 miles away from where they had been standing not seconds before. There were no warnings, no common factors, just the Anomalies and their consequences.
And, until a few hours ago, Leonard McCoy viewed Anomalies as something that happened to other people.