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fandomweekly2022-05-08 06:40 pm
southernmedicine) wrote in fandomweekly2022-05-08 06:40 pm
Entry tags:
[#153] What Fresh Hell (Star Trek AOS)
Theme Prompt: #135 - Out Of Sorts
Title: What Fresh Hell
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Rating/Warnings: PG | Vague mentions of space STDs.
Bonus: Yes.
Word Count: 977
Summary: When it rains, it pours.
"I don't give a good goddamn whether it kills the mood," the good doctor harps, several pairs of eyes all around averting out of either fear or second-hand embarrassment. The datapad in his hand slices through the air as he gesticulates, like a weapon ready to wound anybody fool enough to come too close. "This is why regulation exists. Now we've got two in quarantine an' nothin' much else to show for that little pleasure cruise."
Lord, but his Ma always warned him that trouble came in threes. She'd never told him that more often than not, three was being conservative.
Leonard's barely slept in days, his shifts bleeding together into one long never-ending nightmare. He's been putting out fires one after the other, his PADD pinging for attention that he has less and less to spare each and every time one of his nurses calls out for him.
Trying to fill the gaps in his patient records is agitation enough, on the average day. There are plenty of crewmen who would rather press their luck and try to see just how long they might be able to dodge an appointment for a routine physical, chief among them the Captain himself. Trying to get Jim to submit to anything is like trying to wrangle cats, when half of them are on nip and the rest of them are half-feral with fear and anxiety concerning all things of a medical nature.
Then there's Engineering, of course, responsible for over half the crew's reported injuries unrelated to planet-side excursion. Leonard doesn't know what sort of monkeyshines they get up to down there when they've got too much free time on their hands, but he does know that half a dozen biobeds had redshirts in them the shift previous, all of them treated for fairly serious burns and sent on their way with metaphorical egg on their faces.
Now? Now he's got to have The Talk with grown men and women in regards to where it is and is not safe to place one's most personal anatomy as cited by the very reasonable regulation meant to prevent the spread of hitherto unfamiliar strains of infectious disease. Sure, no one necessarily wants to ask for direct permission from their commanding officer and their physician to accept the amorous advances of a beautiful alien stranger, but. But.
Leonard lowers his PADD and uses his other hand to press two fingers right between his eyes, where there is a nasty headache starting to form. They're armed to the teeth with vaccines, but these are for diseases they have already encountered. The recently afflicted officers seem to be doing fine for the moment, but new cures take time. Time he doesn't exactly have to spare at the moment, now they're so near to docking for supplies and a few days off-ship to allow for a couple of small repairs.
"Doctor?" Leonard looks back up to regard a vaguely familiar brunette balefully. Everyone else in the vicinity has wisely vacated, leaving her standing there looking uncertain and full of regret. "Those samples you were interested in, down in botany?"
The doctor exhales through his nose, debating what lengths he's willing to go to scare himself up a fresh cup of coffee.
----
"Come on, Bones," Jim intones cajolingly, clapping him with some sympathy on one shoulder and giving him a companionable shake. "It's not that bad. Pretty sure you dealt with way worse when we were still in cadet reds."
It's a willingly self-deprecating reminder of the terror he had been before anyone even thought to breathe the word 'captain' in his direction, and Leonard's mouth ticks up ever so slightly in one corner. It's true, of course. Having latched onto one another early on, he'd been the one to witness the consequences of Jim's early days, before he'd managed to settle down and fall in line as far as his nature would allow.
Personally, he's just glad that Jim's not among those still being held in quarantine, for sticking it someplace he shouldn't. It is in his wheelhouse, after all.
"Sure," he grunts, swirling the amber liquid around in his glass, allowing more of his weight than usual to rest heavily against the bar. At least it isn't holding him up, just yet. "At least back then, neither of us were responsible for tryin' to prevent an outbreak of some new strain of Herpesviridae." Leonard takes a generous sip of his drink, swallows, and makes a face. "You know we've gotta name that now, right?"
As the chief medical officer, that's going to fall to him. Another series of tasks heaped onto the ever-lengthening backlog. He'll have to write a report, and submit a file once they've managed to conduct a bit of research and formulate a new vaccine. Those involved likely won't want their names on record, but that's just too damn bad. Leonard's files are meticulous.
"Huh," Jim sighs, and for the first time in awhile, Leonard thinks maybe the other man looks a little worn down himself. It's in the softness around the eyes, and the sag of Jim's shoulders. "Guess it's just one of those days, huh?"
Leonard clicks his tongue, head bobbing once or twice in agreement as he stares down into his bourbon. When he lifts his glass in Jim's direction, it's with the understanding that they arrived here because none of this could have gone any other way. It couldn't have been anybody else, on any other ship. Their glasses come together with a soft clink and they drink, for what's led them here every bit as much for what they both know must lie ahead.
"Yeah," he agrees, fortified by the heat down his throat and the warmth in his belly. "Just one'a those days."
Title: What Fresh Hell
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Rating/Warnings: PG | Vague mentions of space STDs.
Bonus: Yes.
Word Count: 977
Summary: When it rains, it pours.
"I don't give a good goddamn whether it kills the mood," the good doctor harps, several pairs of eyes all around averting out of either fear or second-hand embarrassment. The datapad in his hand slices through the air as he gesticulates, like a weapon ready to wound anybody fool enough to come too close. "This is why regulation exists. Now we've got two in quarantine an' nothin' much else to show for that little pleasure cruise."
Lord, but his Ma always warned him that trouble came in threes. She'd never told him that more often than not, three was being conservative.
Leonard's barely slept in days, his shifts bleeding together into one long never-ending nightmare. He's been putting out fires one after the other, his PADD pinging for attention that he has less and less to spare each and every time one of his nurses calls out for him.
Trying to fill the gaps in his patient records is agitation enough, on the average day. There are plenty of crewmen who would rather press their luck and try to see just how long they might be able to dodge an appointment for a routine physical, chief among them the Captain himself. Trying to get Jim to submit to anything is like trying to wrangle cats, when half of them are on nip and the rest of them are half-feral with fear and anxiety concerning all things of a medical nature.
Then there's Engineering, of course, responsible for over half the crew's reported injuries unrelated to planet-side excursion. Leonard doesn't know what sort of monkeyshines they get up to down there when they've got too much free time on their hands, but he does know that half a dozen biobeds had redshirts in them the shift previous, all of them treated for fairly serious burns and sent on their way with metaphorical egg on their faces.
Now? Now he's got to have The Talk with grown men and women in regards to where it is and is not safe to place one's most personal anatomy as cited by the very reasonable regulation meant to prevent the spread of hitherto unfamiliar strains of infectious disease. Sure, no one necessarily wants to ask for direct permission from their commanding officer and their physician to accept the amorous advances of a beautiful alien stranger, but. But.
Leonard lowers his PADD and uses his other hand to press two fingers right between his eyes, where there is a nasty headache starting to form. They're armed to the teeth with vaccines, but these are for diseases they have already encountered. The recently afflicted officers seem to be doing fine for the moment, but new cures take time. Time he doesn't exactly have to spare at the moment, now they're so near to docking for supplies and a few days off-ship to allow for a couple of small repairs.
"Doctor?" Leonard looks back up to regard a vaguely familiar brunette balefully. Everyone else in the vicinity has wisely vacated, leaving her standing there looking uncertain and full of regret. "Those samples you were interested in, down in botany?"
The doctor exhales through his nose, debating what lengths he's willing to go to scare himself up a fresh cup of coffee.
----
"Come on, Bones," Jim intones cajolingly, clapping him with some sympathy on one shoulder and giving him a companionable shake. "It's not that bad. Pretty sure you dealt with way worse when we were still in cadet reds."
It's a willingly self-deprecating reminder of the terror he had been before anyone even thought to breathe the word 'captain' in his direction, and Leonard's mouth ticks up ever so slightly in one corner. It's true, of course. Having latched onto one another early on, he'd been the one to witness the consequences of Jim's early days, before he'd managed to settle down and fall in line as far as his nature would allow.
Personally, he's just glad that Jim's not among those still being held in quarantine, for sticking it someplace he shouldn't. It is in his wheelhouse, after all.
"Sure," he grunts, swirling the amber liquid around in his glass, allowing more of his weight than usual to rest heavily against the bar. At least it isn't holding him up, just yet. "At least back then, neither of us were responsible for tryin' to prevent an outbreak of some new strain of Herpesviridae." Leonard takes a generous sip of his drink, swallows, and makes a face. "You know we've gotta name that now, right?"
As the chief medical officer, that's going to fall to him. Another series of tasks heaped onto the ever-lengthening backlog. He'll have to write a report, and submit a file once they've managed to conduct a bit of research and formulate a new vaccine. Those involved likely won't want their names on record, but that's just too damn bad. Leonard's files are meticulous.
"Huh," Jim sighs, and for the first time in awhile, Leonard thinks maybe the other man looks a little worn down himself. It's in the softness around the eyes, and the sag of Jim's shoulders. "Guess it's just one of those days, huh?"
Leonard clicks his tongue, head bobbing once or twice in agreement as he stares down into his bourbon. When he lifts his glass in Jim's direction, it's with the understanding that they arrived here because none of this could have gone any other way. It couldn't have been anybody else, on any other ship. Their glasses come together with a soft clink and they drink, for what's led them here every bit as much for what they both know must lie ahead.
"Yeah," he agrees, fortified by the heat down his throat and the warmth in his belly. "Just one'a those days."
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