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fandomweekly2023-02-26 08:01 pm
palian) wrote in fandomweekly2023-02-26 08:01 pm
Entry tags:
[#169] My Fault (Star Trek: DS9)
Theme Prompt: #169 - Sick Day
Title: My Fault
Fandom: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Rating/Warnings: For everyone; but discusses implied retail work trauma
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1000
Summary: It is hard to adapt to the 24th century as someone from the 21st: A young cadet tries to hide their sickness from their superior officer fearing reprimands; but this century is better than that. Comfort/no hurt.
"Cadet?" the Commander asks me authoritatively, and I jump in surprise. I have not heard him approach. There I go again, slacking off during my shift, caught by none other than my superior officer. I attempt to ignore my headache as I turn around at attention.
"Sir!" I report dutifully. He looks serious. I can see his eyes scrutinize me and the relay module I am working on; I should have been done fifteen minutes ago. Right now, it is spread out on the table, piece by piece.
"I expected this module to be repaired half an hour ago, and it is still clearly malfunctioning." He takes a step over to the table and analyzes the individual parts. Several positronic matrices are unaligned, the networking reach is disassembled, and tools are strewn all over the place. I am not even half way done with my assignment.
I am unsure how to respond. "I am sorry, sir. I will get right back to it." I hope he is satisfied with my answer. Holding eye contact is difficult, and holding up an appearance to fool Commander Worf's scrutiny is even worse. The headache that has been plaguing me for the entire morning is not helping in any particular way, but I cannot afford to let him see that.
"Cadet, this particular work efficiency is atypical for your previous track record." I swallow. He knows. I think back to my former job - it feels like a lifetime ago, and in a way, it is. My shift manager barking at me for missing my shift by a minute, for not putting up a convincing enough smile for the customers, for taking too long in the bathroom, for calling in sick. I have never been a good enough worker for a job.
Worf comes closer, and I bow my head in shame. He takes a deep breath and puts his arms to his side. "Cadet, are you feeling alright today?"
My thoughts are running wild. In a hurry, I cannot think of anything but the truth. "I admit, I... I do not feel so good."
I said it. Crap. I cannot help but direct my gaze further downward to avoid his. Klingon eyes have a piercing quality to them. My stomach is screaming and I can feel my eyes swelling up with tears, while the pressure building up in my cheeks makes the headache feel even worse than it is.
'Please do not cry now,' I am begging myself. Without thinking, I blurt out: "I apologize, sir. I will double my efforts immediately."
It is too late now, and I am unable to hold my tears back. Once again, not adequate enough to do my job, just because I am too lazy to ignore a headache. I will never be able to hold a real position anywhere, let alone in Starfleet. What was I thinking?
I turn around in a hurry to avoid him seeing me like this, and scramble to continue working instead. I hope he leaves me alone, but I can feel his presence behind me.
"I did not dismiss you, Cadet" he says sternly. "If you are sick, you are obligated to report to the infirmary. I can let Ensign Nabokov finish this particular assignment."
I stop working and think for a moment. Going to the infirmary means I have to hide my illness before yet another officer, but it also means I get out of this situation. Additionally, it is a direct order, so what am I thinking?
I nod and oblige. I cannot keep any straight thought in my head as I navigate the corridors to find the infirmary. Finally, I find the door that I was looking for. My vision is blurring due to the headaches pulsing in my brain.
"Greetings, Cadet. Can I help you?" a young doctor asks me as I enter his infirmary. He is hunched over his console and looks like he is available.
"Commander Worf told me to report here" I coyly answer. At least he looks nice. Perhaps even a bit cute? I struggle to purge these thoughts as I await his response.
"Let us take a look at you then, shall we?" he asks and swiftly pulls the medical tricorder toward me. I sit down on the bench as he waves it over me.
"How have you been adapting to life in the 24th century? It must be quite different from the 21st" he asks. I sense he is trying to hold smalltalk.
"It is difficult sometimes" I answer truthfully as he continues scanning me.
He does not answer. I see him frown as he looks down at his tricorder.
"Cadet; do you suffer from headaches? Chronic, perhaps? Right now, even?"
I nod nervously. I was right - you cannot hide from a tricorder. I feel sick to my stomach, unsure how to respond. "I have been having these all my life" I mutter.
Doctor Bashir looks at me in disbelief. "And this has never been diagnosed?"
"I would have lost my job if I called in sick for something as minor as this."
"Minor?!" he exclaims in disbelief. "These are severe chronic migraines!"
The doctor shakes his head. He looks like he is entirely lost for words.
He sighs and speaks up again: "Cadet, I will inform Commander Worf that you are unable to work the next few days. You will come here for regular check-ups each day so we can see whether the therapy method I am proposing yields results. You will not continue your shifts until this is resolved, and this is an order." He smiles at me worriedly as I stare at him in disbelief. "Do you care joining me for dinner tonight? I think you have a lot to talk about."
... There are many things I have to get used to in this new century, but those around me caring about my feelings definitely is the one I am struggling with the most.
Title: My Fault
Fandom: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Rating/Warnings: For everyone; but discusses implied retail work trauma
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1000
Summary: It is hard to adapt to the 24th century as someone from the 21st: A young cadet tries to hide their sickness from their superior officer fearing reprimands; but this century is better than that. Comfort/no hurt.
"Cadet?" the Commander asks me authoritatively, and I jump in surprise. I have not heard him approach. There I go again, slacking off during my shift, caught by none other than my superior officer. I attempt to ignore my headache as I turn around at attention.
"Sir!" I report dutifully. He looks serious. I can see his eyes scrutinize me and the relay module I am working on; I should have been done fifteen minutes ago. Right now, it is spread out on the table, piece by piece.
"I expected this module to be repaired half an hour ago, and it is still clearly malfunctioning." He takes a step over to the table and analyzes the individual parts. Several positronic matrices are unaligned, the networking reach is disassembled, and tools are strewn all over the place. I am not even half way done with my assignment.
I am unsure how to respond. "I am sorry, sir. I will get right back to it." I hope he is satisfied with my answer. Holding eye contact is difficult, and holding up an appearance to fool Commander Worf's scrutiny is even worse. The headache that has been plaguing me for the entire morning is not helping in any particular way, but I cannot afford to let him see that.
"Cadet, this particular work efficiency is atypical for your previous track record." I swallow. He knows. I think back to my former job - it feels like a lifetime ago, and in a way, it is. My shift manager barking at me for missing my shift by a minute, for not putting up a convincing enough smile for the customers, for taking too long in the bathroom, for calling in sick. I have never been a good enough worker for a job.
Worf comes closer, and I bow my head in shame. He takes a deep breath and puts his arms to his side. "Cadet, are you feeling alright today?"
My thoughts are running wild. In a hurry, I cannot think of anything but the truth. "I admit, I... I do not feel so good."
I said it. Crap. I cannot help but direct my gaze further downward to avoid his. Klingon eyes have a piercing quality to them. My stomach is screaming and I can feel my eyes swelling up with tears, while the pressure building up in my cheeks makes the headache feel even worse than it is.
'Please do not cry now,' I am begging myself. Without thinking, I blurt out: "I apologize, sir. I will double my efforts immediately."
It is too late now, and I am unable to hold my tears back. Once again, not adequate enough to do my job, just because I am too lazy to ignore a headache. I will never be able to hold a real position anywhere, let alone in Starfleet. What was I thinking?
I turn around in a hurry to avoid him seeing me like this, and scramble to continue working instead. I hope he leaves me alone, but I can feel his presence behind me.
"I did not dismiss you, Cadet" he says sternly. "If you are sick, you are obligated to report to the infirmary. I can let Ensign Nabokov finish this particular assignment."
I stop working and think for a moment. Going to the infirmary means I have to hide my illness before yet another officer, but it also means I get out of this situation. Additionally, it is a direct order, so what am I thinking?
I nod and oblige. I cannot keep any straight thought in my head as I navigate the corridors to find the infirmary. Finally, I find the door that I was looking for. My vision is blurring due to the headaches pulsing in my brain.
"Greetings, Cadet. Can I help you?" a young doctor asks me as I enter his infirmary. He is hunched over his console and looks like he is available.
"Commander Worf told me to report here" I coyly answer. At least he looks nice. Perhaps even a bit cute? I struggle to purge these thoughts as I await his response.
"Let us take a look at you then, shall we?" he asks and swiftly pulls the medical tricorder toward me. I sit down on the bench as he waves it over me.
"How have you been adapting to life in the 24th century? It must be quite different from the 21st" he asks. I sense he is trying to hold smalltalk.
"It is difficult sometimes" I answer truthfully as he continues scanning me.
He does not answer. I see him frown as he looks down at his tricorder.
"Cadet; do you suffer from headaches? Chronic, perhaps? Right now, even?"
I nod nervously. I was right - you cannot hide from a tricorder. I feel sick to my stomach, unsure how to respond. "I have been having these all my life" I mutter.
Doctor Bashir looks at me in disbelief. "And this has never been diagnosed?"
"I would have lost my job if I called in sick for something as minor as this."
"Minor?!" he exclaims in disbelief. "These are severe chronic migraines!"
The doctor shakes his head. He looks like he is entirely lost for words.
He sighs and speaks up again: "Cadet, I will inform Commander Worf that you are unable to work the next few days. You will come here for regular check-ups each day so we can see whether the therapy method I am proposing yields results. You will not continue your shifts until this is resolved, and this is an order." He smiles at me worriedly as I stare at him in disbelief. "Do you care joining me for dinner tonight? I think you have a lot to talk about."
... There are many things I have to get used to in this new century, but those around me caring about my feelings definitely is the one I am struggling with the most.
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