Telephone
AN: Fifth piece inspired by "Telephone ft. Beyoncé" by Lady GaGa.
Disclaimer: Plot is mine, not the characters and the song belongs to Lady Gaga and associates!
Rating: T for some strong language
He ignored the incoming message. He was tired and this had grated on his nerves long enough. He needed some time, some space. This was his time. Fuck how this was supposed to work. Fuck communication. He needed a few hours inside his own head, and if most of that time was spent thinking about nothing, that was just what he was going to do.
For the first time since the mission started, he had step foot planet-side without the thought of being ambushed by natives or creatures or plants or viruses. It was the first shore leave, and it couldn't have come at a better time.
The last mission couldn't have ended any worse than if he had killed the damn ambassador himself, and Bones was still all over him about the injuries he brought back with him this time. And on top of that, his lady had taken some damage and his First Officer wouldn't leave him the fuck alone about his diplomatic shortcomings.
He was minutes from punching out the next person to say a word to him. His hand was already in a fist and his fingernails were boring slightly bloody crescents into the palm of his hand. His muscles were tense and shaking and he was glad Bones was there to shoot looks at everyone that came up to them, silently warning them to turn around and get out of the way. What would he do without Bones, really?
The comm. in his pocket, which Spock insisted he take "just in case" was blowing up with all the unanswered messages and if he hadn't drank enough to throw his depth perception off, he would have picked up that damned thing and chucked it over the bar.
When it went off again, he grabbed it, with slight difficulty.
"Stop calling. I don't want to think anymore."
He didn't register the voice on the other end, and he dropped the device onto the bar, the comm. link still open, the voice barely a whisper over the roar of the music. He downed another glass. He left his head and his heart on the Enterprise and he just needed to drown out all the stress.
He should have left the communicator on his desk. He really should have, because when the music died down he could hear someone calling him, calling the Captain, but the Captain wasn't here at the moment. Call all you want, but there's no one home.
Another glass hit the bar in front of him and he threw that back and he felt Bones' hand on his shoulder, waving the bartender away when Jim called him over again. His best friend handed him the communicator, the link still open. How much patience did that pointy-eared bastard have?
"Stop calling. I don't want to talk anymore."
"Captain."
The word turned him off and he managed to shut the communicator, but it rang again. It better be a mother-fucking disaster going on up there. The next thing he knew he was up on the ship, hanging onto Bones with his last ounce of strength, his head swimming in alcohol. The edges of his vision were black.
He was handed off like a bag of chips and led through the hallways by someone much more capable of supporting his weight. He knew it was Spock. God, if he started lecturing him, he might just go out of his mind. Maybe he would throw up on him.
The next thing he knew, he was being eased onto his mattress, slowly, as if Spock just knew that he got nauseous easily. It was nice. A green color still rose to his face. Suddenly that expression seemed a little offensive and hysterical, and he started laughing, rolling onto his side when he started to cough, followed by gagging. If he learned anything from Bones, he learned not to lie on his back when he was drunk. Too many horror stories of people drowning in their own vomit.
He was pretty sure he scared the half-Vulcan off until Spock returned with a cool cloth and draped it over his forehead. His body started to cool off and his nausea died down a little. He was trembling a little, another side effect of him being drunk, but most people didn't stick around long after the bar fight to see his body reject the poison he filled it with.
He reached out and grabbed a fistful of blue fabric against his better judgment. He just didn't want to be alone. He was afraid that he drank more than he should have, and he really didn't want to die from alcohol poisoning or drowning in vomit. James T. Kirk couldn't go out that way; it was too anti-climatic.
He moved closer to the source of heat, where his hand was still knotted in fabric, most likely stretching it out. The smell of the clothes was soothing, in spite of how foreign it was. The more he breathed it in, the more his stomach settled.
The communicator in his pocket started to go off again.
"Stop calling. Stop calling." He mumbled into the fabric, the noise slicing right through his skull, giving him one mother of a headache. He released his hand from the shirt in his grasp and pulled the communicator out of his pocket to drop it unceremoniously onto the floor, where it rolled under the bed, dampening the noise. He then curled up holding his head in his hands.
Jim was sure his First Officer would take this chance to escape, as much as he hoped he would stay.
"Captain?" The voice was even, as usual.
"What?"
"Are you ill?"
"No shit."
"Would you require the assistance of Dr. McCoy?"
"No. Just chill."
"Chill, sir?"
"Relax. Don't go anywhere, please."
He closed his eyes and groaned when the mattress shifted.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm retrieving the communicator."
If his eyes had been open, he would have rolled them. He heard the familiar noise of the device shutting off and he felt stupid. Why didn't he think of that? He opened his eyes again to see his First Officer moving the chair from his desk towards the bed.
"Are you certain you do not want me to call the doctor?" Spock asked, sitting down in the chair. Jim noticed the P.A.D.D. in his hands.
"When are you not working on something?" He asked, sardonically.
"It would be illogical to sit here and do nothing, Captain."
This time, he did roll his eyes.
"Don't you ever just want to do nothing?"
"No. I can't say I ever have."
The intercom on the wall chirped.
"Oh, for the love of God!" Jim groaned into the sheets.
"Yes, Doctor?" Spock asked, answering the call.
"The idiot okay?" Bones' gruff voice inquired.
"Yes. Did you expect something to be wrong?"
"Well, you're still there."
Jim had seen the half-Vulcan flinch. Actually flinch.
"He asked me to stay."
"And you listened?"
Jim couldn't help but smile into the sheets. He knew he loved Bones' for a reason.
"He seemed to be in distress. I concluded that staying might be more beneficial."
"Yeah, sure. Let me know if he starts turning green." Bones stated off-handedly, shutting down the link. Jim saw Spock's head tilt to the side slightly at the comment at he sat back down onto the chair, resuming whatever he had been working on before.
Hours later, the last drops of alcohol were starting to work out of his system. He had drifted in and out of consciousness but every time he came too, Spock was still there by the bed, working on something. This time, Jim grabbed the P.A.D.D. out of the man's hands. He briefly saw the clock and his jaw dropped.
"You've been here all night." It had been a question in his head, but came out as more of a statement of disbelief out loud. Spock didn't respond and instead just looked at him, with slightly tired eyes. "You should probably leave and get some rest. God, you didn't have to stay all night."
"It is quite alright Captain."
"Jim." He corrected, again.
"Jim." Spock repeated dutifully. "Do you require anything?"
"No, I'm alright. Go get some rest."
Spock merely nodded and left.
Jim watched Spock's back as he left and smiled.
AN: A more fluffy piece, with some humor. Another song off "The Fame Monster" that I absolutely adore. Lady GaGa and Beyoncé? Love!