Pairing: Kirk/Spock

Ratings: from K to M, it depends on the drabble/story

Genres: AU/AR, romance, sci-fi, drama, humour, family, friendship, hurt/comfort, angst

Notes: This is a collection of drabbles/short stories with the main focus on K/S. I will be experimenting with genderbending, using always a girl!Kirk and possibly always a girl!Spock, or a actual genderbending; male-gone-female. It's different from story to story.

A general warning for the whole story is that English is not my first language, so there will be typos and grammar errors. I apologize. Also, I don't own Star Trek, nor do I make any profit off of this. It's all for fun and creativity.

A/N: I...honestly don't know what this is. A wild plot bunny Alice style. So, um, beware, madness ahead? XD

Enjoy!

Sanity, part 1

In a mad world only the mad are sane.
Akira Kurosawa (1910 - 1998)

He was dying.

Maybe that was what colored his view a terribly bleak copper; the familiar sands muted to a dull shimmer and the intense heat oppressive rather than soothing. The air was dense with dust and unforgivable dryness, which sucked what little moisture he had directly through his skin with the violent winds of an upcoming storm. He should not be here, outside, on the balcony. Not only because it was not allowed for patients, but it simply was not logical to aggravate his condition, and cause further discomfort.

It was not logical, but he was dying, and lately he had come to wonder what logic mattered in the face of this. Besides, he had not been able to make his own choices since institutionalized here; the healers monitoring his every step, his every breath, as they injected him with the newest mutated chemicals, and so however small and illogical this might be, he allowed himself to feel the satisfaction of having chosen this discomfort, having controlled the events which led to this dull pain enclosing him in a dust of sand.

Closing his eyes, S'chn T'gai Spock allowed himself to remember a time when the sands glowed red and the heat had set him at ease.

James Kirk – for the heck of it Charlie for now – didn't really know what he was doing here. Well, sure he did; he'd been there when his mother signed the papers, strapped to the bed and unable to do much about it. So he knew why the shuttle was taking him through Vulcan's capital, and why it was heading straight for their impressive medical and research facilities. He just wasn't sure why he was on this shuttle. The doctors had already given up; he had his medicine and why couldn't they just leave him alone? He never caused any harm to anyone but himself then, and that was actually a rather sweet deal. Because honestly, he'd rather wake up on the bathroom floor covered in cuts and bruises than having some telepathic condescending assholes pick at his brain.

"Goddamn space elves and their freaky biology; I swear, the Creator was fucking hungover when he made these bloody designs!"

Ah, well, at least he wouldn't be the only human on this little trip. Accompanying him on the shuttle from Starfleet medical was a Doctor Leonard McCoy; famed surgeon and quite the pioneer in the medical research field of the Federation presently. He was all Southern charm; old fashioned, a real sawbones.

"Bones, you've been over those notes 10 times already; didn't you say you wouldn't be able to get any new information until we arrive?"

Innovative, creative, dedicated to his task.

"Shut up Charlie; I'm working! Goddammit. And it's Doctor McCoy for you, punk."

One of the best of human doctors.

"Riiight."

And so, perhaps one of the obvious reasons an Ambassador might request his skills in saving his son. Not that Jim's father was an Ambassador, no, Jim's dad was long dead and there was nothing physically wrong with him. Bones was no specialized psychiatrist.

No, the Ambassador in question was Vulcan, and one might think the fancy institution his beloved offspring was currently confined to would be better off without a doctor and his team specialized in human biology, when the best Vulcan healers were already appointed the case.

The son, however, had a human mother.

A hybrid, a being of two worlds; an endless list of possibilities of genetic combinations which might prove significant in saving his life. Jim couldn't blame them for calling in "the best" of those two worlds.

However, as for what he was doing here…well, apparently the frequency of his psychotic attacks were increasing rapidly and there was nothing they could do for him on Earth. He was 17, almost 18, but declared unfit to decide his treatment himself, which left Winona Kirk. What did Winona do when faced with a situation she couldn't quite handle, like when he uncovered his father's old uniform and played dress up? She turned to space. What better to treat matter of the brain with than telepathy, a tool directly wired to it in ways no modern technology had yet managed? And so, those papers had been signed, and Jim had an episode after the doctors told him he was being shipped off world again. To Vulcan. Desert planet; miles of dry, dead earth. He didn't want to go back to that place.

But Vulcan was different, Mrs. Sandqvist had assured him, the latest in his line of shrinks. Well, screw you, he'd wanted to say, but the meds were doing their job subduing him and his rather hot temper (he felt rather listless; the opposite of the spectrum. Always extremes, never a middle ground). And so…here he was. A lone patient among a team of esteemed Starfleet doctors assigned to the offspring of some hot-shot Vulcan.

He wondered if they were gonna spare at least a nurse for him, you know, for some human contact. There was a rather delicious looking blonde supplying Bones with coffee every now and then. Chapel, he thinks.

"I'm bored," he announced as the blonde moved away for the fourth time. God, these shuttles took forever. Bones looked up with a frown, eying him and taking in the restrains with the same narrowed look he'd worn when he'd boarded.

"Well, suck it up. I'm not gonna entertain you."

And he was back to his notes again.

Well, fuck.

…Jim was nothing if not creative, however.

"I told you I was bored! You can't-ouch, dammit!" Jim squirmed, wishing his hands were free again so he could rub his tender neck. The familiar mist of medical sedation was beginning to work its way through his system already, and he glared at the nurses holding him down before narrowing in on Bones – scratch that – McCoy. He didn't deserve any awesome pet names anymore.

"I can and I will, dammit. What the hell made you think breaking out of your restraints was a good idea? Wait, no, don't answer that. Shit. Would anyone care to explain why we have fucking Houdini as a patient and no goddamn security officers around?"

Houdini. Huh. Yeah, well, he still didn't deserve any pet names. Doctors. Geez.

And before he could really start protesting, there was the familiar fading of consciousness that snuck up on him and he resolved to deal with it later. When he was, you know, not in a drug-induced coma. Dammit.

When Jim woke, there were two things that registered. One; he was awake. Two; fuck it was hot. Time for a third revelation, he decided, and carefully opened his eyes. A ceiling of some kind of muted red sandstone greeted him and he blinked in confusion, seeking clue number four by titling his head to the side and take in the rest of his surroundings.

So. He was lying down, obviously. Restrained for the time being. Although not the familiar whites he was used to, the room he occupied was clearly of the medical variety. Because a) he was a patient and b) there were those seemingly universally uncomfortable hospital beds lined neatly on either side of him. They were all empty though, or they appeared to be anyway, as only a few were shielded by screens but no movements could be detected; not even breathing. He didn't felt up to speculate about that, since the unusual lack of beeping finally caught his attention as he'd listened for other occupants. Usually, when he found himself in this position, there was some medical machinery keeping track of his condition. Curious, he titled his head back and looked up.

Huh. Unfamiliar screens adorned the wall with delicate symbols which looked like some kind of hygrographs, complete with complex diagrams of various shapes. Well. Perhaps there were some similarities, he supposed. But still; no sound. No buzz. He didn't know if it was a relief, or if it was just unsettling.

He decided, for the moment, that it was rather unsettling. Alone, nothing but his breathing and the rustle of too-crisp sheets made a sound. There was nothing to indicate any activity behind the doors at the opposite of the room, nor any windows for the outside world. He felt a familiar tug of anxiety and hurriedly took a deep breath, forcing his thoughts away for silence and isolation and the uncertainly of when were they coming for him what did they want where could he go is there a way out of here oh fuck the screams but there wasn't any sound that bastard knew he must know silence -

"-I'm Henry the eight I am, Henry the eight I am, I am, I got married to the widow next door, she's been married seven times before, and everyone was an Henry, she wouldn't have a Willie or a Sam, I'm her eight old man, I'm Henry, Henry the eight I am! Second verse, same as the first!" he sang, loud enough to drown out the memories and the voices in his head. There was a note of hysteria in his voice, but as the song wore on with its never-ending lyrics, he allowed himself to get lost in it and wavered in places as laughter threatened to spill out. He wondered how many verses he could go through before someone came to check on him, and determinedly renewed his efforts with a wide grin. If the Vulcans were going to poke his brain, he'd make it as difficult as possible.

That's just how he rolled.

"You are on your fifteenth verse of that song, and there does not appear to be any changes apart from the number of verses. Is there an end, or are you intent on continuing until your vocals chords are no longer able to produce any sound? If that is the case, I ask that you cease."

Jim choked on his widow next door and jerked up in response to the unexpected interruption. Well, he tried to jerk up, but all he managed was to buck against the restraints and whip his head around towards to unfamiliar voice. A head of dark, silky hair had poked out from behind one of the screened beds further down the room; eyes dark, slanted eyebrows drawn, pale cheeks slightly green and lips pressed together in a line of frustration.

Huh. Apparently, he shared the nuthouse with a Vulcan.

Awesome.

He figured it was the shock and relief at not being alone which prevented another panic attack from wracking his system.

"What? Not a fan of music? I'm Percival by the way. Who're you?"

And then there was this thing with lying. It wasn't really conscious; they just…slipped out, the lies.

"Yet the song would indicate that you are Henry VIII. You seemed quite insistent on stating this fact."

A Vulcan with humor? Yeah, Jim could totally get down with that.

"Nope! It's Dave! But you still haven't told me your name, man!"

Stiff sheets rustled as the Vulcan rearranged himself and opened the dividing screen further, revealing more of himself where he sat Indian style at the foot of his bed. He titled his head with a confused frown, and Jim wondered if he'd have to just make up a name for the guy as the silence stretched for a few moments.

"You stated your name was Percival, yet you claim it is Dave."

Well, damn, there was that thing about lies again. Maybe he should settle for Charlie again?

"I like a little bit of variety in my life. So, come on, I've given you two names, but you haven't even given me one!"

At this, the Vulcan straightened and regarded him with narrowed eyes. "My name is Spock."

"Not, like, Francis or something?"

"…no. I stated my name as Spock. It is as it is."

"…I think still think something like Myron would suit you."

"…illogical."

Jim laughed. Really?

"As if logic has any place around here, Francis Myron Spock. We're all mad here."

A/N: Please review! :D