Dr McCoy, meet me at the turbolifts to retrieve Jim’s body.
#do you ever think about spock being the one who carried jim’s lifeless body out of the radiation chamber #and then just walking to sickbay with him in his arms #and mccoy meeting him halfway to take jim’s body from him #and while bones is usually unrestrained emotion and spock tightly-reined control #you see the differences then#bones’ face shutting down and going into what jim called his ‘doctor mode’ to distance himself from this and spock unleashing anger #but not before spock uses the last bit of his control and gently hands jim over into bones’ arms #and bones choking out a soft and quiet ‘you get that son of a bitch’ to spock before he carries jim’s body silently all the way to sickbay #i just #someone take this stupid thing away from me and go write fic or something (tags via whitelaws)
Tumblr Songs 8/10: If I Ever Leave This World Alive by Flogging Molly
I’ve wanted to make a lyricstuck of this song for ages (esp. the lines “I’m okay/I’m alright/Though you have gone/From my life”), but in the case that I don’t at least I’ll have this. ^u^
Summary: Dave and Rose meet in person at the start of the doomed timeline.
Note: I’m not sure why this turned into a dialogue-only ficlet, nor why it insisted on being actual dialogue rather than a chatlog, but you write the story that wants to be written. The title is from “Comment,” a poem by Dorothy Parker. (875 words)
A Medley of Extemporanea
"You’ve lost me."
"I beg to disagree. Since I can reach out my hand and touch you — here, allow me to demonstrate—"
"My deepest apologies. My shoulder twitched."
"Twitched. Yeah. Sure. Your apology pool fathometer is seriously out of whack if you think that’s deep. You’ve gotta dredge those emotion glands out now and then, keep them from silting up."
"Oh, horrors! Do you mean to inform me I’ve been walking around in public with silt-choked emotion glands? I shall expire from shame. Unless you’re suggesting that you want to be in charge of this dredging? Do you harbor a desperate, unspoken desire to plow through the soft, yielding hollows of—”
"Oh my god, will you stop with the innuendos. I meant psychology. Emotions and shit. That’s your bag, you just need to skullfuck yourself sometimes instead of me."
"That would be terribly unprofessional."