Slow mornings didn’t happen often in a place like DS9, which just made them all the more worth savoring when they did occur. Or at least, that’s what Jadzia was arguing, arms wrapped around Kira’s waist while Kira sat on the edge of Jadzia’s bed.
Kira smiled to herself, and let her eyes close for a moment, enjoying the feel of soft arms wrapped around her out of love rather than for violence. When she turns her head to look, Jadzia is still sprawled out across the sheets, hair a jumbled mess, her markings a rolling wave down her shoulders.
“A little longer,” Jadzia pleads, and her eyes are huge, warm, and Kira is hardly going to say no to that.
She leans down, braces herself on one arm propped by Jadzia’s shoulder, and kisses her, long and gentle and luxurious, making the most of it, just like Jadzia had suggested.
Just as it was looking like it might go somewhere interesting, Kira’s commbadge chirped, pulling them apart.
“So much for a slow morning,” Kira said, with a rueful smile. Jadzia just slid a hand around the back of her neck and kissed her one more time, just as slow, just as tender, just as warm.
I got tagged by my darling @vienna-salvatori to post the first sentence of a WIP and tag as many people as there are words. I gave her a choice of my current WIP, and she chose my overly ambitious “Tim said yes to Jason’s be my Robin question” AU passion project How You Make The Meaning.
Jason thought of it as a moment of weakness, in the months that followed.
I’m gonna tag my writing buddies @robininthelabyrinth @villanellve @wreathedinscales @ohmyhades @untitledfirbolg @snarkysnartes and if you’re not on this list but want to, consider yourself tagged.
When she wakes up, and Richie is still asleep with bandages around her shoulder and her fingers laced with Eddie’s, Eddie fumbles for an inhaler she’d burnt and stumbles to a bathroom to dry heave while she tries to reconcile twenty seven years of her life and a marriage with the fact that she is, undoubtedly, a lesbian. - Finishing My Sentences In Better Ways
Somehow this is the only one? I’m at a loss. I have five WIPs at the moment and yet
I promised you it was coming, @wreathedinscales, and now I’ve actually done it. Chapter One of Run For The Office and Run For The Cause, the dad-Bones fic is below the cut.
His first rotation in Starfleet Medical is in pediatrics, because somebody up there hates him, and because somebody down here hates him too, they send him to deal with the just-below-the-age-of-majority defectors from the non-Federation races, who are, he is told very seriously, not political prisoners, despite appearances.
“No,” says Leonard McCoy, and folds his arms over his newly red-clad chest, internally blaming Jim Kirk and the fact the kid had hacked the Academy servers to ensure they’d be roommates.
Christopher Pike, the asshole responsible for delivering his assignment, and for recruiting Len, lets his head fall forward onto his desk, and mutters something that includes the words ‘mushroom’, ‘fuckery’, and ‘doppelgänger’ that makes no sense at all, except, apparently, to him.
“Doctor, you don’t get to say no to this,” he says, when he finally looks back up at Len.
“Sure I can,” says Len, “I just did.”
“How are you actively worse than when I had both of them in the same room?” Pike asks, as though this will mean something to Len. “Doctor McCoy, we have four defectors from non-Federation worlds who are below the age of majority, and need medical attention. The youngest is 16, if you were concerned that you might be -“
“So help me god, if you finish that sentence.”
There’s a new figure in the room now, dashing in medical blues that seem designed to complement his equally blue eyes.
“I shan’t, then,” says Pike, primly, smirk betraying his intent.
“Go fuck yourself, Chris,” says the newcomer.
“Not in front of the cadet, Phil,” says Pike, and Len begins internally cursing anyone who had a hand in his arrival at Starfleet, starting with Pike.
“Listen, Doctor McCoy,” says Admiral Boyce, because that’s the only Phil who would show up in Pike’s office in Medical Blue and then call him Chris, “there’s a very specific reason I’ve assigned you to this.”
Len resists the urge to tell him that he is, apparently, the person down here on earth who hates Len, and instead asks what the reason is, because he can respect a leading statement when it suits him.
“To be frank, I’m dealing with an absurdly large number of ‘fleet doctors whose attitudes towards those races with whom the Federation is nominally at war are affecting their ability to treat these children.”
Len can feel his chest inflating with anger and hot air, even as Boyce is speaking. He hates, on many levels, that Boyce can read him so well so quickly, but now he’s mostly concerned about the wellbeing of the minors.
“What species are we talking about?”
Pike and Boyce make eye contact in a way that Len knows - just knows - is smug, and Boyce hands Len the PADD he’d been carrying.
“Two Romulans, one of whom isn’t talking at all, a Klingon, and a fugitive Orion who won’t tell us why she’s a fugitive.”
Len casts a cursory glance at the files on the PADD, and then looks back up at the Admirals. Boyce is perched on the edge of Pike’s desk, supermodel legs crossed at the ankle, perfectly at ease, and studying Len’s face a little more closely than Len’s really comfortable with. Pike has a shit-eating grin on his face.
“Paul, or Michael?” Boyce asks Pike.
Pike clicks his tongue and then shakes his head.
“Neither. But Michael is getting warmer.”
Boyce sighs out a breath between his teeth.
“Stop flirting with your subordinates,” he says to Pike, and then he turns back to Len and says, “come on, then.”
“You weren’t complaining!” Pike yells after them.
“Just for that,” Boyce says, as they get in the turbo lift at the end of Pike’s corridor, “I’m not telling him the ex you apparently remind him of is finally back on earth.”
Len chokes on air, and Boyce grins like a shark.
***
Keeping up with Boyce is a struggle, because the man moves at the speed of sound. Len is almost jogging to match his pace when they arrive in one of Starfleet Medical’s isolation wards. There are four rooms in use, although one of them appears to be empty. When he turns a questioning eyebrow on Boyce, the man sighs.
“The Romulan girls do better together,” he says, “although they refuse to tell us why.”
The room opposite the empty one does in fact contain two girls, curled tight around each other on the single biobed, looking almost like a single entity. If Boyce hadn’t said they were Romulan, Len would have assumed they were Vulcan, which was becoming a larger and larger issue for Starfleet intelligence. But on that train of thought -
“Has anyone done psi-readings for them? There’s none in their file,” Len asks, flipping slightly aimlessly through the PADDs he’d been given. He’s met with silence, and when he looks up, Boyce is smiling, but softer, almost proud.
“No,” he says, “and I think you’re going to work wonders in here.”
Len snorts, and pulls out his tricorder. He’s right, it seems. The two girls are producing a low-level psi reading, much like that observed in Vulcan bonded pairs. Len hums to himself, something from a century or two ago that Joanna loved and always ended up stuck in Len’s head, as he enters the reading, only to realize someone is humming along.
It’s the Orion. She’s sitting right by the clear forcefield that closes the isolation room, and she’s smiling. In stark contrast to Len’s other experience with Orion women, she’s got close-cropped hair, and is wearing long sleeves and a high neckline, all in dark neutral tones.
“Hey, darling,” Len says, before he can really stop himself, “what’s your name?”
She mutters something that is definitely a name, but she doesn’t seem happy with. The syllables match what’s on her file, but something isn’t right. He takes a few steps over, and feels Boyce stiffen, where he’s watching in the door to the ward. She’s curled up again, smile having dropped off her face, and - Len’s earlier observations flip through his head like flashcards, adding up to a brand new conclusion.
“Let me ask a different question,” he says, sitting down in front of the forcefield, folding his knees criss-cross-applesauce like he used to with Jo, “what would you like me to call you?”
The Orion looks up again, eyes wide and a little startled.
“Hey, kiddo, it’s alright. If you want me to call you something different than the name they gave you when you were born, then that’s just fine, and I will. We won’t hurt you for wanting it, and we won’t use it against you.”
He hates that he has that speech prepared already, because he shouldn’t need to say it, but here he is, and he does need to say it. His Orion charge seems somewhat bolstered by the words, but still looks a little concerned.
“Let’s start again, shall we? I’m Leonard. What’s your name?”
The Orion swallows, and then makes steady, even, eye contact with Len.
“Gaitan.”
“Alright, Gaitan,” Len says, and swallows because if he gets this wrong this kid is probably never going to speak to him again, “and what pronouns would you like me to use?”
Gaitan says ‘he’ in the softest voice Len has ever heard, and then bursts into tears.
“Oh, no,” says Boyce, from the door, “oh my god, we’ve been misgendering you this whole time, I’m so fucking sorry. We should have checked.”
Gaitan turns big watery eyes on Boyce.
“You’re apologizing to me?”
“Of course I’m apologizing to you - we should have asked, and made sure you were comfortable,” Boyce says, and then drops the forcefield in front of Gaitan’s door.
“Can I give you a hug?” Len asks, “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but I’d really like to make sure you’ve got some reassurance right now.”
Gaitan flings himself at Len in answer, and wraps his arms around Len’s neck.
“Is that why you fled, Gaitan?” Boyce questions. Gaitan makes a humming noise of assent, and clings to Len a bit tighter.
“Said I was property ‘cause I was a girl but I’m not a girl so-“ he mutters.
“And you shouldn’t be property anyway,” says Len, scooting around on his ass to look at the room opposite Gaitan’s, “so you just stay right here while I - fucking hell, Boyce, that’s a Klingon!”
“I did tell you that,” says Boyce, grinning.
“I thought you were joking,” Len says, and juggles his tricorder into the hand not currently wrapped around Gaitan.
“‘S just T’Raka,” Gaitan soothes, “she’s nice.”
“T’Raka, is it?” Len calls, to the young woman in the room, “can we chat?”
She looks over at him, clearly skeptical, and then spots the tricorder.
“What’s that? I’ve never seen one before. What does it do? How does it work?”
“You’ve never seen a tricorder before?” Len asks, confused.
T’Raka flips a hand at him, limp-wristed.
“None of the other doctors believed I wouldn’t hurt them. They kept sedating me. But you popped up and actually asked what Gaitan’s pronouns were, so you’re clearly not as much of a dishonorable dick.”
Len blinks a few times, surprised by her unaccented, untranslated Standard. Then he smiles.
“We’re gonna get on fine, then, sweetie,” he says, and then holds out the tricorder, closer to the forcefield, “and it’s a tricorder, designed for medical scanning.”
T’Raka sits down on her side of her forcefield, and studies the device intently.
“Do you like science?” Len asks, to fill the ensuing silence.
“I like machines,” says T’Raka, without turning her eyes from the tricorder, “I like knowing how they work, what makes them tick.”
Len glances at the readouts he gets from her as surreptitiously as he can, and thumbs them into T’Raka’s files.
“Do you guys know anything about the twins in there?”
“They’re not twins,” says Gaitan, “but that’s about all I know.”
“They’re real scared of something, and they won’t tell us what,” says T’Raka, “but I think it’s got to do with the possibility of them being separated.”
“They don’t talk much,” says Gaitan, tone pointed.
“We talk plenty, you just can’t hear,” says one of the two of them, before pushing herself upright enough to look over at Len-and-Gaitan, wrapped together on the floor. She’s got the characteristic high cheekbones and pointed ears of the Romulans, and combined with her dark skin tone and warm brown eyes, it makes her look like an elf from one of Len’s childhood storybooks. Len had been raised on Pratchett, after all.
“Len, was it? I’m M’Lena. This is Adiwat.”
Her friend raises a hand and wiggles her fingers, without moving in any other way. The only thing Len can see is her good Irish red hair. M’Lena looks down at her for a moment, and then smiles.
“She says I should tell you that she’s glad you twigged to the psi-reading thing, because she hasn’t felt verbal lately.”
In the doorway, Boyce chokes.
“Is Adiwat telepathic?” Len asks, hand tracing idle patterns on Gaitan’s back.
“She’s half Vulcan, so she has limited telepathic abilities,” M’Lena explains, shrugging slightly. Then she giggles, and seems to launch into some kind of non-verbal exchange with Adiwat.
“I feel much better about how quiet they were now,” says T’Raka, with a low voice, and Len nods in agreement.
Scans for the girls take a few minutes, during which Gaitan stays wrapped around Len and T’Raka mumbles theories about Federaji tricorders. When he finally says goodbye to the kids, he genuinely isn’t sure whether he or they are more upset about it.
This is why Len doesn’t do pediatrics. He gets attached.
Boyce is looking at him sidelong as they walk back to the hospital lobby, and Len bites the bullet, and says it.
“What do I have to do to become the primary care doctor for the kids, even after the rotations end?”
Boyce grins.
“I thought you’d come round. I’ll handle it.”
Then he takes off at the same breakneck speed he had earlier, leaving Len in his dust, miffed, and on the way to becoming a parent for the second time in his life.
“Fuck me,” he mutters, and turns on his heel to go to class.
Jason is a stone you break to find a geode. He’s wished he was a knife for years, and then there was Tim, who is a fucking prison shank of a person. - How You Make The Meaning
They end up in the same diner they’d always gone to as teenagers, because some habits are hard to break, while Eddie does her best to avoid admitting that she’s wearing a hoodie she took from Richie’s room, which is probably more that obvious given how big it is on her. - Finishing My Sentences In Better Ways
There’s a beat where no one says anything, and then Richie - always Richie, of course it’s Richie, her Richie, brilliant Richie, the Richie she loves - breaks the silence. - Finishing My Sentences In Better Ways
“Who do we know in Maine, baby?” asked Dick Grayson, and the puzzle piece fell out of Stan’s suddenly limp hand. - European Robin (Catch Me If You Can)
He arrives back at work to a very serious meeting with three members of the HR staff, a psychologist, and Director Fury, during which he tries to drown himself in a glass of water as a result of every one of those people calling Erik his sugar daddy at least once. - Like A Tree Beside The River
“I can’t believe I’m sitting in space jail with you of all people.” for obvious reasons
Bones’ T-shirt lies abandoned on the tiny, uncomfortable bunk, smeared liberally with blood from the cuts on the face and knuckles of both him and his newly-deemed cell mate.
“I can’t believe I’m sitting in space jail with you of all people!”
She manages to sound excited about it. From their limited acquaintance, Bones has gathered she is excited about many things, including but not limited to excessively caffeinated drinks, puppies, the concept of space-time, stellar cartography, alien molds, and marshmallows. Also friendship with Jim Kirk, but in a sweetly genuine way that the kid is sorely lacking.
“It’s a bonding moment,” she says, conspiratorially, leaning towards him, her curly red hair falling over the split over her cheekbone.
“A bar fight. Is a bonding moment,” says Bones, disbelievingly, before he remembers that this little ray of red headed sunshine is friends with Jim Kirk without wanting in his pants and is therefore, just as Bones himself is, certifiable.
“Of course it is, silly,” she says, and keels all the way over, resting her head on Bones’ knee, “we’re shield-siblings now.”
“Barstool-siblings,” says Bones for the sake of correctness. She giggles, and a tiny smile slides onto Bones’ split lips, right before he starts laughing too.
He and Tilly are still laughing when Jim finally comes to bail them out.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
So about a gajillion years ago @robininthelabyrinth hooked me on the idea of Mick/Bruce/Len. This is the end result of that - I’m in (an airport in) New York and so I’ve finished it up for you 😘😘
