The first day he's fished from the sea and taken aboard, he mostly spends slumped over the railing. With his head spinning, stomach cramping, he awaits the moment the imminent need to fling his head over the open ocean hits, and he heaves pathetically into the choppy surf.
Aviophobia was conquerable. Turns out seasickness is much more stubborn. Slumping aside, he pillows his aching head in his arms, and moans unhappily to anyone who'll listen: )
Are we there yet?
B.
( He's a doctor, not a sailor, and certainly not a pirate. Fortunately for McCoy, he's not without work aboard a sailing vessel once he's got his sea legs, though it's a sight different from Starfleet, and not in any way he enjoys.
The medicine chest of a ship is worth its weight in gold, and yet its contents are so limited, but he'll try, dammit. Bones pulls splinters from calloused palms and sets broken fingers, cleans and bandages cuts, shoves tinctures at others with seasickness, and continually makes compresses for the various burns one can collect at sea. Grease burns, rope burns– even sunburn.
Is someone lobster-red and looks like they're in pain? He'll call them over in his gentle but firm drawl: )
You look scorched. I have something for that.
C. cw for 'dubious' books
( Bones is unsurprised to find that most of the crew are illiterate, and his general grumpiness dissolves as he reads to sailors their letters from home, from families giving updates on their lives and how much they miss these fathers and sons, brothers and uncles.
There's even the occasional illicit lover. He even manages to keep a straight face through some very... loving passages, summarizing the contents for their recipient.
Apparently, they felt he had a knack for reading aloud, as a slim volume of uncertain provenance is soon produced from someone's hammock– fairytales, he's assured, from far off on the mainlands.
Except, no, this is... this is smut. He closes the book once he figures it out and waves it crossly at the snickering bunch. )
Seriously? This isn't even realistic. And you gotta ask someone before you spank them.
II. The Crossing
Angels and ministers of grace, defend us, ( McCoy mutters in the darkness, as the undead drag their sodden boots across the deck above. )
'THIS IS KINDER',( the undead hiss, and Bones is thankful for the sheltering dark, the way it hides how badly the doctor's shoulders are shaking. He folds his arms across his chest, white-knuckling his biceps. He's not strictly religious, that was his nana, but he lifts up a silent, fervent prayer anyhow, to God or Whomever will listen.
Once the dead are gone and the sun is rising red and pink through the oppressive mist, he dares to ask: )
leonard mccoy | star trek aos | tourist
A. cw for puke
( That's right, Leonard McCoy gets seasick.
The first day he's fished from the sea and taken aboard, he mostly spends slumped over the railing. With his head spinning, stomach cramping, he awaits the moment the imminent need to fling his head over the open ocean hits, and he heaves pathetically into the choppy surf.
Aviophobia was conquerable. Turns out seasickness is much more stubborn. Slumping aside, he pillows his aching head in his arms, and moans unhappily to anyone who'll listen: )
Are we there yet?
B.
( He's a doctor, not a sailor, and certainly not a pirate. Fortunately for McCoy, he's not without work aboard a sailing vessel once he's got his sea legs, though it's a sight different from Starfleet, and not in any way he enjoys.
The medicine chest of a ship is worth its weight in gold, and yet its contents are so limited, but he'll try, dammit. Bones pulls splinters from calloused palms and sets broken fingers, cleans and bandages cuts, shoves tinctures at others with seasickness, and continually makes compresses for the various burns one can collect at sea. Grease burns, rope burns– even sunburn.
Is someone lobster-red and looks like they're in pain? He'll call them over in his gentle but firm drawl: )
You look scorched. I have something for that.
C. cw for 'dubious' books
( Bones is unsurprised to find that most of the crew are illiterate, and his general grumpiness dissolves as he reads to sailors their letters from home, from families giving updates on their lives and how much they miss these fathers and sons, brothers and uncles.
There's even the occasional illicit lover. He even manages to keep a straight face through some very... loving passages, summarizing the contents for their recipient.
Apparently, they felt he had a knack for reading aloud, as a slim volume of uncertain provenance is soon produced from someone's hammock– fairytales, he's assured, from far off on the mainlands.
Except, no, this is... this is smut. He closes the book once he figures it out and waves it crossly at the snickering bunch. )
Seriously? This isn't even realistic. And you gotta ask someone before you spank them.
II. The Crossing
Angels and ministers of grace, defend us, ( McCoy mutters in the darkness, as the undead drag their sodden boots across the deck above. )
'THIS IS KINDER', ( the undead hiss, and Bones is thankful for the sheltering dark, the way it hides how badly the doctor's shoulders are shaking. He folds his arms across his chest, white-knuckling his biceps. He's not strictly religious, that was his nana, but he lifts up a silent, fervent prayer anyhow, to God or Whomever will listen.
Once the dead are gone and the sun is rising red and pink through the oppressive mist, he dares to ask: )
Why do they say that?
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