James T. Kirk (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kirktastic) wrote2009-10-13 03:18 pm
kirktastic) wrote2009-10-13 03:18 pm
Entry tags:
[Out of Time, Out of Body] -- [Kirk and Kirk]
There is a certain moment that people take, where they close their eyes and take a slow, deep breath inwards. For that moment, right at the very peak of the breath, the world around vanishes, thoughts disappear, and the body seems to almost float. Try it. Slow, deep breath with the eyes closed.
Each breath was slow, deep, measured. It filled the lungs, as loud as the rush of the ocean on the beach. Underneath it all was the same slow, deep, measured toll of each heartbeat.
It was on the peak of one of those breaths that his eyes opened. White light spilled between his eyelids, then the world became fuzzy colors, then fuzzy outlines, then solid ones. He was staring at a ceiling. So he remained there, time unknown and unmeasured, staring. It was better then the darkness, at any rate.
Sickbay? Looked like the ceiling, at least. The picture of sickbay built in his mind as he heard the biobed's continuous digital beat, the sound of someone murmuring in the distance, the smell of antiseptic, the hum of something mechanical around him.
So, naturally, he sat up. He took a slow look around him, feeling strangely distant from everything, even himself. Bedsheets covered him, there was something glowing slowly around him, and yes, definitely in sickbay.
It should have been very strange to look back down at himself as he stood up, yet there was nothing. No panic, no terror, just a strange divorced feeling. Kirk shifted away, looking at himself, then finally away. His body still beat, still breathed, wouldn't miss him for now. Why was his skin bright pink like that?
He stepped away, unable to feel the cold floor under his bare feet.
Each breath was slow, deep, measured. It filled the lungs, as loud as the rush of the ocean on the beach. Underneath it all was the same slow, deep, measured toll of each heartbeat.
It was on the peak of one of those breaths that his eyes opened. White light spilled between his eyelids, then the world became fuzzy colors, then fuzzy outlines, then solid ones. He was staring at a ceiling. So he remained there, time unknown and unmeasured, staring. It was better then the darkness, at any rate.
Sickbay? Looked like the ceiling, at least. The picture of sickbay built in his mind as he heard the biobed's continuous digital beat, the sound of someone murmuring in the distance, the smell of antiseptic, the hum of something mechanical around him.
So, naturally, he sat up. He took a slow look around him, feeling strangely distant from everything, even himself. Bedsheets covered him, there was something glowing slowly around him, and yes, definitely in sickbay.
It should have been very strange to look back down at himself as he stood up, yet there was nothing. No panic, no terror, just a strange divorced feeling. Kirk shifted away, looking at himself, then finally away. His body still beat, still breathed, wouldn't miss him for now. Why was his skin bright pink like that?
He stepped away, unable to feel the cold floor under his bare feet.
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I... I can't... let them... not be protected.
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I'll be there. We're still connected. Draw on me. And go to them, tell them you're still Jim Kirk. And remember this. Me. Us. Remember what we are.
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You're right. He finally said, quietly. You'll be there, right?
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Yes. I'll be there.
He turned Kirk around, placing his hand flat against Kirk's chest.
And here.
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Yes. Find me, when you need to.
It would be hard. Jim knew that. But he knew Kirk would languish here, lost in his own mind.
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I remember we got up. Try laying back down. And... telling yourself to wake up.
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He closed his eyes and sunk back down into his own body, and the more intimate feeling of being connected faded.
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As the connection faded, so did the world. Or rather, Jim felt himself being sucked back into his own body, not unpleasantly or swiftly or slowly or anything at all. Just... reclaimed.
When he woke (http://dctr-mccoy.livejournal.com/25780.html?thread=530100#t530100), the connection was still there, but muted. And he remembered, mostly, that feeling of union.
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