Fic: The Plebe, Chapter 12

The Plebe, Chapter 12

Special Delivery -- Chapel Nurses -- Tears and Vomit -- Bedtime Stories, Part Deux

 

Throughout his career in Starfleet, Gary Mitchell would be known not so much for his ability to plan ahead, which he himself would cheerfully acknowledge was not his strongest suit, but for his quick thinking, reliability under pressure, and steadfastness in times of trouble. That he had chosen, having exhausted all six volumes of Jungle King Tar-Chan twice over, to keep awake by reading Jim’s recently acquired edition of the letters and essays of Seneca aptly illustrated the former; it was only 20:17 when the trill of a key code override startled him from the slumber he had been lured into by the fifth paragraph of De Brevitate Vitae. The latter qualities quickly came into play at the sight of Mr. Spock, Jim’s slack form draped over one shoulder, standing in the doorway.

“The cadet is indisposed.”

Understatement of the year, my man

He sprang from his bed to slap at the door panel, grateful for the old-growth trees outside Watson that shielded his roommate’s ignominious return. Spock moved toward Jim’s bunk as the door slid shut behind him to lay his burden down with more care than Mitchell would have supposed him capable of.

“What happened? Sir.”

It was the briefest of pauses, but Mitchell caught the hesitation, his eyes widening in alarm as they darted between Spock’s unreadable expression and the frighteningly motionless body of his roommate. “What is it?”

“Cadet. I request that you keep what I am about to relay to you in strictest confidence. It is imperative that you not reveal to anyone the circumstances of tonight’s events.” The dark head tilted to examine Mitchell’s response. “I am sorry to entreat your dishonesty, but should you be asked, you must for his sake deny any knowledge of Mr. Kirk’s condition.”

As ignorance was what Mitchell would instinctively have claimed upon questioning anyway, it was no trouble to assent. The brisk nod he gave Spock elicited a slower one of what resembled cautious relief in return as Spock inclined his head toward Jim, his hands disappearing into the folds of his robe.

“He is intoxicated.”

“That’s all?!” The whoosh of Mitchell’s relieved exhalation was unnaturally loud in the smallness of their room. “F…gosh, the way you were talking, I thought he was dead. Drunk, that’s like no big deal.”

“On the contrary, it is, as you would say, a big deal. And an infraction in fact, against both his oath as a Starfleet recruit and the laws of your government.”

“What are you talking about?”

Grave brown eyes rose to meet his own. “The cadet is underaged.”

“No he’s not,” Mitchell argued, surprised that Spock should have gotten it so wrong. “He took a gap year after high school, so he’s like nineteen.”

Spock shook his head, his sad gaze returning to the still form on the bunk. “Indeed not. It yet lacks nearly six months until Mr. Kirk's sixteenth birthday.”

“He’s…he’s fifteen? That’s impossible! You can't even apply to enlist until you're seventeen!”

Spock seemed disappointed in Mitchell’s response. “You are the second of his intimates to express ignorance of that fact tonight. I find it disconcerting that you Humans know so little of those for whom you profess such affection.”

“He didn’t tell me. He must have hidden it, on purpose, he didn’t…” Mitchell’s whirling thoughts seized on Spock’s first statement. “So, Finn…he didn’t know either?”

The twinkling streetlights outside Bambinelli’s played across a handsome face completely drained of color, the eyes wide and dark with shock. Spock shook his head once. “He did not.”

“Listen, did he try to…”

“Mr. Kirk requires medical assistance." The interruption was followed by another uncharacteristic hesitation. “I request that you remain here while I secure the services of the campus medical staff.”

The urge to act was strong. “I could go.”

“No.” The sharp response drew a start of surprise from Mitchell. “It would be better for you to stay with him.”

“Can’t you just comm Medical, ask them to come over here?”

“There is a high probability that my communications are being monitored. It would be more prudent to alert them in person.” He turned toward the door. “Do not under any circumstances allow anyone into the room, nor communicate with anyone, until my return.”

“Got it.” Mitchell brought one hand to the back of his head, ruffling the short dark hair in worry as he stared down at Jim, at the blond lashes too dark against the unnatural pallor of his cheeks. Something about the very limpness of his body made Mitchell want to cry out in alarm. “You’re bringing back the doctor, right?”

Spock shook his head as he palmed the door open. “The nurse.”

 

***

 

Having just recently spent several days under the brusque, efficient care of Christine Chapel, Mitchell knew enough to be worried that her normally imperturbable features were now creased with concern. Her frown indicted both the medical tricorder in her hand and the men watching with apprehension.

“His nervous system is unusually depressed. How much did you say he had?”

“Assuming a dilution factor of one-third, approximately one-hundred twenty-three milliliters of forty percent ethanol.”

“Is that a lot?” Mitchell ventured, his own brow furrowing under the strain of the mental calculation.

“Even for a lightweight like him, that’s not enough to account for these readings.” Christine laid her medikit on the bed next to Jim and opened it to select a hypospray cartridge. “That’s only about three shots.”

“Consumed over a span of forty-three minutes, fourteen seconds.”

“You don’t say."

She looked up to stare hard at Spock until he closed his eyes against her indictment, then loaded the cartridge and pressed the hypo against Jim’s neck. They waited, the loud hiss dying in the expectant silence.

Mitchell was terrible at waiting. “He’s not doing anything. Why’s he not doing anything?”

The tart response forming on her lips was interrupted by a high, sighing whimper from the bunk, followed by a visible convulsion of Jim’s abdomen. Christine hooked her elbow under his right armpit and rolled him onto his side, then rose and turned in a single smooth movement to avoid the heaving glut of vomit that poured out onto the sheets.

“That’s better.”

She passed the scanner over the gasping form on the bed, her frown lightening somewhat with each helpless aftershock. “Respiration’s still depressed, but he’ll live.” The hard look again, right at Spock. “How’d this happen?”

“It was unintentional. An unfortunate error in judgment on the part of the cadet and of his companion.”

“Finn?” Her face closed on the single word.

Spock bowed slightly in affirmation. “He was unaware of the cadet’s…status.”

Her stare moved from Spock to Mitchell, the unspoken accusation plain. Mitchell spread his hands out in a defensive apology. “He didn’t even tell me. I don’t think anyone knows.”

“Let’s hope that’s still the case.” Her fingers pushed the empty cartridge onto the bed and reloaded the hypospray to press it a second time into Jim’s unresisting neck, her eyes watching intently as the spasms relaxed into one final hitching sigh before he passed out again. She nodded and pulled out a small unlabeled vial of small red pills from the medikit’s side pocket. “Make sure he takes one of these when he wakes up or he’ll spend the next few days wishing he was never born.” Mitchell accepted the vial from her outstretched hand and shoved it into his pants pocket. “One every four hours after that until he doesn’t need them anymore. And keep him on his side for now so he doesn’t aspirate whatever else comes back up.” She slung the medikit over her shoulder and gave Jim one last look before turning toward the door. “Comm me every hour or two with an update but don’t say anything specific over an unsecured channel. And keep him out of classes tomorrow. Officially, he has the flu.”

“Nurse Chapel. I am grateful both for your skill and for your discretion.”

She shrugged off his thanks and palmed open the door. “I’ll let you gentlemen clean him up.”

 

***

 

It was that same high, sighing groan that jerked Mitchell from sleep, his arms and ass numb from hunching in Jim’s desk chair. Spock had long since dropped off the laundry, the bed linens and clothing now neatly folded and stacked on one corner of Jim’s bare bunk; Jim himself was in Mitchell’s bed, where Spock had deposited him after plucking him from the spreading pool of regurgitated fluid.

“Kindly remove the linens; they will need washing along with his clothing.”

He had complied, rolling the sheets into a rough ball while Spock disappeared into their small bathroom to return a moment later with several towels, one of them soaked with warm water. Together they had pulled off the soiled shirt, jeans, and undershorts, laying them carefully onto the pile of fouled bedding before turning their attention to Jim’s face and hands, then to the rest of his body. The occasional questioning glances Mitchell directed at Spock as they worked were met with silence until they had completed their ministrations.

“He will require the clothing he normally sleeps in.”

Mitchell nodded and crossed to the small dresser to remove a t-shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms, then turned back toward Spock in time to catch a brief flicker on the face that had remained carefully neutral up until now. He followed Spock’s gaze to where it rested on Jim, curled like a small, pink shrimp on the bed.

The dark eyes lifted toward his. “Please dress him while I wash the bedclothes. I should return within one hour, at which time I can assist you in moving him onto his own bunk.”

That he had indeed returned was evident now from the presence of the folded sheets. Mitchell stretched with a grimace, the tingling in his limbs affirming that he’d been crashed in the chair for well over one hour, and looked toward his bunk to find Jim finally awake, his eyes at first wide and questioning at seeing Mitchell seated at his desk from the unusual perspective of his roommate’s bunk. A moment later, he clamped his eyes shut and raised one wobbling hand to shield them from the light of the bedside lamp.

“Easy there, cowboy.” Mitchell lurched out of the chair to stumble toward the bed on feet that prickled with the pain of returning circulation. “I got something that’ll help with that headache.”

Jim’s voice was muffled by his hand. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Tied one on, my man.” Mitchell pulled the vial out of his pocket and pressed one of the pills into Jim’s palm, then turned away to move to the bathroom.

“Tied…what?”

“Got wasted. Partied hearty. I’d be proud of you if you were legal.” He emerged from the bathroom with a glass of water and grasped Jim’s hand to pull him up to sitting. “Take that happy pill with as much water as you can stand.”

Jim obeyed in silence. Mitchell waited, watching as the thoughts unfolded on his face, sluggish at first but quickening as the memories returned.

“You gonna be all right?”

Jim shook his head, his eyes widening in the paleness of his face. “I don’t feel well, I feel like…”

A moment later, Chapel’s red happy pill was floating on a lagoon of greenish vomit, a toddler’s first attempt at Christmas-themed art overlaid on the whiteness of the bedsheets. “Oh, God, I’m sorry,” Jim gasped before another convulsion struck, forcing tears from the corners of both eyes as he bent over to retch again. Mitchell waited, one cool hand like a blessing on the back of Jim’s neck, until the spasms lessened and finally ceased before rising to get the last clean towel from the bathroom.

“No worries. Ain’t nothing that hasn’t happened to every red-blooded man since forever.” He handed the towel to Jim to wipe his face and moved to Jim’s bed, plucking one of the clean sheets off the pile and flicking it open. “Give me a minute and you can move back over here.”

It wasn’t much longer than a minute before the freshly made bed beckoned. Mitchell hoisted Jim to stand on unsteady legs and shuffle the few short feet between their bunks.

“Sit down and let’s try this again.”

The second pill went down easier than the first; Jim sipped the water carefully and handed the glass back to Mitchell before lowering himself onto the pillow.

“It hurts my head more to lie down.”

“Yeah, but your stomach feels better, right?” Jim nodded. “So lie down until the meds take over. At least you won’t hurl again.” Mitchell shook the top sheet open and let it drift down over Jim. “Try to get some sleep. I’m gonna pop all this shit in the washer.”

 

***

 

Jim was still awake, curled on his side and facing their door as Mitchell returned, his eyes reddened by the lingering suspicion of tears.

“Mitch, I’m so sorry, really, I’m sorry I messed up your bed.”

“It’s nothing, man, I told you. Shut the fuck up already.” He peeled off his clothes and tossed them on the bare bunk behind him. “Lights to zero.”

“But you don’t have any sheets to sleep on.”

“They needed washing anyway. Somebody steals them, I don’t give a fuck. Move over.”

He waited until Jim rolled over to slide into the narrow bunk, his knees fitting into Jim’s from behind, one arm wrapping around his waist. “Listen, man, I know you feel like shit right now. But it’s gonna be all right. You’re gonna be all right. You just gotta get through the next couple days.”

“I don’t…” Jim waited until the choking feeling in his throat lessened. “I don’t think I’m getting through. I think I’m going to be kicked out.”

“Not gonna happen. Chapel already entered your exemption from class tomorrow. Fuck, I mean, today. And Friday if you need it.” Mitchell yawned, his arm tightening around Jim. “Go to sleep. You’ll be good in the morning.”

“No, I mean…what happened tonight…”

“You’re good, man. Spock’s got your back. You’re good.”

“I don’t feel like I’m good. And Mr. Spock…” He closed his eyes against the memory of the pale face before his, the eyes blackened first in fury, then in alarm. “I don’t know. I don’t think he'll stick up for me.”

“Bruh-bruh, I’m telling you, he will. I know it. I saw it.” Mitchell shifted to press tighter against him. "By the way, if L'il Elvis comes knocking on your back door tonight, it's not 'cause I'm into you or anything. Just means I need to take a leak."

“You don’t get it.” Jim knew he was supposed to smile but couldn't; he took a breath to hold back the hot tears that pushed against his eyes from behind and found that, for the moment at least, he could only tell Mitch about the least of his offenses that evening. “I…I took a swing at him.”

“You what? My man!” Mitchell’s sleepy laugh rumbled against his back. “Was he pissed?”

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