captain james t. kirk (buckleup) wrote in colligo_threads, @ 2009-06-05 22:02:00 |
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Entry tags: | !closed |
CHARACTERS: James T. Kirk, Seven of Nine
LOCATION: Building A, 3rd Floor, Room #310A
TIME: morning, after George's arrival (post-this & this)
NOTES: Other than an upset, hungover captain? None.
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There was hesitation in his steps as he descended the stairs, a pair of cheap-o sunglasses he'd found in one of the pre-stocked dressers in Cordelia's room on his face to hide how red his eyes had become--which was odd, because he hadn't succumbed to the urge to cry yet and if he could get away with it, wouldn't. Though, maybe it wasn't because he was upset, but because he was hungover and boy was he ever. His head throbbed and stomach churned, his body obviously not liking the fact that he'd ventured out of the comfort that was the bed of a beautiful woman and out into the bright light of day. Whether the urge to hurl thanks to that empty feeling in the pit of his stomach was due to the hangover or the news Bones so tactfully delivered to him, he didn't know, but he was almost certain that the ache in his lower back was something he could thank Cordelia for--not that he minded.
Jim exited the building through the back, all but dashing across the courtyard that separated the two apartment buildings, grasping onto the door frame of his own building's back door when he pulled it open, his body stomach wanting so badly to protest being hit with a wave of cold air after running, but Jim refused to vomit on his shoes in a public area like this. His crew was probably out in front of one of the buildings and he didn't want to give them a chance to get to him. He wasn't talking about this to them.
He wasn't talking about this to anyone.
He didn't want to talk about it at all.
"Third floor," Jim told the dead air in the elevator after the doors closed, standing in silence for a moment, the elevator unmoving, until he remembered that this was a 21st Century pulley-rigged box and not a turbo lift. Swearing colorfully under his breath, he all jabbed at the button on the wall--"post-industrial barbarians and their fucking pulley boxes"--and waited to be brought up to his floor.
If not for the fact that he was hungover, Jim would've stomped like an disgruntled child not getting his way all the way to his room, but settled for muttering angrily in several alien languages that would have made 98% of the Enterprise crew assume he was babbling incoherently instead of rambling about how fucked up this place is in some strange, coherent blend of Klingon, Orion, and Cardassian. He stopped at his door, hand hovering over the handle and--
Stepped back.
No. He couldn't go in there, they'd just come drag him out and make him talk about his feelings. Fuck that.
Making a quick decision, as Jim highly doubted his neighbor was present with the other Starfleet Personnel, as it usually took him, as the Captain, requesting that she make an appearance, Jim stepped up to Seven of Nine's door and knocked.
He winced at the sound his own fist made against the wood and groaned. "Knocking bad, knocking bad..."