TOS/TNG Ficlet, McCoy + Data

[icarus_chained]

Written for a prompt on comment_fic for McCoy 1st person POV. Set during "Encounter at Farpoint", because that scene kills me every time.

Title: Shuttle Conductor
Rating: G
Fandom: Star Trek TOS & Star Trek TNG
Characters/Pairings: Admiral McCoy, Commander Data. McCoy & Data, touch of McCoy & Spock
Summary: Commander Data and Admiral McCoy have a little conversation about insanity, humanity, and the unintended consequences of space travel while waiting for McCoy's shuttle off the Enterprise D
Wordcount: 1328
Warnings/Notes: Old age, nostalgia, memories
Disclaimer: Not mine

Shuttle Conductor

Turns out, in the 24th century, you try to get a shuttle off a ship instead the damn blasted transporter, apparently it involves a lot of waiting around while people comment on your lack of sense and try to figure out how to schedule a damn flight on short notice.

One of the perks of an Admiral's rank, I guess, is that you get to smile politely and tell 'em to hop to it regardless.

Still. After all that grumbling, I have to admit the pups might've had a point. Even watching the launch crew going over the damn thing is making me wonder why I came back into space at all. Shuttles only have a marginally better record than transporters, and that only because they don't have to literally rip a man apart and put him back together again just to function.

"It'll be fine, you said. Get back on the horse, you said. Be nice to see the old girl's namesake, you said. You've got rank, man, you can make it work out. Damn it, Admiral McCoy, I do so enjoy these little exchanges of ours. They never end up landing us anywhere awkward, no sir, not at all."

"... Sir?"

I blink some, startled, and look to the side to see Commander Data watching me with ... Well. With an expression that suggests that somewhere in that synthetic skull of his, several subroutines are struggling to figure out how to tactfully suggest that the nice human might want to head down to medical for a while. As politely and logically as possible, of course.

I ignore the little hiccup of emotion in my chest. Oughta be used to it by now.

"Don't look at me like that," I grumble, resisting the urge to look away. Damned if I'm gonna back down just because the man doesn't have to blink when I do. No trick of biology, synthetic or otherwise, is getting the best of this Admiral. "I ain't gone senile yet, son. Insane might be a different question, of course, but I ain't senile."

There's a little pause, and then damned if the bastard doesn't manage to make sounding dubious into an art form. "If you say so, sir."

I chuckle. Can't quite help it. Hell, machine or no machine, at least he's got the tone down. "Just trust me on this, Commander. I've been talking to myself for damn near a hundred years now, and it ain't got nothin' to do with my advanced age. You shepherd a bunch of gung-ho idiots around the galaxy long enough, you end up talking to yourself whether you wanted to or not."

He raises his eyebrows. It ain't quite as good as Spock's would have been, but it's a hell of an expression regardless. Might even make me feel a bit funny. "I was not aware of such a consequence," he says, and it ain't a joke, at least I think it ain't a joke, but it's blasted hard identifying sarcasm in an android. Though a bit of experience with Vulcans oughta at least help.

"Oh, don't worry," I say, because better to warn the man now. Regardless of their species, this is one consequence of space travel that no-one responsible gets to escape. "You'll find out soon enough. You probably don't need to worry about it, though. Only gets alarming when you start finding yourself sounding like the man who took up camp in your head for a few months or so. Ain't nothin' worse than talking to yourself and realising you sound like a blasted Vulcan." I pause for a second, looking at him, and consider that. "Well. I guess you wouldn't have that problem. Wouldn't make all that much difference, maybe. Still. Try not to get yourself possessed, hmm? It's hell sorting everything out upstairs afterwards."

The poor bastard just stares at me, eyebrows still fixed to his hairline and his subroutines visibly struggling to figure out if that's one of those tidbits you're supposed to ignore or one of the ones you're supposed to comment on. But this ain't one of the androids I'd come across a century ago, the sort to crash into twitching incoherence if you sneeze at it wrong. No sir, this one takes things in stride, and comes back with a bounce.

"I ... will endeavour to remember that, sir," is all he says, baffled but what looks like genuinely sincere, and there's a surge of fondness in my chest like I ain't felt in years. A surge of pity for this poor bastard for having to put up with us illogical humans, and a desperate sort of warmth for the way he's apparently trying nonetheless.

We're a hell of a thing to have to live with, after all. I know that. I do.

"Ah hell, son. Listen. You don't gotta humour the old man if you don't want to, you know. Admiral or no Admiral, I'm sure I can manage to wait for a shuttle all by my lonesome. I've been talking to myself for a hundred years now, like I said. You don't have to stick around and put up with me."

He looks at me. The oddest expression on his face. I can't be sure if it's odd because his facial subroutines ain't the best, or if it's odd because they're trying to match a thought process that they maybe weren't best programmed for, but either way. He looks bemused, he looks amused, and more than anything he looks fascinated. He looks like I'm something he wants to keep watching, to keep studying, and it sends a shard of nostalgia right through my old heart. Right on through.

"It is not an imposition, sir," he says, warm and gentle as you please. "I may not have the necessary experience to comprehend everything you say, but I am programmed to learn, sir. And I believe you are someone with much experience to impart. It is no trouble to 'put up with you', as you say."

I can't say anything. A full minute after that, I can't say a damn thing. I'm not choked up. Not a bit of it. No. But just for a minute, I can't quite manage to answer the man.

"... You're a good man, Commander Data," I manage, when I find my goddamned voice again. I reach out, pat him on the shoulder gruffly. He blinks, but allows it. Doesn't look an old man askance. "You'll do just fine. Don't you worry."

His head tilts to the side, a twitch of his mouth that might want to be a smile, except he's not sure smiling's appropriate. "I am not a man, Admiral. But thank you, nonetheless."

I snort, belatedly moving to get myself into gear, get aboard this blasted shuttle and away already. He reaches out to help me automatically, a stabilising hand under my elbow, and I find myself smiling at him without quite realising I started.

"I'll tell you a secret, Mr Data," I say, gripping his arm and squeezing gently. "Something I learned from all that valuable experience of mine you were talking about. Now, you wanna listen, or am I still talking to myself?"

"I'm listening, Admiral," he says, so very seriously, and I've got to laugh, got to hold on tight around the fondness in my chest.

"... It ain't the 'man' part that matters," I tell him, as earnestly and genuinely as I can. That one lesson that took me so goddamn long to learn, and the best damn lesson I ever had. "No matter anyone tells you, no matter what anyone tries to say. It's the good that matters. Every time. And Commander Data, I reckon you've got that part down pat."

And if his expression freezes a little at that, if it goes as still and blank as any Vulcan, I reckon it's only because androids ain't no better than grumpy old humans at knowing how to handle a compliment.


A/N: "What am I, a doctor or a moonshuttle conductor? If I jumped every time a light came on around here, I'd end up talking to myself."
Dr McCoy, "The Corbomite Maneuver", a hundred years before TNG and while he is, in fact, talking to himself.