Kirk was late getting to brunch, feeling neither hungry nor in desperate need of a scenery change when the Head Doctor's voice rang out for the second time this morning. Alright, fine, if he was being honest, he would've had to admit that the idea of going outside did sound pretty nice. Despite a half-dozen attempts last night, he hadn't had a single taste of fresh air since the field trip... or a taste of anything, at that.
It wasn't as if the food here was unpalateable (far from it, really), but he wasn't going to fall for it, okay? He'd felt himself slide that way a few days before — musing on the expert job they'd done at treating his wounds, feeling almost glad for the things they did get in here — and had reared up just in time realize the path of his thoughts. The last thing he would ever feel towards their captors was gratefulness. The last thing he would ever do was even come close to accepting this scenario.
But there was only so long he could rebel before the staff considered extreme measures, so Kirk headed into the cafeteria eventually, seeing most of the prisoner population already seated. His nurse went as far as loading up a tray and forcing it on him with the efficiency of a yeoman (not that he'd ever been served by a yeoman, so he wasn't sure where that mental image came from—) before sending him off.
It was a wonder he got through the crowd in one piece, what with his attention more on faces than on his own feet, but if Chekov was around, Kirk hadn't seen him. Which, he reminded himself, didn't mean anything. Spock and Bones answered the bulletin, but it had happened before that one of them hadn't noticed messages until almost the end of the day. Hell, a couple of times, that someone had been Jim.
Only after Kirk had plunked his tray down on an empty place did he bother looking at his meal for today: waffles, eggs, sausage, bacon, tater tots, and a glass of milk. Wow. "You know, my appetite's as healthy as any other human male, but even I have to wonder what all this food's doing to us."
Kirk glanced at the other guy seated with him, wasting a second to look over the build of those shoulders, and the length of the legs stretched out under the table.
no subject
It wasn't as if the food here was unpalateable (far from it, really), but he wasn't going to fall for it, okay? He'd felt himself slide that way a few days before — musing on the expert job they'd done at treating his wounds, feeling almost glad for the things they did get in here — and had reared up just in time realize the path of his thoughts. The last thing he would ever feel towards their captors was gratefulness. The last thing he would ever do was even come close to accepting this scenario.
But there was only so long he could rebel before the staff considered extreme measures, so Kirk headed into the cafeteria eventually, seeing most of the prisoner population already seated. His nurse went as far as loading up a tray and forcing it on him with the efficiency of a yeoman (not that he'd ever been served by a yeoman, so he wasn't sure where that mental image came from—) before sending him off.
It was a wonder he got through the crowd in one piece, what with his attention more on faces than on his own feet, but if Chekov was around, Kirk hadn't seen him. Which, he reminded himself, didn't mean anything. Spock and Bones answered the bulletin, but it had happened before that one of them hadn't noticed messages until almost the end of the day. Hell, a couple of times, that someone had been Jim.
Only after Kirk had plunked his tray down on an empty place did he bother looking at his meal for today: waffles, eggs, sausage, bacon, tater tots, and a glass of milk. Wow. "You know, my appetite's as healthy as any other human male, but even I have to wonder what all this food's doing to us."
Kirk glanced at the other guy seated with him, wasting a second to look over the build of those shoulders, and the length of the legs stretched out under the table.
"Well... obviously good things, in your case."