JIM YOU IDIOT WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU DO SOMETHING LIKE THAT. Even leaving aside reading and taking my personal property, what in the name of sanity made you think it was a good idea to give them to the pointy-eared computer? You could act least act like you know to leave private things as private.
As for you, Spock, you're right. There's not a damn thing wrong with you, except that you don't seem to understand the concept of privacy. You don't go around publishing people's thoughts like that! Just because I saw fit to write them down doesn't mean you can go spreading them around where everyone can see. And if you don't understand my "illogical" human thoughts, then maybe you should study us illogical humans some more. You're half-human, use that - if you can, you green-blooded... never mind.
First, I'm finding a better place to hide my letters, and second - Jim, no more Saurian Brandy for you for at least a month.
- Doctor Leonard McCoy
Note from Kirk: As Captain of this vessel, I've noticed that my first officer and my chief medical officer have been struggling with getting along in a professional manner. It is well within my rights to resort to unorthodox methods to better the communication between you two. Spock's logs - you've seen them already, I can tell - are about as personal as Spock gets, so I can't work the same way as far as that goes, but if you two can learn to stay in the same room for more than five seconds without arguing, it's worth losing the Saurian brandy. Not that I couldn't find your stash anyway.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Stardate 1514.4
Dear Spock,
When I joined Starfleet, I knew there were risks and dangers. I even read the stack of forms before I signed them. I've come to terms with seeing death, and I've handled some things that I bet would turn even Jim's stomach. I'm a doctor, it's my job to deal with some of the ugliest problems the universe has to offer.
However, they didn't tell me everything. I swear, if they'd told me I'd have a killer salt-sucking creature impersonating me, or that I'd have to watch Nancy turn into that... thing before I killed her, I'd have thrown the whole stack in their faces. It's bad enough that someone... something... else was masquerading with my face. I suppose it could've found a worse face to walk around with. No, it's that I had to as good as kill Nancy because of it. Not that it was Nancy...
I know better than to drink right now. It wouldn't help me figure this all out anyway, it'd just put off dealing with it.
Why am I writing to you, anyway? It's not like I think you're actually a great person to talk to about feelings. You're the last person on the ship who I'd ever actually say anything to about this. I can just hear you now. "That, Doctor, is entirely illogical." That's all you care about, right? Logic. I've got you figured out just fine. Take that, you pointy-eared computer.
Now I'm starting to respond to imaginary retorts in my letters... that isn't a good sign. But what human could blame me? With what I've had to take today...
The worst part is, I can't decide whether I feel more guilty about shooting "Nancy", or not shooting fast enough. I almost let Jim die, just because I couldn't believe what I was seeing. If you hadn't jumped in... God knows what would've happened. Guess I've got to admit I'm grateful to you. I'd never forgive myself if I let something happen to him just because I couldn't pull a damn trigger. I've never seen you act like that before. I guess it was the 'logical' thing to do, though, right? Rush in and defend the Captain, when I failed. Or nearly failed... I did pull the trigger in the end, after all.
And I thought I was having trouble sleeping before. I'm gonna have nightmares, and I know it.
Of course, today wouldn't have gone well even if it hadn't ended the way it did. It was hard enough meeting an old flame without having James T. Kirk, Hopeless Romantic and Ladies' Man, along to grin indulgently and give me "advice" on how to treat a lady. You'd think he'd have the sense to leave a hopeless case alone. IF the lady in question hadn't been married - and she was - I'd still know better than to let Jim play matchmaker. That's a recipe for trouble if I ever saw one.
By the way, I've still not quite forgiven him for saying I should be more like you. I'm not saying he didn't have a point, but of all the tasteless things he could've said... Come to think of it, if we'd followed my advice, maybe we wouldn't have beamed aboard with the creature in the first place. If we'd found Green, it would've all been over without putting the whole ship in danger. Not that either of us would've known all that.
All in all, I'd like nothing more than to live the rest of my life without another day like that.
- Doctor Leonard McCoy
P.S. When I went to hide my last letter, I didn't find my first one to you where I put it. Come to think of it, maybe I didn't hide it quite well enough. Something about it doesn't seem right, though. Call me paranoid, but I'm gonna make sure it's still where I put it. I thought I saw Jim coming out of here not too long ago when I was headed to my room. I bet he thinks I don't know about his little searches for my stash of Saurian brandy.
When I joined Starfleet, I knew there were risks and dangers. I even read the stack of forms before I signed them. I've come to terms with seeing death, and I've handled some things that I bet would turn even Jim's stomach. I'm a doctor, it's my job to deal with some of the ugliest problems the universe has to offer.
However, they didn't tell me everything. I swear, if they'd told me I'd have a killer salt-sucking creature impersonating me, or that I'd have to watch Nancy turn into that... thing before I killed her, I'd have thrown the whole stack in their faces. It's bad enough that someone... something... else was masquerading with my face. I suppose it could've found a worse face to walk around with. No, it's that I had to as good as kill Nancy because of it. Not that it was Nancy...
I know better than to drink right now. It wouldn't help me figure this all out anyway, it'd just put off dealing with it.
Why am I writing to you, anyway? It's not like I think you're actually a great person to talk to about feelings. You're the last person on the ship who I'd ever actually say anything to about this. I can just hear you now. "That, Doctor, is entirely illogical." That's all you care about, right? Logic. I've got you figured out just fine. Take that, you pointy-eared computer.
Now I'm starting to respond to imaginary retorts in my letters... that isn't a good sign. But what human could blame me? With what I've had to take today...
The worst part is, I can't decide whether I feel more guilty about shooting "Nancy", or not shooting fast enough. I almost let Jim die, just because I couldn't believe what I was seeing. If you hadn't jumped in... God knows what would've happened. Guess I've got to admit I'm grateful to you. I'd never forgive myself if I let something happen to him just because I couldn't pull a damn trigger. I've never seen you act like that before. I guess it was the 'logical' thing to do, though, right? Rush in and defend the Captain, when I failed. Or nearly failed... I did pull the trigger in the end, after all.
And I thought I was having trouble sleeping before. I'm gonna have nightmares, and I know it.
Of course, today wouldn't have gone well even if it hadn't ended the way it did. It was hard enough meeting an old flame without having James T. Kirk, Hopeless Romantic and Ladies' Man, along to grin indulgently and give me "advice" on how to treat a lady. You'd think he'd have the sense to leave a hopeless case alone. IF the lady in question hadn't been married - and she was - I'd still know better than to let Jim play matchmaker. That's a recipe for trouble if I ever saw one.
By the way, I've still not quite forgiven him for saying I should be more like you. I'm not saying he didn't have a point, but of all the tasteless things he could've said... Come to think of it, if we'd followed my advice, maybe we wouldn't have beamed aboard with the creature in the first place. If we'd found Green, it would've all been over without putting the whole ship in danger. Not that either of us would've known all that.
All in all, I'd like nothing more than to live the rest of my life without another day like that.
- Doctor Leonard McCoy
P.S. When I went to hide my last letter, I didn't find my first one to you where I put it. Come to think of it, maybe I didn't hide it quite well enough. Something about it doesn't seem right, though. Call me paranoid, but I'm gonna make sure it's still where I put it. I thought I saw Jim coming out of here not too long ago when I was headed to my room. I bet he thinks I don't know about his little searches for my stash of Saurian brandy.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Stardate 1512.7
Dear Spock,
What a day. What a headache.
I think I need a drink. Another one, to be exact. Normally I'd know to cut myself off already, what with drinking brandy with Jim, and tranya with Balok, but there is a time when an old country doctor needs a stiff shot of whisky and that time is now.
I'm not even sure where to start. Did I mention in my last letter that I didn't want to be a blasted nuisance to the whole ship? Because if that was the idea for writing these, it's not working. I even got in a yelling match with Jim today. Lord knows it isn't the first time that's happened, and probably not the last time, but since I'm still fairly new around here I have a feeling I could've behaved better in front of the bridge crew.
Of course, I'm not saying Jim couldn't have behaved better himself. Do I even need to explain? Walks out of Sickbay without a shirt on again (I swear he's got something against wearing shirts), pushes that poor kid Bailey nearly to the breaking point, and for God's sake he even complains about eating salad. Eating salad! What is he, a four-year-old?
So why am I writing to you rather than to Jim? Well, first of all, I apologized to him, and I meant it. I of all people should know how stress effects people, and Jim had a lot on his mind today, what with the powerful unknown alien attacking our ship. Or at least I think he was attacking. He said something about testing rather than attacking when we finally met him. I don't know. I wasn't sure what to make of it before the tranya, I didn't know what to make of it after the tranya, and I sure as hell don't know what to make of it after the whisky. Anyway, I'm writing to you... well, I guess because my last letter to you was therapeutic. And who else, really? I don't know, I just can't feel better if I rant at Jim. It's kind of like ranting at a puppy. Can't stay mad at him for long. He is an old friend of mine, after all. So you're left as the addressee.
I think stress brings out the human in you, actually. I've looked at your medical records, of course. Half-human, that explains it. Or most of it. I have to wonder just how much human you actually inherited - it can't be that healthy to suppress your human side to a Vulcan degree, but I'll just keep an eye on you. You actually seemed more human today than usual, though. Proud of your parents, and don't think I didn't see you almost smiling over the idea of learning poker. I might have to hold you to that. If nothing else playing a game with you might tell me a bit more about what's behind that stone face of yours, so I can get a better read on this whole matter of Vulcan emotions.
On second thought, you might be too good at poker faces already. Do I really need to teach you a game that relies on an unreadable face? I'll have to think about that when I'm not full of a bunch of alcoholic beverages that I probably didn't need in the first place.
From the sound of it I'll be having an interesting day tomorrow, so I think it's about time I put the glass away and try to sleep. The hangover won't be pretty.
- Doctor Leonard McCoy
What a day. What a headache.
I think I need a drink. Another one, to be exact. Normally I'd know to cut myself off already, what with drinking brandy with Jim, and tranya with Balok, but there is a time when an old country doctor needs a stiff shot of whisky and that time is now.
I'm not even sure where to start. Did I mention in my last letter that I didn't want to be a blasted nuisance to the whole ship? Because if that was the idea for writing these, it's not working. I even got in a yelling match with Jim today. Lord knows it isn't the first time that's happened, and probably not the last time, but since I'm still fairly new around here I have a feeling I could've behaved better in front of the bridge crew.
Of course, I'm not saying Jim couldn't have behaved better himself. Do I even need to explain? Walks out of Sickbay without a shirt on again (I swear he's got something against wearing shirts), pushes that poor kid Bailey nearly to the breaking point, and for God's sake he even complains about eating salad. Eating salad! What is he, a four-year-old?
So why am I writing to you rather than to Jim? Well, first of all, I apologized to him, and I meant it. I of all people should know how stress effects people, and Jim had a lot on his mind today, what with the powerful unknown alien attacking our ship. Or at least I think he was attacking. He said something about testing rather than attacking when we finally met him. I don't know. I wasn't sure what to make of it before the tranya, I didn't know what to make of it after the tranya, and I sure as hell don't know what to make of it after the whisky. Anyway, I'm writing to you... well, I guess because my last letter to you was therapeutic. And who else, really? I don't know, I just can't feel better if I rant at Jim. It's kind of like ranting at a puppy. Can't stay mad at him for long. He is an old friend of mine, after all. So you're left as the addressee.
I think stress brings out the human in you, actually. I've looked at your medical records, of course. Half-human, that explains it. Or most of it. I have to wonder just how much human you actually inherited - it can't be that healthy to suppress your human side to a Vulcan degree, but I'll just keep an eye on you. You actually seemed more human today than usual, though. Proud of your parents, and don't think I didn't see you almost smiling over the idea of learning poker. I might have to hold you to that. If nothing else playing a game with you might tell me a bit more about what's behind that stone face of yours, so I can get a better read on this whole matter of Vulcan emotions.
On second thought, you might be too good at poker faces already. Do I really need to teach you a game that relies on an unreadable face? I'll have to think about that when I'm not full of a bunch of alcoholic beverages that I probably didn't need in the first place.
From the sound of it I'll be having an interesting day tomorrow, so I think it's about time I put the glass away and try to sleep. The hangover won't be pretty.
- Doctor Leonard McCoy
Monday, August 12, 2013
Stardate 1329.1
Dear Spock,
I know it's a bit funny to be writing a letter to the first officer, when I'm the new doctor on the ship and all. That's because I'm not writing to you, not in the sense that you're going to see this. Ever since old Professor Higgsworth back at the Starfleet academy - that would be my Psychology (and Xenopsychology) professor from my third year - anyway, ever since he proposed this little letter-writing exercise, I've written faithfully to classmates, shipmates, fellow doctors, and so on.
It's a simple thing, really. Captains don't like their chief medical officer going on rants about their fellow crew members, and this way I can rant to my heart's content without being a blasted nuisance to the whole ship. I don't trust all this technology to keep my thoughts private, so I'm writing the old-fashioned way rather than someplace like a log that could be searched if I disappear - in other words, before I'm good and dead, too dead to care what anyone thinks of my personal thoughts.
The question remains why I've chosen the first officer to direct my letter to, specifically. It was a choice between you andJim the Captain, really. I can't pretend I'm hurt by either of you, of course - I was the one who started it in the first place, at least in your case. Given that Vulcan psych of yours I'm not even sure if you were joking, and quite frankly I don't care. I probably shouldn't make this much of it. Jim deserves a rant much more than you do - doesn't listen to a word I say, runs out of Sickbay without his shirt, for heaven's sake. But I know Jim well enough to know he doesn't mean anything by it. You, on the other hand - what was it? "The fact that my internal arrangement differs from yours pleases me to no end."
See, I've studied Vulcans like any other doctor, but I've never actually worked with one. Not closely. And if you're any indication, I'm sure glad I haven't. This lack-of-emotions business creeps me out. Everything I've heard about Vulcans says it's normal enough, but there's something plain wrong about a humanoid who's that unaffected by gorgeous women, or the ship's problems, or anything at all. The only reaction I've seen out of you was to my comment about the location of your heart. That's sad, Spock, and you ought to know it. Of course, that also means you can be affected, which from all I heard isn't possible for a Vulcan in the first place.
Maybe I'm being a racist fool. I'd like to think it's because I'm a doctor. When I think something's wrong, I poke and prod at it until I figure out how to fix it. That tendency's served me well so far, so I don't intend to get rid of it any time soon. I'm not going to come right out and claim you need to be fixed and that I'm the one to do it, but I also don't think I'll be leaving this alone.
Anyway, that's all I really have to say for this letter. I think I'll hid it with my socks. No one will look there for anything interesting, I'm sure.
- Doctor Leonard McCoy
I know it's a bit funny to be writing a letter to the first officer, when I'm the new doctor on the ship and all. That's because I'm not writing to you, not in the sense that you're going to see this. Ever since old Professor Higgsworth back at the Starfleet academy - that would be my Psychology (and Xenopsychology) professor from my third year - anyway, ever since he proposed this little letter-writing exercise, I've written faithfully to classmates, shipmates, fellow doctors, and so on.
It's a simple thing, really. Captains don't like their chief medical officer going on rants about their fellow crew members, and this way I can rant to my heart's content without being a blasted nuisance to the whole ship. I don't trust all this technology to keep my thoughts private, so I'm writing the old-fashioned way rather than someplace like a log that could be searched if I disappear - in other words, before I'm good and dead, too dead to care what anyone thinks of my personal thoughts.
The question remains why I've chosen the first officer to direct my letter to, specifically. It was a choice between you and
See, I've studied Vulcans like any other doctor, but I've never actually worked with one. Not closely. And if you're any indication, I'm sure glad I haven't. This lack-of-emotions business creeps me out. Everything I've heard about Vulcans says it's normal enough, but there's something plain wrong about a humanoid who's that unaffected by gorgeous women, or the ship's problems, or anything at all. The only reaction I've seen out of you was to my comment about the location of your heart. That's sad, Spock, and you ought to know it. Of course, that also means you can be affected, which from all I heard isn't possible for a Vulcan in the first place.
Maybe I'm being a racist fool. I'd like to think it's because I'm a doctor. When I think something's wrong, I poke and prod at it until I figure out how to fix it. That tendency's served me well so far, so I don't intend to get rid of it any time soon. I'm not going to come right out and claim you need to be fixed and that I'm the one to do it, but I also don't think I'll be leaving this alone.
Anyway, that's all I really have to say for this letter. I think I'll hid it with my socks. No one will look there for anything interesting, I'm sure.
- Doctor Leonard McCoy
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