madimpossibledreamer (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
madimpossibledreamer) wrote2023-04-13 10:54 pm
madimpossibledreamer) wrote2023-04-13 10:54 pm
Entry tags:
A Little Look-See
Main Points:
Star Trek (the 2009!movie verse)/Constantine crossover
Summary: Kirk casts a spell to see what they're dealing with.
Word Count: 1729
Rating: Teen
Warnings: not in great detail but tarsus is mentioned
“Not yet, Dr. Davis,” he responds, short, because of course they’re being recorded and he hasn’t gotten the chance to deal with that yet.
Fortunately, Bones catches on fast. “You’re a bastard, keeping secrets from your doctor,” he responds, and Kirk grins right back.
“Wait, you’re only diagnosing me with that now?” he jokes. His skin is itching with the whole abstinence thing and it’s making him restless. Reckless, even. At least he’s got a keeper now, or at least the closest thing he’ll get.
Despite himself, Bones snorts at that, because he has exactly as much affinity for smartasses as Kirk himself. “What, the bastard part or the keeping secrets?”
“Either. I’ve been told they’re both chronic.” In not-so-medical or polite terms, but hey, what’s a little embellishment among friends?
Bones shakes his head, making himself at home at the table, very carefully staring at Kirk rather than at the vacuum right outside the window. He’s gotten better, but he’ll never be a happy member of Starfleet. Their loss. “I hope the beer’s for me. You promised.”
The Magician groans, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, yeah, it’s for you, mom. Figured if we’re taking another shuttle over there at some point, I’d need to get you good and liquored up.” He doesn’t mention that the sandwiches are in case they need energy, say, if they get attacked. McCoy picked up on it anyway. The amount they can communicate without saying anything is honestly a little worrisome at this point. Dependency would probably be what they call it. It’s too late to worry about a little flames when he stepped right into the burning inferno, though.
“Thank you, ma’am,” McCoy tells the yeoman as they appear with a bag of tricks, charming as always.
Honestly, maybe he should encourage flirting. Bones to get laid by someone else. Maybe that’ll serve as an antidote to his poison. Food for thought.
“What he said,” Jim echoes, inclining his head in the man’s direction.
“Tell me honestly—you’re just messing with us. A tribble, really?” the yeoman asks, and, well, he’s used to that kind of thing.
“Come now, a magician never reveals his secrets. It’ll spoil the trick.” He fishes the tribble out of the bag and waves a hand over the animal, the purring abruptly silencing. He might be showing off a little for the cameras just to mess with Spock’s head just that little bit more. He never said he was a good guy.
The yeoman just shakes her head. “Whatever. Good luck with whatever you’re doing, I guess.”
“Thanks,” he responds, and then waits, unmoving, until the woman leaves.
He hands Bones the beer longingly as well as the sandwich, and scarfs his own, barely tasting it. He’s got a roughly equal chance it won’t stay in for long depending on how the magic goes, anyway. He waits, impatient but unwilling to push, until Bones has finished before he stands.
He pauses, closing his eyes and concentrating, locating all the usual suspects and some new additions, then abruptly ramps up the room’s humidity, willing the spores from his own bag to quantum entangle with the camera lens and then just transition to the other side. It’s, unfortunately, a spell he’s had to master over so many repeated uses. The growth on the cameras is soon enough to obscure any images and muffle the sound. Unlike the sigil, it’s easy enough to undo that one once he’s done, further confusing and annoying a certain Captain.
“What’s the tribble for?” Bones asks, watching without surprise as he makes it appear once again in his hand. Simple sleight of hand, no magic, this time.
“Living stress ball, for you. And the medikit’s your security blanket. I know this time it’s not a planet. Sorry about that.” Not that he exactly has a choice. When Pike says jump, he has to ask how high. It’s the price of protection.
He notes the surprise. Then the pleased look despite himself that Kirk had thought about him. Really, he shouldn’t be encouraging things like this. Being a jerk is a defense mechanism, not for him, but for other people. Keeps them at a distance, away from the curse that is his life.
The man does relax, actually, despite the fact that that’s not what he tends to do when there’s a reminder like the stars and black outside the window to remind him of where he is. It’s probably the purring tribble in one hand and the occasional sip from his beer that’s doing it. “So, you helping out Starfleet. I guess you owe someone a favor.”
“Pretty big one. I help out for free every now and then, he keeps me a secret from Starfleet.” At Bones’ frown, it’s clear he gets it, that this is half more blackmail than a trade of favors, but it’s fine. Really, he’d be screwed and not in the fun way without Pike, and his interventions usually save at least a few lives, so it’s okay in the end. “Sure, it’s not the ideal, but they always make sure I’m fed, and it’s always interesting when they call me in, so I don’t complain too much. I even like some of them—Spock, for instance, is a half-Vulcan with a stick up his ass and I annoy him out of his mind, so much I think he’ll neck-pinch me someday, but he’s not a bad guy. Uhura may hate my guts, but she’s good at what she does. Hell, Sulu snarks at me like you do, but he’s challenged me to fights and let me take care of his plants before. Scotty actually lets me muck with the transporters and shares his probably-illegal bathtub scotch. Chekhov even sneaks me snacks, sometimes. I mean, they’re Russian, and sometimes I’m allergic, but I appreciate him trying anyway. He’s just so earnest about it.”
“Sounds like you’re more serious about that mutiny than you let on,” Bones responds, amused.
Jim just smiles and shrugs, shoving the last of the sandwich in his mouth as he gets to his feet and rubs his hands. It doesn’t actually do much, but with magic, it is the thought that counts, and it counts as a ritual cleansing and means of getting in the grove both.
“I’d love the ship and the crew are my brand of weird. There’s no real point in thinking about it, though—neither of us are going Starfleet anytime soon, for obvious reasons.” And then, with long practice, he traces a perfect circle using the spraypaint he’s been given, then begins writing, going with Coptic, this time. Coptic, from what he’s read, is the promise of the Egyptians, the potential and decline, the mystery of ancient magic and the fertility of the Nile River delta. Plus it’s easier to spraypaint than actual hieroglyphics. He’s wondered before, what they’d look like if the civilization had continued, but that’s really not relevant right now and no matter how restless his brain he has to focus if he’s going to pull this off.
Bones, meanwhile, grumbles, probably having gotten comfortable, and sets down his tribble, setting the candles in their correct positions to help amplify the message. He’s seen enough to learn that much at least, though it’s clear he doesn’t understand the significance, and Jim doesn’t have the heart to try to argue him out of it.
Magic is…personal. To let someone else take part, even if it’s something as simple as helping with the prep work, is intimate. Fortunately, the goddess doesn’t seem to take offense to that, but it always puts a not-entirely unpleasant shiver down his spine every time it happens. Bones doesn’t need to help, but he likes keeping busy, likes being useful, and he likes applying knowledge. Even if it’s something small like this, having help is a boost in power, even if half of that is knowing McCoy believes and trusts in him.
The most basic of the principles he’s using currently is an extremely ancient one, reflected in alchemy as much as chemistry: namely, like calls to like. The rest is for amplification, the writing and circle and candles, which means that he has yet to add the most crucial components. The hope is that the trappings of the demonic will resonate with whatever’s on the ship, if there are actually demons over there.
He sits back, eyeing the design, and nods to himself. Bones offers a few pages of the notebook he’s begun carrying around (“like a heathen”, he grouses, and goes and does it anyway), and Jim grins and nods, setting it on fire and letting the ashes, burned with hellfire, drift down where they fall. And then it’s time for the part he likes the least. Sure, he might be up for a few kinks, here and there, but in this situation he very much does not like or appreciate the pain. But Jim Kirk is also the guy who gets things done, so he sucks it up and pricks his finger, letting the blood drip down. The second it stops, Bones is there, using his dermal regenerator, because it always bothers him. Jim allows the delay, because it won’t hurt too much, after all, and then starts the chant, flinging his hands outward toward the hull of the ship and the other waiting for them, lurking in the dark of space.
The gold of his magic traces the circle, rising and heading outward in a flashy show that Bones has long since become accustomed to. He doesn’t flinch, hovering carefully while trying not to interfere.
The answering response, like a returning sonar pulse, is much like an explosion, bowling him over into McCoy’s arms (that temptation is out of control, and it would be so nice to give in but if nothing else Kirk is going to prove he’s a stubborn asshole), the both of them falling to the floor with the force.
“Guessin’ that’s a bad reaction,” Bones drawls sarcastically, and Jim tries to smile and nod but paired with everything else he has a really bad feeling about this one. At the slightest provocation he’s going to set something on fire, see if he doesn’t. Because that’s what fear does to him.
Star Trek (the 2009!movie verse)/Constantine crossover
Summary: Kirk casts a spell to see what they're dealing with.
Word Count: 1729
Rating: Teen
Warnings: not in great detail but tarsus is mentioned
Bones waits until they’re alone to ask, curious. “You gonna tell me about Tarsus?”
“Not yet, Dr. Davis,” he responds, short, because of course they’re being recorded and he hasn’t gotten the chance to deal with that yet.
Fortunately, Bones catches on fast. “You’re a bastard, keeping secrets from your doctor,” he responds, and Kirk grins right back.
“Wait, you’re only diagnosing me with that now?” he jokes. His skin is itching with the whole abstinence thing and it’s making him restless. Reckless, even. At least he’s got a keeper now, or at least the closest thing he’ll get.
Despite himself, Bones snorts at that, because he has exactly as much affinity for smartasses as Kirk himself. “What, the bastard part or the keeping secrets?”
“Either. I’ve been told they’re both chronic.” In not-so-medical or polite terms, but hey, what’s a little embellishment among friends?
Bones shakes his head, making himself at home at the table, very carefully staring at Kirk rather than at the vacuum right outside the window. He’s gotten better, but he’ll never be a happy member of Starfleet. Their loss. “I hope the beer’s for me. You promised.”
The Magician groans, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, yeah, it’s for you, mom. Figured if we’re taking another shuttle over there at some point, I’d need to get you good and liquored up.” He doesn’t mention that the sandwiches are in case they need energy, say, if they get attacked. McCoy picked up on it anyway. The amount they can communicate without saying anything is honestly a little worrisome at this point. Dependency would probably be what they call it. It’s too late to worry about a little flames when he stepped right into the burning inferno, though.
“Thank you, ma’am,” McCoy tells the yeoman as they appear with a bag of tricks, charming as always.
Honestly, maybe he should encourage flirting. Bones to get laid by someone else. Maybe that’ll serve as an antidote to his poison. Food for thought.
“What he said,” Jim echoes, inclining his head in the man’s direction.
“Tell me honestly—you’re just messing with us. A tribble, really?” the yeoman asks, and, well, he’s used to that kind of thing.
“Come now, a magician never reveals his secrets. It’ll spoil the trick.” He fishes the tribble out of the bag and waves a hand over the animal, the purring abruptly silencing. He might be showing off a little for the cameras just to mess with Spock’s head just that little bit more. He never said he was a good guy.
The yeoman just shakes her head. “Whatever. Good luck with whatever you’re doing, I guess.”
“Thanks,” he responds, and then waits, unmoving, until the woman leaves.
He hands Bones the beer longingly as well as the sandwich, and scarfs his own, barely tasting it. He’s got a roughly equal chance it won’t stay in for long depending on how the magic goes, anyway. He waits, impatient but unwilling to push, until Bones has finished before he stands.
He pauses, closing his eyes and concentrating, locating all the usual suspects and some new additions, then abruptly ramps up the room’s humidity, willing the spores from his own bag to quantum entangle with the camera lens and then just transition to the other side. It’s, unfortunately, a spell he’s had to master over so many repeated uses. The growth on the cameras is soon enough to obscure any images and muffle the sound. Unlike the sigil, it’s easy enough to undo that one once he’s done, further confusing and annoying a certain Captain.
“What’s the tribble for?” Bones asks, watching without surprise as he makes it appear once again in his hand. Simple sleight of hand, no magic, this time.
“Living stress ball, for you. And the medikit’s your security blanket. I know this time it’s not a planet. Sorry about that.” Not that he exactly has a choice. When Pike says jump, he has to ask how high. It’s the price of protection.
He notes the surprise. Then the pleased look despite himself that Kirk had thought about him. Really, he shouldn’t be encouraging things like this. Being a jerk is a defense mechanism, not for him, but for other people. Keeps them at a distance, away from the curse that is his life.
The man does relax, actually, despite the fact that that’s not what he tends to do when there’s a reminder like the stars and black outside the window to remind him of where he is. It’s probably the purring tribble in one hand and the occasional sip from his beer that’s doing it. “So, you helping out Starfleet. I guess you owe someone a favor.”
“Pretty big one. I help out for free every now and then, he keeps me a secret from Starfleet.” At Bones’ frown, it’s clear he gets it, that this is half more blackmail than a trade of favors, but it’s fine. Really, he’d be screwed and not in the fun way without Pike, and his interventions usually save at least a few lives, so it’s okay in the end. “Sure, it’s not the ideal, but they always make sure I’m fed, and it’s always interesting when they call me in, so I don’t complain too much. I even like some of them—Spock, for instance, is a half-Vulcan with a stick up his ass and I annoy him out of his mind, so much I think he’ll neck-pinch me someday, but he’s not a bad guy. Uhura may hate my guts, but she’s good at what she does. Hell, Sulu snarks at me like you do, but he’s challenged me to fights and let me take care of his plants before. Scotty actually lets me muck with the transporters and shares his probably-illegal bathtub scotch. Chekhov even sneaks me snacks, sometimes. I mean, they’re Russian, and sometimes I’m allergic, but I appreciate him trying anyway. He’s just so earnest about it.”
“Sounds like you’re more serious about that mutiny than you let on,” Bones responds, amused.
Jim just smiles and shrugs, shoving the last of the sandwich in his mouth as he gets to his feet and rubs his hands. It doesn’t actually do much, but with magic, it is the thought that counts, and it counts as a ritual cleansing and means of getting in the grove both.
“I’d love the ship and the crew are my brand of weird. There’s no real point in thinking about it, though—neither of us are going Starfleet anytime soon, for obvious reasons.” And then, with long practice, he traces a perfect circle using the spraypaint he’s been given, then begins writing, going with Coptic, this time. Coptic, from what he’s read, is the promise of the Egyptians, the potential and decline, the mystery of ancient magic and the fertility of the Nile River delta. Plus it’s easier to spraypaint than actual hieroglyphics. He’s wondered before, what they’d look like if the civilization had continued, but that’s really not relevant right now and no matter how restless his brain he has to focus if he’s going to pull this off.
Bones, meanwhile, grumbles, probably having gotten comfortable, and sets down his tribble, setting the candles in their correct positions to help amplify the message. He’s seen enough to learn that much at least, though it’s clear he doesn’t understand the significance, and Jim doesn’t have the heart to try to argue him out of it.
Magic is…personal. To let someone else take part, even if it’s something as simple as helping with the prep work, is intimate. Fortunately, the goddess doesn’t seem to take offense to that, but it always puts a not-entirely unpleasant shiver down his spine every time it happens. Bones doesn’t need to help, but he likes keeping busy, likes being useful, and he likes applying knowledge. Even if it’s something small like this, having help is a boost in power, even if half of that is knowing McCoy believes and trusts in him.
The most basic of the principles he’s using currently is an extremely ancient one, reflected in alchemy as much as chemistry: namely, like calls to like. The rest is for amplification, the writing and circle and candles, which means that he has yet to add the most crucial components. The hope is that the trappings of the demonic will resonate with whatever’s on the ship, if there are actually demons over there.
He sits back, eyeing the design, and nods to himself. Bones offers a few pages of the notebook he’s begun carrying around (“like a heathen”, he grouses, and goes and does it anyway), and Jim grins and nods, setting it on fire and letting the ashes, burned with hellfire, drift down where they fall. And then it’s time for the part he likes the least. Sure, he might be up for a few kinks, here and there, but in this situation he very much does not like or appreciate the pain. But Jim Kirk is also the guy who gets things done, so he sucks it up and pricks his finger, letting the blood drip down. The second it stops, Bones is there, using his dermal regenerator, because it always bothers him. Jim allows the delay, because it won’t hurt too much, after all, and then starts the chant, flinging his hands outward toward the hull of the ship and the other waiting for them, lurking in the dark of space.
The gold of his magic traces the circle, rising and heading outward in a flashy show that Bones has long since become accustomed to. He doesn’t flinch, hovering carefully while trying not to interfere.
The answering response, like a returning sonar pulse, is much like an explosion, bowling him over into McCoy’s arms (that temptation is out of control, and it would be so nice to give in but if nothing else Kirk is going to prove he’s a stubborn asshole), the both of them falling to the floor with the force.
“Guessin’ that’s a bad reaction,” Bones drawls sarcastically, and Jim tries to smile and nod but paired with everything else he has a really bad feeling about this one. At the slightest provocation he’s going to set something on fire, see if he doesn’t. Because that’s what fear does to him.