[ He doesn't think his life could get any worse than this — his life torn from one universe to another. From death trap to the next. The doctor gripes the entire way through his physical, throwing snippy comments at anyone within earshot, arms folding across his chest, pouting like a stubborn child until he's handed his gear.
The days that follow aren't much better. McCoy reports to his assigned job in a huff, stomps into the mess hall for all his meals — and coffee cravings. He keeps to himself most of the time, his back hunched over the table, stabbing at his food with a fork.
He explores the ship during his leisure hours, poking his head into the gardens and medbay before eventually scurrying off. The observation deck is the only place he actively tries to avoid, for the sake of his nerves. ]
what's yours is mine.
[ He couldn't believe this. His uniform fit perfectly the other day. Now, it's size too short. The sleeves and pants were a couple inches too short. The doctor stuck out his arms and watched the fabric roll up past his wrists. Great. Just what needs to start his day.
He stalks through the halls metaphorical storm cloud over his head, darkening his demeanor and making things miserable for everyone around him. He steps into one of the lifts with a huff, his eyes casting a look over at the only other passenger. Stomping to one side, he folds his arms over his chest. The sleeves of his uniform roll up as he does, and show off a good part of his forearm before he notices and shoves his arms back to his sides.
His head tilts down and he grumbles something unintelligible. ]
leonard mccoy | star trek aos
[ He doesn't think his life could get any worse than this — his life torn from one universe to another. From death trap to the next. The doctor gripes the entire way through his physical, throwing snippy comments at anyone within earshot, arms folding across his chest, pouting like a stubborn child until he's handed his gear.
The days that follow aren't much better. McCoy reports to his assigned job in a huff, stomps into the mess hall for all his meals — and coffee cravings. He keeps to himself most of the time, his back hunched over the table, stabbing at his food with a fork.
He explores the ship during his leisure hours, poking his head into the gardens and medbay before eventually scurrying off. The observation deck is the only place he actively tries to avoid, for the sake of his nerves. ]
what's yours is mine.
[ He couldn't believe this. His uniform fit perfectly the other day. Now, it's size too short. The sleeves and pants were a couple inches too short. The doctor stuck out his arms and watched the fabric roll up past his wrists. Great. Just what needs to start his day.
He stalks through the halls metaphorical storm cloud over his head, darkening his demeanor and making things miserable for everyone around him. He steps into one of the lifts with a huff, his eyes casting a look over at the only other passenger. Stomping to one side, he folds his arms over his chest. The sleeves of his uniform roll up as he does, and show off a good part of his forearm before he notices and shoves his arms back to his sides.
His head tilts down and he grumbles something unintelligible. ]