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Entry tags:
Fic: Art as a Metaphor (Kirk/McCoy)
Title: Art as a Metaphor
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wook77
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Prompt (instead of a summary): #18 - DR LOVE: The ship's newsletter has an advise column hosted by Dr Love. All submissions are of course anonymous and no one on board knows who the Dr is. Dr Love receives two letters and he(she) recognizes that they're from Jim & Bones and aids the boys in getting together. (at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
jim_and_bones)
Rating: PG
Warnings: Misuse of Metaphors, Misuse of Art
Wordcount:
A/N: Thanks toelanorofcastile for not only the quick beta but the first letter. I had all these grandiose plans of references and letters and graphics. Unfortunately, time conspired against me and there are no fancy graphics but there are plenty of art references and a few letters.
Dear Doctor Love,
In my free time I like to care for a small garden square in the botany wing. Recently I've become in charge of a new vine acquired on an away mission. It seems to be sentient and appears to have amorous feelings for me. Is there an easy way to let it down gently and let it know I just want to be friends?
Green Thumb
The letters start pouring in as soon as the column is announced. Obviously, what with all the hostile new beings, space battles, sentient plants, invading microbes and damnable but cute tribbles, the crew of the Enterprise has more than enough time on their hands to worry about their love lives. And how Scotty let himself get roped in is an absolutely ridiculous story that involves ham, cheese, broccoli and one Janice Rand (editor-in-chief of the Enterprise Star which is the stupidest title of a newsletter that Scotty has ever heard of, not that anyone asked him).
So, here he sits, getting ridiculous letters from ridiculous people with ridiculous problems. He's half-tempted to tell them all to forget about their issues, that there are worse things out there in the world than pining over someone that couldn't care less about them. He's tempted to write about the horrors of living on pellets for months on end and, really, at least you can see a different person every once in awhile on the ship whereas he'd been stuck staring at Keenser for months.
Except every time he goes to write that down, Gaila or Janice come swinging past and lean over his desk, coo about the letters and tell him about how sweet all of this is and wouldn't it be lovely if they could get together. He'd blame the leaning except that it's more the soft tones of their voices; the way that they sound so girly that gets him doing whatever it is that they want. Which, namely, is answering all these letters addressed to Doctor Love.
The one caveat that he'd had from the very beginning had been that his identity as Doctor Love had to be kept a secret. No one but no one could know because he'd never hear the end of it from Kirk, Keenser and McCoy.
He's just finished reading a letter about a plant in love with a human and how the human would go about discouraging the plant when his inbox pings at him and another letter pops in.
"What's this one?" Gaila asks as she pops her head over his shoulder.
"Oh, open it!" Janice says as she peers over his other shoulder.
"One letter at a time. How'm I supposed to discourage a plant?"
"Put it in the dark for a day or so. That'll teach it," Janice answers. "Now come on, new one!"
Scotty grimaces at both the advice and the perky tone in his ear, makes a note to research how to deter plants and then opens the next.
Dear Doctor Love,
You are not a doctor I'm at a loss as to how I confess my feelings to someone. When you are shy and in love with someone bolder and brighter than life, how do you tell them how you feel without being overshadowed? He's a Dali and I'm a Turner watercolor. He's all elephants on stilts and I'm dark colored watercolors.
Eagerly awaiting your assistance,
Art Metaphor
"That is one of the sweetest things I have ever read."
"Who's Dali and why are elephants on stilts?"
"Let me pull it up."
After a few minutes of looking at it, Scotty knows exactly how to answer. "Don't you two have work to be doing?"
The ladies leave and Scotty finally enjoys being roped into being Doctor Love.
Dear Art Metaphor,
May I call you Art?
Art is subjective. One man's Dali is another man's watercolor. You can pick the art you like just like he can pick the art you like. Have you talked about art to him? Maybe asked him if he likes Dali or Turner? You never know what he likes until he tells you.
Yours,
Doctor Love
Weeks later, weeks and weeks of dealing with McCoy's moods, Kirk's fluctuations, Janice's sighs and Gaila's laughter means that Scotty is about to chuck this Doctor Love crap. When's Scotty going to get his is what he wants to know. He'd write into Doctor Love but, well, there you go.
He's beginning to regret not telling people he's Doctor Love. After all, who can he complain to? The two that got him into this are too happy to see his responses and everyone else is too busy looking for advice. Even last week, while the Klingons were attacking, he'd received a letter from a member of the crew. In the middle of the attack.
Dear Doctor Love,
He can be odd like a Dali; all sorts of crazy, death-defying logic that you figure will topple that elephant on stilts. There's no way that an elephant can walk on stilts but then he does. He defies gravity and death and logic and all the odds and comes out on top, towering over all of us. His crazy schemes always work out in the end, even if it's hard to trust that they will.
Except that I'm wrong. He's not a Dali at all. He's more like an experiment in color field painting. He lives his life with large, vibrant brushstrokes, always assured of himself. He's steady and predictable at first glance, until you start figuring out what's going on behind the surface. That's when you realize that maybe the painting is just circles of paint or maybe it's a sweeping statement on society's demand that we all march in line to the same drummer so we never have any sort of beginning. Maybe that's why the author called it that.
Or maybe that painting is the way that my life seems to revolve around him, frozen in time. I'm constantly circling around him but so are so many other people.
And don't go telling me about how I should go talk about art to him. Not going to work, not in a million years. This man likes every sort of art out there, loves to experience it all over the place, if you get what I mean.
Yours,
Art Metaphor
Something about this letter sets off bells, like he knows who it is, if he could just isolate why he thinks he knows who it is. There are so many variables, though. Is it the reference to 20th Century art? Is it the abstracts? Is it the feeling of the letter?
Scotty needs to know who this is like he needs to admire the nacelles of his girl. Unlike knowing that Chekov is having issues with that girl down in Botany or the way that Sulu still can't shake the amorous attentions of the plant. This one is an actual letter with actual problems and there isn't much that Scotty likes better than fixing problems.
Dear Art,
I hear you. It's hard to get a connoisseur like that to focus. It's like when you go out to dinner and you have a giant menu in front of you. Some people get the same thing every time and some people have to have a little bit of everything all at once. Then there are people that switch it up a bit every once in awhile.
I think if you have everything all at once, you're missing out. A quick taste doesn't give you time to savor the way that the flavors blend and explode over your tongue. Take ham and swiss, for example. You can have it on a sandwich and only have one bite and maybe you taste the ham or the swiss. You have to take a second bite to taste the spicy mustard and a third to figure out how the tomato works with the rest.
And maybe ham and swiss taste different when they're baked instead of on a sandwich. It's still ham and swiss but ordering the combination again gives you a different flavor experience.
Only way to be at the center of that painting is to begin, just like the title of it. You have to tell him.
Yours,
Doctor Love
"You see the latest Doctor Love? I don't know who Art Metaphor is pining after but anyone that can talk about art is the one for me," one of the ensigns says as she works on improving the performance of a generator as Scotty walks past.
"Gotta say, if Art is fixated on someone who only eats at the buffet, I'd be more than happy to roast him some ham and swiss, if you get my meaning," the other engineer says as she winks, grins and they both laugh.
"I'd be willing to be a buffet for him, he can paint me any color he wants and then swirl it all around, dreary watercolors or elephants on stilts. It's nice to hear about a person that wants commitment."
"Yeah, look at the Captain." The ensign looks up and sees Scotty, freezing in position. "With all due respect, sir."
"What were you saying?" Something's flittering about in his head, making connections.
"Well, it's just, um, that is. Well, the Captain isn't one to settle down, is he? He enjoys sampling the entire menu."
"Menu?" Scotty says blankly, his brain still focused on putting the puzzle together.
"You don't read Doctor Love?"
"Naw, lass. Some of us work," he says but winks, taking the sting out of the words. "How about we get back to work?"
"Aye, sir." She salutes and turns back towards the generator.
Scotty takes two steps away and then the explosion rockets him off his feet. It's only a second before he stands and rushes back to where the two women are laying on the ground. He's on the comm unit, calling for assistance as he triages what he can.
Med response is unbelievably fast with the gurneys showing up and getting the women bundled and away before Scotty has time to fully absorb what just happened. Thankfully, his crew is so well-trained that they've already shut the generator down and are carrying him to medbay. When he shows up in the medbay, McCoy's working on the women. Huh, he thinks to himself and then collapses.
It feels like only a few minutes later that he comes to. It takes longer for his brain to remember what happened.
"You did a helluva job cracking your head open," McCoy says as Scotty starts probing at his scalp. "You'll be fine."
"My crew?"
"It'll take longer for them to heal."
"That bad?"
"It's not good," McCoy says as he steps up next to Scotty's bed. "But you were fast in calling us. How many fingers am I holding up?"
The change of subject dazes him and it takes him a moment. "Two."
"Good. And what year is it."
"McCoy, come on now. What sort of question is that?"
"Fine. You'll be fine."
"Then I'll be off," he says as he pushes up.
"No, you won't be. You'll be here."
"Got work to do."
"Yeah, work called healing and don't tell me that you have more important stuff to do. You'll lay there and you'll like it."
"You at least got something for me to look at?"
"Don't know why I expect you to sleep, I really don't. Between you and Jim, you'd think that I didn't know anything about being a doctor, you two fight me so much on this," McCoy mutters to himself and then thrusts a padd into his hands. "Look at the pretty pictures but so help me, you even try to read anything and I'll hurt you. Just try me."
"Appreciate it, Doctor, really I do." Scotty looks at the padd and then gasps.
"Something wrong?" McCoy pulls out his tricorder and starts scanning Scotty.
"The art's stunning. Where's it from?" he finally asks as the puzzle pieces slide into place.
"Late 20th Century American. Guy by the name of Jasper Johns. The painting is called False Start."
"Amazing. There more?"
"Here's a good one." McCoy grabs the padd back and brings up another image. "This one's Lullaby Spring by Damien Hirst."
"What are those?"
"They're pills. Lots of pills in a cabinet."
"But how's that art?"
"How isn't it? Art's subjective." Funny that McCoy is quoting Scotty back to Scotty.
"Aye, that it is."
"Scroll through, enjoy the pictures. Don't read a damned thing." With that, McCoy walks off. In moments, Scotty hears McCoy murmuring to someone in the next bed over. Scotty fumbles about and pulls the curtain slightly to see him comforting Ensign Smith.
Dreary watercolor landscapes, his ass. McCoy's more like a Seurat, from far away, he's predictable (predictably grumpy but predictable) and then, up close, when you least expect it, he's got these hidden depths. Sure, maybe Scotty's been researching art, just in case Art Metaphor writes him again. He's learning all sorts of things, mostly that he likes what he likes and he really dislikes what he dislikes. He'd disliked Seurat and he'd zoomed in on a bit and saw the way the dots worked together. That's McCoy right there, hard to like at first and then, get to know him, zoom in as it were, and there's the reason for enjoyment.
"Bones! You treating these lovely ladies properly?" The captain enters medbay, strutting right up to McCoy as Scotty stares at the way that McCoy had been caring for Scotty's crew.
"Of course, Jim." Scotty catches the way that McCoy looks at Jim, fast and then skittering to the side as Jim flirts with the injured woman.
"Bones," Kirk says, hipchecking McCoy as they walk away from the woman. "Truth time."
"Massive injuries to the two women. Scotty's better off, he's got some trauma but he should be out of here tomorrow. The women will need to stay another week, at the least." Scotty can see the way that McCoy sighs as Kirk throws an arm over his shoulder. If he hadn't seen the hidden depths, didn't know about Art Metaphor and his menu-consuming obsession, Scotty wouldn't have seen the way that McCoy leans into Kirk's embrace. As it is, he's still questioning himself. Maybe he's reading too much into it.
Or maybe he's not as he sees the way that Kirk tightens as McCoy tries to slip out from under that arm. He catches the way that Jim leans into McCoy, sniffing at his shoulder and drifting along the side of McCoy's face before finally sliding away, letting McCoy escape. He watches as McCoy doesn't step back, just stares.
They're both staring at one another, long beyond what anyone would do without being uncomfortable or aggressive. Hell, he's not even involved in their staring and the way that their hands are clenching and releasing, clenching and releasing and he's uncomfortable. Clearing his throat, he watches as they practically jump apart.
"Scotty, my man," Kirk says as he steps into Scotty's area.
"Captain, good to see you."
"Wish I could say the same. You look like hell."
"Thanks for that, sir." Scotty tries for a salute but ends up almost hitting himself in the face with the padd.
"What've you got there?" Kirk grabs the padd and looks. "What's this?"
"It's a painting."
"Yeah?"
"Aye, a good one, too. A favorite of mine," Scotty says as he shows Kirk a Seurat painting.
"It's interesting," Kirk says as he looks at the picnic scene.
"Aye, zoom in a wee bit." Scotty watches Kirk's face as he does.
"Holy shit. The entire thing's dots."
"Aye, style called pointillism. You heard of it, McCoy?"
"It's on the padd, isn't it?" McCoy sounds surly and storms into his office, one last glimpse back at the two of them. Scotty wonders why until he sees the way that Kirk has his hands braced, one on Scotty's shoulder and the other nestled into the bed flush against Scotty's hip.
"That's amazing. Look at that." Kirk steps back, stealing the padd to zoom in and out.
By the time Kirk leaves, after looking to the office where McCoy disappeared, Scotty decides that Doctor Love is in the house.
Dear Doctor Love,
Your advice is worthless. You get nothing from telling people how it really is. I know all about that. I don't even know why I bothered to write you. This is the worst idea ever and I wouldn't be surprised that it's the Captain's idea.
Art Metaphor
It takes Scotty a few weeks more (plus four bribes, seven promised favors and that's just to Uhura) to get it set up. He can't wait until Kirk and McCoy are trapped in the same room with the rest of the crew looking the other way. Because he's the curious sort (some would say nosy but to those same, he'd tell them where they could stick their noses), he watches as McCoy walks into the room first, arguing with Kirk over some mishap at the most recent visited planet. It's a futile argument, even Scotty knows it.
The door seals behind them and Scotty engages the locks then starts the program. The lights darken before the presentation starts.
"Dali is, perhaps, the best known painter of a style known as Surrealism. His artwork – "
"The hell is going on?" Kirk says, turning around in a circle. "The hell is that?"
"It's a painting."
"The clocks are melting."
"Gentlemen," Scotty says through the microphone, broadcasting into the room as a computerized monotone. "Art is a metaphor. In this case, the metaphor states that you are running out of time."
"Huh?" Kirk says as McCoy glares and circles the room.
"Sometimes, they eat from the menu because the one thing they want isn't on the menu."
"Oh fuck you, Doctor Love," McCoy says as Kirk gapes, for once at a loss for words.
"What's going on here?"
"Someone's decided to play a game with us."
"No game, Art Metaphor. It's time you talk to him about art."
"Bones?"
"Game's over." McCoy stalks over to the door and pushes in a code followed by another and then another.
"I'm sorry, Doctor Art Metaphor, but I'm afraid your codes won't work. You'll need to talk about art. I'll leave you two alone." Scotty changes the image to a simple word. The bright red, oddly shaped LOVE isn't subtle but Scotty's never been good at subtle.
Scotty watches as McCoy paces and Kirk demands answers. He sees the way that Kirk reaches for McCoy, stopping his pacing. They're just standing there, staring at one another in that awkward-to-be-the-third-person way and then McCoy snarls and grabs Jim's neck, tugging him forward. It'd been awkward before but now it's just downright embarrassing to be Scotty.
Turning off the equipment and locking the room until McCoy or Kirk put in one of their override codes, Scotty heads off to find a spot of ham and swiss. Preferably inside of a baked chicken breast.
As always, I'd love to hear what you thought.
Paintings referenced: here in case you're interested
Author:
wook77Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Prompt (instead of a summary): #18 - DR LOVE: The ship's newsletter has an advise column hosted by Dr Love. All submissions are of course anonymous and no one on board knows who the Dr is. Dr Love receives two letters and he(she) recognizes that they're from Jim & Bones and aids the boys in getting together. (at
jim_and_bones)Rating: PG
Warnings: Misuse of Metaphors, Misuse of Art
Wordcount:
A/N: Thanks to
elanorofcastile for not only the quick beta but the first letter. I had all these grandiose plans of references and letters and graphics. Unfortunately, time conspired against me and there are no fancy graphics but there are plenty of art references and a few letters. Dear Doctor Love,
In my free time I like to care for a small garden square in the botany wing. Recently I've become in charge of a new vine acquired on an away mission. It seems to be sentient and appears to have amorous feelings for me. Is there an easy way to let it down gently and let it know I just want to be friends?
Green Thumb
The letters start pouring in as soon as the column is announced. Obviously, what with all the hostile new beings, space battles, sentient plants, invading microbes and damnable but cute tribbles, the crew of the Enterprise has more than enough time on their hands to worry about their love lives. And how Scotty let himself get roped in is an absolutely ridiculous story that involves ham, cheese, broccoli and one Janice Rand (editor-in-chief of the Enterprise Star which is the stupidest title of a newsletter that Scotty has ever heard of, not that anyone asked him).
So, here he sits, getting ridiculous letters from ridiculous people with ridiculous problems. He's half-tempted to tell them all to forget about their issues, that there are worse things out there in the world than pining over someone that couldn't care less about them. He's tempted to write about the horrors of living on pellets for months on end and, really, at least you can see a different person every once in awhile on the ship whereas he'd been stuck staring at Keenser for months.
Except every time he goes to write that down, Gaila or Janice come swinging past and lean over his desk, coo about the letters and tell him about how sweet all of this is and wouldn't it be lovely if they could get together. He'd blame the leaning except that it's more the soft tones of their voices; the way that they sound so girly that gets him doing whatever it is that they want. Which, namely, is answering all these letters addressed to Doctor Love.
The one caveat that he'd had from the very beginning had been that his identity as Doctor Love had to be kept a secret. No one but no one could know because he'd never hear the end of it from Kirk, Keenser and McCoy.
He's just finished reading a letter about a plant in love with a human and how the human would go about discouraging the plant when his inbox pings at him and another letter pops in.
"What's this one?" Gaila asks as she pops her head over his shoulder.
"Oh, open it!" Janice says as she peers over his other shoulder.
"One letter at a time. How'm I supposed to discourage a plant?"
"Put it in the dark for a day or so. That'll teach it," Janice answers. "Now come on, new one!"
Scotty grimaces at both the advice and the perky tone in his ear, makes a note to research how to deter plants and then opens the next.
Dear Doctor Love,
Eagerly awaiting your assistance,
Art Metaphor
"That is one of the sweetest things I have ever read."
"Who's Dali and why are elephants on stilts?"
"Let me pull it up."
After a few minutes of looking at it, Scotty knows exactly how to answer. "Don't you two have work to be doing?"
The ladies leave and Scotty finally enjoys being roped into being Doctor Love.
Dear Art Metaphor,
May I call you Art?
Art is subjective. One man's Dali is another man's watercolor. You can pick the art you like just like he can pick the art you like. Have you talked about art to him? Maybe asked him if he likes Dali or Turner? You never know what he likes until he tells you.
Yours,
Doctor Love
Weeks later, weeks and weeks of dealing with McCoy's moods, Kirk's fluctuations, Janice's sighs and Gaila's laughter means that Scotty is about to chuck this Doctor Love crap. When's Scotty going to get his is what he wants to know. He'd write into Doctor Love but, well, there you go.
He's beginning to regret not telling people he's Doctor Love. After all, who can he complain to? The two that got him into this are too happy to see his responses and everyone else is too busy looking for advice. Even last week, while the Klingons were attacking, he'd received a letter from a member of the crew. In the middle of the attack.
Dear Doctor Love,
He can be odd like a Dali; all sorts of crazy, death-defying logic that you figure will topple that elephant on stilts. There's no way that an elephant can walk on stilts but then he does. He defies gravity and death and logic and all the odds and comes out on top, towering over all of us. His crazy schemes always work out in the end, even if it's hard to trust that they will.
Except that I'm wrong. He's not a Dali at all. He's more like an experiment in color field painting. He lives his life with large, vibrant brushstrokes, always assured of himself. He's steady and predictable at first glance, until you start figuring out what's going on behind the surface. That's when you realize that maybe the painting is just circles of paint or maybe it's a sweeping statement on society's demand that we all march in line to the same drummer so we never have any sort of beginning. Maybe that's why the author called it that.
Or maybe that painting is the way that my life seems to revolve around him, frozen in time. I'm constantly circling around him but so are so many other people.
And don't go telling me about how I should go talk about art to him. Not going to work, not in a million years. This man likes every sort of art out there, loves to experience it all over the place, if you get what I mean.
Yours,
Art Metaphor
Something about this letter sets off bells, like he knows who it is, if he could just isolate why he thinks he knows who it is. There are so many variables, though. Is it the reference to 20th Century art? Is it the abstracts? Is it the feeling of the letter?
Scotty needs to know who this is like he needs to admire the nacelles of his girl. Unlike knowing that Chekov is having issues with that girl down in Botany or the way that Sulu still can't shake the amorous attentions of the plant. This one is an actual letter with actual problems and there isn't much that Scotty likes better than fixing problems.
Dear Art,
I hear you. It's hard to get a connoisseur like that to focus. It's like when you go out to dinner and you have a giant menu in front of you. Some people get the same thing every time and some people have to have a little bit of everything all at once. Then there are people that switch it up a bit every once in awhile.
I think if you have everything all at once, you're missing out. A quick taste doesn't give you time to savor the way that the flavors blend and explode over your tongue. Take ham and swiss, for example. You can have it on a sandwich and only have one bite and maybe you taste the ham or the swiss. You have to take a second bite to taste the spicy mustard and a third to figure out how the tomato works with the rest.
And maybe ham and swiss taste different when they're baked instead of on a sandwich. It's still ham and swiss but ordering the combination again gives you a different flavor experience.
Only way to be at the center of that painting is to begin, just like the title of it. You have to tell him.
Yours,
Doctor Love
"You see the latest Doctor Love? I don't know who Art Metaphor is pining after but anyone that can talk about art is the one for me," one of the ensigns says as she works on improving the performance of a generator as Scotty walks past.
"Gotta say, if Art is fixated on someone who only eats at the buffet, I'd be more than happy to roast him some ham and swiss, if you get my meaning," the other engineer says as she winks, grins and they both laugh.
"I'd be willing to be a buffet for him, he can paint me any color he wants and then swirl it all around, dreary watercolors or elephants on stilts. It's nice to hear about a person that wants commitment."
"Yeah, look at the Captain." The ensign looks up and sees Scotty, freezing in position. "With all due respect, sir."
"What were you saying?" Something's flittering about in his head, making connections.
"Well, it's just, um, that is. Well, the Captain isn't one to settle down, is he? He enjoys sampling the entire menu."
"Menu?" Scotty says blankly, his brain still focused on putting the puzzle together.
"You don't read Doctor Love?"
"Naw, lass. Some of us work," he says but winks, taking the sting out of the words. "How about we get back to work?"
"Aye, sir." She salutes and turns back towards the generator.
Scotty takes two steps away and then the explosion rockets him off his feet. It's only a second before he stands and rushes back to where the two women are laying on the ground. He's on the comm unit, calling for assistance as he triages what he can.
Med response is unbelievably fast with the gurneys showing up and getting the women bundled and away before Scotty has time to fully absorb what just happened. Thankfully, his crew is so well-trained that they've already shut the generator down and are carrying him to medbay. When he shows up in the medbay, McCoy's working on the women. Huh, he thinks to himself and then collapses.
It feels like only a few minutes later that he comes to. It takes longer for his brain to remember what happened.
"You did a helluva job cracking your head open," McCoy says as Scotty starts probing at his scalp. "You'll be fine."
"My crew?"
"It'll take longer for them to heal."
"That bad?"
"It's not good," McCoy says as he steps up next to Scotty's bed. "But you were fast in calling us. How many fingers am I holding up?"
The change of subject dazes him and it takes him a moment. "Two."
"Good. And what year is it."
"McCoy, come on now. What sort of question is that?"
"Fine. You'll be fine."
"Then I'll be off," he says as he pushes up.
"No, you won't be. You'll be here."
"Got work to do."
"Yeah, work called healing and don't tell me that you have more important stuff to do. You'll lay there and you'll like it."
"You at least got something for me to look at?"
"Don't know why I expect you to sleep, I really don't. Between you and Jim, you'd think that I didn't know anything about being a doctor, you two fight me so much on this," McCoy mutters to himself and then thrusts a padd into his hands. "Look at the pretty pictures but so help me, you even try to read anything and I'll hurt you. Just try me."
"Appreciate it, Doctor, really I do." Scotty looks at the padd and then gasps.
"Something wrong?" McCoy pulls out his tricorder and starts scanning Scotty.
"The art's stunning. Where's it from?" he finally asks as the puzzle pieces slide into place.
"Late 20th Century American. Guy by the name of Jasper Johns. The painting is called False Start."
"Amazing. There more?"
"Here's a good one." McCoy grabs the padd back and brings up another image. "This one's Lullaby Spring by Damien Hirst."
"What are those?"
"They're pills. Lots of pills in a cabinet."
"But how's that art?"
"How isn't it? Art's subjective." Funny that McCoy is quoting Scotty back to Scotty.
"Aye, that it is."
"Scroll through, enjoy the pictures. Don't read a damned thing." With that, McCoy walks off. In moments, Scotty hears McCoy murmuring to someone in the next bed over. Scotty fumbles about and pulls the curtain slightly to see him comforting Ensign Smith.
Dreary watercolor landscapes, his ass. McCoy's more like a Seurat, from far away, he's predictable (predictably grumpy but predictable) and then, up close, when you least expect it, he's got these hidden depths. Sure, maybe Scotty's been researching art, just in case Art Metaphor writes him again. He's learning all sorts of things, mostly that he likes what he likes and he really dislikes what he dislikes. He'd disliked Seurat and he'd zoomed in on a bit and saw the way the dots worked together. That's McCoy right there, hard to like at first and then, get to know him, zoom in as it were, and there's the reason for enjoyment.
"Bones! You treating these lovely ladies properly?" The captain enters medbay, strutting right up to McCoy as Scotty stares at the way that McCoy had been caring for Scotty's crew.
"Of course, Jim." Scotty catches the way that McCoy looks at Jim, fast and then skittering to the side as Jim flirts with the injured woman.
"Bones," Kirk says, hipchecking McCoy as they walk away from the woman. "Truth time."
"Massive injuries to the two women. Scotty's better off, he's got some trauma but he should be out of here tomorrow. The women will need to stay another week, at the least." Scotty can see the way that McCoy sighs as Kirk throws an arm over his shoulder. If he hadn't seen the hidden depths, didn't know about Art Metaphor and his menu-consuming obsession, Scotty wouldn't have seen the way that McCoy leans into Kirk's embrace. As it is, he's still questioning himself. Maybe he's reading too much into it.
Or maybe he's not as he sees the way that Kirk tightens as McCoy tries to slip out from under that arm. He catches the way that Jim leans into McCoy, sniffing at his shoulder and drifting along the side of McCoy's face before finally sliding away, letting McCoy escape. He watches as McCoy doesn't step back, just stares.
They're both staring at one another, long beyond what anyone would do without being uncomfortable or aggressive. Hell, he's not even involved in their staring and the way that their hands are clenching and releasing, clenching and releasing and he's uncomfortable. Clearing his throat, he watches as they practically jump apart.
"Scotty, my man," Kirk says as he steps into Scotty's area.
"Captain, good to see you."
"Wish I could say the same. You look like hell."
"Thanks for that, sir." Scotty tries for a salute but ends up almost hitting himself in the face with the padd.
"What've you got there?" Kirk grabs the padd and looks. "What's this?"
"It's a painting."
"Yeah?"
"Aye, a good one, too. A favorite of mine," Scotty says as he shows Kirk a Seurat painting.
"It's interesting," Kirk says as he looks at the picnic scene.
"Aye, zoom in a wee bit." Scotty watches Kirk's face as he does.
"Holy shit. The entire thing's dots."
"Aye, style called pointillism. You heard of it, McCoy?"
"It's on the padd, isn't it?" McCoy sounds surly and storms into his office, one last glimpse back at the two of them. Scotty wonders why until he sees the way that Kirk has his hands braced, one on Scotty's shoulder and the other nestled into the bed flush against Scotty's hip.
"That's amazing. Look at that." Kirk steps back, stealing the padd to zoom in and out.
By the time Kirk leaves, after looking to the office where McCoy disappeared, Scotty decides that Doctor Love is in the house.
Dear Doctor Love,
Your advice is worthless. You get nothing from telling people how it really is. I know all about that. I don't even know why I bothered to write you. This is the worst idea ever and I wouldn't be surprised that it's the Captain's idea.
Art Metaphor
It takes Scotty a few weeks more (plus four bribes, seven promised favors and that's just to Uhura) to get it set up. He can't wait until Kirk and McCoy are trapped in the same room with the rest of the crew looking the other way. Because he's the curious sort (some would say nosy but to those same, he'd tell them where they could stick their noses), he watches as McCoy walks into the room first, arguing with Kirk over some mishap at the most recent visited planet. It's a futile argument, even Scotty knows it.
The door seals behind them and Scotty engages the locks then starts the program. The lights darken before the presentation starts.
"Dali is, perhaps, the best known painter of a style known as Surrealism. His artwork – "
"The hell is going on?" Kirk says, turning around in a circle. "The hell is that?"
"It's a painting."
"The clocks are melting."
"Gentlemen," Scotty says through the microphone, broadcasting into the room as a computerized monotone. "Art is a metaphor. In this case, the metaphor states that you are running out of time."
"Huh?" Kirk says as McCoy glares and circles the room.
"Sometimes, they eat from the menu because the one thing they want isn't on the menu."
"Oh fuck you, Doctor Love," McCoy says as Kirk gapes, for once at a loss for words.
"What's going on here?"
"Someone's decided to play a game with us."
"No game, Art Metaphor. It's time you talk to him about art."
"Bones?"
"Game's over." McCoy stalks over to the door and pushes in a code followed by another and then another.
"I'm sorry, Doctor Art Metaphor, but I'm afraid your codes won't work. You'll need to talk about art. I'll leave you two alone." Scotty changes the image to a simple word. The bright red, oddly shaped LOVE isn't subtle but Scotty's never been good at subtle.
Scotty watches as McCoy paces and Kirk demands answers. He sees the way that Kirk reaches for McCoy, stopping his pacing. They're just standing there, staring at one another in that awkward-to-be-the-third-person way and then McCoy snarls and grabs Jim's neck, tugging him forward. It'd been awkward before but now it's just downright embarrassing to be Scotty.
Turning off the equipment and locking the room until McCoy or Kirk put in one of their override codes, Scotty heads off to find a spot of ham and swiss. Preferably inside of a baked chicken breast.
Paintings referenced: here in case you're interested
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