Work Text:
It isn’t that Jim’s never had his body swapped with another before, it’s simply that all the other wrong vessels had limbs.
This body, if it can even be called that, doesn’t have a single one. Not a leg, not a foot, not a toe. Not even an eye-stock. Not even an eye.
He’s become a round-ish ball of fur and little else, and his only comfort is knowing that his illustrious first officer is in the same position. At least he doesn’t have to suffer this humiliation alone, and at least Bones’ teasing will be diffused between the two of them when they straighten this all out. If they straighten things out. Jim’s no longer tall enough to reach a computer and check on his staff, and when he tried to yell into Bones’ open communicator beyond the glass wall of his cage, only high-pitched squeaking came out. So he’ll just have to rely on having the best crew in the fleet and a number of people personally invested in him not staying a tribble.
Besides the indignation, it’s not that it’s so unbearable. His fuzzy exterior seems to take well to the sterile environment of sickbay, and somehow, despite his total lack of eyes, he can see the world around him, or at least, from the counter up. He can see Bones seated at the desk beside his glass box, busily muttering and tapping at a PADD. He knows that Scotty’s likely off tearing the transporter apart piece-by-piece to figure out how this could’ve happened, leaving Sulu in command and Chekov piloting with Uhura probably studying up on tribbles lest this situation prove unsolvable. Which Jim doesn’t even want to think about.
He can’t smell. He’s lost that sense, so thoroughly that it’s difficult to even remember what smells are like, but he can hear just fine, mostly the usual beeping of the Enterprise, the subtle hum of the deck plating at warp speed, and Bones’ earnest research. Jim’s mouth is dry, even though he’s not exactly sure where it is, and just thinking about it makes him distinctly hungry—a feeling that grows and grows until it’s a part of his being, and he’s trembling as only a tribble could. He wants to call for an ensign to bring him something, but all he can do is coo, so he coos at the top of his nonexistent lungs.
Either hearing the frantic squeaks or spotting the movement, Bones glances sideways. His nose wrinkles in a pitying look, and he grunts, “Sorry, Jimbo. We just can’t feed you. The last thing we need is little hybrid babies to try and figure out.” And then he turns back to his PADD like that’s that, even though Jim’s starving so badly he’d eat the glass, if he could.
He vaguely understands, through the haze of hunger, that he can’t risk procreating in this form. But as far as he knows, eating and breeding are all tribbles do, which is a horror in itself—Jim lives for his ship, and the thought of not being able to sit in the captain’s chair again is borderline excruciating.
The only other urge he has is to cuddle. Human contact is never something he lacks, though he’s always respectful and conscious of his position—he doesn’t just go around caressing his underlings. But this is an extraneous circumstance, and he’s in dire need of something, so he vibrates as hard as he can, trying to roll himself towards Spock. It’s not unusual for him to seek solace in his science officer, but it’s usually a silent, professional comfort, rather than physically trying to rub him.
Jim can’t quite seem to move. Spock’s not particularly far away, but they’re not touching, and Jim has no intention of living ravenous but unfulfilled in both food and cuddles. Spock juts sits where he is, fur lightly shifting with his breath but otherwise still. Perhaps the Vulcan mental disciplines work for repressing the urge to eat and coo.
Again, Bones turns to them, letting out a heavy sigh and dipping his hand into the glass box. It’s something like a fishbowl and makes Jim feel too much like a pet, but if he’s going to have to be someone’s pet, he’s probably best off in Bones’ hands. Bones nudges him gently closer to Spock as though reading his intentions—or maybe just knowing one of the only distinguishable traits about their newly acquired species—and Jim trills his gratitude. He nestles up against Spock as best he can, purring happily, while Spock subtly leans against him. Jim can feel it. Bones looks at them, shakes his head, and frowns too deeply. Jim didn’t give him enough credit. He’s not laughing; he’s worried, and Jim notices the dark circles under his eyes as he mutters, “I guess I have to find some new nicknames. Pointy and green-blooded hobgoblin don’t really work anymore...”
Maybe he said it to lighten the mood, but he doesn’t smile. Just turns back to his PADD. Jim coos against Spock and prods tentatively at their mental bond. They’ve formed a fairly strong one over the years, strengthened with each new mind meld that they always seem to need. Spock’s always a presence in the back of Jim’s mind. And now he finds it surprisingly easy to push right through, until he’s asking, loud and clear in the span of their heads, Are you okay?
He’s delighted to hear Spock’s thoughts stoically reply, That is a very complex question at the moment. Jim would let out a breath of relief, if he had any idea how he was breathing at all. Perhaps their lack of bodies has amplified their mental prowess. Or perhaps now that they’re touching, Spock is doing the equivalent of a mind meld, with his fuzzy lack-of-hands splayed out along Jim’s makeshift face. Jim tries to push forward that usual burst of calm surety that they’ll get through this, but it just comes out a trembling nuzzle into Spock’s side. Spock rumbles back, Captain, this is highly inappropriate.
Jim mentally snorts. It’s all inappropriate. But he half expects Spock to follow up with: not in front of Dr. McCoy. Brushing it off, Jim faux-orders, Spock, just hug me.
I cannot, Jim. I have no arms.
Jim wants to laugh. Instead it comes out as a warbling squeal and the shivering of all his fur. He shakes so hard that he somehow rocks right over, feeling like he’s falling onto his face but having no face to fall onto. He just sort of goes end over end until he feels like he’s upside down, on the wrong curve of his oddly shaped body, and he trills in distress at it while Spock asks fretfully, Captain? ...Jim, do you require assistance...?
It’s Bones that fixes him up, as only a doctor could. He reaches back into their enclosure and turns Jim over with his strong fingers, until Jim’s right side up and trying to clutch tight to Spock for support. In his usual scowl, Bones scolds, “Honestly, Jim, can you stay out of trouble for one goddamn—”
“I FOUND IT!”
The loud scream nearly sends both Jim and Spock over again. Bones’ head whips around, and Jim’s gaze somehow follows, or focuses, as it seems to be in all directions at once. Scotty’s standing in the doorway with a fire in his eyes, proclaiming for a follow up: “I found the problem! Get the Captain and Mr. Spock down to the transport room immediately!”
Bones grabs the box so fast that Jim goes tumbling into Spock, and they topple into the corner while Bones races them out the door.