So I have been working on this a disgustingly long time but finally finished another year of Star Trek holiday sweaters. It’s been too long since I really sat down and drew these guys. Kinda rusty still but it’s getting there.
I hope everyone has a great holiday season. Thanks everyone!
Bones is asleep on a textbook at his dorm room desk with a half-drunk cup of coffee by his elbow. His lamp is still on from when he turned it on at 11 last night. It’s now 7 AM and he’s on call in an hour. He doesn’t know it, but the door chime is about to sound with a delivery from InsomniaStudent containing a venti mocha and three pieces of peach pie. Bones will later deny that he cried a little when he opened the box, but Jim totally had a hidden camera in the corner.
Nyota is up in a tree, laying in the crook of a limb while she tries to read <i>Gulliver’s Travels</i> to de-stress. It’s early afternoon and there’s a nice light breeze that carries some faint spring bird calls. She’s doing a good job of denying her immense stress right out of existence. (It’s okay, she has plenty of time to cry if she wants to when she’s alone and drilling away in the sensor lab tonight.)
Scotty? He’s buried in one of the workshops with seven rolling whiteboards and a partly-reassembled and heavily modified transporter laying around, knocking back three sandwiches and seltzer water. It is 2:47 AM. Time has no meaning. Life has no meaning. Where the hell did his PADD go? Is that a…beagle?
Gaila’s a whirling blaze of energy in the corner workshop in the engineering building. She’s almost perfected her project—a beautiful shining mini-warp core, a work of art. Gaila never regretted dual-tracking in engineering and conceptual architectural design. It’s 4 PM and after five solids weeks of work her baby was almost finished. It’s absolutely the right time to have some happy music on to dance to while she does the finishing touches. After all, these rooms are soundproof. Who’ll ever even know?
Chekov is peacefully asleep. His books are neatly stacked next to his bed, with his pad of notes and practice exams perched on top of the stack. He’s been working ahead in all of his classes for a few weeks now, and has almost no worries about the exams he’s got left. He knows he’ll do fine. He’s currently dreaming about the snow-covered hills of his home in Russia, where he used to build little armies of snowmen once upon a time.
Across from him, Sulu’s arm is dangling off his own bed, stylus having just recently fallen out from between his fingers. He’s muttering in his sleep. (Probably a nightmare about his upper atmosphere navigation practical scheduled for tomorrow.) He may be an amazing pilot, but he’s only human. He has every right to be worried about the flight test—it’s not every day you have other people’s lives literally in your two hands, hovering above the surface of a world in the narrow bridge between Earth and outer space.
It’s 12:32 AM and Christine is slumped back in her chair at a library table, staring with dead eyes at her pharmacology notes spread all over the surface in front of her. Her exam is in less than eight hours. Time has lost all meaning. Words have lost all meaning. Sleep is now an abstract concept for alien races. (Did she say that out loud?) Maybe she should go lie down on a bench—just for a few minutes, Carol suggests. Maybe you can go take your aerodynamics diagrams and die in a hole, Carol, Christine mumbles back.
Carol is also in the library at that ungodly hour of the night. She, however, is a night owl and feeling fine, unlike Christine. But she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t considered heading for bed just to get some distance from the possibly-homicidal Christine, who had been up for two days straight now and looked ready to commit grand arson against the textbooks or possibly a chemistry lab.
Spock is in his room, working diligently to finalize his graduate thesis. He is almost finished, and though he knows it is logical to get rest—that he will mentally perform better for his oral board review in the afternoon—he still finds himself awake late at night today, trying to find any single mistake in his calculations or errors in his rhetoric or grammar. With just the slightest shift of his chair, he gives a soft almost-sigh and reaches for his bottle of water. There will be time to rest when his work is complete.
It is 9:30 PM and the class buildings are mostly abandoned and empty, which is just how Jim likes it. He haunts the basement level of the oldest one, cross-legged on one of the the random sofa-benches lining the hallway. He’s got a PADD on his lap and thirty-two pages of research notes written in the last two hours (plus a message from Bones yelling at him to get his ass to bed before he passes out, that sleep is important and Bones is a worried about him). There are two papers already under his belt, one more to go, and two exams tomorrow that he’s knows he’ll do well on. But he never can actually make himself believe it, and so he’ll still be here, at 2 AM, trying to read about principles of leadership and warp core structural support while the words blur and dance in and out of focus. There’ll be time to celebrate and sleep when he’s finished exams and regained control over his twitching left eyelid.