jonathan byers, probably: i hate small talk. i wanna talk about atoms, death, faraway galaxies. i wanna talk about music and asteroids and spirituality and outer space. i like people with depth who speak with emotion from a twisted mind, i don’t want to know “what’s up”
Summary: There are a lot of ways to say something without actually saying it.
A/N: a little long. also if jim kirk called me starlight, i’d probably cry n profess my love right then and there. forgive any n all typos. enjoy it and lemme know what you think!
The absurdly bright lights lining the corridors of the Enterprise pricked your eyes— you were forced to squint as your legs carried you. The air pouring through the vents pinched any of your skin that remained unclothed. You flexed and contracted the oddly tired joints in your fingers— you could hear tiny pops and the soft sounds felt like battering rams against your eardrums.
You cursed yourself for two reasons: losing your left boot as the time-consuming search for it resulted in your inability to replicate a much needed mug of coffee, and drinking so much with Leonard the night before. While you accepted the former was entirely your doing, you split the blame on the latter— half of it was your fault, and half was Leonard’s. It’s those stupid puppy eyes, you told yourself.
You leant your shoulder against the transparent wall of the turbolift you solely occupied and crossed your arms over your chest. Your teeth were gritted— as if grinding your teeth to nubs would give you the day off and rid you of the heavy weight crushing your skull.
The doors slid open before your desired deck and you didn’t bother stifling a sigh that carried the weight of two starships. You dropped your gaze to glare at your scuffed boots rather than subject the new lift patron to your scowl and dagger eyes.
You lifted your head at the sound of his voice and met his eyes. You frowned immediately and nodded twice. “Bones and I had paperwork.”
“What would you say the ratio was this time?” he asked, his crossed arms rumpling the command gold fabric that was firmly stretched over his chest. He was smiling slightly in amusement as he took in your appearance— messy hair, half-zipped left boot, heavy lidded eyes.
You shrugged and eyed the ceramic mug in his hands. You could have moaned at the smell steaming out of it. “I’d say about two charts to one glass.”
“How many charts in total?”
“Fourteen each,” you winced at the revelation and took your eyes from Jim’s when the amusement painted his features red.
“Seven glasses of whiskey in one sitting,” he said with a laugh. “No wonder you look like that.”
You narrowed your eyes. “How dare you! I look adorable— like a celebrity running errands.”
“‘Cept you’re about to start an eight-hour shift.”
You sighed so your shoulders slumped. “My rough night’s turning into a rough morning— I didn’t even have time to replicate coffee because of my stupid missing boot.”
Jim glanced down at his mug and thrust it in your direction without thinking twice. “Take mine.”