Destressing (1/1)
Hikaru Sulu understood the effects of stress on the human body, perhaps better than most of the crew. He’d spent a lot of his childhood just asking. He asked his mother about her meditations and affinity for terribly flavorless teas. He asked his fencing instructor why it mattered so much if his shoulders were hunched, relaxed, even, curved, or any other strange angle they might’ve taken. He asked his uncle why he breathed funny when Grandpa called him strange words Hikaru had never been taught, words that sounded elegant and right coming out of the old man’s mouth but that made every who understood them in the room avert their eyes. And so, his understanding of stress had developed as a natural consequence of the answers he’d received.
He knew what stress did to humans. To other species? Not so much. Particularly Vulcans.
Nevertheless, he knew the Commander had to be under more stress than he seemed, if the complete lack of speech was any indicator. Or the mangled transport some twenty yards away being sniffed by some indigenous animal that might’ve been classified as a marsupial. The sheer silence from the communicators even had Hikaru unnerved.
Spock’s posture was pretty similar to his mother’s when she was meditating, so he assumed that was what he was doing. They’d tried several methods to send a distress call back to the Enterprise. Judging from the notable lack of rescue, communication of any sort, or just, you know, the captain personally coming down and cussing out the atmosphere of the planet for damaging his dear First Officer’s transport because nothing was allowed to do anything to Spock without his permission. So yeah, the transporter must’ve been busted or something along with the communicators, which was just dandy.
Well, Spock probably had the right idea with the meditation. It wasn’t like there was much they could do at this point. At least they weren’t injured. God knew what kinds of things would come pouring out of Dr. McCoy’s mouth if he had to treat a crash-related injury. Hikaru wasn’t really in the mood to find out the various ways he could die in space.
He cast a quiet glance at Spock, whose brow was slightly furrowed. That was weird. Part of him wondered if he was trying to contact the captain through their freaky Vulcan life-partner or whatever they might’ve been psychic bond thing. And then, of all things, the Vulcan flinched.
That wasn’t good. That really wasn’t good.
“Hey, are you okay?” he asked, taking six steps and kneeling in front of the commander. The flinch continued, a slight twitch at Spock’s lips revealing clenched teeth. Shit, was he injured? Their impact had been rather jarring, even with the chute…
Spock’s eyes finally opened, a slight crease at the edges. He looked at Sulu, edges of his mouth turning down and pulling at his face. He looked so much older all of a sudden, so…weighed down.
“Has there been any communication with the ship?” the commander asked. His low voice was ingrained with some amount of pain, and Hikaru glanced over him again, trying to determine where he might’ve been injured, shaking his head all the while. The Vulcan closed his eyes briefly, and then opened them again, not quite looking at him. “The soonest we are likely to make it back aboard the ship is in three hours. I believe I…will not last that long.”
Shit, Spock was really injured. He was injured so badly that he was saying he expected to die soon, even. Hikaru stood, adrenaline pumping through his system. “Wait here,” he ordered. “I’m gonna go get the first aid kit.”
He took off in a sprint, barely sparing a glance for his crewmate. His medical training was limited, very basic - but it would have to be enough. He shooed the marsupial away from the wreckage, climbing carefully through the open hatch and digging through the wreckage until he found the kit. Once he’d extricated it, he climbed right back out and dashed back to where he had left the commander.
Except the commander wasn’t there. He wasn’t in the shade where Hikaru had left him. Panic rushed through his veins, blood suddenly feeling more like coolant - until that deep voice came from somewhere to his right.
“I have merely relocated, Lieutenant. I have not expired in your absence,” Spock stated, and when Hikaru wheeled to follow the voice, spotting the commander leaning against a rock, seemingly basking in the sunlight. “Bring the kit. I will walk you through the process as best I can.”
He obeyed, jogging on over and falling to his knees beside the man. There were no indications of bleeding, not on his shirt or his head or-oh, there. There was a dark stain on his trousers. Potential causes filled Hikaru’s mind, and he clicked the kit open.
“Okay. What caused that?” he asked, gesturing to the wet mark. The commander took a breath.
“Amniorrhexis,” he answered, a hand going to his lower abdomen. Hikaru’s mind spun with potential injuries as he tried to remember what organs were where in the Vulcan body - and then Spock was unbuttoning his pants, of all things. He blinked, and the Vulcan stared at him like he was…well. Not quite an idiot, but less reactive than he should’ve been. “Colloquially? My water broke.”
And that was the point when Hikaru Sulu first began exhibiting the signs of stress that day.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Hikaru had never imagined he would ever be crouched between his commanding officer’s legs. He would never have expected to have to be up close and personal with the genitalia of any Vulcan. And if even a day ago he’d been told he’d soon be assisting his very male crewmate in delivering a baby, he’d have started laughing before the punchline.
And yet, it was happening. It was undeniably real, and his pulse pounded in his jaw as he checked the dilation of a channel human males certainly didn’t have. He knew Spock had to be in pain, could see the minute spasming of his legs, but whenever he’d glance up at his face, it was as impassive as he’d ever seen it.
“It would not be remiss for you to focus your attention on more immediately relevant locations,” the commander managed, voice just barely strained. Hikaru glanced down, estimating the dilation to be almost complete. After a long moment, he wiped his forehead, and there was a gentle sigh. “This is not how we had intended anyone discover the pregnancy.”
“I bet,” Hikaru quipped, glancing at the opening. Still not quite there. “Is this, uh…premature?”
One of Spock’s hands tightened on his abdomen. His very flat abdomen. God, who would’ve believed this? “Not precisely. I had not anticipated going into labor for a further three weeks, though I the fetus is already viable.”
The lieutenant forced his shoulders down. They had been steadily creeping towards his ears for some time now, and he knew he would regret letting them reach their goal. “Why didn’t you tell anyone if it was already so far along?” he asked. “Why would you go on a mission? Why would the captain let you go? It’s not exactly safe.”
The commander took a long, even breath. “It is Vulcan tradition to give word of a pregnancy two weeks before the anticipated day of birth. Early birth is rare,” he explained briefly. “And Jim permitted me to take part in missions deemed ‘safe’, provided I maintain contact with him throughout the mission. Please don the surgical gloves.”
Hikaru threw a startled glance back to the opening, pulse doubling when he saw something already in the channel. He followed the orders frantically, because really, what else could he do? By the time the gloves were on, something was definitely working its way out.
“What do I do?” he asked, panicked. Spock pressed his back against the rock harder, teeth gritting.
“Catch,” the Vulcan ground out, hands clenching his knees tightly. “Just…catch.”
Okay. He could do that. He positioned his hands under the channel, mind going blank when dark, wet hair greeted his eyes. Shit, shit, shit. This was seriously going to happen. The commander was going to squeeze out a baby, and he was going to fucking catch it. But no more thought could be given to the situation anyway, because with one very quiet grunt from above, his hands were suddenly full of squirming, wrinkled infant.
“Unbelievable,” he managed, interrupted midway through by an earsplitting wail. The kid was lucky he didn’t drop it-him. Him. That was definitely a him. He knew he should’ve been doing something about the cord, but there was the slight issue of the baby squirming all over the place and making ungodly sorts of noises - not quite crying. More like mewing. Like a fucking kitten.
And it was wrinkled and ugly and goopy and disgusting, and he was happy to be wearing the gloves, but at the same time? This was probably going to be the most adorable kid ever born.
Spock’s hand trailed into the medical kit, withdrawing a spare shirt. “Wrap him in this and hand him to me,” he ordered, sounding only the slightest bit tired. Well, at least he sounded tired at all. When Hikaru acquiesced, Spock’s free hand was back into the kit, tugging out a clamp and tugging the end of the cord that had not been attached to the baby, the rest of it coming out like a knot. Hikaru couldn’t pay attention to any more of what he did, his eyes stuck on the channel, which was quickly sealing itself up.
“What about the placenta?” he asked, not sure if he should be doing anything.
“It will break down on its own,” the commander murmured above the weird mewing his newborn was making. Jesus, this was weird. There was silence for a moment. “You performed admirably. I give you my gratitude.”
“Just don’t name it something stupid,” Hikaru heard himself say in a rush. “Like, like…don’t name it-him, him-don’t name him something like Albert or Christian or-whatever you do, don’t you dare name him Walter or I swear to God I’m asking for a transfer.”
Spock nodded sagely, the infant in his arms squirming closer to him. “I will endeavor to follow that advice,” he agreed, and then, glancing down at himself, added, “though I believe the first measure of business would be to redress me.”
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
It ended up being five hours before they got anything out of the communicator, and the first thing they heard was, appropriately enough, the captain threatening Scott.
“Look, Scotty, you figure out some way to contact them now, or I’m going to force-feed you protein nibs for a week,” the man was saying. Hikaru picked up the communicator, grinning. Even Spock, who was starting to look as exhausted as he must’ve been, looked approvingly at the object, the newborn sleeping soundly in his arms.
“Captain?” Hikaru asked, privately rejoicing in the sigh of relief that escaped the communicator, undoubtedly Kirk’s voice.
“Finally,” the man muttered. “Spock’s with you?”
“And thensome,” Hikaru confirmed, eyes locked on the carefully (well, as careful as one could be with a shirt) wrapped infant in Spock’s arms. There was a sound of confusion that seemed to be Scotty’s voice, and Hikaru knew Kirk was trying to comprehend what he’d just been told. “Three to beam up.”
“Why three?” Scotty’s voice inquired, only to be interrupted by the captain.
“Beam! Beam them up, Goddamnit!” he exclaimed. “Now. Right fucking now! And get medical ready!”
There were definite sounds of people carrying out his orders, and then the familiar feel of dematerializing. He spared a glance at Spock, who pulled the infant closer to himself, and in the crook of his arm the tiny thing looked more like a poorly wrapped bandage for his elbow than a baby.
When they rematerialized on the transport pad, McCoy was already in the room, and the captain was obviously struggling not to leap up. Everyone was staring.
“Break something?” the doctor asked, but he was interrupted by that same wail Hikaru had heard just a few hours ago. The room was completely silent as Spock shifted the bundle containing his son closer. And then there was no stopping the captain from jumping onto the pad, skidding to a stop next to the first officer and letting his hand hover over the baby. When Spock nodded, shaky hands lifted the infant from his arms.
“Is it…?” Kirk asked gently. “I mean…is this going to be a Mark or an Isabel?”
“Mark,” Spock answered, voice weary. “Lieutenant Sulu informs me that we are not permitted to name him something ‘stupid’, so I propose we consider carefully consider what his middle name should be.”
“I thought his middle name was going to be Soren,” Kirk murmured. “Mark Soren Kirk.”
Well, Hikaru thought. At least it wasn’t Walter. And for just a moment, the moment before which McCoy would rail on the captain and the commander for not informing him, the moment before Scotty remarked on his difficulty in believing the situation, and the moment before the entire ship would be made aware of its latest passenger, Hikaru took in this image.
And, for the first time in a long while, he finally relaxed.