A Dance In Shadow And Silence (Part 1)

Aug 01, 2012 21:27

Title:  A Dance In Shadow And Silence
Author: eimeo
Beta: T'Lara
Universe/Series: TOS
Rating: R
Relationship status: Pre-slash/slash
Chapter: 1/1
Pairings: Kirk/Spock
Additional Pairings: Implied Chulu (if you want to read it that way. It's very much up to you.)



A DANCE IN SHADOW AND SILENCE

Within thirty seconds of entering the planet’s atmosphere, it becomes apparent that the shuttlecraft is going to crash. Another five, and it’s clear that they’re going down over the ocean.

This in itself is not a surprise. Most of the planet is ocean, for a start - a glistening, black-crimson expanse, shimmering in the eternal twilight of its dying sun. It was the work of several hours’ careful programming to persuade the navigational systems to compensate for the erratic gravitational matrix and aim for one of the shriveling landmasses that haphazardly punctuate the Cimmerian depths, and the work of several more to establish a strategy for convincing the Captain that the scientific rewards to be gained through an excursion beneath the magnetized cloud cover outweighed the substantial risk involved.

“No,” he said, simply, when Spock first proposed the expedition, and before his Science Officer had had an opportunity to outline his rationale. “No. I’m sorry, Spock. I’ve had a look at the long-range sensor readouts and they’re barely able to confirm an oxygen/nitrogen atmosphere. There’s no way to be certain of conditions on the planet’s surface, not without risking a shuttlecraft and its crew.”

Spock folded his hands behind his back and dipped his eyeline towards the floor. In his peripheral vision, Kirk straightened slightly, opening maneuvers in a long and familiar game. Sometimes Spock wins and sometimes he loses, and he has learned not to take the losses as a commentary on his professional judgment, but rather as a statement of the esteem in which he is held by his commanding officer. It is frustrating, but, he supposes, gratifying. And, in any case, he has learned how to stack the odds in his favor.

The craft banks violently as they sideswipe an electromagnetic vortex, and the throttle shudders in Spock’s hands as he struggles to moderate their descent. It’s possible he’s gotten a little too good at manipulating the Captain.

“Mr Chekov,” he says, over the cacophonous metallic wail of structural dissent and the siren-call of a panicking navigational computer, “I am going to attempt to reorient the shuttle using a staggered polarization of the hull. Stand by. Mr Sulu, you will correct for any sudden decelerations or loss of altitude, and steer us out of the drift pattern as we break free from the storm.”

At the helm, Sulu’s face is a mask of concentration, shoulders drawn rigidly into his body as he wrestles with a complex gravitational web. “I’ll try, sir,” he says, his mouth set tight with effort. “I’m not sure she has it in her…”

“On my mark,” says Spock. “Three… two… on-”

*

It is the ordinary evening of an ordinary day. The Enterprise is running as close to optimal efficiency as a shipful of Humans is ever likely to run, and the New Captain has finally dropped his prefix in the mind of his First Officer. Kirk has been aboard for eighteen weeks and two days, and has lost a close friend to the rigors of the service. He has earned his ship.

Spock buzzes for entry at the Captain’s quarters and stands back at the appropriate distance while he waits for a response. “Come!” calls the muffled voice of his CO from within, and the door slides open on a room in semi-darkness, light pooling over the small desk in the corner, where a pair of stocking feet describe one end of the Captain’s body. The rest is canted into the darkness, outside the glow of the terminal screen, but springs abruptly into the light as the feet are retracted and Kirk leans forward in his chair.

“Ah, Mr Spock,” he says with an easy smile. “I had a feeling it would be you.” He gestures towards the empty seat across the table. “Come in, sit down. What’s on your mind?”

Spock stands uncertainly in the center of the room. The light level indicates a man at his ease, and he knows enough about the constant bristle of eroded boundaries to demur from invading the Captain’s privacy.

“Amended duty rosters for your approval, Captain,” he says. He hesitates. “However, if you would prefer to review them tomorrow morning…”

Kirk lets loose a puff of air and sits back in his chair with an expression that would be all open-faced innocence, but for a certain glint in his eyes. “I don’t believe we’re likely to have any scheduling emergencies tonight, Commander,” he says. The hand extends again, flat-palmed invitation directed at the empty chair, and he visibly stifles a yawn. “I think it’s high time I was off the clock. I’m not sure… would it be a grave breach of Vulcan etiquette to ask you to join me in a drink?”

An eyebrow scrapes Spock’s hairline. “If you are fatigued, Captain…”

“No,” says Kirk lightly, and offers up a self-deprecating smile. “A little restless, perhaps.” A beat. “Never mind. I can see that you’re busy.”

The thing is, he’s really not: re-scheduling a week of beta-shifts in Engineering to cover Ensign Ramsey’s recuperation from a mishandled rung in a Jeffries tube is the opposite of urgent. He was simply looking for something constructive to fill in the hours before sleep is required. However, this leaves him with remarkably few options now in terms of prevarication, and he’s never mastered the art of effective lying.

Slowly, he says, “Negative, Captain. I am not currently required elsewhere on the ship.”

Unexpectedly, a grin flares brightly across Kirk’s face. He says, “Then won’t you have a seat, Mr Spock? I’ve been reading a book of Surakian philosophy and I’m having a little trouble with some of the precepts…”

Reluctantly, Spock pulls the chair from its nest beneath the table as the Captain stands and moves to his drinks cabinet. “That is to be expected,” he says.

In the shadows, Kirk turns over his shoulder, and, even in the darkness, amusement shines from his eyes. “Is that so?” he says. And then, “Perhaps you’re right. I find that I’m not entirely sure whether or not I can offer you a glass of Scotch without causing offense.”

“There is no offense where none is taken,” says Spock mildly, as the Captain moves back into the little circle of light, a glass in either hand.

“Nam-tor ri thrap wilat nem-tor rim,” says Kirk, and smiles. He holds out a glass and Spock accepts it with a nod. “Not all of the precepts gave me difficulties,” he says innocently.

Spock’s eyebrow arches. The pronunciation is clumsy, as though the speaker has read a guide to Vulcan inflections and cadences but has never heard the language spoken aloud. The grammar, however, is perfect.

“Evidently, Captain,” he says.

Kirk lowers himself bonelessly into his chair and raises his drink to his First. “I believe,” he says cheerfully, “That, for this evening at least, you could call me Jim.”

*

Unconsciousness is tantalizingly brief; a dizzying dance through vertiginous blackness, before an explosion of pain scrapes up his central nervous system and drags him back to the surface. Spock opens his eyes.

The craft is remarkably intact, given that it’s just dropped unceremoniously from a height of a little over two kilometers and struck the highly-salinated ocean a glancing blow along its belly. Spock lifts his head from the console, where it has left an alarmingly large pool of tacky, olive-colored blood, and runs a rapid glance over the lifeless displays. A piquant odor of burning plastic advises against expecting any kind of response from the navcon, but protocol demands that he make the attempt. It is largely demonstrative in any case. He does not need the ship’s sensors to tell him that the ballasts are rapidly filling with water; the scream and list of the hull is a readout in itself.

Beside him, the helmsman’s shoulders tighten and he sucks in a rapid breath that speaks of returning consciousness. Spock decides to help him along the final steps. “Mr. Sulu,” he says brusquely. A beat. “Mr. Sulu!”

The Lieutenant’s eyes snap open and raw, unfiltered terror flashes across his face for a moment, tailed by despair. He says, “I’m sorry, sir; I couldn’t correct for that last gravitational burst…”

“Indeed,” says Spock. “The shuttle is sinking, Lieutenant. I believe our priority at this time is to activate the exit hatch.”

But Sulu is scrambling to his feet at a speed ill-advised for a victim of recent head trauma. He staggers for a moment and reaches a hand to the bulkhead as his legs sag beneath him. “Pavel!” he says.

“There will be time to attend to Ensigns Chekov and Ryan and Lieutenant Cruz once we have ascertained the viability of escape,” says Spock.

“Sir, he’s… I can’t tell if he’s breathing!” says Sulu. He hunkers down beside the still body of their navigator, cradled beneath the console, where he has been thrown on impact, and the helmsman’s face, when he looks up, is bloodless, eyes wide and staring. Shaking hands press two fingers to the pulse point on the Ensign’s throat, and Sulu releases a long breath that drains a little of the tension from his shoulders. “I can feel a pulse,” he says. “He’s alive.”

The ship groans and shudders violently, and Sulu scrambles to his feet again, moving quickly across the listing floor to the central console, where Spock’s fingers skim over the switches and dials.

“All systems are down,” says Spock. “I am attempting to re-route auxiliary power to the distress beacon; however, it is unlikely that the signal will penetrate the ionosphere. Mr Sulu, kindly direct your attentions to the emergency override on the exit.” A metallic protest and the nose of the shuttle dips abruptly. “Haste is advisable,” he adds.

The gravity storms on the planet’s surface and within the lower atmosphere create conditions sub-optimal for the effective workings of scanning and communication equipment. The reason Spock knows this is because he wrote those exact words himself, appended with scrupulous honesty to the report he was obliged to present to the Captain. That would have ended all possibility of an away mission right there, had a complicated series of diagrams and equations not irrefutably demonstrated that transmission is possible through the turbulent atmosphere… it’s only that the angle must be accurate to within 0.008 degrees, and conditions are not presently ideal for precision calibrations.

A hiss and a sudden rush of air from the ceiling; Sulu has managed to force the emergency exit on the roof. Movement in his peripheral vision draws Spock’s eye towards the shadows in the back of the craft and he sees Cruz untangling herself from a mess of harnessing. Blood flows freely down one side of her face as she moves unsteadily but with purpose towards the communications console.

“Let me do that, sir,” she says briskly. She glances up. “Ensign Ryan’s gone, sir. I think his neck was snapped in the crash.”

She is a communications officer, but she is not a physicist. Spock privately doubts that she has any chance of achieving the correct co-ordinates, but this is the moment at which a leisurely wave crests the uppermost wall of the shuttlecraft and spills pungent, red-tinted saltwater across the floor. They are sinking faster than he thought.

He nods to Cruz, and crosses to the far end of the ship, feet scrabbling for purchase on the slick tiles. “Mr Sulu,” he says. “Have you located the life raft?”

“Yes, sir,” says Sulu. “Located and launched, sir. I found the medkit…”

But he doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because, halfway through, a sparking short circuit in the navigations console abruptly explodes.

*

Negotiations for the trade accord are going well, and the Captain is… happy. Happy? Happy. Probably.

“Satisfied” might be a better word, in that there is always satisfaction to be found in duty and the pursuit of excellence in every endeavor, and Kirk, as his First has adequate cause to know, accepts the banalities as easily as the rush to glory, and yet… And yet these quiet, diplomatic missions fit him less well. Not every day is discovery; some days are endless star fields and countless light years of nothingness that challenge any sentient brain to question its own self-importance. Other men Spock has known have tended towards the melodramatic, have manufactured drama where there was none, and the crew have sighed and complained and played along while Spock watched from a position of detached bemusement. Not Kirk. He is content to let the ship catch her breath during these softer times, and, if he loses some of his luster when his brain is not under constant pressure, he seems a little easier for it nonetheless. Lines of tension gently unravel, furrows in his brow softly smooth, and he and McCoy and, sometimes, Mr Scott will gather for drinks in the Captain’s quarters and laugh and talk about the things that it is acceptable for Human men to discuss at their leisure.

“You’ll join us tonight, won’t you, Spock?” said Kirk as they were leaving the bridge, Captain and CMO buried in inconsequential chat and trailed by a comet-tail of contentment. Spock had been studying the PADD in his hand, and glanced up now to see Kirk and McCoy paused expectantly by the turbolift doors, the Captain’s head turned casually over his shoulder, eyebrow raised at his First.

“I regret that I must…” began Spock, but McCoy cut him off with an eyeroll.

“Told you, Jim,” he said. “‘Fun’ ain’t in the Vulcan vocabulary.”

“On the contrary,” said Spock. “The word ‘mihrsh’ translates as ‘a source of amusement’, while ‘sanosh’ describes the Human concept of pleasure. There is also ‘tizh’es’, which most closely resembles…”

“Thank you, Mr Spock,” said Kirk. His lips pursed, as though he were smothering a grin. “I believe I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”

Spock has a feeling he has been played, but he can’t be entirely sure.

He sips on his Altair water as the Doctor drains a second glass of brandy. Kirk lifts the bottle, raises an eyebrow in question, but McCoy shakes his head and leans back in his seat, folding one leg over the other. “I’ll pass, Jim,” he says. “Sure, they’re all quiet now, but you wait and see who walks into a warp coil, soon as I’m three sheets to the wind.”

Kirk smiles, restrained but warm. “I believe the peace and quiet has made you antsy, Dr McCoy.”

“Ha!” says the Doctor. “You’re one to talk, Jim Kirk. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were just ‘bout bored out of your mind these days.”

The Captain takes a sip from his drink. It is his first, and barely a third of the liquid has disappeared in the hour he’s been nursing it. “My ship is safe. My crew is safe,” he says mildly. “What more could a Captain ask for?”

“Sure,” says McCoy. A beat. “But it ain’t what you signed up for, huh?”

Kirk says nothing for a long moment, tilting his glass contemplatively. Low light dances on the amber surface of the brandy within as the Captain rolls the beaker in his hand. At last, he says, “It is what it is, Bones. I prefer to think of the bigger picture.”

“Well, sure,” says the Doctor. “We get the Ca-Alansians to sign this treaty, it’s good for everyone…”

“True.” Kirk nods. “But that’s not what I meant.” He sets the glass down on the table, so softly that the sound of crystal striking wood is almost inaudible against the gentle background hum of the ship, and folds his hands in front of him on his desk. “This is a voyage of discovery,” he says slowly, but with the conviction of a man who has had many months to formulate his thoughts. “But that doesn’t have to mean the physical act of First Contact, Bones. There’s more to this mission than the seeking out of new worlds. This is about building a Federation, a community that’s worth living in. Something we can pass on to generations to come.” He looks up at Spock, who finds himself oddly discomfited by the intensity of his Captain’s gaze. “If anyone had told me, a year ago, that I would count a Vulcan among my friends, I wouldn’t have believed it.” He smiles, and Spock finds himself unable to look away. “Discovery comes in many forms, Mr Spock,” he says. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

*

The force of the explosion throws Spock against the bulkhead, and a sudden, sharp flash of pain in his chest testifies to at least one broken rib, possibly more. Unbalanced, the ship shrieks in protest, and he can feel the shift of water in the hold beneath him, recentering their gravity towards the nose. In those long, red-hot seconds while he struggles to regain control over himself, fighting for the breath that the walls have knocked from his lungs, he can only watch as the bow of the craft tilts relentlessly into the sucking depths.

“Mr Sulu,” he manages through gritted teeth.

“Yes, sir,” comes the reply from the helm.

“What is your status, Helmsman?” says Spock.

“I’m all right, sir. Can you move?”

Barely. “Yes,” says Spock. He glances over to the navcon, where Cruz is sprawled in a morass of blood and sparking circuitry, eyes wide and staring. “Lieutenant Cruz is dead,” he says briskly, “And I estimate we have fewer than thirty seconds to make our exit before the suction of the sinking craft is too great to escape.”

“Yes, sir,” says Sulu. There is the sound of exertion. “Sir, I can’t… I can’t move him. I’m sorry, sir, I need your help…”

With difficulty, Spock levers himself out of his crouch. Searing white pain flashes along his side and blinds him for a moment before he is able to suppress it, but the effort required to control it is sapping his capacity for rational thought. He staggers through ankle-deep water to where Sulu is kneeling beside the limp body of their navigator, cradling the young man’s head out of the rising tide. Chekov’s eyes are closed, but rapid, thready breaths agitate his chest and speak of life not yet departed.

“Mr Sulu,” says Spock carefully, “There is no time. We must leave him…”

“No!” shouts Sulu. The violence of his reaction is not unexpected, but the rage in his eyes is unsettling. “He’s alive, Mr Spock! I won’t leave him to die!”

“Mr Sulu,” says Spock again, and hesitates. “I understand that there is a bond of friendship between you…”

“No, you don’t!” snaps the helmsman. “How could you understand? You couldn’t possibly understand, sir! I’ll get him out of this craft or I’ll die trying, Mr Spock, and you can watch or you can help me!”

He hooks a hand under each of Chekov’s arms, and falls back into a crouch, straining for purchase on the waterlogged floor. The craft looses another moan and lists a little further into the ocean’s grip. “Help me, sir!” Sulu yells. “Please!”

It is not logical. Two lives will be lost in the place of one; a young man, a man of promise, but a man who will slide peacefully into the black depths and never know the passing. It is not logical to allow two fires to extinguish where one can be sacrificed to allow the other to burn on. And yet…

How many times has Spock stood in Sulu’s place, unyielding as a wall of granite or steel in the face of innumerable, and quite logical, objections? How many times has he stared down a subordinate officer’s desperate, sir - it can’t be done! and responded with an immovable, we must try, that silences any further argument? It is true that, every time, he carried the weight of duty on his shoulders - it is his job to protect the Captain - but, regardless, he knows what Kirk would do in this situation. It is almost enough to trail a noise of exasperation from him, but he reigns it in with resignation, and lowers himself to the floor as his chest screams in protest.

Hunkered beneath the navcon, the water now washes freely against his fractured ribs, sharply cold and mercifully numbing as he takes the strain of the navigator’s weight. “On my count,” says Spock, through thin lips and black explosions of pain behind his eyes. “Three - two - one - lift.”

They rise together, more quickly than either had expected, and the shock of speed almost unbalances them. Spock steadies himself against the bulkhead as Sulu finds his feet and they shuffle backwards towards the flash of syrupy twilight peering through the hole of the exit hatch.

“You go through first, sir,” says Sulu. “I’ll hold him steady. If the ship goes down, sir - save yourself.”

“That will not be necessary,” says Spock.

The hatch is set above head height, but the listing of the shuttle has tilted it onto the side, and it’s the work of a firm grip and a moment’s concerted, pain-drenched effort to pull himself free of the craft. Outside, the air smells metallic and heavy, almost viscous; windy, but disconcertingly warm. There is only the briefest fraction of a second to notice this, however, before his brain points out the more pertinent fact of the almost-complete submersion of the shuttlecraft. He flattens himself against the roof and feels the ocean sucking at his feet: immeasurable red-black depths under perpetual twilight.

“Mr Sulu,” he says, as he reaches inside. “Hurry. Time is short.”

He sees the young man’s face contort with the effort of levering his friend into position, and Chekov’s head lolls slackly on his shoulders as he’s maneuvered. Sulu grunts and shoulders the Ensign upwards, so that he’s braced against his back. “Sir…” he breathes. “I can’t… I can’t reach any further…”

Inches separate the navigator’s arms from Spock’s questing fingertips, but the craft’s surface is slick and the buffeting waves threaten to unseat him with every undulating drift. He shifts a little, bent double over the lip of the exit, and in this position it is almost impossible to draw breath into his burning lungs. But he stretches out his arms - further, a little further - and suddenly there is contact. Saturated Starfleet-issue fabric brushes against his hands and they close on flesh. Hard enough to bruise; certainly hard enough to cause vociferous complaint, were the Ensign in any position to understand the violence being done to his deltoids, but there is purchase, and it is enough. Spock braces himself and pulls, using the exit hatch as a fulcrum, allowing the planet’s strong gravity to drag him backwards. For a moment, the lever hesitates, balanced perfectly between extremes, and then Spock’s momentum breaks the impasse and he feels an endless second of weightlessness as he loses his grip on the shuttlecraft roof and slides, with Chekov, into the inky water. The waves close over his head, and there is a moment of violent panic as the weak sunlight is extinguished, before he breaks the choppy surface, the body of his navigator pinned firmly to his chest.

A splash beside him churns the water for a moment, and suddenly, Sulu is shouting: “Sir - she’s sinking! We need to make it to the life raft…”

Spock kicks back with his legs, chest facing upwards towards the eternal night sky. The stars are so few around this world, where there is no competing sun to glaze them from the firmament, and he experiences a moment of sharp, illogical regret. The heavens are empty here, of both day and night…

But then there is a sucking at his feet, as though a thousand invisible hands grab at him, and his body responds automatically, battling back against the currents that snatch at him. A glance over his shoulder tells him that the life raft is close by; in his peripheral vision, he sees Sulu clambering aboard and stretching out a hand towards him, and he kicks out - mechanical, efficient strokes slicing through the water, one hand cupping Ensign Chekov’s chin while the other reaches back towards the boat. He feels Sulu’s fingers close around his arm and he pivots in the water, gripping the edge of the raft with one hand while the helmsman takes custody of their navigator, reeling him on board as though he were a freshly-landed fish. He slides into a heap in the bottom of the boat, and Sulu turns back towards his commanding officer.

“Give me your hand, sir!” he says, and Spock grips the younger man by his arms as Sulu takes hold of Spock around his aching, screaming chest and pulls. The ocean releases him with a gush of water, and Spock collapses into the raft.

“Paddles, Lieutenant,” he says briskly, though he can hear the wheeze in his voice as his chest rebels against the effort. Sulu nods and unhooks an oar from the side of the craft, and waves a hand towards the starboard side.

“The shuttle’s going under, sir,” he says, wide-eyed, as Spock dips the scull into the sable waves and begins to punt them away from the wreckage as fast as his injured ribs will allow.

“Indeed,” he says. He looks up. “Lieutenant, I suggest we row.”

*

On the Captain’s birthday, McCoy typically commandeers the officers’ mess and stocks it with all manner of Terran delicacies - or, at least, a selection of highly combustible beverages which it pleases him to name as such. Last year, Kirk quietly took the Doctor to one side and explained that the party was not consonant with his own desires, and that he’d much rather commemorate the anniversary of his birth quietly and in the privacy of his own quarters, surrounded by one or two of his closest friends, and he did so in a tone that Spock recognized as absolutely genuine. And McCoy nodded sagely and said: “Sure, Jim. Whatever you say. S’your birthday, after all.”

They are proceeding along the corridor of Deck 5 in companionable silence, Kirk scanning a PADD in his hand and Spock considering the latest equations delivered by the ongoing warp coil analysis, when Lieutenant Laginaf approaches with a look of extreme discomfort.

“Captain, sir,” she says, and if her expression didn’t give her away her tone certainly does, “Mr Scott has discovered a problem with the synthesizers…”

“…In the officers’ mess,” finishes Kirk wearily. “Thank you, Lieutenant. You’ve fulfilled your part of the Faustian pact. You may go.”

Laginaf’s face dissolves into manifest relief. “Thank you, sir,” she says, and bolts.

Kirk stands in irritable silence for a moment, radiating discontent. Spock elects not to meet his eyes, and studies instead the pattern of light on the ceiling arches while his Captain composes his thoughts.

“Do you think,” says Kirk at last, “That it would be unconscionably rude of me to go AWOL from my own birthday celebrations?”

Spock is not sure what the correct response might be, but he has a few ideas about cause and effect that seem to be appropriate to the situation. “I believe you have made your thoughts on this matter quite clear, Captain,” he says.

That causes a reluctant little half-smile and a snort of resigned laughter. “He means well,” says Kirk. “I can’t fault his determination, that’s for sure.”

Spock hesitates. “Perhaps…” he says. “Perhaps it might be the case that the long range sensors have picked up on a spatial anomaly that requires the Captain’s immediate attention.”

An eyebrow crooks. “Have they?”

Spock inclines his head non-committally. “There is generally some form of spatial anomaly to be found,” he says. “One need only look.”

Delighted laughter sputters from the Captain, warming the narrow corridor. “Why, Mr Spock,” he says. “I didn’t know you had it in you.” His eyes sparkle. “Remind me to double check every report I get from you from now on, would you?”

Spock nods. “Captain.”

“Thank you, Commander,” says Kirk, and he’s grinning now, lines of anger completely erased. “But I guess I’d better show my face a while. He means well. I can’t let him down. But stick close to me, will you?” Unexpectedly, his hand comes up to close around Spock’s elbow, and the grip is warm and enveloping. It has the effect of drawing Spock’s entire conscious thought to those inches of flesh and the fingers that encircle them. “I feel better when you’re nearby.”

The hand is withdrawn, abruptly, as though it were nothing at all, and Kirk, good humor restored, sets off down the corridor in the direction of the turbolift. After a moment, Spock follows, but his skin tingles with remembered touch.

*

There is a moment - probably no longer than thirty seconds, but time is capricious when the body is in danger, and he would not have the means to argue against an estimate that doubled, tripled, or quadrupled this span - in which it seems that the tidal rush of water into the vacant body of the sinking shuttlecraft will carry them inexorably into the roiling, bubbling whirlpool that describes her descent through the fathoms. And then, abruptly, the current releases them and the shock of their sudden momentum almost tumbles Spock forward in his crouch against the side of the raft. He slips on the thin plane of water in the bottom of the boat and crumples to his knees, harsh, labored breathing scraping in his throat.

A glance to his right reveals that Sulu is similarly slumped against the lip of the raft, panting heavily, eyes wide and white-rimmed. The helmsman catches Spock’s eye and nods, and Spock returns the gesture; in the absence of adrenalin, the pain in his ribs has begun to protest the effort involved in rowing them away from the sinking ship, and speech is entirely beyond his capacity just now.

“She’s gone, sir,” says Sulu after a moment.

Spock tests the flavor of words against the burning pain in his chest, and finds them possible.

“Clearly,” he says, and resists the urge to reflect upon the Human proclivity for stating the obvious.

A beat. “Do you think they heard us?”

He means the Enterprise. In point of fact, no, Spock does not believe their distress call made it through the thick bands of atmospheric distortion. There was not enough time, even with a fully operational communications console; in all likelihood, their signal bounced off one of a myriad energy disturbances and dissipated in the turbulent magnetic fields that crisscross this unquiet world. So he says, “It is eminently unlikely, Lieutenant.”

Sulu nods. “I guess we’ll just have to sit tight until they come looking for us, then.”

How? How are they to be found? Scanners are useless below the magnetosphere. Their transponders may work, but without the signal boost from the comcon on the shuttle, the beacon will be almost unreadable. Sending another craft into the gravitational matrix would be folly in the extreme, given that their best helmsman has already proven to be unequal to the task of navigating the flux.

Rescue is not simply unlikely, it is unthinkable. Spock decides that this is better left unsaid.

Sulu eases himself to his knees and shuffles across the narrow space to where Ensign Chekov lies sprawled, unceremoniously, in the back of the raft.

“Pavel,” he says gently. “Pavel. It’s Hikaru. Can you hear me?”

“The trauma to his head is severe,” says Spock. “It is unlikely that he is aware of our presence.”

“I know that, sir,” says Sulu. There is tension in his voice; rage tightly leashed. He raises his head but he does not lift his dark eyes to Spock’s. “I brought the medkit, sir. It’s in the bunker, along with some thermal blankets.”

“I do not believe that the medkit is sufficient to resuscitate Ensign Chekov,” says Spock.

“Maybe not,” says Sulu, “But it can’t hurt to try.”

“On the contrary…”

“Sir.” The word is quietly spoken, forced through gritted teeth. Still, he does not bring his eyes to his superior officer’s, as though by shielding some measure of fury, his insubordination might be less. “You can bring me up on charges when we get back to the ship if you like. Right now, I’m going to try and save him, no matter what you say or tell me to do. You can’t order me not to do this, Mr Spock. I won’t obey.”

Spock arcs an eyebrow, but it’s for appearances only. Without a word, he opens the hatch on the central storage compartment, set into the middle of the raft, and lifts out the medical kit. Clustered into the bottom of the watertight hold, he sees three reflective blankets, assorted rations, a water purifier, and a handful of old-fashioned flares. It is possible that these items were already stored on the life raft when it was stowed on the shuttle, but he thinks not. Sulu has excelled himself. If, by any small chance, they get off this planet, Spock makes a mental note to recommend him for a commendation.

The tricorder is tucked between a selection of hypos and a coagulant shield. As he lifts it from its nest and passes it across the raft into Sulu’s waiting hand, Spock runs his eyes over the contents of the kit: cordrazine, Masiform-D, tri-ox, melenex, backup medical scanner, reader tube, dermal regenerator. Bandages and a suture kit; vitamin compounds and dehydrated plasma substitute. Enough for triage, perhaps rudimentary repairs; certainly not sufficient to treat a medical emergency. He decides to wait for the tricorder readings before concluding his assessment.

“There’s no skull fracture,” says Sulu. He has maneuvered Chekov so that the Ensign’s head is nestled in his lap, tricorder suspended inches from the young man’s face. “Delta and theta wave activity; no higher bands. I can’t see a cranial bleed but there’s some swelling… Damn.” He looks up, hollow-eyed. “I need Dr McCoy for this. I’m not a doctor. I don’t know what I’m seeing.”

“Allow me to look,” says Spock, and reaches out a hand. Sulu regards it dubiously for a moment, but he clearly doesn’t have many options, and Spock sees the moment when he accedes to this line of reasoning.

“Here, sir,” he says, and places the tricorder into Spock’s waiting palm. “I just… I don’t know what to do for the best.”

It’s in Spock’s mouth to say, There may be no ‘best’ option, Lieutenant, and the words dance on his tongue, but there is defeat in the helmsman’s eyes now, rushing in to fill the void that the anger left when it broke. He finds that he cannot encourage this. So he says, “I will assess Ensign Chekov’s status, Mr Sulu. Perhaps you might see to providing us with some form of shelter. The radiation frequency from the sun is unlikely to be immediately harmful, but prolonged exposure is unwise nonetheless.”

“Yes, sir,” says Sulu quietly.

With infinite care, he shuffles the Ensign’s body from his lap and repositions him in front of their CO. As the Lieutenant busies himself at the far end of the boat, Spock glances down at the tricorder readings, in the vague hope that they will offer a small note of optimism to drown out that dark cloud of despair that hovers in the stern, tightly leashed behind the Human urge to occupy oneself with trivia in the wake of helplessness. But there is nothing: only swelling and coma, life obstinately failing to release its fragile grip.

*

Kirk opens his eyes, and, surreptitiously, Spock exhales.

It’s possible McCoy notices, standing by the biobed and frowning at the instruments as though they’re to blame for the Captain’s condition. Certainly, he’s quick to react when Kirk’s shoulders tighten - almost imperceptibly - as though he’s planning on sitting up.

“Oh no you don’t,” says McCoy. “You any idea how much blood you just lost, Jim? Not to mention, you been out cold for more’n four hours. You sit tight, Captain, and don’t make me strap you to the bed. ‘Cause just see if I won’t.”

The words are couched in the Doctor’s typically irascible air of general frustration with the world, but Spock has served with him long enough to note the genuine fear beneath them. By the time they were able to force the doors in Engineering, Kirk had been bleeding out from a wound to the femoral artery for almost three minutes. He barely had a heartbeat.

The Captain manages a weak smile. Through dry lips and a throat parched by thirst, he whispers, “I wouldn’t presume to doubt your resolve, Bones.”

And Spock understands, with a dizzying rush of satisfaction, that he is going to recover.

Golden hair rasps against the rough, utilitarian sickbay pillow as Kirk slides his head to the side. Even this small gesture is deliberate and performative, as though his neck muscles are firing a half-second slower than his brain. But slowly, with effort, the Captain turns towards Spock and twists his lips into a grin that chases some of the clouds from his eyes.

“You’re not injured, Spock?” he says.

The blast seared the skin from his left shoulder, but it was the work of fifteen minutes with the dermal regenerator to correct it. The healing tissue feels tight and a little too warm, but there is no pain. He says, “I am well, Captain.”

“Good.” The eyes close and Kirk’s breathing deepens momentarily, but, just as Spock is deciding that the Captain has fallen asleep, he adds, in a thick voice, “And Scotty?”

“Mr Scott is currently lamenting the condition of Engineering Bay 4C, which, he informs me, will never be the same again.”

Lethargic lips curl. “That may be for the best,” says Kirk, “Given its former propensity for explosion.”

“All right,” says McCoy brusquely. “Enough chit-chat. Jim, you need your rest. Spock, you’ve done your bit. Now, quit frettin’ and let the Captain get some sleep.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. “Vulcans do not ‘fret’, Doctor,” he says.

“Coulda fooled me,” says McCoy, “Way you been sittin’ there watchin’ Jim sleepin’ for the past three’n a half hours.”

A hazel eye cracks open and the ghost of a smile drifts across the Captain’s face. “You haven’t been on the bridge, Spock?” he says.

“My presence there was unnecessary,” says Spock. “Mr Scott is capable of commanding the ship during routine maneuvers.”

“Even when…” Fatigue clogs the words, but Spock knows better than to think the Captain will give in to exhaustion before he’s ready. “…he’s mourning the loss of an antimatter relay?”

A second eyebrow joins its twin. “I would hardly describe Commander Scott as ‘bereaved’, Captain…”

“Never mind, Spock.” An emphysemic rumble chokes out of Kirk’s chest, and, dubiously, Spock decides that it ought to be categorized as a chuckle, though he hopes it won’t happen again. “I’m glad you’re all right. But we’d better let Bones have his way now. You know how he gets.”

“Wouldn’t ‘get’ any way at all if people’d listen to me the first time,” mutters the Doctor, eyes glued irritably to a readout by the side of the biobed. He glances up and fixes Spock with a glare. “You still here, Mr Spock?”

Spock rises smoothly to his feet. “Evidently,” he says. “However, I have no wish to disrupt the Captain’s recuperation. I shall leave.”

The blue eyes are relentless: their habitual mix of belligerence, fire, and mulish obstinacy, focused to a point and directed uncompromisingly towards the figure of the First Officer. But buried beneath the predictable glare hovers the ghost of absolute, consuming relief. McCoy says, more evenly, “He’ll still be here this evening, Spock. Come back after shift.” A beat. “Do him good to see you here - and I never said that, if anyone asks.”

Spock nods, and moves towards the door. It is not logical to turn and reassure himself one final time that, against all the odds, they have managed to drag the Captain back from the brink once again, so he does not do this, but he feels the Doctor’s stare on the back of his head, like needles in his psi-center. As a child, struggling to learn the Vulcan way that settled instinctively into his peers and flowed through them as easily as blood or thought, he often found himself on the receiving end of a disapproving stare or a whipcord-flash of psychic distaste that seemed to fly at him from nowhere. These were the occasions on which he realized that he had misunderstood something, or improperly applied something, or simply failed to keep his Human impulses in check, and the recognition of his failure - quiet, insurmountable catastrophes against which he could not guard because he did not entirely understand the rules - was a searing tumult in his belly. And it was worse, much worse, because not only could he not predict them, but often he had no idea where he might have fallen short.

As he leaves sickbay, as the doors slide shut behind him on a sleeping Captain and his fractious medic, Spock is reminded of that precipitous adrenalin spike of shame and confusion. It was the eyes, he realizes. There was something buried in that stare, some understanding that burns through the walls and the convention, and he realizes that, for a moment, under McCoy’s scrutiny, he was a boy on Vulcan once again.

*

Part 2

Part 3

kiscon, spock, ficpost, kirk/spock, slash fic, fanfic, k/s

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