Fic: With This, Therefore Because of This, Chapter 2
Title: With This, Therefore Because of This (Chapter 2)
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 8700
Summary: What if Jim didn't take Pike up on his challenge to enlist? Captain Spock manages to defeat Nero with the assistance of his crew, but there are heavy losses throughout Starfleet and the Federation. Then something starts to go wrong with the Enterprise and Admiral Pike's got a solution. This chapter: OMG WTF DRAMA AAAIEEEEEE!
It is a dizzying waltz, the binary system in the distance sending bursts of light around the bridge via the viewscreen as both stars are alternatively blotted out and once more revealed by the frantically spinning ship ahead.
“Ensign, report.”
“I cannot fully explain the gait, Captain, it's as if the ship's engines are fighting against themselves. Ship's origin unknown.”
“Lieutenant, please hail them with a standard greeting and inquire if they are in need of our assistance.”
“Aye sir.”
Spock stands from his chair, takes a few steps towards the viewscreen. The starship ahead of them is huge, a crude barge-type construction, currently barrel-rolling through space with sudden bursts of motion to one side or the other. The apparent design of the ship makes little sense, with what appear to be two or more sets of engines set in a configuration that is surely twisting the hull with high levels of shearing stress. He tilts his head and frowns slightly as it takes a dive toward the right and down, focusing on a light green glow from beneath the ship's belly.
“With how many different types of engine is this ship equipped?”
“Two, sir. Very unusual configur- no, wait, that cannot be correct. The readings suggest . . . there's another ship, sir! Attached to the underside of the barge.”
“They're not answering my hails, Captain.”
He turns to Uhura with a nod of acknowledgment, “Hail the secondary ship. If I am correct, it appears to have a certain similarity to -”
“Spock! Old buddy, that you? Wow, small galaxy.”
It has been five point four months but that insouciant tone is instantly recognizable and Spock's pulse jumps up a notch before he has a chance to prevent it.
“On-screen.”
Kirk's face flickers into view, the same filthy hat jammed over longer hair, scrubby beard still in place, those blue eyes bright, the visual impact of which Spock experiences in a manner akin to a physical blow as if he has been knocked off balance. A blithe smile that suggests Kirk is unaware of the high levels of torsion currently threatening to tear his ship in half.
“Captain Kirk. Do you require assistance?”
“Nah. A little domestic dispute, you know how it is,”
“Your ship is unable to withstand the shearing forces currently threatening to rend your hull. Allow us to beam you aboard the Enterprise.”
“Hell no, only way I'm leaving Mickey is feet first.”
“If you will enlighten us as to the nature of the dispute -”
Kirk is thrown sideways in his chair as the Michaela is pulled in another tight barrel roll. “The fine Argosian gentleman whose barge I'm currently stuck to wasn't happy with my customer service because I couldn't fix his transporter problems, and he's refusing to release his docking clamps until I do so, even though I've explained in some detail why I can't. I barely escaped with my knees intact. Shit.” Tossed in the other direction as the spinning ships lurch dizzyingly once more.
“Are we able to target docking clamps with phasers?”
“No sir, the pattern they're traveling in is too random and changeable for such detail, we'd risk taking out Kirk's ship, too.”
“Mickey's got some pretty awesome shields.” The grin is still in place but Spock notes that Kirk looks paler, perhaps indicating that he is suffering a surfeit of motion-induced nausea. “Honestly, Spock, I don't need -”
“Uhura, please hail the Argosian ship with a warning that we are prepared to intervene if their craft continues to threaten the existence of the Michaela.”
“Of course, sir.” Uhura bends over her station briefly, scanning the language and syntax files she'd accessed in anticipation, a low murmur as she hails them. “On-screen, Captain.”
A large humanoid head appears, grey and covered in fine scaling. “Ahwastic! Kirk cansiticsn whascocin thn cahsiahan Federation! Ahntisstic ahn Starfleet fauitisn Kirk conseticn. Carsituscns!”
Make that a large, angry humanoid head. “Translation, Lieutenant?”
“I'm sorry, sir, he must be using a dialect I'm unfamiliar with, I'm unable to translate more than key copulative verbs at the moment. I can give you Standard Argosian in reply.”
“Very well. Please relay the following: 'Argosian being, cease your captivity of a fellow Federation citizen and release the Michaela immediately under threat of our intervention.'”
The massive grey head snorts, red eyes narrowed, then growls angrily for a few seconds before disappearing from the viewscreen.
“The Michaela's been released, Captain. The Argosian craft's preparing to warp.”
Spock is aware that one of his greatest strengths as a captain is the ability to make split second command decisions based entirely on logically predicted outcomes. However, something about the course of action he is about to order is somehow - off. Perhaps it is his Captain's Instinct attempting to assert itself. He is unable to adequately speculate on the reason why, but Spock is sure, beyond any personal doubt, that he's making a decision between attending to either Kirk or the Argosian, and that his choice should be to attend to Kirk. He orders the logical route, the Argosian craft being in breach of Federation law.
“Lay in a pursuit course and transmit the co-ordinates to Captain Kirk with a request that he accompanies us.”
It takes only a few hours to successfully impound the Argosian craft and contact their authorities. The Michaela's absence is notable, particularly so when blustering Argosian government officials wish to apologize to the injured party. By the time the Enterprise has returned to their original co-ordinates, those of the twisting ships engaged in a frantic dance to the death, there is only a large expanse of nothing save the dazzling light of the distant binary stars. There is absolutely no sign of Kirk, the Michaela, or of her warp signature.
---
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
Nyota is chewing on the inside of her bottom lip, a very human sign that she has some information to verbally impart but that she does not feel comfortable doing so.
“May I speak with you? Privately, sir.”
“Of course. Please enter.”
“I know you're off-duty, I wouldn't bother you but it's important and I haven't had a chance till now.”
“I trust your judgment, Nyota, and you are always welcome here.”
She steps through the door and looks around his quarters with a soft smile, perhaps thinking of the last time they were alone together within this space, many months ago now. Spock places his PADD down on the desk before him, folds his hands and looks at her with a schooled expression of bland expectancy as she crosses the room to perch on the side of his desk.
“I've translated for the most part the stuff that Argosian was saying about Kirk. The data the government gave us was near-to-useless, I think they were trying to send me down a blind alley but . . .”
“They did not bargain on your level of skill.”
She flushes slightly with the compliment, rolls her eyes. “No, they didn't bargain on me being a crazy bitch who can't let a language puzzle slip through her fingers.”
“I waive the opportunity to comment on that statement.”
“Hey, you're learning.” She grins at him and it would be so easy to reach out, pull her from the side of his desk into his lap as they have spent time before in the past. Perhaps the only positive outcome of Spock's sudden attraction to Kirk was this, that he was able to finally label his relationship with Nyota, his first friend in the human understanding of the term. It has assisted his understanding that his surprising predilection for physical proximity to Nyota does not indicate that he retains any romantic interest, the attraction to Kirk a blazing, leaping fire compared with the flickering candle flame of any attraction he experienced with her. Again the thought comes to him, that he has learned more about his personal motivations over the past few years in the company of humanity than he had priorly achieved over the duration of his life.
“But there was something seriously screwy about the stuff that Argosian was saying.” She thumbs at the PADD she has resting against one thigh, holding it up to read from. “It's not an entirely literal translation, but it's enough to demonstrate Kirk's keeping us in the dark about something. What I've got is - 'Filthy River-scum! Kirk's lips spew nothing but traitorous lies! I should have known that Starfleet would conspire with Kirk in his treachery.' Then he called us what appears is some kind of pejorative term involving a flying mammal right before he dropped into warp.”
Spock thinks back to their time with Kirk, considering any detail that may support the idea that Kirk may have been untruthful with them. There is some detail to support such a thesis: Kirk traveling alone in a ship that, to his own admission, has heavier shielding that one might suppose a jobbing emergency engineer would have need for; Kirk's implication that he illegally altered official Federation records; most telling of all, Kirk's absence in the Argosian system and subsequent disappearance.
“Also, you know how my aural sensitivity means I'm freaky-good with inflection? There were a few times I felt Kirk wasn't being entirely honest with us. Not enough to have said anything to you about because, if he is a liar, he's a damn good one. But it was there, Spock. I don't think we should trust Kirk, but I wasn't sure I should say anything because there wasn't enough to go on until I'd completed the Argosian translation.”
“You know you may approach me freely with any subject.”
“I do, it's just -“ She sighs, folds her arms and looks at him. “I don't want to sound like a jealous ex-girlfriend, because that's not what this is about, and you know I'm good with us being friends rather than - whatever the hell we were.”
Spock is unsure he favors the direction this conversation seems to be taking, something that colors his voice with a hint of warning. “Continue.”
“You don't want to talk about this? Fine, that's up to you.” She holds her hands up, stands.
“Nyota . . .” He experiences a moment's helplessness, at a loss to how he should react so leaves his chair to stand beside her and she reaches out, holds onto his upper arms as she looks directly into his eyes.
“I know you. More than anyone else on-board, more than yourself half the time. You should've seen your face when you saw him for the first time. I'd have given my left boob for you to look at me that way just once the whole time we were dating.”
“Your left -?”
“Figure of speech. You wanted him, didn't you?”
He doesn't answer her, aware that the rush of blood to his ears and cheeks does it for him. He forces the response away, second nature now, anything connected with his attraction to Kirk smothered without a second thought.
“It's okay. You're an adult, you have needs same as everyone else. And, if we're honest, your needs are somewhat more, uh, vigorous than most, once you get your engine running. You're allowed to be attracted to people, I'd be surprised if you weren't.”
“It is not the Vulcan way.”
“Something tells me Jim Kirk overrides cultural mores. I mean, he's not my type but I'm not blind.” She smooths her hands over his chest in a proprietorial manner. “I didn't want to discuss Kirk with you because I saw how you were reacting to him, but that's silly of me, right? I know it's tough to put aside personal feelings when it comes to work stuff but, if anyone's going to be able to do that, God knows it'll be you.” Her smile takes any sting of bitterness out of her voice. “I'll leave you to it, I guess you'll want to contact Command?”
He welcomes her segue back into ship's business, certainty reasserting itself. “I intend to do so, and perhaps discussions with senior staff and bridge crew may produce salient information regarding Kirk and the validity of his role.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“Not at all. Thank you, for approaching me with your concerns.” Another soft smile at him that he does not understand and Nyota nods, turning to walk away, leaving his quarters although Spock does not register this visually, instead reaching for the PADD she has left on his desk. He is uncertain what he hopes to establish in reading over the words themselves, able as he is to recall every one as if she was speaking them once more.
---
As it is, Spock waits nearly a full rotation before Pike becomes available to reply to the comm Spock completed detailing his concerns. The meetings held with Enterprise crew yield little useful intelligence, each person able to confirm that they were told the same version of Kirk's story, that he is merely a traveling emergency tech with an established line in off-color tales about various bars across the known galaxy and a near-encyclopedic knowledge of inter-species sexual relations. But that is it, so little else, Kirk's personality as fine as sand sifting through fingers if anyone tries to concentrate too hard on piecing it all together. This may be attributable to the brevity of the ship's acquaintance with him, so Spock's concerns are based on little more than Uhura's report.
“That's it? A translation of something an angry Argosian said in the middle of an argument, and your communications officer's vague opinion on Kirk's inflection?”
“Lieutenant Uhura's abilities are notable, Admiral. We would do well to trust her opinion.”
Pike sighs heavily. “I'm not sure how much help I'm going to be. I contacted Starfleet Intelligence to see if Kirk's one of theirs but they pleaded ignorance, convincingly, too. But I got shut down the more I tried to dig. So, I don't know, Spock. Could be simply a mistranslation on Uhura's part, you know how tricky dialect stuff can be. Could be he's a loose canon, some anti-Federation whacked-out nutjob intent on avenging his father's death, I honestly don't know. Did you check Enterprise's systems to see if there's any sign of sabotage?”
Spock nods once in affirmation. “We are currently undertaking a ship-wide level six diagnostic of all systems.”
“Nothing shown up so far?”
“No changes other than those given my approval.”
“So, nothing sinister.” Pike folds his arms across his chest and frowns.
“Affirmative. It is unusual that his ship does not appear to leave the warp signature that one would expect a craft of that nature to produce, but 'unusual' does not of itself compromise damning evidence of any form. Nor does the fact that he failed to follow us to the Argosian system despite our request. It is suspicious behavior, but evidence of nothing. I also initially had misgivings over Kirk's diagnosis of the issues on-board the Enterprise, but cannot fault the expedition with which he dispatched said-issues.”
“Then I don't know what to tell you, Spock. I was wondering if he's some form of covert operations, I thought they'd died out with the end of the war with Romulus but maybe with all this stuff with the Klingons . . . Lord knows Intel's more likely to go skinny dipping in the bay than offer Fleet Command useful information freely. I can't find anything that says he's one of ours, there's so little out there that's not already on that horrible personal file of his. So whacked-out nutjob who happens to be great at his job it may be.”
“There is currently no corroborating evidence to suggest that the Argosian was being truthful in referring to Kirk as an enemy of the Federation, or to support Lieutenant Uhura's suspicions. However, I believe that it was important to bring my few concerns to your attention.”
“Always, you know it. I'll keep an ear to the ground on Kirk, and see if I can pass a fleet-wide order to detain him for a few questions next time he's doing a job for us. Considering there's not much of a fleet out there these days, I'd be surprised if we see him again in a hurry, especially if he doesn't want to be found. If you guys bump into Kirk any time soon, grab him with both hands and hold on tight, okay?”
Spock does not permit even the smallest shift in his expression, his voice carefully blank. “Of course, Admiral.”
---
“It's definitely the Michaela, sir, but she's in a bad way.”
“Magnify.”
It's clear from the viewscreen that Chekov's initial assessment is correct. The sides of the little ship are deeply scarred with what appears to be weapons damage, a hull breech in one aft section glimmering light blue with an active forcefield, the ship drifting gently towards the outskirts of the large system the Enterprise's next assignment is taking them within. A possible coincidence, although Spock's experiences to date have led him to believe that which may initially appear to be coincidental is seldom so.
“Systems scan?”
“Life support is still functional, but barely, and Kirk's lost engines and is losing shields. Scanning for life signs . . . one, sir.”
The note of relief in Chekov's voice is extraordinary considering the short amount of time Chekov could have possibly spent in Kirk's presence. Uhura's ready for his command, hailing Kirk in a firm voice and the second's wait for his response seems to Spock to take far longer than his body tells him is so.
“Enterprise? That you, Spock? Of all the star systems in all the galaxy . . . you have got to quit stalking me. It's creepy.”
Spock's prepared for it this time, the rush of sensation around his entire frame, the air in his lungs heating until he is forced to make a conscious effort not to bare his teeth and growl the next with a surfeit of physical desire. It seems this curse is in no hurry to leave him. “Captain Kirk. Are you in difficulty?”
“Uh, negligible. Well, okay, that's not entirely accurate. You'll forgive me not coming to the viewscreen, I'm, ungh, a little busy right now.”
“You are no doubt aware that we have scanned your vessel and understand the critical nature of your situation. I am also under orders to detain you for questioning regarding the incident with the Argosian barge. Please ready yourself for transportation to the Enterprise and we will discuss the possibility of providing you with an engineering crew to assist with repairs on your ship.”
“Nope.”
“Your shields are close to non-functional, and I am willing to beam you aboard without your consent.”
There is a rhythmic banging sound followed by a heartfelt, if muffled curse. “Goddamn stupid fucking ow! Let me get Mickey to the point where she's not going to bust out of her garters and,” a brief pause, a momentary sucking noise. “I'll be with you. An hour or two should do it.”
“Given your disappearance after our last encounter, it would be negligent of me to not take you into our custody immediately.”
“You don't trust me, Spock? I'm hurt. You cut me to the bone.” A low grunt followed by a dull thud and another curse.
“Levity aside -”
“Okay, okay. How about this - you come over here with a security team and talk to me while I work on my ship.” Another pause, Spock is about to refuse the request when Kirk speaks again. “You guys know I'm not going anywhere in a hurry and I'm a little worried Mickey'll blow if I don't get some of the more urgent repairs completed.”
Spock looks to Chekov, who nods his head several times in agreement with Kirk. “There is no way Captain Kirk alone will be able to get engines back online within several days, sir. The amount of damage is too extensive.”
“Very well. Captain, we will transport to your current location presently. Spock to Lieutenant Commander Rogers - meet me in Transporter Room 1 with a small security team.”
“Aye sir.”
“Ensign, engage the Michaela within a holding tractor beam and continue on course to Trimus Delta at half impulse. You have the conn.”
“Yessir.”
Uhura gives Spock a faint smile as he passes her to enter the turbolift. He does not respond with his customary nod, already focusing his mind on reinforcing his controls against a man that Spock had hoped beyond reason he would not encounter again. As the swirling white lights of the transporter beam dance in front of his eyes, momentarily dazzling, Spock is satisfied that he is prepared for the physical presence of Jim Kirk, although he acknowledges internally that the opportunity to have anticipated this meeting, and therefore the opportunity to meditate in preparation, would have been welcome.
The sour scent of electrical fire stings his nostrils as he coalesces on-board the Michaela in the small engine room, which is lit only by orange emergency lighting, hazed with remnants of smoke. The security team beside Spock start coughing as they materialize beside him but Spock's already moving towards the one white light source, a large torch propped above a maintenance hatch, a pair of legs in those same torn jeans sticking out from it.
“Captain Kirk?”
“Spock? Already? Boy, you don't mess around. Here, gimme a hand up.” Spock hesitates, but the hand offered to him is encased in a heavy glove as Kirk begins to slowly wriggle his way out of the hatch. “Go easy, I'm, ahhh, a little banged up myself.”
He grasps the gloved hand and pulls Kirk gently up to his feet, Spock's heart rate picking up a further two beats per second regardless to his internal controls as his eyes slide over the figure in front of him. Kirk is stripped to the waist, jeans hanging low on slim hips, the smooth skin of his arms and chest marred with streaks of dirt and smoke. But it is not the muscular torso, the stocky, sculptural beauty of Kirk's lines that makes Spock's breath catch in his chest, much as he is aware of a deep level of arousal provoked by Kirk's body. A jagged, burnt wound reaching from Kirk's armpit down the side of his chest and across the flat of his stomach looks painful and raw, bleeding through the few bandages Kirk must have applied himself, and Kirk sags against Spock with relief as Spock catches the waistband of Kirk's jeans to hold him up.
“You are injured.”
“No fucking shit, I think I'm going to pass out now you're here. Fix my girl, Spock. Don't let her blow.”
With that, Jim Kirk slumps into unconsciousness in Spock's arms, mouth hanging open, eyelashes fanning darkly across sweat-drenched skin that gleams like gold in the wash of the emergency lights.
---
Spock does not allow his gaze to linger on the face pressed against his chest. He immediately allows Kirk's weight to pull them both to the floor, laying Kirk out flat and pressing his fingers into Kirk's neck to check for a pulse. Kirk is deeply unconscious, the dull hum of an idle mind filtering through Spock's fingertips where they lie against the beard-roughed skin, and Spock uses his other hand to dig out his communicator.
“Spock to Enterprise: I have a medical emergency aboard the Michaela.”
“McCoy here. What've you got for me?”
“Captain Kirk has been injured. He has a wound across his torso and he appears to have lost a quantity of blood. His pulse is steady, if slower than I would expect in an adult human male.”
“How does the skin around the wound look, is it hot or red? How big's the whole thing, how deep?”
Spock grabs Kirk's torch from where it is propped, swinging the light over Kirk's figure and two of the security team behind Spock's shoulder wince as the extent of Kirk's wound becomes apparent. It is a deep gash, perhaps causing by electrical sparking as the visible torn edges of skin are charred black, blood oozing out of the soaked bandages and running down the side of Kirk's torso to soak the fabric of his pants dark brown, almost black in the orange light. Spock presses his fingers against the sides of the wound, noting a slight increase in the amount of blood, and speaks into his communicator once more.
“The skin is pale and within normal parameters for human body temperature. The wound is approximately thirty-five centimeters in length, and there are burns surrounding the wound itself. I am unsure of the depth, Captain Kirk has applied a bandage that I do not feel would be wise for me to remove.”
“Is it actively bleeding?”
“I believe so.”
“Take off your overshirt, wad it up and press it firmly against the wound until I get there. We'd better not move him, I'll have to beam over. Goddammit, I knew I didn't like him for a reason. McCoy out.”
Spock does as directed, stripping out of his overshirt and bundling it up to hold against Kirk's side, looking down into the slackened face as he presses against Kirk's wrist to find a pulse that is beginning to waver, skipping a beat, slowing. Spock's own races as he pushes himself to concentrate, ordering the security team to return to the Enterprise as their presence is clearly not required, opening his mouth to request maintenance engineers to attend in order to work on the Michaela's failing systems. But he feels a flutter of active consciousness along his fingertips at the same time as Kirk moans softly, and all thoughts but those concerning the figure beneath him disappear in an instant.
“Alright, move out the way and let me get to work.” Spock had not noticed the whine of the transporter beam behind him, so wrapped up is he in searching Kirk's face for signs of recovery. McCoy's touch is surprisingly gentle, removing the shirt from Spock's hand and pushing him away as the doctor bends over Kirk, completing a quick scan prior to pulling several instruments out of his medikit and beginning to remove Kirk's bandaging. “Hold that torch up so I can see what I'm doing.”
“Will he live?”
“It'll take more than losing a quart or so of blood to permanently knock an ugly great lug like Kirk off his feet.” A high whirr as McCoy begins to work a protoplaser over Kirk's wound with one hand, jabbing a hypospray into his patient's neck with his other. “You sound quite concerned, Captain, I didn't know you had it in you. Don't tell me you've fallen under his spell, too.”
Spock is attempting to formulate a fitting response when McCoy looks at Spock over his shoulder, a look of absolute horror in place. “I was kidding. Hell, that's going to haunt my nightmares.”
“Doctor -”
“Who would've thought it, the Captain's got a taste for intergalactic rough trade.”
“Parties who may or may not be subject to my -”
“Don't think you need to justify yourself to me, it's certainly none of my beeswax. Here we go, he's stabilizing. I'll have to get his blood count up and his ribs will need some attention . . .”
Kirk moans and shifts on the floor, the wound on his chest little more now than an expanse of new, over-reddened skin and some black smoke marking. His eyes twitch and flicker, and Spock's knees sag with sudden relief. The illogic of his reaction, the irrational impulse to grab Kirk and pull him into his chest for an embrace sends Spock moving away a couple of steps, recalling with sudden clarity that he has failed to contact Engineering.
“If you will excuse me, Doctor, I must attend to the ship's needs.”
McCoy simply waves him away, pressing another hypospray into Kirk's neck, then scanning him once more and monitoring the results on his tricorder. “Sure. Leave me the torch.”
Spock flips open his communicator once more. “Spock to Engineering.”
There is no response. He repeats the phrase once more, still nothing. Eyes on Doctor McCoy as he tries a third time, “Enterprise, this is Captain Spock, report.”
“One moment, Captain, please, remain in your current position, we're trying to -”
The whirling white strands of light and slight stinging sensation that signals a transport in progress surrounds him, Kirk and McCoy's figures also swathed in the beam until it stutters, once, twice, light fading as the transport fails.
“What the -”
“Spock to Enterprise, please confirm -”
“Captain Spock? We are under attack, I repeat, we are under attack. The Enterprise has been boarded by unknown - no, wait! You don't understa-”
Chekov's panicked voice is cut off and Spock exchanges looks with McCoy.
“Revive Kirk as a matter of urgency, Doctor.”
He leaves the engine room at a run as he follows the corridor towards what he correctly surmises must be the bridge. The viewscreen and monitors are primarily inactive, flashing into life momentarily in concert with crackling from the many control points, all of which have been overloaded, small electrical fires here and there spitting out sparks. Spock seats himself at the helm position, fingers flying as he attempts to bring the ship's computer into order but, again, the system is only semi-functional as he tries once more to access information on the Enterprise's current situation, rerouting through secondary channels and boosting available power by drawing it from any non-critical system still functioning, of which there are few.
“Computer: I require a viewscreen visual of the Enterprise and any other crafts in close proximity.”
“Unauthorized voice-print. Access denied.”
“Computer: this ship and its systems are in danger of destruction. Override command protocols to enable emergency access to critical systems.”
“Unauthorized voice-print. Access denied.”
Time slows, a sense of calm settling around him as Spock's concentration steps up a notch, his pulse steadying, his fingers sure on the control panel as he accesses command protocols and begins the delicate work of manually overriding them without triggering security systems. But the small ship is rocked suddenly, red alert flashing around the darkened bridge as the computer squawks into life once more.
“Red alert: Shields re-activated. Warning: Shields critical.”
“Captain Spock to Enterprise: you are in breach of Federation law. Desist firing on this vessel immediately.”
Nothing in reply except another phaser shot, rocking the little ship and earning another warning from the computer. Spock is aware that his teeth are gritted with effort now, jaw clenched as he repeats his order and fights with the malfunctioning systems to bring up information on the phaser hit, grabbing onto the panel to steady himself as they take another.
“What in the name of good goddamn are you doing up here?” McCoy, holding Kirk up with one arm around his shoulders as he half-drags Kirk onto the bridge, Kirk blinking and stumbling, a coughing fit before he finds his voice, which is graveled with lingering injury.
“We're taking fire.”
“Listen kid, I've been in space long enough to know what phaser fire feels like.”
“Computer, source of attack?”
“U.S.S Enterprise, registry November, Charlie, Charlie, One -”
Kirk waves a hand at an imagined source, clutching at his newly-healed side with the other. “That's enough. Spock, your goddamn boat's shooting at us, will you please tell it to stop?”
“We believe that the Enterprise is currently under attack. My orders to cease firing on the Michaela have been ignored.”
“Fabulous. Computer, damage report.”
“Hull breaches imminent in sections two through four. Forcefield holding in current hull breach, section five. Transporters offline. Shield failure imminent. Life support systems failure imminent. Catastrophic hull breach imminent. Warp core detonation imminent.”
Kirk slumps into the shredded captain's chair, swipes his hands over his chin briefly, eyes tired as he looks first to Spock, then to McCoy. “Okay fellas, grab anything not nailed down. Looks like we're busting out of here.” He retrieves a bloodied, torn undershirt from the floor, presumably from where he had stripped out of it due to his injury, and Spock experiences an unusual urge to avert his eyes as Kirk tugs it down over his naked torso, dropping the charred remnants of his flowered shirt back to the floor regretfully. “Fuck, that was a repo of a genuine antique, too.”
McCoy glares across the small bridge at Kirk. “Wait just a second. There's a great big goddamn ship out there firing at us for reasons unknown, and you want to jump into some pissy little escape pods? Why not just paint a big target on my ass?”
An unconcerned shrug, then Kirk grins suddenly as he notices his hat poking out from the inner workings spilling out from his command module, picking it up and jamming it on, and it looks oddly incongruous in comparison with his blood-soaked shirt and jeans. “Awesome! I got my lucky hat, now I know we'll be fine.”
“You call this fine?”
“All things are relative, Doctor.” Spock had simply intended to calm the situation with his comment but Kirk turns his smile on Spock, and it is as if the alarms and flashing lights fade away, Spock's focus drawn so intently.
“A Vulcan who makes jokes when we're taking fire? That's a new one on me. Come on, we've gotta haul ass.”
He leans down and quickly wrenches something off the base of his chair using a broken console strut as a lever, then reaches up to depress a button in the arm of his chair, palming the small, finger-sized module that pops out, rubbing over it with a thumb briefly and it lights up, a miniature PADD, Spock sees now, a design that he is not familiar with. Kirk stuffs it in a pocket along with whatever he levered off his chair. “Move it, we should have a few minutes to grab supplies before we have to jump ship.”
The ship shudders twice more as they run down to a small aft area by the escape pods, damaged wall panels discharging their contents onto the walkway below as Kirk limps up to the wall, opens a panel and grabs an all-weather jacket, throwing one each to Spock and McCoy. “Okay, looks like we've only got one operational pod left, it's going to be a squeeze. Grab medikits, weapons, there should be phasers and knives, bedding packs, all rations, whatever you can find from the other three and I'll input a course.”
Whoever is firing on the Michaela steps up their attack, the floor quaking beneath Spock's boots, the ship's computer blaring warnings about life support failure and imminent hull breaches as they fight time, setting up a supply chain as Spock digs around inside the damaged pods, handing supplies to McCoy who tosses them up to Kirk. It takes three point six minutes before Kirk states they're out of time and need to evacuate, the ship's warnings increasing in rate of instance. There's only two seats within the pod and Kirk instructs Spock and McCoy to take them before McCoy snorts and pushes him down.
“You're recovering from a life-threatening injury, cowboy, and Spock's more use to you at the helm than I'll ever be. Sit your ass down, I'll crouch in the back. Besides, I wouldn't want to mess up your nicely upholstered seats when I crap myself extensively all the way down.”
“You're not a fan of escape pods?”
“Oh, sure. On the ground, they're fine and dandy. But once we're out there? It'll be a blessing if the Enterprise blasts us out of space because at least it'll be fast. Otherwise, the slightest crack in this fragile eggshell you've stuffed us all into and the last thing you'll remember will be the saliva on your tongue beginning to boil. Space is an endless, insanity-provoking sucking void that conspires to be full of alien species who wish to end my days in infinitely horrible, painful ways. So, all things considered, no, I can't say that I'm a fan.”
Kirk reaches above his head with a wince to key a sequence into the pod's control system as the door shuts and seals itself beside them with a heavy clunk hiss. “But we've got a wonderful vacation planned for you today, Doctor. Shore leave on our local Class M planet, mostly rainforest, no native humanoid species out for our blood and a mere three major predators. And only one's poisonous. Whole place is a peach.”
A low snort of disgust and a mutter from McCoy in the back and Kirk looks across to Spock.
“You ready?”
“I am.”
“Glad to hear it. Hold onto your secondary reproductive organs, gentlemen, here we go.”
A quick grin and they're gone.
---
Evacuation procedures have been compared many times with being fired from a cannon, although Spock has yet to make the acquaintance of any person who has experienced such an event. However, he can imagine the validity of such a correlation, the pod's basic inertial dampeners finding the initial velocity impossible to counteract as the Michaela shoots the pod as far away from the failing ship as possible, Spock and Kirk slammed into their chairs with the force and there's an anxious yelp from McCoy in the back. Academy Evac drills, for all their monotonous regularity and ersatz realism, cannot truly come close to the tension created by an emergency evacuation and Spock finds his fingers biting into the arms of the chair as Kirk lets out a long, loud whoop of excitement.
“Will you cut that out?”
“I take it you're not a fan of hovercoasters either, Doc?”
“Don't call me Doc. And, no, I prefer to keep my feet on the ground whenever possible.”
“I can't deny the idea doesn't hold a certain charm right now. Shit, incoming.” The tiny pod spins with the force of a couple of blasts, the stars blurring beyond the small viewscreen, Kirk configuring the pod's helm for manual control. “Spock, keep an eye on our systems while I try to outrun these fuckers to atmos, okay?”
“Affirmative. I must warn you that, according to sensor readings, the Michaela's core is at critical overload.”
“Good.”
“That's good? Great, I'm being piloted by a kamikaze psychopath.”
“Whatever ships are out there, even the Enterprise, won't be able to make us out through a blast bubble and will get knocked sideways themselves, even if it's only a small one. Looks like Mickey might save my butt one last time.”
“Oh, absolutely, if it doesn't blast that butt into a million particles of space dust first.”
“I sense you're an optimist by nature, Doctor.” A couple more near-misses as Kirk sends the pod into a jolting, rolling dive, too random for whoever is manning weapons control to predict, McCoy falling on his ass with a grunt as he clings to safety strapping in the back. As they swing around once more they catch a glimpse of the Enterprise with a similarly-sized dark grey-green starship beside it, ruggedly constructed, a hulking brute of a vessel. Kirk hisses between his teeth.
“Fuck. I thought they'd be back. Hang onto your hats, I'm going to try to surf Mickey's blast out of here. Spock, divert sixty percent of shield power to the aft and base of the pod as we're going to be taking it up the ass pretty hard.”
“Aye, Captain. Expected detonation in seven seconds. Six. Five. Four . . .”
It is a foolhardy plan but years of academy training kick in and Spock obeys without question, aware that their chances of survival are highly limited and recognizing that Kirk appears to have some aptitude for managing emergency situations. As the Michaela becomes briefly visible through the viewscreen, a fine mist of atmosphere spilling into space from a gaping hull breach, Spock feels Kirk stiffen beside him. He looks over to see Kirk's face soften, his lips mouthing what appear to be the words Goodbye, babydoll soundlessly prior to setting his jaw and swinging the pod away. An alarm alerts Spock to the detonation, the sides of the viewscreen beginning to glow pale turquoise as the blast bubble reaches out towards them.
“Captain, the Michaela's core has -”
“I know, Spock, I know, I know! Here we go, shiiiiiiiiiiii -”
The G-forces are incalculable and slam into the pod with the force of a tsunami, McCoy tossed to the back of the pod with a sickening crunch as both he and Kirk lapse into unconsciousness. The pod is spinning out of control and Spock fights against the force pinning him in his seat, managing to shift a hand by slow inches to input course corrections with great difficulty. The pod creaks as stressors it is not designed to withstand push it too fast towards the planet and they slam into the planet's exosphere like punching through a thin wall, the pod shuddering with renewed stress. The rate of descent is too fast, blasting through the thermosphere in seconds, hitting the thicker, water-dense air of the mesosphere, flames rushing past the viewscreen as the atmosburn begins, friction causing their speed to decline slightly but it is not enough.
Spock is out of his seat now, bending over the control panel, switching helm fully to his position, quickly calculating corrections needed to slow their rate, fighting to bring their route under control. Port thrusters are offline, emergency chutes unaccessible, some systems malfunctioning due to the phaser fire they took and the huge amount of feedback that the blast bubble created, systems trying to restart themselves as Spock urges them to do so. They have entered the troposphere, plunging through clouds and skimming over a hugely mountainous area as Spock scans for suitable landing sites, struggling to pilot the unwieldy little vessel that bumps and drops its way through thick clouds. Still too fast but Spock has forty percent of port thrusters functional now, maneuvering the pod in a series of tight circles to slow their fall, gradually working their course towards a flat plain surrounded by forest, what appears to be a lake nearby. Kirk moans and rolls his head against the headrest of his chair as he begins to regain consciousness but Spock cannot spare him a glance as the ground rushes up to meet them too fast.
Spock gives one last thruster burst towards the ground, resisting the urge to close his eyes and hope for the best, grabbing onto the console hard as the pod hits the ground with a jarring impact that throws him hard against his safety harness, his head snapping back against the seat's headrest and forward again as Kirk flops lifelessly in the chair next to him. The pod flips once before rolling back onto its heavily-weighted base, the entire cabin rattling and shaking as it slides, crashing through undergrowth with a jolt as they reach the forest. A couple of bone-shaking knocks as they bounce off huge, ancient trees, McCoy's body crashing into the pod's inner bulkheads behind them, before the pod hits an immovable object and comes to a sudden, juddering halt, several alarms sounding as they settle into a slight tilt.
---
Spock's heart gradually slows of its own accord as he stares at where his hands have cracked the screen of the control panel, his fingers buried in the broken flexiglass. It takes a moment of intense concentration before he manages to force his hands to uncurl and let go, examining the shallow abrasions on several of his fingers briefly before turning in his seat to make a visual assessment of their situation. Kirk remains securely fastened within his safety harness, eyelids moving as he fights for consciousness, a choking cough as his hands come up to brush over his chest, no doubt freshly bruised by the strapping but Spock is satisfied that Kirk has survived their crash landing and is primarily concerned with the fate of Doctor McCoy.
He palms the release catch of his harness, rolling out of the seat and moving across the tight cabin space to McCoy's body, which lies in a twisted heap behind their seats. One look at McCoy's face confirms that he is no longer breathing, a grey ring around the doctor's lips but Spock detects a thready pulse as he searches McCoy's neck, a very slight mental presence. He rips a medipack from the pod's wall, tearing it open to find the small emergency scanner.
“You can tell by the way his chest is caved in that he's bust up his ribs and collapsed both lungs. We need to reinflate them if we're going to get him breathing.”
Kirk, coming to rest at the doctor's side, his voice husked and croaky with whatever injuries he is suffering. “There should be a handful of membranes in there, a sterile field generator and a bunch of those tubey things. Any sign of damage to his spine?”
Spock completes a quick scan. “Negative.”
“Good.” Kirk rolls McCoy onto his back, lifting McCoy's eyelids to stare into his eyes before checking his pulse. “Heart rate is fading, come on, Spock, I need those - thanks. Can you, uh, rip his shirts open? Down the center, I don't think I can - awesome. Right, get a field going for me, because this could get messy.”
Spock sits back on his haunches, watching at Kirk manipulates the doctor's chest gently, grabbing the scanner from Spock's hand, his fingers brushing against Spock's palm as he does so, then turning to pick up an endotracheal tube, tearing off the mouthpiece with his teeth and spitting it off into the back of the pod. “Open a membrane for me and pass it - thanks.” Kirk works with a hurried calm, his movements methodical and practiced as he smooths the membrane across the side of McCoy's chest before splaying one hand flat across it. He takes a steadying breath, holds up the tube above his head. “Here goes nothing. Pray to whichever Vulcan God's most relevant.”
It is viscerally shocking to watch as Kirk brings down the tube fast to puncture McCoy's skin and stab it deep into McCoy's chest through the membrane, following it down with his body as he bends over to fasten his mouth over the end of the tube protruding from McCoy's bruised chest to suckle gently. As Spock watches, that side of McCoy's ribcage swells slightly and Kirk runs the scanner over him once more, nods in satisfaction. “Here, hold this closed and plug it with something. Anything. A sock, earwax, whatever, I don't care, just get it plugged fast and tape it to his chest, then make a start with the osteo-regenerator. The little silver - yeah, that one.”
Spock obeys, plugging the breathing tube with a malleable dressing, watching as Kirk successfully repeats the procedure on the other side of McCoy's chest and begins mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on McCoy while keeping an eye on McCoy's falling blood oxygen levels on the scanner, a red blinking light the only indicator that McCoy's life is failing, slipping away with every desperate breath Kirk blows into his mouth. But slowly, by the smallest increments, the grey tinge pales further to white, then pink, the doctor's pale cheeks beginning to blossom with signs of renewed blood supply as his pulse picks up and steadies. Finally, he gives a gurgle as Kirk pulls away from him for another breath, a small cough, another as his body's automatic responses kick in. Kirk closes his eyes in relief as McCoy takes one shaky breath by himself, then another, and another, the alarm finally blinking off permanently, replaced with an orange light that indicates heavy injury.
Kirk slumps back on his heels, tugging off his hat with quaking fingers and combing through his hair.
“That was close. Damn. Look at me, I'm shaking.”
“You are injured yourself?”
“Nothing that can't keep for an hour or two. You?”
“Minor abrasions. Nothing of concern.”
“Great. Whew. He'll need at least a full day of non-stop OR to get him stable, we'll work in shifts.”
Spock swings the osteo-regenerator in a slow arc over McCoy's chest as Kirk picks up the scanner once more, checking for other injuries. “His right leg and elbow are pretty much smashed to shit. We'll have to get to them later once we've removed the tubes and dealt with that whole mess.”
“I am able to attend to Doctor McCoy for the whole of the regenerative treatment required. You must attend to yourself. You have recently lived through a near-fatal injury and must allow your own body time to recover.”
“I guess.” Kirk rubs down his ribs with the heel of his hand, as if the site of his healed wound is still causing some pain. “We're going to be stuck here for awhile anyway, so there's no rush to get out to look at what the night sky's like in this place.”
Kirk digs in his pocket and pulls out a circular metallic object, rubbing over it with the fingers of his free hand. Spock is able to make out that it is the Michaela's registration and insignia, the item that Kirk wrenched off his captain's chair as a priority above survival supplies. Kirk notices Spock looking at him and gives a rueful shrug. “Illogical to get choked up over losing a ship, I know, just a collection of bolts and flexisteel, but she'd been all mine for the last two years and came through for me every damn time, no matter what.”
“It is never illogical to mourn the loss of a home.”
“I guess you'd know something about that.”
“Indeed.”
Kirk pulls himself back into his chair with another deep wince, letting his head fall back with a sigh. “You're sure you're okay working on the doc? Not tired? It's been an exciting hour or two.”
“I am uninjured and adequately refreshed for the time being.”
“Then I think I'll try to close my eyes for a little while. Wake me if his condition takes a nose-dive. I mean, worsens.”
“I understood your meaning.”
“Oh yeah, human mom, gotcha. Hey, Spock.” Bright blue eyes gazing at him, reddened and bloodshot, perhaps from the smoke aboard the Michaela, Kirk's eyelids drooping in exhaustion and Spock is aware that Kirk's eyes are perhaps the single most physically striking feature he has encountered in a single being.
“Yes?”
“You saved our lives. Don't think I didn't notice just because I was busy being comatose.”
“I performed the actions required to complete an emergency landing.”
“I'm sure it was some seriously nice work on your behalf because Mickey's blast must've knocked the shit out of us. You're beginning to make a habit of saving my behind. You'd better watch out, I might grow to like it.”
A retort to the ends of Perhaps it is a behind worth saving jumps to Spock's lips. He tightens them, nods. “You are welcome.”
Kirk drops out of view, lying back across the two seats, pulling his jacket over him. His voice, hoarse with the onset of sleep, is somehow soft, a touch of sentimentality. “Don't worry, Spock. We'll get Enterprise back. You'll see.” It is followed by a quiet sigh, then within minutes a soft snore and Spock returns his attentions to the doctor, resolutely ignoring the small, persistently emotional ache low in his chest as he does so. His ship is gone, the fate of his crew unknown. He should not concern himself with the comfort that Kirk's few words cause to warm through his frame.
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 8700
Summary: What if Jim didn't take Pike up on his challenge to enlist? Captain Spock manages to defeat Nero with the assistance of his crew, but there are heavy losses throughout Starfleet and the Federation. Then something starts to go wrong with the Enterprise and Admiral Pike's got a solution. This chapter: OMG WTF DRAMA AAAIEEEEEE!
It is a dizzying waltz, the binary system in the distance sending bursts of light around the bridge via the viewscreen as both stars are alternatively blotted out and once more revealed by the frantically spinning ship ahead.
“Ensign, report.”
“I cannot fully explain the gait, Captain, it's as if the ship's engines are fighting against themselves. Ship's origin unknown.”
“Lieutenant, please hail them with a standard greeting and inquire if they are in need of our assistance.”
“Aye sir.”
Spock stands from his chair, takes a few steps towards the viewscreen. The starship ahead of them is huge, a crude barge-type construction, currently barrel-rolling through space with sudden bursts of motion to one side or the other. The apparent design of the ship makes little sense, with what appear to be two or more sets of engines set in a configuration that is surely twisting the hull with high levels of shearing stress. He tilts his head and frowns slightly as it takes a dive toward the right and down, focusing on a light green glow from beneath the ship's belly.
“With how many different types of engine is this ship equipped?”
“Two, sir. Very unusual configur- no, wait, that cannot be correct. The readings suggest . . . there's another ship, sir! Attached to the underside of the barge.”
“They're not answering my hails, Captain.”
He turns to Uhura with a nod of acknowledgment, “Hail the secondary ship. If I am correct, it appears to have a certain similarity to -”
“Spock! Old buddy, that you? Wow, small galaxy.”
It has been five point four months but that insouciant tone is instantly recognizable and Spock's pulse jumps up a notch before he has a chance to prevent it.
“On-screen.”
Kirk's face flickers into view, the same filthy hat jammed over longer hair, scrubby beard still in place, those blue eyes bright, the visual impact of which Spock experiences in a manner akin to a physical blow as if he has been knocked off balance. A blithe smile that suggests Kirk is unaware of the high levels of torsion currently threatening to tear his ship in half.
“Captain Kirk. Do you require assistance?”
“Nah. A little domestic dispute, you know how it is,”
“Your ship is unable to withstand the shearing forces currently threatening to rend your hull. Allow us to beam you aboard the Enterprise.”
“Hell no, only way I'm leaving Mickey is feet first.”
“If you will enlighten us as to the nature of the dispute -”
Kirk is thrown sideways in his chair as the Michaela is pulled in another tight barrel roll. “The fine Argosian gentleman whose barge I'm currently stuck to wasn't happy with my customer service because I couldn't fix his transporter problems, and he's refusing to release his docking clamps until I do so, even though I've explained in some detail why I can't. I barely escaped with my knees intact. Shit.” Tossed in the other direction as the spinning ships lurch dizzyingly once more.
“Are we able to target docking clamps with phasers?”
“No sir, the pattern they're traveling in is too random and changeable for such detail, we'd risk taking out Kirk's ship, too.”
“Mickey's got some pretty awesome shields.” The grin is still in place but Spock notes that Kirk looks paler, perhaps indicating that he is suffering a surfeit of motion-induced nausea. “Honestly, Spock, I don't need -”
“Uhura, please hail the Argosian ship with a warning that we are prepared to intervene if their craft continues to threaten the existence of the Michaela.”
“Of course, sir.” Uhura bends over her station briefly, scanning the language and syntax files she'd accessed in anticipation, a low murmur as she hails them. “On-screen, Captain.”
A large humanoid head appears, grey and covered in fine scaling. “Ahwastic! Kirk cansiticsn whascocin thn cahsiahan Federation! Ahntisstic ahn Starfleet fauitisn Kirk conseticn. Carsituscns!”
Make that a large, angry humanoid head. “Translation, Lieutenant?”
“I'm sorry, sir, he must be using a dialect I'm unfamiliar with, I'm unable to translate more than key copulative verbs at the moment. I can give you Standard Argosian in reply.”
“Very well. Please relay the following: 'Argosian being, cease your captivity of a fellow Federation citizen and release the Michaela immediately under threat of our intervention.'”
The massive grey head snorts, red eyes narrowed, then growls angrily for a few seconds before disappearing from the viewscreen.
“The Michaela's been released, Captain. The Argosian craft's preparing to warp.”
Spock is aware that one of his greatest strengths as a captain is the ability to make split second command decisions based entirely on logically predicted outcomes. However, something about the course of action he is about to order is somehow - off. Perhaps it is his Captain's Instinct attempting to assert itself. He is unable to adequately speculate on the reason why, but Spock is sure, beyond any personal doubt, that he's making a decision between attending to either Kirk or the Argosian, and that his choice should be to attend to Kirk. He orders the logical route, the Argosian craft being in breach of Federation law.
“Lay in a pursuit course and transmit the co-ordinates to Captain Kirk with a request that he accompanies us.”
It takes only a few hours to successfully impound the Argosian craft and contact their authorities. The Michaela's absence is notable, particularly so when blustering Argosian government officials wish to apologize to the injured party. By the time the Enterprise has returned to their original co-ordinates, those of the twisting ships engaged in a frantic dance to the death, there is only a large expanse of nothing save the dazzling light of the distant binary stars. There is absolutely no sign of Kirk, the Michaela, or of her warp signature.
---
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
Nyota is chewing on the inside of her bottom lip, a very human sign that she has some information to verbally impart but that she does not feel comfortable doing so.
“May I speak with you? Privately, sir.”
“Of course. Please enter.”
“I know you're off-duty, I wouldn't bother you but it's important and I haven't had a chance till now.”
“I trust your judgment, Nyota, and you are always welcome here.”
She steps through the door and looks around his quarters with a soft smile, perhaps thinking of the last time they were alone together within this space, many months ago now. Spock places his PADD down on the desk before him, folds his hands and looks at her with a schooled expression of bland expectancy as she crosses the room to perch on the side of his desk.
“I've translated for the most part the stuff that Argosian was saying about Kirk. The data the government gave us was near-to-useless, I think they were trying to send me down a blind alley but . . .”
“They did not bargain on your level of skill.”
She flushes slightly with the compliment, rolls her eyes. “No, they didn't bargain on me being a crazy bitch who can't let a language puzzle slip through her fingers.”
“I waive the opportunity to comment on that statement.”
“Hey, you're learning.” She grins at him and it would be so easy to reach out, pull her from the side of his desk into his lap as they have spent time before in the past. Perhaps the only positive outcome of Spock's sudden attraction to Kirk was this, that he was able to finally label his relationship with Nyota, his first friend in the human understanding of the term. It has assisted his understanding that his surprising predilection for physical proximity to Nyota does not indicate that he retains any romantic interest, the attraction to Kirk a blazing, leaping fire compared with the flickering candle flame of any attraction he experienced with her. Again the thought comes to him, that he has learned more about his personal motivations over the past few years in the company of humanity than he had priorly achieved over the duration of his life.
“But there was something seriously screwy about the stuff that Argosian was saying.” She thumbs at the PADD she has resting against one thigh, holding it up to read from. “It's not an entirely literal translation, but it's enough to demonstrate Kirk's keeping us in the dark about something. What I've got is - 'Filthy River-scum! Kirk's lips spew nothing but traitorous lies! I should have known that Starfleet would conspire with Kirk in his treachery.' Then he called us what appears is some kind of pejorative term involving a flying mammal right before he dropped into warp.”
Spock thinks back to their time with Kirk, considering any detail that may support the idea that Kirk may have been untruthful with them. There is some detail to support such a thesis: Kirk traveling alone in a ship that, to his own admission, has heavier shielding that one might suppose a jobbing emergency engineer would have need for; Kirk's implication that he illegally altered official Federation records; most telling of all, Kirk's absence in the Argosian system and subsequent disappearance.
“Also, you know how my aural sensitivity means I'm freaky-good with inflection? There were a few times I felt Kirk wasn't being entirely honest with us. Not enough to have said anything to you about because, if he is a liar, he's a damn good one. But it was there, Spock. I don't think we should trust Kirk, but I wasn't sure I should say anything because there wasn't enough to go on until I'd completed the Argosian translation.”
“You know you may approach me freely with any subject.”
“I do, it's just -“ She sighs, folds her arms and looks at him. “I don't want to sound like a jealous ex-girlfriend, because that's not what this is about, and you know I'm good with us being friends rather than - whatever the hell we were.”
Spock is unsure he favors the direction this conversation seems to be taking, something that colors his voice with a hint of warning. “Continue.”
“You don't want to talk about this? Fine, that's up to you.” She holds her hands up, stands.
“Nyota . . .” He experiences a moment's helplessness, at a loss to how he should react so leaves his chair to stand beside her and she reaches out, holds onto his upper arms as she looks directly into his eyes.
“I know you. More than anyone else on-board, more than yourself half the time. You should've seen your face when you saw him for the first time. I'd have given my left boob for you to look at me that way just once the whole time we were dating.”
“Your left -?”
“Figure of speech. You wanted him, didn't you?”
He doesn't answer her, aware that the rush of blood to his ears and cheeks does it for him. He forces the response away, second nature now, anything connected with his attraction to Kirk smothered without a second thought.
“It's okay. You're an adult, you have needs same as everyone else. And, if we're honest, your needs are somewhat more, uh, vigorous than most, once you get your engine running. You're allowed to be attracted to people, I'd be surprised if you weren't.”
“It is not the Vulcan way.”
“Something tells me Jim Kirk overrides cultural mores. I mean, he's not my type but I'm not blind.” She smooths her hands over his chest in a proprietorial manner. “I didn't want to discuss Kirk with you because I saw how you were reacting to him, but that's silly of me, right? I know it's tough to put aside personal feelings when it comes to work stuff but, if anyone's going to be able to do that, God knows it'll be you.” Her smile takes any sting of bitterness out of her voice. “I'll leave you to it, I guess you'll want to contact Command?”
He welcomes her segue back into ship's business, certainty reasserting itself. “I intend to do so, and perhaps discussions with senior staff and bridge crew may produce salient information regarding Kirk and the validity of his role.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“Not at all. Thank you, for approaching me with your concerns.” Another soft smile at him that he does not understand and Nyota nods, turning to walk away, leaving his quarters although Spock does not register this visually, instead reaching for the PADD she has left on his desk. He is uncertain what he hopes to establish in reading over the words themselves, able as he is to recall every one as if she was speaking them once more.
---
As it is, Spock waits nearly a full rotation before Pike becomes available to reply to the comm Spock completed detailing his concerns. The meetings held with Enterprise crew yield little useful intelligence, each person able to confirm that they were told the same version of Kirk's story, that he is merely a traveling emergency tech with an established line in off-color tales about various bars across the known galaxy and a near-encyclopedic knowledge of inter-species sexual relations. But that is it, so little else, Kirk's personality as fine as sand sifting through fingers if anyone tries to concentrate too hard on piecing it all together. This may be attributable to the brevity of the ship's acquaintance with him, so Spock's concerns are based on little more than Uhura's report.
“That's it? A translation of something an angry Argosian said in the middle of an argument, and your communications officer's vague opinion on Kirk's inflection?”
“Lieutenant Uhura's abilities are notable, Admiral. We would do well to trust her opinion.”
Pike sighs heavily. “I'm not sure how much help I'm going to be. I contacted Starfleet Intelligence to see if Kirk's one of theirs but they pleaded ignorance, convincingly, too. But I got shut down the more I tried to dig. So, I don't know, Spock. Could be simply a mistranslation on Uhura's part, you know how tricky dialect stuff can be. Could be he's a loose canon, some anti-Federation whacked-out nutjob intent on avenging his father's death, I honestly don't know. Did you check Enterprise's systems to see if there's any sign of sabotage?”
Spock nods once in affirmation. “We are currently undertaking a ship-wide level six diagnostic of all systems.”
“Nothing shown up so far?”
“No changes other than those given my approval.”
“So, nothing sinister.” Pike folds his arms across his chest and frowns.
“Affirmative. It is unusual that his ship does not appear to leave the warp signature that one would expect a craft of that nature to produce, but 'unusual' does not of itself compromise damning evidence of any form. Nor does the fact that he failed to follow us to the Argosian system despite our request. It is suspicious behavior, but evidence of nothing. I also initially had misgivings over Kirk's diagnosis of the issues on-board the Enterprise, but cannot fault the expedition with which he dispatched said-issues.”
“Then I don't know what to tell you, Spock. I was wondering if he's some form of covert operations, I thought they'd died out with the end of the war with Romulus but maybe with all this stuff with the Klingons . . . Lord knows Intel's more likely to go skinny dipping in the bay than offer Fleet Command useful information freely. I can't find anything that says he's one of ours, there's so little out there that's not already on that horrible personal file of his. So whacked-out nutjob who happens to be great at his job it may be.”
“There is currently no corroborating evidence to suggest that the Argosian was being truthful in referring to Kirk as an enemy of the Federation, or to support Lieutenant Uhura's suspicions. However, I believe that it was important to bring my few concerns to your attention.”
“Always, you know it. I'll keep an ear to the ground on Kirk, and see if I can pass a fleet-wide order to detain him for a few questions next time he's doing a job for us. Considering there's not much of a fleet out there these days, I'd be surprised if we see him again in a hurry, especially if he doesn't want to be found. If you guys bump into Kirk any time soon, grab him with both hands and hold on tight, okay?”
Spock does not permit even the smallest shift in his expression, his voice carefully blank. “Of course, Admiral.”
---
“It's definitely the Michaela, sir, but she's in a bad way.”
“Magnify.”
It's clear from the viewscreen that Chekov's initial assessment is correct. The sides of the little ship are deeply scarred with what appears to be weapons damage, a hull breech in one aft section glimmering light blue with an active forcefield, the ship drifting gently towards the outskirts of the large system the Enterprise's next assignment is taking them within. A possible coincidence, although Spock's experiences to date have led him to believe that which may initially appear to be coincidental is seldom so.
“Systems scan?”
“Life support is still functional, but barely, and Kirk's lost engines and is losing shields. Scanning for life signs . . . one, sir.”
The note of relief in Chekov's voice is extraordinary considering the short amount of time Chekov could have possibly spent in Kirk's presence. Uhura's ready for his command, hailing Kirk in a firm voice and the second's wait for his response seems to Spock to take far longer than his body tells him is so.
“Enterprise? That you, Spock? Of all the star systems in all the galaxy . . . you have got to quit stalking me. It's creepy.”
Spock's prepared for it this time, the rush of sensation around his entire frame, the air in his lungs heating until he is forced to make a conscious effort not to bare his teeth and growl the next with a surfeit of physical desire. It seems this curse is in no hurry to leave him. “Captain Kirk. Are you in difficulty?”
“Uh, negligible. Well, okay, that's not entirely accurate. You'll forgive me not coming to the viewscreen, I'm, ungh, a little busy right now.”
“You are no doubt aware that we have scanned your vessel and understand the critical nature of your situation. I am also under orders to detain you for questioning regarding the incident with the Argosian barge. Please ready yourself for transportation to the Enterprise and we will discuss the possibility of providing you with an engineering crew to assist with repairs on your ship.”
“Nope.”
“Your shields are close to non-functional, and I am willing to beam you aboard without your consent.”
There is a rhythmic banging sound followed by a heartfelt, if muffled curse. “Goddamn stupid fucking ow! Let me get Mickey to the point where she's not going to bust out of her garters and,” a brief pause, a momentary sucking noise. “I'll be with you. An hour or two should do it.”
“Given your disappearance after our last encounter, it would be negligent of me to not take you into our custody immediately.”
“You don't trust me, Spock? I'm hurt. You cut me to the bone.” A low grunt followed by a dull thud and another curse.
“Levity aside -”
“Okay, okay. How about this - you come over here with a security team and talk to me while I work on my ship.” Another pause, Spock is about to refuse the request when Kirk speaks again. “You guys know I'm not going anywhere in a hurry and I'm a little worried Mickey'll blow if I don't get some of the more urgent repairs completed.”
Spock looks to Chekov, who nods his head several times in agreement with Kirk. “There is no way Captain Kirk alone will be able to get engines back online within several days, sir. The amount of damage is too extensive.”
“Very well. Captain, we will transport to your current location presently. Spock to Lieutenant Commander Rogers - meet me in Transporter Room 1 with a small security team.”
“Aye sir.”
“Ensign, engage the Michaela within a holding tractor beam and continue on course to Trimus Delta at half impulse. You have the conn.”
“Yessir.”
Uhura gives Spock a faint smile as he passes her to enter the turbolift. He does not respond with his customary nod, already focusing his mind on reinforcing his controls against a man that Spock had hoped beyond reason he would not encounter again. As the swirling white lights of the transporter beam dance in front of his eyes, momentarily dazzling, Spock is satisfied that he is prepared for the physical presence of Jim Kirk, although he acknowledges internally that the opportunity to have anticipated this meeting, and therefore the opportunity to meditate in preparation, would have been welcome.
The sour scent of electrical fire stings his nostrils as he coalesces on-board the Michaela in the small engine room, which is lit only by orange emergency lighting, hazed with remnants of smoke. The security team beside Spock start coughing as they materialize beside him but Spock's already moving towards the one white light source, a large torch propped above a maintenance hatch, a pair of legs in those same torn jeans sticking out from it.
“Captain Kirk?”
“Spock? Already? Boy, you don't mess around. Here, gimme a hand up.” Spock hesitates, but the hand offered to him is encased in a heavy glove as Kirk begins to slowly wriggle his way out of the hatch. “Go easy, I'm, ahhh, a little banged up myself.”
He grasps the gloved hand and pulls Kirk gently up to his feet, Spock's heart rate picking up a further two beats per second regardless to his internal controls as his eyes slide over the figure in front of him. Kirk is stripped to the waist, jeans hanging low on slim hips, the smooth skin of his arms and chest marred with streaks of dirt and smoke. But it is not the muscular torso, the stocky, sculptural beauty of Kirk's lines that makes Spock's breath catch in his chest, much as he is aware of a deep level of arousal provoked by Kirk's body. A jagged, burnt wound reaching from Kirk's armpit down the side of his chest and across the flat of his stomach looks painful and raw, bleeding through the few bandages Kirk must have applied himself, and Kirk sags against Spock with relief as Spock catches the waistband of Kirk's jeans to hold him up.
“You are injured.”
“No fucking shit, I think I'm going to pass out now you're here. Fix my girl, Spock. Don't let her blow.”
With that, Jim Kirk slumps into unconsciousness in Spock's arms, mouth hanging open, eyelashes fanning darkly across sweat-drenched skin that gleams like gold in the wash of the emergency lights.
---
Spock does not allow his gaze to linger on the face pressed against his chest. He immediately allows Kirk's weight to pull them both to the floor, laying Kirk out flat and pressing his fingers into Kirk's neck to check for a pulse. Kirk is deeply unconscious, the dull hum of an idle mind filtering through Spock's fingertips where they lie against the beard-roughed skin, and Spock uses his other hand to dig out his communicator.
“Spock to Enterprise: I have a medical emergency aboard the Michaela.”
“McCoy here. What've you got for me?”
“Captain Kirk has been injured. He has a wound across his torso and he appears to have lost a quantity of blood. His pulse is steady, if slower than I would expect in an adult human male.”
“How does the skin around the wound look, is it hot or red? How big's the whole thing, how deep?”
Spock grabs Kirk's torch from where it is propped, swinging the light over Kirk's figure and two of the security team behind Spock's shoulder wince as the extent of Kirk's wound becomes apparent. It is a deep gash, perhaps causing by electrical sparking as the visible torn edges of skin are charred black, blood oozing out of the soaked bandages and running down the side of Kirk's torso to soak the fabric of his pants dark brown, almost black in the orange light. Spock presses his fingers against the sides of the wound, noting a slight increase in the amount of blood, and speaks into his communicator once more.
“The skin is pale and within normal parameters for human body temperature. The wound is approximately thirty-five centimeters in length, and there are burns surrounding the wound itself. I am unsure of the depth, Captain Kirk has applied a bandage that I do not feel would be wise for me to remove.”
“Is it actively bleeding?”
“I believe so.”
“Take off your overshirt, wad it up and press it firmly against the wound until I get there. We'd better not move him, I'll have to beam over. Goddammit, I knew I didn't like him for a reason. McCoy out.”
Spock does as directed, stripping out of his overshirt and bundling it up to hold against Kirk's side, looking down into the slackened face as he presses against Kirk's wrist to find a pulse that is beginning to waver, skipping a beat, slowing. Spock's own races as he pushes himself to concentrate, ordering the security team to return to the Enterprise as their presence is clearly not required, opening his mouth to request maintenance engineers to attend in order to work on the Michaela's failing systems. But he feels a flutter of active consciousness along his fingertips at the same time as Kirk moans softly, and all thoughts but those concerning the figure beneath him disappear in an instant.
“Alright, move out the way and let me get to work.” Spock had not noticed the whine of the transporter beam behind him, so wrapped up is he in searching Kirk's face for signs of recovery. McCoy's touch is surprisingly gentle, removing the shirt from Spock's hand and pushing him away as the doctor bends over Kirk, completing a quick scan prior to pulling several instruments out of his medikit and beginning to remove Kirk's bandaging. “Hold that torch up so I can see what I'm doing.”
“Will he live?”
“It'll take more than losing a quart or so of blood to permanently knock an ugly great lug like Kirk off his feet.” A high whirr as McCoy begins to work a protoplaser over Kirk's wound with one hand, jabbing a hypospray into his patient's neck with his other. “You sound quite concerned, Captain, I didn't know you had it in you. Don't tell me you've fallen under his spell, too.”
Spock is attempting to formulate a fitting response when McCoy looks at Spock over his shoulder, a look of absolute horror in place. “I was kidding. Hell, that's going to haunt my nightmares.”
“Doctor -”
“Who would've thought it, the Captain's got a taste for intergalactic rough trade.”
“Parties who may or may not be subject to my -”
“Don't think you need to justify yourself to me, it's certainly none of my beeswax. Here we go, he's stabilizing. I'll have to get his blood count up and his ribs will need some attention . . .”
Kirk moans and shifts on the floor, the wound on his chest little more now than an expanse of new, over-reddened skin and some black smoke marking. His eyes twitch and flicker, and Spock's knees sag with sudden relief. The illogic of his reaction, the irrational impulse to grab Kirk and pull him into his chest for an embrace sends Spock moving away a couple of steps, recalling with sudden clarity that he has failed to contact Engineering.
“If you will excuse me, Doctor, I must attend to the ship's needs.”
McCoy simply waves him away, pressing another hypospray into Kirk's neck, then scanning him once more and monitoring the results on his tricorder. “Sure. Leave me the torch.”
Spock flips open his communicator once more. “Spock to Engineering.”
There is no response. He repeats the phrase once more, still nothing. Eyes on Doctor McCoy as he tries a third time, “Enterprise, this is Captain Spock, report.”
“One moment, Captain, please, remain in your current position, we're trying to -”
The whirling white strands of light and slight stinging sensation that signals a transport in progress surrounds him, Kirk and McCoy's figures also swathed in the beam until it stutters, once, twice, light fading as the transport fails.
“What the -”
“Spock to Enterprise, please confirm -”
“Captain Spock? We are under attack, I repeat, we are under attack. The Enterprise has been boarded by unknown - no, wait! You don't understa-”
Chekov's panicked voice is cut off and Spock exchanges looks with McCoy.
“Revive Kirk as a matter of urgency, Doctor.”
He leaves the engine room at a run as he follows the corridor towards what he correctly surmises must be the bridge. The viewscreen and monitors are primarily inactive, flashing into life momentarily in concert with crackling from the many control points, all of which have been overloaded, small electrical fires here and there spitting out sparks. Spock seats himself at the helm position, fingers flying as he attempts to bring the ship's computer into order but, again, the system is only semi-functional as he tries once more to access information on the Enterprise's current situation, rerouting through secondary channels and boosting available power by drawing it from any non-critical system still functioning, of which there are few.
“Computer: I require a viewscreen visual of the Enterprise and any other crafts in close proximity.”
“Unauthorized voice-print. Access denied.”
“Computer: this ship and its systems are in danger of destruction. Override command protocols to enable emergency access to critical systems.”
“Unauthorized voice-print. Access denied.”
Time slows, a sense of calm settling around him as Spock's concentration steps up a notch, his pulse steadying, his fingers sure on the control panel as he accesses command protocols and begins the delicate work of manually overriding them without triggering security systems. But the small ship is rocked suddenly, red alert flashing around the darkened bridge as the computer squawks into life once more.
“Red alert: Shields re-activated. Warning: Shields critical.”
“Captain Spock to Enterprise: you are in breach of Federation law. Desist firing on this vessel immediately.”
Nothing in reply except another phaser shot, rocking the little ship and earning another warning from the computer. Spock is aware that his teeth are gritted with effort now, jaw clenched as he repeats his order and fights with the malfunctioning systems to bring up information on the phaser hit, grabbing onto the panel to steady himself as they take another.
“What in the name of good goddamn are you doing up here?” McCoy, holding Kirk up with one arm around his shoulders as he half-drags Kirk onto the bridge, Kirk blinking and stumbling, a coughing fit before he finds his voice, which is graveled with lingering injury.
“We're taking fire.”
“Listen kid, I've been in space long enough to know what phaser fire feels like.”
“Computer, source of attack?”
“U.S.S Enterprise, registry November, Charlie, Charlie, One -”
Kirk waves a hand at an imagined source, clutching at his newly-healed side with the other. “That's enough. Spock, your goddamn boat's shooting at us, will you please tell it to stop?”
“We believe that the Enterprise is currently under attack. My orders to cease firing on the Michaela have been ignored.”
“Fabulous. Computer, damage report.”
“Hull breaches imminent in sections two through four. Forcefield holding in current hull breach, section five. Transporters offline. Shield failure imminent. Life support systems failure imminent. Catastrophic hull breach imminent. Warp core detonation imminent.”
Kirk slumps into the shredded captain's chair, swipes his hands over his chin briefly, eyes tired as he looks first to Spock, then to McCoy. “Okay fellas, grab anything not nailed down. Looks like we're busting out of here.” He retrieves a bloodied, torn undershirt from the floor, presumably from where he had stripped out of it due to his injury, and Spock experiences an unusual urge to avert his eyes as Kirk tugs it down over his naked torso, dropping the charred remnants of his flowered shirt back to the floor regretfully. “Fuck, that was a repo of a genuine antique, too.”
McCoy glares across the small bridge at Kirk. “Wait just a second. There's a great big goddamn ship out there firing at us for reasons unknown, and you want to jump into some pissy little escape pods? Why not just paint a big target on my ass?”
An unconcerned shrug, then Kirk grins suddenly as he notices his hat poking out from the inner workings spilling out from his command module, picking it up and jamming it on, and it looks oddly incongruous in comparison with his blood-soaked shirt and jeans. “Awesome! I got my lucky hat, now I know we'll be fine.”
“You call this fine?”
“All things are relative, Doctor.” Spock had simply intended to calm the situation with his comment but Kirk turns his smile on Spock, and it is as if the alarms and flashing lights fade away, Spock's focus drawn so intently.
“A Vulcan who makes jokes when we're taking fire? That's a new one on me. Come on, we've gotta haul ass.”
He leans down and quickly wrenches something off the base of his chair using a broken console strut as a lever, then reaches up to depress a button in the arm of his chair, palming the small, finger-sized module that pops out, rubbing over it with a thumb briefly and it lights up, a miniature PADD, Spock sees now, a design that he is not familiar with. Kirk stuffs it in a pocket along with whatever he levered off his chair. “Move it, we should have a few minutes to grab supplies before we have to jump ship.”
The ship shudders twice more as they run down to a small aft area by the escape pods, damaged wall panels discharging their contents onto the walkway below as Kirk limps up to the wall, opens a panel and grabs an all-weather jacket, throwing one each to Spock and McCoy. “Okay, looks like we've only got one operational pod left, it's going to be a squeeze. Grab medikits, weapons, there should be phasers and knives, bedding packs, all rations, whatever you can find from the other three and I'll input a course.”
Whoever is firing on the Michaela steps up their attack, the floor quaking beneath Spock's boots, the ship's computer blaring warnings about life support failure and imminent hull breaches as they fight time, setting up a supply chain as Spock digs around inside the damaged pods, handing supplies to McCoy who tosses them up to Kirk. It takes three point six minutes before Kirk states they're out of time and need to evacuate, the ship's warnings increasing in rate of instance. There's only two seats within the pod and Kirk instructs Spock and McCoy to take them before McCoy snorts and pushes him down.
“You're recovering from a life-threatening injury, cowboy, and Spock's more use to you at the helm than I'll ever be. Sit your ass down, I'll crouch in the back. Besides, I wouldn't want to mess up your nicely upholstered seats when I crap myself extensively all the way down.”
“You're not a fan of escape pods?”
“Oh, sure. On the ground, they're fine and dandy. But once we're out there? It'll be a blessing if the Enterprise blasts us out of space because at least it'll be fast. Otherwise, the slightest crack in this fragile eggshell you've stuffed us all into and the last thing you'll remember will be the saliva on your tongue beginning to boil. Space is an endless, insanity-provoking sucking void that conspires to be full of alien species who wish to end my days in infinitely horrible, painful ways. So, all things considered, no, I can't say that I'm a fan.”
Kirk reaches above his head with a wince to key a sequence into the pod's control system as the door shuts and seals itself beside them with a heavy clunk hiss. “But we've got a wonderful vacation planned for you today, Doctor. Shore leave on our local Class M planet, mostly rainforest, no native humanoid species out for our blood and a mere three major predators. And only one's poisonous. Whole place is a peach.”
A low snort of disgust and a mutter from McCoy in the back and Kirk looks across to Spock.
“You ready?”
“I am.”
“Glad to hear it. Hold onto your secondary reproductive organs, gentlemen, here we go.”
A quick grin and they're gone.
---
Evacuation procedures have been compared many times with being fired from a cannon, although Spock has yet to make the acquaintance of any person who has experienced such an event. However, he can imagine the validity of such a correlation, the pod's basic inertial dampeners finding the initial velocity impossible to counteract as the Michaela shoots the pod as far away from the failing ship as possible, Spock and Kirk slammed into their chairs with the force and there's an anxious yelp from McCoy in the back. Academy Evac drills, for all their monotonous regularity and ersatz realism, cannot truly come close to the tension created by an emergency evacuation and Spock finds his fingers biting into the arms of the chair as Kirk lets out a long, loud whoop of excitement.
“Will you cut that out?”
“I take it you're not a fan of hovercoasters either, Doc?”
“Don't call me Doc. And, no, I prefer to keep my feet on the ground whenever possible.”
“I can't deny the idea doesn't hold a certain charm right now. Shit, incoming.” The tiny pod spins with the force of a couple of blasts, the stars blurring beyond the small viewscreen, Kirk configuring the pod's helm for manual control. “Spock, keep an eye on our systems while I try to outrun these fuckers to atmos, okay?”
“Affirmative. I must warn you that, according to sensor readings, the Michaela's core is at critical overload.”
“Good.”
“That's good? Great, I'm being piloted by a kamikaze psychopath.”
“Whatever ships are out there, even the Enterprise, won't be able to make us out through a blast bubble and will get knocked sideways themselves, even if it's only a small one. Looks like Mickey might save my butt one last time.”
“Oh, absolutely, if it doesn't blast that butt into a million particles of space dust first.”
“I sense you're an optimist by nature, Doctor.” A couple more near-misses as Kirk sends the pod into a jolting, rolling dive, too random for whoever is manning weapons control to predict, McCoy falling on his ass with a grunt as he clings to safety strapping in the back. As they swing around once more they catch a glimpse of the Enterprise with a similarly-sized dark grey-green starship beside it, ruggedly constructed, a hulking brute of a vessel. Kirk hisses between his teeth.
“Fuck. I thought they'd be back. Hang onto your hats, I'm going to try to surf Mickey's blast out of here. Spock, divert sixty percent of shield power to the aft and base of the pod as we're going to be taking it up the ass pretty hard.”
“Aye, Captain. Expected detonation in seven seconds. Six. Five. Four . . .”
It is a foolhardy plan but years of academy training kick in and Spock obeys without question, aware that their chances of survival are highly limited and recognizing that Kirk appears to have some aptitude for managing emergency situations. As the Michaela becomes briefly visible through the viewscreen, a fine mist of atmosphere spilling into space from a gaping hull breach, Spock feels Kirk stiffen beside him. He looks over to see Kirk's face soften, his lips mouthing what appear to be the words Goodbye, babydoll soundlessly prior to setting his jaw and swinging the pod away. An alarm alerts Spock to the detonation, the sides of the viewscreen beginning to glow pale turquoise as the blast bubble reaches out towards them.
“Captain, the Michaela's core has -”
“I know, Spock, I know, I know! Here we go, shiiiiiiiiiiii -”
The G-forces are incalculable and slam into the pod with the force of a tsunami, McCoy tossed to the back of the pod with a sickening crunch as both he and Kirk lapse into unconsciousness. The pod is spinning out of control and Spock fights against the force pinning him in his seat, managing to shift a hand by slow inches to input course corrections with great difficulty. The pod creaks as stressors it is not designed to withstand push it too fast towards the planet and they slam into the planet's exosphere like punching through a thin wall, the pod shuddering with renewed stress. The rate of descent is too fast, blasting through the thermosphere in seconds, hitting the thicker, water-dense air of the mesosphere, flames rushing past the viewscreen as the atmosburn begins, friction causing their speed to decline slightly but it is not enough.
Spock is out of his seat now, bending over the control panel, switching helm fully to his position, quickly calculating corrections needed to slow their rate, fighting to bring their route under control. Port thrusters are offline, emergency chutes unaccessible, some systems malfunctioning due to the phaser fire they took and the huge amount of feedback that the blast bubble created, systems trying to restart themselves as Spock urges them to do so. They have entered the troposphere, plunging through clouds and skimming over a hugely mountainous area as Spock scans for suitable landing sites, struggling to pilot the unwieldy little vessel that bumps and drops its way through thick clouds. Still too fast but Spock has forty percent of port thrusters functional now, maneuvering the pod in a series of tight circles to slow their fall, gradually working their course towards a flat plain surrounded by forest, what appears to be a lake nearby. Kirk moans and rolls his head against the headrest of his chair as he begins to regain consciousness but Spock cannot spare him a glance as the ground rushes up to meet them too fast.
Spock gives one last thruster burst towards the ground, resisting the urge to close his eyes and hope for the best, grabbing onto the console hard as the pod hits the ground with a jarring impact that throws him hard against his safety harness, his head snapping back against the seat's headrest and forward again as Kirk flops lifelessly in the chair next to him. The pod flips once before rolling back onto its heavily-weighted base, the entire cabin rattling and shaking as it slides, crashing through undergrowth with a jolt as they reach the forest. A couple of bone-shaking knocks as they bounce off huge, ancient trees, McCoy's body crashing into the pod's inner bulkheads behind them, before the pod hits an immovable object and comes to a sudden, juddering halt, several alarms sounding as they settle into a slight tilt.
---
Spock's heart gradually slows of its own accord as he stares at where his hands have cracked the screen of the control panel, his fingers buried in the broken flexiglass. It takes a moment of intense concentration before he manages to force his hands to uncurl and let go, examining the shallow abrasions on several of his fingers briefly before turning in his seat to make a visual assessment of their situation. Kirk remains securely fastened within his safety harness, eyelids moving as he fights for consciousness, a choking cough as his hands come up to brush over his chest, no doubt freshly bruised by the strapping but Spock is satisfied that Kirk has survived their crash landing and is primarily concerned with the fate of Doctor McCoy.
He palms the release catch of his harness, rolling out of the seat and moving across the tight cabin space to McCoy's body, which lies in a twisted heap behind their seats. One look at McCoy's face confirms that he is no longer breathing, a grey ring around the doctor's lips but Spock detects a thready pulse as he searches McCoy's neck, a very slight mental presence. He rips a medipack from the pod's wall, tearing it open to find the small emergency scanner.
“You can tell by the way his chest is caved in that he's bust up his ribs and collapsed both lungs. We need to reinflate them if we're going to get him breathing.”
Kirk, coming to rest at the doctor's side, his voice husked and croaky with whatever injuries he is suffering. “There should be a handful of membranes in there, a sterile field generator and a bunch of those tubey things. Any sign of damage to his spine?”
Spock completes a quick scan. “Negative.”
“Good.” Kirk rolls McCoy onto his back, lifting McCoy's eyelids to stare into his eyes before checking his pulse. “Heart rate is fading, come on, Spock, I need those - thanks. Can you, uh, rip his shirts open? Down the center, I don't think I can - awesome. Right, get a field going for me, because this could get messy.”
Spock sits back on his haunches, watching at Kirk manipulates the doctor's chest gently, grabbing the scanner from Spock's hand, his fingers brushing against Spock's palm as he does so, then turning to pick up an endotracheal tube, tearing off the mouthpiece with his teeth and spitting it off into the back of the pod. “Open a membrane for me and pass it - thanks.” Kirk works with a hurried calm, his movements methodical and practiced as he smooths the membrane across the side of McCoy's chest before splaying one hand flat across it. He takes a steadying breath, holds up the tube above his head. “Here goes nothing. Pray to whichever Vulcan God's most relevant.”
It is viscerally shocking to watch as Kirk brings down the tube fast to puncture McCoy's skin and stab it deep into McCoy's chest through the membrane, following it down with his body as he bends over to fasten his mouth over the end of the tube protruding from McCoy's bruised chest to suckle gently. As Spock watches, that side of McCoy's ribcage swells slightly and Kirk runs the scanner over him once more, nods in satisfaction. “Here, hold this closed and plug it with something. Anything. A sock, earwax, whatever, I don't care, just get it plugged fast and tape it to his chest, then make a start with the osteo-regenerator. The little silver - yeah, that one.”
Spock obeys, plugging the breathing tube with a malleable dressing, watching as Kirk successfully repeats the procedure on the other side of McCoy's chest and begins mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on McCoy while keeping an eye on McCoy's falling blood oxygen levels on the scanner, a red blinking light the only indicator that McCoy's life is failing, slipping away with every desperate breath Kirk blows into his mouth. But slowly, by the smallest increments, the grey tinge pales further to white, then pink, the doctor's pale cheeks beginning to blossom with signs of renewed blood supply as his pulse picks up and steadies. Finally, he gives a gurgle as Kirk pulls away from him for another breath, a small cough, another as his body's automatic responses kick in. Kirk closes his eyes in relief as McCoy takes one shaky breath by himself, then another, and another, the alarm finally blinking off permanently, replaced with an orange light that indicates heavy injury.
Kirk slumps back on his heels, tugging off his hat with quaking fingers and combing through his hair.
“That was close. Damn. Look at me, I'm shaking.”
“You are injured yourself?”
“Nothing that can't keep for an hour or two. You?”
“Minor abrasions. Nothing of concern.”
“Great. Whew. He'll need at least a full day of non-stop OR to get him stable, we'll work in shifts.”
Spock swings the osteo-regenerator in a slow arc over McCoy's chest as Kirk picks up the scanner once more, checking for other injuries. “His right leg and elbow are pretty much smashed to shit. We'll have to get to them later once we've removed the tubes and dealt with that whole mess.”
“I am able to attend to Doctor McCoy for the whole of the regenerative treatment required. You must attend to yourself. You have recently lived through a near-fatal injury and must allow your own body time to recover.”
“I guess.” Kirk rubs down his ribs with the heel of his hand, as if the site of his healed wound is still causing some pain. “We're going to be stuck here for awhile anyway, so there's no rush to get out to look at what the night sky's like in this place.”
Kirk digs in his pocket and pulls out a circular metallic object, rubbing over it with the fingers of his free hand. Spock is able to make out that it is the Michaela's registration and insignia, the item that Kirk wrenched off his captain's chair as a priority above survival supplies. Kirk notices Spock looking at him and gives a rueful shrug. “Illogical to get choked up over losing a ship, I know, just a collection of bolts and flexisteel, but she'd been all mine for the last two years and came through for me every damn time, no matter what.”
“It is never illogical to mourn the loss of a home.”
“I guess you'd know something about that.”
“Indeed.”
Kirk pulls himself back into his chair with another deep wince, letting his head fall back with a sigh. “You're sure you're okay working on the doc? Not tired? It's been an exciting hour or two.”
“I am uninjured and adequately refreshed for the time being.”
“Then I think I'll try to close my eyes for a little while. Wake me if his condition takes a nose-dive. I mean, worsens.”
“I understood your meaning.”
“Oh yeah, human mom, gotcha. Hey, Spock.” Bright blue eyes gazing at him, reddened and bloodshot, perhaps from the smoke aboard the Michaela, Kirk's eyelids drooping in exhaustion and Spock is aware that Kirk's eyes are perhaps the single most physically striking feature he has encountered in a single being.
“Yes?”
“You saved our lives. Don't think I didn't notice just because I was busy being comatose.”
“I performed the actions required to complete an emergency landing.”
“I'm sure it was some seriously nice work on your behalf because Mickey's blast must've knocked the shit out of us. You're beginning to make a habit of saving my behind. You'd better watch out, I might grow to like it.”
A retort to the ends of Perhaps it is a behind worth saving jumps to Spock's lips. He tightens them, nods. “You are welcome.”
Kirk drops out of view, lying back across the two seats, pulling his jacket over him. His voice, hoarse with the onset of sleep, is somehow soft, a touch of sentimentality. “Don't worry, Spock. We'll get Enterprise back. You'll see.” It is followed by a quiet sigh, then within minutes a soft snore and Spock returns his attentions to the doctor, resolutely ignoring the small, persistently emotional ache low in his chest as he does so. His ship is gone, the fate of his crew unknown. He should not concern himself with the comfort that Kirk's few words cause to warm through his frame.