Fic: "Separation," Star Trek XI, Sulu/Chekov
Title: Separation
Rating: R
Pairing: Sulu/Chekov
Words: ~3,600
Status: Complete
Warnings: Gore, violence and attempted gang rape.
Summary: Firefly crossover. Reavers attack the Enterprise. Sulu doesn’t react calmly when they threaten Chekov.
Author’s Note: Based on this kink meme prompt, although it’s more of a “Chekov/Sulu story featuring Reavers” than a “Reavers story featuring Chekov/Sulu.”
Now with Art!
After four years hiking back and forth between libraries and greenhouses at Starfleet Academy, the nerdy cross-campus nomadism of an astrophysics/xenohorticulture double major, Hikaru Sulu doesn’t expect that his side hobby - fencing - will be what seals his reputation on the Enterprise.
In fact, he hasn’t expected to earn any kind of reputation so quickly, but that’s before Nero attacks Vulcan, before Sulu’s yanked out of lower decks and thrust onto the bridge to replace a sick pilot. He's so desperate to atone for his rookie mistake that he sticks his hand up as soon as Pike asks for volunteers to stop the drill, only realizing on the way to the shuttle that he’s probably just signed up for a suicide mission. But he manages not to die, even manages to save Kirk’s life, and then in turn gets his own life saved from a near-death fall. Somehow, all of this translates back to ship’s gossip as Hikaru Sulu, the battle-crazed berserker jock pilot with a death wish, and his reputation is born.
It gets worse when he falls in love with his navigator. And yes, Sulu begins to think of Chekov as his navigator not long after they’re officially assigned to the helm together, several months before they taunt fraternization regulations with their first kiss. Outwardly they seem like the attraction of opposites, what with Pavel’s gangly-delicate appearance and his superhuman command of mathematics. Brawn meets brains, so the chuckled remarks go. “But I would like to see them do half as well as you steering through a black cluster,” Chekov always sniffs in defense of his boyfriend’s intellectual capabilities, and Sulu -
Well, as far as physical strength is concerned, Sulu would like to see anyone hold up half as well as Chekov’s been doing against these things, this horde of raving shrieking not-exactly-humans that’s poured into the ship.
No, really. Sulu would like to see anyone do half as well. Because every other crewmember they’ve come across has been strewn across the floor in a mess of unrecognizable chunks, ownerless entrails and shredded Starfleet uniforms.
These Reavers have overwhelmed the Enterprise, turned the Federation’s flagship into an abattoir. Power is shot, communications are dead, sensors are spotty. With the shadowy flicker and snap of the lights, the bile-and-offal soaked corridors silent but for the occasional distant shriek, Sulu feels like he and Chekov are the last two people left alive on the ship. Their last contact with another human being had been a comm from Kirk ordering all hands to abandon ship and wait for the USS Melchior to pick up the escape pods. The transmission had burst into static mid-sentence.
Selfishly, Sulu consoles himself with the fact that Chekov is alive, and Chekov is all that matters, and as long as they can get to the escape pods five decks down from their quarters, it will be all right. They hurry down service ladders and creep through hallways. Chekov suggests sneaking through the Jeffries tubes, an idea they swiftly abandon after opening a hatch and finding three Reavers in a seething orgy with someone’s unidentifiable, blue-shirted corpse.
Other people might be surprised at the skill Chekov demonstrates with the phaser rifle he’s got slung across his thin chest, but Sulu isn’t. For the past three years they have pingponged coordinates and calculations back and forth at the helm, kept the ship steady through roiling interstellar battles, survived away missions together. Now their wordless rhythm as pilot and navigator carries them through skirmishes with roving groups of Reavers: Sulu mauling them with his blade in close quarters, Chekov plowing their path with rapid, efficiently-plotted phaser shots.
They've traveled down five decks, nearly reached the escape pods, when they catch the attention of an amorphous band of fifteen to thirty Reavers - it’s impossible to count in this melee. They fall into their combat roles in an instant. Or at least Sulu does, only to nearly get killed when Chekov fails to cover him. A flash out of the corner of his eye barely alerts him to the swing of a Reaver’s blade. He can’t pull himself back fast enough to avoid it, only tilts in the hope that it won’t take his head off. For a second his consciousness fills with nothing but the bony crunch of its impact just below his hairline. Sulu staggers sideways, blinded for a few panicked seconds before he blinks a curtain of blood out of his eyes.
Once he’s able to think again, he glares up to demand what the hell Chekov was doing, and finds his navigator just kind of - standing there.
A mechanized dart sticks out of Chekov’s neck, the phaser rifle having dropped from his slack arms. He’s been immobilized, and stands frozen in a look of doom: eyes flown wide and haunted, knowing full well what the Reavers are about to do to him. It’s the last thing Chekov registers before his eyes roll back and he collapses, not even hitting the ground before he’s grabbed and swallowed up by this tide of butchery.
And maybe there’s some truth to Sulu’s reputation after all, since he doesn’t react so much as detonate.
“NO!” he howls, his head wound forgotten. His fury powers him across the room in a flash of gold and black, his blade jammed into a Reaver’s throat before he can think.
He tears his weapon free in a hail of blood, whirling to vivisect another that’s between him and Chekov. Back and forth, Sulu hacks his way through a thicket of clawing arms and rancid flesh and shrieking faces, only dimly aware of the retaliatory blows he’s sustaining himself: a glanced blow off his ribs here, a slice of a Reavers’ blade there. None of it matters. Not while Chekov slips farther and farther away from him, and not while Chekov’s face remains pale and motionless even as the Reavers jerk him in all directions, scrabbling for the right to take him first.
Adrenaline flies so hot and fast through Sulu’s muscles that he’s near-weightless. His limbs move like they’ve got independent thought, hurling his blade through the holes in the Reavers’ defenses and ducking their worst attacks before his rational brain can catch up to what he’s done. His sword flashes and whirls like an old-fashioned propeller blade, but it’s still not enough - Sulu bites down on a cry when he gets another glimpse of Chekov, whose gold shirt hangs off his chest in bloodied tatters. He’s driven to even greater fury when he catches sight of a Reaver reaching to do the same to his trousers, now torn low enough for fetid fingernails to slither over the bump and valley of Chekov’s bare hip.
“You don’t touch him - YOU DON’T TOUCH HIM!” he roars.
Sulu flings himself forward without heed, not even registering the blades dragging past his own skin or the one that punctures his shoulder. It’s worth it, every shivered bone and broken artery, to get across the room fast enough to cleave the hand from its owner that dares touch Chekov.
“Wake up!” Sulu begs, now standing over Chekov’s prone form, close enough that he could conceivably be heard over the din. “For God’s sake, Pavel, wake up!”
But beneath him Chekov will not move, not even as blood oozes out from between his parted lips, not even as another Reaver coils fingers around his leg and tries to drag him away, which Sulu prevents with a crushing kick to the creature’s face.
Territorial rage has eaten away most of Sulu’s reason, but he still has enough left to recognize that he’s trapped, trying to defend Chekov from an indefensible position in the middle of the hallway. At best, he keeps up a steady rhythm of stabbing and leaping and doubling back - cutting off hands and arms and heads - and somehow chips away at the crowd of Reavers one by one, just enough to convince himself he’s having an effect, before they swarm back around him. The Reavers don’t seem to particularly care whether it’s Chekov or Sulu who falls to their grip first; Chekov’s the easier target, but Sulu finds himself trying to fend off blades and fists and fingers all over his own body in a way that would feel like a violation if their mere fucking presence weren’t already so.
It’s another five minutes of this claustrophobic brawl before Sulu sees his opening. The mob parts, a random undulation in the violence, and he dares a low sweep along the ground. Sulu hauls Chekov up one-handed, nearly wrenching the younger man's arm from its socket, while lashing out with his sword in blind defense. By pure stupid luck he actually connects, striking down one Reaver and then another, until he’s cut a path. Once he clears the ring of Reavers that had swirled around Pavel’s unconscious form, Sulu finds the crowd thin enough for him to dart and pick his way through, and then finally to break free. He swings Chekov up over his good shoulder and explodes into a pounding run, hurling himself mindlessly through the ship’s corridors.
After a long sprint through the corridors Sulu manages to evade the Reavers’ pursuit, and upon bursting through the doors to the escape pod bay, nearly collapses trying to catch his breath.
But he doesn’t collapse; he can’t afford to. Instead Sulu settles the still-unconscious Chekov down on the floor, propping him against the wall, then finds the door controls. With badly shaking fingers he keys every security code he knows, hoping to lock the Reavers out. For all their screaming atavistic fury, they have enough mechanical knowledge to tear their way through starships. Sulu knows his codes will only buy an extra few minutes if he’s lucky.
Once that’s done, he drops to his knees.
“Pavel,” Sulu cries, brokenly. He shakes Chekov, pulls him into a tight clutch against his chest. But there’s no response, not the faintest twitch or flicker of Chekov’s eyelids, and it seems nothing will lift whatever alien drug holds him under. “Pavel, please, Pavel-”
Chekov’s head falls back, his face incongruously calm. Even now, even with his shirt torn to blood-edged ribbons and his pale skin marred by fingernail scratches, the sight of him makes Sulu think of those dark early mornings when he would drift awake before the alarm went off, and find Chekov curled up around him in clinging, innocent sleep.
Now Sulu pulls up his sleeve and wipes the blood away from Chekov’s lip, before hefting him up and carrying him toward one of the escape pods.
The pod is big and wide enough for one large humanoid, fitted with a comm system and enough resources for its occupant to last several weeks. But Sulu’s still uneasy about sending Chekov out in it alone. It’s too flimsy, too vulnerable, and he can’t even stand to think of how the Reavers would tear it open like a can if they found it, how soft and defenseless Chekov would be inside.
A crash shakes the door, slamming so hard it makes Sulu jump.
The Reavers have come. It’s the escape pods or nothing.
With Chekov occupying his arms, Sulu’s got to kick at the pod’s mechanical latch to open it. The door yawns open slowly, slowly, way too fucking slowly. Sulu all but shoves Chekov inside and slaps the button to seal him in. The pod closes as slowly as it had opened, but Sulu’s determined to wait every second, even while he can hear the Reavers hurling themselves against the locked doors, to see for himself that Chekov is safely enclosed. Once that’s done, Sulu scrambles to open the adjacent escape pod for himself. He folds up his sword and settles back in the shallow space, and tries not to think about caskets while the door slides down over him.
“Computer,” Sulu orders, once both he and Chekov are shut in. “Release pods six-eight-two and six-eight-three alpha.”
He sets his shoulders, bracing himself for the ride and drop out into weightless space. A shuddered breath leaves him, a huge exhale, as Sulu realizes they’ve done it, they’re safe -
His pod doesn’t move.
“Computer,” Sulu barks. “Computer, acknowledge.”
Silence.
Of course. The ship’s limping along on auxiliary power as it is. Automatic controls are out, which means the escape pods can only be ejected manually, which means someone will have to stay behind to release the locks.
Sulu goes very cold, his eyes fluttering shut. There’s only one decision he can make. Another crash at the door means he’s got to make it fast.
He slams at his pod's internal latch to let himself back out. Squeezing through the door and tumbling out before it’s finished opening, he races back to Chekov’s escape pod and engages its security lock. On the chance that Sulu doesn’t finish the manual release in time, this will at least give Pavel one last barrier of protection against the Reavers. With that done, Sulu turns his attention to the manual release procedure. He’s got to enter the proper authorization codes on the control pad, which will allow him to disengage the three gearlike locking valves that hold Chekov’s pod in place. Sweat slicks Sulu’s brow as he works, as he tries not to think about what’s going to happen after that.
He’s just begun turning the third and final valve when he’s interrupted again, this time not by a crash, but a thump.
Chekov’s awake, wide-eyed, and banging at the window.
Sulu looks up at him in frank horror, and - oh. Oh, God. Chekov’s pointing frantically, urging Sulu to hurry to his own escape pod. Sulu bites his lip and casts his gaze back down at the release valve, unable to meet his eyes.
It only takes a second for Chekov to put it all together: the nonresponsive computer, Sulu at the manual release, the Reavers’ fresh crash at the door, which Sulu unintentionally signals with the startled spasm of his shoulders.
“HIKARU!” The escape pod is designed to withstand deep space itself; for all that, Chekov’s muffled shriek can still be heard. "HIKARU! NO!”
Sulu’s eyes flick up, darkly, almost a glare. “I love you,” he mouths.
Chekov goes stone-still at this, except that his eyes glitter and his lips slacken and tremble, before he rises into even worse hysteria, screaming for Sulu to let him out of the locked capsule. He’s pounding the window so hard it’s got a bloody smudge from where he’s split the heel of his hand. But Sulu only shakes his head and fixes ruthless attention on the release valve.
At last Sulu turns and releases the last lock. The escape pod disengages with a hiss. It slides back and disappears through the chute that will carry it out into empty space, Chekov howling in protest all the while.
Dull-eyed Sulu stares after it, even after it’s gone. He’s lightheaded as it sinks in that he’s gotten Chekov off the ship. That betrayed look will never un-burn itself from Sulu's mind, but at least Pavel is safe, he's safe, he’s safe-
Another crash at the door punctures Sulu’s reverie. It’s followed by another and another, and Sulu flicks a look of dread to the door before he marches toward far end of the room.
There’s a wall-mounted armory, a cache of Starfleet-issue rifles and hand phasers. Sulu unloads what he can, arms himself as heavily as possible, and tosses the remaining weapons down the escape hatch to keep the Reavers from getting hold of them. With the door now dented and the walls slam-slam-slamming with the their attempts to get in, Sulu takes position. As he waits he gulps a swallow, wipes the sweat and blood out of his eyes. His heart pounds so hard it threatens to cut off his windpipe with every pulse, and his fingers grow tremulous and sweaty on the phaser rifle’s trigger. Briefly, Sulu thinks back on his seventeen-year-old self, at his dumbfounded gape around the massive greenhouse on his first day of classes at the Academy. If that acne-faced kid couldn’t anticipate the reputation he’d end up with on the Enterprise, he couldn’t even begin comprehending what’s about to happen now.
When the Reavers finally come through the door Sulu outshoots them for twenty minutes, unfolds his sword and fights them off hand-to-hand for another ten. But they flood the room, swarm around him - for every Reaver he cuts down, three more worm past his defenses. It’s only a matter of time before the critical strike lands: a jagged slice from Sulu’s left clavicle down to his right pelvic bone.
Sulu looks down at himself as it happens, watches his gold shirt explode crimson. The sight is so morbidly bizarre that he stutters out a laugh. It's barely left his lips when the Reavers fall upon him.
****
For all the improbability of it, Sulu wakes up from the assault.
When he does he’s on board the USS Melchior. The Reavers have left so many victims that the medical staff’s had to convert the mess hall into a makeshift recovery ward, where Sulu lies at the edge of a long grid of sickbeds. He’s weighed down by lead-heavy pain, barely able to move without feeling every break and gash he’d sustained, every faultline in his body where the doctors had regenerated him back together. His skin swells tight and hot with fever, as he’s fighting off a bouquet of infections courtesy of the gore-caked blade that had cut into his forehead. Five minutes after returning to consciousness, he pukes all over his pillow.
But still, he wakes up.
Chekov’s planted in a chair next to the bed. At the first flutter and roll of Sulu’s eyes, he cries out such a shrill sob that it brings the room to a momentary halt. Chekov doesn’t care, burying himself against Sulu’s shoulder and crying and crying, while Sulu himself is too weak to offer much reassurance besides rolling his cheek against the curled crown of his head.
He’s managed not to die again. Sulu learns he’d been beamed away a few minutes after losing consciousness, which had still given the Reavers enough time to nearly tear him apart. He’s got a bandaged, partially-regenerated lump for a left hand, while the one he’d been born with now probably decorates the flesh of one of the Reavers somewhere. But they got you out before the gang rape, McCoy offers by way of queasy consolation. Sulu’s still too dazed and sick to even start thinking about that part.
After McCoy administers a battery of hyposprays to calm his sickness, and the nurses have replaced Sulu’s vomit-stained pillow with a clean one, Chekov resumes his hunched vigil in the chair.
“Y’... y’made it,” Sulu says. His voice sounds like sludge.
It takes a second for Chekov to find words. “Of- of course I made it, after what you did, you stupid Cossack!” His face twists, turns dark red. “You will never do that to me again, Hikaru, I will not forgive you - it was an hour before they found my capsule and pulled me out, and all that time I could do nothing but imagine what was happening to you - next time let them kill me, just never do that to me again!”
Sulu rolls his head back and forth, shutting his eyes against that image.
“I’m sorry.” Chekov’s gone quiet and wavery, thumbing at his eyes. “I’m sorry, it was my fault, if I had been more careful, if I had not let myself be shot-”
“Nnnnn,” Sulu interrupts, a groan from deep in his chest. “Pavel...”
His gaze meets Chekov’s, then drops to indicate the space next to him on the bed.
“You wish me to-?” Chekov says, and recoils. “Hikaru, no. I will hurt you!”
Sulu coughs out a miserable laugh. “Think it’ll... it’ll really make a difference?”
Chekov’s thin shoulders fall in defeat. He glances around the recovery ward, and when he’s satisfied that no one’s paying attention, slides out of his boots and lifts himself onto the bed. Carefully, carefully he lowers himself into the space between Sulu and the thick bedrail, settling down and pulling Sulu into the tightest embrace that he dares.
Despite Sulu’s condition, they fit together like always. Chekov’s head comes to rest beside his on the pillow, forehead resting against Sulu’s temple and fingers curling around his shoulder. Sulu grunts, a helpless sort of noise, and turns his head. He lifts his mouth forward in the closest approximation of a kiss that he can muster, too feeble to do more than press his bottom lip below Chekov’s eye. For his effort, he gets a full and vital and desperate kiss from Chekov in return, and another and another, soon with so much fervor that Chekov’s got to cup Sulu’s cheek to hold him in place.
After a few moments of this they fall still. Sulu thinks he could just stay like this forever, just feeling Chekov’s chest rise and fall next to him, listening to his breath in the dark; just like this. His navigator is safe and whole and untouched and alive, a fact that pierces him deeper than any blade could ever hope to do.
=end=
Rating: R
Pairing: Sulu/Chekov
Words: ~3,600
Status: Complete
Warnings: Gore, violence and attempted gang rape.
Summary: Firefly crossover. Reavers attack the Enterprise. Sulu doesn’t react calmly when they threaten Chekov.
Author’s Note: Based on this kink meme prompt, although it’s more of a “Chekov/Sulu story featuring Reavers” than a “Reavers story featuring Chekov/Sulu.”
Now with Art!
After four years hiking back and forth between libraries and greenhouses at Starfleet Academy, the nerdy cross-campus nomadism of an astrophysics/xenohorticulture double major, Hikaru Sulu doesn’t expect that his side hobby - fencing - will be what seals his reputation on the Enterprise.
In fact, he hasn’t expected to earn any kind of reputation so quickly, but that’s before Nero attacks Vulcan, before Sulu’s yanked out of lower decks and thrust onto the bridge to replace a sick pilot. He's so desperate to atone for his rookie mistake that he sticks his hand up as soon as Pike asks for volunteers to stop the drill, only realizing on the way to the shuttle that he’s probably just signed up for a suicide mission. But he manages not to die, even manages to save Kirk’s life, and then in turn gets his own life saved from a near-death fall. Somehow, all of this translates back to ship’s gossip as Hikaru Sulu, the battle-crazed berserker jock pilot with a death wish, and his reputation is born.
It gets worse when he falls in love with his navigator. And yes, Sulu begins to think of Chekov as his navigator not long after they’re officially assigned to the helm together, several months before they taunt fraternization regulations with their first kiss. Outwardly they seem like the attraction of opposites, what with Pavel’s gangly-delicate appearance and his superhuman command of mathematics. Brawn meets brains, so the chuckled remarks go. “But I would like to see them do half as well as you steering through a black cluster,” Chekov always sniffs in defense of his boyfriend’s intellectual capabilities, and Sulu -
Well, as far as physical strength is concerned, Sulu would like to see anyone hold up half as well as Chekov’s been doing against these things, this horde of raving shrieking not-exactly-humans that’s poured into the ship.
No, really. Sulu would like to see anyone do half as well. Because every other crewmember they’ve come across has been strewn across the floor in a mess of unrecognizable chunks, ownerless entrails and shredded Starfleet uniforms.
These Reavers have overwhelmed the Enterprise, turned the Federation’s flagship into an abattoir. Power is shot, communications are dead, sensors are spotty. With the shadowy flicker and snap of the lights, the bile-and-offal soaked corridors silent but for the occasional distant shriek, Sulu feels like he and Chekov are the last two people left alive on the ship. Their last contact with another human being had been a comm from Kirk ordering all hands to abandon ship and wait for the USS Melchior to pick up the escape pods. The transmission had burst into static mid-sentence.
Selfishly, Sulu consoles himself with the fact that Chekov is alive, and Chekov is all that matters, and as long as they can get to the escape pods five decks down from their quarters, it will be all right. They hurry down service ladders and creep through hallways. Chekov suggests sneaking through the Jeffries tubes, an idea they swiftly abandon after opening a hatch and finding three Reavers in a seething orgy with someone’s unidentifiable, blue-shirted corpse.
Other people might be surprised at the skill Chekov demonstrates with the phaser rifle he’s got slung across his thin chest, but Sulu isn’t. For the past three years they have pingponged coordinates and calculations back and forth at the helm, kept the ship steady through roiling interstellar battles, survived away missions together. Now their wordless rhythm as pilot and navigator carries them through skirmishes with roving groups of Reavers: Sulu mauling them with his blade in close quarters, Chekov plowing their path with rapid, efficiently-plotted phaser shots.
They've traveled down five decks, nearly reached the escape pods, when they catch the attention of an amorphous band of fifteen to thirty Reavers - it’s impossible to count in this melee. They fall into their combat roles in an instant. Or at least Sulu does, only to nearly get killed when Chekov fails to cover him. A flash out of the corner of his eye barely alerts him to the swing of a Reaver’s blade. He can’t pull himself back fast enough to avoid it, only tilts in the hope that it won’t take his head off. For a second his consciousness fills with nothing but the bony crunch of its impact just below his hairline. Sulu staggers sideways, blinded for a few panicked seconds before he blinks a curtain of blood out of his eyes.
Once he’s able to think again, he glares up to demand what the hell Chekov was doing, and finds his navigator just kind of - standing there.
A mechanized dart sticks out of Chekov’s neck, the phaser rifle having dropped from his slack arms. He’s been immobilized, and stands frozen in a look of doom: eyes flown wide and haunted, knowing full well what the Reavers are about to do to him. It’s the last thing Chekov registers before his eyes roll back and he collapses, not even hitting the ground before he’s grabbed and swallowed up by this tide of butchery.
And maybe there’s some truth to Sulu’s reputation after all, since he doesn’t react so much as detonate.
“NO!” he howls, his head wound forgotten. His fury powers him across the room in a flash of gold and black, his blade jammed into a Reaver’s throat before he can think.
He tears his weapon free in a hail of blood, whirling to vivisect another that’s between him and Chekov. Back and forth, Sulu hacks his way through a thicket of clawing arms and rancid flesh and shrieking faces, only dimly aware of the retaliatory blows he’s sustaining himself: a glanced blow off his ribs here, a slice of a Reavers’ blade there. None of it matters. Not while Chekov slips farther and farther away from him, and not while Chekov’s face remains pale and motionless even as the Reavers jerk him in all directions, scrabbling for the right to take him first.
Adrenaline flies so hot and fast through Sulu’s muscles that he’s near-weightless. His limbs move like they’ve got independent thought, hurling his blade through the holes in the Reavers’ defenses and ducking their worst attacks before his rational brain can catch up to what he’s done. His sword flashes and whirls like an old-fashioned propeller blade, but it’s still not enough - Sulu bites down on a cry when he gets another glimpse of Chekov, whose gold shirt hangs off his chest in bloodied tatters. He’s driven to even greater fury when he catches sight of a Reaver reaching to do the same to his trousers, now torn low enough for fetid fingernails to slither over the bump and valley of Chekov’s bare hip.
“You don’t touch him - YOU DON’T TOUCH HIM!” he roars.
Sulu flings himself forward without heed, not even registering the blades dragging past his own skin or the one that punctures his shoulder. It’s worth it, every shivered bone and broken artery, to get across the room fast enough to cleave the hand from its owner that dares touch Chekov.
“Wake up!” Sulu begs, now standing over Chekov’s prone form, close enough that he could conceivably be heard over the din. “For God’s sake, Pavel, wake up!”
But beneath him Chekov will not move, not even as blood oozes out from between his parted lips, not even as another Reaver coils fingers around his leg and tries to drag him away, which Sulu prevents with a crushing kick to the creature’s face.
Territorial rage has eaten away most of Sulu’s reason, but he still has enough left to recognize that he’s trapped, trying to defend Chekov from an indefensible position in the middle of the hallway. At best, he keeps up a steady rhythm of stabbing and leaping and doubling back - cutting off hands and arms and heads - and somehow chips away at the crowd of Reavers one by one, just enough to convince himself he’s having an effect, before they swarm back around him. The Reavers don’t seem to particularly care whether it’s Chekov or Sulu who falls to their grip first; Chekov’s the easier target, but Sulu finds himself trying to fend off blades and fists and fingers all over his own body in a way that would feel like a violation if their mere fucking presence weren’t already so.
It’s another five minutes of this claustrophobic brawl before Sulu sees his opening. The mob parts, a random undulation in the violence, and he dares a low sweep along the ground. Sulu hauls Chekov up one-handed, nearly wrenching the younger man's arm from its socket, while lashing out with his sword in blind defense. By pure stupid luck he actually connects, striking down one Reaver and then another, until he’s cut a path. Once he clears the ring of Reavers that had swirled around Pavel’s unconscious form, Sulu finds the crowd thin enough for him to dart and pick his way through, and then finally to break free. He swings Chekov up over his good shoulder and explodes into a pounding run, hurling himself mindlessly through the ship’s corridors.
After a long sprint through the corridors Sulu manages to evade the Reavers’ pursuit, and upon bursting through the doors to the escape pod bay, nearly collapses trying to catch his breath.
But he doesn’t collapse; he can’t afford to. Instead Sulu settles the still-unconscious Chekov down on the floor, propping him against the wall, then finds the door controls. With badly shaking fingers he keys every security code he knows, hoping to lock the Reavers out. For all their screaming atavistic fury, they have enough mechanical knowledge to tear their way through starships. Sulu knows his codes will only buy an extra few minutes if he’s lucky.
Once that’s done, he drops to his knees.
“Pavel,” Sulu cries, brokenly. He shakes Chekov, pulls him into a tight clutch against his chest. But there’s no response, not the faintest twitch or flicker of Chekov’s eyelids, and it seems nothing will lift whatever alien drug holds him under. “Pavel, please, Pavel-”
Chekov’s head falls back, his face incongruously calm. Even now, even with his shirt torn to blood-edged ribbons and his pale skin marred by fingernail scratches, the sight of him makes Sulu think of those dark early mornings when he would drift awake before the alarm went off, and find Chekov curled up around him in clinging, innocent sleep.
Now Sulu pulls up his sleeve and wipes the blood away from Chekov’s lip, before hefting him up and carrying him toward one of the escape pods.
The pod is big and wide enough for one large humanoid, fitted with a comm system and enough resources for its occupant to last several weeks. But Sulu’s still uneasy about sending Chekov out in it alone. It’s too flimsy, too vulnerable, and he can’t even stand to think of how the Reavers would tear it open like a can if they found it, how soft and defenseless Chekov would be inside.
A crash shakes the door, slamming so hard it makes Sulu jump.
The Reavers have come. It’s the escape pods or nothing.
With Chekov occupying his arms, Sulu’s got to kick at the pod’s mechanical latch to open it. The door yawns open slowly, slowly, way too fucking slowly. Sulu all but shoves Chekov inside and slaps the button to seal him in. The pod closes as slowly as it had opened, but Sulu’s determined to wait every second, even while he can hear the Reavers hurling themselves against the locked doors, to see for himself that Chekov is safely enclosed. Once that’s done, Sulu scrambles to open the adjacent escape pod for himself. He folds up his sword and settles back in the shallow space, and tries not to think about caskets while the door slides down over him.
“Computer,” Sulu orders, once both he and Chekov are shut in. “Release pods six-eight-two and six-eight-three alpha.”
He sets his shoulders, bracing himself for the ride and drop out into weightless space. A shuddered breath leaves him, a huge exhale, as Sulu realizes they’ve done it, they’re safe -
His pod doesn’t move.
“Computer,” Sulu barks. “Computer, acknowledge.”
Silence.
Of course. The ship’s limping along on auxiliary power as it is. Automatic controls are out, which means the escape pods can only be ejected manually, which means someone will have to stay behind to release the locks.
Sulu goes very cold, his eyes fluttering shut. There’s only one decision he can make. Another crash at the door means he’s got to make it fast.
He slams at his pod's internal latch to let himself back out. Squeezing through the door and tumbling out before it’s finished opening, he races back to Chekov’s escape pod and engages its security lock. On the chance that Sulu doesn’t finish the manual release in time, this will at least give Pavel one last barrier of protection against the Reavers. With that done, Sulu turns his attention to the manual release procedure. He’s got to enter the proper authorization codes on the control pad, which will allow him to disengage the three gearlike locking valves that hold Chekov’s pod in place. Sweat slicks Sulu’s brow as he works, as he tries not to think about what’s going to happen after that.
He’s just begun turning the third and final valve when he’s interrupted again, this time not by a crash, but a thump.
Chekov’s awake, wide-eyed, and banging at the window.
Sulu looks up at him in frank horror, and - oh. Oh, God. Chekov’s pointing frantically, urging Sulu to hurry to his own escape pod. Sulu bites his lip and casts his gaze back down at the release valve, unable to meet his eyes.
It only takes a second for Chekov to put it all together: the nonresponsive computer, Sulu at the manual release, the Reavers’ fresh crash at the door, which Sulu unintentionally signals with the startled spasm of his shoulders.
“HIKARU!” The escape pod is designed to withstand deep space itself; for all that, Chekov’s muffled shriek can still be heard. "HIKARU! NO!”
Sulu’s eyes flick up, darkly, almost a glare. “I love you,” he mouths.
Chekov goes stone-still at this, except that his eyes glitter and his lips slacken and tremble, before he rises into even worse hysteria, screaming for Sulu to let him out of the locked capsule. He’s pounding the window so hard it’s got a bloody smudge from where he’s split the heel of his hand. But Sulu only shakes his head and fixes ruthless attention on the release valve.
At last Sulu turns and releases the last lock. The escape pod disengages with a hiss. It slides back and disappears through the chute that will carry it out into empty space, Chekov howling in protest all the while.
Dull-eyed Sulu stares after it, even after it’s gone. He’s lightheaded as it sinks in that he’s gotten Chekov off the ship. That betrayed look will never un-burn itself from Sulu's mind, but at least Pavel is safe, he's safe, he’s safe-
Another crash at the door punctures Sulu’s reverie. It’s followed by another and another, and Sulu flicks a look of dread to the door before he marches toward far end of the room.
There’s a wall-mounted armory, a cache of Starfleet-issue rifles and hand phasers. Sulu unloads what he can, arms himself as heavily as possible, and tosses the remaining weapons down the escape hatch to keep the Reavers from getting hold of them. With the door now dented and the walls slam-slam-slamming with the their attempts to get in, Sulu takes position. As he waits he gulps a swallow, wipes the sweat and blood out of his eyes. His heart pounds so hard it threatens to cut off his windpipe with every pulse, and his fingers grow tremulous and sweaty on the phaser rifle’s trigger. Briefly, Sulu thinks back on his seventeen-year-old self, at his dumbfounded gape around the massive greenhouse on his first day of classes at the Academy. If that acne-faced kid couldn’t anticipate the reputation he’d end up with on the Enterprise, he couldn’t even begin comprehending what’s about to happen now.
When the Reavers finally come through the door Sulu outshoots them for twenty minutes, unfolds his sword and fights them off hand-to-hand for another ten. But they flood the room, swarm around him - for every Reaver he cuts down, three more worm past his defenses. It’s only a matter of time before the critical strike lands: a jagged slice from Sulu’s left clavicle down to his right pelvic bone.
Sulu looks down at himself as it happens, watches his gold shirt explode crimson. The sight is so morbidly bizarre that he stutters out a laugh. It's barely left his lips when the Reavers fall upon him.
****
For all the improbability of it, Sulu wakes up from the assault.
When he does he’s on board the USS Melchior. The Reavers have left so many victims that the medical staff’s had to convert the mess hall into a makeshift recovery ward, where Sulu lies at the edge of a long grid of sickbeds. He’s weighed down by lead-heavy pain, barely able to move without feeling every break and gash he’d sustained, every faultline in his body where the doctors had regenerated him back together. His skin swells tight and hot with fever, as he’s fighting off a bouquet of infections courtesy of the gore-caked blade that had cut into his forehead. Five minutes after returning to consciousness, he pukes all over his pillow.
But still, he wakes up.
Chekov’s planted in a chair next to the bed. At the first flutter and roll of Sulu’s eyes, he cries out such a shrill sob that it brings the room to a momentary halt. Chekov doesn’t care, burying himself against Sulu’s shoulder and crying and crying, while Sulu himself is too weak to offer much reassurance besides rolling his cheek against the curled crown of his head.
He’s managed not to die again. Sulu learns he’d been beamed away a few minutes after losing consciousness, which had still given the Reavers enough time to nearly tear him apart. He’s got a bandaged, partially-regenerated lump for a left hand, while the one he’d been born with now probably decorates the flesh of one of the Reavers somewhere. But they got you out before the gang rape, McCoy offers by way of queasy consolation. Sulu’s still too dazed and sick to even start thinking about that part.
After McCoy administers a battery of hyposprays to calm his sickness, and the nurses have replaced Sulu’s vomit-stained pillow with a clean one, Chekov resumes his hunched vigil in the chair.
“Y’... y’made it,” Sulu says. His voice sounds like sludge.
It takes a second for Chekov to find words. “Of- of course I made it, after what you did, you stupid Cossack!” His face twists, turns dark red. “You will never do that to me again, Hikaru, I will not forgive you - it was an hour before they found my capsule and pulled me out, and all that time I could do nothing but imagine what was happening to you - next time let them kill me, just never do that to me again!”
Sulu rolls his head back and forth, shutting his eyes against that image.
“I’m sorry.” Chekov’s gone quiet and wavery, thumbing at his eyes. “I’m sorry, it was my fault, if I had been more careful, if I had not let myself be shot-”
“Nnnnn,” Sulu interrupts, a groan from deep in his chest. “Pavel...”
His gaze meets Chekov’s, then drops to indicate the space next to him on the bed.
“You wish me to-?” Chekov says, and recoils. “Hikaru, no. I will hurt you!”
Sulu coughs out a miserable laugh. “Think it’ll... it’ll really make a difference?”
Chekov’s thin shoulders fall in defeat. He glances around the recovery ward, and when he’s satisfied that no one’s paying attention, slides out of his boots and lifts himself onto the bed. Carefully, carefully he lowers himself into the space between Sulu and the thick bedrail, settling down and pulling Sulu into the tightest embrace that he dares.
Despite Sulu’s condition, they fit together like always. Chekov’s head comes to rest beside his on the pillow, forehead resting against Sulu’s temple and fingers curling around his shoulder. Sulu grunts, a helpless sort of noise, and turns his head. He lifts his mouth forward in the closest approximation of a kiss that he can muster, too feeble to do more than press his bottom lip below Chekov’s eye. For his effort, he gets a full and vital and desperate kiss from Chekov in return, and another and another, soon with so much fervor that Chekov’s got to cup Sulu’s cheek to hold him in place.
After a few moments of this they fall still. Sulu thinks he could just stay like this forever, just feeling Chekov’s chest rise and fall next to him, listening to his breath in the dark; just like this. His navigator is safe and whole and untouched and alive, a fact that pierces him deeper than any blade could ever hope to do.
=end=