fanfic | stxi | leave no soul behind 1.5/?
Title: Leave No Soul Behind (1.5/?) 7,129 words of 71,000+
Fandom: Star Trek XI, TOS references.
Characters: Kirk/Spock, ensemble, OCs.
Rating & Warnings: Strong R - slash, language, adult themes.
Spoilers: For the 2009 movie mostly.
Disclaimer: Fanfiction and fanfiction only, folks.
Betas: the magnificent the_arc5, who scowls endearingly when things don't make sense.
Author's Note: This is written for stripedpetunia on trek_exchange. Sorry for the delay folks, the_arc5 spotted a few things that needed tightening up. Hopefully the double length makes up for the wait!
previous
Once the lift doors open, Kirk takes off after Spock as fast as his legs can carry him. He catches up well before the shuttle bay and their boots pound the grills in counterpoint. It's the middle of the Alpha shift and every non-deployable crewmember flattens themselves against the bulkheads in response to Spock's terse "make way!"
With Nix out of commission and several crews consisting of a poor skill-mix, Jim is immediately struck by the unfamiliar chaos. A couple of other shuttles are sidelined for repairs, but the Stalwart still has more vehicles than she does persons to crew them. Those shuttles with a full and experienced crew complement are already halfway through their preflight checklists and the sound of engines powering up to standby fills the air. However, at least two dozen broken crews mill near the entrance, clearly unsure where best to apply their skills.
Spock assesses the situation in a heartbeat, then leaps lightly up the side of a gantry and onto the wing of a nearby shuttle. "Attention on deck!"
Everyone freezes and turns smartly.
"Complete Alpha crews, continue as per protocol," Spock orders, "those remaining, form up by primary speciality."
The full shuttle crews have already turned back to their work, some now polarizing forcefields and cross-checking doors as they taxi towards the stern. The rest of the crew manage to group themselves faster than Kirk would have imagined.
Spock casts an analytical eye over the motley group, his face impassive. "Those crews with three members present, step forward."
There is a flurry of movement.
"Please select your missing specialty, taking into account seniority and experience."
A doctor, a pilot and a point are all chosen and those newly completed crews scatter towards their vessels without needing a command from Spock.
"If no other member of your crew is present, step forward," Spock says next. The majority step forward and he frowns slightly. The expression is gone in an instant as a new plan immediately takes the place of the former.
"Lieutenants Ho, Devlin and Mackie."
Three others step forward just as McCoy and Uhura coalesce around Spock.
"Devlin, you have command of ED4767, Mackie, you have ED9411," he glances at the remaining specialties. "Choose your crew."
Spock turns to the remaining officer. "Lieutenant Ho, you have command of any spare shuttle you can find. Uhura, McCoy," he snaps, "you are with her." He turns an impossibly composed gaze to Kirk and says, "accompany me."
Momentarily too shocked to move, Jim has to jog to after Spock, who selects a medic and a pilot from those still awaiting orders and commands the others to 'locate and commence useful employment.' The Vulcan's long stride eats up the distance and he's already leaped aboard a sparklingly new shuttle before Jim catches up.
"Jim Kirk," he says, offering a quick handshake to the medic and a nod to their pilot.
"Riley," says the doctor, and Jim's not sure if that's the guy's first name or last name.
"Lioli Ahern," the young female pilot calls without turning around. "You're a rookie, right?"
"Got it in one," Jim grimaces, throwing his body into the Point One harness and slamming the buckles into place. Opposite him, Spock is doing the same, except his movements are calm and precise, with none of the adrenaline shake of Jim's.
Doctor Riley leans around from his fold-out bench and claps Jim on the shoulder. "Just take it easy and talk to us, okay? Talking it out forces you to think it through before you do it. That way, worst you'll come back with is laryngitis and I've got a lozenge for that."
"Okay," Jim laughs. "Thanks."
"No problem."
"All go for launch?" Ahern calls from the cockpit.
Spock glances around the main cabin and receives an immediate thumbs up from Jim and Riley. "All go, green for launch," he says, his voice clipped and emotionless.
"Sir, yes sir," Ahern confirms, then she guns it.
Jim's head hits the headrest with a g-level he wasn't expecting as the combined engine thrust and slingshot from the forcefield spits their brand new shuttle out into space and right into the dissipating ripples of their warp trail. Immediately, the vessel shudders and lurches about ten degrees minus-z. Ahern compensates with a muttered curse and something starts to vibrate in the engine bay.
"Shuttle's a bit green, Commander," Riley observes.
Spock glances around the interior. "This is a standard issue medevac shuttle," he says flatly. "It does not differ in colour from any other."
There is a moment's silence and then Jim snorts.
Riley's head snaps round in horror and he can see Ahern's knuckles whiten on the controls. Yes, Jim thinks, I did just laugh at our Divisional Commander, but it was funny.
Jim summons the courage to meet Spock's questioning gaze but can't interpret it. "Figure of speech," he explains.
"Ah," says Spock, and his head snaps forwards again, leaving Jim to blink at his profile in consternation.
He doesn't have long to study it, though, because Ahern's fingers are dashing across the communications controls and their EVA suits' earbuds are suddenly crackling to life.
... mayday, mayday, this is the USS Excelsior, mayday mayday, we are going down, repeat we are going down. Massive hull breach on decks ten, twelve, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, thirty through thirty seven. Imminent loss of pressure, repeat we are about to lose pressurization. All personnel in escape pods be advised pods are non-functional. Red Alert, repeat Red Alert. Mayday, mayday, this is the USS Excelsior, mayday ...
Jim leans into the press of his harness, craning his neck around the bulkhead to get a look through the pilot's window. The sleek shape of the Excelsior is tumbling out of control. Sharp, white puffs of venting atmosphere spring up along her crippled hull, sometimes igniting in a quick flash of flame. Whole decks are flickering as system after system fails, slipping in and out of darkness, in and out of night. It looks like a science project gone wrong, like a diorama he once made for his third grade science teacher that he threw together from scrap components foraged from his stepfather's garage.
"Holy shit," Jim breaths, half forgetting that his comm is on. "What the hell could do that to a Constellation class starship?"
"Unknown."
Spock's succinct answer cuts through Jim's horror and snaps him back into the present moment.
"Aye, sir."
Spock turns and makes eye contact with him, even as he addresses the pilot. "Mister Ahern, fleet-wide broadcast, please."
"You're linked in, sir."
"Calling all EPAS shuttles, this is Divisional Commander Spock," he says carefully, his gaze steady on Jim and devoid of any expression. "Standard approach vectors inadvisable. Take individual trajectories and dock with port side bays. Maximum dispersal. Do not attempt to take on more than your regulation complement of survivors. Additional personnel may be evacuated directly to the Stalwart via transporter."
A cascade of acknowledgements follows in a myriad of voices, each betraying different levels of stress, but all in control. Perhaps there is something in Spock's own manner that demands it, perhaps they are just really well trained. Jim's never felt like so much of a fraud in his life. Spock's eyes are dark and unreadable behind his visor, but the tilt of his head suggests a question. Jim shakes his head, in denial of, or in response to his own inadequacies. Not even he can tell.
This is no time to back out, turn tail and run away. There's nowhere for him to go out here, not with his commanding officer a shuttle's width away, suited up and ready to go, so he makes himself a promise. This one mission. Just this one, then he'll resign. There's go to be something he can do, someway he can make a difference, but if it's not Starfleet and it's not EPAS, he's fresh out of ideas. But seriously, fuck this. This is insane. This is Vulcan all over again.
The Excelsior is spinning so fast that the starfield is a blur of light, nauseating and disorientating like a bad Academy food. Ahern has mag-sealed them against a port docking bay but the mechanism is jammed tight. Spock clips in to the safety wire and strides across the shuttle as though he's taking a pleasant stroll through the rec room. The hull is moving under them and the stars above them, and Jim can't help but feel like vomiting. He swallows convulsively and stares resolutely at the stubbornly closed hatch.
Then Spock is beside him, leaning around him, one arm braced above Jim's head and the other on the hand-hold near the atmo forcefield. This close, Jim can see the concentration on his face, the urgency that was hidden at a greater distance. His eyes are narrowed, sweeping brows drawn in together. Suddenly he turns his head, pinning Jim in place with that unexpected intensity.
"I believe access may be gained via the external maintenance hatch. Do you concur, Lieutenant?"
Jim involuntarily follows the direction of Spock's pointing finger. Spock is right, and for a moment he forgets about the crazy carnival ride he seems to be on and nods, "yeah, that makes sense." But then the logistics come crashing down around him.
It's going to mean a space jump.
Spock is already clipped in and ready, so Jim makes good to join him. The two of them slip easily through the forcefield and take their places on the runner. The flex in their boot soles allows more traction, but he still isn't used to the feeling that there's nothing between him and space apart from polymer fabric, heating mesh and a visor. His partially mended bones are throbbing in the cold of vacuum, his new, pink skin hypersensitive against the rub of the EPAS-thin EVA suit. Perhaps, despite all his brash assurances to Bones, he should have gone to the rec room after all.
Eyes on the HUD, Spock green-lights them, then there's nothing but the twang of flexed quads, the silent terror of black trajectory and the teeth-rattling collision with the maintenance hatch. They grab at each other, as well as the hand-holds, stabilising one another against the pull of their own momentum.
Adrenaline, Jim thinks. I pushed off too hard.
Spock doesn't mention it, just sets to work on the code pad, his fingers nimble even when hampered by gloves. It takes him no time at all to enter the complex cipher, broadcast along with all other command codes by a thankful Excelsior crew within seconds of the Stalwart's arrival on the scene. The hatch belches a plume of atmo, then springs open, revealing a cramped airlock that thankfully still seems to be powered.
At a gesture from Spock, Jim clambers in first, feet together, arrowed downwards, propelling himself with his arms. Spock follows immediately, pulling the hatch closed firmly behind them.
The airlock cycles and the lights show green.
Spock puts his shoulder to it and they tumble out of the confined space into the leaden reality of full gravity.
"Environmental control is inconsistent," Spock observes, although he kept his feet perfectly despite the sudden impact of standard-g. "Do not remove your helmet."
"You don't have to tell me twice," Jim says with fervour.
"That will save considerable time."
He opens his mouth to explain, but Spock is already running down the corridor, tricorder in hand. "Life signs ahead," he calls by way of explanation.
Jim whips out his own tricorder and snaps it into the wrist holder so he can read it and still have both hands free.
The first crewman they come to is barely alive. Frothy red blood spurts from her mouth to run down her chin and stain her gold command shirt. There's a fist-sized hole where her liver should be and it's a fucking miracle she's still conscious. Spock hunkers down with a limber bounce, running the tricorder over her despite appearances.
"Oh, be serious," she coughs out. "Try C-deck ... the Captain ..."
"I assure you, we will save your Captain." Spock states as though it were a certainty.
"Vulcans ... never lie." The woman does her best to approximate a grin, but it comes off gruesome and macabre, her teeth crimson stained. Even so, Jim can see that the benefit of Spock's words, far better than empty platitudes and reassurances regarding her own condition. She knows she's dying, but Spock has given her tangible consolation. Jim thinks that's pretty amazing.
Then they're off again, her final wracking coughs growing faint behind them as they charge ahead towards the nearest access shaft. Basic configuration on all Constellation class ships is the same. Jim is momentarily grateful that he's taken the time to familiarise himself with the Stalwart's layout, which is vaguely different from that of the Enterprise. It's serving him well at the moment.
They skid to a halt at the access tube, knowing the turbolifts are less than reliable in the ship's present state. Disdaining the rungs, Spock swings himself out into space by the ladder's sides, framing it with his feet and plummeting down into the flickering blackness of between-decks with only his gloves and boots for brakes.
"Sonofabitch," Jim swears under his breath, knowing he doesn't have the strength to replicate the manoeuvre. Instead, he clips in to the top rung and flips around, rope locked off behind his buttocks.
"Kirk to Ahern, over."
Ahern here, go ahead.
"The Commander's just thrown himself down a fucking Jeffries, I'm about to follow," he pulls a face, "just at a slightly lower velocity."
Yeah, he'll do that Kirk, don't let it get to you. Just go find him. Remember, he's our Two, we need you to back him up.
"Kind of hard when he pulls shit like this."
Just catch up Kirk. I'll keep this line open, keep talking to us.
Jim curses again and pushes off, letting some slack out through his suit's harness, absailing after his Two and hoping Spock isn't that far ahead. Each impact of his feet against the sides of the tube sends flashes of agony through the remnant fractures in his legs. Sweat springs up on his face and between his shoulders. His suit struggles to compensate. He tries not to think of parachutes above disintegrating desert planets.
C-deck arrives faster than he's anticipated and he falls on his ass in an undignified heap. Spock is nowhere to be seen. Jim hauls himself out of the tube and drops more carefully into the main corridor. The lights are nonfunctional here and his headlamp activates automatically, which reveals Spock kneeling by a group of survivors, methodically pressing transponders against the transportable, sorting the whole from the broken, the living from the dead.
"Riley, I've got a visual on Spock," he comms in.
Acknowledged, Kirk
"Doctor Riley," Spock says, activating his own comm with a press of his lapel. "Six to beam up. Stabilise then beam onwards, confirm?"
Riley here, Commander. His voice sounds tinny on the wide channel. Six on their way. Acknowledged.
Spock steps back for a second as all but one of the huddled living disappears in a swirl of light. Then he's back on his knees in a flash, hands calmly probing the extent of the last man's injuries. Jim kneels next to him in time to see Spock exchange the man's hands for his own. In the split second where the wound is open, it sprays blood all over Spock's visor like a high pressure hose. The man cries out in fear, but Spock is talking to him calmly, the words becoming audible as Jim's forces himself to focus.
"... condition is serious but stable," he's saying. "There is no cause for panic. The artery has been successfully clamped. Further blood loss will be minimal. I am now administering a mild sedative as it is necessary to lower your heart rate."
Jim surprises himself by having the hypo loaded and in Spock's hand before he's had a chance to realise what he was doing. Those drills pay off after all. Spock presses it against their patient's neck with a muted hiss and hands it back. It's only now that Jim sees the pool of sticky human blood Spock is kneeling in and the open case of micro-lock clamps by his side. The guy is damn lucky to be alive at all, but if Spock's telling the truth, then yeah, there's a good chance he's going to make it out of here now.
"Do you know the location of the Captain?" Spock asks as he calmly wipes the man's blood from his visor with one sleeve.
"He was helping the Chief Engineer with a blown coupling," the man says weakly. "It's a narrow junction, about two or three intersections away."
Spock slaps a pressure bandage to the man's chest and a transponder to his arm, but before his hand reaches his lapel to order a beam-out, the man grabs at his suit, stopping him.
"EPAS, wait," he gasps, "the junction is tricky to find. You'll need help."
Spock deliberates for a split second, then nods. "Very well."
It's a good thing that Jim has all their gear repacked, because Spock gathers the patient into a shoulder hold and sets off at a dead run in the direction indicated. Overwhelmed by the pace, Jim bolts after them, trying to ignore the way his boots slip and slide a little on the deck until most of the blood is off them.
About thirty seconds later the injured crewman calls a halt, and yeah, Jim is pretty sure they would have missed the junction on their first pass and been forced to turn back to retrace their steps. The walls are shredded by shrapnel, flashing and sparking in the darkness. The chaotic scene is illuminated in fits and starts, hard on the eyes, unforgiving on the imagination. Still, it's Jim who spots the scrap of command gold in the far corner.
"There!" he calls, forgetting in his urgency that there's no need to shout over the comm. Then, before he's had a chance to think about the risks, he ducks below a sparking conduit and pushes into the rubble.
Kirk, what are you doing? Let Spock take lead on this one, over.
"I can see him!"
"Lieutenant!" Spock calls into the flickering rubble.
"I can see him, sir!"
"Lieutenant, this area of the ship is structurally unsound. Clip in!"
Kirk, listen to Spock. Secure yourself first.
Jim obeys wordlessly, never taking his eyes from the slight rise and fall of that gold shirt as he takes a grapple from his harness and loops it around a nearby spar. It's as if the Excelsior's Captain might disappear if he stops looking at him for even a second, culminating in a figment of his adrenaline-fired imagination.
"Spock to Ahern," comes the deep baritone over the comm.
Ahern here.
"One to beam up, category two, confirm."
I'm sorry, Commander, Ahern responds, her voice tight and stretched high. There's too much interference from the warp core. Transporter is a no-go, do you copy? We have no transporter capability, sir.
" ... Acknowledged. Spock out."
Behind him, Jim can now hear the slower progress of Spock, hampered by the awkward weight of their guide, but then he reaches the body and his mind goes blank with shock.
His first coherent thought is that he's completely lost it, because it's Sulu. The Sulu he jumped off an alien platform to save. For a moment he's overcome by the memory of relief, the sensation of his chute's tethers straining under the load of their combined weight but holding, blessedly holding, slowing their descent so that the transporter techs have a chance to beam them out.
Then Sulu blinks and opens his eyes and Jim has work to do. He tears the medkit free of his belt and makes a quick pass with the tricorder all in one movement.
"Jim Kirk?"
"Hey, Hikaru," he says conversationally. "How's things?"
"Oh, you know," Sulu sighs, then grimaces as Jim traces his hands over one thigh and finds the point where it's pierced through by metal. He clenches his teeth, "same old, same old."
"I hear you," he nods, working quickly to staunch the bleeding with packs and foam and his goddamn hands. He palms the small laser cutter and sets to work on the piece of plassteel that's pinning that leg to the deck. At the point where the beam intersects the metal, Sulu's blood vaporises into a sickly pink steam.
The captain shifts slightly on the deck, attempting to help improve Jim's access. "I heard you'd joined EPAS. Never expected to need your help, though."
"Yeah," Jim nods but keeps his eyes glued to the path of the cutter. "I guess nobody ever does."
"What made you switch?"
Jim thinks of that space-jump, of a fleet torn to shreds, of poor orders from on high, of lifeless floating bodies and planets imploding in an abortive scream.
"The dental, mostly."
Sulu laughs, tossing his dark head back against the deck. His hand finds Jim's knee and he squeezes, hard. "What now, Jim?"
"Now, okay, so this is going to hurt," he warns, knowing it's inadequate but not having anything else to offer.
"I figured," Sulu replies through clenched teeth. "Just do it, already."
"On three."
"Stop being such a fucking tease," Sulu laughs unsteadily.
So Jim slips both arms under his skewered leg and hauls sharply upwards, towards the section he's cut away, like pulling meat off a shishkabob. Sulu screams, of course, who the fuck wouldn't, but despite the fresh run of liquid heat over Jim's gloved hands the man is no longer pinned to the deck of his own ship.
"I got you," Jim murmurs, pressing and packing and wielding hypos as fast as he can. "I got you, man."
"Yeah," Hikaru nods weakly, his face pale and clammy in the random flashes of light, "just like last time."
Spock arrives just in time to see the Captain and the Lieutenant clasp hands so that Jim can haul Sulu into a sitting position.
"Zero spinal," Jim offers without prompting, "category two, stabilised, safe for transport, sir."
"Acknowledged, Lieutenant," Spock nods, then turns to Hikaru. "Captain Sulu, it is not possible to achieve transporter lock on our current position due to imminent warp core breach. Where is the closest ..."
He gets no further.
The whole hull behind them suddenly explodes out into space.
Spock flings out a gloved hand and Jim grabs it, their fingers close around each others' wrists. Spock's legs fly out from underneath him and Sulu lifts from the deck and crashes into their chests. That leaves Jim barely enough time to register that Spock has used his clip-in line to secure both their patients to himself, as well as to the infrastructure. Still, if Jim lets go, Spock will play out to the end of his line, just far enough to slap against the razor-sharp edges of what's left of the outer hull. Spock's other arm is wrapped around their guide, pressing a breathing mask against the man's face.
The sound is gone in an instant, along with the air and the heat. Sulu's mouth opens in a silent scream and Jim can see the small capillaries begin to explode in his eyes. Before he can think about it, Jim pops the seal on his helmet and opens the visor in Sulu's face. The Captain takes a deep, painful breath of frozen air, hardly enough, but his cheeks flush pink and the tears don't freeze in his eyes.
Of course this means that Jim is now totally fucked, too.
His suit is spewing out a thin, rapidly diminishing breathable vapour, barely enough to keep either of them oxygenated even as it does nothing against the decompression. The thin polymer fabric is pressed tightly against him like a wet swimsuit, heating coils working overtime. It's not enough. It's nowhere near enough. It's like every molecule in his body has just developed an overpoweringly urgent desire to be elsewhere.
His suit gives one last cough of air at them both and then Jim's lungs are on fire. His chest is about to burst and black spots close in before his eyes. Spock's hand is like a vice around his wrist. He opens his own fingers and tugs. Spock refuses to let go. Jim wants to yell at him but that last breath in his lungs is precious and there's no air to carry the sound to his comm mic anyway.
He yanks harder, desperate now, knowing he has only split seconds.
Then it's like Spock suddenly gets it, because not only does he release Jim, but his hand flashes with his own laser cutter and sets them all free. With the last vestiges of strength in his body, Jim pushes off from the nearest object as hard as he can, Sulu still clutched firmly to his chest. Spock co-operates, using his well-oxygenated Vulcan strength to propel them even faster out into the depths of space, away from the Excelsior and the interference of her unstable warp core.
They fly through the rent in the hull and spiral out into the black.
Sulu has lost consciousness, but he weighs nothing here and Jim's frozen arm couldn't let go even if he wanted to.
Jim fights the burn as long as he can, then his body's own instinct force him to expel his last lungful of air. He convulses once. Twice. It's impossible to draw the nothingness into himself, but his body tries anyway. How long has it been? Seconds? Feels like hours.
Then there's a flash and a blur and his skin is burning like fire.
For a second he thinks the warp core has blown, but then gravity settles in around him and his bleeding eyes have a moment to register the inside of a medevac shuttle before Spock obscures his view.
The Vulcan snaps his visor up and uses his teeth to tear off his gloves, not bothering to undo the fastenings. Thin lines of green blood blossom on his wrists, close enough for Jim to see as those hot hands tilt his head, support his jaw, burning into his frozen flesh. Spock's face blocks out the light and Jim has a moment of confusion, but then an expelled breath of second-hand air is forced into his lungs.
Spock pulls back, presses hot fingers against his carotid.
Jim wants to tell him that one breath is not enough, that his body has forgotten how to do this, but he must know that because he leans in to give another breath, then a third.
It's then that Jim gasps, pulls in one for himself, ignores the pain because this first breath of his own is richer in all the things that he needs. Spock calls out something that contains the words 'Riley' and 'immediately' and 'order.' He can't catch the rest through the ringing in his ears. Then there's an oxygen mask against his face and when he takes another breath he's almost giddy. Spock is playing a scanner over his chest, which is followed by another device that makes his lungs tingle inside him, and you really shouldn't be able to feel your lungs like that; it's beyond weird.
Jim can feel tears running down his face. He raises a shaky hand, but it's still gloved and covered in other men's frozen blood so he lets it fall again. Spock notices and uses his free hand to complete the task, pressing the thumb gently into the hollow of each eye and wiping outwards. When he pulls back and rests that hand on his knee, it's now red with blood as well as green with it.
Jim tries to thank him, but all he can manage is a grunt.
"One moment," Spock says calmly, reaching for something. Then he injects a vial of liquid into the oxygen line feeding Jim's mask and his throat burns hotter for a second, choking him, then goes blessedly numb.
Spock lifts one of Jim's hands and unclasps the glove, baring it and settling it on the mask. Jim's fingers refuse to obey and his hand hits the transporter pad with a numb thud. Spock takes that same hand and firmly, patiently, he shapes the fingers in place. This time they stay there. Spock pushes to his feet and disappears.
No, Jim thinks, don't go.
But then he's back, sinking into a graceful crouch on the transporter pad. He reaches out, parting Jim's eyelids with finger and thumb, then lets two drops of some warm liquid fall into the eye before releasing it. He repeats the process with the other eye, once again thumbing away the mess as Jim tears up and sneezes as the drops hit his sinuses and trickle down into the back of his throat.
He coughs and tries to push upright.
"Inadvisable at this time," Spock tells him.
When Jim persists in trying to get vertical, Spock tuts slightly under his breath and lifts him effortlessly into suited arms.
Well shit, Jim thinks, head lolling against Spock's chest, this is fucking awkward.
Spock settles him sideways into a bench seat opposite the medical station. He clips the harness into Jim's EVA suit, securing him, then jams a large vacuum-pack of something behind his shoulder, propping him upright. As a final touch, Spock breaks open a shiny silver thermal blanket and efficiently covers him with it.
He pauses for a second to survey his handiwork and consult the scanner again, nods once and turns away.
Jim suddenly realises it's all over and he's going to live. It's only as Spock sanitises his hands and shoulders and steps in beside Doctor Riley that he remembers both Excelsior crewmen are going to be even worse off.
Jim sits quietly on his bench and breathes. He watches Riley and Spock work. They're unfamiliar with each other and it shows, but Spock is a keen observer and is soon anticipating Riley's needs as he transfers his attention from Sulu to the other crewman in quick succession. The basic monitors above the two biobeds quickly abandon the red zone and start to flicker from amber to green, but with increasingly more green showing across the board.
They're going to live, too.
"Approaching shuttle bay doors," Ahern calls from the cockpit. "Prepare for docking."
Riley straps into the small fold-out seat between the biobeds. Its three point harness is cleverly designed to ensure he can still reach the majority of the controls above each patient.
"Holy shit, Kirk," the doctor exclaims with wide eyes. "Holy fucking shit, no one's going to believe that happened."
Jim manages a twitch of his eyebrows and keeps breathing deeply through his mouth, his nose still being too numb for such activities.
Spock acknowledges Ahern and crosses the cabin to Jim's bench. He straps in to the other free seat, then reaches out to press the back of his hand against Jim's brow. His skin still feels alien-hot, but Spock makes a slight approving sound and withdraws. Jim gives his feet an experimental wiggle and realises that yeah, he's a lot better than he was a few minutes ago.
They bounce lightly on the deck and an engineering tech is running beside them as they coast to a halt, leaping aboard the port runner without even waiting for them to come to a full stop. The forcefield pops and the sound of organised chaos floods the shuttle. People are shouting to be heard, boots are drumming on the deck, hyposprays hiss and metal clanks against metal as command of the situation is transferred to the Stalwart's highly trained medical crew.
"Got yourself a dodgy aft stabiliser," the tech comments, jumping aboard and making a beeline for the engine bay without so much as a glance at the Doctor, patients or Points.
"Don't I know it," Ahern calls after him. "She's sluggish on the rotationals, too."
"Spock!" comes an angry voice.
"Doctor McCoy," the Commander acknowledges, snapping free of his harness and rising to his not inconsiderable height.
Bones shoulders his way past the two junior doctors who preceded him, his face an ugly mix of anger and relief. He marches right up to Spock and shoves a hand-held scanner in his face. "What in the blue blazes were you doing in hard vacuum, you moron?"
"It was necessary to effect our extraction," Spock explains, with considerable patience for a Commander who's just been abused by a subordinate. "Lieutenant Kirk formulated a plan which ..."
"Oh this is your fault, is it?" McCoy rounds on him with narrowed eyes. "I thought I told you to rest! Listen you young jackass, some of us have been in this game long enough to realise that EPAS isn't about daring escapes from the clutches of death, it's about doing things by the book and keeping each other safe! I'm not quite sure who thought it was a good idea to let any of you Nix people go racing off into the thick of things while I collected dust in my bunk, but there are going to be words! Last thing we need is some goddamn hero in this ..." he trails off as the scanner in his hand bleeps and whirs after being pointed at Jim like a weapon. "What the devil happened to you?"
Jim finds himself momentarily speechless at McCoy's scathing tone.
Spock insinuates himself neatly into the pause in conversation. "The Lieutenant has experienced severe decompression. I have treated his primary symptoms and he appears to be stable."
"Stable my ass!" Bones growls, leaning in closer with the scanner. Whatever he sees, it softens his manner somewhat. "What'd you do? Pop your visor 'cause environmental control seemed stable and forget to shut it again?"
Jim considers telling the full story, but he has a feeling that's going to make McCoy mad again and he's just not up to that kind of scary right now. "Um," he nods instead, "something like that."
"Hmm," McCoy grumbles. "Well, you'll need a little tissue regen and Spock's rush job on your alveoli is going to sting like a bitch for a few days, but you're one lucky sonofabitch, you know that?" He straightens and then unexpectedly cuffs Kirk behind one ear. "Keep your goddamn helmet on! That's what it's for!"
"Yes, doctor," he agrees meekly, but he's watching Spock out of the corner of his eye. The Commander is helping Riley and the medics load Sulu and the other crewman onto stretchers, but those dark eyes slide his way every now and then. For a split second, they lock and hold with his own. Jim imagines he can see approval there. A pleasant warmth spreads through him at the thought, thawing him a little further. It's the first time in a long time he's cared what an authority figure thinks of him. It's all too easy to recall the disappointment he felt the instant he realised what kind of man captained the Enterprise.
The smile slips from his face, erased by the memory of a battle that was lost for no good reason. Idolizing your superiors is dangerous. Still, seeing Spock in action had been all kinds of awesome, that was indisputable, and it was possible to respect a person's abilities without putting them on a pedestal.
Spock turns away and jumps lightly down through the open hatch. He has duties as the Divisional Commander that come into effect the second his own shuttle's demands are satisfied, so it's Bones that grabs Jim by the elbow and hauls him into a sitting position.
"Now, hold your horses," the doctor warns. "You're all screwy inside just now."
Jim's heart is pounding, trying to adapt as all the blood rushes to his frozen legs. "That a technical term, Bones?"
"Don't backsass me," he growls, but doesn't protest the new nickname. Instead, he reaches out one reassuring hand and holds Jim's hair off his face so he can focus on breathing.
Eventually, his heart settles down and his lips stop tingling. With a nod from McCoy, he levers himself carefully to his feet. The doctor watches him intently, eyes narrowed, but he stays upright.
"Good to go?"
McCoy rolls his eyes. "Only place you're going is straight to sickbay. Now get."
Jim offers a shaky salute and uses the hand-holds for support as he steps out of the door and into the hangar, catching his reflection in the shiny hull plating and grimacing. It's not pretty. He gets about ten steps away from the shuttle before he knows he's in trouble. His feet might be back on solid deck, but the world still feels like it's moving, shuddering, jerking around him. The drill platform flashes before his eyes. Geysers of flame. Free-falling. The ground reaching up to claim him. A planet, an entire planet of peaceful people destroyed, obliterated, vanished ...
He staggers, falls to his knees, barely gets there in time and empties his stomach all over the polished deck. Everyone springs back, exclaims softly, part surprise, part disgust, and it only adds to Jim's misery. He's hot and cold at the same time. There's a ringing in his ears and his suit is suddenly too tight, choking him. Sweat breaks out on his face, between his shoulder blades, and he's absolutely certain he's going to pass out. He's tugging at the collar, fingers scrabbling at the seam in panicked desperation.
Then, out of the blue, there's a firm hand on his shoulder. McCoy,he thinks, please don't bitch me out just now, but he's wrong.
Spock drops to one knee. "Doctor Riley?"
Riley suddenly moves into Jim's field of vision. He can see the man's blush, his embarrassment that the DivCO had to remind him of his duties. But then there are intrusive hands on Jim's face, probing fingers at his throat and he bats them away, ashamed and suddenly angry.
"No," he rasps through the acid taste in his mouth, "don't need a doctor."
"Refusing medical aid is illogical. You are unwell."
Jim risks a glance at Spock. His usually orderly hair is plastered to his head and sticking up at angles, disarrayed by the hasty removal of his own helmet. The hood of his suit is pushed back, revealing the points of his ears. He looks more alien than ever, but somehow, he knows that only Spock can understand him. The Commander reaches around and deftly undoes Jim's collar one-handed.
"Please," Jim whispers, for Spock's ears only. "I just need a moment."
The Commander regards him carefully. A bead of condensation makes its lazy way from his hairline to his jaw, a testament to rapid changes in temperature they've both been subjected to. This close, Jim can see that his eyes aren't actually black, but brown instead. They're steady and measuring.
Jim swallows.
Spock nods slowly, eyes flicking to Riley, who doesn't need to hear the order.
The crowd melts away, leaving the two of them kneeling on the deck. Spock sits back on his heels, the gentle but unrelenting pressure of his hand forcing Jim to do the same. It's easier to sit like this, to close his eyes and cope with the spinning. He hears the clank and splash of someone dealing with the mess he's made on the deck, and finds himself both grateful and embarrassed all over again.
Spock's silence is uncanny. Any human would be asking questions by now. What happened? What's going on with you? Why'd you lose it like that? But not Spock. For the first time since the beginning of this deployment, Jim is powerfully grateful to be in the presence of a Vulcan.
"Thanks."
Spock doesn't say anything, but he raises one hand, palm down, in an abortive and very human gesture that say's clearly don't mention it. He cuts himself off halfway though, placing the hand firmly back on his thigh. The fingers flex as though holding on.
"Your gratitude is unnecessary," he says quietly.
"Well, you've got it anyway," Jim tells him, taking a deep breath. "You didn't have to push off like that. Your suit was still sealed, you had a mask for that crewman and you know that Ahern or Ops would have modulated the transporter frequency in another few seconds. You could have just let me go."
Spock glances at him, then back at the place where his hands sit on the stained fabric of his EVA suit. There is no trace of blood on them now. He washed it off in order to assist Riley, but there are shallow striations around each wrist, scabbed over in a deep forest green.
"You saved my life." Jim shrugs at him, because really, it's like Spock doesn't even get it.
"As you saved the life of Captain Sulu."
Then again, perhaps that's all that needs to be said. There's a certain balance in it, after all. They share a quiet moment, both watching the Stalwart crew move about the hangar with practiced efficiency despite the innate chaos of the setting. Eventually, Spock shifts beside him.
"Come," he says. "I have additional duties to discharge. I will ensure your arrival at sickbay on my way to the bridge."
"No," says Jim, shaking his head. "You don't have to do that."
Spock gives him a stern look, one that's suddenly all Commander. It makes Jim wonder where the hell all the 'sirs' and 'lieutenants' went.
"Okay," he says quickly, "thank you, sir."
Spock nods and rises nimbly to his feet. Jim makes a bit of a hash of it, but at least he gets vertical under his own power. The Commander precedes him out of the hangar. He's stopped every few turns to receive a report, sign a PADD or answer a question. He's unfailingly polite, always helpful and really quite patient when faced with the human propensity to babble in times of stress. It's not until he drops Jim off at sick bay and promptly banishes all the other hangers-on that Jim begins to suspect it may have simply been a ploy to give Jim a chance to keep up.
Bones tells him he's put a hairline fracture back through one of the recent breaks, and also that he's an idiot. Then he wants to know why the hell Jim is smiling.
next
Fandom: Star Trek XI, TOS references.
Characters: Kirk/Spock, ensemble, OCs.
Rating & Warnings: Strong R - slash, language, adult themes.
Spoilers: For the 2009 movie mostly.
Disclaimer: Fanfiction and fanfiction only, folks.
Betas: the magnificent the_arc5, who scowls endearingly when things don't make sense.
Author's Note: This is written for stripedpetunia on trek_exchange. Sorry for the delay folks, the_arc5 spotted a few things that needed tightening up. Hopefully the double length makes up for the wait!
previous
Once the lift doors open, Kirk takes off after Spock as fast as his legs can carry him. He catches up well before the shuttle bay and their boots pound the grills in counterpoint. It's the middle of the Alpha shift and every non-deployable crewmember flattens themselves against the bulkheads in response to Spock's terse "make way!"
With Nix out of commission and several crews consisting of a poor skill-mix, Jim is immediately struck by the unfamiliar chaos. A couple of other shuttles are sidelined for repairs, but the Stalwart still has more vehicles than she does persons to crew them. Those shuttles with a full and experienced crew complement are already halfway through their preflight checklists and the sound of engines powering up to standby fills the air. However, at least two dozen broken crews mill near the entrance, clearly unsure where best to apply their skills.
Spock assesses the situation in a heartbeat, then leaps lightly up the side of a gantry and onto the wing of a nearby shuttle. "Attention on deck!"
Everyone freezes and turns smartly.
"Complete Alpha crews, continue as per protocol," Spock orders, "those remaining, form up by primary speciality."
The full shuttle crews have already turned back to their work, some now polarizing forcefields and cross-checking doors as they taxi towards the stern. The rest of the crew manage to group themselves faster than Kirk would have imagined.
Spock casts an analytical eye over the motley group, his face impassive. "Those crews with three members present, step forward."
There is a flurry of movement.
"Please select your missing specialty, taking into account seniority and experience."
A doctor, a pilot and a point are all chosen and those newly completed crews scatter towards their vessels without needing a command from Spock.
"If no other member of your crew is present, step forward," Spock says next. The majority step forward and he frowns slightly. The expression is gone in an instant as a new plan immediately takes the place of the former.
"Lieutenants Ho, Devlin and Mackie."
Three others step forward just as McCoy and Uhura coalesce around Spock.
"Devlin, you have command of ED4767, Mackie, you have ED9411," he glances at the remaining specialties. "Choose your crew."
Spock turns to the remaining officer. "Lieutenant Ho, you have command of any spare shuttle you can find. Uhura, McCoy," he snaps, "you are with her." He turns an impossibly composed gaze to Kirk and says, "accompany me."
Momentarily too shocked to move, Jim has to jog to after Spock, who selects a medic and a pilot from those still awaiting orders and commands the others to 'locate and commence useful employment.' The Vulcan's long stride eats up the distance and he's already leaped aboard a sparklingly new shuttle before Jim catches up.
"Jim Kirk," he says, offering a quick handshake to the medic and a nod to their pilot.
"Riley," says the doctor, and Jim's not sure if that's the guy's first name or last name.
"Lioli Ahern," the young female pilot calls without turning around. "You're a rookie, right?"
"Got it in one," Jim grimaces, throwing his body into the Point One harness and slamming the buckles into place. Opposite him, Spock is doing the same, except his movements are calm and precise, with none of the adrenaline shake of Jim's.
Doctor Riley leans around from his fold-out bench and claps Jim on the shoulder. "Just take it easy and talk to us, okay? Talking it out forces you to think it through before you do it. That way, worst you'll come back with is laryngitis and I've got a lozenge for that."
"Okay," Jim laughs. "Thanks."
"No problem."
"All go for launch?" Ahern calls from the cockpit.
Spock glances around the main cabin and receives an immediate thumbs up from Jim and Riley. "All go, green for launch," he says, his voice clipped and emotionless.
"Sir, yes sir," Ahern confirms, then she guns it.
Jim's head hits the headrest with a g-level he wasn't expecting as the combined engine thrust and slingshot from the forcefield spits their brand new shuttle out into space and right into the dissipating ripples of their warp trail. Immediately, the vessel shudders and lurches about ten degrees minus-z. Ahern compensates with a muttered curse and something starts to vibrate in the engine bay.
"Shuttle's a bit green, Commander," Riley observes.
Spock glances around the interior. "This is a standard issue medevac shuttle," he says flatly. "It does not differ in colour from any other."
There is a moment's silence and then Jim snorts.
Riley's head snaps round in horror and he can see Ahern's knuckles whiten on the controls. Yes, Jim thinks, I did just laugh at our Divisional Commander, but it was funny.
Jim summons the courage to meet Spock's questioning gaze but can't interpret it. "Figure of speech," he explains.
"Ah," says Spock, and his head snaps forwards again, leaving Jim to blink at his profile in consternation.
He doesn't have long to study it, though, because Ahern's fingers are dashing across the communications controls and their EVA suits' earbuds are suddenly crackling to life.
... mayday, mayday, this is the USS Excelsior, mayday mayday, we are going down, repeat we are going down. Massive hull breach on decks ten, twelve, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, thirty through thirty seven. Imminent loss of pressure, repeat we are about to lose pressurization. All personnel in escape pods be advised pods are non-functional. Red Alert, repeat Red Alert. Mayday, mayday, this is the USS Excelsior, mayday ...
Jim leans into the press of his harness, craning his neck around the bulkhead to get a look through the pilot's window. The sleek shape of the Excelsior is tumbling out of control. Sharp, white puffs of venting atmosphere spring up along her crippled hull, sometimes igniting in a quick flash of flame. Whole decks are flickering as system after system fails, slipping in and out of darkness, in and out of night. It looks like a science project gone wrong, like a diorama he once made for his third grade science teacher that he threw together from scrap components foraged from his stepfather's garage.
"Holy shit," Jim breaths, half forgetting that his comm is on. "What the hell could do that to a Constellation class starship?"
"Unknown."
Spock's succinct answer cuts through Jim's horror and snaps him back into the present moment.
"Aye, sir."
Spock turns and makes eye contact with him, even as he addresses the pilot. "Mister Ahern, fleet-wide broadcast, please."
"You're linked in, sir."
"Calling all EPAS shuttles, this is Divisional Commander Spock," he says carefully, his gaze steady on Jim and devoid of any expression. "Standard approach vectors inadvisable. Take individual trajectories and dock with port side bays. Maximum dispersal. Do not attempt to take on more than your regulation complement of survivors. Additional personnel may be evacuated directly to the Stalwart via transporter."
A cascade of acknowledgements follows in a myriad of voices, each betraying different levels of stress, but all in control. Perhaps there is something in Spock's own manner that demands it, perhaps they are just really well trained. Jim's never felt like so much of a fraud in his life. Spock's eyes are dark and unreadable behind his visor, but the tilt of his head suggests a question. Jim shakes his head, in denial of, or in response to his own inadequacies. Not even he can tell.
This is no time to back out, turn tail and run away. There's nowhere for him to go out here, not with his commanding officer a shuttle's width away, suited up and ready to go, so he makes himself a promise. This one mission. Just this one, then he'll resign. There's go to be something he can do, someway he can make a difference, but if it's not Starfleet and it's not EPAS, he's fresh out of ideas. But seriously, fuck this. This is insane. This is Vulcan all over again.
The Excelsior is spinning so fast that the starfield is a blur of light, nauseating and disorientating like a bad Academy food. Ahern has mag-sealed them against a port docking bay but the mechanism is jammed tight. Spock clips in to the safety wire and strides across the shuttle as though he's taking a pleasant stroll through the rec room. The hull is moving under them and the stars above them, and Jim can't help but feel like vomiting. He swallows convulsively and stares resolutely at the stubbornly closed hatch.
Then Spock is beside him, leaning around him, one arm braced above Jim's head and the other on the hand-hold near the atmo forcefield. This close, Jim can see the concentration on his face, the urgency that was hidden at a greater distance. His eyes are narrowed, sweeping brows drawn in together. Suddenly he turns his head, pinning Jim in place with that unexpected intensity.
"I believe access may be gained via the external maintenance hatch. Do you concur, Lieutenant?"
Jim involuntarily follows the direction of Spock's pointing finger. Spock is right, and for a moment he forgets about the crazy carnival ride he seems to be on and nods, "yeah, that makes sense." But then the logistics come crashing down around him.
It's going to mean a space jump.
Spock is already clipped in and ready, so Jim makes good to join him. The two of them slip easily through the forcefield and take their places on the runner. The flex in their boot soles allows more traction, but he still isn't used to the feeling that there's nothing between him and space apart from polymer fabric, heating mesh and a visor. His partially mended bones are throbbing in the cold of vacuum, his new, pink skin hypersensitive against the rub of the EPAS-thin EVA suit. Perhaps, despite all his brash assurances to Bones, he should have gone to the rec room after all.
Eyes on the HUD, Spock green-lights them, then there's nothing but the twang of flexed quads, the silent terror of black trajectory and the teeth-rattling collision with the maintenance hatch. They grab at each other, as well as the hand-holds, stabilising one another against the pull of their own momentum.
Adrenaline, Jim thinks. I pushed off too hard.
Spock doesn't mention it, just sets to work on the code pad, his fingers nimble even when hampered by gloves. It takes him no time at all to enter the complex cipher, broadcast along with all other command codes by a thankful Excelsior crew within seconds of the Stalwart's arrival on the scene. The hatch belches a plume of atmo, then springs open, revealing a cramped airlock that thankfully still seems to be powered.
At a gesture from Spock, Jim clambers in first, feet together, arrowed downwards, propelling himself with his arms. Spock follows immediately, pulling the hatch closed firmly behind them.
The airlock cycles and the lights show green.
Spock puts his shoulder to it and they tumble out of the confined space into the leaden reality of full gravity.
"Environmental control is inconsistent," Spock observes, although he kept his feet perfectly despite the sudden impact of standard-g. "Do not remove your helmet."
"You don't have to tell me twice," Jim says with fervour.
"That will save considerable time."
He opens his mouth to explain, but Spock is already running down the corridor, tricorder in hand. "Life signs ahead," he calls by way of explanation.
Jim whips out his own tricorder and snaps it into the wrist holder so he can read it and still have both hands free.
The first crewman they come to is barely alive. Frothy red blood spurts from her mouth to run down her chin and stain her gold command shirt. There's a fist-sized hole where her liver should be and it's a fucking miracle she's still conscious. Spock hunkers down with a limber bounce, running the tricorder over her despite appearances.
"Oh, be serious," she coughs out. "Try C-deck ... the Captain ..."
"I assure you, we will save your Captain." Spock states as though it were a certainty.
"Vulcans ... never lie." The woman does her best to approximate a grin, but it comes off gruesome and macabre, her teeth crimson stained. Even so, Jim can see that the benefit of Spock's words, far better than empty platitudes and reassurances regarding her own condition. She knows she's dying, but Spock has given her tangible consolation. Jim thinks that's pretty amazing.
Then they're off again, her final wracking coughs growing faint behind them as they charge ahead towards the nearest access shaft. Basic configuration on all Constellation class ships is the same. Jim is momentarily grateful that he's taken the time to familiarise himself with the Stalwart's layout, which is vaguely different from that of the Enterprise. It's serving him well at the moment.
They skid to a halt at the access tube, knowing the turbolifts are less than reliable in the ship's present state. Disdaining the rungs, Spock swings himself out into space by the ladder's sides, framing it with his feet and plummeting down into the flickering blackness of between-decks with only his gloves and boots for brakes.
"Sonofabitch," Jim swears under his breath, knowing he doesn't have the strength to replicate the manoeuvre. Instead, he clips in to the top rung and flips around, rope locked off behind his buttocks.
"Kirk to Ahern, over."
Ahern here, go ahead.
"The Commander's just thrown himself down a fucking Jeffries, I'm about to follow," he pulls a face, "just at a slightly lower velocity."
Yeah, he'll do that Kirk, don't let it get to you. Just go find him. Remember, he's our Two, we need you to back him up.
"Kind of hard when he pulls shit like this."
Just catch up Kirk. I'll keep this line open, keep talking to us.
Jim curses again and pushes off, letting some slack out through his suit's harness, absailing after his Two and hoping Spock isn't that far ahead. Each impact of his feet against the sides of the tube sends flashes of agony through the remnant fractures in his legs. Sweat springs up on his face and between his shoulders. His suit struggles to compensate. He tries not to think of parachutes above disintegrating desert planets.
C-deck arrives faster than he's anticipated and he falls on his ass in an undignified heap. Spock is nowhere to be seen. Jim hauls himself out of the tube and drops more carefully into the main corridor. The lights are nonfunctional here and his headlamp activates automatically, which reveals Spock kneeling by a group of survivors, methodically pressing transponders against the transportable, sorting the whole from the broken, the living from the dead.
"Riley, I've got a visual on Spock," he comms in.
Acknowledged, Kirk
"Doctor Riley," Spock says, activating his own comm with a press of his lapel. "Six to beam up. Stabilise then beam onwards, confirm?"
Riley here, Commander. His voice sounds tinny on the wide channel. Six on their way. Acknowledged.
Spock steps back for a second as all but one of the huddled living disappears in a swirl of light. Then he's back on his knees in a flash, hands calmly probing the extent of the last man's injuries. Jim kneels next to him in time to see Spock exchange the man's hands for his own. In the split second where the wound is open, it sprays blood all over Spock's visor like a high pressure hose. The man cries out in fear, but Spock is talking to him calmly, the words becoming audible as Jim's forces himself to focus.
"... condition is serious but stable," he's saying. "There is no cause for panic. The artery has been successfully clamped. Further blood loss will be minimal. I am now administering a mild sedative as it is necessary to lower your heart rate."
Jim surprises himself by having the hypo loaded and in Spock's hand before he's had a chance to realise what he was doing. Those drills pay off after all. Spock presses it against their patient's neck with a muted hiss and hands it back. It's only now that Jim sees the pool of sticky human blood Spock is kneeling in and the open case of micro-lock clamps by his side. The guy is damn lucky to be alive at all, but if Spock's telling the truth, then yeah, there's a good chance he's going to make it out of here now.
"Do you know the location of the Captain?" Spock asks as he calmly wipes the man's blood from his visor with one sleeve.
"He was helping the Chief Engineer with a blown coupling," the man says weakly. "It's a narrow junction, about two or three intersections away."
Spock slaps a pressure bandage to the man's chest and a transponder to his arm, but before his hand reaches his lapel to order a beam-out, the man grabs at his suit, stopping him.
"EPAS, wait," he gasps, "the junction is tricky to find. You'll need help."
Spock deliberates for a split second, then nods. "Very well."
It's a good thing that Jim has all their gear repacked, because Spock gathers the patient into a shoulder hold and sets off at a dead run in the direction indicated. Overwhelmed by the pace, Jim bolts after them, trying to ignore the way his boots slip and slide a little on the deck until most of the blood is off them.
About thirty seconds later the injured crewman calls a halt, and yeah, Jim is pretty sure they would have missed the junction on their first pass and been forced to turn back to retrace their steps. The walls are shredded by shrapnel, flashing and sparking in the darkness. The chaotic scene is illuminated in fits and starts, hard on the eyes, unforgiving on the imagination. Still, it's Jim who spots the scrap of command gold in the far corner.
"There!" he calls, forgetting in his urgency that there's no need to shout over the comm. Then, before he's had a chance to think about the risks, he ducks below a sparking conduit and pushes into the rubble.
Kirk, what are you doing? Let Spock take lead on this one, over.
"I can see him!"
"Lieutenant!" Spock calls into the flickering rubble.
"I can see him, sir!"
"Lieutenant, this area of the ship is structurally unsound. Clip in!"
Kirk, listen to Spock. Secure yourself first.
Jim obeys wordlessly, never taking his eyes from the slight rise and fall of that gold shirt as he takes a grapple from his harness and loops it around a nearby spar. It's as if the Excelsior's Captain might disappear if he stops looking at him for even a second, culminating in a figment of his adrenaline-fired imagination.
"Spock to Ahern," comes the deep baritone over the comm.
Ahern here.
"One to beam up, category two, confirm."
I'm sorry, Commander, Ahern responds, her voice tight and stretched high. There's too much interference from the warp core. Transporter is a no-go, do you copy? We have no transporter capability, sir.
" ... Acknowledged. Spock out."
Behind him, Jim can now hear the slower progress of Spock, hampered by the awkward weight of their guide, but then he reaches the body and his mind goes blank with shock.
His first coherent thought is that he's completely lost it, because it's Sulu. The Sulu he jumped off an alien platform to save. For a moment he's overcome by the memory of relief, the sensation of his chute's tethers straining under the load of their combined weight but holding, blessedly holding, slowing their descent so that the transporter techs have a chance to beam them out.
Then Sulu blinks and opens his eyes and Jim has work to do. He tears the medkit free of his belt and makes a quick pass with the tricorder all in one movement.
"Jim Kirk?"
"Hey, Hikaru," he says conversationally. "How's things?"
"Oh, you know," Sulu sighs, then grimaces as Jim traces his hands over one thigh and finds the point where it's pierced through by metal. He clenches his teeth, "same old, same old."
"I hear you," he nods, working quickly to staunch the bleeding with packs and foam and his goddamn hands. He palms the small laser cutter and sets to work on the piece of plassteel that's pinning that leg to the deck. At the point where the beam intersects the metal, Sulu's blood vaporises into a sickly pink steam.
The captain shifts slightly on the deck, attempting to help improve Jim's access. "I heard you'd joined EPAS. Never expected to need your help, though."
"Yeah," Jim nods but keeps his eyes glued to the path of the cutter. "I guess nobody ever does."
"What made you switch?"
Jim thinks of that space-jump, of a fleet torn to shreds, of poor orders from on high, of lifeless floating bodies and planets imploding in an abortive scream.
"The dental, mostly."
Sulu laughs, tossing his dark head back against the deck. His hand finds Jim's knee and he squeezes, hard. "What now, Jim?"
"Now, okay, so this is going to hurt," he warns, knowing it's inadequate but not having anything else to offer.
"I figured," Sulu replies through clenched teeth. "Just do it, already."
"On three."
"Stop being such a fucking tease," Sulu laughs unsteadily.
So Jim slips both arms under his skewered leg and hauls sharply upwards, towards the section he's cut away, like pulling meat off a shishkabob. Sulu screams, of course, who the fuck wouldn't, but despite the fresh run of liquid heat over Jim's gloved hands the man is no longer pinned to the deck of his own ship.
"I got you," Jim murmurs, pressing and packing and wielding hypos as fast as he can. "I got you, man."
"Yeah," Hikaru nods weakly, his face pale and clammy in the random flashes of light, "just like last time."
Spock arrives just in time to see the Captain and the Lieutenant clasp hands so that Jim can haul Sulu into a sitting position.
"Zero spinal," Jim offers without prompting, "category two, stabilised, safe for transport, sir."
"Acknowledged, Lieutenant," Spock nods, then turns to Hikaru. "Captain Sulu, it is not possible to achieve transporter lock on our current position due to imminent warp core breach. Where is the closest ..."
He gets no further.
The whole hull behind them suddenly explodes out into space.
Spock flings out a gloved hand and Jim grabs it, their fingers close around each others' wrists. Spock's legs fly out from underneath him and Sulu lifts from the deck and crashes into their chests. That leaves Jim barely enough time to register that Spock has used his clip-in line to secure both their patients to himself, as well as to the infrastructure. Still, if Jim lets go, Spock will play out to the end of his line, just far enough to slap against the razor-sharp edges of what's left of the outer hull. Spock's other arm is wrapped around their guide, pressing a breathing mask against the man's face.
The sound is gone in an instant, along with the air and the heat. Sulu's mouth opens in a silent scream and Jim can see the small capillaries begin to explode in his eyes. Before he can think about it, Jim pops the seal on his helmet and opens the visor in Sulu's face. The Captain takes a deep, painful breath of frozen air, hardly enough, but his cheeks flush pink and the tears don't freeze in his eyes.
Of course this means that Jim is now totally fucked, too.
His suit is spewing out a thin, rapidly diminishing breathable vapour, barely enough to keep either of them oxygenated even as it does nothing against the decompression. The thin polymer fabric is pressed tightly against him like a wet swimsuit, heating coils working overtime. It's not enough. It's nowhere near enough. It's like every molecule in his body has just developed an overpoweringly urgent desire to be elsewhere.
His suit gives one last cough of air at them both and then Jim's lungs are on fire. His chest is about to burst and black spots close in before his eyes. Spock's hand is like a vice around his wrist. He opens his own fingers and tugs. Spock refuses to let go. Jim wants to yell at him but that last breath in his lungs is precious and there's no air to carry the sound to his comm mic anyway.
He yanks harder, desperate now, knowing he has only split seconds.
Then it's like Spock suddenly gets it, because not only does he release Jim, but his hand flashes with his own laser cutter and sets them all free. With the last vestiges of strength in his body, Jim pushes off from the nearest object as hard as he can, Sulu still clutched firmly to his chest. Spock co-operates, using his well-oxygenated Vulcan strength to propel them even faster out into the depths of space, away from the Excelsior and the interference of her unstable warp core.
They fly through the rent in the hull and spiral out into the black.
Sulu has lost consciousness, but he weighs nothing here and Jim's frozen arm couldn't let go even if he wanted to.
Jim fights the burn as long as he can, then his body's own instinct force him to expel his last lungful of air. He convulses once. Twice. It's impossible to draw the nothingness into himself, but his body tries anyway. How long has it been? Seconds? Feels like hours.
Then there's a flash and a blur and his skin is burning like fire.
For a second he thinks the warp core has blown, but then gravity settles in around him and his bleeding eyes have a moment to register the inside of a medevac shuttle before Spock obscures his view.
The Vulcan snaps his visor up and uses his teeth to tear off his gloves, not bothering to undo the fastenings. Thin lines of green blood blossom on his wrists, close enough for Jim to see as those hot hands tilt his head, support his jaw, burning into his frozen flesh. Spock's face blocks out the light and Jim has a moment of confusion, but then an expelled breath of second-hand air is forced into his lungs.
Spock pulls back, presses hot fingers against his carotid.
Jim wants to tell him that one breath is not enough, that his body has forgotten how to do this, but he must know that because he leans in to give another breath, then a third.
It's then that Jim gasps, pulls in one for himself, ignores the pain because this first breath of his own is richer in all the things that he needs. Spock calls out something that contains the words 'Riley' and 'immediately' and 'order.' He can't catch the rest through the ringing in his ears. Then there's an oxygen mask against his face and when he takes another breath he's almost giddy. Spock is playing a scanner over his chest, which is followed by another device that makes his lungs tingle inside him, and you really shouldn't be able to feel your lungs like that; it's beyond weird.
Jim can feel tears running down his face. He raises a shaky hand, but it's still gloved and covered in other men's frozen blood so he lets it fall again. Spock notices and uses his free hand to complete the task, pressing the thumb gently into the hollow of each eye and wiping outwards. When he pulls back and rests that hand on his knee, it's now red with blood as well as green with it.
Jim tries to thank him, but all he can manage is a grunt.
"One moment," Spock says calmly, reaching for something. Then he injects a vial of liquid into the oxygen line feeding Jim's mask and his throat burns hotter for a second, choking him, then goes blessedly numb.
Spock lifts one of Jim's hands and unclasps the glove, baring it and settling it on the mask. Jim's fingers refuse to obey and his hand hits the transporter pad with a numb thud. Spock takes that same hand and firmly, patiently, he shapes the fingers in place. This time they stay there. Spock pushes to his feet and disappears.
No, Jim thinks, don't go.
But then he's back, sinking into a graceful crouch on the transporter pad. He reaches out, parting Jim's eyelids with finger and thumb, then lets two drops of some warm liquid fall into the eye before releasing it. He repeats the process with the other eye, once again thumbing away the mess as Jim tears up and sneezes as the drops hit his sinuses and trickle down into the back of his throat.
He coughs and tries to push upright.
"Inadvisable at this time," Spock tells him.
When Jim persists in trying to get vertical, Spock tuts slightly under his breath and lifts him effortlessly into suited arms.
Well shit, Jim thinks, head lolling against Spock's chest, this is fucking awkward.
Spock settles him sideways into a bench seat opposite the medical station. He clips the harness into Jim's EVA suit, securing him, then jams a large vacuum-pack of something behind his shoulder, propping him upright. As a final touch, Spock breaks open a shiny silver thermal blanket and efficiently covers him with it.
He pauses for a second to survey his handiwork and consult the scanner again, nods once and turns away.
Jim suddenly realises it's all over and he's going to live. It's only as Spock sanitises his hands and shoulders and steps in beside Doctor Riley that he remembers both Excelsior crewmen are going to be even worse off.
Jim sits quietly on his bench and breathes. He watches Riley and Spock work. They're unfamiliar with each other and it shows, but Spock is a keen observer and is soon anticipating Riley's needs as he transfers his attention from Sulu to the other crewman in quick succession. The basic monitors above the two biobeds quickly abandon the red zone and start to flicker from amber to green, but with increasingly more green showing across the board.
They're going to live, too.
"Approaching shuttle bay doors," Ahern calls from the cockpit. "Prepare for docking."
Riley straps into the small fold-out seat between the biobeds. Its three point harness is cleverly designed to ensure he can still reach the majority of the controls above each patient.
"Holy shit, Kirk," the doctor exclaims with wide eyes. "Holy fucking shit, no one's going to believe that happened."
Jim manages a twitch of his eyebrows and keeps breathing deeply through his mouth, his nose still being too numb for such activities.
Spock acknowledges Ahern and crosses the cabin to Jim's bench. He straps in to the other free seat, then reaches out to press the back of his hand against Jim's brow. His skin still feels alien-hot, but Spock makes a slight approving sound and withdraws. Jim gives his feet an experimental wiggle and realises that yeah, he's a lot better than he was a few minutes ago.
They bounce lightly on the deck and an engineering tech is running beside them as they coast to a halt, leaping aboard the port runner without even waiting for them to come to a full stop. The forcefield pops and the sound of organised chaos floods the shuttle. People are shouting to be heard, boots are drumming on the deck, hyposprays hiss and metal clanks against metal as command of the situation is transferred to the Stalwart's highly trained medical crew.
"Got yourself a dodgy aft stabiliser," the tech comments, jumping aboard and making a beeline for the engine bay without so much as a glance at the Doctor, patients or Points.
"Don't I know it," Ahern calls after him. "She's sluggish on the rotationals, too."
"Spock!" comes an angry voice.
"Doctor McCoy," the Commander acknowledges, snapping free of his harness and rising to his not inconsiderable height.
Bones shoulders his way past the two junior doctors who preceded him, his face an ugly mix of anger and relief. He marches right up to Spock and shoves a hand-held scanner in his face. "What in the blue blazes were you doing in hard vacuum, you moron?"
"It was necessary to effect our extraction," Spock explains, with considerable patience for a Commander who's just been abused by a subordinate. "Lieutenant Kirk formulated a plan which ..."
"Oh this is your fault, is it?" McCoy rounds on him with narrowed eyes. "I thought I told you to rest! Listen you young jackass, some of us have been in this game long enough to realise that EPAS isn't about daring escapes from the clutches of death, it's about doing things by the book and keeping each other safe! I'm not quite sure who thought it was a good idea to let any of you Nix people go racing off into the thick of things while I collected dust in my bunk, but there are going to be words! Last thing we need is some goddamn hero in this ..." he trails off as the scanner in his hand bleeps and whirs after being pointed at Jim like a weapon. "What the devil happened to you?"
Jim finds himself momentarily speechless at McCoy's scathing tone.
Spock insinuates himself neatly into the pause in conversation. "The Lieutenant has experienced severe decompression. I have treated his primary symptoms and he appears to be stable."
"Stable my ass!" Bones growls, leaning in closer with the scanner. Whatever he sees, it softens his manner somewhat. "What'd you do? Pop your visor 'cause environmental control seemed stable and forget to shut it again?"
Jim considers telling the full story, but he has a feeling that's going to make McCoy mad again and he's just not up to that kind of scary right now. "Um," he nods instead, "something like that."
"Hmm," McCoy grumbles. "Well, you'll need a little tissue regen and Spock's rush job on your alveoli is going to sting like a bitch for a few days, but you're one lucky sonofabitch, you know that?" He straightens and then unexpectedly cuffs Kirk behind one ear. "Keep your goddamn helmet on! That's what it's for!"
"Yes, doctor," he agrees meekly, but he's watching Spock out of the corner of his eye. The Commander is helping Riley and the medics load Sulu and the other crewman onto stretchers, but those dark eyes slide his way every now and then. For a split second, they lock and hold with his own. Jim imagines he can see approval there. A pleasant warmth spreads through him at the thought, thawing him a little further. It's the first time in a long time he's cared what an authority figure thinks of him. It's all too easy to recall the disappointment he felt the instant he realised what kind of man captained the Enterprise.
The smile slips from his face, erased by the memory of a battle that was lost for no good reason. Idolizing your superiors is dangerous. Still, seeing Spock in action had been all kinds of awesome, that was indisputable, and it was possible to respect a person's abilities without putting them on a pedestal.
Spock turns away and jumps lightly down through the open hatch. He has duties as the Divisional Commander that come into effect the second his own shuttle's demands are satisfied, so it's Bones that grabs Jim by the elbow and hauls him into a sitting position.
"Now, hold your horses," the doctor warns. "You're all screwy inside just now."
Jim's heart is pounding, trying to adapt as all the blood rushes to his frozen legs. "That a technical term, Bones?"
"Don't backsass me," he growls, but doesn't protest the new nickname. Instead, he reaches out one reassuring hand and holds Jim's hair off his face so he can focus on breathing.
Eventually, his heart settles down and his lips stop tingling. With a nod from McCoy, he levers himself carefully to his feet. The doctor watches him intently, eyes narrowed, but he stays upright.
"Good to go?"
McCoy rolls his eyes. "Only place you're going is straight to sickbay. Now get."
Jim offers a shaky salute and uses the hand-holds for support as he steps out of the door and into the hangar, catching his reflection in the shiny hull plating and grimacing. It's not pretty. He gets about ten steps away from the shuttle before he knows he's in trouble. His feet might be back on solid deck, but the world still feels like it's moving, shuddering, jerking around him. The drill platform flashes before his eyes. Geysers of flame. Free-falling. The ground reaching up to claim him. A planet, an entire planet of peaceful people destroyed, obliterated, vanished ...
He staggers, falls to his knees, barely gets there in time and empties his stomach all over the polished deck. Everyone springs back, exclaims softly, part surprise, part disgust, and it only adds to Jim's misery. He's hot and cold at the same time. There's a ringing in his ears and his suit is suddenly too tight, choking him. Sweat breaks out on his face, between his shoulder blades, and he's absolutely certain he's going to pass out. He's tugging at the collar, fingers scrabbling at the seam in panicked desperation.
Then, out of the blue, there's a firm hand on his shoulder. McCoy,he thinks, please don't bitch me out just now, but he's wrong.
Spock drops to one knee. "Doctor Riley?"
Riley suddenly moves into Jim's field of vision. He can see the man's blush, his embarrassment that the DivCO had to remind him of his duties. But then there are intrusive hands on Jim's face, probing fingers at his throat and he bats them away, ashamed and suddenly angry.
"No," he rasps through the acid taste in his mouth, "don't need a doctor."
"Refusing medical aid is illogical. You are unwell."
Jim risks a glance at Spock. His usually orderly hair is plastered to his head and sticking up at angles, disarrayed by the hasty removal of his own helmet. The hood of his suit is pushed back, revealing the points of his ears. He looks more alien than ever, but somehow, he knows that only Spock can understand him. The Commander reaches around and deftly undoes Jim's collar one-handed.
"Please," Jim whispers, for Spock's ears only. "I just need a moment."
The Commander regards him carefully. A bead of condensation makes its lazy way from his hairline to his jaw, a testament to rapid changes in temperature they've both been subjected to. This close, Jim can see that his eyes aren't actually black, but brown instead. They're steady and measuring.
Jim swallows.
Spock nods slowly, eyes flicking to Riley, who doesn't need to hear the order.
The crowd melts away, leaving the two of them kneeling on the deck. Spock sits back on his heels, the gentle but unrelenting pressure of his hand forcing Jim to do the same. It's easier to sit like this, to close his eyes and cope with the spinning. He hears the clank and splash of someone dealing with the mess he's made on the deck, and finds himself both grateful and embarrassed all over again.
Spock's silence is uncanny. Any human would be asking questions by now. What happened? What's going on with you? Why'd you lose it like that? But not Spock. For the first time since the beginning of this deployment, Jim is powerfully grateful to be in the presence of a Vulcan.
"Thanks."
Spock doesn't say anything, but he raises one hand, palm down, in an abortive and very human gesture that say's clearly don't mention it. He cuts himself off halfway though, placing the hand firmly back on his thigh. The fingers flex as though holding on.
"Your gratitude is unnecessary," he says quietly.
"Well, you've got it anyway," Jim tells him, taking a deep breath. "You didn't have to push off like that. Your suit was still sealed, you had a mask for that crewman and you know that Ahern or Ops would have modulated the transporter frequency in another few seconds. You could have just let me go."
Spock glances at him, then back at the place where his hands sit on the stained fabric of his EVA suit. There is no trace of blood on them now. He washed it off in order to assist Riley, but there are shallow striations around each wrist, scabbed over in a deep forest green.
"You saved my life." Jim shrugs at him, because really, it's like Spock doesn't even get it.
"As you saved the life of Captain Sulu."
Then again, perhaps that's all that needs to be said. There's a certain balance in it, after all. They share a quiet moment, both watching the Stalwart crew move about the hangar with practiced efficiency despite the innate chaos of the setting. Eventually, Spock shifts beside him.
"Come," he says. "I have additional duties to discharge. I will ensure your arrival at sickbay on my way to the bridge."
"No," says Jim, shaking his head. "You don't have to do that."
Spock gives him a stern look, one that's suddenly all Commander. It makes Jim wonder where the hell all the 'sirs' and 'lieutenants' went.
"Okay," he says quickly, "thank you, sir."
Spock nods and rises nimbly to his feet. Jim makes a bit of a hash of it, but at least he gets vertical under his own power. The Commander precedes him out of the hangar. He's stopped every few turns to receive a report, sign a PADD or answer a question. He's unfailingly polite, always helpful and really quite patient when faced with the human propensity to babble in times of stress. It's not until he drops Jim off at sick bay and promptly banishes all the other hangers-on that Jim begins to suspect it may have simply been a ploy to give Jim a chance to keep up.
Bones tells him he's put a hairline fracture back through one of the recent breaks, and also that he's an idiot. Then he wants to know why the hell Jim is smiling.
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