Pairing: Kirk/Spock, Spock/Uhura and Chekov/Sulu if you squint
Word count: 1648
Warnings: Angst like woah people. Character death all over the damn place.
Disclaimer: I'd have to fight off several million Trekkies in order to have them for my own, and frankly I'm to damn tired.
Summary: Inspired by this promt -> "Death is a debt, to Nature due, which we have paid, and so must you" at the st_xi_kink meme, which has TAKEN OVER MY BRAIN!
Author's Notes: My very first Stark Trek 2009 (or Star Trek Reboot, or Star Trek XI, or nu!Trek, or whatever the hell you want to call it) fic. This fandom took over my brain fiercely and completely thanks to Zachary Quinto and Chris Pine. Be expecting more in future. P.S. Op, sorry for the crappy-ass title. It's 5 in the morning, I don't care to think hard enough to figure one out on my own.
People screamed all throughout the ship, crying out in pain or mourning the dead. On the bridge everything was deathly quiet. There were just three people there, the CMO, the First Officer, and the navigator. Pavel Chekov lay on the cold metal floor, pale and frightened, bleeding badly from the wounds on his chest. His head was propped carefully in Commander Spock’s lap and Doctor McCoy worked frantically to stop the bleeding. He injected the young ensign with hyposprays and pressed hard on the gaping wounds with his capable hands, but his blood spilled out over pale fingers and stained the silver floor.
Chekov gasped in shallow, pained breaths and he stared up at Spock; wide, innocent eyes filled with fear. They begged for help but Spock had none to give.
‘Get us out of here, Ensign,’ Spock had ordered over the sounds of battle and the creaking scream of their ship tearing under enemy fire. He had left them there, the young navigator and an alternate pilot whose name he did not know, before leaving the bridge, following the sounds to the heart of the attack. It had been an ambush, late on the gamma shift, nothing but a skeleton crew awake, no one prepared.
The battle had been fierce, and they had won, but at a high cost. The counts of wounded and dead were still pouring in as Doctor McCoy tried desperately to save Pavel’s life. “Did I-“ the quiet sound of Pavel’s voice startled Spock and the doctor; Spock looked down at the boy - not a boy any longer, Spock’s mind told him, it had been more than ten years since their time aboard the Enterprise began - and pressed a hand gently to his sweat-slick forehead. “Did I-do good?” Chekov asked, blood filling his mouth and pouring from the sides, mixing with the sweat and tears on his face.
Spock glanced quickly around the bridge, taking in the young pilot laying lifeless on the floor beside the pilot’s chair, the dead bodies of their attackers that littered the floor at the entrance. There were nearly a dozen of them, none more than a few meters inside the bridge, their blood mingling and flowing slick and black over the gleaming metal floor.
“Yes, Pavel,” Spock said quietly as McCoy sighed deeply and pulled his bloody hands from the navigator’s chest. “You did very well. Rest now.”
Pavel Chekov sighed, a soft, joyful smile pulling at his blood-stained lips. His eyes slipped closed and Spock gently stroked his forehead as the young navigator’s lungs ceased to function and his heart slowly stopped.
It was highly illogical. The natives called it the Di’coli Haat – the Flight of Dead. Spock had watched their Captain intently, trying to judge his state of mind as he allowed their pilot to slip into the seat of the Corandi speedship and prepare to fly through the crashing, violent storm that raged constantly in the deep canyon outside the capital city. Jim Kirk had pointedly ignored him, watching Hikaru Sulu with a look in his eyes that spoke of sadness, of grief.
They had been led to the air-field after the banquet held in their honor and Sulu had looked overjoyed at the prospect of attempting the flight when the Corandi ambassador had told them about the kamakazi test. Their pilot took off as the rest of the team watched, the sleek metal of the aircraft illuminating with each flash of blue lightning that crashed through the storm, and Spock realized that it had been a long time since Hikaru had looked anything like happy. It had been three years since Pavel’s death, and Hikaru had never been the same.
When the bright, burning orange light filled the canyon, the sound of crashing metal and burning fuel overpowering the deep sounds of thunder, Nyota began to cry, McCoy turned and walked away, and Jim stared quietly, stoically, into the raging storm. Spock stood silently beside him, ignoring the desperate apologies from the ambassador, and watched the orange light fade.
McCoy raged beside him, cursing and spitting pointless threats. Jim begged to take her place, hands reaching through the bars of their cage as if he could reach her by sheer will. And in their ears the comm’s buzzed with the static sound of futility, cut off from the ship, from any hope of rescue. Nyota Uhura watched them all, tears sliding down her face as she was marched slowly to the blood-stained alter. The tears were not for herself, but for them. Because they had to watch, because they would blame themselves when this was over, if any of them survived. Spock knew this because he knew her.
He knew she was strong and loving and good. She was the first person he had ever called friend.
Her eyes met his and for one moment he wished futilely that he knew now how to show her everything she was. How to tell her without words all the things she meant to him. Her eyes stayed on his as they strapped her to the stone alter. As they cut away her clothes and anointed her with oils. The ceremonial knife was placed at her breast and she smiled at him, and he knew that she knew.
Everyone knew that Scotty loved his ship. When the Captain tried to correct him, reminded him that it was in fact his ship, Scotty just smiled and said, you may tell her where to go, but it’s me she talks to, Captain. There had been rumors running through the crew for years that Mr. Scott had a far more…intimate relationship with the Enterprise than anyone wanted to think about.
“I can’t leave her, Captain. She’s not dead yet! Let me save her!”
The very walls were falling down around them, the metal creaking and groaning as the ship was hit time and again with enemy fire. The hull was torn open, the shields were long gone, and the engines had given their last to the extensive assault. Spock pulled roughly at Scotty’s arm, dragging him through the corridors to the evacuation ships. “There’s nothing left, Scotty,” Jim screamed from the other side of the struggling man, doing his best to keep the engineer from bolting back to the bowels of the ship. “We have to go.”
Jim shoved Scotty into a seat on one of the last remaining shuttlecrafts and slammed his hand against the door lock. “It’s just a ship, Scotty.”
When the Captain turned his back to find a seat of his own Scotty bolted to his feet and ran to the door. “Open for me, love,” he whispered into the console. The door slid open and the engineer ran, into the burning, twisted ship. The door slammed closed again just as Jim turned to follow.
As the shuttlecraft flew off into the darkness, racing after the dozen other ships that held the remainder of their battered crew, Spock and Jim watched the Enterprise fall apart into a mass of glittering metal bits that would float forever in the vastness of space.
Jim wasn’t here and that didn’t seem right. He was out, somewhere, searching. Always searching for a cure. But it was too late now and he wasn’t here at the end. Doctor McCoy coughed, a hard, wheezing sound, and he doubled over in pain. His daughter rushed to his side, careful hands at his back to help him. She was crying quietly, tears wetting her pale skin. When the coughs ended there was blood on the pristinely white sheets. Spock reached a hand out, to comfort or give support or to say all the things he thought he should.
McCoy slapped his hand away and glared. “Don’t try that now, ya hobgoblin. We may be damn different in a lot of ways, but neither of us has ever had a use for sentimentality.” He coughed again, gasping into his hands when his lungs refused to pull in enough air.
The doctor laughed, a frail sound. “Spent my whole life saving people. Poking ‘em, and jabbing ‘em. Sticking ‘em with hyposprays. And now I can’t save myself.”
“Jim should be here,” Spock said, unable to look the doctor in the eyes.
“You tell that bastard…” A deep sigh, and Spock looked up to see tears gleaming trails down McCoy’s face. “You tell him I loved every damn minute of it.”
Spock nodded. He had no words, but he knew McCoy wouldn’t want them anyway.
“How long, Spock?” Jim lay against Spock’s chest, his heart beating its slow rhythm against Spock’s ribs. They were on a soft lounge chair outside their home, looking up at the dark, red sky of the Vulcan colony planet. His hand was fragile in Spock’s, the skin thin and dry, covered in faded scars and agelines.
“Sixty-eight years,” Spock said, kissing Jim’s temple softly. “Eight months, twelve days, fourteen hours since we met.”
“Who would have thought it would end like this?” The stars had begun to slip into the darkness and Spock looked for all the ones they had been to together.
“Not I, t’hy’la.” He pulled Jim closer, felt the breath in his lungs and the gentle pulse in his chest. “Not I.”
They called him Ambassador now, they called him a hero. They said he had changed the very face of the universe. They said that he was a legend. There were statues erected with his visage and his name was in books of history.
Spock watched the stars as they flew by in their bright white streaks, and he waited for the end.