oOoOo
"So we're sitting there in the shuttle and I'm like, 'What kind of combat training do you have?' And he's like, 'Fencing.'" Kirk laughs, shaking his head. "And so I'm thinking, shit, these fucking Starfleet guys, right? Fencing? But it's a little late to do anything about it so I figure hey, what the hell, at least he'll be fast."
Chekov leans a little closer across the table. He hasn't touched his dinner, nor the work he brought with him to the mess hall. "Yes, of course," he says, already rapt.
Kirk isn't sure why he asked to hear this story. A few weeks have passed since they began their five year mission, but Kirk and Chekov have never really talked outside bridge business. When Chekov came up to him that night, he seemed like a guy who'd been stalling, but Kirk can't imagine why — he tells stories all the time, to anyone who'll listen, and this one isn't even dirty.
Kirk knocks back another gulp of the Aldebaran whiskey he's not suppose to have on board and grins. He's just getting to the good part. "So we're heading toward this giant platform that's, you know, dangling from orbit and shooting fire all over the place. And Olson, well..." He raises his glass, and a few moments of silence pass before he downs the rest of it. "I hit the platform all right, retract my chute so it doesn't pull me over, get up okay. Then this Romulan pops out of a hatch holding this giant-ass gun, catches me off-guard and knocks my phaser out of my hand. Which leaves me with jack and shit so I just start whaling on the guy.
"But Sulu, right? He hits too hard and whings right off the edge." Kirk slams his hand down on the table and slides it off, to demonstrate. "So he has to use his chute to pull himself back up. But it's dragging him right toward a grate that's seriously got this fireball coming out of it that's like twenty feet high. And I've got my hands full of Romulan and I'm thinking, I'm gonna loose two guys in one fucking away mission, right? There's no way I'm gonna get over there in time."
This lull is for effect, and Kirk glances up at Chekov, trying to gauge how well this is all going over — this story is still pretty new and he hasn't quite gotten the timing down yet. Chekov's just a kid, really, so Kirk expects a little wide-eyed enthusiasm.
But Chekov is completely absorbed, mouth slightly open and breath shallow enough for Kirk to notice. "And then?" he asks. His hands are on either side of his tray, holding it so tight that Kirk can see the cords of muscle standing out.
"So he pulls this little thing out of his pocket. And then I hear this sound, like, ksch ksch ksch ksch ksch, and I realize it's a fucking collapsable sword. Right? Fencing!" Kirk laughs, but Chekov's tension doesn't break. He almost looks like he'll pass out from the suspense so Kirk goes on, though he's watching the other man closely, now, his eyes no longer wandering around the mess hall. "So he cuts himself loose and then pops up on his feet like nothing happened. And seriously, Chekov, you should've seen the look on his face. You ever watch those old Samurai movies? Fucking. Bad. Ass."
Chekov licks his lips, his face pale beneath the dusting of freckles. "And then?"
The first few times Kirk told this story, that was pretty much the end of it — the punchline that tied everything together, nice and neat. But today he goes on, describing the rest of the fight in as much detail as he can remember. The blow-by-blow of his own fisticuffs is met with polite interest, exactly what you'd expect from a young officer humoring his captain. But when Kirk recalls how Sulu leapt up into the air, summersaulting over the head of the second Romulan and then locking blades, Chekov's jaw drops with naked admiration.
Ah, Kirk thinks. That's how it is.
"So we're standing there, thinking we're all set," says Kirk. "The drill's off, the Romulans are toast, that's it, right? But then they start hauling the damn thing back up. And Sulu, he's right next to the edge."
"Yes," Chekov whispers.
"I know what's gonna happen, but it's just like before. He's too far. No way I can grab him before he falls." Kirk's voice is somber, now; ominous, as if they don't already know how things turned out. "And Sulu…he doesn't cry for help, you know? Doesn't scream. Doesn't say a damn thing. He just looks at me, and I can see that he knows. He knows he's dead."
Chekov manages one small, tight nod. He seems to have stopped breathing entirely.
"But I've still got my chute, right? There's still a chance. So I dive after him. And he's a smart guy, Chekov. Kept his head even then, has his arms and legs spread to slow himself down. So I catch up, and we grab hold of each other, and I tell him to pull my chute."
"But it failed," Chekov murmurs.
"Yeah," says Kirk. "The strain's too much. So we keep falling. And I'm screaming up at you guys to beam us out of there, totally losing my shit. But Sulu, man. Sulu's dead calm. The wind's so loud I can barely hear myself, the horizon's spinning all over the goddamn place, I can't tell which way's up anymore let alone how much longer we've got. But Sulu's head is right up next to mine, you know? And he's yelling but up there is sounds like a whisper, almost too quiet for me to make out."
"And…" Chekov's adams apple bobs as he swallows. "And what did he say?"
Kirk lowers his eyes to the tabletop, his voice soft and serious. Which is difficult, because he's an inch away from cracking up. "That he only had one regret. One secret he wished he hadn't kept."
"Yes?"
"One person he'd been too afraid to talk to. To tell them how he really felt, you know?"
Chekov is almost vibrating, now. "Yes?"
Kirk sits perfectly still for a long, silent moment, his mouth drawn into a considering frown. The tray in Chekov's grip begins to clatter, and Chekov hastily lets it go, folding his hands in front of him on the table.
Then Kirk chuckles a little and leans back in his chair, reaching for the flask in his belt so he can pour another round. "Hell, I guess it's kind of personal," he says, light and easy. "Probably shouldn't say."
Chekov makes a small, wheezing sound, like a balloon deflating. "Y-yes," he says. "I…suppose that's true."
"Not sure you'd want to hear it anyway," Kirk continues, unable to help himself. "Might be a little weird."
Chekov stares down at his cold dinner. "Weird," he echoes faintly.
"Anyway, you know what happened after that. Nice work, by the way." Kirk glances up at the clock on the wall and widens his eyes, as if surprised by how long it's been. "Better get back to the bridge," he says. He pushes the whiskey toward Chekov and gets to his feet. "Looking kinda shaky there, Ensign. See if this calms the nerves a little."
Chekov mumbles a vague affirmative, and Kirk gives him a friendly slap on the shoulder before he turns to leave the mess hall. At the door, he glances back in time to see Chekov down the glass in one swallow.
That's how it is, he thinks. He grins as he saunters down the corridor.
oOoOo