The crew is still reeling, devastated by the loss of their captain, first mate, and pilot in one fell swoop. They parrot through their dailies, avoiding each other pointedly in their grief.
There are no funerals because there are no bodies, but a week later, after the ship is docked with the rest of the fleet, there is a memorial service. Those left, the doctor, the linguist, and the navigator, are the hardest hit, the ones left to cope with the loss of not only their coworkers but their friends, their lovers.
She finds him long after he is already gone, tucked into a dark corner and reeking of expensive whiskey. His eyes are unfocused and red rimmed, from tears or alcohol, she doesn't know.
She sits next to him, her long legs pressed against his and takes a long swig from the bottle, the drink tearing her throat up on the way down. He mumbles something about not wanting to share, but it goes largely unnoticed as she continues to deaden her awareness.
"He didn't have to go down there," she says, her voice heavy. He snorts.
"He's the captain, Nyota. Of course he had to go down there."
She doesn't correct him, but she is thinking about Spock. The silence presses on them for a long minute, punctuated only by the sound of the drink sloshing against the bottle.
He stands to leave first, wordlessly, but sits back down with a groan, holding his hand in his hands. She laughs at him a little before resting her forehead against the cool glass of the picture window they are sitting in front of.
She wiggles towards him, scoots along the floor until she is an inch from his face and cups his heavy head in her hands. He struggles to focus on her, clearly exhausted and completely spent. He barely reacts when her lips crash into his.
She doesn't know why she is kissing him, but the tiny swell in her heart and the subtle clench in her stomach brings her comfort, reminds her that she can still feel something after the week they'd had.
He is clumsy in his response, dragging her into his lap and slipping a hand under her shirt to steady her. She tucks her knees around his waist, knowing how bad it looks. Instead of pushing away like she should, she twines her arms around his head, her fingers snaking through the graying hair at the nape of his neck.
They break apart to suck in a desperate breath at the same time that Scotty gawks past, shoving Keenser along quickly.
The moment is gone when she stands, straightening her skirt. He heaves himself off the ground and runs a hand through his hair, avoiding her gaze. They say nothing as they head off in different directions.
Though it is comfort they seek, the dead weight of an empty bed to return to is all they leave with.