A/N: Here is the next chapter. This one diverts from the humor theme; it is, on the whole, rather on the heavy side. This chapter is essentially chapter two, plus a 'bridge' to give transition into the next chapter. The next chapter will be returning to humor. I am far more uncertain about the quality of this chapter, but I hope you all enjoy regardless.
Thank you also to all who reviewed, favorited, and placed this story on their alerts. It is all greatly appreciated. Special thanks to those who reviewed—your comments make the writing process much easier.
Disclaimer: (Since I overlooked it on the last chapter—) I do not own any aspect of Star Trek: 2009 or any of the Star Trek franchise, nor am I in any way affiliated with it. Everything belongs to Gene Roddenberry and (in this context) J.J. Abrams, and is property of Paramount.
Chapter 2
"Then why don't you stop me?"
"Step away from me, Mr. Kirk."
"What is it like not to feel anger…or heartbreak…or the need to stop at nothing to avenge the death of the woman who gave birth to you?"
"Back away from me."
"You feel NOTHING! It must not even compute for you! You NEVER loved her!"
That primal roar would be seared into Pavel's memory if he lived to be one hundred and twenty. That sound…that guttural scream of anger, of grief, of sheer rage…
Kirk hadn't stood a shadow of a chance. It had all happened so quickly; no one could have been prepared for that first blow. Vulcan strength and reflexes were not something to be trifled with to begin with, and Spock had been driven by the violent escape of so much utter fury that the sudden release of it had felt like a literal explosion. There was no way Kirk was ever going to win that one—Spock had slammed him around the bridge as easily as if he were tossing a ragdoll. Or maybe just a plain old punching bag. He'd all but sent Kirk's brains splattering all over the helm console. Kirk never even had the chance to get in a single hit.
Pavel didn't think there'd even been anything going through his head when it happened. The sight of Kirk pinned back onto the console, a viselike grip wrapped around his throat, struggling and letting out those weird little muted gagging/gasping sounds as he feebly attempted to loosen the crushing force around his neck…and Spock leaning over him, one arm extended, staring down at his victim with black, narrowed eyes, face twisted with hate and panting through his teeth in heavy, seething huffs, panting not from exertion, but from the pure blind rage…
Pavel's mind—certainly the coherent part of it anyway—had been utterly blank.
It wasn't until what seemed like hours later, when a firm voice from somewhere behind had said, "Spock!" and the young Vulcan's grip had eventually eased from Kirk's throat, that the rest of them realized that they'd just stood there, speechless, slack-jawed, and staring blankly like deer in the headlights as their acting captain/former professor had been choking their acting first officer/fellow classmate to death, right in front of them. And no one had had the presence of mind to do anything more than gawk.
It was surreal, in a way. Someone who had always been so controlled, so calm and even, so unreadable to the point where it actually did seem to others as if he had no emotions—for him to go off so spectacularly, so forcefully—it had just happened right in front of him, and Pavel still couldn't believe it.
He actually had to blink a few times to make sure this was all real. And then the reality sunk in, and with it the pain and the terror.
The ironic thing was, Spock seemed just as surprised by the outburst as the rest of them, perhaps even more so. The look on Spock's face as his father's reprimand had sounded across the bridge had been that of a man coming out of a stupor. Spock's eyes had suddenly cleared only for him to find himself staring down at the figure in front of him, blinking in shock at the sight of his own hand wrapped mercilessly around Kirk's throat, as if he'd no idea how it got there.
Then everything seemed to click, and Spock pulled his hand away as if the chokehold burned him and backed off from the gasping, hacking man lying helplessly over the console. Spock's face lost that hateful twist of primal fury, only for it to be replaced by confusion, then shock, and then a slow dawning profound grief. Spock paced backward briefly, aimless and dazed-looking, never once meeting the eyes of the startled, frightened bridge crew. He exchanged an unreadable look with his father from across the bridge, and then just as quickly turned his gaze away to stare blindly down at the floor—and the cold, aloof, formidable Vulcan looked for all the galaxy like a lost child.
It was heartbreaking.
And for some reason, it chilled Pavel to the bone. It was wrong.
By that time even Kirk's relieved wheezing had died down. The only sound on the entire bridge—the only one that mattered, anyway—was Spock's shaky, ragged breathing.
Finally he spoke, but his voice sounded wrong. It didn't sound anything like the strong, stern Vulcan it always did. "Doctor, I am no longer…fit for duty." He didn't look at McCoy; his voice was controlled and measured, but it did nothing to hide the strained, somewhat hoarse, and—no, Pavel couldn't think of it as choked—quality that pervaded it, subtly, but unable to be missed. And Spock was blinking. It was all wrong, so wrong…
Spock continued, still staring blankly ahead. "I hereby…relinquish my command based on the fact that I have been…emotionally compromised." Why did those two words feel like a knife? "Please note the time and date in the ship's log." And with that, Spock turned his back on them and headed for the turbolift. Never once did he look up or meet anyone's eyes.
It was a bad dream. It all felt like a horrible, horrible dream, and all Pavel could think was how badly he wanted to wake up. First the fleet of the Academy's graduating class had been lost, then Vulcan, and now Spock was breaking right in front of them…
Everything was so damn wrong.
And the worst part was, it was all Pavel's fault.
He should have been faster. He should have hurried; he should have beamed them out of there. He was literally a split second too late, and now she was gone, sucked into an endless, lifeless vacuum with the rest of her planet and everything on it. And no one could get her back.
He had failed. And now because of it, Spock had lost control and nearly killed a crewmember. And now, seeing the culmination of everything that had happened, it was all becoming too much. Pavel wanted to cry, wanted to disappear, wanted to fall asleep, or wake up to find that everything was all right again. To find that Pike was still with them, that all those cadets were returning home to Earth for their graduation, that Vulcan still existed and hadn't even had the tiniest of earthquakes, that everyone was still alive, that Spock was going calmly about his business of checking up on everyone and analyzing a curious little planetoid.
But none of those things were true, and the knowledge of that hit Pavel like a physical blow.
For a minute it was almost too much to take. There was a moment when it took all of Pavel's self-control not to break into painful, distraught tears. He might still have done so, but he found that he couldn't.
He was frozen. He couldn't speak, he couldn't move, and for a few moments he didn't even think he could breathe. As Spock retreated, rigid and stonily silent, an icy wave of chill seemed to wash over the bridge, and there was an unnerving moment when Pavel felt enveloped, swallowed in it.
If anyone else felt it, they gave no sign—they were all dealing with their own shock in their own ways—and truthfully, Pavel didn't have the faintest idea how he caught it. He had to quash the brief notion that flared up in his head for a split second before it was dispelled—that it was all directed at him. There was a wave of negativity radiating from the Vulcan, and it was one of the most frightening things Pavel had ever felt in his life. The grief was still there, yes, but there was a distinct hollow feeling, and guilt, and a sense of pain so profound it was almost physical.
Even so, Pavel might have thought it was just his own feelings if not for the next part—anger. Spock was usually so serene, so smooth, so unruffled, but now he radiated such a storm of rage, of hatred, of lust for vengeance, of the desire to just rip someone apart. It was horrible. Pavel wanted to shrink away from it.
It was terrifying, the way Spock had beat Kirk senseless with such ease, how he had come close, so close, to squeezing the life out of him completely…
…and now it had all disappeared. Not gone, no, certainly not gone—Pavel could tell that much. It was all submerged, bottled up, and stowed away in typical Spock fashion. The Vulcan once again had the reins of control, and he was gripping them tightly, reeling himself in strictly, mercilessly. All the malice and hurt were immediately quashed and shoved ruthlessly away into some tiny, obscure corner of Spock's mind, never to see the light of day again.
Utterly invisible.
It was, ironically, that ghostly sense that chilled Pavel even more.
And then the turbolift door slid shut behind Spock's rigid back, and it all vanished completely. No faint lingering trace of hostility, or sorrow, or quelled emotion. It was as if a door had indeed slammed shut—on whom, it was difficult to tell. It was so jarringly abrupt, and everything was suddenly just…empty.
He could almost hear the echo.
Pavel shivered.
They survived.
They destroyed Nero. They escaped the black hole. They even managed to rescue Pike. They had lost their warp core, so they were stuck limping back to Earth on mere impulse power, but it was okay.
They were all okay.
But it was, in many ways, a hollow victory. So much had been lost. Vulcan, the fleet, all those cadets… It was way too much.
Pavel had been in something of a daze for about a week following that horrible day. Shell-shocked, he supposed. Exhausted. Trying to deal with the grief.
He'd never really cried over any of it. He was probably too tired. Mercifully, at least his weariness and depression weren't debilitating, which was more than could be said for some of the other, more unfortunate crewmembers on board. Everyone understood, but the fact of the matter was that they really couldn't afford it. There was just too much turmoil, too much that demanded everyone's attention. They couldn't afford to have able-bodied crewmembers out of commission. The Enterprise, although still intact soundly enough, was seriously damaged, and they were in deep space with nothing but impulse engines to drag them home.
Those of them that were still lucky enough to have a home to go to, anyway.
Sarek and the other remaining members of the Vulcan High Council had effectively locked themselves away completely, it would seem, because none of the crew ever seemed to see any of them. Pavel couldn't help but be secretly glad for it. He didn't want to see those innocent, proud, noble people now completely bereft of everything, bereft of their very world. It was too wrong, and too sad.
Pavel went about his duties, but avoided Spock in particular as much as possible. He couldn't bring himself to face the bereaved Vulcan directly, not after Pavel had failed so badly, so devastatingly for Spock. There was still too much guilt, and fear. Pavel felt bad for feeling like that—he felt like he should be doing something, trying to make it better, but he didn't know how, and in any case he knew he couldn't. He figured he was better off just leaving the matter alone and letting wounds heal themselves.
Besides, there was too much work to be done to worry about emotional reconciliation. No one seemed to be able to spare a minute anymore, it seemed, and that went for Pavel as well. It was work, work, work, with breaks and naps when one could catch them. Short-staffed and damaged as they were, people were having to go out of their elements and try to assist in departments they knew nothing about. Between his regular duties Pavel had found himself helping out in engineering more than once, and often in science labs as well. He'd even lent a hand in sickbay on rare occasion. When he finally had the chance to crash at the end of each day, he was exhausted, and although a few hours of sleep a night kept him going, it certainly wasn't giving him any extra energy.
It was a slow two-and-a-half-week long haul back to Earth, and it was taking its toll on everyone else as well. Hikaru always looked like he was about to nod off at the helm. Pavel had never seen Uhura look anything less than formidable, but if her ponytail was a little more ragged and her face a little more drawn lately, it didn't escape his notice. It was even worse on the senior staff. The bags under McCoy's eyes deepened, if such a thing were possible. Spock went about doing anything that needed done, ceaselessly hard-working and behaving as he normally did, but there was a subtle haggardness about him if you looked, and his already-thin frame seemed to grow almost downright gaunt. He clearly hadn't been sleeping properly—no one had, but Spock seemed worse—and Pavel had the strong suspicion that the Vulcan hadn't been eating either. He also suspected that there was more to it than the simple fact that Spock hadn't had any time to. Kirk also pulled his share of the load, managing to stay relatively positive and holding everyone and everything together as best he could, but even he was clearly showing the exhaustion and strain.
It seemed to take forever, and there were times when Pavel almost thought they wouldn't make it. But they did. At long last they arrived back on Earth, and for Pavel, and most of the rest of the crew as well, the first thing he did was crash, hard. He did feel a lot better after three straight days of mostly sleeping, and although the horror of all that had happened was still painfully there, it was a little easier to deal with.
The next couple weeks were a swirled mix of joy and grief. A mass funeral and memorial service was held for the lost Starfleet crews. Pavel's graduation from the Academy seemed sadly empty without the vast majority of his fellow students, especially during the ceremonies dedicated to the honor and memory of the decimated senior class.
But the service for Vulcan was worse.
It was done in typical Vulcan fashion, stark and simple. There was no extravagance, no music. Admiral Barnett got up in front of everyone and delivered the standard speech—"it was a tragic thing that happened, you have our deepest sympathies, you will rebuild and there is still hope for the future," et cetera. The ceremony was conducted outdoors on a hillside overlooking the bay, with the whole of Starfleet Academy assembled, administrators, professors, students and all. Spock was, somewhat ironically (or maybe it was horribly fitting), the only Vulcan there.
And everyone seemed to be uncomfortably aware of the fact. Every single one of the grim, nervous, sometimes tear-stained faces that Pavel could discern in that huge sea of people seemed to be either unwittingly staring at the Vulcan, or making a point to keep their eyes respectfully, or sadly, or fearfully averted.
For his own part, Pavel hadn't wanted to look at Spock for most of the time. He didn't know what exactly he was afraid he might see—fury? Tears? Neither of them likely, but nonetheless Pavel hadn't felt brave enough to look more than a few times throughout the whole production. When he had, he'd seen what one would expect from the Vulcan—Spock stood quiet the entire time, utterly stone-faced, in his customary perfect posture with his hands behind his back, dressed in his starched, straight-black Starfleet uniform. Looking closer at his unreadable face, Pavel could still glimpse the chronic exhaustion that Spock hid so well (Pavel still had to wonder when was the last time Spock had slept or taken a meal), but the Vulcan was so pristine and together that it was difficult to tell. Pavel probably would have missed it entirely if he hadn't known otherwise. Spock was immaculately groomed as always, hair sleek and perfectly straight, head high, shoulders squared, not a wrinkle to be seen anywhere on his outfit. He never gave the faintest sign of any emotion—no burning gaze, no jaw clenched in smothered anger, no eyes shiny with tears. He didn't even seem to bat an eyelash throughout the entire ceremony.
He was still.
Maybe a little too still, Pavel thought. The atmosphere of the whole thing was making him feel chilled, even though the air wasn't particularly cold.
That half an hour seemed to take three, but eventually it was over. The admirals stepped down, everyone was dismissed, and all the cadets began milling about as they went to make their way back down the hill. Pavel had never seen such a big group of so many young people so quiet. Almost no one spoke. They mostly just silently turned away and headed off without really looking at anything. A number of cadets, both human and non-human, were in tears, and their muted sobbing seemed to be the only thing anyone heard over the low murmurs of their companions trying to comfort them. Others had suspiciously wet-looking eyes and cheeks, but they mostly kept quiet and walked away without speaking to anyone.
Pavel was one of the last to leave. Kirk and McCoy had slipped off fairly soon after the affair had ended. Hikaru had stayed with Pavel as most of the other cadets had filed away, but as the crowd grew increasingly thinner, he had given Pavel's shoulder a squeeze, met Pavel's eyes with his own sympathetic, anxious gaze, and moved silently off. The hillside was largely abandoned, but as Pavel glanced back he saw that Spock was still there.
The Vulcan didn't appear to have moved, but he seemed farther away. Pavel didn't know whether he'd actually moved, or if he himself had just been unconsciously swept back a little bit by the dispersing tide of people. But in any case, there stood Spock, about seventy yards away, motionless and silent, his back turned. He looked like a shadowy statue.
Suddenly Pavel wasn't sure what to do. He felt another stab of guilt. A part of him actually wanted to go to Spock, see if he could make things better somehow. Spock just looked so distant. So alone.
But then, that was probably what he wanted, Pavel realized. No surprise. Spock was an extremely private person; he'd had to deal with so much these past weeks, and he'd had virtually no time to himself. Pavel didn't blame him in the least. Spock probably needed some time of total isolation, even if it was only for a few hours. It would be best that way.
And besides, Pavel didn't have the nerve.
Pavel looked around and saw that he wasn't alone on the hillside. There was Uhura, a way off to the side of him, staring after Spock's still form. When she turned to look at Pavel, her eyes were filled with unconcealed pleading, and there were tear tracks down her face. She looked torn, like she wanted to go after Spock, but wasn't sure if she should.
In a moment of a strange sort of boldness, Pavel went over to her. Their eyes met, and they didn't need to say anything. Uhura sent a last sad glance in Spock's direction, and then as if by wordless agreement they both turned and started off down the hill, not speaking or touching, but side by side.
As they walked, Pavel had to look back just once. Spock hadn't moved a muscle. In the few moments before Pavel turned back ahead, he was struck by how much the sharp black Starfleet Academy uniform suddenly looked like mourning garb. The last Pavel saw of Spock for the next two weeks was the back of that thin, black-clad, rigid figure standing alone and motionless on the crest of a hill, surrounded by thick cloying San Francisco fog and staring out over a grey sea.
Over the following days, however, things finally started to look up somewhat. Pavel couldn't help but be ecstatic for Kirk's commendation and promotion to captain, and if the fact in itself hadn't been enough to make him happy, the beaming joy and pride shining on Kirk's face as Barnett had pinned the medal on his chest would have.
The elation radiating from the new captain when he learned that he would be receiving command of the repaired Enterprise had been even more overwhelming. Kirk had apparently restrained himself in front of the Admiral, but the moment he returned to the rest of them he'd lunged for the first unsuspecting victim he could reach, which by some ironic twist of fate happened to be McCoy, and seized the Doctor in an enormous bear hug that almost knocked the both of them over. (It was good that it didn't, because McCoy already cursed enough in surprise and indignation.) Kirk was being given his own starship—the flagship, no less—and now he got to pick much of his own crew. And, he'd informed his friends gleefully, they were all assigned to the Enterprise.
Kirk had insisted on dragging them all out to dinner on him that night. Pavel was admittedly a bit nervous about going into a bar—he still found all the people, drinking, partying, and noise pretty unnerving—but he knew he didn't have the heart to turn down his touchingly joy-giddy new commander, and it turned out that he actually did have fun. He'd had Hikaru by his side the whole night, which was comforting, and the celebratory mood was infectious. Even McCoy, by the end of the night, had abandoned his constant scowling and griping for smiles and laughter.
Although that could have been the brandy.
They'd had a few days to get their belongings together as the last of the repairs were made to the ship, and then Pavel found himself back at the Enterprise's navigation console, minutes away from setting off on their first—real—mission. It was a big thing, Pavel knew. He was a little intimidated by it, he had to admit, but there was also a buoying sense of exhilaration that far outweighed the doubts. He rattled off his station's status with confidence as they prepared to ship out. As Kirk stepped onto the bridge (his bridge) and proudly surveyed his crew, Pavel found himself smiling right along with him.
Pavel was in a good mood as he continued to fiddle with his console, but then he heard the sound of the lift door sliding open. He glanced over, and then did a surprised double-take as none other than Spock appeared in the doorway.
"Permission to come aboard, Captain?" Spock asked politely.
Kirk was smiling a little as he answered. "Permission granted."
Spock stepped forward. He looked somewhat better, Pavel noticed. He seemed more rested, and he didn't look nearly so desolate, thank god.
Nevertheless, almost unthinkingly, Pavel still shrank away a little bit in his seat as the Vulcan strode past him.
"As you have yet to select a First Officer, respectfully, I would like to submit my candidacy," Spock said, stepping up to address Kirk, who had risen from his seat in the captain's chair. "Should you desire, I can provide character references."
Kirk looked up at the taller alien, meeting his eyes evenly. "It would be my honor, Commander," he replied. His tone was measured and professional, but there was no disguising the pride and happiness in his eyes.
Spock simply gave a single wordless nod and stepped away, heading for the science console.
Pavel realized then that his mouth was hanging slightly open. He quickly shut it. Okay, so this was an unexpected development. First officer? To Kirk? Pavel almost couldn't imagine it for a moment. It struck him then that this meant he'd be having a lot more interaction with the Vulcan. A whole lot more.
He wasn't quite sure how to react. He still had a bit of a tender guilty spot where Spock was concerned, another area knew he was being paranoid, and a part of him just went, "Oh, no."
Pavel turned quickly back to his own console, telling himself to calm down. Kirk knew what he was doing. The Enterprise was essentially just a shipful of college kids. They could use Spock. It was fine.
Later that night in the mess hall, Pavel would overhear McCoy rather hotly chewing Kirk out for hiring "Frosty the Vulcan" as his First Officer, but Pavel did his best not to listen.
At least Uhura seemed happy.
Nevertheless, as Kirk lowered himself back into his new chair and gave the order for Hikaru to engage the warp drive, two little corners of Pavel's mind, one uneasy and one cynical, couldn't help but comment in unison that this was going to be a very interesting assignment.
