The pain was no longer bearable.
Intermittent flashes of near-consciousness warred with the dull fog of an injury-induced coma. She was aware only of pain, a sharp stab of white-hot fire that ebbed and flowed with each labored breath that she took. Awareness washed over her like the gentle waves upon a beach, rolling in for heartbeats but receding into the oblivion of unconsciousness milliseconds before she could wake. She measured her existence by the spikes of pain between each drawn breath. Time held no real meaning to her; an eternity passed between breaths, a timeless span that could have been hours, or days, or just seconds. She drifted, a piece of flotsam upon an endless gray ocean.
What began as a whisper - faint, indecipherable, but oh so familiar - steadily grew in strength and volume. It tickled the edge of her mind, at times incessant and jarring, but more often a soothing balm to the searing fire that washed through her with each breath. The soundless voice coaxed her toward consciousness, pulled her from the grayness. It was a life preserver for a drowning woman and she clung to it, bending her mind, her heart, her katra toward it. Toward her mate. Toward Trip.
It was an effort to open her eyes. She struggled against her body, against the instinct to continue swimming in oblivion, against the urge to give up and let nature take its course. She forced her scattered thoughts into coherence, demanded order from the chaos, required consciousness.
T'Pol of Vulcan woke.
She found herself lying on her side, still strapped into the now broken co-pilot's chair, which had been knocked loose by the crash. Her leg, trapped under the emergency tool kit, throbbed in time with her pulse and she could smell blood - Human and Vulcan - in the air, mixing with the stench of seared metal. T'Pol shifted, reached up to unsecure her restraints and gasped as agony screamed through her torso; tears of pain filled her eyes and she grimaced with the effort it took to avoid crying out. It required all of her willpower, every single gram of her discipline to push the pain down, to lock it away. Long moments passed in which she did nothing more than breathe and tried to ignore the nausea that hammered through her.
A wet cough drew her back to the present and she struggled to her feet with barely a hint of the pain she felt on her face; the steady throb in her leg made it clear that it was broken and T'Pol leaned heavily to one side, keeping as much weight off of the fractured limb as possible. Her eyes sought and found Trip at once; he was unconscious, still secured in the pilot's chair, his face a mask of blood, but he breathed evenly. The despair that had been seeking to overwhelm her eased as she checked his pulse and found it to be strong and normal. He had been the soundless voice that had brought her back and, once again, she was amazed, humbled even, by the strength of their bond, of his regard for her, of his ... love; even unconscious, he had sought her out. T'Pol's fingers itched to caress his face, to draw out the smile that affected her so, but her control, her innate sense of decorum prevented her from acting on the impulse. He stirred, groaned in pain, and she realized that he was feeling her own discomfort; without hesitation, she closed down that part of the bond, cut him off from her. It was like ripping off her arm but he instantly relaxed, no longer suffering from the overwhelming agony that stabbed through her abdomen. Another rasping cough emerged from the rear of the shuttle and she chastised herself for focusing so exclusively on Trip.
At a glance, she could tell that they were in trouble. The gaping wound in the shuttle's hull was significant, perhaps a meter and a half in total diameter; from the scorched area around it, she hypothesized that weapons fire had been responsible. Both the arms locker and medical locker had been knocked free during the crash, and the heavier arms locker had fallen across an unmoving Lieutenant Reyes, the source of the cough. Sergeant Reynolds, the ranking MACO, was already climbing to his feet, his right arm held at an awkward angle; T'Pol could not see Corporal El-Hamadi.
"T'Pol?" Trip's voice was confused, groggy, and she turned her eyes to him. He was rubbing his face and wincing ever so slightly.
"I am here, Commander," she responded quickly, dropping her hand onto his shoulder; the logical part of her insisted it was because Trip would take comfort in her touch, that she was not doing so to reassure herself. It was a good lie; she almost believed it. He shook his head to clear it, then began unstrapping his seat restraints.
"Well," he commented as he glanced back at the mess in the rear. "I've had better landin's." His ability to find humor in any situation astounded her.
"Indeed," she replied, amused despite herself. He glanced at her and his eyes - always keener than she liked - zeroed in on her awkward stance, the reliance on her good leg.
"Your leg?"
"Is broken." Trip shot up out of the chair, concern on his face, and immediately began steering her toward it. T'Pol gave him a look that was equal parts frustration and gratitude even as she sat. He noticed the wince so she spoke first. "I also suspect that I have a number of broken ribs." She said nothing about the other pain in her abdomen but he frowned, studied her with narrowed eyes; T'Pol could feel him actively seeking her out through the bond and kept her block in place.
"Are you blockin' me out?" His voice was soft, meant for her ears alone.
"Not intentionally," she lied. "One or both of us may be suffering from a minor concussion." Another deliberate side step of the truth. Inwardly, she cringed at deceiving her mate but determined it was for the best. If he knew how badly she suspected her injury actually was, Trip would be distracted and unable to conduct any repairs. She was Vulcan, after all; she would persevere. He frowned at her, his features betraying his suspicion. "Trip," she said softly, hating herself for lying. "If I was badly injured, you would know it."
"I guess," he replied slowly, still not entirely convinced. "Sergeant Reynolds, how are we back there?"
"Not good, sir." Reynolds stood up from where he knelt, his broken arm hanging limply at his side. "Both the ell-tee and Corporal El-Hamadi are pretty messed up, sir; I think Lieutenant Reyes may have a broken back."
"Damn." Trip ran his hand through his hair as he thought; T'Pol could almost feel his synapses firing. "We'll patch them up the best we can and then I'll look at gettin' us flyin' again."
"No," T'Pol said calmly. Tucker gave her an odd look as she continued. "Sergeant Reynolds and I will 'patch them up' while you attend to the shuttlepod. We don't..."
"...want to be here if they come back," Trip finished the thought, nodding; sometimes, it was unnerving how well he knew her, even without the bond. "Sounds like a plan." He gave her another once over, still frowning. "You sure you're okay?" T'Pol rolled her eyes at his over protectiveness; it was a trait that she found simultaneously annoying and compelling.
"I'm fine, Commander. The shuttlepod won't repair itself." He gave her a slight grin, more at her eye roll than her words, and turned away. His eyes were already studying the damage.
