Running
He was running, running - sprinting so hard he gasped for breath. The cold desert air stabbed his lungs. His feet stumbled, but that only made him aware that he needed to run faster. He looked up, sparing one glance further ahead than the three meters in front of his feet that was the only thing keeping him from falling headlong. He saw Sulu's heels, Hickerson's. Hickerson stopped, turned, set to fire. Kirk kept running, Hickerson beside him, now.
They ran, projectiles thudding into the uneven ground around them.
He could sense someone closing. Spock had stayed behind only for a moment to take a reading, complete some necessary scan - had alerted them, insisted they go ahead - now he was catching up, swiftly.
Kirk glanced up again: The thin clump of small scrubby trees ahead to the left would be cover for beam-out, the only shelter anywhere in sight. Sulu was veering toward it – as he turned, he looked back, just for a second; redoubled his efforts.
Kirk looked back, too – Spock was running all out, his feet flying over the dusty broken ground.
Hickerson had slowed, a little, as the Captain looked back - but now, he ran.
Spock was just behind him. Kirk knew the other would not overtake him – they had debated this in the past - but would instead stay at his back, the Captain's last line of defense.
They were almost there, and Spock was the only one with breath to spare. "Spock to Enterprise," he intoned, before Jim was suddenly hurled to the ground - the weight crashing against him sending him sprawling, his legs pinned by the blue-clad form falling across them. Reflexively, he pulled his legs toward him, reached his hands out to move Spock's body – His hands came away soaked with green.
He hauled in a painful lungful of air, cried out for Sulu to call the ship – and woke himself with the sound of his own strangled sleep-filled shout.
He felt the ebbing flood of fear, pain, sorrow, and guilt. He heard the echo of Spock's waking voice, when deep brown eyes first shifted to find him standing at the bedside in Sickbay, "Captain, you are safe." He pushed away the creeping sense that he was undeserving - and he rolled out of bed.
His heart was pounding.
There wasn't a chance he'd go back to sleep now.
Usually, when he was sleepless, he'd go for a stroll, admiring his ship wonderingly like a first-time visitor. But now he was too filled with adrenaline in the wake of the dream – the memory.
Well, his body already thought he'd been running. Might as well do that, then.
He threw on a pair of old sweats, grabbed a t-shirt; and pulled it on as he headed to the turbolift.
It was way too hot in the Ship's Gymnasium. He started toward the wall unit to turn up the lights, call for Maintenance - when he heard a soft sound. It was a series of sounds, really - regular, and even like a machine - only muted, somehow, less solid. He went toward the sound, which was coming from one of the smaller rooms designed for dancing, or use as a ball court. It was even hotter here – 'hot as blazes,' his mind said. Sweat started out all over his skin, began trickling down his spine. He sank onto the bench in front of the transparent section of wall.
It was dim inside the court, the lights glowing orange-red. Jim's eyes had to work to catch the swift flowing movements of the figure within.
It was Spock, of course.
He was dressed in black Starfleet PT issue; and although there was an assortment of weapons ranged against one wall, he was, at present, unarmed. He was doing something that had to be a martial art, presumably of Vulcan origin: It looked like a combination of tai chi and yoga and karate, maybe - something that involved hitting and kicking things really, really fast. He had targets - some stationary, some that moved – and he hit the first in a fluid complex pattern while he took the others as they came at him apparently at random. The Enterprise computer was speaking, intermittently, very quietly, but Jim couldn't understand her: It was strange to hear the familiar voice murmuring to Spock in what was obviously his native language.
Listening to the soft unintelligible whisper, Jim leaned back against the wall, and stretched his feet out. He felt himself getting a little drowsy - It was the heat, he was sure: This was like a sauna. A dry sauna – a very hot, very dry sauna - with a show, he thought wryly.
Spock was relentless. And, he didn't miss. This was no mundane training exercise – The Vulcan was intent. Watching him, Jim realized that, even in what was clearly a defensive posture, he was preparing for a battle he hoped never to have: Spock went to a great deal of effort to avoid fighting if he possibly could. Jim knew that that was partially philosophy, but now he wondered whether it might be more: Was it because he was aware of his own strength, his own speed?
At the moment, he was not holding anything back – and he was formidable. Jim watched for a long, long time, his eyes struggling to follow the graceful, powerful blurring movements.
Spock spoke one word calmly into the half-light – and in a moment, Jim knew it had to have been something like 'faster.' The targets came at him one after another, even two at a time. It was obvious that Spock was being tested, and he rose to the challenge with everything he had. And still, his hands and feet hit their targets one after another - over, and over, and over - and that staccato sound rose louder in the hush.
Spock said, now, an occasional word – probably a number – and a small sound escaped him as he launched himself in the air toward a target.
It was the first time Jim had watched Spock moving at the true speed he was capable of, using his full strength – He never would, Jim thought, if he knew himself to be observed. Suddenly, Jim realized this was a gross violation of the other's privacy. As quietly as he could, he rose to his feet, started to creep away.
Another Vulcan word came from the court – the sounds of impact, of fists and targets, ceased – Spock was turning toward him.
Jim stopped moving. He wouldn't stay, interrupt any more than he had already – but he couldn't run away, either. He met Spock's eyes through the transparency. "Sorry, Spock," he said, his voice sincere, apologetic. Spock was as silent as ever, but Jim could see his rapid breathing.
"Good night," Jim said.
In the stillness, the other nodded, his eyes never leaving Kirk's face. He turned to watch him go.
Before the gymnasium door whooshed behind him, Jim heard a single Vulcan order - and the small sound resumed. The Enterprise continued the monologue she whispered for her Second-in-Command alone.
His thin sheen of sweat dried as Jim walked back to his quarters. He thought briefly about taking a shower; but he was sleepy now, really sleepy… He tumbled into his bed, and was asleep before he could pull the covers up.
