'I have been and always shall be your friend.' … Jim bolted upright in his bed. The pain was raw, like a flesh wound that refused to seal. The admiral found himself wishing that it was a flesh wound. At least then there would be some way to heal it. Or end it. He let his hazel eyes slip shut and was immediately confronted with his friend's face. Jim tried to expel his memories from his head. He wanted to remember, didn't want the man to leave him completely, but then he wanted relief. He needed some form of solace.
He ran. Something was very wrong. He could feel it in his gut. The sight confronted him as soon as he entered. 'Spock!' Why was he… how, where…? His mind couldn't formulate the questions, much less speak them. He could feel something holding him. He was already beyond caring who it was. His friend's face was wrinkled and the effects of radiation poison were already visible. As the half-Vulcan turned, he tried not to cry out. No, no. This… this couldn't happen! When Spock spoke, it was not the smooth indifferent voice he had come to know and rely on over the years. It was gravelly, the voice of a dying man. The conversation is a blur. Spock falls halfway through a sentence. He could feel the tears making track marks down his cheeks. This isn't just death. This is cruel. He wanted to let the pain stop, but that would mean ending his friend. No! He thought furiously. 'The good of the many outweighs the good of the few or the one.'
"Admiral?" Jim started and found himself back outside that compartment. He didn't remember coming here and wondered why his body had brought him back to the place that caused the most hurt.
Eventually, Jim turned around to see who had addressed him. Judging by their tone, it hadn't been the first time. Chekov's dark eyes met Jim's across the room. The Russian's face was a mask. Jim watched the first officer steadily. Now that he looked, he could see the same lines of grief and worry setting into Chekov's face as he saw in his own. After a long moment, Jim found his voice.
"The good of the many outweighs the good of the few, or the one." He paused and watched the younger man for a reaction. There was nothing. Or was that a flicker of pain passing through his eyes? Jim knew that the young navigator who had first come to the Enterprise had worked closely with Spock over the years and had formed something resembling a friendship with the Vulcan. And he had lost the entirety of his crew along with his captain. Yes, it was pain. Jim decided.
"Can you accept that?" Jim finished slowly.
Chekov blinked and looked away. "I..." he swallowed. "I think that I can." He met Jim's eyes again.
"Sir, Spock chose the terms of his passing and he chose to spend his final moments doing what he wanted to do, what he had aimed to do." The officer elaborated. "I think we should respect that."
Had his body subconsciously sought out what he had needed? Who he had needed? Jim knew he would never have thought to come the man standing in front of him for comfort, but it was comfort that he felt now, not outrage or the want to feel completely alone in his misery. He felt hot tears spring to his eyes. Chekov straightened as Jim pointed a finger in his direction.
"You're going through this tenfold, and you're coping!" He said. It was half-shouted, but the admiral knew that the anger causing him to get louder was not directed at Chekov. It was directed at himself. He felt like screaming, he felt like kicking something into oblivion. "How…?" his question trailed off as he looked at the man in front of him.
Chekov's dark eyes were now gazing at the floor. Jim couldn't read his face. In a shaking whisper, he replied "What makes you think I am coping?"
He froze. Every muscle in his body stilled as the other man continued. "I'm not. I am not coping." He sighed. "I don't know what to do. They can't all just be gone! But they are."
When he looked back up, Jim could see everything playing across his face. Guilt, sorrow, anger and even after three weeks, shock. Suddenly, Jim saw the answer right there. Chekov appeared to be coping because he still hadn't processed the deaths.
Without thinking twice, Jim closed the distance between them. He stopped when he was a step away from the man. "Pavel," He whispered lightly as he used one hand to lift the man's gaze up from the floor. "I'm sorry." He stepped away, letting his hand fall back to his side.
"He was your best friend." Chekov smiled softly. It was full of sadness. "Time, you just need time." He added.
Jim watched in silence as Chekov left. He was possibly the only person on the ship who might be feeling an inkling of what Jim was feeling. He sighed with the doors.
"The good of the many…" he whispered mournfully. I think we should respect that…
Jim could only try.