Sans titre

I wrote something for Spirk ^^’

—

It was only supposed to be shore leave. There wasn’t supposed to be an ambush. It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

    They’d been unprepared.

    Jim clenched the arms of his chair so hard his knuckles turned white. His side throbbed, a pulsing reminder of the shot that’d nearly ended his life, of the ones that’d taken three of his crewmates’ before they’d managed to flee, beaming back up to the Enterprise and jumping into warp before the Klingons could give chase.

    But it was even more so a reminder of Spock. Of the look on his face when he’d been shot in the chest. Of the agonizing pain that’d come from his side of the bond- nearly paralyzing Jim where he’d stood, nearly making his knees buckle beneath him- before the Vulcan had collapsed to the bloody sand of the Oasis planet.

    He was in emergency surgery now, with Bones, and had been for … Jim checked his chronometer, but couldn’t make any sense of the numbers. He did know it had been a long time. But if Spock had any chance in hell, it’d be with him.

    “Captain.” It was Sulu who spoke, twisting around to glance at him. His face was bruised, and he looked exhausted, but he also looked determined. Ready. “Are you alright?”

    “Why would you ask that?” Jim adjusted his position in his chair, suppressing a wince at the sharp pain in his side. “I’m fine.”

    “You look …” Sulu paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “Tired.”

    Suddenly, his comm beeped. “Hold that thought,” Jim said, before answering the comm. “Bones. News?”

“The hobgoblin lives,” came the reply. “He’s out for the count, and we’ll have to see how he does tonight to estimate his chances for reco-”

Jim was out of his chair before the doctor could even finish, all but running for the turbolift.

—

    “You look like shit,” McCoy remarked, as the captain burst into the medical bay, white-faced and gasping. He finished stripping off his scrubs. “What did I say about overexerting yourself?”

    “I don’t remember.” Jim waved a hand. “Where is he?”

    McCoy heaved a sigh. “He’s in one of the biobeds over there. Don’t pull something.”

    He turned away while Jim hurried toward the row of biobeds, toward the pale, unmoving form of his bondmate.

    Spock was surrounded by machines and wires, all beeping, all monitoring his vitals. It was kind of unnerving to see him this way, lying on his back with his arms at his sides, bare chest covered with a thick layer of regenerative bandages.

    There was a chair beside the biobed, and with not a little relief Jim sank into it, automatically reaching for Spock’s hand, fingers lacing through his as easy as if they’d been made to do so. 

It was then that the full extent of his exhaustion set in, the events of the past twenty-four hours settling on his shoulders like a heavy weight. 

    “You better be okay,” he said, in his best “Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise” voice, falling woefully short of authoritative and landing more toward pathetic. “Or I’ll court-martial your ass.”

    He didn’t know how long he sat there after that, watching Spock’s chest rise and fall, watching his face and its angular features, waiting for those deep, brown eyes to open.

Somewhere along the way, his must have closed, because he woke to fingers lightly brushing his face. 

“T’hy’la,” Spock whispered, voice edged with pain. But still his gaze traveled Jim’s face, as if taking in every detail for the first time.