Approach with caution
It can be a story... There can be a fic... if somebody writes it.... No pressure
Your art is so beautiful, OP! I hope you like what it inspired me to write. Story is under the cut and on AO3.
I'll Be the Guard Dog
Spock remembers the sensor’s shrill alert. A flash of metal where there should have been open space. The shuttle jerking, evading, shaking with impact, then shuddering out of control. Adrenaline lingers on his tongue, and he remembers it rising like bile before all of his memories became consumed by a burst of pain.
He probes, delicately, at his skull without opening his eyes. Warm, tacky liquid greets his fingertips, along with a lancing pain. A head wound would account for his loss of consciousness. It would also explain why his thoughts remain sluggish. He knows he is forgetting something. Something important.
Adrenaline floods his throat once more. It is coppery, warm but not acidic, and it is only now that he realizes liquid is trickling onto the skin under his nose and dripping backward into his nasopharynx.
He blinks. It is darker than he anticipated, and he is thankful. There is a sterile, faltering glow to his left. Based on the color, he assumes it is from computer screens. A soft, gasping sound escapes him as he turns toward the light. He observes the scraps of metal paneling and equipment strewn about the wrecked shuttle. Somehow, its walls remain structurally intact. There are, however, live wires spilling from them.
If they are in a shuttle, that indicates they could not use the transporter. Closing his eyes, he attempts to reach through the sluggish fog of what must be a concussion. An ion storm he himself detected had been the determining factor. They had…
Spock’s throat constricts. They. He had not been alone.
A deluge breaks within his mind, and all at once his memories reassert themselves. He’s rolling onto his side, pushing himself up, and searching the wreckage, headless of the throbbing pressure inside his skull. There are three swatches of color amongst the greyscale of dark and steel, two red and growing darker, and one of command gold.
A long, bent rod has pierced through Ensign Walters’s abdomen, pinning her to the floor. Yeoman Tracy lies near her--his mind will not cannot calculate the approximate distance in his current state. Yeoman Tracy does not appear to have been impaled, but he has sustained a profusely bleeding headwound and his neck is not lying at an angle associated with living humans.
Spock knows the likelihood that they are alive is slim. There is too much red blood pooled beneath them to pretend otherwise. He will remind himself of this later, when they are safely aboard the Enterprise and he must meditate away his guilt.
He crawls to Jim. There is a large slab of metal covering his side. Spock shoves the pain in his head beneath his shields as he heaves it off of him. Blood trickles down Jim’s bare arm and stains his uniform, but the source appears to be three minor lacerations. Spock is more concerned about the blood at his temple, copious enough to mat his hair, and over the lower half of his face. His chest rises and falls, its rhythm fast but steady.
Spock allows himself a gasping breath. Jim is not dead, and he will not allow him to die.
Only now does he drag himself over to Ensign Walters and Yeoman Tracy to confirm that they perished in the crash. Any emotions elicited by this are repressed as ruthlessly as his pain. On hands and knees, he casts about for the standard medical kit aboard all shuttles. The disarray of the cabin makes it difficult, but the concussion more so. That his shields are intact enough to master his emotions despite it is what Jim would call lucky.
Reflected light catches his eye. By Ensign Walters’s foot lays the cracked remains of a hypospray. Near that is a soiled roll of gauze. Whatever supplies within the medical kit survived are likely to be in a similarly unusable state. He is debating whether searching for them regardless is advisable, when he hears something. Something other than Jim’s shallow breathing or the tinnitus that has plagued him since waking.
The patterned thud of approach grows louder. He has no way of discerning if it heralds help or that whoever attacked them has come to ensure their deaths. The fractured remains of his communicator manage to crackle and spark before dying. His phaser is in worse shape. Though, he is certain it could be wired to explode, if necessary.
Yeoman Tracy’s devices remain on his person, easily retrievable, neither one operable. Ensign Walters’s, unfortunately, do not appear to be on the cabin floor. He grasps the pole protruding from her corpse and pulls. Despite his strength, his head throbs with the action. Black dots cloud his vision, but he ignores them just as he ignores the wet squelch of the pole leaving her body. He allows himself a moment to collect himself before maneuvering her, accordingly.
Neither her communicator nor her phaser are in working condition.
“Ah…”
He does not remember crawling back to Jim’s side. The lapse should be concerning, but it does not matter. He wipes blood from his hands, both red and green, onto his regulation pants and grips Jim’s covered arm, solid but cognizant that his intact sleeve may be hiding further injuries. “Captain, do not move and if you must speak, restrict your volume.”
Jim’s eyes are unfocused and exhibiting a strange sheen. “Status…” He hisses through his teeth, breath fractured into three, shallow inhales. “Status report, Mr. Spock,” he manages.
“We were attacked by an unknown vessel,” he answers, ears straining all the while to listen to the ever-approaching footsteps. “I believe we crash landed on V-23.” It was the only planet in their immediate vicinity, and their intended destination prior to taking on phaser fire. The tone of his voice drops, matching his volume in its softness, as he says “I also hear something approaching, Jim.”
Jim winces and plants his hands on the ground beneath him. The muscles beneath Spock’s hand tense as he pushes. Resigned, Spock’s free hand braces his upper back. He is aware to attempt to convince him to lie still, even for just long enough to ensure moving will not cause further injury, is an exercise in futility.
With Spock’s help, Jim manages to sit up. He’s biting his lip hard enough to draw yet more blood. Spock’s movements this time, inserting himself against the intact sensor panel behind Jim and settling him against his chest, are not borne of thought nor muscle memory. He wonders if his shields are not as whole as he’d previously assumed.
Jim breathes against his neck. Both it and his forehead are uncomfortably warm, his thoughts and emotions slowly precipitating out of hazy consciousness. It is so different from the typical dance of his mind.
“Walters and Tracy?”
Spock's hands curl into golden fabric. “Deceased.”
Grief and guilt crystalize. Jim shudders. “Phasers?”
“Inoperable, as are the communicators.”
Jim shifts in his arms. He can feel his throat working, likely biting back the pain that is only growing along with his lucidity. A shaky hand presents both the remains of his phaser and a surprisingly intact communicator.
Spock does not bother with the obviously inoperable phaser. The communicator crackles. His attempt to contact the Enterprise, however, is only met with further static.
“The ion storm,” Jim whispers by way of explanation. The footsteps are now close enough to be detectable by human ears.
Readings indicated this planet is uninhabited by humanoids. However, there were numerous animal species that were picked up by the sensors. Spock thinks the pattern he hears is consistent with quadrupeds, but he cannot be certain. He also knows that this does not negate the possibility that the footsteps belong to their attackers.
He maneuvers Jim to lean against cold metal. Jim is staring at him, brow furrowed and fists clenched in his lap. Carefully, Spock stands. Darkness once again attempts to overtake his vision, but he forces his body to comply.
“Spock.”
He does not move.
“Spock!” Jim whispers. He can hear him fidgeting, no doubt attempting to stand, himself.
Still, he keeps his position between Jim and the shuttle door. There is little he can accomplish in a fight if their enemy has phasers. There is little he will accomplish even if they do not, in his condition. This posturing is therefore illogical.
He does not care.
Something slams against the side of the shuttle. Spock’s heart pounds against his ribs and pants behind him. He hears a growl and a huff, followed by another crash that rocks them, this time. That he manages to stay on his feet is again what Jim would call lucky.
He does not know how long this goes on. There are several more collisions, and eventually Spock steps back and lays a steadying hand against the edge of the battered sensor array. Whatever animals found them eventually lose interest. He listens as the footsteps retreat and his thundering heart edges closer to baseline.
He is kneeling, one hand bracing himself on the floor and the other on his thigh. The buzzing in his ears and pounding of his head obscure all other sound. There is nothing he can do but rest, eyes trained on the blood trickling from a cut on his hand. He wonders at the lack of clotting. Lack of pressure on the wound and movement of the area have likely undermined his body’s efforts. Blood drips onto his hand from above. He brings his uninjured one to his nose and eyes his green fingertips.
When he can move, he returns to Jim's side. Jim is angry with him. He feels it through his skin and hears it in the edge of his whispered words. He also feels his relief, his affection, and the way he slumps in Spock’s arms.
Captain Kirk does not have the luxury of vulnerability, yet he lays curled against him. He does not have the luxury of vulnerability, yet he tucks his head against his neck once more, bends his knees and throws his legs over one of Spock’s own, drifts toward sleep in his first officer’s arms.
Spock grazes his lips over Jim’s feverish forehead.
Captain Kirk does not have the luxury of vulnerability, and yet he has never turned him away when he’s taken a step toward more.
He does not remember falling asleep, but is awakened by footsteps. Voices accompany them. His condition has worsened, he thinks blearily, and though he is still cradling Jim, he does not know if he will again have the strength to stand.
He would prefer neither of them die at this moment, though he knows death is inevitable. If he and Jim where different people, perhaps he could be content to die with him in his arms, selfishly glad for the comfort and the opportunity to provide the same. But they are not different people. He knows he will fight to the last of his strength, as Jim would had he strength to give.
He keeps his eyes closed, conserving his energy until the last possible moment. He memorizes the feeling of Jim’s staccato breath against his neck, his hair against his cheek, the rhythm of his human heart. He tastes his pain-addled mind and thinks that he has been lucky.
The swish of the shuttle door prompts him to open one eye. His hands curl protectively around Jim, human emotionality and Vulcan perseverance conspiring into an expression he cannot begin to fathom. Sudden light blinds him. He does not back down. He will not.
There are vaguely humanoid blurs standing in the entrance, speaking. His head lances with pain when he tries to understand them. One of the shapes grows closer.
A low, warning growl vibrates his chest and throat. He keeps one hand around Jim’s back and wraps the other underneath his thighs in a more secure hold. It’s as his lips are curling to bear his incisors that the shape comes into view.
“Commander Scott,” he manages, before relief sweeps away any vestiges of adrenaline and he descends into unconsciousness.
The next time he wakes, he is in sickbay. There is the typical assurance from Dr. McCoy that Jim is safe, followed by their equally typical argument. He asks if McCoy will ever concede and allow him to heal on his own in the privacy of his quarters.
“You fractured your fucking skull, you moron!” is the only answer McCoy will give to his typical request.
Given the complexity of Vulcan head injuries, Jim is released before him, after only three days. His broken ribs have been healed by McCoy’s skilled hands, his lacerations similarly dealt with. Outwardly, it is as if he was never injured at all. His own concussion, however, has ensured he will be on medical leave for at least the remainder of the week. He knows it is difficult for Jim not to be on the bridge, but he hopes he can at least take comfort in the fact that the Romulan ship that attacked them made the mistake of then firing on the Enterprise. It was defeated long before Commander Scott found them, and they are now simply cruising above V-23 while the landing party explores.
Alone with not even a computer screen for company, Spock thinks about affection and luck and reaching out. He wonders what Jim remembers, if anything at all, of their time on V-23. More than that, he wonders what he thinks about it.
He hears Jim’s footsteps long before he sees him.
“I thought you might be bored,” Jim says by way of greeting.
The lights in his private room are low, and his vision is still blurred, but he knows Jim is smiling. He can hear it in his hushed voice.
“You are correct.”
He sits in the plastic chair at his bedside and holds his empty hands palm up. “Bones vetoed chess.”
“The doctor will not allow me to engage in anything that he deems too stimulating. Apparently, he believes chess falls into this category.”
Jim laughs, and though it is loud enough to cause pain, Spock does not mind. “Is that your way of telling me our games aren’t stimulating enough?”
He smiles. It’s small by human standards, but more than the typical uptick of the corners of his mouth. Another side-effect of his concussion.
“I see how it is, Mister. I’ll just have to show you how stimulating I can be.”
Heat floods his face. The memory, distorted by adrenaline and his injured brain, of his lips on feverish skin asserts itself in his mind.
Jim wets his own lips, before rubbing his index finger along the bottom one and looking away. “Spock…”
When he does not continue, Spock slowly, carefully, with his heart once again hammering in his side, presents his hand, palm upturned. “Captain.” When Jim only stares at it, brows furrowed, he continues, softer, “Jim.”
Like every other time, Jim does not push him away. He meets him, cradling his hand between both of his own. Through his touch, Spock senses relief and frustration and so much affection that he could become lost in it if he is not careful. The experience is tantamount to a kiss in Vulcan culture.
He meets Jim’s eyes, which are wide above his crooked grin, and watches as he presses a kiss to his knuckles.
“I’m glad you’re safe," Jim whispers into his skin.
Spock squeezes his hand. He is not certain if his resulting smile can be blamed on a concussion. He finds he does not care.
