#also if you don't think pavel reprogrammed the computer in his quarters to handle commands given in russian you're dead wrong

[ensnchekov-a]

DRABBLE ⸺ 1 / ?

Somebody always dies.

Sometimes, no matter how fast his fingers fly at the transporter controls, somebody does not make it off Vulcan. Sometimes it is Sulu’s beacon that disappears before he can even blink and Kirk is laying there on the transporter pad dazed but still alive, horror in the depths of his eyes.

Kirk says, “Sulu,” and his voice breaks and all Pavel can do is curse his own fingers, a misplaced decimal point in his hasty computation of gravitational pull, and subpar skill because clearly the fault must lie with him. If it didn’t, both men would be alive now, but only one has returned and so he waits for the inevitable backlash that is sure to follow.

Other times, Kirk is the one swallowed up by the singularity that is consuming Vulcan. Sulu materialises on the pad and Pavel’s heart stops because there’s only one and there should be two men, but he knows he’s hoping for an impossibility. He doesn’t know what happened as they fell, but Sulu looks in Pavel’s direction with a thousand-yard-stare and he feels the burn of accusation. “He lost his grip,” Sulu says, but what Pavel hears is “You couldn’t save him, kid. This is your fault.”

Pavel knows he’s right.

—

Tonight, he fails again to save Amanda Grayson. The red cliffs of Vulcan crumble and a woman screams and she is terrified, Pavel is sure of that, as she plummets dizzyingly fast toward her own grave. There is nothing he can do.

Five Vulcans make it aboard the Enterprise. One human does not.

—Я потерял ее, he whispers gravely, and the words repeat over and over in his head like a death sentence.

Four Vulcans maintain an air of cold impassivity on their faces that do not reach their eyes. There is anger in their eyes, unrestrained and unmasked, and Pavel feels the burn of their gaze searing right through his clothes, his skin, and he starts to believe—however foolishly—that looks can kill.

One allows his face to twist with a rage so thick he can feel it across the room. An apology forms in the back of Pavel’s throat, but he chokes on the words because an apology will not fix what he has done. It will not bring back the mother he failed to save, it will not make him less responsible, it will not absolve him of his failure.

—У меня получится! He hears his premature confidence echo in his head and never has he been so wrong.

His throat feels impossibly tight and he’s only semi-aware of the fact that he’s no longer sitting at the transporter controls. His back is firmly pressed against the wall and beyond the sound of his heart beating furiously in his chest, the room is deathly silent. He’s frozen still, not in control of his limbs. When he comes back to himself, Pavel sees it there in Spock’s eyes as his vision begins to fade: anger, betrayal, directed solely at him.

‘I trusted you to save her,’ Spock’s fury-darkened eyes say. Not a single soul moves to intervene. Pavel doesn’t remember how to speak, doesn’t think he’ll ever remember how to again.

—

Everything is still black when his eyes snap open and for a moment, nightmare is inseparably entangled with reality. He’s dead—Spock strangled him and he didn’t put up a fight now he is who-knows-where, there are no answers to what happens after death. But his heart is pumping like he has just finished a marathon—the hearts of dead men don’t beat—and he’s suddenly aware of the Starfleet issue blanket tangled around his midsection.

He is not dead. He is still on the Enterprise, startled awake by another nightmare. This is the fifth since they began their journey crawling back to Earth on impulse power and it will not be the last.

“Компьютер, свет на 20%.” His voice is far away and sleep-addled and it takes the computer a fraction of a second longer to obey when he mumbles in Russian, but the lights ease on. He digs his palms into his eyes and rubs away the exhaustion.

Almost any attempt at sleeping more than a few hours is thwarted by his subconscious—seventeen years is long enough to know how his body will react to certain things, and he has always suffered from nightmares in the wake of stress and trauma ever since he was young. They are defence mechanisms, he recalls reading in a journal when he was around ten years old, the subconscious mind’s way of working through difficult scenarios.

Some have suggested rewriting their nightmares and exerting a certain mastery over the dreamscape, but try as he might, this was never a skill he was able to achieve. Why, he can’t say—he knows what these nightmares are trying to tell him, so it should be simple to imagine a different outcome.

He finds this far more challenging than some of the courses at the Academy.

He’s tired—they all are, why should he complain?—but as long as he can continue to function as navigator and ensure their safe return home, he can endure the restless nights and Sulu’s constant enquiring after the faint dark circles under his eyes and the how are you? at the beginning of every shift. Sulu is a perceptive man. Pavel knows that he suspects something and that he does not really believe his smile and his automatic ‘I am fine, Mr. Sulu,” but he hasn’t pushed too far yet, and for that, he’s grateful.

He untangles himself from the covers and stands. His body wants to go back to sleep, but his mind and his heart are still racing. The chrono at his bedside reads 0229 hours and this may be a blessing in disguise. The Enterprise will be mostly asleep at this hour and he just wants to get out of this room, to wander the decks while he picks apart his thoughts and not have to worry about someone on the crew stopping to make small talk or smile ask how he is.

He’s fine. He just doesn’t want to smile right now.

Pavel snatches up the sweater he left hanging over the chair at his desk, tosses it on over his pyjamas, and slips out of his quarters in a pair of slippers.

Twenty-one steps takes him from his quarters to the turbolift and the only sounds in the corridor are his slippered feet tapping against the floor and the low humming breaths of the Enterprise. He mumbles, “Deck 2,” when the turbolift doors glide shut and steps out the moment they open about thirty-six seconds later.

He could spend some time on the Observation Deck and stare out into the black and let his mind wander. The stars have always been a comforting sight; something to focus on when his mind moved too fast for him to keep up. Tonight, he’d like to lose himself in plotting aimless courses and calculating within a minute the amount of time it would take them to reach home at this very moment.

Movement in the corridor in front of him momentarily makes him forget all that. He does not want company right now, but he quickly straightens his spine and attempts to muster up a cheerful smile. He’ll say hello, they’ll exchange small talk, and then he will be free to continue on.

It was a perfect plan had he run into anybody else on the crew. He should curse the universe for its cruelty.

“M-Mister Spock,” Pavel manages softly and forces his spine as straight as it can possibly go.

“Mister Chekov.” Spock tips his head a fraction of an inch and acknowledges him calmly. His voice sounds no different from the way he would address anyone else on the crew, but Pavel is still afraid to look him in the eye for too long and face what he’s seen in his nightmares.

Resentment. Blame. Anger.

“Is everything all right, Ensign?” Pavel swallows and forces himself to look up. It’s only now that he notices Spock is not in full uniform—he’s in black instead of science blue—and he looks perfectly relaxed with his hands clasped behind his back.

But he knows—it was a lie, then, just like his own. He remembers the mask of calm dissolving in the fire of explosive rage and how helpless the captain was when caught in it. He feels that same fury directed at him and he needs a minute to find his voice.

After a long pause, he answers, “You are not asleep. Sir.”

Spock lifts a brow. “No. Nor are you.” Pavel shakes his head and Spock continues, “You may join me if you do not have other arrangements. I am—amenable to the idea of company.”

He doesn’t elaborate any further. Pavel shuffles in place, momentarily stunned by the Commander’s easy invitation. He shouldn’t want anything to do with him. His guilt is written all over his face—the Commander should not want to spend time with the man responsible for the loss of his mother. It doesn’t add up.

The words he hasn’t said yet are eating a hole through his chest. In his nightmares, he never has the chance, but he can do it now, he can apologise, and he’ll understand if he blames him, he is well within his right t—

“Ensign.” Pavel’s thoughts come to a screeching halt. “Chekov.” Spock’s brows knit themselves together and a stone drops in Pavel’s stomach. Unless Spock used the telepathic abilities inherent to Vulcans to pick up on his thoughts, he hadn’t just thought all that—he said it out loud.

“Sir, I-I’m so sorry. I—”

“Come with me,” Spock says, less an invitation and more an order. “There are things we must discuss. Allow me to preface this with the following: I harbour no resentment towards you for what happened.”