The interior of the ship was, for now, as fixed as they could probably get it without help from the still active orbit ships. With the planetary attack systems - or whatever the hell they were - still active, that was doing to be a ways in coming. Which meant they needed to start work on the exterior of the ship. They would want that as ready to go as possible by the time things turned around, and Kirk did believe they would.
He had worked himself into a hard to get to spot around the bottom of the ship, grunting as he picked at bits of wiring and worried on how to patch the hole that was torn into the siding. It wasn't puncturing the hull, but it wouldn't do to leave it either. Even harder was how to get it to last during exit. He gripped a tool in his mouth, sweating as his hands poked and prodded at the underside, brows knitting in concentration.
Which is never a good thing on a planet with creatures that wanted to capture or kill you - concentrating to had on one thing, especially outside.
Kirk cracked his head against the bottom of the ship as he was suddenly jerked forward, instinctively kicking out at whomever his attacker was and letting out a braying yell as he tried to figure out what was happening beyond 'whomever is pulling me is not nice'.
There is no end to the work that needs to be done and, with the Tourist's interior and main systems operational enough to get them all off planet, that work now involves leaving the relative safety of the ship. After all, it wouldn't do to have vital bits of ship fall off mid-flight or to explode once they hit atmosphere just because of some loose screws or minor hull ruptures.
Chekov is checking the external engine casing when he hears Kirk yell.
He immediately runs towards the shout as he draws his gun--an inelegant thing from the ship's armory that he's kept on his person since they crashed on this awful planet. Not something that he actually intended to use.
The Russian reaches Kirk's position and trains his gun on the Lato'li attacker. Even though the alien doesn't look inclined to pause and talk it out, Chekov isn't about to pull the trigger without trying to diffuse the situation another way. "Stop or I shoot!"
The natives, whatever they might be, had never been open to such commands.
Certainly not when one of them had Kirk in its grasp. Kirk himself was
thrashing, trying to get some level of coordination. His foot lashed out at
the creature's head, but even when he connected the native did not relent.
He twisted and grunted, doing everything to get away, but the other's grip
had more in common with iron than anything.
"Chekov! Shoot!" he called out, lashing out once again with his leg with
similar results as before.
Chekov hesitates a moment longer before pulling the trigger, aiming low. The bullet (the Atroma can give them starships but they can't manage weaponry more advanced than projectile weapons?) embeds itself harmlessly in the ground a couple of feet short of Kirk's attacker. The alien spares Chekov a glance and evidently decides that he isn't a threat. It's steely grip on Kirk tightens further still.
Chekov shoots again and, this time, he doesn't aim to miss. He doesn't necessarily aim to kill either, but the shot strikes the attacker's chest and the alien has only a moment to look surprised before it drops to the ground.
It doesn't get back up. The gaping wound in its chest is clearly not survivable.
Chekov freezes, horrified, gun still pointed at the native. He should check on Kirk. They should get back in the ship in case the sound of gunfire attracts more Lato'li attention. Neither of those thoughts makes him take action, though, overwhelmed as they are by his mind trying to come to terms with the fact that he just ended a life. Not in the abstract, removed sense of firing on a hostile enemy vessel, but face-to-face, concrete and bloody.
At first Kirk didn’t notice Chekov’s distress. Free of his own captor, he
quickly got to his feet and went for the gun he had brought out for
protection - little good though it had done him. If there was one there
might be others. He moved past the corpse to look at the trees, straining
to see into red stained shadows.
Finally sure that nothing else was going to pop out at them for now, he
turned back to the cooling body and finally to Chekov. His stomach fell
when he saw the younger man’s face, hissing under his breath as he strode
over to him, purposefully putting his body directly in Chekov’s line of
sight and thus partially blocking the body itself.
He looked up as ordered. Blinked like some sort of startled prey animal. Came back to himself enough to lower his weapon.
Another moment passed before Chekov collected himself fully, shoving his thoughts and feelings aside to be dealt with at a more convenient time. "There will be others," he observed. "Do you know, are all of the others inside the ship?"
"Fenris probably isn't, but that's fine. He can handle himself." His elf
was a murder machine all things told, so he was sure Fenris would be fine
and if he wasn't out patrolling he might - just might - be taking a short
break for food. His more immediate concern was Chekov. That look had
worried him, the way he had seemed to lost and shocked. He knew it was not
the first time that Chekov had seen death, but this close? Perhaps not.
"Get inside. I'll do a perimeter sweep," he ordered, gripping his shoulder
and giving a firm squeeze and a gentle shove towards the ship. His work
could wait for a bit.
He nodded, too shaken still to insist on staying with Kirk. Chekov has seen death, of course--more than once--but most of it was either during the crisis in engineering when bodies were quickly lost in chaos and ever-fluctuating gravity or at a distance. No other senior crew member has been as shielded from the ugliness of ground fighting as Pavel. He's never been in a position where he needed to take a life (Kalara aside, but she was quick to surrender).
"Yes sir." It was easy to fall back on formalities. Chekov made his way back to the ship, already running through a mental checklist of what else needed to be done. He'll be fine as long as he stays busy and doesn't think.
It was true. Pavel had been largely protected from it, in heavy part because Kirk so often needed his expertise in engineering and physics on the ship itself and less on the ground. Everyone in the Fleet was trained how to defend themselves, but more often than not that defense wasn't up to par with their more dangerous encounters. And, even though he might not wish to admit it, there might have been the urge to protect their youngest crew member from those things. Perhaps more so than any of the others.
Now, he thought, he might not have been doing the other any favors.
Kirk watched to make sure he made it inside then did as he said he would, performing a quick perimeter sweep and following Chekov in. He himself needed to get his head wound bandaged, and needing help with that was a perfect opportunity.
"Chekov, come help me," he commanded, putting that captain's authority in his tone that said he would be obeyed as he made for the med bay to get bandages.
That Chekov made it this far in life with so little exposure to the gruesomeness of death is, in a way, remarkable. Home hadn't been exactly been a peaceful place in the last five years, and the City--the first prison--had been prone to more violence and chaos than MarinaNova. He had died in the City (something he wasn't in a hurry to mention to Kirk), but that had been... easy, almost. No guilt, no wondering after the fact if he had done the right thing or if he could have tried something else to end things peacefully.
Starfleet Academy taught its cadets how to defend themselves and how to fire a phaser. No one mentioned how awful it felt to snuff out a life.
When Kirk returned, Chekov was kneeling by an open panel and toying with wires, already succumbing to his thoughts. (Another thing no one bothered to tell him: having a quick mind that could follow multiple trains of thought at once was never beneficial in situations where thinking less was necessary.) The order pulled him out of his head and he jumped to his feet to follow Kirk. Commands, good. If Kirk was telling him what to do, maybe he wouldn't have time to think.
"How badly hurt are you?" he asked, disappointed in himself for not asking before leaving Kirk outside on his own.
No, no one ever mentioned the awful choices you might have to make. No one taught you how to handle the guilt. No one taught you how to handle the dreams, or what to do when you woke up at night with a scream in your throat. No one taught you how to face someone when you had to take everything from them.
"Not bad, thank goodness. Head wounds always bleed a lot," he grunted, marching with determination through the halls. "But they're a bitch to bandage on your own. So I need you to disinfect and bandage it for me." He needed to spare Anders the stress of healing right now, and Chekov would need a proper task.
Starfleet Academy really needs to step up its game. So many things its curriculum failed to address.
"I can do that," he confirmed as he followed, "although I think that you are asking me to do this more for my benefit than for yours." Not that Chekov minds. It will help him to have something concrete and useful to do, and it really is difficult to wrap up an injury that can't be seen without a mirror.
"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not, but it doesn't change the fact I need help
bandaging my head," he shrugged. Chekov was right, of course, but
regardless it was the way he was going to do things. And he did actually
need help with his head wound. He had never handled them well, in all
honesty - getting dizzy easily from the blood loss.
They made the medic area and he went to sit on the table. He looked over to
Chekov, waiting for the other to begin his administrations.
Instead of offering further comment on whether or not his help is strictly needed, he washed his hands, located some gauze, and held it to the wound. Basic first aid: assess the situation, stop the bleeding, then worry about cleaning and bandaging. Don't worry about the amount of blood because heads bleed a lot. Do worry about dizziness, weakness, or disorientation.
If he ever gets home, Chekov will need to remember to shadow McCoy so he can learn more than just the basics.
He frowned, more because any conversation would undoubtedly be uncomfortable than out of confusion. "I don't know what you mean."
They all probably should - shadow McCoy that is. Though Kirk would be in the most danger. He could see the man turning at every opportunity and digging a hypo into his neck, the jerk. God, he missed that. He let his eyes close as Chekov tended to him, trusting the young man. There was a possibility he might need stitches, but they could cover that when they got there. Or, well, he could let Chekov cover it.
"Yes, you do." He said it firmly, no opening for questioning. "Like when you couldn't grab Spock's mother for the warp off Vulcan. You can't take it all on yourself."
"That's true, but responsibility can be equally shared as much as the consequence," he said, his tone gentler, but still firm. "And sometimes responsibility is less about an active choice, and more about the one we had to make. There are going to be times, especially as you move through the ranks, that you have the make the hard choice. Often, those choices are the ones that never rest easy with you, nor should they. You made one today, when you saved me, Chekov."
His eyes watched Chekov intently.
"You don't have to be okay with what happened, Chekov. I don't think you should be, not entirely. But you did the right thing, the hard thing."
"I know that it was what needed to be done." He wasn't going to call it the right thing. If he was more skilled, maybe he could have incapacitated the attacker without killing him. If he was a better diplomat, maybe it would have been possible to talk after all. As it was, killing had been necessary; it couldn't have been right.
"I also know that command officers are required to make difficult decisions." Chekov continued to keep his focus on the still sluggishly-bleeding head wound. "What I don't know is if I will be able to do that. I thought so, but..." But maybe not. If he couldn't even kill someone who was trying to murder his captain without feeling like he was going to break, then how could he make the truly hard choices and still live with himself?
Kirk was quiet for a moment, letting Chekov work. Slowly his arms came up, wrapping around the younger man and pulling him into a hug. He sighed, holding him there for a moment, his wound able to be ignored for just a little. He let out a quiet sigh, wishing he knew the better things to say here.
"I wish I knew what to tell you, to make it better," he said quietly. "I'm sorry that you are suffering, but in a way I am also glad. If that had been easy for you, I would be worried. But I do understand what you're feeling. I hope that brings you a little comfort at least."
Chekov stopped working and didn't return the hug so much as slump quietly into it. "I wish that people I care about would not hope that I find the fact that they understand my distress because they have also experienced it comforting." His tone is sadder than the words themselves are. "Suffering is something that I would prefer to do alone."
"Don't be ridiculous, Chekov," he huffed against the other's shirt. "We
aren't meant to shoulder all our burdens alone. I don't want you to
shoulder this one alone. Definitely not this one. And it's okay to not want
to, or to lean on someone." He realized what he said was a touch
hypocritical, but Chekov was not himself, nor did he want him to be.
"I'm much too Russian to lean too much on anyone," he replied with a strained smile. "We feel immensely unfulfilled if there is not enough suffering in our lives."
Just in case that wasn't redirection enough, he returned to Kirk's injury. "You may need stitches. I wish that there was a dermal regenerator in this universe."
"Hopefully the next time Bones pops in he will have one on him," Kirk
murmured, accepting the redirection for what it was, though he noted to
himself to check in with Chekov later.
If there was a later. He couldn't force him to feel a certain way or to
come to terms with this, he needed to do that on his own, but he just
wanted him to know that he wasn't alone and could talk if he wanted to. If
he needed to. The last thing Kirk wanted was for Chekov to feel isolated
and alone. He knew the pain of that, and did not wish it on the young man
he saw as a brother.
"Maybe he will be able to fix whatever damage I do to you today." He smiled weakly, grateful to at least delay further conversation.
Chekov knew that he wasn't alone here. He had Kirk and shipmates and Kitty and a number of other friends. But Kirk had forgotten him before, Kitty fell in love with someone else, the friends he had made in other universes had left, and at some point Chekov had accepted that the only person who would never leave or forget him was himself. A sense of isolation had been inevitable after nearly four years of being left behind.
But he would try. Not now, but after they were off of this planet, he would try to accept the help that was being offered.
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universal_charm) wrote2024-04-11 06:26 pm
Chekov & Kirk - Cherry Poppin' / During the Lato'li System Plot
He had worked himself into a hard to get to spot around the bottom of the ship, grunting as he picked at bits of wiring and worried on how to patch the hole that was torn into the siding. It wasn't puncturing the hull, but it wouldn't do to leave it either. Even harder was how to get it to last during exit. He gripped a tool in his mouth, sweating as his hands poked and prodded at the underside, brows knitting in concentration.
Which is never a good thing on a planet with creatures that wanted to capture or kill you - concentrating to had on one thing, especially outside.
Kirk cracked his head against the bottom of the ship as he was suddenly jerked forward, instinctively kicking out at whomever his attacker was and letting out a braying yell as he tried to figure out what was happening beyond 'whomever is pulling me is not nice'.
"Let go of me!"
no subject
Chekov is checking the external engine casing when he hears Kirk yell.
He immediately runs towards the shout as he draws his gun--an inelegant thing from the ship's armory that he's kept on his person since they crashed on this awful planet. Not something that he actually intended to use.
The Russian reaches Kirk's position and trains his gun on the Lato'li attacker. Even though the alien doesn't look inclined to pause and talk it out, Chekov isn't about to pull the trigger without trying to diffuse the situation another way. "Stop or I shoot!"
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The natives, whatever they might be, had never been open to such commands. Certainly not when one of them had Kirk in its grasp. Kirk himself was thrashing, trying to get some level of coordination. His foot lashed out at the creature's head, but even when he connected the native did not relent. He twisted and grunted, doing everything to get away, but the other's grip had more in common with iron than anything.
"Chekov! Shoot!" he called out, lashing out once again with his leg with similar results as before.
no subject
Chekov hesitates a moment longer before pulling the trigger, aiming low. The bullet (the Atroma can give them starships but they can't manage weaponry more advanced than projectile weapons?) embeds itself harmlessly in the ground a couple of feet short of Kirk's attacker. The alien spares Chekov a glance and evidently decides that he isn't a threat. It's steely grip on Kirk tightens further still.
Chekov shoots again and, this time, he doesn't aim to miss. He doesn't necessarily aim to kill either, but the shot strikes the attacker's chest and the alien has only a moment to look surprised before it drops to the ground.
It doesn't get back up. The gaping wound in its chest is clearly not survivable.
Chekov freezes, horrified, gun still pointed at the native. He should check on Kirk. They should get back in the ship in case the sound of gunfire attracts more Lato'li attention. Neither of those thoughts makes him take action, though, overwhelmed as they are by his mind trying to come to terms with the fact that he just ended a life. Not in the abstract, removed sense of firing on a hostile enemy vessel, but face-to-face, concrete and bloody.
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At first Kirk didn’t notice Chekov’s distress. Free of his own captor, he quickly got to his feet and went for the gun he had brought out for protection - little good though it had done him. If there was one there might be others. He moved past the corpse to look at the trees, straining to see into red stained shadows.
Finally sure that nothing else was going to pop out at them for now, he turned back to the cooling body and finally to Chekov. His stomach fell when he saw the younger man’s face, hissing under his breath as he strode over to him, purposefully putting his body directly in Chekov’s line of sight and thus partially blocking the body itself.
“Chekov,” he commanded. “Chekov look at me.”
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Another moment passed before Chekov collected himself fully, shoving his thoughts and feelings aside to be dealt with at a more convenient time. "There will be others," he observed. "Do you know, are all of the others inside the ship?"
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"Fenris probably isn't, but that's fine. He can handle himself." His elf was a murder machine all things told, so he was sure Fenris would be fine and if he wasn't out patrolling he might - just might - be taking a short break for food. His more immediate concern was Chekov. That look had worried him, the way he had seemed to lost and shocked. He knew it was not the first time that Chekov had seen death, but this close? Perhaps not.
"Get inside. I'll do a perimeter sweep," he ordered, gripping his shoulder and giving a firm squeeze and a gentle shove towards the ship. His work could wait for a bit.
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"Yes sir." It was easy to fall back on formalities. Chekov made his way back to the ship, already running through a mental checklist of what else needed to be done. He'll be fine as long as he stays busy and doesn't think.
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Now, he thought, he might not have been doing the other any favors.
Kirk watched to make sure he made it inside then did as he said he would, performing a quick perimeter sweep and following Chekov in. He himself needed to get his head wound bandaged, and needing help with that was a perfect opportunity.
"Chekov, come help me," he commanded, putting that captain's authority in his tone that said he would be obeyed as he made for the med bay to get bandages.
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Starfleet Academy taught its cadets how to defend themselves and how to fire a phaser. No one mentioned how awful it felt to snuff out a life.
When Kirk returned, Chekov was kneeling by an open panel and toying with wires, already succumbing to his thoughts. (Another thing no one bothered to tell him: having a quick mind that could follow multiple trains of thought at once was never beneficial in situations where thinking less was necessary.) The order pulled him out of his head and he jumped to his feet to follow Kirk. Commands, good. If Kirk was telling him what to do, maybe he wouldn't have time to think.
"How badly hurt are you?" he asked, disappointed in himself for not asking before leaving Kirk outside on his own.
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"Not bad, thank goodness. Head wounds always bleed a lot," he grunted, marching with determination through the halls. "But they're a bitch to bandage on your own. So I need you to disinfect and bandage it for me." He needed to spare Anders the stress of healing right now, and Chekov would need a proper task.
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"I can do that," he confirmed as he followed, "although I think that you are asking me to do this more for my benefit than for yours." Not that Chekov minds. It will help him to have something concrete and useful to do, and it really is difficult to wrap up an injury that can't be seen without a mirror.
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"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not, but it doesn't change the fact I need help bandaging my head," he shrugged. Chekov was right, of course, but regardless it was the way he was going to do things. And he did actually need help with his head wound. He had never handled them well, in all honesty - getting dizzy easily from the blood loss.
They made the medic area and he went to sit on the table. He looked over to Chekov, waiting for the other to begin his administrations.
"Don't take it all on yourself."
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If he ever gets home, Chekov will need to remember to shadow McCoy so he can learn more than just the basics.
He frowned, more because any conversation would undoubtedly be uncomfortable than out of confusion. "I don't know what you mean."
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"Yes, you do." He said it firmly, no opening for questioning. "Like when you couldn't grab Spock's mother for the warp off Vulcan. You can't take it all on yourself."
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"Yes I can," he replied quietly, his attention firmly focused on Kirk's injury. "We are all fully responsible for our actions and their consequences."
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His eyes watched Chekov intently.
"You don't have to be okay with what happened, Chekov. I don't think you should be, not entirely. But you did the right thing, the hard thing."
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"I also know that command officers are required to make difficult decisions." Chekov continued to keep his focus on the still sluggishly-bleeding head wound. "What I don't know is if I will be able to do that. I thought so, but..." But maybe not. If he couldn't even kill someone who was trying to murder his captain without feeling like he was going to break, then how could he make the truly hard choices and still live with himself?
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"I wish I knew what to tell you, to make it better," he said quietly. "I'm sorry that you are suffering, but in a way I am also glad. If that had been easy for you, I would be worried. But I do understand what you're feeling. I hope that brings you a little comfort at least."
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"Don't be ridiculous, Chekov," he huffed against the other's shirt. "We aren't meant to shoulder all our burdens alone. I don't want you to shoulder this one alone. Definitely not this one. And it's okay to not want to, or to lean on someone." He realized what he said was a touch hypocritical, but Chekov was not himself, nor did he want him to be.
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Just in case that wasn't redirection enough, he returned to Kirk's injury. "You may need stitches. I wish that there was a dermal regenerator in this universe."
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"Hopefully the next time Bones pops in he will have one on him," Kirk murmured, accepting the redirection for what it was, though he noted to himself to check in with Chekov later.
If there was a later. He couldn't force him to feel a certain way or to come to terms with this, he needed to do that on his own, but he just wanted him to know that he wasn't alone and could talk if he wanted to. If he needed to. The last thing Kirk wanted was for Chekov to feel isolated and alone. He knew the pain of that, and did not wish it on the young man he saw as a brother.
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Chekov knew that he wasn't alone here. He had Kirk and shipmates and Kitty and a number of other friends. But Kirk had forgotten him before, Kitty fell in love with someone else, the friends he had made in other universes had left, and at some point Chekov had accepted that the only person who would never leave or forget him was himself. A sense of isolation had been inevitable after nearly four years of being left behind.
But he would try. Not now, but after they were off of this planet, he would try to accept the help that was being offered.