Author's Note: The final installment, one instance in which Spock did not scare Chekov. I have mixed thoughts as to the quality of this one (surprising, isn't it?) and it came out longer than I'd intended, but I hope it is at least partially enjoyable.

Also, I would be remiss if I did not take some time to thank GothicCheshire for offering her beta assistance and lending suggestions.

Once again, thank you to all who have read, reviewed, favorited, and alerted. It is all appreciated.

Chapter 6

He couldn't do it. He'd had no hope of it. Pavel felt his mind slipping within a matter of mere seconds, and from there it was like a landslide, falling farther and farther down with rapidly-increasing speed every second, pulling Pavel tumbling along with it. He wanted to hold on. He couldn't. Dimly in some corner of his consciousness he could still hear Spock's distant voice, shouting at him to block it out, but soon even that was gone, and with it all of Pavel's connection to the outside world.

The transition happened so fast that it was disorienting. Suddenly Pavel was in the halls of the Enterprise, running. He flew down the corridor as fast as he could, skidding around corners, pushing other crewmembers aside, yelling at everyone to move out of the way. Then he was in the transporter room. Kirk and Hikaru were falling, and Pavel had to save them—

Pavel's whole body seemed to lurch sickeningly. Suddenly, he remembered. No, no—

He knew what was coming. He struggled suddenly against the mounting dread, trying to free himself, to free his mind and his thoughts and his body, but it wasn't working.

Everything seemed to fast-forward. Pavel was strangely helpless as it all flew by in a blur, and then abruptly, it seemed to slow down. Or rather, he slowed down. His fingers lagged as he moved them over the console. He tried to move them faster, but they wouldn't go. If anything, they went even slower. No… He knew what was happening. No, no, he had to stop it—

Pavel heard the wild, half-hysterical sobbing of frustration wrenched from his own chest as his fingers seemed to stick and drag like they were submerged in something thick and heavy, regardless of how hard he tried to make them go faster. No, no, NO, NO—!

Alarms screamed from the console, battering Pavel's eardrums. On the screen, one of the targets slipped. Pavel stared in horror. He went to grope to catch it, but he was pinned in his chair. He couldn't move at all; he could only stare and sit there, slumped and lazy, as that little dot fell farther and farther, faster and faster, slipping away for the excruciatingly long few seconds until it disappeared entirely.

The scream was earsplitting and agonized. It sounded ragged and full of terror, and when it abruptly cut off, it was like a punch in the chest.

He'd lost her.

Spock materialized on the transporter—alone. No, no, that was wrong; she should be there…

She wasn't.

Nothing was real in that moment except for the empty, futilely outstretched hand, and the shocked, heartbroken look on Spock's suddenly all-too-expressive face.

That, and the pain—the pain of death and failure, and the even worse pain of choking, overwhelming guilt as Spock slowly turned to look at Pavel, brown liquid pools staring into Pavel's eyes, staring silently and looking so hurt and betrayed and unbelievably sad. Pavel was drowning in it. He couldn't breathe at all.

Why didn't you do something?

Spock's gaze turned accusatory. His eyes, shockingly dark, drilled into Pavel, piercing him, burning him. Pavel felt himself slammed back into the chair, and though there was nothing there near his throat, he felt as if something was physically choking him.

Why didn't you do something?

Everything disappeared then, and Pavel's entire line of sight filled with a huge view of Vulcan. Mute with horror, pinned in place and unable to look away, Pavel saw great mountains and grand buildings breaking apart, tumbling down and being swallowed up by the gaping jaws of the enormous fissures that seemed to be opening across every inch of ground. And the people…there were people everywhere—men, women, elders, children—screaming in incoherent terror, running about like mad things, shrieking to each other, clinging to each other, weeping as their world shattered around them. Vulcans were crushed under falling debris, dismembered by sharp metal fragments, and swallowed, screeching, by the yawning ground. Bodies littered the hard ground, some whole, some in pieces, some with discernable features, some crushed beyond recognition. Others lay dying on the ground, hopelessly maimed, weeping like children while still others stumbled about the ensuing wreckage, screaming futilely for their loved ones.

Pavel almost couldn't tell their tearful hysteria from his own. His face was soaked as he huddled there sobbing, begging whoever it was—someone, anyone—to make it stop.

Then a great collective cry, horrible beyond description, went up as the planet began to collapse fully. The Vulcans collapsed with it. They literally shattered, every last one of them, crumbling like dusty statues, shrieking and bleeding and dying, their bodies breaking apart in a tumble of pain, carnage, and terror. The sky darkened, filled with dust, and Pavel seemed to watch from above as the entire planet finally crumbled, flashing fire, sucked in on itself, and vanished in a wink of white-hot light.

Realizing he was still huddled in the seat behind the transporter, Pavel felt his distraught gaze drawn helplessly to the platform where Spock's unmoving form still stood. The once-proud Vulcan now stood with his head drooped and shoulders slumped. He looked totally empty. He was no more than a shell, now; inside was nothing but a bottomless pit of unfathomable loss, and grief, and pain, pain, pain…

'You caused him that pain…'

Pavel's head jerked up again, startled and searching through the blur of tears. Had he really heard the words? "Wh…What?"

The transporter room began to fade at the edges, but Pavel hardly noticed. There was another figure standing in the chamber with him, recognizable as probably humanoid, but nothing more. The voice, however, was clear enough, and, Pavel now realized, real. 'He's in so much pain—look at him.'

He didn't want to, but he had no control over his own body. Pavel looked back at Spock.

It was unbearable.

The voice still sounded sad. 'You did that to him. All of that pain… You caused it.' Pavel's heart rate quickened. 'Why? You could have stopped it, but you didn't.'

"I—I—" He was choking on words. He didn't know what to say, didn't even think he could form a coherent thought.

'Why would you do that?' the voice said, sounding heartbroken. 'How could you do that to him…to us?'

Us? What—what did—

A stab of horror shot through Pavel suddenly. He hadn't even realized that the transporter room had been fading more and more around him during the course of the voice's presence, so that now it was nothing more than a paling smear. But that wasn't what jolted him—as the room faded, the speaking figure had been coming into focus.

Pavel could see her clearly now. She was small and slight, clad in a form-fitting, grayish-brown dress with a hood of plain cloth wrapped around her head, covering most of her rich brown hair and framing her face. Her features were fine and slender, but soft, with big, doe-like brown eyes. She could no longer be called young, but even so, she would have been beautiful if not for her sad expression, and the slamming realization that hit Pavel next.

This was her. Spock's mother.

The one he—Pavel—had lost.

'Why didn't you do something, Pavel? Why didn't you save me?' she asked, big brown eyes staring mournfully into his. Around them, the environment was shifting. It was still too blurred to make out, but the sanitized white and blue colors of the transporter room were being traded out for brown, dark, shadowy hues. Spock was gone, too—the only elements that remained of their previous surroundings were the woman and Pavel himself.

The new environment began to solidify. Pavel found himself surrounded by rock, inside a vast cavern with a high, vaulting ceiling and lit sparely by a dim, fiery light. His heart pounded, blood roaring in his ears, as he realized in horror where they must be. No, no, he didn't want to see this…it was already too much…

He was going to hyperventilate.

'Hadn't he lost enough?' Spock's mother asked, her eyes continuing to pierce Pavel's unwaveringly. Something about her unnerved him—beyond all the guilt, remorse, and general horror of the scenario, there was behind all that something that truly scared him. He felt his guilt and panic growing at her next words. 'I was the only one who ever loved him.' She continued, her eyes filling with a deep, terrible sadness. 'There was only person in the universe who ever truly loved him, and you took that away from him.'

"It was an accident!" Pavel finally screamed out in grief and despair, his voice raw with relentless tears. "I tried to save you; I tried, I tried…"

'Do you think that matters to him?' she demanded. 'He was already losing his whole planet, his home.' Her voice quivered with emotion. 'He shouldn't have had to lose his mother, too, the last thing in the universe remaining to him— You could have at least spared him that!'

"I—I—t-tried…"

'Did you?' she asked softly. Something was wrong with her. She seemed…dangerous. She seemed to grow slowly, gradually, to go from a small-framed, delicate thing into a looming monstrosity. Her once-fine features twisted in malevolence, seeming to stretch grotesquely. 'You could have been faster. You weren't, and now he has nothing.' Her voice rose to a shriek. 'And it's all your fault!'

"No, no, no, no…" He didn't even know what he was denying. He was cowering before her, curled into a ball, trying to hide, trying to block out the words he knew were true…

'That's right,' the woman hissed. The cavern walls were starting to crumble around them, raining stone from the ceiling. 'It's true. It's true, and you know it!' It was a snarl, and then her voice came back down to a level that was even more frightening and dangerous in its evenness. 'Think of all the suffering you caused him. You can't even fathom it. How do you think it will be, to feel it like you deserve…'

Her hands were claws. She was still human in form, but only barely—she was a demon now, a distorted, seething monster. She stepped toward him as he lay sobbing in guilt and horror on the ground.

A sudden glimpse of movement, separate from the shuddering rock, caught both of their attention. A tall figure strode out of the shadows, its steps steady and deliberate. Pavel eventually recognized it as Spock. He stared up at the towering Vulcan shape, mute with fear. Spock's eyes were black and cold, almost soulless, somehow making him look even more dangerous than the hideous mockery of the woman. He wore no other expression, but kept his gaze locked on the demon as he began to raise his hand.

Suddenly, it seemed to Pavel that she was no monster; she was only a little, delicate, beautiful woman once more, the mother her son had lost. She was looking at Spock, meeting his eyes in something like astonishment. Her voice was gentle and sweet as she said in mild surprise, 'You came—'

She never finished. A bolt of red-white light suddenly flew from Spock's outstretched hand, and the woman immediately crumpled to the ground. Pavel stared in wordless, wide-eyed horror at the body, and then felt something inside his mind start to slip. His whole world seemed to blink with a flash of utterly confused dizziness, tearing free…

And suddenly it was all gone. The cave, the corpse, the undertone of fire…it all vanished in an instant. Pavel was lying in the grass; there was darkness and cool night air, and above, a blue-black stretch of calm, starry sky.

Pavel didn't even notice. He remained curled in a protective ball, staring sightlessly at nothing, quiet and completely still. His mind was blank of all thought, and everything was a vacant, incoherent blur…

"Ensign. Ensign! Ensign Chekov!"

Something was shaking him.

"Ensign Chekov. Mr. Chekov, do you hear me? Pavel! Pavel Chekov!"

Nothing registered. The universe was standing still; time, place, and existence meant nothing. He was suspended, drifting, and then not at all…

There was a dim, barely-realized sensation of cool fingers on his forehead, and then something zapped him. It was a small, harmless charge, a split-secondary pulse of strange electricity into his brain, but it brought Pavel jolting suddenly, gasping, back to awareness.

Spock was leaning over him, but quickly sat back now, giving Pavel space as he came back to consciousness. Pavel uncurled fast, still gasping, his lungs working frantically as if he couldn't possibly suck in enough air. For the first few moments he was completely disoriented. Where was he? Was it all gone? He lay on the ground, looking wildly about in a panic, taking in the quiet clearing, the sky above, the shadowy form of Spock kneeling next to him…and a way off, the dark, vague lump of the alien's corpse, lying dead on the ground, fallen where Spock had shot it. But it was the sight of the phaser, now back in its holster at Spock's hip, that brought the full memory of the nightmare all flooding in.

The next thing he knew, Pavel was sobbing uncontrollably, overcome with grief and horror. That thing, whatever it was, had ripped into his mind, altered his reality, and he'd been totally helpless to stop it; he couldn't hide, he couldn't hide… And the woman, the planet, all those people…all the death…god, so much death, and blood, and pain…

He couldn't take it. Somehow, without thinking, he lunged for the nearest person and latched onto Spock. He was so hysterical with the storm of terror and anguish that he hardly even felt Spock stiffen in surprise as Pavel mindlessly grabbed onto him, flinging his arms around the Vulcan's thin waist and blindly burying his face in Spock's midsection. Pavel was a child again, hiding, weeping from the nightmare and seeking, from the only comfort he could get, safety and protection from the horror and from his own fear. For a while, he just laid there—a tiny seventeen-year-old infant, clinging to his first officer as if that first officer was the last solid thing in the universe.

It was awful, all so awful…

But then, impossibly, it all began to ease a little. In the tiny shred of clarity, Pavel realized for the first time that he was, startlingly—or it would have been, if he'd been coherent enough to register startlement at the moment—actually clutching a Vulcan. And then somewhere it dawned on him that Vulcans were touch-telepaths…then Pavel felt it clearly. He didn't know exactly how the Vulcan was doing it, but he could feel Spock projecting thoughts over him, a gentle steady wave of calmcalmsecurityyou'resafepeacefulbestillcalmit'sg onenoneedtofearpeacefulcalm

Pavel let it wash over him, soothing him gradually until the terror began to subside and he finally stopped trembling. He stayed still, eyes leaking slowly, as he did his best to banish the last of the horror. But now came the rest of the grief, and the overwhelming guilt. The moment the fear ceased, Pavel sagged against Spock with a fresh wave of tears, this time of remorse. "I'm sorry," he wept, his voice muffled from where his face pressed into Spock's stomach as he sobbed into the blue uniform, tears soaking through the fabric. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…I'm sorry…"

Spock didn't respond and let him cry.

"Alright, kid, I'm lettin' you go." Dr. McCoy, looking a tiny bit frazzled but hiding it well, cast a slightly concerned eye over the ensign sitting at the far end of the table. "Go ahead to your shift tonight if you feel up to it—if, I'm saying—but try to take it kinda easy for the first thirty hours or so, alright?"

Pavel nodded obediently, meeting the doctor's serious eyes.

"Now if you feel anything off at all, any depression or nightmares, flashbacks, anything like that, you let me know immediately, got it?"

Pavel nodded again. He felt a small wave of relief, glad that he was getting McCoy's seal of approval. The Doctor would've never let him out of sickbay if something was amiss, and Pavel had to admit he was happy to be leaving. It meant this was all over, that horrible experience on that strange planet—officially over, anyway. Pavel still shuddered to think about it.

Somehow he felt that it should've made it less scary, looking back on it now, knowing in objective terms what had happened down there on M-136. 'Scientific' wasn't the right word—because honestly, they didn't know all the details. In fact, they didn't know any; they could only guess at what had actually, technically happened. They couldn't even study the creature. Spock had killed it, but by the time a second landing party had arrived to recover the first one, the body had apparently been nothing more than a putrid puddle, as if the thing had just liquefied. Useless, as far as any hope to take viable DNA samples. Still, the concept was clear: some powerful alien mind had forced its way inside Pavel's head in such a way that completely altered his perception of reality, so thoroughly that nothing of the true world made any difference—when his worst demons had been resurrected out of his subconscious and given a dimension of their own, the only thing that mattered was the nightmare inside in his brain. Even that, though, had been real enough—not technically speaking, of course, but sufficiently concrete that Spock had had to follow Pavel in to get him back.

For himself, Pavel supposed he was content enough. The entire experience was like a half-healed wound, still raw around the edges, but bearable and certain to heal with time…though it would almost definitely leave scars. It had been a considerable source of apprehension for Pavel over the last few days; physically, he was unharmed, but for the previous forty-eight hours during which McCoy had cautiously kept him confined to sickbay under observation for psychological symptoms, he'd been unable to quit worrying about the little niggling thought in the back of his head, concerned that when the Doctor analyzed his psych evals, he'd find something seriously wrong with him. But to his immense relief, McCoy was letting him go, which meant that Pavel was of sound mind as well as sound body. Sound enough mind, anyway. He did feel fine enough for the time being, but he supposed that could still remain to be seen.

It was Spock that he was more worried about.

Spock had been affected by that thing on the planet, too. He'd been able to ward off the initial attack. The alien had been strong, but even Pavel, a human with relatively little experience, knew that Vulcan mental shields were a powerful thing, more so than a lot of people realized. The creature hadn't been able to get past Spock's barriers to plunge him into a personal hell, but the one it had created for Pavel had been potent enough on its own. Enough that, from what Pavel could tentatively guess at, it had stolen Pavel far enough away from the real reality that in order to get him back out of it, Spock had had to put his shields down and essentially dive in after, willfully throwing himself into what initially had been only Pavel's illusion, only Pavel's nightmare.

He'd brought them both out of it. He'd found Pavel, he'd killed the creature, he'd shattered the awful illusion. He'd been Pavel's savior, his lifeline to cling to when Pavel at last came out of it, incoherent and mindless with terror. He'd been his anchor when Pavel had been beset by grief, drowning in his own unbearable sorrow and guilt. He'd been his solace, taking away the worst when Pavel thought he would die from it.

Yes, Spock had saved him. The last thing Pavel remembered from that harrowing night was being half-crumpled on the ground and hanging onto Spock, crying into him softly but forcefully and not being able to stop, probably still half-mad with distress and misery. Nothing came to mind after that; he'd probably worn himself out and fallen asleep without realizing it. The next thing he recalled was waking up in sickbay, but apparently it had been a couple hours after Pavel supposed he'd dozed off that Hikaru's recovery party had located the two missing officers sheltering in a shallow cave, both of them completely dead to the world. Spock, however, had alarmed everyone. He had been out cold—not merely asleep but thoroughly unconscious, and Hikaru had urgently called for a beam-up when the normally hyper-alert Vulcan remained unresponsive even when the rescuers had repeatedly shaken and called out to him. Allegedly it had given McCoy the scare of his life, and the Captain too when the news had reached him. And the worry was only compounded when they learned what had happened down there on the planet, prior to the rescue.

When Spock had eventually come to, he'd assured the agitated doctor by insisting that he was, in fact, perfectly unharmed. McCoy, however, had been having none of it. Pavel could understand why—powerful as Vulcan minds were, they were also much more sensitive than a human's. Spock's mind was undoubtedly tough but if it had been damaged in some way, since Vulcans were so dependent on that aspect of their beings, the damage would be much more devastating for him than it would be for a human, with serious mental and possibly even physical ramifications. And since Spock had been, essentially, comatose when they'd found him, McCoy refused to count for one second on the blind assumption that no such injury had been suffered, despite Spock's insistence that his trance had been self-induced—that he'd in fact been scanning his own mind for any damage from the invasion—and repeated assurances that he was in perfectly excellent condition, thank you, Doctor.

Pavel didn't know what to think. On one hand, he trusted Spock; if the Vulcan insisted that he was fine, Pavel would generally take him at his word. But on the other hand, Pavel couldn't help but share some of McCoy's anxiety. If Spock in fact had somehow suffered harm as a result of exposing his mind to that thing—to save you, Pavel thought at himself, and winced inwardly, letting the thought trail off. A part of him protested that this whole thing was unfair, that Pavel was being released while Spock was still not officially out of the danger zone. Pavel's psych evals showed him fit to leave, and probably the only reason for it, he now realized, the only reason he wasn't still drowning in guilt and trauma, was because Spock, that night on the planet as Pavel had clung to him, had taken it away. But how much of it had actually just gone away, Pavel had to wonder, and how much of it had Spock simply taken upon himself?

Inside McCoy's office, Pavel heard the door chime. McCoy called out distractedly, "Come on in."

The doors slid open and Kirk himself peeked through, glancing about anxiously. "Am I interrupting anything, gentlemen?"

McCoy waved his hand in absentminded, if tired, dismissal. "Not at all, Captain. I think we're just about finishing up."

Kirk stepped inside and let the doors slide shut behind him, but as he glanced between Pavel, McCoy, and the occasional random area inside the office, he seemed uncharacteristically shy and on edge. To his credit, though, he genuinely tried to smile at Pavel, even though the result was weak. "Recovery coming along, Ensign?" he asked, making a feeble attempt at sounding like his usual friendly, charismatic self.

Pavel nodded. "Yes, sir," he replied politely.

"I'm releasing him back to duty," McCoy chimed in. "Just make sure you don't work him too hard for the first day or two, Captain."

Kirk smiled thinly. "I'll try not to. And that's great; I'm glad to hear it," he added, but more than anything, he just looked worried. "Um…actually, I'd like to talk to you a little bit, Ensign, if that's alright…"

"Of course, Keptin," Pavel answered, inwardly growing increasingly puzzled by the Captain's apparent lack of energy and usual self-assurance.

"Well, if you two don't need me, gentlemen, I'm gonna step out," McCoy said, running a weary hand over his face before he could think to stop himself. He made as if to leave, but Kirk, still standing near the door, intercepted him before the Doctor could exit.

Kirk leaned in toward McCoy and as he spoke, his face was the picture of barely-repressed anxiety. "Bones, how's Spock doing?" he asked, keeping his voice low but obviously not caring that Pavel was overhearing.

"Alive, not comatose, stable from what I can tell," McCoy answered shortly. "Didn't you see him out there?"

"Uhura was there talking to him; I didn't want to interrupt." Kirk paused, nibbling his lower lip uneasily. "Are you releasing Spock too?"

McCoy shook his head helplessly, his tone softening. "Not yet, Jim," he said, sounding a bit apologetic. "I don't want to let him go until I'm absolutely, positively certain that his mind suffered no ill effects from what happened to him down there. I'm keepin' him here under observation a while longer, where I can keep an eye on him in case anything belatedly crops up."

Kirk looked even more worried and hastily asked, "He'll be okay, right?"

"He's probably fine, Jim," McCoy said, trying to calm him. "He hasn't displayed any issues since coming out of that initial blackout and his psych evals look normal; I'm probably just being paranoid. But I just want to be sure." Kirk fell silent then, and McCoy regarded him with a sympathetic look. "Don't worry too much about him, Jim," he told the Captain gently. "He'll probably be fine." McCoy stepped out then, but neither Kirk nor Pavel missed the big "probably" that seemed to loom in the middle of every reassurance.

Kirk was quiet a little longer, then let his breath out and walked over to the table, pulling out a chair and sitting down across from Pavel. "How you doing, Mr. Chekov?" he asked, making no pretense this time to sound falsely bright, but genuinely interested in Pavel's well-being.

"I am fine, Keptin," Pavel replied truthfully.

"I'm glad to hear it," Kirk said again, meaning it. "I heard what happened to you and Mr. Spock down on that planet. I'm…sorry you had to go through that." He paused for a moment, cleared his throat uneasily, and met Pavel's eyes again. "If you don't mind me asking—you don't need to give me any details, but I'd like an honest answer, if you're okay with giving one—you said that you and Spock got the same…um…scenario from the alien. What…exactly did it…show you?"

Even as Pavel hesitated momentarily, trying to formulate a response, Kirk waved a hand dismissively and amended his statement. "You don't have to describe it to me. Just…answer one thing for me, please?" He looked up at Pavel and when the young officer didn't object, Kirk finally took a deep breath and spoke the low, reluctant words. "Was…was it Vulcan?"

Pavel's eyes flickered away from the Captain's for a second before he nodded silently.

Despite the fact that he'd guessed at it himself, Kirk still looked like he'd been punched. "I was afraid of that," he whispered. His head was in his hands and his fingers were pushed up into his dark blond hair, making it stick up at odd angles. Without looking up, he said, "So Spock saw it too." It was more of a bleak statement than a question.

"Yes, Keptin," Pavel answered quietly.

For a while Kirk didn't offer any response. When he finally did, he sounded wretched. "Why does everyone have to use that against him." It was, again, a statement. A brief silence, and then more dull words. "And I'm just as bad."

It took Pavel a moment to decipher that tone, but when he did he was almost shocked at the realization, and even more so to hear it admitted so openly: Kirk felt guilty.

Kirk was blameless in what had happened to Spock on M-136. The Captain couldn't have stopped that creature anymore than Pavel could have, and he certainly never would have wished such a thing on Spock. But it was the simple knowledge—the knowledge that Spock had been made to suffer by being forced to relive the destruction of his people, his planet, the loss of everything he had. The same horrible things that Kirk himself had once flung deliberately in Spock's face.

"You NEVER loved her!"

Those words and the enraged roar that had followed them seemed to echo clearly through Pavel's head, causing him to shiver outwardly without meaning to. Every memory he had of that day chilled him, even more so after the recent encounter. But he thought it was that scene on the bridge that haunted him the most.

Kirk's eyes were still downcast, though, so maybe he hadn't seen Pavel's involuntary shudder.

Initially when it had happened, the only thing Pavel had been able to think about was his own guilt and fear. He'd never thought to be angry with another, never thought to blame anyone but himself. It hadn't been until much later—a day, or more—that it truly occurred to Pavel what Kirk had really done there, when he goaded Spock. When it finally did dawn on him, he really hadn't known what to think. He hadn't felt angry so much as just…shocked. Shocked, confused, sad, hurt. It had, on Kirk's part, been a horribly callous, ruthless thing to do. Up until that point, Spock had remained remarkably calm. For all that he'd just watched firsthand as his whole world had just died, been murdered, right in front of him, any oblivious onlooker would've never thought anything was amiss. That Spock had just carried on, capable of command and critical thinking when any lesser person would have been utterly nonfunctional with grief and trauma…that took some serious thick skin. As unbelievably awful as the entire thing was, it was hard not to admire the Vulcan's bravery, how astonishingly tough he'd been throughout it all. To be honest, it was still hard not to. Some people would've condemned Spock's resolve as heartlessness, called him a cold and unfeeling robot, but Pavel found that a large part of him had to respect, even commend the Vulcan's inner strength.

In a way it was sort of selfless, even. The rest of the crew had been reeling from the disaster as well, and with Pike gone, it was Spock who had been responsible for holding them all together. There hadn't been time for personal grief.

But even Spock, it turned out, had a breaking point. And Kirk had made sure, intentionally sure, that he reached it.

Kirk had defied him, attacked him, taunted him. Even so, Spock's self-control had been hard to break. He ignored the mocking, rode with every verbal punch, but it was that last shouted accusation that had finally been the metaphorical straw that broke the camel's back. And when it broke…it exploded.

It was hard to say which one of them had been the predator, whether it had been Spock for suddenly transforming into a violent, whirling demon or Kirk for having first stabbed into him, driving in the knife and twisting hard. Pavel wondered what had horrified the other onlookers more—Spock going off, or Kirk pushing him to it. Even Pavel for himself wasn't sure he rightly knew, for who had truly caused the worst injury? Kirk had been bruised for weeks following the altercation. How long had it taken Spock's wounds to heal?

It had hurt to watch, every individual second of it. But if Pavel was honest he supposed that a measure of good had come out of it. Mutinous, insensitive, and downright cruel as Kirk's actions had seemed then, Pavel thought he understood why he'd done it. It hadn't been to hurt Spock; it had been that Kirk was doing what he honestly believed was best. It was loyalty to Pike, it was a desire to save Earth, it was a drive to stop Nero before any other innocent people were killed. Ultimately it had worked, and no one could really deny that Kirk had to get some credit for that. And maybe, in an odd way, he even deserved credit for defying his acting captain—he'd done what he had to in order to take command when it had seemed to him that that was the only option, and in any case, deliberately provoking a Vulcan was not a gutless thing to do. Although Kirk might've thought twice about it if he'd known the kind of reaction he was going to get—getting knocked senseless and beaten within inches of his life probably had not been part of the plan.

The entire thing had been appalling; there was no denying that. Kirk was no villain, though. There had been a valid reason for the mutiny (Pavel couldn't bring himself to call it a good one), some positive things had come out of it in the long run, and especially now, watching his stricken captain across the table and knowing how terrible he obviously felt about what he'd done, he couldn't be too condemned. Pavel knew, though, that he would never forget how awful Spock had looked as he walked robotically off the bridge after the altercation, after Kirk had mercilessly ripped into him. Pavel couldn't hate Kirk for it, he never could. It wasn't unforgiven, but all the same, it wouldn't ever quite be okay, either.

So now they were both sitting here in silence, two guilty souls. It was unfair and sad, seeing Kirk look so vulnerable. Maybe you're not as bad as you think, Pavel wanted to tell him. They were neither of them innocent, but horrible as Kirk's words were, they were still only words—words that couldn't have been spoken if not for what Pavel had done. He remembered the alien presence in his mind, accusing him, screaming at him…"It's all your fault!"…the whole event was just a nightmare, McCoy had told him. The Doctor hadn't made Pavel give him any details, but he had, very firmly, made the generalized statement: nothing that had been said in the course of that mental torture session was true. But Pavel had to wonder how much of it actually was. You rubbed it in, Pavel thought at Kirk, but I'm the one who lost her.

But he knew that if he spoke the words, he would cry again. The last thing he needed was to have blubbered all over both of his commanding officers within the same week. Pavel swallowed the tightness in his throat and managed to speak, softly, but steadily. He had to give Kirk some comfort, even if it was vague; he hated seeing his confident, energetic captain like this. "I zink he'll be okay, Keptin," Pavel said finally, even then praying it was true. And then, because the statement seemed to need more, he added, perhaps a bit awkwardly, "Mr. Spock is tough."

Despite his despondency, Kirk, having looked up, now gave a small smile and managed a soft huff of laughter through his nose. "That he is, Mr. Chekov," he acknowledged, his eyes filling with unconcealed affection for his First. "That he is."

These last couple days had been hard for Kirk too, Pavel realized, and it wasn't just a matter of guilt. The Captain was touchingly fond of his first officer; anyone who made the slightest observation could see it. When Spock had been found unconscious with his heart rate frighteningly low, every terrifying moment that was spent not knowing whether the Vulcan would come out of it undamaged, if he came out or even lived at all, must have been torture for Kirk.

Now, the Captain rose from his seat, grasping the edge of the table. "Thanks for letting me take up your time, Mr. Chekov," Kirk said, offering a little smile, and if he still didn't look truly at ease, at least his moment of weakness seemed to have passed. "But come on; I'll let you get back to your life." He motioned for Pavel to stand and Pavel did, nodding gratefully at the words and following Kirk toward the door. "We should probably head out the back way so we don't disturb them," Kirk commented, and the two men left the office accordingly, avoiding the section where Spock was and making for the most discreet exit from sickbay.

They'd barely taken three steps toward the main door, however, when they heard the distinct sound of a loud, irate tone coming from the adjoining chamber. "I don't care whether you think you're perfectly sound, you Vulcan! I told you you're stayin' here a while longer, and you're stayin'! Now get over it and stop your bellyachin'!"

"I am not 'bellyaching', Doctor; I am protesting your illogical decision to keep me confined to the medical facilities without necessity."

"It's necessary because I say so, dammit! So you're gonna sit your little green ass right there in bed and not get out until I tell you to!"

"And when, precisely, do you propose that will be, Doctor?"

"When I feel like it! Now shut up or I'll come over there and hypospray you into oblivion!"

The other voice fell silent, still managing to sound disgruntled even as it did so. It was only then that Pavel blinked, realizing he'd frozen mid-step. He glanced, a little wide-eyed, up at Kirk, who had also stopped beside him. The two met each other's eyes and Kirk grinned, a real one this time of genuine happiness and amusement. "Yeah," he remarked to Pavel, "I think he'll be just fine."

Two evenings later, though, Pavel still hadn't seen Spock. He assumed the First Officer was still confined to sickbay, unwillingly, no doubt, but Pavel hadn't been about to ask anyone who might know and he certainly wasn't going to go check himself. McCoy had been crankier than usual the past few days, which, for McCoy, was saying something. Pavel suspected it was the new medical staff. The Enterprise had taken a few new nurses aboard recently, four young women who were all young, eager, and relatively inexperienced. According to McCoy, they were so clumsy and bumbling that Starfleet might as well have sent him a batch of one-legged chickens. On unicycles.

Pavel doubted they could be half as bad as all that. After all, they had qualified to serve on the Enterprise, which meant they must be at least competent. But Dr. McCoy could be a bit…particular at times, and tended to get downright cantankerous if he'd had an exhausting week. Most likely, the nurses had just come at a bad time. Still, McCoy insisted they needed help, serious help, and had taken it upon himself to train them, properly.

The first time Pavel had heard that, he'd impulsively sent up a silent prayer to the cold, uncaring universe for the nurses' well-being before he could stop himself.

Pavel himself was doing pretty well since his return to duty. It was good to have something productive to occupy his mind again, and he hadn't realized just how much he'd missed his console. He was back on the bridge, reunited with his beloved stellar cartography and with his friends and coworkers. Pavel still wasn't overeager to beam down to any more mysterious planets anytime soon, but he hadn't been having any nightmares, surprisingly, and was generally in a fairly good mood.

The resilience of youth, as Scotty would say. As if Scotty himself was even old.

All in all though, life seemed to be working its way pretty much back to normal easily enough, and that was fine with Pavel.

It was after 1900 on Thursday evening when Pavel was halfway out the mess hall that he heard his name being called and turned around to see McCoy hurrying toward him. The Doctor looked absolutely harassed. To his credit, he looked like he was at least handling it, but his hurried look, breathless tone, and the clump of hair sticking out awry on the right side of his head gave him away.

"Ensign Chekov! Ensign," McCoy broke off, coming to a stop in front of him as Pavel paused and faced the older officer. "You busy?" McCoy asked.

"No, Doctor, I was just heading back to my quar—"

"Good," McCoy interrupted, and shoved a tray of salad into Pavel's surprised hands. "Would you mind taking that to Spock for me? He's in sickbay," McCoy clarified, in case Pavel had forgotten.

"Um, no, sir, of course I don't mind," Pavel began, barely knowing what he was agreeing to as he tried to look the Doctor respectfully in the eye while simultaneously still attempting to balance the beverage on the tray that was threatening dangerously to tip over.

"Thanks, Ensign," McCoy replied, sounding genuinely relieved. "I'd do it myself, but I've got those four over there"—he waved his hand behind his head and Pavel peered around him to see four blue-clad young women clustered at one of the tables and chatting easily amongst themselves—"that I promised to take on a dinner date while I try to ram some medical sense into their heads." He sounded faintly disgusted for a moment, but then pointed at the salad tray. "You take that down to Spock, and make sure he eats it. The Commander's still got his logical panties in a wad because I haven't let him out of sickbay yet, but I'm planning on releasing him tomorrow if he behaves himself. But don't tell him I said that," he added quickly. "Take that tray to him; if he says he's not hungry, tell him 'bullshit'. Got it?"

Pavel was staring wide-eyed at the doctor, dimly horrified by the uncurbed disrespect in McCoy's hasty rant, and nodded dumbly.

"Thanks, kid," McCoy said in a rush; with that, he turned and hurried back toward his protégés.

Which left Pavel standing there stupidly for a minute with an unblinking, blankly shocked look, a tray of salad, and instructions to swear at his first officer.

Pavel turned and left for sickbay.

As he boarded the turbolift, he found himself feeling apprehensive. He hadn't seen Spock one-on-one since that night on M-136; when they were in sickbay together, there'd always been nurses or someone milling about, and the rest of the time Pavel had been asleep. The Vulcan made him nervous to begin with, and after so recently having had all that guilt over losing Spock's mother rammed down his throat, Pavel was more anxious to face him than ever.

Firmly, he told himself to stop it. McCoy had just asked him to take Spock a meal, not sit down and have a big heart-to-heart talk with him. It'd take Pavel all of twenty seconds, and there were probably nurses around there as well. Buck up, he commanded himself, employing one of McCoy's colloquialisms that the Doctor used on unreasonably fearful patients.

Pavel arrived outside of sickbay, took a calming breath, and stepped inside. He glanced around for Spock's bed and headed for it, and then stopped and did a double take when he realized that Spock was…asleep?

Pavel tiptoed a bit closer, peering carefully at the Vulcan, waiting for Spock to stir, but he didn't. Uncertain, Pavel looked around, and caught sight of Nurse Chapel, who was in one of the smaller back chambers, organizing some supplies. She caught his eye, smiled, and silently raised an index finger to her lips, indicating for Pavel to keep quiet.

He did as he was bidden, and looked back at Spock. The Vulcan in question was lying on his back, head turned to one side, forearms draped haphazardly over his chest, which rose and fell almost imperceptibly with his breathing, but he made not the slightest sound. His face looked completely relaxed.

"We are all children in sleep," Pavel had heard said somewhere once, and looking at the sleeping figure now, he almost believed it. Weird; he'd never seen Spock sleep. He didn't even really look childlike, just…kind of cute. Pavel blinked, surprised at the thought, and then considered it. Yeah, he decided after a few moments, it definitely felt weird applying that term to Spock—not that Spock wasn't good-looking; he just wasn't the sort most people would generally think of as the "cute" type—but looking at him now, there was no denying that Spock really did look not just cute, but downright adorable. Something about how peaceful and oblivious he looked just produced an "awww" factor.

Spock should've been waking up; Pavel had seen Vulcan hearing in action and he knew that not even a cat's light footsteps would escape those sensitive pointed ears. And Pavel, though he didn't consider himself particularly loud or clumsy, was certainly no cat. Spock was probably just tired, he supposed. Who knew how much the incident on M-136 had truly taken out of him, and Pavel was reasonably certain that Spock hadn't been sleeping in sickbay over the past days either, at least not during the time Pavel was there. The man probably needed it. Or maybe, Pavel thought, Spock was comfortable enough here on the Enterprise to allow himself to let down his guard, relax completely, and just tune some things out.

Pavel didn't know which it was, but he found he kind of liked the second one better.

Moreover, he found he was relieved. Spock looked healthy and at ease, and McCoy had said he planned on releasing Spock the next morning. That meant that Spock was okay. Suddenly, Pavel felt a spontaneous burst of affection for him. He would never wish the Vulcan ill, of course, but it was a different thing to realize now that he actually cared for Spock, not just as a fellow crewman or a senior officer, but as an individual. Pavel didn't know what he'd call his attachment: friend, brother, father figure; none of the usual ones seemed to fit. Brother and father were too close and familiar, and friend just sounded too…friendly. But maybe it was just that—an attachment, of no specific kind. And since it was there anyway, perhaps the terms didn't really matter.

Pavel crept over to one of the side tables and set the tray down quietly on top of it. It wasn't exactly doing what he was told, but given the circumstances, he didn't figure McCoy would mind too much.

Pavel started to leave, then glanced back at the Vulcan again, musing. Perhaps, now that he truly thought about it, he wasn't as frightened of Spock as he'd thought. M-136 had been a mixed experience for him, he realized. All of his inner demons had been poured out and set upon him all at once, trying to tear him apart. He didn't want to know how close they'd come to succeeding. Pavel had been rescued at the last moment; however, he'd come back to reality with his sensibilities, thoughts, and self-control in pieces. But then, after going through all of that, he'd come to feel oddly safe curled up against Spock—big, intimidating Spock, who, for as long as Pavel could remember, had always scared the daylights out of him.

Pavel had been harboring the guilt for so long, and he'd always refrained from doing anything about it. He was afraid to face Spock, afraid to go to him and apologize, afraid to admit to him that Pavel himself was at fault for what had happened. How did you apologize for something like that, anyway? It hadn't been only trepidation, Pavel realized; it was helplessness.

M-136 had been the worst experience of his life: the invasion of his mind and subconscious, the complete inability to hide from the guilt and horror, the terrifying aftermath when reality finally returned to him…but in the end, after the nightmare ended and he'd lain there and wept, it had also been a release. At last, Pavel had let all the remorse, the pain, everything overflow in a huge wave of "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" And Spock had stayed, protecting him as it all came pouring out.

It wasn't total eradication, Pavel knew—he'd always feel partly responsible for what had happened, and he'd always feel guilty. But it was catharsis, and it was closure.

Pavel headed for the door, aiming a silent mental thank you at his sleeping first officer—for staying with him, for forgiving him, for saving him more than once. Spock was always going to be something of a distant, forbidding figure, Pavel assumed. When he was that stern and unbreakably serious it was hard not to see him that way, and the eyebrows certainly weren't going anywhere. But Spock was an ally, too. He was a leader and a protector, and if he would never really be the warm, approachable type, well, it just wasn't in his nature. But that was okay. Pavel found that he liked Spock just fine as he was, and that was enough to decide that he no longer had to view him with fear.

The next time he saw Spock snap a homicidal alien's neck with a well-aimed punch to the side of the head, Pavel wasn't so sure.