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Excursion jackets are meant for landing parties in cold-weather environments.
Not for a first officer, tricorder in glove-clad hands, stomach pressed to deck plating and shoulders wedged under the science console on a starship bridge drained of power.
The gloves are too clumsy. Una bites one at the index finger, pulls the glove off with her teeth so she can more quickly tap commands into the tricorder, finger shaky with cold and hope. If she can download information from before the systems failures, Starfleet might be able to use the data to more quickly figure out what’s causing the red bursts, maybe even get Enterprise back into service sooner.
There’s rustling from the Jefferies tube access point.
Una doesn’t look up from her tricorder.
“I thought all crew were under orders to keep to designated areas with functional environmental controls.” Chris’ footfalls echo through the bridge that took no damage during the Federation-Klingon War, only to finally be allowed home to get scrambled by a mystery. “That includes you, Acting Captain.”
“Don’t call me that.” Una’s eyes sting. From the cold? Must be from the cold. “Your posting to Discovery is temporary. Enterprise is your ship. I’ll oversee repairs so she’ll be ready for you when you get back.”
If he gets back.
Fear lodges in Una’s chest, sharp and piercing.
What’s going to happen when Chris is on a battle-hardened ship chasing the same signals that knocked out Enterprise systems? How is Una going to make use of her time, distract herself from nervous energy while he’s out there and she’s stuck with Enterprise in spacedock?
Sustained separation isn’t their style.
Maybe that’s why Starfleet didn’t trust them in the war, left them exiled to lead two hundred people on the fringes of known space while the Federation shuddered, constricted, nearly lost itself, distance-delayed transmissions of weeks-old battle reports doubling over Enterprise crew at their stations, weeping, backs bent in sorrow and frustration, while Una and Chris would cling to each other at night, weakness they couldn’t let the crew see during the day when they had to be strong, so strong.
Una’s tricorder screen flashes.
Nine minutes until she’ll know if her data recovery program will work. Una should leave the tricorder, report to an area with functional environmental controls, then return.
A thermal blanket unfolds onto her boots. Chris is kneeling, smoothing the blanket as he moves up her calves, the backs of her thighs. His gloved hand lingers on her rear end and this is the bridge, he shouldn’t —
“Captain, the tricorder doesn’t need supervision. We can —”
“We can go back to a crew almost giddy at their temporary suffering because missing the war was a one-two punch of survivor’s guilt and shame that their itchy trigger fingers didn’t get the Starfleet go-ahead?” Is the warmth creeping up Una’s back from the thermal blanket or from the gentle pressure of Chris’ hands? “I don’t know about you, Number One, but I’d rather be here.”
Of course she’d rather be here.
Eight minutes.
The thermal blanket lifts, and Chris slides in, chill clinging to his excursion jacket and heavy trousers. But he’s here, all body heat and rueful chuckle that reverberates as their stomachs rest on deck plating, thermal blanket trailing from their shoulders.
“What’cha got cooking?” His gloved hand motions toward the tricorder.
“Last-ditch attempt at data recovery before Discovery gets here.” Una reaches for her discarded glove, tries to put it back on but her exposed fingers have gone numb, can’t bend or flex.
Chris takes her hand, and she can’t feel his glove against her skin, can’t feel anything as he cups her hand in his and brings it toward his mouth — even though Starfleet regulations state warmth from breath is too damp and an officer should instead place the cold-incapacitied hand inside their own jacket pocket. And, yes, those five years in deep space, Chris and Una made their own rules for a lot of things. But they’ve always limited physical affection to when they’re alone in his quarters or her quarters. Common areas and duty shifts are for friendliness, nothing more.
So there are two clear reasons why she should pull her hand away.
And a thousand hazy reasons why she shouldn’t.
His exhale into her palm is a sigh.
Seven minutes.
Another sigh….
Again….
Again….
Heat cracks like fire across her hand, sharp and searing as numbness gives way to life, Chris’ breath hot on her skin, his exhalations steady, even as she shudders.
His lips brush her palm, pain fading as quickly as it started.
And her throat sticks with thank you and oh my God and don’t go.
Six minutes.
“Stay safe while spacedock has open toolboxes all over the place.” He curls her fingers, gently pinches the tips to test for blood flow. “Sometimes it’s like you don’t even notice how badly you’re hurt until it’s almost too late.”
Genetic engineering will do that. Her pain receptors were designed to prioritize mental acuity.
“And what about you, Captain? You’ll stay safe on Discovery?” Una wants to touch his cheek, but they’re on the bridge, they’re on the bridge.
“Who was it who said, ‘Starfleet is about exploring the stars, not staying home and daydreaming about them’?” Chris picks up Una’s empty glove.
She gathers her part of the thermal blanket around her shoulders, rolls onto her side to face Chris, her hand still in his. “Am I really responsible for what I say in deep space?”
The glove creeps down her fingers, Chris pulling slowly, smoothly. “Yes.”
Five minutes.
He rolls onto his side, too, and they’re chest to chest and there’s too much fabric, so much fabric, with excursion jackets and uniforms and gloves and the thermal blanket, all half-nestled under the science console on a frozen bridge.
Frozen not just in temperature.
The bridge is frozen in purpose, not one station functional.
Is it really the bridge if the computers don’t work, the crew elsewhere, the ship awaiting a tow to spacedock?
It’s not, is it?
Chris’ breathing isn’t steady anymore.
Four minutes.
“Are you … are you all right?” Chris squeezes Una’s hand, gloves scratching against each other, his uneven breaths going ragged.
It’s not the bridge. It was the bridge. It will be the bridge again. But it’s not the bridge right now. Right now, it’s a cocoon of jackets and blanket, icy air and two sets of boots that touch at the toes.
“I’m … ” The deck plating isn’t tilting, it’s just Una’s perception, though Chris’ forehead is definitely creasing with concern, his chest rising and falling so close to hers.
Una is the one who always cares more about bridge professionalism.
But this isn’t really the bridge, this isn’t really the bridge.
“I’m …” under the blanket, her hips slide toward his, “Chris, I’m going to miss you.”
Three minutes.
And he lets her kiss him first, cold noses bumping because it’s awkward, all these layers between them, and his lips are cool for a few seconds before warming up and he pulls the thermal blanket over their heads and Una is wrapped up in fabric and Chris, her gloved thumb stroking his cheek, his jacket-bulky arm pulling her closer.
Two minutes.
And her leg hooks over his, as if she could anchor him here, as if that would be the right thing to do, but it’s not, it’s not, and every sound seems to echo, his gentle sighs around her, within her, and he tastes like countless late nights and early mornings in his quarters or hers.
One minute.
And Una understands why Chris warmed up her hand the way he did because she’s breathing him in, breathing him in, and he’s saying something, whispering between kisses, the same thing over and over like a mantra: I’m going to miss you so much.
The tricorder beeps. Its work is done.
Discovery should receive Enterprise’s distress call soon. Very soon. If Una’s algorithms were successful and Chris can beam over there with information that can help them all —
Una snakes an arm out to grab her tricorder, bring it into the blanket, and she has to pull away to read the display, has to pull away from Chris to find out if she can keep him safer out there, out there when they have to be apart, and the display is too bright. Una squints, unable to read what it says until her eyes adjust.
Data recovery attempt failed.
Chris must be able to tell by the slump in her shoulders because he kisses her again, a kiss of solidarity in disappointment.
They should go, rejoin the crew, wait for Discovery and the tow to spacedock.
And they will. They’ll stand, Chris folding the blanket while Una tugs her jacket and his into place. She’ll hang her tricorder over her shoulder and he’ll take the lead crawling down Jefferies tubes until they reach a deck with functional environmental controls, and she’ll watch him shimmer away when Discovery beams him aboard. She’ll lead Enterprise repairs and see him on Discovery, both of them trying to find the right balance on a ship that isn’t their own, then they’ll fall back into their familiar rhythm on Enterprise only they’ll both be haunted, him by his future and her by his realization of her past.
But not yet, not now. Now, they linger in their warm cocoon on a frozen bridge, holding each other through layers of fabric, sharing strength for what lies ahead.