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The transporter room dissolved into the leafy forests of the planet they were beaming down to. Leonard glanced at Jim and Spock as he solidified, making sure they hadn’t been turned into flesh piles by the transporter. Spock would call him paranoid, but it was a non-zero chance. Spock could probably give the exact figures.
It was a routine data collection trip. Leonard hadn’t even needed to come. The only reason he had was because he wanted to make sure Jim and Spock didn’t die. Spock would call him paranoid. But it was, of course, a non-zero chance.
Spock could give the exact figures.
They were attacked.
The native people charged them, brandishing weapons similar to eighteenth century earth guns. Jim, Spock, and Leonard all whipped out their communicators to call the Enterprise; Jim drew his phaser too. Spock and Leonard didn’t. They were similar like that, pacifists, unable or at the very least unwilling to hurt another living being, lacking the instinct to draw a weapon. Perhaps Leonard more so than Spock. Spock had killed before, years of being a Starfleet officer in the field numbing him somewhat to the act of inflicting injury in self-defense. Leonard was too soft to even stun someone. He’d been stunned before; despite the marketing, it did sting.
Although Spock was a vegetarian. Leonard still ate meat. So maybe Spock was the real pacifist.
Regardless, he nerve pinched the aliens without hesitation.
They managed to fend off the first wave of aliens, but it was clear more were coming. The voice of a transporter worker came through on the single working communicator left, sitting open on the floor: “Transporter’s malfunctioning! We can only beam up one person at the moment! The rest will have to wait, at least a few more hours, at most a day.”
Spock and Leonard made eye contact.
“One to beam up, then,” said Leonard. He and Spock, together, shoved the communicator into Jim’s hands.
Jim looked up, wide eyed. “No!” But it was too late. He faded away in a glimmering wave, and the rest of the aliens advanced on Spock and Leonard.
They’d expected to be kidnapped, or at least for there to be a long fight. But really, it was very simple.
Two seconds, and they both dropped, shot in the stomach once each.
The aliens retreated, leaving them there to bleed out.
It hurt, god, it hurt. It was overwhelming, full body, every sense, god, he could taste it. He felt the hole in his stomach with his hands, judging its size; every tiny movement sent waves of pain through his body. It was agony.
Leonard turned his head to look at Spock. “Spock,” he said in a pained groan.
“Leonard,” said Spock, using Leonard’s first name, voice strained, as close as a Vulcan could ever get to a pained groan.
“I don’t think we’re gonna make it, Spock,” Leonard said.
“I concur.”
“These wounds’ll kill us in circa thirty minutes.” Leonard closed his eyes a moment before opening them again. “Maybe they can fix the transporter in time.”
“Perhaps.”
He breathed, shallow, painful. “I can’t move.”
“Neither can I.”
“Then I guess we’re stuck here.” Leonard felt woozy. He was losing blood fast.
He turned his head, looking at the puddles of blood slowly growing beneath them. They mixed in the middle, marbling like paint. Green and red. “It’s like Christmas,” Leonard laughed.
“What is?” asked Spock, quiet.
“Our blood,” said Leonard, giggling despite the fact that it wasn’t funny. “Green and red. It’s like Christmas. Christmas colors.”
“I wasn’t aware that holidays had colors.”
“Don’t you celebrate Hanukkah? Its colors are blue and white.”
“Not on Vulcan,” said Spock simply.
“You’re, like, the only Jewish person on Vulcan, Spock.”
“That is false. My mother, who is Jewish, lives on Vulcan. Along with her, there are a myriad of Jewish Humans.” He paused. “I suppose to get Hanukkah blood, an Andorian and a Hipme would have to be bleeding out near each other.”
Leonard laughed aloud at that, even though it hurt. Then, he quieted. “We’re gonna die here, Spock.”
“I know.”
They fell silent. Funny how, in this moment, bleeding out on the ground of an alien planet, no hope of being beamed up before they died, what Leonard was thinking about was that he was wet. His shirt clung to him, soaked in his own blood, and so did his pants. His pants being wet reminded him of peeing himself in kindergarten. He almost laughed at the thought. What a silly thing to be thinking about before you die.
At least the blood was warm. The longer he laid there, the colder he felt.
Rocks on the forest floor dug into his shoulder blades. He tried to adjust himself so that they were no longer poking him. He almost laughed again. Shot in the stomach, and he was trying to get away from pointy rocks. God, everything seemed trivial now that he was dying. Leonard had seen people pass away before. He wondered if any of them felt this strange calm. This strange numbness. Maybe it just hadn’t sunken in yet.
At least he wasn’t alone.
Spock, next to him, had his eyes closed, but Leonard could tell he was awake by the way his fingers twitched, writing out numbers in the air beside him. It was a quirk of Spock’s that only came out when he was compromised enough to lower his control over himself, since it was usually one he masked. He must be doing calculations.
They were dying, and Spock was doing math and Leonard was thinking about peeing his pants and pointy rocks. Such silly last thoughts.
“If we’re gonna die,” Leonard said, “I’m glad we’re together.”
“I feel the same,” Spock rasped.
“I love you, Spock.”
“And I you, Leonard.”
And Leonard slipped his hand into Spocks, and they were one. One being, together, slowly fading, flickering out like dying stars.
He wondered if they would make a supernova or a black hole.