Archive of Our Own ^beta

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It’s dark, only a few stray beams of moonlight trickling in through gaps in the curtains hanging in front of their bedroom window. It’s just enough to see the shadow of the dresser, the dark shapes that he knows are the closet door, a chair, the small basket heaped with laundry… But it’s another shape, a silhouette that he can just see out of the corner of his eye, lurking in the shadow of the doorway, that has cold fear pooling in his stomach. 

He can hear his partner breathing softly next to him, feel the radiating warmth as Phil shuffles an inch or so closer, claiming another sliver of blanket in a slow process that always seems to leave Chris completely uncovered by morning. Any other night, it’d probably make him smile, and pull the covers back over to his side, but not tonight. Tonight, he’s frozen, limbs unmoving, chest barely twitching as fear gnaws at the base of his spine. He can’t even whisper, let alone shout, as the silhouette in the corner detaches itself from the darkness of the open doorway, sliding out milimeter by agonizing milimeter, resolving itself into a form that was burned into his memory almost a year ago. Heavy black clothes, the sweeping coat and rough layers jutting out at exaggerated, awkward angles, twisting tattoos stark against a pale forehead, pointed ears and slanted brow so familiar that he can’t help but think of Spock. A slightly hysterical part of his mind wonders what Spock would see, if they were melding right now, and if Vulcans ever experience sleep paralysis. 

Probably not. Probably, it’s another illogical failing of the inferior human mind, as the logical part of his brain screams that it knows what this is, knows that the figure looming over him, all cold glinting eyes and predatory, stained teeth, isn’t actually there, but it’s a drop in the bucket compared to the cold terror that currently has control. He focuses, desperately, on the index finger on his right hand, putting all his strength into moving it, twitching the first joint, agonizingly slowly, then the knuckle, then his middle finger, nails scraping across the soft sheets, trying to breathe, trying to ignore the pressing weight on his chest- 

His hand clenches, grabbing a handful of the blanket, and the figure dissipates into thin air. Letting out a shaking breath, trying to calm the heartbeat pounding in his ears, he unclenches his hand, tracing the sheets, concentrating on the smooth texture of finely woven cotton. Untold minutes tick by before he settles into something bordering a normal, resting heartbeat, and he rolls over, pressing his forehead into Phil’s shoulder. 

There’s a catch in the rhythmic breathing, and a shuffling as Phil turns his head, (damn it all, but they’ve both become incredibly light sleepers), and mumbles, 

“Y’ok?” 

He hums, trying to steady his own voice before whispering, “Fine. Go back to sleep.” 

It must be convincing, because slitted blue eyes slide closed again and the tension seeps out of Phil’s shoulders as he falls back asleep again. Reaching his arm across Phil’s thinner torso, he closes his own eyes, takes a slow breath in and lets it out, counting through the inhale and exhale. He takes another. And another, trying to will real sleep to come, and keeping his face turned far away from the door, burying himself in the warmth of Phil’s shoulder.

Chapter Text

He’s shivering. It’s mid-August in Montana, the sun is scorching, searing mercilessly across cracked rock and drying grass, and he’s shivering, curled up under a mound of blankets and only getting colder. 

A frigid draft of air trickles in as a hand parts the sheets, reaching in to gently tilt his face towards the dim light. 

“Chris? You awake under there?” 

He grumbles something that's probably a response, and it elicits a soft chuckle from Phil, who only pulls back the blankets further. “Awake enough. C’mon, I have some water for you, and a couple pills.” 

“Go ‘way.”

More laughter. “When have you ever gotten rid of me that easily? Sit up for me a little bit.” 

He’s sitting up whether he wants to or not, and a mug is set gently against his bottom lip, cool water pooling at the edge. Experience in the bed-side manner of one Doctor Boyce informs him that he’s not likely to be allowed to lie back down until the water is gone, so he finishes it and swallows the pills begrudgingly, retreating right back down into the blankets the second Phil takes the mug away. Ribbons of bright, mid-day light are sneaking in through the drawn curtains, and he shies away from them, wrapping himself up tighter in a rough blanket that smells like warm wood, grass, and home. 

Fingers ghost through his hair before reaching down to adjust the blanket so it’s better covering his shoulders, and there are whispered words that he doesn’t quite catch, and the lingering brush of a hand that warms him right to the core. 

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Light suddenly floods the small room, making the edges of his blindfold glow, and he shifts uncomfortably on the cold stone, wrists scraping against his bonds, bracing for another onslaught.

But it doesn’t come. Footsteps fan out around him, and quiet voices bounce off the walls, but they’re muffled, sounding almost like they’re coming from underwater. Despite his training, he can’t help but flinch as cold hands settle on his wrists, near his head, fingers fiddling with his restraints until, suddenly, the blindfold slips off, and he’s blinking into the glaring white light of nearly half a dozen flashlights, all swinging crazily as members of his crew fan  out around him. 

A shock of grey hair bobs in front of him, and he squints, trying to focus, trying to find the source of a tinny buzzing hum when there’s a flash of silver, a tiny tricorder passing in front of his vision. 

Cold again, Phil’s gloved hand is tilting his face from side to side, 

“Chris? Can you hear me?” 

He coughs, trying to clear his throat, his voice rough and worn, 

“Yeah, I can hear you. Wha-” Is as far as he gets before he’s enveloped in a crushing hug, pulled suddenly against Phil’s chest, tight enough that he can feel the ragged, staccato breathing through Phil’s protective vest. 

“Phil…” His voice is muffled from where his face has been pushed into Phil’s shoulder, “I’m ok, it’s alright.” A final rasp, and the ropes around his wrist are pulled free, and he grunts as fiber is pulled from torn skin, reaching up numbly to squeeze Phil’s shoulder. There’s a beat, and Phil pulls slowly away, blue eyes piercing as they scan him, up and down, “Do you think you can stand?” 

He laughs, then chokes on it, coughing, “No, I don’t think so. I could probably hobble along just fine, though.” Phil's gaze travels up to something just over his right shoulder, 

“Alright. We’re going to go on three, ok? One, two-”

Hands under his arms, at his elbows, a dark ponytail swishing in front of his field of view as the world takes a sickening lurch. It has to be Number One, (or maybe Spock, if he grew his hair out while he was off the ship, and he has to bite back a slightly hysterical urge to laugh), because whoever's keeping him upright is lifting him very nearly off the floor.

There’s some muffled conversation, and the dancing flashlight beams slowly organize, four from behind, three in front, one tight black braided head and glowing phaser-tip leading them back out, into the dark hall.

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His comm buzzes, the sound distinct even in the hustle and bustle of the train station, and he fumbles his bag, catching it awkwardly with one hand and digging around inside with the other. His fingers finally capture the little device, and he flips it open, still juggling his open bag with his other hand, 

“Boyce here.”

There’s the brief hiss of static, not surprising this far underground, before a man’s voice comes through over the speakers. 

“It’s April. Are you still on campus?” He glances around the bustling platform, at the signboard proclaiming that the train bound for Sausalito is leaving in two minutes. 

“Barely. Why?”

There’s a very pregnant pause before April continues in a more hushed tone, 

“There was a bit of an… Incident, after the Admiralty meeting today. Chris had an episode. He's fine, just a little shaken up, and I thought it would be better if someone was with him on the way home.”

He’s already swimming his way through the throng of people before April has finished, pushing against the tide heading onto the incoming train, back up the escalators.

“What kind of an episode? And where is he now?” Another burst of static, “A flashback, I think. He was talking to Kormack, then out of nowhere he went bone white and ran out of the room. We’re in my office.” 

He blinks as he steps out of the station’s ground entrance, suddenly bathed in bright, hot June sunlight, “I’ll be there in ten.” 

April’s office is in one of the many austere grey towers that comprises Star Fleet HQ, a tall, angular building, almost completely made of glass. Despite this, the corridors still seem dim and claustrophobic as he hurries down them, tinted windows casting everything in shadow, his boots clicking against the hard floors. There’s a small waiting area in front of a small cluster of offices, all apparently empty, except for Bob April, who’s posted up in front of one of the doors, half-sitting on what is presumably his receptionist’s desk, arms folded. Phil tilts his head towards the door, questioningly, and April nods. He knocks once on the frame before pushing the entry button, stepping inside and letting the door slide shut behind him.

Chris doesn’t look up when he enters, just stays stock still in the visitor’s chair, staring transfixed at the mug that’s clenched in both his hands. He’s still pale, his uniform partially unzipped to reveal the black undershirt beneath. Phil steps around, slowly, kneeling down in front of the chair, “Chris?” 

Chris starts, jerking up, the water in his mug sloshing dangerously close to the edge. Phil raises a hand. 

“Easy, it’s just me.” Chris shakes his head. 

“I know. How long have you been kneeling there?” 

“Only a couple seconds.” He waits for Chris’ breathing to slow to something closer to normal before continuing, 

“Wanna get out of here? I called us a cab.” 

“Yeah.” 

He steps back as Chris levers himself up, trying not to hover as a shaking hand reaches over to grasp the cane that’s leaning against the chair. Clearly unsteady, but upright, he starts doggedly towards the door, letting Phil trail behind. 

April jumps up as the door opens, sliding off the desk and moving to help before catching himself. Dark eyes give Chris an appraising look, passing up and down clammy skin and mussed hair before finally settling on the open uniform. 

“Take the exit that goes by the Thorne conference hall; there won’t be anyone there until 1900.” A half-hearted smile, and April leans over to gently elbow Chris’ arm, “And I’ll overlook the uniform violation just this once, Pike.”   

Chris blinks, then snorts, “I think you’re getting soft; back on the Aryabhatta you wrote me up for having my shirt on inside out when there was a red alert in the middle of gamma shift.” 

April scoffs, “I can’t believe you still remember that.” 

“It was the only write-up I had under your command, how could I forget-” 

Phil clears his throat. “We were going?” 

“Right.” 

Chris starts off again, and Phil has just enough time to give April a look of gratitude before they’re walking out into the main hall.

Chapter Text

Snow is melting in small puddles, falling off his jacket, his pack, sloughing off on the transporter pad as he stumbles off it, into waiting arms that help to ease him down onto the hard surface, Blearily, he supposes he should be upset that he’s been sat down on the worst of it, but, then again, his uniform is more or less soaked through already, so it probably doesn’t matter all that much. 

A pulling sensation, someone tugging off his boots, wrapping something warm around his numb feet, and with a jolt something not unlike white-hot fire courses prickles in his toes, his fingers, his skin burning like a brand is being pressed onto his limbs- 

Scattered voices are saying things about exposure, frostbite, nerve damage and cell necrosis, but the room is taking on a blurred, static like effect, and for a second he thinks he’s back on the planet’s surface, trapped in a blizzard, blinding winds driving snowflakes hard enough to feel like tiny stinging blades against the exposed skin of his face, his hands- The voices are getting quieter now, fading into the distance, as he drowns in the sea of endless whirling white. 

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“How did this happen?” 

McCoy grimaces, shaking his head. 

“We don’t know. It’s a common terran pathogen, it’s not unreasonable to expect it here, but that doesn’t explain how it got through decontamination.”

“Shit.” He grips his padd, and stares through the clear plasti-steel barrier, past the army of equipment, to the man lying pale and still in the biobed. Chris is still breathing under his own power, but barely, and even from here Phil can see the thin sheen of sweat, iron hair plastered flat to his forehead. A nurse, fully masked, gowned and gloved, is adjusting the IV, gloved hands carefully manipulating the tubing stuck into the delicate skin on the underside of Chris’ forearm. 

“And your prognosis?” McCoy sighs.

“Well, he’s in the best place he could be; if we can keep inflammation down and his temperature stable, he should pass through just fine.” 

“I tend to agree; but this should never have happened in the first place. He can’t afford another mistake.” 

Chapter Text

The room he steps into is barely any brighter than the street outside, and he squints into the dim taproom, searching amongst the scattered crowd, grim faces mostly huddled at individual tables or along the greasy bar. It takes a few minutes (and a few sticky steps into the room) but he finally spots the tousled blond head, lying face-first on a table crammed near the back. 

Grimacing, he walks towards it, stepping over a puddle of something unmentionable and gives the leather-jacked shoulder a shove. 

“Kirk.” 

The shoulder twitches, but the blond head retreats deeper into the lair of folded arms. He sighs, and shoves again, harder this time. “Get up, son.” 

There’s a groan, and electric blue eyes slit open, staring balefully back up at him before fluttering back shut. 

“Why’re you here?” 

“To get you. Why else would I be in a place like this?” 

Kirk scowls, “I can get out whenever I want, thanks.” 

Leaning forward to rest one elbow on the table, he reaches over and grabs the kid’s shoulder, pulling him back so he’s sitting upright. Kirk’s face is pale, but his cheeks are bright red, and he can feel the heat radiating through the jacket. Frowning, he pulls out his comm. 

“Yeah? Because I have it on good authority you’re medical leave was only lifted so you could complete an exam, and that you should’ve been back with your roommate three hours ago.” 

Blue eyes flick briefly up to the ceiling, “Bones worries too much. ‘M fine.” 

“That’s not what I heard.”

“You ever heard of taking a hint? I don’t want your help!” 

He can’t quite keep the exasperation out of his voice as he shoots back, “And I don’t want to be spending my evening in a dive like this dragging your sorry ass back home, but we don’t all get what we want, do we?” And then, in a slightly softer tone, “C’mon son. There’s a groundcar outside. I’ll take you straight to the dorm, and McCoy can look you over. Do it, and I won’t call starfleet med to drag you out of here.” 

Kirk only looks barely mollified, but it’s enough, and he lets himself be dragged up, and out into the street. 

Chapter Text

Plates and glasses clink gently as he stacks them in the sanitizer, the device letting out a cheerful blip when he closes the door. The leftover soup has been sealed and stored, and he gives the counter one last wipe before folding the cloth and setting it to dry over the divide in the sink. Soft evening sunshine is streaming in through the windows, but despite the warmth, a quick peek into the den tells him that the holo–fire is on. 

Snagging his half-empty glass of wine off the counter, he pads into the room, sinking next to Chris onto the couch, and gives him a careful side-eye; he looks better, now that some time and a meal have gone by, but there’s still something drawn about his expression, and he’s staring blankly out into the flames, the padd on his lap having long-since gone into power saving mode. 

Phil stretches out, leaning over until his head is resting on Chris’ shoulder. 

“Credit for your thoughts?” 

A bitter chuckle, “Waste of a credit.” 

“Humour me.” 

He can feel Chris shrug, his own head rolling slightly, and a fair few minutes bleed by before Chris finally starts talking. 

“I think I should resign.”

Phil takes a careful breath, “Yeah? Why’s that?” 

Chris’ stays transfixed on the artificial flames as they curl and dance, flashing orange twisting between mock wood that never burns. 

“I couldn’t even get through a meeting. I’m not fit to be a Starfleet officer, let alone one in command.” 

“April said this happened after the meeting.” Chris shakes his head. “Same difference. If I can’t even take a joke-” 

Phil looks up, “A joke? What happened?” 

“It was stupid,” Chris’ tone is bitter, and he goes quiet, but Phil nudges him, 

“Go on.”

A sigh. “I was talking with Kormack, something about Klingons, and I said something about gagh, you know, when we almost ordered it by mistake a few weeks ago? He said ‘Well, I would’ve thought you’d had enough of eating worms to last you a lifetime’.

 Chris’ hands are clenching the edge of the couch, knuckles showing white, and not for the first time anger smoulders in Phil’s mind, but he keeps his tone even as he replies, 

“Of all the insensitive- That's a really shitty joke, even for Kormack. At best, that man’s an idiot, at worst he’s a piece of-“

“That’s not the point!” Chris’ hand stiffens on the corner of the couch, “Komack’s always been an ass, I’ve known that since I was a cadet. But if I can’t handle a joke, shitty or not-“ Phil tries to butt in but Chris shoots him a glare, “Bob had to hunt me down and coax me out of a board room. It doesn’t matter what caused it, it matters that I couldn’t cope. What if there’s a crisis? Lives depend on me being a competent, stable officer, and I’m not. I can’t do this.” 

The last words are spoken in a broken whisper as Chris looks away, the dancing flames reflecting in shining eyes, tears just starting to leak over the edges. 

Phil takes a deep breath.

“Just slow down for a second. One bad reaction doesn’t make you unfit for duty.”

“It does if people die.” 

“Chris.” He pauses, while Chris scrubs roughly at his eyes with the corner of one sleeve, “You aren’t on the bridge of a ship anymore. People might die from the orders you give, but not because you might freeze up in the middle of a firefight. That’s the job.”

Chris looks stung, eyes wide and still wet, and spits out,

“I know damn well I can’t command a starship, that’s already been made abundantly clear, thanks.” 

“But you can do this. You’ve been doing it just fine for almost three months, longer if we count the work you were doing when you were on leave.” He can’t quite keep all the bitterness out of his tone, and Chris must pick up on it, because he blinks, looking chagrined.

“They needed-” 

He raises a hand. “I know. We’ve been over it.” 

The couch cushions creak as Chris slouches forward, head in hands. “I hate this.” Carefully, Phil reaches over and settles his hand on Chris’ shoulder, repeating, “I know.” 

Chapter Text

The tiles of their hotel bathroom are elegant, azure blue pieces that shine like mother-of-pearl  have been neatly placed into a floral pattern, running the very length of the wall. Unfortunately, right about now, he doesn’t really have it in him to appreciate the artistry, the fact that the tiles are cool against his forehead is more than enough. 

There's a groan next to him, and he shifts, looking over to where Phil is hunched over the edge of the tub, head in hands. He coughs, trying to ignore the sickening way the overhead light is pirouetting around the ceiling, 

“We’re never eating Ibrexian sea-snails again.”

Phil groans, “In our defense they did come highly recommended. At least three people-” Phil blanches, grasps blindly for the trashcan, and Chris stretches one leg, toeing it over.

“I don’t think any one of those people had acid based digestive systems.” 

His only response is the muffled sound of Phil gagging, and he sighs, leaning back, slouching back onto the cold tile, and waits for the anti-nausea hypo to kick in.

Chapter Text

The score hits a sweeping crescendo, with slightly tinny music being pumped enthusiastically through the speakers, and as quickly as he dares, he reaches over for the remote to lower the volume. The body currently occupying his lap shifts, but doesn’t stir, and he exhales slowly, relaxing back into the couch. It’d taken nearly two of the cheesy twenty-first century mystery serials that Phil’s so inexplicably fond of for him to fall asleep, in spite of the fever and cold medication, and Chris is not about to risk a third. 

Onscreen, an elderly woman is standing in the center of a gaudy parlour, slowly ferreting out a murderer with what looks suspiciously like barely contained glee, and he side-eyes his padd, sitting well out of reach on the coffee table. He stretches, experimentally, but Phil shuffles, half-turning on his thigh, and he freezes, waiting until Phil settles back.  

There’s still the remote, though, and as the credits start to scroll, accompanied by a jaunty violin and enthusiastic piano, he carefully starts to ease the sound down. He’s very nearly gotten it to zero, when there’s another concerning seismic shift in the piled blankets, and a pale forehead starts to peeks out- 

Cursing silently, he backpedals, and the living area of his cabin is once again filled with semi-classical instrumentals, and he watches with mild horror as the autoplay feature ticks down, and a new episode cues up on-screen, and the words ‘The Body in The Library’ popping-up on a titlecard. Phil relaxes, burrowing deeper into the blankets, snoring quietly, and Chris idly passes a hand through messy, sweat dampened hair. It looks like he’s in for another mystery, whether he wants it or not.

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Every twitch sends pain lancing through his limbs, static bursts of agony that trace their way along his nerves, from spine to fingertips and back again. 

There’s a sympathetic voice, whispering soothing words, but even the gentlest touch lights up his skin with white-hot fire, even as he tries to find a more comfortable position on the bed. 

There’s the hiss of a hypo, something cold and horrible pressing into the side of his neck, something icy flooding his veins, sinking him into numb oblivion.

Chapter Text

The walls of Enterprise’s quarantine unit are composed almost entirely of thick glass, marred only by a few small pass-through hatch-ways, and the large door.

The biohazard suit squeaks and crinkles as he steps across the threshold of the decontamination chamber, and his breath fogs slightly on the plastiglass of his helmet. Even through the suit’s insulated layers, he can feel the ambient cold of the room, cool air being cooled and recirculated to maintain a balmy four degrees Celsius.

The room isn’t large, and it doesn’t take long to locate Chris, sitting curled on the edge of the bed, head bowed, forehead pressed against one knee. 

He takes another shuffling step, deliberately making the fabric of his suit squeal, and Chris looks up; milky white irises stare blankly up at him, unseeing, and even from across the room Phil can see sweat rolling down Chris’ forehead, matting grey-black hair.

“P-Phil?” 

He sets down the carrying case, and starts unpacking his equipment. “Who else? And I even got all dolled up for you.” 

A snort. “I could hear the isolation suit from across the room.” 

“Yeah, well. I didn’t say how I got dolled up; hold out your arm for me?” A pale wrist is extended, and he takes it gently, “I’m going to draw a little blood, you’re going to feel a slight pinch.” 

There’s barely a flinch as he presses the sampler home, and he frowns, setting the cartridge into the carrying case and starts manipulating Chris’ forearm carefully from side to side. “Did you feel that?”

“No’ really.” Chris’ head is lolling, eyelids drooping closed, “No closer to… figuring this out?” 

Frowning, he sets Chris’ arm back down, and starts to swap out the ampoules on the infusion cuff, “We’ve got a few good leads. You’ll be back to terrorizing Una on away missions before you know it.” Tired eyelids finally shutter closed as Chris murmurs, “Is she mad at me?” 

He sighs, but softly enough so the suit’s microphone doesn’t pick it up. “A little. If anything else happens on an away mission she might tie you to the command chair for good.” 

“Might not-” A hacking cough, “Be a bad idea.” 

It’s a small mercy, but he’s glad Chris can’t see the concern he can’t quite hide as he reaches down to squeeze a lax hand, “Just hang in there, alright? We’ll get this figured out.”

Chapter Text

He wakes suddenly, grasping blindly at the sheets, chest heaving great, hollow, empty gasps, and he rolls over, coughing wetly. There’s the horrible feeling of something heavy sitting on his chest, constricting his lungs, and he wheezes, trying desperately to find air.

His flailing arms catch something, and there’s a crashing sound, something wet splashing against the floor.

Running footsteps, the lights being called up, cold hands under his arms, rolling him over and lifting him up to lean against the headboard. There's cursing, Phil swearing blue murder, and vaguely he feels something being dropped down onto the mattress, scattered objects rolling across the blankets, and the sudden cold pinch of a hypo being pushed into his neck. The rush is sudden, a spreading coolness that spreads down his throat and gradually, agonisingly slowly, the breaths come easier. Phil is gently coaxing him, trying to guide him through slow, even inhales and exhales, and he does his best to follow, chest shaking.

Time ebbs, flows, and the hands that have been keeping him upright have shifted, moving to gently massage his neck and shoulders, practiced fingers carefully trying to soothe knotted muscles. He chokes, for a second, then clears his throat, eyes watering as he blinks up into Phil’s worried face, 

“What..?” 

Phil shakes his head, “Let’s focus on breathing, please. As for what it was, it sure looked like an asthma attack, but I don’t see how.” There’s a click, and the whir of the tricorder, but Phil’s brow stays furrowed, and several long minutes pass before Chris speaks up again, 

“We’re going back to the hospital, aren’t we?” 

The soft gusting of a sigh, and Phil looks apologetic, “Yeah. I’m sorry Chris, but if this is some kind of side effect…” 

“I know.” He catches Phil’s hand, gives it a squeeze, “It’s alright. We’ll go.”