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Trust Issues (Resolved)

Chapter 4: Spock

Notes:

Heeeeeeeey...It's been a while.
I can't seem to focus on my original work today, and I just re-watched Into Darkness, so I'd figured I'd flex my writer's muscles by returning to a fanfic. Enjoy!

P.S. I have no idea if the little pig thing is a real Russian tradition. Got the idea from a short story.

Not beta'd. All mistakes mine.

Chapter Text

--

One month after Nero

--

Pavel practiced his combat skills in private, but the regular work-outs were done in the gym. Every crew member had to exercise. Otherwise, all the time in space would take a toll on their bodies. Pavel figured that an hour at the track would work for today.

When he got to the gym, he froze, hand immediately going to the butterfly knife hidden in his pocket.

Commander Spock was there. Lifting weights in the hundreds of pounds.

Those days in the Academy when Pavel would catch up to him in the hall, or in the mess, or at the tale end of class to run a theory by him, or ask about a paper, or even to rag about the bad food in the cafeteria...they felt like a lifetime ago.

Looking at Spock now, Pavel didn't know how he had ever felt safe around him. The man could bench-press two hundred pounds without a sweat, was well-versed in martial arts, and clearly had no issue using violence--despite all the logic against it--when pushed far enough. But what Pavel really found terrifying was that the Vulcan didn't have any physical tells. He hid everything behind his cool mask and pointy eyebrows. With Andrei, Pavel had known at a glance whatever mood his father was in, could calculate the odds that he would snap into violence and the velocity in which that would happen.

With Spock? Nothing. Pavel had no idea if he was actually that calm on the inside right now or if he was picturing a hundred different ways to kill someone.

"Ensign Chekov," Spock greeted, hardly looking up from his weights.

"Commander Spock," he replied, speed-walking to the track in the next room.

"We haven't had a conversation in over thirty-seven Terran days," he said, finally setting them down. "Did you want to...talk?"

Pavel forced a smile. "Maybe later. Sir."

--

Now

--

If Spock were fully human, he would sigh. Or curse. Cursing seemed like an acceptable response to this situation. Jim would have been proud.

"I do not understand," he admitted to the high priest of Noqor. Another recently-discovered species that the Enterprise had encountered with the hope of adding to the Federation, they had been a century into their space age. Their ships had discovered one of the Federation's scouts and the rest, as Jim would say, was history.

Things had been going quite well. The Noqorians still had to decide whether or not they wanted to join the Federation, deliberate amongst themselves and probably talk to more officers. They had had a banquet to welcome the "alien guests," an event that the captain had been unable to attend due to illness. He had been extremely displeased, even when Spock had agreed to go in his place. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, Spock was incredibly grateful that Jim was safe and sound aboard the Enterprise, if somewhat miserable.

The priest smiled. The aliens were short, their height average barely more than a meter. They had four arms, serpentine bottoms, and crystalline skin that required diamond or something harder to break.

Right now, Spock and Ensign Chekov were the only Federation officers on their planet. The priest had asked for a word with Spock and an officer of his choice to stay behind and discuss a few "minor matters." Spock had agreed, though he had security on stand-by on the Enterprise. He had chosen Chekov to stay with him for a variety of reasons: his quick intellect, his fighting capabilities, and the fact that he was still young and new to everything, and so needed the experience.

Spock should have chosen someone else. Chekov had asked Spock to help him edit his first scientific paper just last week. Now he might be dead by the end of the day.

"It is tradition," the priest said. "In order to ensure a safe journey, a sacrifice must be made."

"Sacrifice," Spock echoed.

"Like the little pig," Chekov said. He was perfectly calm, far too used to staring death in the face.

"Elaborate," Spock ordered him.

"It's a tradition in some parts of Russia to destroy something of value to ensure that nothing else goes wrong on a trip," he explained. "In older times, it would be something like the family's prized pig. These days it's usually something like your favorite outfit or your communicator."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Do you indulge in these traditions, Ensign?"

"Nyet. It's just superstition."

The priest stiffened. "It is not superstition. We have statistical proof that these sacrifices work."

"Self-fulfilled prophecy," Spock and Chekov said at the same time. Spock almost--almost--smiled, before he continued, "You believe that something will go wrong if you don't make a sacrifice, so if the sacrifice isn't made you are far more likely to make a mistake due to distraction or your subconscious. We have no such qualms or traditions in the Federation."

The priest shook his head. "I cannot let you go without making this sacrifice."

"You are asking me to kill my navigator," Spock said, a barely contained shout.

"For the greater good. It's a noble cause. If he truly is dedicated to your Federation, he won't hesitate."

"Your demands put your own nomination into the Federation at risk," Spock warned. "We do not allow fanatics in our ranks."

"And we do not ally ourselves with heathens," the priest snapped. "If you do not adhere to our traditions, we will have no choice but to kill you both to appease the gods."

Spock looked around the room. There were half a dozen acolytes and nuns, plus more on call, he was certain. He could call for his own security, which would naturally lead to a firefight. Assuming he could get to his communicator, anyway.

He was going to risk it--he was not murdering anyone, especially not Pavel--when the ensign cleared his throat. "Commander? A vord?"

They went to a corner of the room. Still within hearing of the Noqorians, only with the illusion of privacy.

Chekov's face was grave, and Spock knew exactly what he was going to say before he said it: "Commander, I think ve should do this."

"Absolutely not," Spock said. "If we do not return to the Enterprise soon, they will send security down to investigate. We can leave then, without injury."

"That von't work. They need an answer now. If you don't do this, ve both die, and I can't let that happen to you, sir."

Spock's mind was racing, going through a hundred scenarios at once. None of them were optimal.

"Commander."

He reluctantly met Chekov's gaze. In a shocking move of familiarity--shocking because it came from Chekov, and because it was from Chekov to him--Chekov put a hand on his shoulder. "It'll be all right."

His hand was right over the vein Spock would target for a nerve pinch.

...that could work.

Spock nodded, and Chekov withdrew his hand.

"Priest," Spock called. "I have two conditions."

"So long as they adhere to our traditions, I'm sure they can be met," the priest said.

"I will choose the method of death," Spock said. "Poison." They didn't know human physiology. He could easily trick them...

The priest shook his head. "The end must be met with a blade."

"I have it," Chekov said, flipping out one of his many knives. The Vulcan dagger. Of course.

Spock's heart sank. This was going to be even worse than he thought. He took the knife.

"Your other condition?" the priest asked.

"We take his body back with us."

The priest beamed. "Of course. The bodies of sacrifices are always taken by the ship to prove to the gods your dedication."

Perfect.

The temple was set for the sacrifice, the floor of the alter covered in sand to absorb blood.

The priest turned to Chekov. "If you wish to pray to the gods, now is the time."

Chekov snorted. "I learned long ago to never rely on gods."

The priest looked uncomfortable at that, but didn't argue.

Chekov stood in the middle of the sand, at parade rest. Spock approached, the knife heavy in his hands.

"I'm sorry," he said, putting a hand on Chekov's shoulder.

Chekov took a deep, shaky breath. "Just do it, sir."

Before he could talk himself out of it, Spock stabbed him in the abdomen. Chekov's eyes bulged as he stumbled. Spock pinched, and the boy crumpled. Spock barely caught him before he hit the ground.

The priest nodded. "Well done, commander. You're free to go."

Spock glared at him, then lifted Chekov over his shoulder.

"We can assist with transporting the body--"

"No." He didn't bother with an explanation as he called for beam-up.

--

"You didn't hit anything important," McCoy said, coming out of Chekov's room in the medbay.

Spock had known, of course, that the wound wasn't fatal. But hearing the confirmation made the tension in his shoulders dissipate. He'd spent fifteen minutes scrubbing Chekov's blood from his hands and the knife, then changing his clothes.

"I've stitched him up," McCoy continued. "He should be awake, soon."

Spock nodded, then handed McCoy the knife. "Give this to him, and notify me as soon as he's able to receive visitors."

"Sure." The doctor smacked Spock on the shoulder. "Don't beat yourself up. You saved the kid's life."

Spock knew that. But he still felt guilty about having to hurt him to do it.

Six hours later, Spock got that notification from McCoy. Since he was not on shift, he went to the medbay immediately.

Chekov was not only awake, he was sitting up in the biobed eating chocolate pudding. He beamed at Spock. "Commander! Are you all right?"

"I'm not the one who was stabbed," he pointed out.

"Not vhat I meant, sir," Chekov said gently.

Spock's eyes wandered to the dagger, sitting on the table by the biobed. "It was, unfortunately, necessary. Had there been a more painless way..."

"You vould hawe done that," Chekov said. "I know, sir. I trust you."

Those words knocked the breath right out of Spock's lungs.

A comfortable silence settled over them as Chekov dove back into his pudding. Spock took a seat next to him. "Ensign."

"Mmr?" His mouth was full. He swallowed and tried again: "Sir?"

"I had a question about the paper you wrote..."

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