Chapter Text
James Kirk ran through the corridors, taking out guards as they appeared, not even bothering with his phaser as he punched one of them in the face and threw another one into the door, not caring about the damage done. These men were standing between him and a member of his crew, and for that he granted them no mercy.
Intersection cleared, Kirk looked around, trying to figure out if he should go left or right. It had been hours since Sulu had disappeared, and he didn’t want to spend any more time than strictly necessary trying to find his friend.
Luckily, Sulu chose that moment to let out a yell. He was close, Kirk could tell. Just down the corridor to his left. So he set off at a run, barreling into the door with his phaser held up, expecting the worst.
What he got instead caused Kirk to gaze at Sulu in confusion. His friend was sitting up straight in a chair, only his own free will keeping him there. The room was empty, aside from the two of them. The helmsman didn’t even seem to be too injured - there was a cut on his cheek and a graze on his forehead, but apart from that he seemed in good shape.
“Sulu!” he called, feeling a lot calmer than he had been fighting off all the guards between him and his friend.
“Captain?” came the reply, Sulu’s eyes meeting his. Contrary to how most people react during a rescue mission, Sulu frowned at him. “Captain, there’s a gun pointed at me. If you try monkey with any of that stuff,” he said, nodding towards the various bits of technology laying around, “or try and put anything between me and the gun...it fires.”
Ah. That explained a bit. Already, Kirk found himself using his peripherals to try see a way out, although he kept his eyes focused on Sulu. The helmsman was breathing heavily, a combination of fear and resignation clear in his eyes.
“Just leave, sir. Please. Before they come back.”
“I can’t do that,” Kirk replied, trying to sound as calm as possible. And really, who did Sulu think he was talking to? Kirk wouldn’t leave behind the lowest ranking stranger, let alone his helmsman and friend. Still, Sulu met his gaze calmly - well, as calmly as a man facing his death could be.
“Whichever way this goes, no regrets, okay? No looking back. No regrets.”
“Shut up, Sulu.” Jesus, Kirk wished he sounded half as calm as his friend, knowing he could hear the waiver in his voice clear as day. “You won’t die. I won’t let you die on me.”
But, as much as Kirk didn’t believe in no win situations, he couldn’t for the life figure his way out of this one.
48 hours earlier
The enterprise docked into Christellia, the planet they had chosen for their shore leave. It was said to be a beautiful place, with interesting people and a thriving night life. With Checkov having turned twenty one merely weeks before, the crew had chosen the planet specifically for the latter reason - Kirk and Scotty in particular wanted to see the young ensign get drunk, despite his protests that it was impossible for him to become intoxicated as drinking had originated in Russia and was therefore in his blood.
His protests didn’t stop Kirk, Sulu and Scotty dragging him to the nearest bar that evening, a grumbling McCoy following them, claiming to be there simply to make sure they didn’t get arrested, shooting Kirk a glare, the again not needed to be added. Still, the grumpy doctor seemed to be as amused by the rest of them as Chekov slurred out protests that he wasn’t drunk at all.
The other three weren’t that much better off, though. Kirk went to lean on the bar, laughing at Chekov’s intoxication, and missed spectacularly, his shoulder colliding with it instead of his elbow, making Scotty and Sulu laugh harder and McCoy roll his eyes, hiding a look of concern under layers of gruffness.
“Right, I think that’s enough for you guys tonight.”
“Aw, c’mon Bones! Why’d you have to be such a killjoy?” Jim moaned, hooking his arms over his shoulder.
“Because tomorrow mornin’ when you’re all hung over, it’s me who’ll have to deal with you, and you’re allergic to all the hang over medications I have with me.”
“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”
“Come on, let’s get you all back to the hotel before you start damaging property,” McCoy said, his avoidance of the question more than enough confirmation for Kirk.
“You know, you’re an evil man, Bones,” the captain said, flicking his friend on the nose as McCoy scowled, hauling the arm already embracing him further over his shoulder, holding it tight so the drunk man wouldn’t wander off. Behind them, a slightly more sober Sulu laughed.
“You just say that because he’s the only one who can haul your ass back in line, Captain.”
“Oh, I wish,” McCoy retorted. “I don’t think that anyone can do that. Anyway, do you think that you and Scotty can handle him?” he asked, nodding towards where Chekov had slumped onto the bar, snoring gently.
“I think we’ll be able to manage. I just gotta take a piss.”
“Sure, just don’t be long,” McCoy said distractedly, tugging Kirk’s arm further around him to stop him chasing after a rather pretty androgynous local that walked over to one of the nearby booths.
“Ah’ll wake the kid,” Scotty offered, shaking the russian’s arm and grinning. “Russians invented drinkin’ my arse. E’ry one knows us scots can drink anyone under the table.”
Chekov’s eyes opened blearily for a moment, before sliding shut.
“Oh no ya don’,” Scotty said, shaking the younger man’s arm again. “You can sleep a’ the ‘otel, but ah’m not carryin’ ya there.”
“‘M tired,” the young Russian muttered into the bar, burying his head in his arms and squeezing his eyes shut, as if that would make them go away.
“Well, at least we know what sorta drunk he is now,” McCoy said, free hand holding back Kirk’s head, the drunk captain having lost interest in the local and decided that McCoy was the new object of his affections, and as such was trying to kiss his way up his CMO’s neck. “How long is Sulu going to take?”
“D’ya want me tah check on ‘im?” Scotty asked.
“Give him a minute or two,” McCoy replied. “He’s not as drunk as you three - I doubt he did something dumb like trip over his own pants and whack his head.”
Two minutes turned to five, and Kirk had given up on trying to kiss his CMO, instead settling on resting his head on his shoulder, occasionally nuzzling his neck and ignoring the doctor’s glare. Chekov was mostly awake, and Scotty was shifting from foot to foot.
“Ah’m gonna check on ‘im,” Scotty said. “It’s been ages.”
McCoy nodded, watching as Scotty disappeared into the men’s bathroom at the back of the pub. Less than a second later, he reappeared, looking a lot more sober.
“Guys, I think you need to see this.”
Kirk looked up from McCoy’s shoulder, disentangling himself from his friend to follow the scotsman, walking way too easily for a man who just spent the last few minutes getting publicly cosy with his CMO. The observation made McCoy grumpy for the entire period of time it took for him to get into the bathroom.
One of the urinals was broken, smashed clean off the wall, a smear of blood on the edge of it. There were signs of a scuffle in the dust and debris that had settled, and a hole big enough for a person to fit through.
Sulu was nowhere to be seen.
“Just one shore leave,” Kirk groaned beside McCoy. “Can’t we have just one shore leave where nothing bad happens?”