Disclaimer: I own nothing.
AN: I have been reading the influx of Spock, Chekov moments where Chekov apologizes and everything. I began thinking about how I would have felt about the transporter incident. When I was 17, I had moral issues with accidentally causing the death of characters in video games...so I think I would've been traumatized by the event. So yeah, this is kinda putting myself in Chekov's teenage, genius, very Russian shoes. unbetaed and...I didn't attempt Chekov's accent, so imagine it.

After he accidentally lets his Captain's mother perish as the planet Vulcan crumbles into nothingness, he is naturally quite upset. He sees Spock reach out into the emptiness for a woman who is not there. He watches the realization of her death come across those usually so stoic features. He burns with shame. For a few long moments, it does not matter that the rest of the Vulcan Elders are still alive, that Spock is still alive, or that Spock's father Sarek is still alive. All that matters to him is that the woman who raised Spock is gone and that he let her die. He sits somewhere quietly with tears running down his face and shock taking over his system. He gives himself a time of pure regret, and then he has to get back to work. He returns to his station internally devastated and outwardly stable. He does his job. He pretends to be fine. He pretends that Amanda Grayson didn't die by his hand, that Spock and he are still mentor and student. Yet, little things would tell anyone who knows him well that he is dying inside. It is convenient for him that the ship is filled with people who don't know him past the superficial or are too busy with their own problems to give a damn about his.

He starts punishing himself in little ways. He makes sure his showers are icier than Delta Vega instead of the warm-hot temperature he usually prefers. He eats only out of habit and only once a day. He chooses foods he hates to eat so that the task of consuming it is unpleasant. He stops socializing with others. He takes his job even more seriously than before, working harder and more strenuous to try and keep from making mistakes. He attempts to force himself to sleep so he can suffer his nightmares, but the nightmares about what he has done haunt him enough that he stops sleeping after a while. The nightmares follow him into the daytime anyway, and he does nothing to deter that...it is part of his punishment. He gets to the point where he cannot even look at himself in reflective surfaces without seeing a murderer staring back at him. He scrubs at his skin violently leaving red marks and little drops of blood behind because he feels as if he himself is the dirty thing that must be washed away.

Still, he holds his troubles in fairly well, all told. No one has mentioned anything anyway. If they notice his loss in weight, isolation, or the dark circles of his eyes, they must attribute it all the loss of Vulcan and half the fleet of federation starships. No one bothers him. All he has to do is avoid the accusing eyes of the man whose mother he killed. He knows that Spock would notice in a Vulcan heartbeat that he was not well, but he also knows that Spock has other concerns to think about. Plus, Spock is seemingly still angry with him and therefore avoiding him. He halfway wishes the man would attack him or demand some form of repayment for the wrongs he has done...but the Vulcan does neither. Spock is also pretending to be fine.

His facade of semi-normality lasts only until they reach Earth. In the Starfleet Academy with its empty halls and still silences, he feels his self-hatred bubble beneath his skin. His thoughts race in his mind, always accusing him, and there is no one or thing to stop them. He tries to distract himself but nothing seems to work. He has classes and finals but these things seem so...unimportant in comparison to the trials he has already been put through. Tests that would have before struck terror into his heart over the possibility of failing now seem silly when thinking about how he was put to the test on the Enterprise and failed miserably. He comes to the startling realization that the academy tests are not an accurate measure of competence. He took many tests at Starfleet that said he had an aptitude for transwarp theory...they were wrong. He looks over old tests and praise from professors and thinks its all a load of bullshit. How could he possibly be that ready for command, when Spock's mother is dead because of him? He tears at the skin of his arms with sharp fingernails in a fit of frustration after reading one particularly glowing review of his amazing intellect and readiness for advancement. The pain stops his mind from screaming at him...it brings instant relief and confusion.

Later, he finds himself taking a sharp blade to his wrist and slicing into it experimentally. Blood wells and drips onto his bathroom floor, and he thinks that it is good since he has spilled Amanda Grayson's. At first he feels sharp pain, and his self-hatred and emotional pain blessedly dissolve for a time under the haze of physical pain. He feels...in control for the first time since after the transporter incident occurred. So he does it again. It is oddly helpful. Every time he feels himself begin to slip slide into waking nightmares or he begins self blame, it is easy for him to just push down on one of the cloth covered, straight cuts lined up on his left wrist. It really helps him focus throughout his classes. So he continues using it to help himself cope. It isn't doing much harm, just a little blood, and he knows that they used to blood let in ancient days to cure illness...maybe that's what he's doing. Maybe if he just bleeds enough, all his feelings about Amanda Grayson's death will just pour out of him...it could not hurt.

When he gets up after a cutting session and heads out, it seems easier. Walking around the mostly empty campus is more tolerable then before, and the dorms don't sound so empty or if they do...he just isn't in a position to give a damn. Cutting leaves him slightly lightheaded from blood loss and slightly dazed as well. He knows his eyes are glossy, skin extremely pale, and that it's obvious he hasn't been eating or sleeping much. He doesn't think that anyone notices, that anyone cares...he certainly doesn't. After all, cutting was invented in Russ... Okay, so cutting was probably invented by some overly emotional teen going through a bad break up with a significant other on valentines day, but it doesn't really matter any more what its history is or how he feels about it. He bleeds out all those pesky emotions each morning. He barely feels a thing when he graduates and is assigned to the Enterprise as Chief Navigator. He is numb.

"Mr. Chekov."

He spins on his heel to see an older Vulcan male who peers at him with saddened eyes.

"Yes, Sir?"

"You have injured yourself."

His eyes widen, emotions jolting to the surface like the pain had never forced them down, and he stares up at the man who is staring at his left arm.

"I am...I am fine," He stutters as he realizes that blood has crept down his wrist to drip to the floor.

The Vulcan suddenly grabs his hand and yanks up his sleeve to reveal straight lines standing in a row. The cuts closer to the body are deeper than the ones further away because they were made more recently then the others. He has been getting more careless about hitting veins or arteries as time goes on. "You are engaging in self-harm."

His first reaction is white hot anger over the fact that the old man is bringing it up at all and invading his privacy. He opens his mouth to say that the Vulcan wasn't there and doesn't know what he feels, what he has done. His mind sees Spock standing on that platform, reaching out, and he feels a rush of despair. "I failed and it hurts."

An eyebrow raises. "It is illogical to solve pain by inflicting more upon yourself."

He trembles slightly as he offers a shaky, "It helps."

"No, it does not." Warm eyes meet his own and he wonders how a Vulcan can have such expressive eyes. "You are not to blame for the death of Amanda Grayson."

He fights against his raging emotions for a moment. He closes his eyes against the pain of that simple statement, and tries to ignore the words he so wants to hear, partially angry that they come from this stranger. What does this man know about it? This is not one of the Vulcans who were picked up by the Enterprise.

"You did all that you could, all that anyone in that situation could do."

He shouts. "No! If I had, then she would be alive. I should have been better, faster. I knew I could do it. But I lost her!" He quiets suddenly, "I...failed. I let his mother die." He stands there breathing hard, tears rolling down his pale face, and blood still flowing slightly from his wrist. "It would have been better if I had died and not her. She must have been wonderful to have such a wonderful son." He lets out a mournful wail, "And I killed her."

Surprisingly strong arms pull him into a hug. He freezes, aware that Vulcans don't do physical touching, but comforted all the same.

"You did not kill Amanda Grayson."

The man speaks with such conviction that he begins to have a shred of doubt. He looks up with teary eyes and runny nose. "Are...are you certain?"

"I am," A new voice echoes through the hall.

He turns to see Spock. His head ducks out of reflex and he keeps his eyes on the floor in front of the man whose mother he...may not have killed. He says in a quiet, timid voice, "I am sorry."

Spock nods once. "It was not your error that led to my mothers death. You have no reason to be sorry, although I appreciate the sentiment."

The older Vulcan says, "You should take him to see Dr. McCoy about his wrist and have him checked over for any more damage. I do not believe he has been eating or sleeping since perhaps the destruction of Vulcan."

"I will."

There is an exchange of nods before the older Vulcan heads off alone.

"Come, Ensign Chekov. You should be checked over...you are still bleeding." Spock reaches out to touch his dripping blood and shows him that the fingertips come back red.

Chekov winces a bit in pain, frowning as he looks down at his bleeding arm, and follows Spock for a bit in silent contemplation. He eventually looks up at his mentor and quietly asks, "Who was that?"

"A member of my house."

He senses something a bit...off with the answer to his question but says nothing. Spock wouldn't lie, so the man has to be a member of Spock's house, and if Spock isn't willing or able to elaborate, then that's okay. Whoever the strange Vulcan is, Chekov owes him for being the first to—not forgive, but to tell him that there is nothing to forgive as he was not at fault. He sends up a silent prayer for the deceased of the battle of Vulcan, and another for the older Vulcan who helped him find a bit of emotional stability once more. He thinks maybe he can trade his ritualistic blood letting for less painful methods of comfort.

He sighs and looks up to realize they have made it to Dr. McCoy. Spock is talking, arguing with the Doctor. He sighs again and lets his mind wander back to the strangely familiar, old Vulcan. He is just starting to come to some sort of epiphany that lies just out of reach when he glances up to see a cursing, red faced Dr. McCoy jabs him in the neck with a hypospray. He loses whatever conclusions he may have been coming to when he goes incredibly, impossibly more lightheaded than before. The last thing he sees before he passes out in Spock's arms is an surprised, amused raised eyebrow directed at Dr. McCoy.

fin