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The flood wasn't the worst of it. Yes, the inch deep water carried with it a bone deep chill that could not be soothed. No, it wasn't exactly comfortable, but for now, until exposure began set in, it was bearable.
The cave-in wasn't the worst thing either. It was worse than the water because Jim feared that exposure wasn't going to have a chance to get to them before asphyxiation tortured them to a slow (gasping-choking-awful) death. However there were hours yet before that became an issue. Hours of sitting in an inch of freezing water. Hours of being thankful for the broken ribs that were keeping his breaths shallow. Hours of worrying that he could no longer feel the arm that was surely shattered into a million fragments of bone and sinew beneath the weight of the rock he'd had the misfortune to be standing under when the earth began to shake.
Hours of listening to the painful wet sucking noises of his first officer as he tried to draw in air around the stalagmite that pinned him like a butterfly to a specimen board. Probably not hours of that, actually.
Probably only a few more precious minutes.
That was the worst of it.
“..jim?”
“Shh Spock. I'm here. Don't try to talk.” He tried to interject a modicum of his typical confidence (cockiness, the voice in the back of his brain that always sounded like Bones corrected) into his voice, but the pain he was not really consciously aware of made it shaky instead of commanding.
“...all right?”
The uptick in the questioning tone gurgled into another painful sounding cough and Jim found enough strength in the surge of anger and worry to bark “Stop talking Spock!”
He gentled his tone. “I'm here. I'm fine. Save your strength.”
His mind cast desperately for a shred of hope. It was hours until their next scheduled check in, before the crew would realize that something had gone awry with what should have been a simple soil sampling excursion on a peaceful planet. Sick waves of shame for cajoling Spock to accompany him without a security detail were forced down as he forced himself to focus on what tools he has available.
His communicator was out of reach. The silver accents were visible in the eerie glow of the phosphorescent light provided by the alien slime covering the walls of the cavern, lying next to the now twitching form of his best friend.
His phaser was still holstered between his hip and the rock he was pinned against. It still felt solid.
A testing twist of his torso shot waves of agony from his ruined arm and his sharp grunt of pain drowned out Spock's laboured breaths for a moment. He tried to ride it out, pushing his body to bend the way he needed it and a detached part of his brain was horrified to note the meat of his crushed arm was twisting unnaturally with every movement.
He must have blacked out for a moment. He can't tell how much time has passed but he can still hear Spock, though the tortured gasps are now disturbingly softer. He grits his teeth and ignores the ominous rattle underpinning the efforts. His phaser lies open in his right hand and the green indicator light flashes normal. He can't think about what he has to do. He can't afford the luxury of panic. Gingerly resting the weapon on a relatively flat patch of ground he adjusts the settings and diffusion pattern to an intense focused beam.
His world has narrowed to the controls of the phaser and the sound of Spock fighting to live. There is no room for the pain screaming through his entire system or the spasms of shock wracking his body. He closes his eyes and tucks his chin into his neck as he brings the phaser to a shaking level with his left shoulder. A bare squeeze and the cavern is filled with the ozone scent of phaser discharge and an inhuman howl as Jim tears himself away from the rock and slides face first to his communicator.
“KIRK TO ENTERPRISE GET US THE FUCK OUT OF HERE NOW! MCCOY - !” His shouts are cut off by a convulsion of pain and nausea that sends his mind screaming into the black..