(A/N: Well, I didn't end up changing as much as I thought I would, and I'm feeling better about it, sooo...I'm putting it back. Yay!)

Prologue

Everybody aboard the Enterprise at least knew about the Russian prodigy sitting up front with the big guys if they had not already met him. Everybody knew he was on the cusp of graduating into adulthood in impressively good shape, but still, in many ways, a teenager. Everybody realized he was ridiculously young to be serving aboard a Starfleet vessel, especially its flagship, and respected him for his dedication and maturity, but no one had ever seen him quite like this.

He was sure no one in the history of Starfleet had ever been this late for anything and he vowed to any higher power in the galaxy that he never would be again. That old-fashioned digital alarm clock he was so fond of was perfectly functional and had served its purpose faithfully for years…until now. Now that he had an actual job with actual duties to perform and report to actual people who actually depended on him.

Still trying to cram one foot into a boot, Ensign Pavel Chekov hopped around a corner on the other, garnering some questioning and mildly amused looks from those passing by. When the boot finally cooperated and he had full use of both legs, he became a blur of gold and grey, running his fingers through his curly hair and tugging at his crooked uniform in hopes of making himself somewhat presentable.

He took the next turn a little wide, speeding past a group of chatting science officers and bumping into the one closest to him.

"Sorry!" he called over a shoulder to the young woman. "Wery sorry!"

"No worries!" she called back, but the reply never made it through the swarm of panicked thoughts whirling inside Chekov's mind.

Would he be in trouble? Would he be banished from the bridge and thrown off the Enterprise forever? Could this be the end of his short career? Wait, wait, no, that seemed a little extreme. Where was his brain when he needed it? Oh, that's right, he'd left it in bed along with his dignity.

Another shipmate waved as he dashed by. "Morning, Ensign—whoa!"

"Werysorryheftorun!"

"Wha…?"

Ok, calm down, be rational…

Arms flailing as he spun into the hallway leading to the lift, he skidded to a stop, finding his way blocked by a sturdy wall of red. So much for calm and rational.

"Ensign Chekov," growled the biggest of the four security officers standing in front of him.

His name, if he remembered correctly, was Hendorff. Chekov had never met him personally, but rumor had it he could incapacitate an angry, drunken Klingon warrior by himself, no weapons involved. Not hard to believe. What did he want with a frantic teenaged ensign, though?

"Y-yes…sir?" gasped Chekov, voice coming out a bit squeakier than he would have liked. Already one drop short of an emotional dam failure, he nearly died when two of the large men lurched forward and seized him by the arms without any explanation whatsoever. "Hey! What's going—"

"You're coming with us," Hendorff said. It was simple. A command, not a request.

"Uh-bu-bu…" the young man spluttered as they began to tug him toward the lift. "What is heppening? What did I—I didn't mean to be late, I swear! It was just mistake—"

"The captain wants to see you. On the bridge."

"I was already on my way there! Why do I need to be escort—"

"Quiet," said Hendorff, stepping into the lift and beckoning the rest to follow. "You're in enough trouble as it is."

At that, Chekov immediately closed his mouth, mostly to avoid throwing up. The ride up was short, but incredibly awkward and he found himself almost happy to be pushed onto the bridge when it ended.

The scene he stumbled into was a textbook, picture perfect starship bridge; nothing out of the ordinary, everything smooth, calm, professional. Instruments whirred and blinked with fine-tuned precision as Sulu sat at the helm, Uhura manned the communications console, Spock hovered by the science station, and the captain occupied his chair. Actually, things seemed to be moving along perfectly fine without him, almost as if he'd never existed in the first place. Why had he even bothered launching himself out of bed at all?

"We've found him, Captain," said Hendorff.

The typical, familiar hum of a tightly running bridge continued without so much as a hitch as Kirk swiveled to face them, cool, collected, and unreadable.

"Ah, Mister Chekov." The greeting was not a welcoming one. He nodded at the security team. "Thank you, gentlemen, that'll be all."

"Aye, Captain," said Hendorff and the four men retreated to the lift and disappeared behind the sliding doors.

Now it was just Chekov standing there, front and center and feeling more like an irresponsible adolescent with every second. At least the rest of the staff was too busy doing their jobs…which, he realized with a gut-sinking feeling, was what he should have been doing at that moment too. He was part of this crew, after all. Well, had been, anyway.

"Well, Ensign," Kirk went on, "glad to see you've finally decided to grace us with your presence."

"Er…yes, h-hello, sir…" It took every shred of control left in Chekov's being not to slap himself. Not to mention he only then realized that his boots where on the wrong feet and he was still wearing his retainer. Great. Now he could look and sound like a total idiot at the same time.

The superior officer blinked beneath raised eyebrows. "'Hello, sir'?"

Chekov gulped, blanching a little as Captain Kirk stood up, and suddenly, the possibility of being thrown off the ship didn't seem so improbable anymore.

"At attention, Ensign!"

The teen's reaction to the barked command was automatic. His body snapped into position, back ramrod straight, arms at his sides, heels together, chin up, chest out, and eyes forward.

"Much better. Now, you're nearly twenty-five minutes late for duty on the bridge…" he left Chekov hanging a moment, seeming to enjoy it, "twenty-five…and all I get from you is a 'hello, sir'?"

"Yes, sir. I—I mean, no—" He flinched at the jab to the ribs the captain gave him before starting a slow, vulture-like circle around him.

Was this seriously happening?

"And look at you, you're a wreck. Hair uncombed, uniform inside-out…"

Already struggling to remain still, Chekov broke stiff formality long enough to sneak a glance down at his shirt—which was indeed inside out and possibly backwards—and instantly regretted it.

"Pardon me for interrupting, but we're not finished, here."

"Yes, sir." The navigator's head popped back up.

"Within the last thirty seconds, do you, Mister Chekov, ever recall me telling you to stand at ease?"

"N-no, sir. Not at all, sir."

This was getting exponentially worse. What he wouldn't give to crawl off to the transporter room and beam himself down to the nearest deserted Class M planet.

"Have you even brushed your teeth today?"

Had he?!

"I…I don't remember, sir." It was an honest answer.

Unamused, Kirk came to a stop at the boy's side. "Mister Chekov, I want you to take a look over there at the helm."

This is it. This is really, really it. This is the part where he tells me in front of everybody to get my disgraceful, teenaged behind off his bridge. Congratulations Pavel, you idiot, you just earned yourself a one-way ticket onto the first shuttle back to earth…

Stomach snarling into a knot of dread, Chekov followed his gaze.

"Something's missing. Something important and crucial to the full functionality of this ship. Something none of us here on the bridge even want to imagine being without. What's missing, Mister Chekov?"

"M-me…sir?"

To his utter astonishment, Captain Kirk's expression of stark displeasure split into a wide smile, eyes glinting mischievously.

"Exactly."

Chekov's jaw dropped open, but the small, confused noise that came out of it was lost in a cacophony of cheers and clapping from around the bridge.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"

The ensign's heart skipped several beats as he blinked at the beaming faces of those he had grown to consider his closest friends and family.

"Nice going, Jim," came Dr. McCoy's remark as the commotion fell. "I thought the plan was to prank the kid, not traumatize him for life at the age of eighteen."

Chekov twitched, but was still too stunned to drop the stance.

Eighteen?

He, Ensign Pavel Andreievich Chekov of the Starship Enterprise…was eighteen years old.

"It's ok, Chekov, relax," the captain prompted with a chuckle, laying a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "You're not in trouble, we were just messing with you."

All eyes migrated to him and he sensed them deciphering every expression, gauging every reaction, waiting for him to either confirm or deny the success of their joint covert endeavor.

"I'm…eighteen?" Chekov laughed, allowing himself to loosen. "I'm eighteen!"

"Heyyy, you finally noticed!" Sulu said, coming up beside him. "We were starting to worry there for a second."

Chekov snorted. "You were starting to worry? Speaking of which, I want you to all to know zat you are ze worst friends ever and I will never forgive you."

"Oh, we know. That's why we got you this." Grinning, Sulu pushed a small, ribbon-bound bundle into his hands. "How do you forget your own birthday, anyway?"

"I…I don't know," Chekov shrugged, stumbling to his seat at the navigation console and sinking into the chair in a haze of disbelieving happiness. "I guess when I was assigned to ze Enterprise I wasn't really thinking about what would happen on my birthday. Or zat it mattered."

"It is only logical that we should observe the day of your birth, Ensign," Spock, replied, "as birthdays are an important part of human culture and—"

Swinging around, the captain shot him an annoyed look. "I swear," he muttered through his teeth, "if anybody knows how to kill a moment, it's you."

"Of course it matters, laddie!" Scotty picked up, appearing from somewhere behind to bestow a hearty thump on Chekov's back. "We're a family, and yeh cannae be par' of a family without gettin' royally pranked on yer birthday."

"Well, it worked." Chekov said with a pained cringe. "You had me going there for a while, zat is for sure. I…guess I didn't do myself any favors by waking up late, which, by ze way, Keptin, I am wery sorry about and it won't heppen—"

"Ah-ah, not so fast," Kirk interjected, "it was all part of the plan."

"Oh, now what?" Chekov huffed in feigned exasperation. "Can I trust any of you anymore?"

"Fill'im in, Sulu."

"I kinda swiped and sabotaged your alarm clock last night while we were talking in your quarters." Sulu replied, sounding more amused than guilty. "You were totally oblivious, never noticed a thing."

"Haha, until five minutes ago." Chekov retorted, but smiled brightly as warmth bloomed in his cheeks. "Thank you, everyone. I…I don't know what to say."

Having descended from the communications console, Uhura wrapped her arms around his neck while the rest of his friends congregated.

"You don't have to say anything, dork." She graced him with a playful noogie. "Turning eighteen is a big deal and there's no way we would've let that slip by unnoticed. Not on our watch. Now open your present already!"

There was a chorus of agreement, then the crew held its breath collectively as Chekov slid the ribbon from the bundle and rolled it open to reveal…

"'Made…In Russia'?" He examined the bold words printed on the t-shirt in his native language above a fluttering Russian flag, a smile of pure delight spreading over his face. Without hesitation, he pulled it on right over his uniform.

"It's…it's perfect!" The teen struck a cheesy heroic pose. "How do I look?"

"It is not within the regulation dress code for service on the bridge—"

"Seriously, Spock?" Kirk again swiveled to eye the Vulcan.

"I am always serious, Captain." The first officer said without skipping a beat. "I was merely bringing to your attention a matter of possible protocol breach."

"No, I mean 'seriously', as in 'seriously, can't we ever have just one moment where you don't'—okay, you know what? Forget it. Who wants cake?"

…

Chekov was still sporting the shirt hours later when his shift ended. Naturally, Spock was right. It didn't exactly fit within the parameters of standard Starfleet uniform policies, but no one had the heart to tell the young crewman to take it off.

His second trip through the ship's corridors that day was slower and much less stressful. He still got some odd looks, but chalked it up to people trying to read the message on his impressive new wardrobe addition. Every once in a while, when somebody squinted longer than a few seconds, he made a deliberate point to start humming the Russian national anthem simply for the fun of it. Or simply because today was his birthday. Or both.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he approached the entrance to his quarters. Not that he didn't enjoy being surrounded by his best friends on a dream job most his age couldn't even fathom, it was just that he, like any other normal person, needed his own space at the end of the day. This was where he checked all work-related worries at the door, the one place aboard the Enterprise he could truly call his own, his tiny slice of Russia away from Russia. No uniform regulations, no commands to follow, and best of all, the obligation of speaking in Standard was barely an afterthought.

Also, where sleep is top priority, he mused, now realizing how tired he was. His day had certainly opened with a bang and he intended to close it on a more peaceful note by flopping into bed the moment he cleared the threshold. Unable to hold back a yawn, he reached for the touchpad…

"Pavel!"

Chekov turned to see Lieutenant Uhura jogging toward him, long, dark hair swinging back and forth from its perch atop her head. He often found himself wondering how she managed such a feat of a ponytail day after day. He didn't believe in magic or the supernatural, of course, but occasionally that glossy, perfect hairdo came close to convincing him otherwise. How else could it be explained? Certainly not physics.

"Pasha, wait a second!" She slowed to a stop, one hand behind her back and holding something out to him with the other. "You left this on the bridge."

Mortified, Chekov snatched his retainer from the palm of her hand, shoving it deep into a pocket. Of all the stupid, random pieces of junk he could have misplaced…

"Those things are so annoying, right?" she went on, seeming to sense his embarrassment. "I've never told anyone, but I still had mine when I first got to the Academy."

The corner of Chekov's mouth quirked upward. "You…you did?"

She laughed. "Yep, sure did. I accidentally threw it out after lunch one day and had to go dumpster diving for it. Classic retainer fail, right?"

The woman radiated intelligence and confidence, was the very essence of graceful strength under pressure, and could pack a punch should the need arise, but it was her remarkable kindness and caring behind the scenes that ultimately defined her. And once she'd adopted you as one of her virtual siblings, she had your back for life. Her sharp wit and loving compassion rarely made their effects visible on the face of her Vulcan boyfriend, but there was no denying Commander Spock was a lucky, lucky guy.

Chekov couldn't help but reveal a full-on smile. "Did you find it?"

"Ha, yeah, like two hours and two missed classes later. You should've seen the looks on my instructors' faces when I tried to explain that one. But seriously, here we are in the twenty-third century and kids all over the galaxy are still stuck with wires and plastic. And you'd think they'd at least develop some sort of tracking technology for them, but no, we have to go explore the farthest reaches of space instead. No way like the old-fashioned way, I guess."

Uhura giggled along with the younger officer as he dissolved into a laugh, then pursed her lips tightly together as if struggling to hold in something exciting.

"Speaking of old-fashioned…" she segued, "A few of us have noticed you've taken an interest in archaeology lately."

Chekov nodded, now harboring a growing twinge of suspicion.

"Well, on shore leave a few weeks ago, I came across this…" she brought her other hand out from behind her back, "…and the first person I thought of was you. I couldn't resist."

Chekov blinked in astonishment at the object she held. It was older than dirt, thicker than his fist, and pleasingly dog-eared, just the way he liked them. Yes, Bridges to the Past: A Study of Ancient Nvvorian Culture Through Recovered Artifacts and Other Findings, by Dr. K. Haslam, would be the perfect addition to the already overflowing bookshelves taking up one whole side of his quarters.

"Go ahead," Uhura encouraged. "It's yours."

As soon as his fingers touched the worn, musty binding, a familiar thrill swept through him. Naturally, reading anything and everything he could get his hands on was not only a favorite pastime, but an irresistible passion as well. There were thousands of texts available in the ship's database, and it was no secret that he'd already devoured about four hundred of them (give or take), but there was nothing quite like the weight of a real book in his hands. Something about the tangibility, the sturdy covers, the soft rasp of pages as he turned them, the mystery of where each had come from and how it had ended up in his possession.

And that aged, papery smell.

You couldn't get that from a screen.

"Uhura, y-you didn't…you didn't hef to…" He trailed into grateful speechlessness.

"C'mon, you stop that." She waved him off. "Of course I did—oh!"

Chekov threw his arms around her. "Thank you! Th-thank you so much, I love it!"

"Happy birthday, Pasha." She returned the hug generously after a second of mild surprise. "I know being the youngest crewman on the entire ship can't be easy, but you should never let that stop you. You're just as capable as the rest of us—probably more—but…but I just want to say that if you ever need help, you know right where to find me. Don't hesitate to ask."

"Thank you, Uhura. It means a lot."

When they separated Chekov suddenly found one of the lieutenant's index fingers poking into his chest in feigned chiding.

"And one more thing…" She winked. "It's ok to call me 'Nyota' when we're off-duty."