The mechanical hiss of the door emitted from behind him, but Pavel Chekov did not move. He could not move, even if he dared look away from the small, pale figure beneath the glass chamber. The footsteps behind him pricked his ears, and the soft, contrite movements seemed to pay their respects to not only the mourning Ensign before them, but to the young life he had lost as well.
"She looks just like you, kid." Came a slow, southern drawl from behind him. "She was yours, wasn't she?"
Chekov felt his cautious poise begin to break as the warmth of an uncertain hand breached the borders of numbness in him, a lack of feeling he couldn't quite reach. "Aye, sir."
She had your curls...your eyes; couldn't have mistaken them even if I wanted to. I saw them, before the light went out of 'em, you know.... And that's the real damn crime of it all - I saw the light in your little one's eyes go out, when you were on the bridge. Just doing your job, kid...doing what you were supposed to. She was gone before you had a chance to say goodbye.
Bones looked over at the boy, tracing the lines of bitter hilarity in his oddly worn face; he reckoned Chekv would have laughed at the irony of the situation, if his ability to laugh had not been vanquished altogether by the crushing blow of the little girl's death. Dr. Leonard McCoy himself knew he wasn't exactly renowned for his heartwarming bedside manner; he was caustic and unyielding in the face of death. How the man could show such pity now was an almost comical notion.
The thought crossed the doctor's mind fleetingly – you're a little young to have yourself a two year old, boy. But even Bones, the epitome of impertinence, realized the cruelty of such a remark in the midst of the Ensign's loss. "Pretty little thing, wasn't she?"
Chekov's watery gaze shifted from their fixation on the glass coffin, settling on Bones instead. The doctor felt a god-awful twinge somewhere deep inside him; it just wasn't fair, how empty those eyes were. The kid was as buck wild and eager as the day was long, and nothing had seemed capable of raining on that perpetual parade of his. Seeing him so listless…it only made things worse.
"Is there something you are saying, doctor?"
"Look…Chekov…"Bones swept an idle hand through his ruffled hair. "I'm not good with these kinds of things. Never have been…"
"I understand. You did ewerything that you could."
The movement was so sudden and marked by fury that Chekov, his large eyes beginning to shine with an encroaching threat of tears, started back into his chair. Bones was on his feet, staring down at the boy.
"How can you just…sit there? Stare at her like she's some pile of old bones at a museum?" He seethed, watching as the pale, innocent face rose to meet the accusatory gaze of its superior. "God damn, boy…if that was my daughter in there…I-" He paused, voice breaking. "I wouldn't…I couldn't bear it."
And then, he saw it. One single tear slipping from the wavering eyes, a shard of glass racing down the boy's ashen cheek that shattered the mask of dignified composure. Bones witnessed the slow dismantling of his dutiful pretense, watching as the gradual breakdown was ignited by the harsh, cold glare of the overhead lights.
Regardless of the manifest unraveling, Chekov was steadfast and held the doctor's gaze. "I do not know what else to do, Doctor McCoy. She was…ewerything to me. And this," he gestured to the corpse beneath the illuminated casket. "This is all that remains of moya sladkaya…"
The voice was so fractured and weak that, if not for the familiarity of the accent, Bones would have not realized, nor expected, such a pathetic sound could come from the kid. The man's eyes averted from the heartrending face to the chalk white knuckles as the boy clutched desperately at his knees…he feels like he needs something, an anchor, to root him to the real world more than anything.
Resigned, Bones settled into the seat beside Chekov and allowed the war-wearied boy to collapse into his shoulder. As the young Ensign wept, his entire body shuddering, he felt the soft brush of a hesitant hand rest over his back.
And the weight of Pavel Chekov's shattered world slowly settled over the doctor's shoulders...
.FIN.
AN: Had a REAL hard time writing this. I mean, it was a bear...but I tackled it. It might show in some places that I struggled to find words but...I hope that it will be an intriguing idea nonetheless. I liked the idea of Chekov being a secret father. Dunno why...probably because he would be so good at it. So eager and animated and loyal and loving...definitely a good combination. It would have made a good idea for a full-length fic but...I don't know if I have the stamina to write it.
Anyway. Any form of feedback would be very much appreciated and helpful. Thanks for reading.
Disclaimer - I don't own Star Trek. It belongs to Gene Roddenberry and J.J. Abrams.