WARNINGS :: SLASH. And fluff. But only a little bit.
A/N :: There's really more backstory here than anything substantial, butttt... even though nothing much happens, it's cute. And Pavel's backstory is interesting to me. So there.
Inspired By/Written For :: My darling Estra, because it's her birthday today.
Onwards!
x
When Pavel was growing up, birthdays weren't a big thing. His mom had grown up in an orphanage, found on the steps one cold winter's day as a newborn, and as such, was always adopting children. He'd had so many brothers and sisters he couldn't remember them all. Although he had been his mother's first (and only) biological child (with some help from a lab and a sperm donor - he didn't know who his biological father was, but it had never really bothered him; his mom had more than made up for it), she hadn't given him any special treatment, something that he had been both grateful for and somewhat nonplussed by. Because there were so many children running around his house, and none of them knew when there actually birthdays were, there had been a day put aside each month to celebrate who had been adopted that month, but they were absolutely poor, and the celebration was nothing more than a few more slices of meat on their plates - all hand cooked by their mother; they couldn't afford a replicator - and, if they were really lucky, a piece of chocolate for everyone.
His birthday isn't a big deal; it never has been. So why was everyone acting like it is?
x
The instant he walks onto the bridge for his morning shift, a hushed silence settles over everyone, and there's a few seconds where they all exchange quick glances, and then his captain stands with a cheery grin, walking over to the Russian and placing a warm, solid hand on his shoulder.
"Hey there, Chekov! How are you doing?"
"Fine."
His accent is thicker in his confusion, and the word almost gets lost, but Jim doesn't seem to care, because his smile gets even bigger and he begins to steer Pavel over to his chair, his hands firm on Pavel's thin frame, and pushes the Ensign gently into his seat when they get there.
"Just 'fine'?"
Pavel raises his eyebrows, looks up at his captain and nods.
"Yes. Just fine."
He stresses 'fine', making sure to enunciate each letter as clearly as he can, somewhat worried that there is something wrong with his captain, whose grin falters a bit at Pavel's statement, but then perks again just as he swings Sulu's seat around and sits on it backwards, his arms resting on the back of it nonchalantly while he stares at the Russian.
"Anything exciting going on? Anything you wanted to tell us?"
With a sigh, Pavel lets his fingers fly thoughtlessly over the computer screen in front of him, and he pretends to be focusing when he replies, "No sir. Nozing more exciting zan usual."
Pavel can almost hear his captain's disappointment when he stands slowly, resting a hand on the Russian's head before he says, "Well, alright then," and walks away, footsteps sounding unnecessarily loud on the tile while quiet whispers begin to rush between everyone, and Pavel sighs again, letting his thoughts wander away from things like his strangely acting captain.
x
His shift is over - his captain had let him go early, with some vague statement about 'enjoying himself' shouted at him when he entered the turbolift - and he's walking down the hallway when he hears his name.
"Pavel!"
He stops walking, turning on his heel and almost being pummeled by Hikaru, who had come skidding around the corner and slipped on a slick patch of floor.
"Whoa!"
"Ack! Hikaru!"
Thankfully, the pilot manages to grab onto a nearby bulkhead and stop himself from slamming into the startled, petite Russian.
"What are you off to?"
The question takes Pavel by surprise, and he simply stares at Hikaru for a moment, grey eyes wide.
"Ze captain told me to 'enjoy myself', so I am going to ze mess hall to eat; I missed breakfast zis morning."
Whatever Hikaru was expecting Pavel to say, it apparently wasn't that, because he just cocks his head at the Russian and responds, somewhat hesitantly, "You're going to the mess hall?"
"Yes; zat is where we are supposed to eat, da?"
Hikaru is still looking confused, so Pavel decides to humor him by asking, "Why? Were you expecting me to do somezing different?"
The pilot immediately flushes and shakes his head, his hands frantically in front of his face, as though trying to placate Pavel.
"No no no! I mean, you can do whatever you want, I was just surprised that's what you'd choose to do, is all, because if it were ME I would be partying but you're not me so-"
"Hikaru. You are rambling."
Hikaru stops and just glances sheepishly at the Russian.
"Sorry. Hey, I'll see you later, alright?"
"Yes, zat's fine."
'I've been saying 'fine' a lot today,' Pavel thinks to himself as Hikaru waves goodbye and leaves, taking great care to avoid the slippery patch of tile on his way down the hall.
x
"Pavel!"
Almost the second he walks into the mess hall, he hears the strong accent of their Scottish engineer calling his name, and he blinks, swiveling his head around the room to look for Scotty.
It's not very hard.
The Scotsman is practically standing on his table, waving a red sleeved arm in the air as he gestures at the Russian and shouts again.
"Come sit with us, lad!"
The 'us' in question is a few red shirted engineers, none of whom Pavel knows any better than in passing, but they don't look too threatening, so with a shrug, Pavel gets his food from the replicator, adding a few more slices of meat to his plate than usual, and walks to the table, settling on the end of the hard bench somewhat awkwardly.
"So lad… why didn't you tell us it was your birthday?"
Pavel looks up from his plate and stares at Scotty calmly.
"Because it doesn't matter."
And really, it doesn't. It's nothing to fuss about; he's lived through another year, but turning 18 isn't really anything to celebrate. He's been doing things other people have to wait until they're 18 to do for years; joining Starfleet, drinking, and owning and operating a firearm, to name a few. When he turns 100, he'll celebrate. Until then, what does it matter if he's 17 or 18 or 19 or 47?
Scotty is looking at him as though he'd just admitted to pouring an entire bottle of Scotch down the drain.
"What do you mean, 'it doesn't matter'? Of course it matters, lad! You're 18 now! 18 is the best age to be!"
"Zen what does it matter if I celebrate today or tomorrow or 6 months from now? I have an entire year to enjoy being 18, Mr. Scott. I don't have to do it today."
With a sigh, he pushes away from the table and grabs his tray, walking across the room to deposit it into the trash, pointedly ignoring Scotty's curious stare on his back and feeling the beginnings of a migraine pounding at his skull.
He'd have to see Dr. McCoy about getting something for that.
x
"Hello?"
It's rare to see the sickbay completely empty, but yet, when Pavel walks in, there's no one around; no Nurse Chapel, no patients, and no Dr. McCoy.
"What do you need, kid?"
Ah. There he is.
Pavel turns and opens his mouth to tell the doctor his problem, but stops when he realizes the McCoy is looking at him with an appraising stare.
"Isn't it your birthday today?"
Really? This again?
"Yes," Pavel snaps, his headache and irritation at everyone's judgment and disappointment at his not caring about what day it is today catching up to him, "It is. But I have a migraine and all I want to do is go back to my quarters and sleep."
McCoy blinks, surprised, and then the lines around his eyes soften just a little as he accesses the med kit sitting on the counter, digging around for what Pavel hopes is a headache cure, or a pain reliever at the least.
"You're… how old now?"
"18."
McCoy's hands slow in their searching and his shoulders tense peculiarly, but eventually he emerges, holding a hyprospray victoriously, and Pavel takes a few seconds to admire the doctor's strong, graceful hands – he'd taken to admiring the doctor whenever he thinks he can get away with it, and so far he'd say he's been pretty successful in not letting McCoy find out about his ridiculous little crush – until the doctor stops in front of him and clears his throat awkwardly.
"This is gonna hurt."
The statement seems odd to Pavel, because he's come in complaining of headaches before – he's been getting them since he was a little boy; McCoy knows this, it's in his medical file – and the shots never been particularly painful before.
It isn't any more painful this time than it's been the last hundred times he's gotten the shot injected into his neck, so Pavel shoots the doctor a confused look and then turns to leave, stopped by a sudden hand on his shoulder.
"Hm?"
The Russian spins back to face the doctor, an eyebrow arched and about to ask what he needs before a pair of warm lips descend on his, and his words are lost.
The doctor? Kissing him? What? Why?
Pavel's fight-or-flight reaction seems to have failed him, because all he can do is stand frozen, eyes wide as they stare into bright blue.
The doctor pulls back after a few seconds, and whispers, breathing warm air onto Pavel's face that Pavel's blinks against slowly.
"Happy birthday."