Chekov's world the last few weeks has been overcome with noise. A trembling cacophony of motion. Running through mile-a-minute orders in a tongue still susceptible to nervous mistakes, his consonants never quite perfect, reeling out commands to those under his authority, asking for a respect he hasn't yet had time to earn. His hands skimming buttons while his ears are overwhelmed by the hysterical siren of the malfunction warning, sparks skittering across the floor like the snapped fragments of fireworks, oil and soot and scratches on his knuckles and the smoke a wreath encircling his covered eyes. There are small marks dotted up his arm, silvered points of healing burns haloed in a corona of reddened flesh, while wires and the innards of machines are draped over his fingers. There is a map in his head which he follows diligently; a step-by-step recollection of all the lessons Scotty taught him muttered under his breath as he works a craft he's only just becoming a master in. The red shirt does not feel comfortable quite yet, but at least it fits.
Chekov thinks of the choir of screaming as the ship lurched down and they all rolled with it, of the hull breach, the metal cracked with heat and pressure, and the people scattered like pollen into a lifeless void, the friends he lost to the firepower of the Vengeance. He thinks of hands grasping hands, the icy sweat smeared across his forehead, gripping harder with a pitch-perfect panic, thinking that he will lose his hold on the Captain and Scotty and that they would both drop like anchors, his fear mimicking the groan and whine of the listing ship.
He tries not to think about the multitude of ways they could have all died that day, the corpse of the Enterprise floating listless on the edge of Qo'noS airspace with her warp core leaving her dead in the water, carrion for the crows of salvage ships, or else a shattered hulk trailing in Earth's orbit, her steel skin gouged out by gunfire, the flash-point scars of explosions blackening the gutters of her hull, the life support sputtering out along with the last feeble garrison of lights.
He tries not to think about how much he could have lost that day.
He's submerged himself in the clamour of the aftermath instead. Repairing and rerouting, directing and assisting, and he's never felt more in command and less in control but he does not let his voice falter. Scotty's working on the mess that is the ship's structural integrity, and he's still technically Chief Engineer, and so eyes look to him with questions and he delivers everything the world wants of him, rummaging through the rubble for answers, organising shifts and breaks, grouping engineering teams according to the strengths he's quietly catalogued over the last few days. He places what needs to be prioritised in an order, and tries to supervise where-ever he can, making sure his teams aren't overwhelmed while making his own schedule admittedly ruthless. He replants uprooted wires and stitches the mainframe back together by increments, working a labour of determined love on the ship he calls home so she can fly again, his mind lost in the patterns of circuitry and transporter physics, focused on over the aches and demands of his skin, dragging his half-functioning body from cat-naps still dressed in a colour not his own, the red made ashen by dirt and smoke and looking as exhausted as he feels.
Night washes in on the fifth day, and he feels a calloused hand on his shoulder.
"I think we deserve this, Mr Chekov," comes the low brogue, made almost a hum by tiredness.
"Synthehol?" Chekov replies, drifting out of the numbness in which he's been orbiting, and takes the cool glass offered to him in his filthy palm.
"Ach, bugger that," Scotty smirks, and Chekov's grateful for his easy camaraderie. "We're way beyond th' fake stuff now."
Chekov constructs a smile with more effort than it should take, and leaves the repair he's been working on. Together, the two of them drag out boxes to serve as chairs, clearing a path of hallowed ground out of the grave of mechanical formations, the skeletons of computers and the organs of wiring and chips and circuit boards, making the engineering deck seem more charnel house than work space.
Still, they sit, the only ones who haven't yet gone home, and drink to forget and to find their voices again, their sentences stilted and jerky, learning how not to be at war again. They drink the first couple of measures Scotty pours out with a carelessness that comes with survival, the giddiness and disbelief of being alive, but as the silence thickens and eddies over tired limbs and pallid skin, their bodies drained by the effort of not crumbling, their sense of urgency erodes, mellowed by the whiskey and the lull of sound.
Chekov doesn't notice Scotty taking his leave of him briefly, nursing his drink with a solemn quiet, lost to the billowing of smoke and the eruptions of sparks, the thud-thud of photon torpedoes impacting to the rhythm of his rabbit-heartbeat.
"Here, lad. Get y'self out a' that thing. It's more dishcloth than shirt from wher' 'am standin'."
Chekov looks up, and takes the spare shirt Scotty is holding out for him, a grateful smile on his face that feels a little more human than before. He divests himself of the tattered red over-shirt, slipping its gold replacement on, straightening the fabric through habit, tugging creases out of his sleeves. Although it's a little too big for him, it's a homecoming nonetheless.
"I zhink red always looked better on you anyvay," he says as Scotty eases himself back down, stretching out his body and wincing as his neck cracks, "Engineering is your realm, not mine."
"I hear ye did a fine job, Pavel. I always said ye would didn't I?" Scotty gives him a toast with his glass. "I wouldn't have left the Lady in any other hands." The engineer gives another smile and raises his glass to the ship, his movements looser with alcohol. "She's still flyin', anyway, and long may she do so. And so may we, for tha' matter."
Chekov joins his toast, chinking their glasses together, feeling a buzz of pride in himself and in his team born from hard-earned praise. The engineer grows silent for a few moments, gulping a mouthful of whiskey, and Chekov can guess that for the moment, he is somewhere other than the engineering deck.
When he shakes himself free and refocuses, Scotty fixes him with a gaze commandeered by shadows, by could-have-beens.
"I owe you my life, Mr Chekov. I won't forget it."
"It vas nothing…" Chekov starts awkwardly, but Scotty waves a hand.
"I know, I know, you don't like a fuss. But I am grateful. I thought I was a goner, so…thank you. I hope one day I can repay you in kind if such a moment presents itself." He chuckles wryly into his glass. "Ours isn't exactly the quiet life, is it, lad?"
Chekov shakes his head, not quite sure what to say. In his mind, he hears himself shout 'I've got you!', his body straining with the effort of holding up both Kirk and Scotty, his shouting more confident than he had felt. His arms still ache from the weight, and even know, he's not quite sure where he found the strength to keep them both from falling.
He has had bad dreams about losing his grip the last few nights, cataloguing the shift in their expressions from desperation to disappointed terror as they drop, and he imagines from the sweep of ingrained weariness under the engineer's eyes that Scotty's been having the same.
They change the subject with a mutual effort, and as the night erodes on, they talk under the ribs of a half-constructed scaffold, their words slow and passive, soaking up the silences between their sentences, savouring the act of breathing. They slip in and out of the surf of half formed conversations about the Enterprise and about the repairs, discussing modifications and upgrades they could make with an undemanding zeal, scattering ideas about like marbles. They touch on the recent events briefly and deliberately vaguely. Chekov didn't see the lifeless cast of the Captain like Scotty did, didn't watch a man die from behind glass unable to do anything to prevent the inevitable, but he saw Commander Spock's face as the Vulcan stalked to the transporter pad, twisted with savagery and fury, his motions promising murder, and he never wants to see such an expression on the Commander's face again.
"I hear the Keptin is up and about already?"
"Oh aye. Like a bloody spring that one." Scotty drains the last few mouthfuls from the bottom of his glass. "I think he's drivin' the good doctor to distraction wi' his insistence on movin' about after only just wakin' up, but I cannae say I blame him. Feel bloody useless half the time, to tell ye the truth, what wi' all this official malarkey, reports and such. I just want it ta' end so we can set off again." He glances at Chekov with a sombre expression. "Men like us, Pav, we weren't made for all this. We're explorers, not soldiers, no matter what that bloody nutter Marcus thought."
Chekov nods, knowing how he feels. They're both on solid ground, but they're unsteady and unfocused here, back on Earth and away from the sky, wishing for the comforting lift of becoming airborne again. Chekov wants his familiar position at the helm, aiming at the curve of the horizon, the shadows on the bow of the ship hollowed by starlight and the hum of the engines beneath him. Flying out of orbit, leaving this place and all its ghosts.
Scotty stands up, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Come on, let's get ourselves outta here, and get some shut-eye. Ma bed's calling, and I've no intention of ignoring such a beautiful request."
Chekov takes his advice, his body growing heavier as the hours progress, his head filled with smoke and a desire for sleep and warm arms. He follows the engineer out, down ladders and exits until they're on the paved ground of the construction yard, the sky outside stained with a black smear devoid of stars. Most of the crew who don't live in the immediate vicinity have been set up in temporary lodgings while repairs are on-going, and they share the short walk down to the hotel, a brisk wind against their faces, cool without being freezing.
Flashing their key cards at the access point by the door to gain entry, they bypass the lift, neither of them minding walking a bit more, tramping up to the fourth floor buoyed by light conversation. They agree to meet up tomorrow and look over the diagnostics of the power conduits with the flow distributor, see if they can't iron out all the kinks in the central mainframe by the time Chekov gets moved back to his regular helm duties.
They say their goodnights on the fourth floor stairwell, and Chekov makes his way up the last two floors alone, turning down onto a well-lit corridor until he reaches his own room, swiping his key card to unlock the door.
He tiptoes in without flicking on the main light, and sure enough, sees through the gloom the rise of the duvet, the covers hoarded over to one side as per usual, the sound of a heavy breathing weighted by exhaustion. Chekov smiles fondly, and in the near-dark, takes off his shoes, placing them neatly by the door, and strips down to his boxers as quietly as he is able, folding his uniform with a practised ease and setting the pile down onto a nearby chair. He sees a gathered heap by his feet that he soon makes out as being a second uniform, thrown haphazardly over the chair earlier and which must have slithered down onto the floor, and these he picks up with equal care and folds in a separate pile ready for the morning.
He washes his face and teeth quickly, rolling the cramped muscles of his shoulders and rubbing at the tightness he feels taut along his neck, wishing longingly for a long hot shower, promising himself the compensation of one in the morning as he flicks off the lights, rechecking the door is locked before padding across the carpet to bed.
The mattress dips and creaks as he slides himself under the duvet. The heat immediately rolls up around him, a caress of warmth that is soon followed by a caress of skin as the lump under the duvet shifts and stirs, stretching out an arm that draws him into a loose hold. Chekov lets himself be held, his body pliant, the tension drifting away like clouds which have been shielding the stars. He's been propping up his walls for long, focused on everyone else but himself, that it's a welcome relief to let them fall.
"Pavel?"
"Hey, 'Karu," Chekov says softly, the name unravelling out of him with an unbidden smile, "Sorry I voke you."
"Don't worry, I was only dozing. Only just got back myself," Sulu's voice is a grumble breaking gently against his skin. "Long day?"
"Da. Glad to be back," Chekov replies, then smirks when Sulu shuffles up against him. "Didn't fancy your own room, huh?"
"Thought I'd invade yours." Sulu sounds entirely apologetic.
"Typical," Chekov teases. "To think, I'm going to have to put up vith this for five years after ve set off."
"Hmm," Sulu murmurs a response into his neck. "Such a hardship. Don't you how you'll cope." Warm arms wrap around Chekov's stomach in the dark, fingers trailing against his ribs, and Sulu leans in and over to press a kiss into the curve of his jaw, missing his lips in the low light, adjusting to trial a tingling path down his throat instead. Chekov hums his approval before redirecting the helmsman's aim to his original target, kissing him softly and leisurely before burrowing into the other man's side.
"You smell like whiskey," Sulu says, his voice thick with sleep.
"I had a couple of drinks vith Scotty."
"Traitor. I'm warming your bed while you're sharing drinks with another man."
"Vell, his impulse thrusters vould definitely put you to shame. And I'd take his dilithium chambers over yours any day."
"I should have known. I just can't compete with his warp drive."
Chekov chuckles and presses a kiss to Sulu's throat.
"I missed you," he murmurs fondly.
"Likewise," comes Sulu's reply, rubbing a hand across the bare expanse of Chekov's stomach. "Feels like I've barely seen you for weeks. You went and ditched me for your engineering buddies."
"Orders are orders," Chekov says, although he knows Sulu is only jokingly serious. "Anyvay, you had Lieutenant Osman to keep you company. She always knows the best stories when we're on graveyard shift together."
"Greta's wonderful, don't get me wrong," Sulu shifts in an effort to get comfortable, tucking himself up against Chekov, enclosing his skin with the comforting weight of his body, "She's just not you."
He shifts again, and for a moment, there is a dark untranslatable quiet, before he admits in a low voice. "I worried, when you were down in Engineering. That dreadnought was giving us a pounding, and I… I didn't… I couldn't know if you were ok."
Chekov reaches down and threads their fingers together. Sulu's hands are dry and softer than his own skin, calloused and woven with scratches and rough patches.
"You zhink I did not worry about you?" he whispers quietly. The fears he will not voice aloud linger at the base of his throat, huddled along with a dark imagining of the future he cannot swallow.
"Ah, but the difference is that I'm invincible."
"Modest as alvays," Chekov says affectionately, but he feels Sulu grasp his hand tightly nonetheless, tracing over the cuts and scratches etched into his skin, the silvered raised bumps of small burns scuttled up the flesh of his wrists. In the morning, he knows that the sunlight will overlap with the bruises he cannot see on Sulu's skin, exposing them to daylight, and he will trace them with his fingertips while Sulu still dozes, reacquainting himself through tentative touches with the terrain of the other man's skin, pressing reverent kisses to each small battle-wound because each means that Sulu is here, damaged as they all are but still breathing in his arms when there was so much possibility that he might not have been.
Sulu falls back asleep quickly, still tucked up against Chekov's side like there is no gap between their bodies, a union of skin on skin in the heat of the night.
Chekov rests another kiss, another caress on the altar of Sulu's skin, murmuring a goodnight that is almost swallowed by the only sound there is, the low breeze of air as their chests rise and fall like tide, regular as heartbeat.