Chekov isn't even supposed to be here. He's reminded of that every time he has to override and reset the entry code on his door because Headquarters didn't have a chance to finish integrating all of his security identification parameters into the ship's computer before they left Earth orbit. And when he finally gets the door to open, he's greeted with emptiness because even though the ship is bursting at the seams, no one has offered to share this sterile little cabin with him. If he actually slept there, it would be unbearable.
He's reminded of it when he enters the Mess and even when Kirk invites him to sit at his table everyone looks through him because they all have years of shared friendship and teamwork and rivalry behind them, and he's just the whiz kid with the weird accent from halfway across the world who got swept up in this tragedy because, as the mantra in his head says over and over again, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Most of all, he's reminded of it every time he sees the first officer and relives the moment in the transporter room when he hears the echo of that terrible scream and sees the split-second of horror on the Vulcan's face.
And now, the intense camaraderie that was forged in battle has begun to fade, and others are turning inward to grieve or seeking solace in long-standing relationships and Chekov feels like just another ghost walking among them. They are not exactly unkind to him, but although he feels their loss, he cannot quite understand it in the same way that they do, and they know this.
*********************
He has found that the far corner of the observation deck, tucked away around the curve of a bulkhead, is usually empty in the middle of the night. He has come to think of it as his, and feels almost as though the area, with its cozy chairs and soft shadows, welcomes him as an old friend.
So when he slips around the corner, he certainly doesn't expect to see the doctor sitting there, the one from the bridge, and his stomach twists as he hears again the disbelief and scorn that dripped from the man's voice (How old are you? Oh, great, Jim, did you hear that? He's seventeen). In the chair next to him, he can just make out the figure of a woman in science blues—he thinks he has seen her in sickbay—her head resting against the doctor's shoulder as she whispers something close to his ear, and when they notice him he averts his eyes before he blushes.
"Excuse me," he stammers, and takes a hasty step backward. "I—I'm sorry, sir. Sirs."
"It's all right, I was just leaving anyway. Been a long day." The woman rises gracefully and her hand lingers on the doctor's arm. "I'll see you in the morning." The two share a look that Pavel cannot quite decipher in the starlit dimness, but he shivers inwardly at the unmistakable intimacy in it.
"Have a good night, Ensign." She brushes past him and he's temporarily unable to breathe.
He hears a sigh and the muted clink of ice in an empty glass from the shadows. He waits, hopeful that the doctor will also rise to follow the woman, but he looks comfortable enough, slouched in the chair with his legs stretched out. He has just decided to return to the lab and try again later when the man speaks, and Chekov realizes with dismay that he has missed his opportunity.
"Well, I'd offer you a drink, but I don't think you're legal yet, even out here in the middle of nowhere." Although he cannot quite see him, the gravelly voice is the same, and so is the memory of the rush of emotion that followed in its wake.
"Yes, sir, you've pointed that out." He's surprised at the bitterness in his voice, and the tightening in his throat that makes him choke on his words. In the thick, heavy silence that follows he gives himself a mental smack to his head.
It has been apparent from the beginning of this mission that the doctor and the new acting captain are the closest of friends, from the easiness in the way they stand together and the glances they exchange that don't even need words. But this man, with his sharp eyes and sharper words, lacks Kirk's smooth smile and the natural charm that so quickly won him the confidence of the crew. Chekov had not been surprised when earlier, during a lull in activity on the bridge, Sulu—one of the few crewmembers who talks to him, but he tells himself it's probably only because they spend all day sitting next to each other—complained mightily under his breath about how the doctor nearly bit his head off this morning, right in front of the captain, over the malfunctioning coffee system. Chekov takes some meager comfort in knowing that the doctor is an equal-opportunity bully.
And now he's gone and poked the mamuschi with a pointy stick. Brilliant, Pavel.
"Sit down."
Govno. "I was just going, sir. Sorry to disturb—"
"That wasn't an invitation, kid." There is steel in his voice now. "Sit your ass down." Chekov obeys. The doctor reaches down for a bottle on the floor and he hears a gentle splash. The sweet odor of bourbon drifts to him, and he's thrown back to the smoke-filled rooms of his uncle's tavern, with the laughter and the warmth and the crisp bite of vodka, and a pang of homesickness nearly makes him gasp.
"Look, Chekov—it is Chekov, right? You're gonna learn real quick that if you want to serve under Jim Kirk, you can't get your panties in a wad every time someone looks at you sideways."
Although he is unfamiliar with this particular idiom, the meaning is clear enough, and his face burns. He stares stonily at the stars streaming past them.
"Yes, sir." His muscles tremble despite his best efforts, and he finds that he cannot control his breathing. It has become alarmingly harsh in this suffocating space that once seemed so friendly.
"You have permission to speak freely, in case you were wondering," the doctor says dryly.
Chekov turns to face him, and does not try to conceal the fury that sparks in his eyes . "Wery—very well, then, sir." He draws a deep, shaky breath. "You have made erroneous assumptions. I perhaps will not wish to return to space and continue to serve on this ship. And you have assumed that Kirk will be granted a command, in spite of the charges pending against him. Including unauthorized boarding of a starship." A violation with which you assisted. Although he resists the urge to speak the words aloud, they seem to hang in the air anyway.
The doctor gives him a inscrutable look and swirls the dark liquid in his glass, then follows Chekov's stare out the viewport. "All right. Fair enough," he replies after a long moment. "But let's just say I've learned never to underestimate Jim Kirk. And stop calling me sir," he adds. "Most people—with the exception of my ex-wife—call me Doctor or McCoy or both, but sir just makes me feel a little ridiculous."
The tension in the air loosens a bit and Chekov wills his hands to unclench. He returns his gaze to the never-ending stars and allows them to lull him away from here, away from this irritating man who won't stop yammering and just leave him in peace. His allows his thoughts to drift back to the tavern.
"So where do you want to go, if not back out there?" McCoy's question startles Chekov out of his reverie and he sits up at attention. The doctor gestures vaguely at the viewport.
"Home," he says promptly.
"Where's home?"
"Moscow."
"Oh, yeah. That's right." McCoy's eyes close. "The branch Academy over there recruited you straight from the Institute, didn't they? Top of your class in cartography and transporter theory, youngest cadet to win the marathon." He recites Chekov's record effortlessly, and the ensign wonders if he's memorized the histories of the entire crew, or if he should be worried that the doctor has singled him out for special attention.
McCoy opens his eyes and gives him a cocky grin, the first one he's seen from the man, and answers his unspoken question. "I make an effort to get to know all of the people I might be patching up someday. So then you're visiting sunny San Fran for a seminar in theoretical physics," he continues, "and next thing you know, here you are. Wrong place at the wrong time, hmm?"
Wrong place at the wrong time. Chekov can't help shooting McCoy a startled look. "Yes, something like that."
"Well, your record is impressive."
"Thank you, sir. I mean, Doctor," he says politely. "I have endeavored to excel."
"Yes, I imagine you have." His tone is bland, and as he rambles on Chekov begins to wonder if he will get away from here before the alpha shift comes around and he's expected on the bridge again.
"Well, I'd say you've succeeded. After what you pulled off no one on this ship questions your abilities, believe me." He takes a final pull from his glass, somewhat regretfully, and then studies it as he turns it idly in his hands. "You know, you could have your pick of starship assignments, but if you don't think you're cut out for this, if you really want to go back home, I'm sure they'll find something for you to do. Something to keep you busy."
"It's not like that. You don't understand. It's not like that at all." He is becoming impatient but is careful not to sound petulant, not with this one, even though he believes the doctor is attempting to provoke him. There are tests to re-run, simulations to re-program, recordings to review; he has really only come here for a brief respite, and he is trying but his fuzzy brain cannot summon up the protocol for terminating a discussion between a senior and junior officer and the prescribed punishment for violating that protocol. He wonders fleetingly if he can be demoted from an ensign.
"Then why don't you tell me. 'Cause they're gonna ask you the same thing when we get back, so you might as well figure it out now, before you're sitting in a debriefing with a dozen admirals breathing down your neck," the doctor drawls.
He shifts restlessly in the chair, wondering how he'd ever thought they were comfortable, and as his head dips into the glow from the recessed lighting, he shields his bloodshot eyes against it and curses. McCoy takes a sharp breath and sets his glass down with a thunk as he leans forward from the shadows.
"Good god, when's the last time you slept, son? You look like shit."
"I don't know, a day or two." He waves his hand dismissively, but McCoy won't let up.
"Well, which is it? A day, or two? Since the battle, even?" The doctor's eyes widen in alarm.
"Yes. Maybe...No." He sighs in resignation. There is no denying it, he tells himself, and besides, the doctor carries his little scanner everywhere, and he's sure it has an indicator for Lying to One's Superiors.
"Hell, Chekov, you're not the only one on the ship who can't sleep these days, but you can't go that long, not even when you're seventeen." He reaches for the bottle and the glass and stands up, all business now. "You're relieved of duty until you've had a solid six hours, Ensign. You can't be at tactical, or anywhere else for that matter, in this condition." He's peering around the chairs, looking for something. "How the fuck did nobody notice this...how the fuck did I not notice this?" he mutters to himself. "Ah, there it is. All right, come on, I'm walking you back to your quarters right now, and I will personally knock you out if I have to."
Chekov has no doubt that he will do just that, but he doesn't hear a threat in it, it's more like reassurance, and this is what gives him the crazy idea that he can reason with the man. He pulls himself up to his full height and fixes his most stubborn expression on his face, the one that used to make his tutors throw up their hands in despair.
"No, no, no, sir. I need only a few more hours. I am working on something very, very important, and I must return to the lab." He says this with as much authority as he can muster, but the doctor just shakes his head.
"Uh-uh. Whatever it is, it can wait. Now c'mon. That's an order." He tugs at Chekov's arm but the ensign jerks away, and the doctor's grasp must have been looser than he thought, because he stumbles and nearly knocks over the chair.
"No! It cannot wait!"
McCoy tilts his head and a careful look comes over his face. He puts the bottle and glass back down and holds up his hands. "All right, then. It's all right, Pavel. Why don't you tell me what's so important?"
The doctor's voice has become soothing, like a mama talking to a frightened child, and Chekov wonders how he could have ever thought that his eyes were cruel, but as the tears threaten again Chekov suspects that he is just humoring him, that he has only a moment before the man pulls out a hypo and then sticks him in one of those special rooms in the sickbay that he has heard about, the ones with windows that cannot be opaqued and no sharp edges.
"I am trying to fix it, what happened with the Wulcans--the Vulcans--with the transporter. I need to fix it, because I failed, and now I must make it right." He knows he sounds desperate, but apparently the doctor hears something else, too, because his brow furrows and he moves close enough to grab Chekov's chin. The ensign tries not to squirm when McCoy pins him with his stare.
"Chekov, listen to me very carefully, okay? Sleep deprivation messes with your brain. You are not thinking clearly right now. You can't fix what happened, and you cannot bring Amanda Grayson back. I promise, this will all make more sense after you've had a few hours of sleep."
He groans in frustration and tries without success to bat the doctor's hand away. "Doctor McCoy, please, I know that. Don't you think I know that? But I see Mr. Spock and..." he falters, "and I can't stop thinking about it, and how it shouldn't have happened. I was supposed to bring all of them back, no?" His words are all coming out in a rush now, tumbling together, and he can't stop them.
"So I have collected all of the data and I have been going over it again and again, trying to figure it out, because I've never failed like this before, and I need to know what I did wrong so it never happens again, so I never kill anyone again." He squeezes his eyes shut and thanks the gods that he can push back the tears, but he still has to cover his face as his breath hitches in the silence. McCoy rests his hand briefly on his shoulder and then gives him a little shake.
"Aw, hell, Chekov, what's wrong with you? You wouldn't let me get away with taking a cheap shot at you, so why are you talking to yourself that way? It's just gonna make you crazy." There's a weariness in it, and a gentleness, that Chekov doesn't expect, and it only makes it harder to stop the quivering in his voice.
"Do you deny that it was my fault?"
"Jesus," the doctor swears at the ceiling, then gives Chekov an exasperated look. "Yeah. Yeah, actually, I do. And if you asked the captain or even Spock or anyone else, they'd say the same thing. Sorry to shoot holes in the guilt you think you're entitled to, but this isn't some goddamn simulation, some test in a lab that you can beat if you can just figure out how it works."
Chekov opens his mouth to protest, but the doctor cuts him off with glare. "This is the real world, and it doesn't always play fair."
A medkit appears from nowhere, the one Chekov supposes he was looking for earlier, and McCoy focuses his attention there, rummaging through the contents. "I've felt four people die under my hands in the last three days." He falls silent, busying himself with pulling out vials and scowling at them before tossing them back, and when he continues, his tone is oddly muted. "I know as well as you do that when you're the best at what you do, it's hard to accept that some things are beyond your control. And that's the problem, learning to let go and accepting the randomness, the fact that for some reason we'll never quite understand, you and I survived, and so many others didn't.
"But for now," he adds, and the gruffness returns, "you can just work on getting through the next few days. Where are your quarters?" The frown has also returned and he turns the full force of it on the ensign as he snaps a vial into a hypo.
Chekov tries to back away. He's heard the rumors of McCoy chasing Kirk around the ship with hypos like a madman. "I really do not think that this is necessary, Doctor. I will go quietly with you—"
"Nope. Don't trust you. Not right now, anyway."
"—and I will go to sleep—"
"Shut up, kid."
"Okay, sir, but—"
"No, no, see, you're not listening. Really, I mean it. You can shut up now. Well," he amends, "after you tell me where your quarters are."
Chekov scrunches up his face and has to think for a second. "Um, not far, just down the main corridor and to the left—but, Doctor—"
"Good. 'Cause I might have to carry you there. Hold still, dammit."
"Ooowwww." Chekov yelps at the small stab against his neck. "That vas... unnecessarily rough, sir."
"Well, then, it's a good thing I'm a doctor, and not a football player, huh?"
As the room begins to blur around Chekov he thinks he hears the edges of McCoy's voice soften as well.
"Nighty-night, kid."
