Time for a bit more light-heartedness!
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Disclaimer: I own nothing Star Trek except Cynthia Riley.
{May 2264}
"Do I have to?" Chekov asks for the third time in ten minutes.
"Come on, we agreed." Sulu pushes him up the stairs.
"But I don't want to-" Chekov half-whines.
"What are you, fifteen? You agreed to this."
"You tricked me into coming!"
"I handed you the phone and the card and you dialed out of your own free will. I didn't trick you into anything."
Chekov huffs before walking through the glass swinging doors. Sulu follows right behind him, cup of coffee in his left hand and suit jacket draped over his right shoulder. "Come on," he says when Chekov turns to give him one last pleading look. "I'm going to be late for work if you don't get yourself in that room-"
"You really could have left this morning and let me come on my own, you know."
"We both know that you wouldn't have shown up if I had done that."
Chekov is about to retort when a woman's voice slices through their conversation. "Good morning!"
Both men turn to look at her as she pops up from behind the front desk. "I take it you must be Pavel Chekov?" she chirps, dusting herself off. "Hi. Cynthia Riley."
"You're the therapist?" Sulu blurts before biting his tongue. Chekov darts him a quick look before looking back to the woman, who's currently dusting down her Hawaiian shirt and jeans.
"Well, yeah," Cynthia Riley says, tone slightly affronted. "What, a woman can't be a therapist anymore? Did you even see the card, or was this a drunk dial? I get all those all the time, you know, can't be too careful-"
"That's not what he meant," Chekov jumps in, coming to Sulu's defense as Sulu's mouth opens and closes in futility. "Sorry. I think he meant that you don't look like a therapist." He waves vaguely at her. "It's a little…"
"Casual? Yeah, that's the point." Cynthia hops over the desk in one smooth motion, landing on her feet. "I don't like it when it's too formal, you know? Makes me feel like I'm giving my clients a test or something. It's a conversation, something that the Psychiatric Medical Board doesn't approve of apparently-" She sticks her hand out to Sulu. "Hi, Cynthia Riley. Have I already introduced myself?"
"Yeah," Sulu says, and the look on his face would make Chekov laugh if he wasn't already so exhausted from Cynthia's boundless energy. "Hikaru Sulu."
"Are you coming in for therapy, too? Because that whole outfit just screams issues, you know, we could tackle that one at a time, three step course-"
"I'm actually – late for work." Sulu forces a tight smile on his face.
"Where do you work?" Cynthia asks, tone interested. Chekov makes the connection as to why Scotty seems so taken with this woman.
God, he really hoped he wasn't going to be stuck with them in a room anytime soon – he suspects that he might actually lose his marbles if that happened.
"Just down the road. Friend of mine got me an accounting job."
"You're an accountant?" Cynthia asks. "Sorry, you just don't look like one."
"Pilot by trade – but I had a degree in accounting before I joined Starfleet." Sulu checks his watch. "Wow, I'm really late. Pavel, you gonna be okay?"
No, Chekov thinks about saying, but he bites his tongue. Instead, he says, "Yeah, sure, see you at home."
Sulu nods but shoots Chekov a sympathetic smile when Cynthia isn't looking. He knows what Chekov really means. "Right. See you then. Good to meet you, Ms. Riley."
"Miss," Cynthia chortles. "Just call me Cynthia-"
But the door shuts behind Sulu with a resounding slam.
"Boy, wouldn't I like to work on him," Cynthia comments, watching Sulu stride off.
"He's not usually like that," Chekov says, feeling obliged to defend his best friend.
"Like what? Uptight?"
"Uh… sure." Chekov follows Cynthia into a spacious room. The bay windows are open, letting in sounds from the street behind the building. "Nice office."
"Thanks! I renovated it myself! You should have seen it when I first got here, complete dump-" Cynthia turns around to see Chekov standing awkwardly by the wall, hands jammed into his jeans pocket. "What do you think this is, the Queen's apartment? Sit. Make yourself at home, Pavel. Is it okay if I call you Pavel?"
"Uh-"
"Great," Cynthia carries on brightly. "So hey, how are you doing?"
"Uh-"
"Coffee? Tea? Cookies? They're chocolate chip." Cynthia shoves a plate at Chekov.
"Um-" Chekov takes one, wondering what would happen if he actually refused Cynthia's offer. He figures it wouldn't be anything good.
"They're good aren't they?" Cynthia probes, watching Chekov hesitantly nibble on one.
"They're not bad," Chekov says as truthfully as he can without spitting out his cookie.
"Huh." Cynthia watches him, and she's wearing an expression that vaguely reminds Chekov of the first time he'd ever failed a test.
"They're a little hard," Chekov tries to offer.
"Oh, ugh, I know, right?" Cynthia puts the plate aside. "Scotty gave me this recipe, said it was a family recipe. I'm not sure if he gave me a recipe for rocks or for cookies."
Chekov decides not to tell her that the problem with the cookies isn't the texture, it's the taste – it tastes like sandpaper. He surreptitiously drops the cookie in the trash can when Cynthia's not looking. "You've known Scotty for a long time?" he asks, trying to change the subject.
"Since we were wee kids! Back when he had hair." Cynthia laughs uproariously at her own joke and Chekov shrinks a little into his chair. "Ah, Scotty. Is he still gallivanting around the world?"
"Just the US," Chekov says, "no idea where he is now."
"That's Scotty for you – always off in the wind somewhere, and then he pops up when you least expect him to." Cynthia pulls up her legs so that she's cross-legged in her chair. "How do you know Scotty? He didn't say when he told me that you might call."
"We worked on the same ship together," Chekov says.
"In Starfleet?"
"Yeah." Chekov watches the dust particles filter through the sunlight.
"Tell me more about Starfleet," Cynthia says. "I always tried to apply for a job there, but they turned me down – said I wasn't qualified."
Chekov almost makes a comment, but bites his tongue just in time. "What a shame," he says lamely.
"Right!?" Cynthia pushes her glasses up on her nose. "Load of bureaucrats, that organization. But hey, you must like it there!"
"I did." Chekov can't bring himself to look at her.
"So – you and Scotty worked together. What was that like?"
"Like working with a live wire," Chekov says honestly.
"Really?" Cynthia's tone is interested. "Tell me about that. What stupid things did he do?"
"Well-" Chekov hesitates.
"Don't worry," Cynthia grins. "Anything you say here is confidential. Doctor-patient confidentiality and all that. Scotty won't ever know where all the blackmail is coming from."
"Uh-"
"I mean, you don't have to tell me, of course," Cynthia says brightly, taking a bite out of a cookie before choking. "Christ, that's awful. What did I do wrong this time?"
"I think you might have forgotten the vanilla extract," Chekov says, thankful to have escaped from the tentacles of a subject he still doesn't want to talk about. Ghosts are ghosts, and for some reason, he still wants to hold on to his.
"Damn, I think you're right." Cynthia scowls at her cookie. "What a waste. Do you cook, Pavel?"
"Only a little bit. I bake a lot."
"You'll have to teach me sometime! I'm rubbish at cooking. It'll be your payment for the therapy."
"What?"
"Yeah, it's free." Cynthia shrugs. "I just don't see why I should be paid for sitting here and listening to you, you know? It's another thing the Psychiatric Medical Board doesn't like about me."
"Is this even licensed?" Chekov asks.
"Ehhhhhh," Cynthia hedges. "As a matter of speaking, yes."
Chekov gapes at her.
"But anyway," Cynthia chirps, "back to you and Scotty. Tell me all the juicy details. I heard that he once beamed a dog into outer space?"
I do love Cynthia dearly.
Much love,
ohlookrandom
