Colonel Kharitonov arrived at the SGC, complete with a small entourage, and George Hammond took an immediate dislike to the man. The personally enigmatic Chekov would look him in the eye and tell him very firmly 'Nyet', while the jovial Kharitonov reminded Hammond of a snake. Sly, crafty, charming and quite willing to bite you when you least anticipated it. They exchanged pleasantries and then after the Russians's departure, George did a quick count to ensure that Kharitonov had left him all ten fingers and toes.

It was only after George sat at this desk did he realize that his Cross pen had disappeared.

He was rummaging through his office in a futile attempt to locate the Air Force Blue pen that HIS daughters have given him when he made his first star, when Siler interrupted him.

"Sir, the Russians Colonels are brawling in Conference Room Bravo. Major Carter has security heading there, but she suggested I get you."

At last count, there were at least three Russian Colonels in the base, (though they seemed to multiplying faster than a group of fornicating Soviet Chinchilla Rabbits) so really Hammond couldn't be blamed for asking which Russian Colonels were brawling.

Well, besides, Kharitonov.


"What happened?" Hammond asked as he and Siler jogged towards the Conference Room.

"Don't know exactly. Harriman has pulled the tapes from the conference room and he's trying to separate the voices. SG4 faced the wall and they began singing "The Cossack Rides over the Dunai" loudly and very off key. Plus the three tallest members deliberately positioned themselves to block the cameras. From the little Russian I know… Kharitonov made a very rude comment, Volkov went ballistic and Chekov attempted to separate them. Punches started getting thrown then and Carter wanted you notified immediately."

"What did he say?" Hammond asked.

"Ask if Chekov was enjoying rolling on his belly for you? It was a bit cruder than that, actually."

Sometimes, Hammond wished he was still that sparky young Lt. Hammond. Not only did he have a full head of hair then, he could probably punch Kharitonov without risking an international incident. Sometimes being a General, was a general pain in the ass.

However, he would admit only to himself that he hoped Chekov landed at least one punch on the slighter Kharitonov. It would akin to a heavyweight boxer taking on a bantam weight, and he had the feeling that Chekov was a barroom brawler.


Dima went for Kharitonov's throat after Kharitonov made disparaging comment about Chekov being Hammond's resident in house fucker. The conversation went steadily downhill from there as it seemed that Kharitonov's sponsors believed that Chekov was just giving up everything to the Americans. The nuclear codes, the Krelim, the Hermitage (Never!) and his ass. Oh God no! Not that he had anything against that type of relationship, but the widowed Hammond simply wasn't his type.

Really, brawling was such an American way of handling things, so he was glad that SG4 took the initiative to face the wall and miss what was about to unfurl. However, he could really have done without them loudly bellowing "The Cossack Rides over the Danube" as only Beliova could carry a tube in a bucket with handles. As much as it pained Chekov to admit, Olga did not inherit her father's musical ability. Why were they singing a Ukrainian song about death, anyway? There had to be at least one happy Russian Folk song that they could sing loudly and offkey in Russian? Da?

Cossack ride for the Danube
He said: "My Sweetheart, good bye!"
Riding the horse,
And go forward."

"Gentleman," he stated as he stupidly decided to stand between two of them in the hopes of preventing the situation from escalating. It was the only word he managed to voice as Kkaritonov's punch hit him dead center under his chin.

"Wait, wait, Cossack,
your girlfriend is crying,
How can you leave her,
Just think about it."

There were stars. A great many stars, a galaxy worth of stars, over the banks of the Danube River, and he saw his Irishka shaking her head at his sheer stupidity.

Maybe, maybe it's better not to leave,
Maybe, maybe it's better not to love,
Maybe, maybe it's better not to know each other
And now, and now is time to forget each other.

"My death has made you stupid, Mishka," she tartly informed him. "Or you trying to impress Zhanna with how hard your head is? Perhaps flowers would work better, no?"

"Irishka, I still love you. I think of you every day. Do you believe me?" he pleaded.

Her face soften into the smile that made him fall in love with her.

"I love you too."


"Code Red 2 Conference Room Bravo. Code Red 2 Conference Room Bravo," Harriman announced even as Hammond and Siler arrived on Level 27. The code was reserved for a rapid medical response to on base incident which meant that one (if not more) of the battling Russian colonels was in need of medical assistance.

As he entered the room, he heard Colonel Volkov yelling at Chekov, "How many fingers am I holding up?"

A sitting Chekov was intently focusing on Volkov's right hand, on which three fingers were raised. The Colonel appeared confused as he slowly counted and then recounted.

"Dima? I did not realized that you had such a case of polydactylism."

"How many fingers?" Volkov repeated.

"Nineteen," Chekov stated in true amazement. "You have more arms than Nataraja! They didn't do surgery for that?"

Christ, Chekov was seeing at least double, if not quadruple if he was comparing Volkov to the Indian Lord of the Dance. Great, Hammond thought. It was a big box of paperwork that will have to be submitted to General Jumper type day. Please don't let it escalate to command performance in front of Jump.

"Misha, my brother. It's time for you to return back to Medical," Volkov informed Chekov. Volkov gestured and Chekov was assisted to his feet by two very large Rusian SG4 team members.

"Must I?" Chekov's whine was plaintive. "Can I just not return to my quarters? A cup of tea would make everything so much better. Just don't tell Fraiser."

"Do not worry, Dr. Fraiser will take good care of you," Volkov assured him.

"She'll try to kill me," Chekov slurred. "She wishes me dead. Quite dead. Her dislike for me is obvious. She is a friend of O'Neill. He hates me, wishes me dead. He sent me a fruit basket that had a kiwi in it. He knew I was allergic to it. She must have told him."

"Nonsense. That's your scrambled brain talking, Misha. She is our angel of mercy," Volkov cheerily assured a disbelieving Chekov. "Ah, I see the medical team is here to take care of Colonel Kharitonov. It is a shame that he tripped and knocked himself out cold."

Oh yes, Hammond had quite forgotten about Kharitonov, who was slumped, unresponsive, in a corner. It seemed that everyone had overlooked Kharitonov also, as SG4 hovered by Chekov.

Hammond glared at Volkov, and then barked, "Do you think this is my first rodeo?"

"I do not know how a cowboy rodeo corresponds to this. Perhaps you would be so kind as to explain it to me after I take care of Chekov. Lt. Beliova will tell you everything that happened," Volkov assured him. "Chekov needs to return back to medical. The excitement over seeing his good friend Kharitonov has rescrambled his brains, I am afraid."

Volkov smiled, a bright wide smile.

"Colonel Chekov, can you confirm that Colonel Kharitonov tripped?" Hammond asked.

"I'm afraid that I have amnesia. I have no idea," Chekov dryly admitted. While normally someone staring over his head would convince Hammond that the speaker was lying, Chekov seemed dazed. And he kept mentioning KIWIS.

RUSSIANS!

Life was bad enough having one O'Neill. Now the Russians were trying to out O'Neill O'NEILL.

"Lieutenant, did the Colonel truly trip?" He narrowed his glare at the young Russian.

"Yes! Colonel Chekov tried to prevent him from falling but he ended up reinjuring himself. Also, General? Is this your pen?" Beliova asked, as she oh so helpfully pointed out an Air Force Blue Cross pen that was on the table.

Ok, he'd agree that Kharitonov tripped.


Fraiser was stunned into speechlessness when she realized that Chekov had returned back to Medical Bay… not under his own power, but instead being supported by Lt. Kravchenko. Then her normal non-flappable nature returned when she quickly assessed the fact that Chekov was a patient.

"Keep the Colonel upright for a moment, please," she stated. "Can you tell me what happened? Tell me what happened, none of what you're telling Hammond, don't give me that… отстой – I need the truth. Though from the bruise on his chin, I think he was brawling."

"She speaks Russian?" Krachenko commented to Volkov. Naturally in Russian.

"Yes, she does," Janet snapped even as she grabbed a large bore needle and some meds. With a rather vindictive smile, (though for a sound medical reason as she knew she'd have to send Chekov for a cat scan and she didn't trust that he'd stay on the damn table the way he was acting) she jabbed Chekov in his gluteus maximus through his uniform pants. To her disappointment, he didn't vocalize any discomfort after being dosed with valium.

Petty, but sometimes a girl just had to do what a girl had to do.

"Bed two. Colonel Volkov, what happened?"

"He tried to separate Kharitonov and myself. Karitonov punched him rather hard and he's been a bit confused since then."

Wonderful.

"Ok, we'll need a set of facial xrays plus c-spine. Tell them to fire up the cat scan also," Janet informed her staff.


Kharitonov was packed up and shipped out before the day was out. The official reason was that he was recalled for additional instructions. Whatever the reason, everyone was quite delighted to see him leave, including Hammond who confirmed that he had both his Cross pen and pencil set before the Colonel left the base.

It mattered not to Janet. She was focused on her patient and she had suspected, Chekov had re-aggravated his concussion plus had added a case of whiplash.

Fortunately, he was now able to answer important issues correctly and in English, unlike several days earlier.

During their physician-patient interactions, Colonel Chekov returned to being the picture perfect, stolid Russian. Gone were the comical asides, the dry quips, the deliberately pointed finger of doom and the crooked, self-deprecating smile. Instead, he was back to the Russian Bear who had first arrived at the mountain. Polite, quiet, reticent but with the 100% chance of thunder and lightning if provoked.

Well in his defense, he was now restricted to Med Bay as he couldn't be trusted in his quarters, had no shoes and his clothing considered of two hospital gowns (front and back) that barely concealed the essentials (his boxers) and his nanny bracelet which would inform Janet if he misbehaved.

"How's your pain?" She asked on one of her daily rounds. Janet disapprovingly noticed that he had refused pain medications each time he had been asked.

"It's manageable, Doctor."

"The pain medication will do you no good if you don't take it," she protested.

"I'd prefer to have my wits intact."

"Can you please sit up and turn towards me?" was her next question.

Chekov did so, and she noticed that he grimaced when he pivoted. Plus, he touched his right temple briefly. This was new, as normally he was more concerned about covering his essentials with his blanket.

"Headache?" she prompted.

"Yes," was the soft confession. "Very bad."

Thanks to her finely tuned Spidey Sense, she realized that Chekov was about to hurl. She wouldn't get points for gracefulness, but the wastepaper basket got there just in time. He threw up his breakfast, his toenails, his left kidney, what might have been a left over part of the Stargate, and then the nonstop dry heaving started.

Janet snapped orders for various medications and her nurses quickly responded.

"I'd like to lie down, please," he finally whispered once he stopped power puking. "I feel… dizzy. It's very bright in here."

Her staff helped adjust him back into the bed, and once he was reclining back in his bed, he closed his eyes. He was in a great deal of pain as he didn't try to cover himself. Not that he was displaying anything but he was always one for propriety.

"Colonel, I'm starting an IV in your left hand. I want to give you some medication for your migraine." Plus something for pain, his insomnia and his nausea. It would be a potent little cocktail that would knock the good Colonel on his ass and hopefully put him into a deep restorative sleep.

"I want to go home," he mumbled in Russia. "Christ, I just want to go home. Am I doomed to be stuck in America until I die?"

Chekov must be in a great deal of pain if he had forgotten that she knew enough Russian to understand him.

"I won't medically clear you to fly until your headache free for a week. For the last five days, you told me that you were headache free. Have you been lying about your headaches?" Janet questioned even though she knew damn well what the answer was. If Chekov was stupid enough to deny having head splitting migraines, well, she'd not believe him. She was also quite proud that she didn't remind him that if he had only behaved in the first forty eight hours or so after the accident, including his efforts to 'prevent Kharitonov from falling after he tripped'. Oh, yes, and Janet had a bridge in Moscow she wished to sell you. Cheap! IF he had BEHAVED, He would probably not be experiencing such a rebound. IV successfully placed in first attempt (You Go, Janet!), the medications were quickly on board.

"How long have you had this migraine?" she asked.

"Shortly after dinner last night. I didn't really eat."

Mentally, she charted his dietary intake (crediting the Russian delicacies Nadezhda Volkova had been sending in via her husband, subtracting what Chekov hadn't eaten from the trays he had been brought), realized that Chekov had been surviving on sips of botvinia soup for the last…. four… days… Damn it.

"You didn't tell anyone? That's earning you another cat scan, Colonel," she snapped.

As she anticipated, the highly dosed Chekov didn't protest. No, he appeared though he had downed an entire pitcherful of the SG4 Soviet Slammers plus a chaser of Volkov's newest and highly potent drinks, The Czarist Cosmo and the Moscow Martini. His breathing slowed and she motioned for her staff to leave the room.

She then found what she was looking for on the cart, one of those 'Why Didn't I think of That?' items that probably had the inventor reclining on a beach with a cold drink. Yes, a toothette, or what looked like a sponge on a stick. "Open your mouth," she instructed. "Don't worry I'm not trying to choke you, but I don't want you drinking anything until your stomach settles. This should get the taste out of your mouth."

Slight head nod was his response, so she quickly swabbed his mouth.

Mission completed, she washed his face with a damp cloth to 'freshen' him up. He didn't comment, so he was probably close to sleeping.

She took another set of vitals, checked the flow of the IV and then adjusted the rate as she decided to piggy back more medications into the IV. It took her maybe twenty minutes, and Chekov slept through it. She took his left hand in her hands, just to double check that the IV was patent, that it hadn't infiltrated and several other logical medical reasons.

It wasn't to reassure herself about the irascible Russian.

No. Or should she say 'Nyet!'

Not at all.

Though she was concerned about the severity of his headache.

"If you would actually get better long enough for a serious conversation, we would have one. I wasn't angry that you mentioned your wife, Mishka. I was angry at myself because…I was drunk… I moved too fast for you… a thousand other reasons that I'm embarrassed. Because I ruined something before I even knew exactly what it was," she confessed. "I didn't know what you wanted, as you weren't very forthcoming. Hell, you don't even bother to tell me when you're in the country or you're leaving."

Her confession voiced, she released his hand.

Well, she attempted to do so, but instead Chekov squeezed her hand.

"Zhannochka, you're not angry with me?" he whispered. "That is … good. Very good to know."

"Well not about that," she admitted.

He grimaced a smile.

"Wasn't sure what was happening either," was his soft confession. "It was … enjoyable… to have a friendly face here among all those that distrust me."

"I think after this little heroic stunt of yours, people around here might be a little friendlier. I see O'Neill dropped off another fruit basket."

"God help me, as there's more Kiwi in the damn basket," he whined. "Give it to Jonas Quinn. He never stops eating. One day his metabolism will stall. May I but live to see that auspicious day."

Janet Fraiser made a very unladylike snort.

"That's my little cranky Mishka bear. Now, get some sleep, Mishka." She leaned over and kissed him on his good cheek.

"That's it?" he tiredly objected. "I nearly die, saving the lives of many, and you kiss me like an uncle?"

"I'll be required to transfer your care to Brightman after this," she informed him. Her flippant response confused him, but she decided she liked him being confused for once.

She gently pried his hand away from hers, much to Chekov's disappointment. Then, deliberately, she walked over the door and locked it. That completed, to give them a semblance of privacy (though she prayed no one was looking at the camera footage from the room), she returned back to Chekov. She sat on his bed, and then leaned over to carefully kiss him on the mouth.

It was slow, hesitant and sweetly awkward. But as kisses went, it was … good… with a very distinctive chance for toe curling awesomeness in the future.

Plus it was significantly easier for her to kiss him when he wasn't looming over her. (The mere ten inches or so difference made it difficult for her to aim for his mouth.)

"There," she stated. "Any lingering doubts that you're my Uncle Vanya?"

"Some," he softly assured her. His eyes were glassy which meant he was feeling no pain whatsoever. "Perhaps you could reassure me again that we're not related."

The crooked smile was back, and Janet admitted that she had rather missed it.

"You're really flirtatious when you're completely wasted on pain meds. Perhaps one day, we'll have to try something different. Maybe, you know, try kissing sober. Maybe even go out on a date… maybe without Cassie?"

"You American women, so bold, so audacious."