Chekov hesitated long enough to brush his hand over the bulkhead, unlocking the door before striding into his cabin. He moved up to the desk and laid the clipboard he carried there: taking the time to mildly scold himself for leaving the lights on.
With a sigh, he rubbed his neck: twisting and stretching it in an effort to relieve the festering tension that burrowed there. Despite commendable and exhaustive work by the navigation team, both the ship's main and back-up navigation systems were found to be in perfect working order.
He knew the Chiefs of every section probably thought they had the department that was the most indispensable to the ship. He also knew the rest of them were wrong. After all, if Scotty had the engines running perfectly, if the Environmental Chief maintained perfect gravity and atmosphere, and if McCoy had every person in perfect health, Pavel Chekov knew none of it would matter if the navigation system was malfunctioning. A navigation error of just one degree meant the difference between a pleasant cruise and a spectacular collision.
What seemed to be a warped sight of the stars still haunted him. Damn it, he thought. Maybe it's a malfunction in the viewscreen system itself.
Chekov closed his eyes then and engaged in the sheer luxury of a full body stretch. He reached his hands high toward the ceiling, interlacing his fingers and bending backwards. What I really need, he thought, is a scalding hot water shower and a coma-like nap. He dropped his hands and reached likewise behind his waist.
He sighed when it occurred to him that the ship automatically turned off the lights in unoccupied areas.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded with irritation.
"Waiting for you to get off duty," came the child's self-satisfied reply.
Opening his eyes, he dropped his arms and moved up to the room divider, tentatively peering around into the bedroom.
The boy was lying propped against pillows on the bed, his knees bent up. The book that had recently eased Chekov's mind was resting on his upturned thighs. He looked up and met the Navigator's gaze cheerfully.
"Privyet," he remarked pleasantly.
"Hello," the man purposely responded in English. "I wasn't expecting you to show up here."
"Is that so?" Dimitri asked in feigned amazement, imitating Chekov's accent perfectly--as though he'd been practicing. His wide brown eyes rolled with great melodrama over the contents of the bedroom. When they shifted back to rest on Chekov, their dark depths sparkled devilishly. "You have quite an artistic collection of picture hooks on your walls. I must say, it's very attractive."
"Yes, well, I was looking for something original," the Navigator answered quickly. He had admittedly taken the preemptive strike of removing all photos and personal items normally scattered about his cabin. Shoving his arms across his chest, he moved around the divider and leaned his hip against it.
"You even emptied your safe," the child commented with a note of respect. "Despite what you said, you're clever enough so that I couldn't find where you hid any of it."
The child's search for his personal possessions brushed by his mind, barely touching conscious thought. He had obviously prepared for the possibility and had thought nothing the child could do would surprise him, but he was wrong. Chekov stood up straight instantly. "Safe? How did you get into my safe?" he demanded. How the child could have managed this particular feat alarmed him. "How did you get into my safe?" he asked again.
Dimitri flattened his legs on the bed and fixed the older man with a ludicrous stare. "The same way I got into your cabin and checked your duty schedule in the computer. I have your security codes," the boy reminded him. "Or didn't that occur to you? You're an officer, there are very few things I can't do on this ship."
"You can't use my security codes!" the Navigator gasped in horror, flinging out his arms as though the embarrassing gesture demonstrated the point.
Long, curled, lashes blinked several times over the boy's large brown eyes. "Apparently, I can."
Good God, Chekov thought with horror: a sudden, now familiar, paralyzing cold gripping him. It confounded him that no matter what he did, the child still managed to be several steps ahead. He stood away from the divider, heart racing as he swallowed with difficulty.
"You can't do that," he asserted, the quiet words coming from low in his throat. "There are reasons for the security codes."
Chekov's book discarded, the boy pulled his knees up against his chest again and wrapped his arms tightly about his legs. In the dark depthless eyes an omnipotence grew and turned utterly, unapologetically malevolent. The child smiled wantonly then and the brilliance of the wild grin raced into his demonic eyes.
"Yes, I can use your security codes," he told Chekov triumphantly, "And there's nothing you can do to stop me."
The Navigator stilled then, straightening with ramrod stiffness. Neither the malevolence, nor the artful way the boy revealed it were a surprise to him. He had just never actually faced it before. The child allowed him to see it freely now in a confident declaration of his unqualified victory.
Dimitri frightened him at a basic level, Chekov realized as he stood there silently staring at the child. His stealthy dark eyes now betrayed his almost instinctive appraisal of people he met, and he had a quickly calculating mind that--even at eight--allowed him to use that information for his own purposes. With charisma, charm and puppy dog eyes, Dimitri had firm control of the world around him. Even so, the boy had made a fatal error, and he of all people should have known it. No one told Pavel Chekov that he couldn't do something. No one.
"Stay right there," the Navigator ordered. "Don't' move."
"You're not afraid to take chances, are you?" the boy taunted lightly with amusement as Chekov disappeared into the bathroom.
The Chief Navigator knew he wasn't taking a chance. Russian children were spoiled, but they weren't brats. They obeyed. When he returned, the boy had scooted to the end of the bed and hung his feet over the edge.
"Do you need to see the Doctor?" the boy asked lightly, swinging his feet easily. "You were forever in that bathroom."
Chekov paused at the end of the bed. "I wasn't using the bathroom," he intoned, clasping his hands behind his back. "I was next door using Sulu's intercom."
The feet stopped swinging. Dimitri made no comment, but the Chief Navigator knew the boy instantly understood he'd miscalculated dramatically somehow. Chekov answered the obvious question which the boy failed to ask.
"We're not going to worry about security codes or what you're getting yourself into," he disclosed in an ominous whisper, his own eyes dark now. "Because from now on I'm always going to be with you--by your side--until you leave this ship."
Chekov saw the child's back stiffen and the boy sat there, regarding the man hovering in front of him thoughtfully. "You have to report for your duty shifts," he finally observed carefully.
The Navigator smiled wickedly: it was not a kind smile and it's light didn't reach his eyes. The boy bent a knee up and dug his foot into the bed when he saw a familiar malevolence in the man's gaze.
"Ah, but you ARE my duty shifts, Dimitri," Chekov explained, his grin becoming wild. "Assigning a command officer to babysitting detail would be unacceptable, but when I contacted Mr. Spock to arrange time off to chaperone you, the Captain converted my volunteering to a permanent duty assignment." He laughed wickedly in sheer enjoyment and triumph. "I'm even getting extra pay because it'll require more time than normal duty shifts."
The boy quietly grasped his up-turned leg with both hands, averting his eyes. "The Captain must be glad that someone's going to be keeping me out of his way," he murmured dejectedly.
Chekov nodded, the wildly crooked grin shining in his eyes. "I swear I made the man weep!" he gushed, but then hesitated suddenly. The tone in the child's words edged to the very base of his brain stem. Smile fading, the Navigator turned his gaze down to purposefully catch the deeply somber brown eyes of the child. It was not defeat he saw in their molten depths.
"Damn it all to hell!" the man exploded. "I can't believe I walked right into that! With my eyes wide open, no less! I can't believe I fell for it!" he repeated in exasperation.
"Neither can I," Dimitri laughed wickedly, eyes shining as his feet swung happily again. "I honestly didn't think it had any chance of working on you, of all people."
The Chief Navigator sat down on the end of the bed next to Dimitri, dumbfounded. Somehow he had gone from refusing to speak to the child to being his constant companion. He knew it wasn't something he'd planned.
"Am I going to sleep here, too?" the boy asked absently.
Chekov shook his head without looking at the child. "I believe the Captain intended for me to keep you busy while…" he stopped the effort to talk, knowing why he asked, and sighed. "You have a double cabin with your grandfather, he'll expect you to be there."
"He didn't notice I wasn't there last night," Dimitri observed absently.
Chekov forced himself to look over at the child then. His face had become gray, all color and texture of human skin having disappeared under a sheen of granite. With a rock-hard jaw and balled fists, and body so stiff it trembled, the illusion the child had become statuary was complete.
The man wondered briefly what corner the child had curled up in to pass his first night on the Enterprise.
"He only notices me when he wants something from me, Pavel."
Chekov's eyes remained fixed on the child. It wasn't something he could debate. "It's what's right," he finally replied, not liking the sound of the words he knew were required. "You have been taught that you have responsibilities to others you cannot avoid just because they're unpleasant."
"Of course. I know that," the boy spat out with irritation at the implication that he might have failed his upbringing. "I do what is expected of me: I even do what my Grandfather expects of me," he spat out self-righteously, clearly indignant at being accused of doing otherwise. "But he doesn't care where I sleep."
Dimitri lapsed into tense silence then. "My Grandfather doesn't love me," he declared fiercely after a moment. "To him I'm just a toy he can play with when it's useful. Look at the stupid clothes he dresses me up in!" he charged darkly, slapping his thigh in illustration.
Scrutinizing the boy in thought, Chekov shrugged. Dimitri was dressed in a Navy uniform: white cotton trimmed with a blue collar and cuffs, a Donald Duck hat on his head. White silk stockings and low black leather boots completed the outfit. "You are in the Navy," he commented.
The boy scowled and threw the hat like a Frisbee. "This outfit makes strange women grab me violently in ways that violate my person. I'm sure I already have intimate knowledge of more women on this ship than you do!" he announced haughtily. "Their uniforms leave little to the imagination when your face is being buried in them."
"The sailor suit does accentuate the 'cute' factor," Chekov agreed soberly, while flatly considering the poor boy was just too young to appreciate the attention it garnered. "But what about that peasant outfit yesterday?"
"Yes," Dimitri agreed eagerly. "Serfs always went around dressed in silk shirts: that's why none of them could afford shoes!"
"Historical accuracy is not always…"
"There's a Cossack uniform in my luggage," the child growled at him knowingly.
Chekov let out a deep sigh of resignation, nodding. "He does tend to treat you…"
"Like a wind-up doll," the child repeated fiercely. "How do I keep letting myself be fooled into thinking he wants anything else from me? When I was told about dining at the Captain's table today I actually let myself think…" Dimitri stopped, dark eyes smoldering. "He treats me like I'm a trained bear in the Moscow Circus!" he concluded sullenly.
"I heard," Chekov growled low in his throat, accent thick. "The entire ship has heard about your brilliant performance."
"It wasn't my idea," Dimitri reminded him. He straightened his back angrily. "You know I couldn't say no to my grandfather's demands."
The Navigator glanced over at the boy sharply, eyes narrowing as he was struck by Dimitri's menacing countenance. No matter what the social constraints, people found ways to adapt the world to fit their needs--especially willful ones. His heart sank heavily as he remembered that there was more than one way to exact revenge. "What did you sing?" he demanded.
The boy twisted his fingers into the fabric of is pants, staring at them, and his mumbled response was unintelligible.
"What did you sing?" Chekov persisted.
"'Tomorrow', okay?" he spat out.
Chekov gasped in horror. "From 'Annie'?"
"Dedushka deserved it," Dimitri retorted with great assuredness. "He's lucky I didn't sing a thirty-seven verse sea shanty."
"Well, now," the Navigator drawled elaborately, rolling his own wide chocolate brown eyes. "That would have brought up the question of how you know some thirty of those verses."
"Sailors don't spend their free time talking about much else but women. Just because I'm not capable of the activities yet doesn't mean I don't know about them," the boy said haughtily.
"Bully for you," Chekov commented drolly.
He could see the still festering frustration in the sallow color of Dimitri's skin.
"Why doesn't Dedushka love me?" he asked quietly. "I can make anyone like me," he reported fiercely, proudly.
"You haven't met any Klingons yet," Chekov observed adroitly.
"He's my grandfather," the child retorted. "He's supposed to love me." Pain rushed in torrents through the deep, dark depths of the child's wide, soulful eyes: but it was Chekov who blinked back the tears. The Navigator swallowed with difficulty as he gently touched his fingers to the boy's cheek.
"Love doesn't work that way, Dimitri," he said softly. "And you might try to remember everything isn't about you. Give him time," he advised, brushing his whole hand along the boy's cheek before dropping it.
Such words of recrimination from a child had no place in their culture, such childhood feelings had no acceptable outlet. It was not that Russian children felt any different about certain adults than other human children the world over. They were simply taught to show respect regarding to their elders no matter how they felt, no matter to whom they spoke. Only a remarkable twist in the turning of the universe had brought Dimitri to this unheard of place. Here existed a place where it was safe to spew out all the words that could not be said. Here at last was the singular man in all of existence to whom he could admit the thoughts and feelings consuming him.
Chekov mulled it over while the boy continued talking, his words flowing past without registering. It didn't matter--he knew what Dimitri was saying. He had heard the words a thousand times over in his own mind. Still, he could hear the undercurrent of relief flowing in the passion of the boy's voice as the words came gushing out: and he understood it with his whole heart. When the child finally exhausted himself, they sat in silence with both pair of eyes warm liquid brown whirlpools.
"Have you told your father how being with your grandfather makes you feel?" he finally asked.
Dimitri glanced at him sharply in alarm, eyes widening. "No!" he blurted out breathlessly. "You know I can't do that!"
Nodding silently, the Navigator sighed after a moment. "What do you tell your father about your trips with your grandfather when you return home?"
"Just the new things I saw and did," the boy responded in a subdued tone.
Eyes still fixed forward at a distant point, Chekov pulled in a corner of his lip and chewed on it thoughtfully. He shrugged then. "I suppose he doesn't suspect you're holding any information back from him."
The child's fingers kneaded their way into the top of his pants and he stared down at them sullenly. Guilt and shame washed over his face, consuming his features. Of course Dimitri's father could see in the boy's eyes that there was something the child was not telling him. Any traditional Russian could have seen such a thing, but the boy and his father were extremely close.
"You're close to your father," Chekov observed aloud. "I would wonder what he might think you feel you have to hide from him?"
This brought the child's head up quickly and he eyed the Navigator suspiciously with dangerously dark eyes.
"What could he think?" Chekov shrugged again. "Just that you agree with what your grandfather is saying about him."
With a sharp intake of breath, the child's brown eyes grew wide. "I would NEVER...! I don't let him talk about Papa...or anyone!"
But indeed, what else could the man be imagining the previously open child was hiding from him? What else could be causing the profound sadness to creep across his father's dark eyes? He had known, as parents do, that his son would drift away. But to begin losing the child's faith in him so early...
"I can't tell him," the child maintained desperately. "He's the one that brought me to Dedushka to get the educational help I need to join the Fleet."
"Yes, I suppose you can't get help from your grandfather without spending torturous weeks with him, or without going on these trips."
Dimitri blinked quickly several times, pulling the corner of his lower lip between his teeth to chew on it. He pushed his fingers deep into the folds of fabric on his thighs and sat in silence then: his averted eyes staring at some distant point on the floor.
Chekov knew exactly the raging frustration the child was battling and felt somewhat ashamed that he had caused it. He was startled, in fact, at how easy it had been to bring the child to this point: how second nature twisting words into useful tools was.
As a child Chekov remembered how many times he, himself, had wanted to jump up and down: screaming a demand to be beaten or ordered and pushed about like some animal. It was not the way of his people, however, and could never be the way of his father. Controlled in early life with suffocating rigidity, Andrie Chekov found it repulsive to guide with anything more than thought-provoking questions and observations.
At twenty-two, it could still frustrate Chekov to tears when he just wanted a simple opinion from the older man.
"Do you think your father would knowingly put you in the hands of anyone who makes you feel like your grandfather does? If he knew, he would stop it. The Admiral can still set up classes for you even if you're not visiting with him."
Brow furrowing, Dimitri chewed tentatively on the edge of his lip a moment, which made him look both pitiful and vulnerable. Wide, depthless eyes stared at his balled hands. "I want a ship of my own," he intoned softly without looking up.
The Navigator almost burst out laughing. He knew the child could have recited with clear reasoning that this selfish desire was not an acceptable reason to let himself continue to grow distant from his father, and nothing excused torturing the man with suspicions of the sinister nature of Leonov's words.
"You tell your grandfather that you don't want to do any more 'bonding' and he'll be so racked with guilt at the relief he feels, he'll give you anything you want," Chekov said, blunt for the first time. "Especially if you happen to remind him of the five years he has to make up for."
Long eyelashes fluttered and the boy gazed up at him through their curls. A devilish smile spread over his face then, wicked in its utterly pleased happiness. He giggled.
"See," Chekov commented self-righteously, "Now maybe you'll think twice about who you choose to torture."
The Navigator's statement caused the smile to fade instantly off the child's face. Guilt traced visibly over his features and his dark eyes fell to his hands again. He began fidgeting with his pants again, twisting his fingers into the white cloth. "I was angry at Dedushka," Dimitri admitted. "I wanted to make him pay."
Chekov heard the undercurrent of shame in the child's tone, which did not surprise him in the least. The boy was old enough to know another being shouldn't be treated with such patent disrespect, even if they didn't realize the affront. The Navigator's eyes shifted over to the boy's hands and watched as the fingers carefully kneaded the fabric beneath them. He went cold again as he noted Dimitri's gray pallor, brilliant eyes, stiff jaw, tight lips and quick breathing. The largely unseen fingers had knotted the fabric of his pants.
"What piano piece did you choose?" he asked quickly, but he knew without any doubt. "Mozart?" he offered with little hope.
"I hate Mozart," the child responded and dropped backward on the bed. He shoved his hands behind his head. "He was a brat."
"A sonata? A concerto?" the Navigator prompted.
"A piece from a symphony," was the distant answer as Dimitri stared at the ceiling.
"The Shostakovich Seventh?" Chekov demanded knowingly then: the raging, pounding music he referred to filling his chest and mind even as he suggested it.
"Yes, perhaps the Nazi's were defeated again."
"Show me your hands!"
Uncharacteristically, the boy simply lay there silently, staring at the ceiling.
"Show me your hands!" Chekov ordered again impatiently, thrusting out his own, palm up.
The child sighed heavily and sat up, showing no effort to ward off his eventual defeat in the issue. He laid his fingers on top of the Navigator's hand resolutely.
"All the angels and saints!" the man gasped in horror. "The good Lord put nails on human hands for a reason, Dimitri!"
"You can't play the piano with nails," the boy reminded him. "Or work a sailing ship."
"You need to leave at least enough nail to protect your nail bed," Chekov insisted, snarling as he stroked the blood-caked fingers he held. "Stop pulling them off, you've got them down past the quick. Look at your calluses," he continued. "Your hands don't even have human skin on them any more."
"Look at your hands," the boy retorted indignantly. "My mother's aren't even that soft. What do you do all day?"
"I sit on my arse and stare at the stars," the Navigator answered haughtily. "And I'm happy to do so.
"You'd be surprised how little friction the navigation panels offer. You'll get an infection," he chided.
"I'll just go in the bathroom and wash them," Dimitri said heavily, jerking his hands away from the older man. "They'll be fine."
"There are already scabs forming on your fingertips. Left like this your hands won't be useful for weeks. I'll bring you to see Dr. McCoy and he'll take care of it."
The child growled low in his throat. "I don't need to see any Doctor." His words were accompanied by an incongruous sound.
Chekov's eyes narrowed and he studied Dimitri's still and respectful face, his steady and averted wide eyes. The Navigator sighed thoughtfully and brushed his already perfect hair into place with a hand. "Did you eat lunch with the Captain and your grandfather?"
Dimitri pulled his lower lip in between his teeth again. "They had synthetic food," he answered. "I don't like synthetic food. I'd rather eat my mother's cooking."
"Believe me, you wouldn't," Chekov muttered to himself. "Have you eaten anything since you came aboard?" he added louder. "When was the last time you ate?"
"Do they have any real food on board?" Dimitri questioned suddenly, without offering an answer.
"They serve real food for every meal," Chekov replied. "And there's always snacks available: you just have to go to where they serve it. Or send your Yeoman to get it for you," he said, flashing a charming, crooked smile. "If you happen to be an officer. It's the replicators that only have synthetic food, but they are everywhere.
"Tell you what," he continued. "I'll have my Yeoman bring some of your favorite food to my office and we'll stop at sickbay on the way there."
The boy smirked conspiratorially as the Navigator got up from the bed. "And will you find me some normal clothes?" he asked.
Rolling his eyes with a melodramatic sigh, Chekov nodded. "Normal clothes."
The boy scampered off the bed and went to put his rough hand into Chekov's, but the man pulled it away.
"Your beskozyrka," he reminded him, pointing at the discarded hat.
Dimitri retrieved it with a growl and reseated it on his head. "You know it's the hat that makes women hug the life out of me. Perhaps you should wear one."
"Not on your life."
Chekov strolled through the ship's corridors: the boy's small, yet long, elegant and blood-caked, fingers in his. He found himself trying to become lost in the solitary world of his own thoughts: trying not to be drawn into child controlled territory. It didn't work. It never worked.
Immersed completely in his own world, Dimitri was happily tapping patterns on the deck with his black leather shoes as they walked. Sometimes drifting behind the Navigator, sometimes pulling ahead: he even spun in glee, using the man's hand as a pivot. The boy's voice filled the air in absent-minded song as he danced along.
"In Plimouth town there lived a maid:
Bless you, young women.
In Plimouth town there lived a maid:
Now mind what I do say.
In Plimouth town there lived a maid,
And she was a mistress of the trade:
I'll go no more a rovin' with you fair maid.
"I took this fair maid for a walk…"
"Don't worry," Dimitri interrupted his singing. "I'm sure we'll get to Sickbay before I get to the interesting verses."
"I'm greatly reassured," Chekov answered drolly.
"Am I embarrassing you?"
"Why should I be embarrassed? You're the one making a fool out of yourself."
"You sound like my father," the boy observed.
"I'm not surprised," the man commented. "Don't dance on the bulkheads," he said suddenly as the boy tapped a rhythm on the wall. "You're marking them."
Dimitri's singing and dancing continued uninterrupted on the deck as they moved along. A thought drifted across his mind and a sinking feeling overtook Chekov the closer they got to the lift. Each tap of the boy's shoes caught at his chest like a knife blade. When the lift doors opened in front of them, the Navigator turned and stared at the corridor that stretched behind them.
The bulkheads and the decks on a starship were made of the same material. Stretching the length of the corridor was a long path of black streaks marking the path they had walked. "Your behavior caused that," he announced to the child as he pointed to the offending trail.
The boy sulked unhappily, knowingly. "Don't starships have maintenance staff?"
"They didn't make that mess. Do you think they have no other work to do? Who should be responsible for cleaning up after you?"
"I am responsible for the consequences of my own behavior," the boy recited, sighing heavily as he stepped into the lift with the Navigator. "I'll clean it. Unless maintenance gets to it before me," he quipped hopefully.
"Don't worry. I'll make sure they don't."
Scowling more deeply, Dimitri shook his head. "You're so…so…Russian."
Chekov grinned. "You have no idea."