Chekov had left his bed linens twisted in an unkempt, tangled mess. It was against his nature, and he'd purposefully created the jumble so that McCoy would believe the Navigator had only gone in search of a bathroom if he awoke before the younger man's return. With a quick glance at the still sleeping Doctor, Chekov made the bed now and took a moment to straighten his clothing. The distinct advantage to wearing a uniform was that no one would be able to tell that he hadn't changed.
Fresh morning air now filled the small room, the gentle breeze wafting through the paneless window opening cut into the outer wooden wall. Sunshine edged its way tentatively around the shutters that were closed against the light's intrusion. Chekov moved over and gingerly let his fingers touch the brilliant colors painted on the rough hewn wood. The wild pattern of primary colors was familiar as everything here seemed to be.
He pushed the shutters open and back against the house then, letting their beauty touch the world outside. On the rough sill rested a solitary apple. Its crisp skin shone in the morning sun with an inviting, welcoming gleam.
Chekov picked up the fruit, the cool surface tingling against his skin. He quickly swallowed the sudden onrush of saliva that filled his mouth. The Navigator didn't remember apples ever having been so inviting: so outright irresistible. Of course, he couldn't remember the last time he'd actually held a real apple. Life aboard a starship had its disadvantages.
Chekov leaned back against the window's edge and held up the ripe fruit, twisting and turning it so that his eyes could watch the light play on its brilliant surface. Several things occurred to Chekov at once then.
It was illegal in Russia to eat an apple before the Apple Harvest Festival. Such an ancient and ridiculous law was virtually unknown to most of the population now, of course but it was probably still on the books.
The traditional people Chekov grew up among paid little heed to the legality of it either. To them eating an apple before the Harvest Festival was a taboo that none of them would dream of breaking. Their cultural taboos had kept their communities in balance with the spirits and world around them for centuries and they enforced them with the iron might of the entire population. Even now, the Navigator wouldn't eat an apple during Earth's spring and early summer months.
Chekov knew full well when the Apple Harvest Festival was in Russia–it was two days after his birthday: August eighteenth. He had no idea what today's date on this planet was–or even if the Apple Harvest Festival was celebrated on the same date.
Was this a test to see if he was really Russian? Was this a trap to give the local population an excuse to attack–even eliminate–the Enterprise landing party? He raised the apple to eye level, his jaw hardening as he stared at it.
Then again, there was only one apple. Maybe it had been left for McCoy, a 23rd century man who had no notion of such silly laws and traditions.
Chekov bit into the fruit fiercely: the loud, crisp snap as satisfying as the notion that he was purposely breaking tradition and ignoring the spirits. He hoped they knew it. Chekov took another huge bite. The sound woke up the Doctor and the Navigator chewed shamefacedly, wiping the escaping saliva from his mouth as the older man sat up.
McCoy gathered the blankets around his legs sleepily. "Where'd you get that?" Ordinarily, there would have been a irritated edge to his tone, but he was not awake enough to affect the emotion.
"Just laying around," Chekov mumbled through another mouthful. "You told me to eat more."
"There's not enough food in the known galaxy," the Doctor mumbled ill-humoredly as he stretched his cramped shoulders. "Your appetite is fine. It's your metabolism that's high," he admitted.
"So do you have a plan to slow my metabolism?" the Navigator asked with mild curiosity.
"Yes," McCoy pronounced. "I'm going to do the sensible thing and wait until you're thirty. It'll slow down naturally. By the time you're forty you'll be fat like your father probably is."
Chekov stared blankly and politely at the Doctor, chewing silently.
McCoy's face soured in understanding. "Please don't tell me how thin your father is: and do tell me there's indoor plumbing in this house."
The Navigator grinned happily and gave him directions. By the time the Doctor had returned, Chekov had thrown the core out the window and was eagerly sucking the sweet remnants off his sticky fingers.
"That's disgusting, Ensign."
"When was the last time you had fresh fruit?" he replied amiably with a shrug.
McCoy's steel blue eyes bore into him. "There doesn't seem to be a shortage of it here."
"Than you'll have to get used to my bad manners, Sir."
"Are you two planning to spend all day in bed?" Kirk asked, leaning his head into the room.
"Absolutely not," the Doctor rasped. "Breakfast smells delicious. And who knows," he added with a piercing glance at the Navigator. "They may have fresh fruit."
"We have a great deal of work ahead of us today," the Captain reminded him. "We'd better get going."