IV.

A few hours, some tenuous explanation, a bit of unbridled disbelief, some downright incredulous stares, and a healthy amount of 'yes this worked the first time I tried it, Doctor, yes I was 17 at the time, yes that makes me only 19 now-why are you looking at me like that-no I'm not trying to send you to an early grave' later, Chekov thinks there might be a smidgen of hope to figuring this out.

And, all things considered, he thinks it all goes pretty smoothly. Well, right up until the black hole he completely forgot to mention that could potentially kill them all. It's not his fault boththisKirk and Spock also thought lighting up an inconceivable amount of red matter was a good exit strategy. Of course, that's no excuse for the possibility of imminent death via black hole having been just briefly glossed over until they're literally staring down the barrel of a black abyss, but Chekov thinks he deserves at least a little leniency.

In his defense, he does manage to pull one coherent thought out of the whirlwind of absolute chaos surrounding him. Better yet, he's able to voice it just as Scotty yells at Kirk over the comm.

"The core!" They both say in unison.

Kirk spares an exasperated, panic-stricken glance at Chekov as if to say, are you out of your goddamn mind?

Before Chekov has a chance to explain himself, Scotty beats him to the punch.

"If we eject the core and detonate, the blast could be enough to push us away! I cannae promise anything, though!"

Kirk glances up again, lingering just the amount of time it takes Chekov to furiously nod his ahead in approval.

"Do it!" The captain yells.

And suddenly, Chekov's clinging to the back of the captain's seat for dear life as they're rocketed out and away from the singularity's pull.

When they finally land amidst a land of lost space and stars, McCoy exhales loud enough for the entire bridge to hear.

"Christ, kid, that's the last time I ever underestimate you."

Captain Kirk looks over at him, a mix of incredulity and awe painted across his face.

"Well done," he says.

Chekov returns the approval with a small smile. He lets out a relieved sigh and glances around the bridge. Quite suddenly, he realizes most of the crew is staring directly at him. Most of their expressions are a mixture of confusion and surprise, though some, pointedly Lieutenant Uhura, look at him with eyes awash in pity. Ah, he thinks, surely someone looped her into his precarious situation. Chekov assumes that someone is most likely Commander Spock.

Chekov, blushing in embarrassment at the sudden onslaught of attention, turns his gaze to the aforementioned vulcan. He's also staring, though there is no confusion. Spock's expression is precise. Analytical. As though Chekov were an interesting specimen to be examined on a lab bench.

Chekov makes eye contact with this other Spock, the latter's eyebrow quirking in a painfully familiar way when he finds the young ensign staring back. The commander simply nods: approving of his actions to save the ship, Chekov assumes. But there's something else in Spock's eyes that Chekov cannot read. He suddenly feels like he's under a microscope; his every move picked apart and recorded for later analysis. He looks around for an exit strategy and, praise be a doctor's intuition, McCoy nods his head toward the bridge entrance, a subtle command to follow.

Chekov accepts the order happily and hastily makes his way towards the doctor, not unaware of the many pairs of eyes that follow him as he goes. He ducks his head as if the action itself will shield him from the curious gazes. Once the doors shut, Chekov sighs.

"Long day," McCoy comments. Chekov nods in agreement.

There's an awkward pause, McCoy crossing his arms in contemplation.

Chekov runs a restless hand through his hair. Unspoken words, so many unanswered questions, hang in the air. Years of unshared memories float between Chekov and this McCoy, and a pang echoes in his heart.

The silence stretches.

"You're probably tired," McCoy finally says, arms dropping to his sides. "Why don't you go take a rest down in medbay? I'll have someone check on you in a bit."

Chekov is suddenly reminded of his previous injury, and his hand instinctively goes to the back of his head. The throbbing has lessened, but the bruised flesh still stings when even lightly touched.

"Alright," he says, a bit lost for a response. He doesn't necessarily want to be in medbay right now, but where else would he go? This is not his ship. This is not his home. He has no right to wander aimlessly about, even if he very well knows this vessel like the back of his hand.

The same lost feeling follows him as he makes his way to medbay. It follows him as he tries and fails to sleep. It follows him as McCoy checks in a few hours later to tell him they've found some temporary quarters he can use until they get back to Earth. It follows him as he's led to a room on the upper decks and into a room a bit smaller than his own back home.

He stares pointedly at the furniture's arrangement: it's completely different than what he usually has and it only serves to remind him more just how lost he really is. The lost feeling continues to follow as Chekov finds himself self-confined to his own temporary quarters; not quite keen on staying, but not quite sure where he would go in the meantime.

McCoy checks up on him every now again, but less once a few days pass and Chekov is cleared of any lingering head trauma. Chekov spends most of his time planning. He writes down everything he knows about time travel, the multi-verse, and inter-dimensional travel postulations. He theorizes endlessly, furtively planning to find a way home.

He's in the midst of one such hypothesizing session when Captain Kirk pays him a visit. They're due back on Earth early the next morning. Kirk shifts on his feet in the doorway, clearly not quite comfortable with the idea of Chekov's…well…his whole existence, Chekov assumes. He can't relate to this Kirk; these crew members. He's never met someone who has intimate knowledge, intimate memories, of his life. Memories he himself has no recollection of.

"So…I talked to Admiral Pike, and he'd like to speak with you personally when we dock back on Earth," Kirk says.

Chekov perks up at that.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, wanted to discuss your situation. Ask some questions, get a better read on this whole…thing, I guess," Kirk punctuates the end of his sentence with a flippant handwave, unsure of how to properly describe their current predicament. Mistaking Chekov's silence for hesitation, Kirk seeks to reassure.

"Don't worry, he's a good guy-"

"I know," Chekov says before he can even think about what he's saying.

Kirk starts, surprised, and ducks his head. He rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably.

"Right," he says, and Chekov blushes in embarrassment for both himself and the captain.

There's a long, pregnant pause filled with the tensest silence Chekov thinks he's ever experienced.

"Well, I've got to go," Kirk says, looking eager to be absolutely anywhere else. "Lot of prep before we reach Earth tomorrow."

Chekov nods and the other-Kirk turns to leave.

"I'll see you around, yeah?" The man pauses mid-step. Chekov gives him a timid smile.

"Okay," he replies. Kirk nods and Chekov watches as he disappears around a corner at the end of the hall. The door slides shut and Chekov is surrounded by silence once again. He doesn't bother taking off any clothing as he crawls into bed completely exhausted. He pulls the covers all the way up to his chin, cocooning himself within the thick blanket in the hopes that perhaps, when he emerges, he will be home. He lays there, fantasy unfulfilled, until his eyelids begin to droop.

Chekov finally drifts off into a dreamless sleep filled with echoes of distant voices and intangible memories.

~0~

The next morning, Chekov takes a train directly from the shuttle yard the ship has docked in to the city. It's barely dawn when he departs; a sliver of hazy orange peaking over the flat horizon. By the time he's reached downtown San Francisco, the sun is bright and full. A light layer of morning fog clears as he makes his way to Starfleet Academy.

The campus is familiar enough. He knows his way around and isn't worried he'll get lost.

He seamlessly weaves through hordes of young students and faculty, muscle memory carrying him toward the administration building.

The impressive steel tower would seem intimidating if Chekov hadn't so often been here to study. There's a small faculty area near the entrance to the building that's rarely occupied. Tired of the overwhelming population of the library and the unignorable chatter of the academy dorms, Chekov would seek refuge in the small haven of seclusion.

No one usually paid him any mind; and if they even gave him so much as a passing glance, they assumed he was an intern or assistant. It was his own personal hideaway during his time at the academy, and a fond smile graces his lips as he passes it on the way to the elevator.

Chekov thumbs the button that will take him to the 18th floor. He sighs, wondering what he'll even say to Admiral Pike. His thoughts are quite suddenly interrupted when an arm slips in between the quickly closing elevator doors.

"Mind another passenger?"

"Doctor McCoy!" Chekov beams. "What are you doing here?"

McCoy huffs as the elevator doors slide closed. He leans against the back wall, arms crossed and looking quite put out at being reminded why he's here.

"Academy had a temporary substitute position open for the Advanced Mammalian Physiology lecture. Reached out to see if I wanted the spot. I figured it'll be a few months before we get back into orbit, so why not? Until I find out they've, ahem, updated the course to include multiple alien species and that I'll have a co-lecturer."

"Is it really that bad?"

McCoy laughs.

"Would be a relief if it weren't the one alien I'd rather not spend the next three months getting to know on an intimately personal level."

Chekov knows that across any universe, there's only one alien the cantankerous doctor is referring to.

"They asked Commander Spock," he says, a small smirk on his lips.

"Didn't even consult me first!" McCoy says. Chekov giggles.

"Oh, this is funny to you?" McCoy narrows his eyes, though evidence of the playful smile he bares lessens the intensity of the glare.

"Maybe just a little," Chekov confesses. McCoy chuffs at him.

"I take it that your Spock and McCoy get along just as peachy?"

Chekov laughs again, though it's not as light as before. Any mention of his family back home has managed to tug on his already frayed heartstrings consistently since arriving back on Earth.

"You two actually get along pretty well these days. Well, unless you're treating him. Then he's a-"

Chekov cuts himself off, almost choking on the words that nearly spilled out his mouth.

"A what?" McCoy prods.

Cheeks heating in embarrassment, Chekov can only mumble.

"You say he's an…unagreeable, oversized elf with a superiority complex the size of his gigantic ears." Chekov rubs the back of his neck, not feeling comfortable having doled out that insult.

McCoy breaks out into a fit of barking laughter. It's all Chekov can do to try and ultimately fail to retain his own amusement.

"Oh god," McCoy breathes, catching his breath and wiping a tear from his eye, "I'm going to have to use that one soon."

Chekov's eyes grow the size of the aforementioned elf ears.

"Please don't tell him you heard it from me!"

"Nonsense, you deserve credit for this wonderful gift you've so graciously bestowed upon me."

Chekov groans.

The doctor playfully slaps him on the shoulder. "Don't worry kid," he reassures, "can't imagine you could piss off Spock any more than Jim can. In fact, I actually overheard ol' elf ears himself going on about how impressive your plan to hide behind Saturn's rings was."

"Really?" Chekov asks, heat rising in his face once again; though he's certainly not uncomfortable with the prospect of Spock having complimented anything he's done.

"Yeah," McCoy continues. "Saw him talking with his mom about it before disembarking back at base."

Chekov winces, the small, proud smirk gracing his features dropping instantly.

"Oh…that-that was kind of him."

The abrupt change of tension doesn't go unnoticed.

"Something on your mind, kid?"

"No, no. I'm fine," Chekov quickly reassures the man, suddenly desperate for some way out of the conversation. Luck blesses him as they reach the 18th floor.

"This is my stop," he says, almost launching himself out of the elevator. He only gets about two feet before McCoy is calling out to him.

"Hey, a couple of us are getting lunch tomorrow in the city. Some retro burger joint Jim is a fan of. You're welcome to join us if you'd like."

Chekov pauses, contemplating the offer. He's not entirely sure how comfortable he is interacting so closely with these versions of his friends. It feels wrong that he has memories they've never shared. But, he supposes, he has no one else to really talk to, so perhaps some light conversation with this crew wouldn't hurt.

"Sure," Chekov says with a smile. "I'd like that."

McCoy smiles back.

"It's on the corner of 4th and Main. Right near the Academy library."

Chekov knows that area well. Nodding, he bids McCoy a quick farewell before turning on his heel towards Admiral Pike's office.

"See you then!"

Chekov continues on down the hall, anxiety growing as he nears the door to Pike's office. He shifts on his feet, breath quickening. What if Pike tells him the situation is hopeless? What if the only reason he arranged this meeting was to break it gently that there's no way to send him back home? Will he really never get to see his family ever again? What if-

The door suddenly swings open.

"For gods sakes, son, come in, I could hear your panic through the door," Pike says, turning to hobble back towards his desk, cane in hand.

Thoroughly chastised, Chekov does as told and slips into the room, gently shutting the door behind himself. He watches Pike carefully set himself down into the chair at his desk.

"So, Mr. Pavel Chekov, is it?" He asks, motioning for Chekov to take the seat across from him.

"Um, yes, sir," Chekov answers, slowly taking his seat.

Pike shuffles together a few papers neatly before pushing them to the side of his desk. Chekov's foot taps nervously against the floor. It's a long minute before Pike clears his throat to speak.

"So, seems you're a long way from home, son," Pike says. And, for some reason, hearing someone else say it out loud causes Chekov's heart to constrict, and he feels his eyes sting with tears he hasn't been able to shed. He hasn't had the time. Now, after the chaos of the last few days has ebbed, all the emotion of his predicament comes crashing down on him with the force of an unbridled tidal wave.

He tries furiously to scrub at his eyes to prevent any tears from falling, but a few stubbornly escape.

"Alright, now, none of that," the admiral chides softly. He offers a box of tissues he's pulled from the corner of his desk. Chekov takes one and wipes away the traitorous tears running down his cheeks.

"Sorry," Chekov mumbles miserably. Perfect, he's crying in front of Admiral Pike of all people. So much for preserving any of the dignity he has left.

"No need for apologies, son," Pike assures him. "I can hardly even imagine how you're feeling. Personally, I think overwhelming would be an understatement."

Chekov finds some comfort in the man's words as he finishes drying his eyes. He discards the tissue and folds his hands in his lap. He stares intently at the floor.

"I have no idea how I got here, or why," he explains. "One moment, I'm analyzing artifacts, the next? I'm surrounded by an entire crew who knows nothing about me. A whole history of memories just…gone."

Chekov can practically feel the sympathy rolling off the admiral.

"Well, Mr. Chekov, we have the brightest minds of this generation under the same roof as we are now. I have faith we will find a way to get you home. After all you did for Starfleet in the midst of Nero's attack, it's the absolute least we can do."

"Speaking of which," he continues, "I read the report about your performance during the search for Nero. Pretty damn impressive, I must say. Your plans were key to the Enterprise's survival. You helped save countless lives, ensign. That's certainly something you should be proud of," Pike says with what Chekov can only describe as something akin to fatherly pride. The admiral's eyes crinkle with warmth as he smiles. He claps his hands together once.

"'Well, Pavel, I don't see any reason why we can't begin researching a way to send you home. The dimensional theorists from the particle accelerator lab downstairs are frothing at the mouth just to talk to you. You'll have to meet with them at some point, of course. Fill them in on all you know. But they are very eager to look into this."

Chekov feels a spark of hope ignite in his chest.

"Really?" He says, not hiding his excitement. "I…I don't know what to say. Thank you so much, Admiral!"

"Like I said, Mr. Chekov. We owe you a great debt for your service. You deserve at the very least to go home, I think."

Pike leans forward in his chair, hands folded on the desk.

"So," he begins, "where will you be staying in the meantime?"

Chekov's smile slowly fades. The admiral poses a pretty good question; one Chekov honestly should have been asking himself long before he left the safe familiarity of the Enterprise.

"I…"

He hesitates. Chekov doesn't have an answer simply because he doesn't have anywhere to go. There's no adequate reply he can cover with before Pike's eyebrows begin to crease with uncertainty.

"You do have a place to stay while all this is being sorted out, don't you?"

It's asked less like a question and more as an authoritative push for Chekov to just up and tell the truth: he's effectively homeless at the moment. Plans of any kind that didn't concern his immediate return home had escaped him up until this very second. Now, he clearly sees the repercussions of his subpar foreplaning.

Admiral Pike politely clears his throat, looking at Chekov expectantly.

"No, sir," Chekov answers. "With everything that's happened I suppose I-"

The admiral raises a single hand and Chekov seals his mouth shut.

"You don't have to explain anything, Mr. Chekov. Your…predicament," he says, taking a moment to search for a proper term to describe the odd situation, "is more than enough excuse for any lack of housing preparations, I think."

Pike stands from his seat, leaning heavily on his cane. Chekov reciprocates and stands as well, unsure if the admiral would appreciate or dismiss any offer of assistance.

"All of our academy dormitories are filled at the moment, not to mention half the city is out for relocation because of the damage Nero's attack caused. So in the meantime, you're welcome to stay in my guest room until we find you a more stable setup."

"Sir, I couldn't-"

Again, a single hand is all it takes for Chekov to retract his words.

"It's not a matter of inconvenience, ensign. There's more than enough space for you to stay."

Admiral Pike reaches into the top drawer of his desk and retrieves a few things, among them a small key ring, and neatly places them all in his briefcase before snapping the locks shut and turning with his cane to head for the door.

"I'm heading there now," he calls over his shoulder without stopping. Chekov looks around aimlessly a few seconds, unsure of what do, before quickly following after the admiral. He safely assumes after catching up that-based on the fact that Pike isn't stopping to hear Chekov try and turn him down again-there's no room left for protest. He awkwardly walks beside him for the short length of their journey to the parking garage, distracted as he wonders why Pike seems so keen on housing an awkward, other-dimensional teenager.

Following a painfully silent elevator ride, the two arrive at Pike's car. Chekov stares at the impressive vehicle, having to resist the urge to run a hand over the sleek silver of the car's hood. He notes the comfortable feel of the leather interior as he slides into the front passenger seat. Chekov had never learned to even drive a car, let alone get the chance to sit in one so luxurious. He did get the chance to ride Sulu's motorcycle once; though he supposes it wasn't as much of a ride as it was him wrenching his eyes shut and screaming profanities at Sulu as the thrill-seeking pilot did 70 down the San Francisco interstate.

The ride is short; Chekov spends most of it nervously picking at the skin around his fingernails. They arrive at a towering skyscraper in the middle of the city, windows and glass gleaming in the setting sunlight. Pike hands his keys off to a young man who greets him warmly before sliding into the car and driving off into the nearby garage.

"Evening, Marcia," Pike greets the front desk attendant as they enter the building.

"Evening, Admiral," she says back, gaze landing curiously on the young boy following in step behind the elder man.

They both make their way to the elevator where they ride 25 floors upward. Chekov thinks his stomach is queasy enough without the high-speed hike of nearly 300 feet. Luckily, they make it to Pike's apartment unscathed.

The admiral tosses his keys into a small dish by the front door and sets down his briefcase; though curiously, Chekov notices, he leaves his jacket on.

"I've got a few errands to run," he answers the unspoken question. "I'll probably be late. Guest room is first door down the hall on the right. You hungry?"

Chekov, suddenly feeling the weight of the entire day crashing down on him, politely declines.

"I'll probably just go to sleep soon, if that's alright, admiral."

"Chris, Pavel. Or Pike, if you prefer. I know Jim does. My work stops at the door, so there's no need for formalities here, alright?"

Chekov nods as Pike grabs hold of the door handle, ready to leave.

"Good," the older man says. "Goodbye, Pavel."

"Goodbye," Chekov waves. The door shuts and the silence rushes in to fill the empty space.

Chekov looks around at his new temporary home, arms crossing as he hugs himself close. He thinks of his family, the very thought warming him to the core. The hope Admiral Pike has inspired in him is uplifting, and he feels lighter than ever as he heads down the hall towards the guest room, heart soaring and head held high.


You can pry Dad Pike from my dead hands.

I'll try and update this more often. Time got away, but I've started writing again. Until next time.