Sometimes the world sounded too loud. Obnoxiously so. Not like the comforting dampener of snow or the coy nothing of dawn over an ice covered forest.
They all backed Doctor McCoy. He would've had to have recommendations from the crew.
Chekov thought of calloused fingers. Looking out over the noisy city from his window, he put his chin in his palm. His hands shook.
But McCoy did this behind my back. Chekov smiled grimly. Babu and Grandpapa had always called him eleven going on eighty. An old man in an adolescent's body.
Besides, what do I need a guardian for? I'll be of age in two years or so.
The shaking worsened. They all loved him like a brother, like a son.
What was he supposed to do with that?
"Mr. Chekov?" A nurse came over. "You didn't eat your supper."
"I am not feeling up for food. Sorry."
The man's gaze softened. "That's alright. The new vaccine will nauseate you, they said. It's past ten. Why don't you hit the hay?"
Chekov's nose wrinkled, but he smirked. "You've been spending too much time around Doctor McCoy. You both sound like cowboys."
The nurse roared, patting Chekov's shoulder before he walked away.
Chekov stood and went to the door. His steps were careful but confident. After two weeks, the navigator felt better.
The more Pavel thought over the crew's kindness and protection, their willingness to fight for him, the more he had to swallow and wrestle back a hot prickle in his eye.
Even at night, the halls of Starfleet were busy, a never ending current that emptied into distant galaxies. Several people cast him an odd look, which Chekov, in his slippers and pajamas, ignored.
The fluorescent lights highlighted his thin cheekbones and wan skin. His lips stood out like smears of pink paint.
A door at the end of the hall, ajar, emitted a warm light. On a whim—a hopeless one—Chekov flattened the unruly curls atop his head. They sprung up over his ears.
They are as stubborn as you.
When he raised his fist to knock, it stuttered.
"Come in."
Chekov pressed the door open and lowered himself into the only available seat, before a rickety oak desk. Hands fidgeting in his lap, he took in the raspy voiced man and empty bottle of Heineken and the fact that a stack of paperwork was pristine, unmarked.
They sat in silence. For so long, in fact, that Chekov wondered if he should leave the poor man to his obvious misery.
"Doctor McCoy…"
"Bones."
He met the man's eyes.
"I said it earlier. Call me Bones."
"You really meant it?" Chekov forced his voice not to waver. "Wanting me?"
"Every word."
Bones said it without pause or hesitation. Level yet staid. Chekov swallowed again. He felt he'd just ridden a tilt-o-whirl for the first time.
"I am sorry for my harsh words yesterday." Chekov sat up straighter. "They were out of line and out of character."
"Pavel, I get it. You were angry."
"No." Chekov's eyes widened. "I was scared."
"Scared?" Bones was up and around the desk in a heartbeat. "Why? Of me?"
Pavel watched the man seat himself on the edge of the desk and lean slightly to be at Pavel's eye line.
"No," he said. "Yes. I mean…this may come as shock but I haven't had real…"
"A guardian," said Bones, softly.
"Yes, real guardian since Papa died. I vas nine—ten? It's a blur sometimes." He avoided the doctor's gaze. "Since then I have been one covering cardiograms and buying groceries and paying creditors and chopping vood and…and…"
"Pavel. Pavel, it's alright." Bones grasped his elbows. "You're allowed to be reserved about such new territory. I'm so sorry for how you've suffered. You're allowed to be your age."
Chekov almost broke then. He searched the larger man's eyes for deceit or mockery. He couldn't find any, only a gruff sort of concern.
"You're allowed to think about yourself now, and I'm not mad that you lashed out. I'd be overwhelmed too."
"So how does this work?" Pavel asked.
Bones blinked at him. "What?"
"This." Chekov gestured in the space between them. "This arrangement."
Bones blinked again. "What? Sorry, wait…wait you agree to my guardianship?"
"I vas…very moved. I'm willing to give it a try. Because I do trust you, Doctor."
"Bones."
"Right. Bones."
And all of a sudden, just showing on his face, Bones melted. Pavel had never seen such fondness in one person's expression, aimed at him. It ended when Bones folded his arms.
He sniffed. "I'm not going to read you a bed time story, if that's what you're asking."
Pavel smiled, amused and indulgent. "That's a shame. I bet you have some good ones."
"Don't need you getting any more ideas about dangerous missions," said Bones. He reached behind him for a pamphlet on his desk. "Jim and I are renting a place for us tomorrow."
Pavel was silent. He cocked his head and read the inner city listing. "Is this…how you say…a bachelor pad?"
Bones' lips twitched. "Yeah, kid, sure. A place to crash while we're on this indefinite shore leave."
"I accept." Pavel held out his hand.
Instead of shaking it, Bones cupped it in his rough paws, ever so gentle. Pavel frowned.
"This isn't a business contract, Pavel. It's about us caring enough not to let you walk your life alone. You understand?"
Pavel didn't, but he figured he'd offended the good doctor enough for one day. So he nodded.
"Ah! Mi casa!" Jim flung himself on the nearest available couch.
Rolling his eyes, Bones cuffed his captain upside the head.
"Yow! What—"
"You're dripping." Bones pointed to the couch. "It'll stain the suede. We can't very well ruin the landlord's furniture on the first night here."
"It's not my fault the sky decided to vomit for the next week."
He zipped from room to room, while Bones calmly set down his bags and hung their coats in the hall closet.
"Dibs on the big room!" Jim's call echoed from a corner bedroom, filled with a gaudy king size.
Pavel stopped just shy of the entry rug. He eyed the stainless steel kitchen, large television screen, and crème walls. His lungs, though now in perfect health, caught.
City lights blinked behind their living room curtains and music thumped across the hall. It felt more alien than some planets they'd visited.
"Hope you don't mind taking the spare, Pavel," Bones called, now with his face in the oven. He examined all the appliances and free floating heaters.
"Hmm?" Chekov refocused with a jolt.
In that time, Bones had shifted to stand in front of the navigator. Pavel jerked again at seeing him so close. Bones took a slow step back.
"Pavel?" He grinned. "You wanna settle in?"
Haltingly, hesitant, Chekov steeled himself and stepped through the kitchen to the living room, eyes wide and wondering. Bones' delighted eyes followed him the whole way.
"I've never lived in the city," Chekov said, plopping his knapsack on the plush sofa. "Or such nice quarters."
"Get used to it, kid." Bones tossed him a set of keys. "It's our home for the foreseeable future."
A sudden thought gripped Chekov. Cold sweat broke out along his neck. "Can we afford this?" He rooted through his bag for a spreadsheet. "I've taken the liberty of drawing up a weekly spending budget and this might not—"
Bones snatched the paper out of his hands.
"Hey!"
"This is great work," said Bones. He crumpled the paper and threw it to Jim, now leaning against the wall.
"Starfleet is footing the bill for all this," Jim explained. "The only thing we're covering is personal spending and any meals we eat out."
Bones set a hand on his hip. "I'm more worried about why you made a budget plan in the first place. That's my job."
Chekov shifted, his heart pounding, and shrugged. "Just habit, I guess."
A stunned silence fell over them.
Jim, to no one's surprise, broke it. He clapped his hands before hooking Pavel into a playful headlock. "What'll it be, Pasha? Chinese? Pizza?"
Bones huffed. "Here we go. Why you haven't died of heart disease yet, I'll never know."
Chekov laughed. "Whatever you want is fine."
"Oh no. It's a Kirk house rule—"
"Technically this is a McCoy house," Bones protested, "as it's under my name first and then yours. Lunatic."
"—that ensigns pick first."
"Since vhen?"
"Since right now," said Jim. "New apartment means new rules. What'll it be?"
Chekov reflected later that night, over scattered boxes of pad Thai, both Bones and Kirk asleep before an old Western, that life was weird. Not bad, necessarily, but weird. He didn't like the noise or the sleek everything.
At least, for now, it was calm.
Suddenly uneasy, he extracted himself from his snoring captain and trotted off to his new room. His throat felt thick.
My first room in five years…
Though the smallest of the apartment's three rooms, he ran a reverent hand over the curtains, the queen size bed, jersey sheets, and the framed picture of his grandparents Bones had placed on the bedside table earlier that night.
His fingers caressed the cold glass.
"Babu," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. What have I gotten myself into? You don't need me to change your sheets, don't need a scrawny grandson. Does any of it even matter anymore?"
At the back of his mind, small but stinging, came the familiar thought.
Do I?