Family
Part Two
It wasn't that he was all that shocked that Marcus's stupid ass got killed in a bar fight. Hell, it was practically fate that at least one or two of the Harris kids would find death in the sharp end of a broken bottle of Bud.
But. Fuck.
Maybe he should have been more upset. Maybe he should have cried for Marcus or something, but all he could think about was the last time he saw him. Last time he saw any of his brothers.
Jesus, he didn't want to go back there.
But dead was dead, and even if he was a prick Marcus had the same blood as Greg. Everybody talked about family like it was this huge, deep thing that a person had to honor. Pasha talked like that, and Pasha was always right about everything.
Maybe Greg owed them something, since they were family. So...so okay. He'd go, he'd hug his parents if they were sober enough to stay on their feet, he'd fight off whatever bullshit his brothers tried to pull, and he'd stick around long enough to see Marcus's dumb ass put into the ground.
Maybe this could be him letting go of his last obligations towards the family he left behind. Maybe if he said this last goodbye he could forget about them for good.
He didn't know if that made him a bad person or not, even thinking about them like that. He just knew he couldn't talk to Pasha about feeling that way, because Pasha and his innocence and his love for his own dad might just see that as a deal-breaker.
As plans went, his was a shitty one – spend as little time as possible back in South Dakota, then go to Russia to meet Pasha's dad and pretend like he wasn't a heartless shit who hated his own family, and then a whole lifetime of keeping his stupid selfish thoughts to himself so Pasha never learned to hate him.
Shitty, but at least it was a plan. It was something.
Of course Greg was having this whole rotten string of fucking luck, so even his shitty little plan never stood a chance.
Because the Enterprise reached Earth ahead of schedule.
"You sure this is gonna be okay?"
Pasha flashed him a smile, which was nice of him since it was the tenth time Greg had asked that the whole ten minutes they'd been on the shuttle from the ship, and even Greg was losing patience with his own dumb ass.
"It is fine," Pasha said, speaking softly though he didn't so much as look at any of the crewmen sitting around them on the shuttle. "I sent papa a message so he'll know to expect you. You can spend a few hours with me, and that way you can find your way back to me when the funeral is done. If you transport home from Ichevsk around...midnight, I think...it should be close to the time the funeral will start."
He leaned in, slipping his hand through Greg's nervously fidgeting fingers for a quick squeeze. "You only have to be there as long as you want to, and then you'll come home to me. That doesn't sound so bad, does it?"
Greg shook his head, because it didn't sound bad at all. But he couldn't say that, because when he actually thought about it it did sound bad. Because he was going home, and that was the one part of the whole fucking scenario that he couldn't change.
There was a transport station in San Francisco, near the docking ports for the shuttles. Convenient and pretty much necessary for a ship full of people all coming in at once and wanting instantly to be at a thousand different destinations all over the planet.
Greg stood in line with Pasha, trying not to fidget or ask Pasha if he was sure this was gonna be okay for the hundredth time.
He stayed quiet altogether, looking around at the officers around them. All grinning, chatting too loudly. All excited to get to where they were going.
And Pasha. Shit. He always talked about his dad with this sort of glow on his face but the last day or so it was even worse. He talked with extra big grins now, with soft eyes. Like he could already see his dad right there, just knowing he'd see him so soon.
It was nice - Greg sure as hell wasn't about to say otherwise. He figured he liked Pasha's dad already just for putting that look on Pasha's face.
But it was weird. There was no getting around it, the whole thing was fucking weird. To Greg, anyway. Sure didn't seem weird to anyone else standing there talking about where they were going and who they'd see. Everyone so damned glad to go running back home.
It was almost sad, watching them. If Greg was the kind of guy who spent a lot of time feeling sorry for himself, this kind of shit would really get him going. How different was home supposed to be, to make those soldiers look that giddy?
He stayed quiet, though, exchanging a few nods with some of the crew he knew by sight. He grinned and Pasha laughed at the beeping of a loud, old-school automobile that came thundering by with Hikaru Sulu waving through the front window like he was half-drunk already. A couple of girls who looked just like him were in the car with him, and Greg figured they were sisters.
Actually, he knew they were. Even knew their names – Tomiko and...shit. Something weird for Sulu's family. Nancy or something.
Sulu was a friend. There hadn't been, like, one moment when that happened, but Greg knew his sisters' names (mostly) so he figured that made him a legit friend. Hell, the idea of that didn't even seem weird anymore.
By the time they got to the front of the line, Pasha was practically twitching. He kept shifting his duffel from shoulder to shoulder, tapping his foot and heaving big sighs through his smile when he thought people weren't moving fast enough.
He didn't even pause when the guys ahead of them vanished in that glowing beam. He stepped right up, swiped his and Greg's ID cards, and asked for the South Volgograd transport station.
Greg joined him only a beat behind, his knuckles white around the strap of his own bag. The pad and crowd of impatient officers vanished into pale white as the whine of the transporter grabbed them.
And suddenly there was a crowd around them. A big crowd, standing off the pad but surrounding it.
Greg tensed for a moment – he was security, and crowds were just big loud problems waiting to happen. Especially unexpected crowds.
But this crowd wasn't random – a moment after they appeared on that pad the crowd all but erupted, cheering and yelling and waving hands.
Pasha laughed at once, his face glowing in surprise and happiness. "Piotr!" he shouted, dropping his duffel bag as a stringy, bearded guy launched himself at Pasha to shake his hand. "Natalia!" at a woman behind that guy.
The skinny guy, Piotr or whoever, didn't hesitate before dragging Pasha down from the pad and into the crowd.
Everyone talked fast, some Standard and some Russian until it all sounded like gibberish. Greg stood there, bewildered, and scoped out the mass of people.
A lot of beards in Russia, he saw. A lot of kids, and old people, and red-cheeked chubby people who looked like they never frowned a day in their lives. Old clothes, tattered and shapeless, and grubby arms and faces.
Working people. These weren't some kind of scholarly, privileged people like Greg assumed Pasha had come from. These people looked like they came here right from work.
There was a sign or two floating above heads, handwritten in that strange, pretty Russian writing. Every last face he saw was so fucking happy looking he couldn't tell who there was actually in Pasha's family. Or if they all were.
He heard Pasha's name now and then in the cheering, especially when it died down to chatting and calling out. Pavel Andreievich, they all said, every time they said his name.
Right around the time Greg was starting to notice more and more people looking back at him, there was a booming voice over everyone's heads.
"Give him space!"
The group split apart like 'give him space' meant 'back the fuck off'' in Russian, and a man strode through the splitting group with Pasha's hand in his and Pasha stumbling to keep up. Beaming, though. So fucking happy it made his eyes squint, so Greg tried not to tense.
The guy dragging Pasha behind him was huge. Had a gut on him like he could've been pregnant with another fully-sized Pasha (and that thought kind of made Greg want to laugh). Big beard and shaggy hair all coated in grey. His skin was red, lined like he worked outside a lot. Greg knew that look from back home.
"This," the man bellowed, waving a hand towards Greg. "This is Greg!"
There was a cheer from the crowd, though Greg couldn't imagine his name meant shit to anyone there. They cheered, and some people called out to him like they had to Pasha.
And he felt his face going hot. He shrugged the duffel higher on his shoulder and picked up Pasha's where it had fallen on the pad, and he watched the guy warily.
"What?" The guy instantly pointed at Greg, pulling to a stop so fast Pasha seemed to smack into him from behind like smacking a fucking wall. "This is a guest! A guest must carry his own baggage?"
Greg had to fight not to tense, not to start throwing elbows, even though the people who surged up and grabbed at the two duffel bags were all laughing. The grabbing hands were there and gone before Greg could really work up to throwing a punch, and suddenly the crowd seemed to split up a little bit.
The duffels were gone in a flash, and people started drifting to the door of the transport center, leaving the pad and Greg and a couple of bearded techies in uniform (who looked like they saw this kind of shit every day) behind.
The guy hauling Pasha around stepped onto the pad, and his big paw was suddenly stretched out to Greg. "Andrei Nikolayevich Chekov," he said, seeming serious though his lined eyes were still glowing.
And fuck. This huge loud guy was Pasha's dad? His little, quiet, shy Pasha?
Greg shook, though, because shit. This was Pasha's dad.
"Lieutenant Commander Greg Harris," he said – he didn't always throw in the title but he kind of wanted to be at least a little bit impressive in some damned way.
"Yes! We heard about your promotion, congratulations!" Mr. Chekov's arm was suddenly around Greg's shoulder and he was leading Greg and Pasha both off the pad.
Greg wanted to look over at Pasha, but his dad's stomach hid Pasha from view.
"Uh. Thanks," Greg got out a minute later when he realized he was supposed to say something.
"Forgive us for the display, Lieutenant Commander. We don't always greet our Pasha in this way, but we heard very late that he was bringing a guest, and we do like to make an impression."
"You did that, sir." Greg hesitated, unsure of protocol being in Russia, or meeting a boyfriend's dad, or both of them together. He smiled, twitchy and unsure. "Just Greg, sir, if that's okay. I like the promotion but it's kind of a mouthful."
Mr. Chekov laughed, deep and loud, and clapped Greg's shoulder. "You are in Russia, you will be Gregor! And me you will not call sir. I am just Chekov here. There are a hundred Chekovs in our village, but I am the Chekov! Ask for Chekov and you get me."
"Got it." Greg tried to grin again and it felt a little less stiff. It'd be weird calling this guy Chekov, but whatever the man wanted.
"Pavel tells me you will be leaving us tonight for a short time."
Greg's grin vanished. "Yeah. Yes, sir. Uh. Chekov."
Chekov looked at him then, thick eyebrows raised high, and scoped Greg out all serious. "When you return," he said, his voice low. "I will make sure that only Pavel is here to greet you."
The words were too serious, and Greg figured Pasha had told his dad what Greg had to go do. But they were good words, and Greg hadn't realized he was worried about it but he relaxed a little so he figured he must have been.
"Thank you, sir. I'm sorry I've got to cut out this way, but..."
"We are Russian, Gregor." Chekov gave him one last hard slap on the arm. "We are used to hardship. It is why the Lord saw fit to bless us with vodka." He chuckled, but as he pushed them out into sudden bright, sharply-cold air, he fell back a step and hauled Pasha around casually so they could walk together.
Greg relaxed more then, with Pasha grinning and red and no longer hidden from him. He even found himself reaching out and grasping Pasha's sleeve for just a quick moment. Just to be that much closer for a second or two.
There was a shuttle port outside the transport station, and that crowd of people were cluttered inside one waiting shuttle. The sign on the front was in Russian writing, but Greg figured it was the name of Pasha's village.
He grasped Pasha's sleeve again before they followed Chekov on board, and he held on through the ride as he heard the fast, guttural voices around him jumbling all over each other until they melted like white noise.
It was pretty there. Greg wasn't sure he had any clear idea what he thought Russia was like, but he was surprised by what he saw. There was a lot of green. A lot of little, low hills. A lot of cool-looking buildings along the roads, with roofs shaped kinda like onions or something. Different, but pretty.
Pasha's village was an actual village, just how Greg might have imagined one. There were little wooden houses everywhere, stuck on hills and along paths like they wasn't any real design in mind when they built the place.
There were cows outside, chickens. Like being back home, but not really. It was sharp and cold, and there were wagons and donkeys and everything was wooden until it looked like they were a thousand years ago, not just in a different country.
He spotted more than a few pads and radios and those thin communicators that were big with civilians lately. It wasn't all archaic. In fact, he thought it was kind of deliberate, the way it looked. Maybe it was like those old west towns on the west side of South Dakota, places where tourists came in by the shuttle-full and gawked at guys dressed like ancient cowboys and shot at each other with fake guns.
Maybe in Russia what tourists liked to gawk at were donkeys pulling carts from one wooden house to the next.
The further they went the bigger the houses got, and everything stayed wooden and stone and natural-looking, but there were a few old cars and a couple of civvie transports out in front of the houses as the pathway stretched into a road.
Pasha and his dad talked pretty much the whole walk over, and it was kind of funny to listen to. Pasha would talk Standard because Greg was there, but he'd think about something or get excited about something and talk faster and faster until he slipped into Russian, like it was easier, and jabber on for a while with his dad in this other language until he caught himself.
He'd give Greg a 'sorry' smile and switch back to Standard and it went the same way.
Greg almost told him not to worry about it, that he wasn't really paying much attention whatever language they used. Not that he wasn't into it – there wasn't a lot he liked more than watching Pasha all excited, rambling on about something – but he couldn't focus on much of anything right then.
There was this big dark spot in his mind, and like Pasha would slip into speaking Russian, Greg would slip into that dark spot. Not even thinking specifically about home, or Marcus, but just feeling really gray and bleak and tired.
He kept thinking about stupid things, like his dress uniform. He brought it – didn't have nothing else to wear to a funeral, and he was an officer so he was supposed to wear it – but it was going to stir up so much shit when he showed up wearing it. He was practically inviting a fight.
If the funeral lasted a couple of hours, it'd be two in the morning in Russia. So he figured he'd get a hotel back in Hubert and crash before he came back. Sleep through the afternoon and evening. He'd have to remember to ask Pasha to give him the hour to come back from South Dakota when people in Ishevsk would be awake. He was shit with time zones.
"Pizdec! Nyet, nyet!" Chekov suddenly roared in his booming voice and took off, faster than Greg would've figured a guy his size could move.
Greg frowned ahead, but all he saw was a group of people standing around the porch of a broad, flat house.
Chekov charged up to them, but Greg knew when shit was going down and this wasn't one of those times. The people Chekov was shouting at just waved him off, laughing.
There was a touch to his arm suddenly, and he glanced over.
Pasha was watching his dad even as he pressed Greg's arm, and...
Hell.
He was so fucking beautiful, like all the time. But right then, with the cold making his cheeks pink and the wind ruffling his curls out, he looked so fucking peaceful.
This was home for him. Greg knew that just hearing him talk about it, but he saw it right then in a real way. Pasha went on and on about Russia all the time, and everybody chuckled at his bragging, but Greg could tell there wasn't anything fake in his pride.
He looked really peaceful. It was in his eyes, like a glow. If Greg was any less nervous about everything he would've been really tempted to grab him right there and kiss the hell out of him.
"They don't usually bring the entire village to meet me at the transport," Pasha said, his accent heavy but his voice light. "But there is always a party."
He smiled at his dad and the people he was now laughing with over by that house. "Papa told everyone that this time was different, that the party would have to wait. He didn't want you to leave for something like a funeral knowing we would still be celebrating here. But it looks like some people want the party to begin early."
Though they were close enough to hear what the little group was saying, they were all speaking Russian and Greg couldn't make out any of it. Pasha's dad was grinning by then, holding a cup of something they were all drinking.
Pasha looked up at Greg suddenly. "We will celebrate tomorrow, when no one is needed anywhere else. Is that okay?"
Greg thought to shrug, to say it wasn't his business, it was Pasha's home and his party. But Pasha's eyes were glowing green like the grass behind him, and Greg found himself smiling a little.
"Yeah, that's okay." Greg wanted to take his hand, hold his arm, something. The urge was so strong he had to squeeze his hand into a fist to resist it. "So...this is home, huh?"
Pasha nodded, looking around again instantly "It never changes here, really, but every time I come back I feel like I've got to learn it all over again."
"It's pretty," Greg said. He squinted past the upcoming houses and saw some taller buildings over another small hill. One of them, obvious for the strange, pretty rounded dome roof, rose over everything else. There was a cross at the top of the dome, and Greg figured it was a church.
The path under their feet had become cobblestone back where the road started getting wider. It felt more like a real town on this side, less like some weird tourist attraction showing what Russia would've been like a thousand years ago.
He liked it. He liked the city part, it felt more real.
Except for those few people talking to Chekov, everyone seemed to know the real celebration was happening tomorrow. People waved at them enthusiastically, though, even ones Greg recognized from the cheering crowd at the transport station. People shouted and pointed and called out to Pasha, and he always waved back, always grinned big.
Greg spotted one of those handwritten signs from the station, leaning up against the porch by Chekov and that little group. He nodded over at it. "What's that say?"
Pasha blushed dark. "The first line is my name in Russian. Pavel Andreievich."
"Yeah?" Greg grinned. "It's kinda cool looking. What about the rest?"
Pasha sighed through his smile. "Geroy Rossiyskoy Federatsii." He waved his hand like he was embarrassed or something, like the words meant anything to Greg. "It is only because of our first mission, Nero and the Narada, that they think of me as a hero. Only because they saw me on news vids all the way from America."
Oh. He smiled down at Pasha. "I didn't see any vids and I think you're a hero, so. I'm not gonna laugh or anything."
"It's just silly," Pasha said, though he did relax. "I tell them that everyone in Starfleet is brilliant, that on the Enterprise I don't stand out. But...it means something to them that I am from here. They are proud. They will talk as if I saved the universe all by myself, but that isn't how I describe it to them. Really."
Greg laughed suddenly, realizing why Pasha was tripping over his own words. "You think I'm suddenly gonna start thinking you're full of yourself? Don't worry about it, let 'em be proud of you. It's nice."
"Gregor."
They looked over, close enough to the house now that Chekov didn't even have to raise his voice.
Greg took a half-step to the side, a little worried about cozying up to Pasha in front of his dad. He didn't know what they thought about that kind of thing in Russia.
Chekov came up to them, and it was Pasha he looked at. "Pavel, moj syn. Your things have been put in your bedroom. Gregor will be in the guest room – perhaps you should check it and make sure he will be comfortable there."
"Papa." Pasha looked at his dad carefully.
"Vpered." Chekov lay his hand on Pasha's hair like he was giving him a blessing or something. "I will keep Gregor entertained for a few minutes."
Pasha glanced at Greg. He lowered his voice when he answered, his eyes uncertain, and his answer was all in Russian.
Chekov just shook his head. "We will be fine." He said it with a smile, casual, but Greg could tell from the tone of his voice that the words were more an order than a request. Or else Chekov was just a guy who was used to being obeyed.
Pasha shot Greg an apologetic smile, but murmured something to his dad and headed to that porch where those people were still gathered. Greg could hear the cheer from the dozen or so people as Pasha got closer.
He watched Pasha go for a moment, wishing he was going with him. But Greg Harris wasn't a coward, and he figured getting vetted by Pasha's dad wasn't something he was gonna worm his way out of.
So he faced Chekov and waited.
Chekov regarded him, solemn the further Pasha got from them. "Greg."
Greg returned his look, steady but giving him some ground. This was Chekov's home, Chekov's son. Greg was just visiting. Luckily security training gave a guy a lot of experience when it came to respecting a superior without looking like he was backing down.
Greg stayed quiet, waiting on Chekov. Letting him know Greg was showing him that respect.
Chekov spoke suddenly, his voice quiet and serious. "Are you good enough for my son?"
Greg blinked. "No, sir."
Chekov's eyebrows rose.
Greg hesitated, wondering if that was the wrong answer. He was a shit liar, and respecting a guy meant telling him the truth as Greg saw it.
"Honestly, sir, I never met anybody who would be good enough for Pasha."
Chekov frowned, studying him. He didn't look satisfied.
Greg didn't say anything else, but he could feel the beginnings of the rejection he'd worried about. It made him feel instantly weary, instantly right back in that blank, depressed place he'd been in so much the last few days.
"Understand me, Greg. Pavel is my son, my only son. His mother was lost to us when he was a child. He is everything I have in this world. Everything that is worth anything." Chekov looked back towards the house, though Pasha was long gone inside and out of sight.
"It is painful enough having to trust my son to the stars and a crew of men I have never met. It is hard to let him go. It would be hard at any age, but my Pasha is so young." He sighed. "I gave him Starfleet because he wanted it so badly, and he earned it. I put my trust in a cruel universe, that he will return to me safely."
With his disheveled gray hair and thick beard Chekov didn't look a damned thing like Pasha, except Greg could see close-up that his eyes were green. He was a big guy, almost as tall as Greg, ruddy-skinned, loud, with that belly on him. He didn't seem much like Pasha at all. He sure as hell wasn't anything like what Greg had imagined.
But he was a dad. He was Pasha's dad, and it showed all over him as he faced Greg down.
"I let him go off and do a man's work in a man's uniform, but he is still a boy in many ways. When I read his letters or follow the news feeds about that ship of yours, I feel like I'm tempting fate. I feel helpless and far away, because there is no one in the universe who values my Pasha as I do."
Greg wasn't dumb enough to argue with that, but he straightened his shoulders a little and gazed at Chekov steadily.
Chekov sighed, looking a little tired. "Family is everything to us here. Can you understand that?"
Greg nodded, and it was a lie but not entirely. He understood the idea of it, even if he didn't know what that felt like.
He just wondered how much this was going to wreck things. Would Pasha walk out for good when his dad gave Greg the thumbs-down? Or would he defy his dad and feel like shit about it? Would Greg let him do that?
Probably.
Wasn't something he liked to admit, but. There it was.
Chekov cleared his throat, straightening from his slouch. "I did not send Pasha into the house so that I could interrogate you, Gregor. But I have some things to say that you should hear."
Fuck. Greg nodded once, sharp. He almost felt like he was at attention as stiff as his whole body was.
"Pavel writes me letters regularly, but he feels he must shelter his anxious father by only talking about the good things. He wrote me letters twice a week from the Academy, yet I had no idea that he was under constant threat from other students. Not until he wrote me to tell me of that threat being over."
Greg had to deal with that strange mix of amusement and fury that always came from thinking of Matt Lepinski and the first time he met Pasha, pulling him off the ground bruised and bloody.
"The first time he mentioned you, Gregor, was to tell me of a stranger coming to his aid when he was hurt. Then he wrote to tell me of your teaching him to protect himself, to prevent future hurts. Then you were in his letters always, something you said or did, and eventually just mention of you, that you were well."
He scanned Greg's face. "Finally Pavel wrote to me that he was fond of you. That he was in love."
Greg felt his face warming. He wasn't all that comfortable with the word yet, and it was weird hearing it from Pasha's dad instead of Pasha.
"I thought, och, so soon, and what will he do without his papa there to give him advice and soothe the broken hearts he will surely go through? In a way, that was harder to deal with than the distance and the danger." Chekov smiled suddenly, shaking his head. "But my Pavel has never been content to do things as they are normally done. He wrote me of no broken hearts, no confusion. I suppose he didn't feel that he needed to suffer the pangs of love most boys his age do. He wanted to skip ahead, like always."
Greg shifted his weight, uncertain he ought to say anything. "We've had a fight. A couple. I mean...it hasn't been all that easy."
"He can be stubborn," Chekov said like he was agreeing, or at least like he wasn't surprised. "He takes after his mama in that way. She, like him, could seem so young and so fragile. But if she made up her mind about something she could dig into the ground like a rooted tree and remain unmoved."
Greg smiled, quick and faint. "Sounds familiar."
Chekov returned the smile. He reached into his pocket suddenly, pulling out a thin wallet. He held it out to Greg. "You will find other similarities between them."
Greg took the wallet and held it up when he saw a photo inside, right on top where it'd be the first thing he'd see. A woman, holding a blanket.
Her eyes were brown - Pasha got his dad's eyes. But everything else about Pasha, from the curly hair to the slender frame and angled cheeks and even the shape of his nose...that was all from this woman in the picture.
She was pretty, but she looked tired in the picture. Happy, though. Real happy, and something about the way she held that blanket close made Greg know it was Pasha wrapped up in there.
Greg looked up at Chekov. "He looks just like her."
He nodded, pride in his eyes. "People would tease her when she married me: this tiny girl and Andrei Nikolayevich. But she was stronger than me. Pavel, I think, is stronger."
Greg held the wallet back out to him. "People..." He was still blushing, still a little unsure, but he figured seeing that picture was like a gift, and maybe he ought to say something in turn. "People gave him the same shi...uh, they said they same kind of thing to him, about me. You know, me being so big. He never cared nothing about that, though, or anything else people said."
"His mother's son." Chekov chuckled, putting his wallet away with just one last, smiling look at the picture.
"Was she smart like he is?" Greg asked suddenly.
Chekov laughed. "No one is smart like Pavel. Yelena – that was her name, my Lenochka – she was proud and stubborn, and strong, but she had little interest in knowledge, in books or learning. Nor do I. Pasha came from us, but his mind comes from something far greater than us." He sighed, his eyes glowing. "He is a miracle child, from the birth they feared Yelena would not be strong enough to see through, to the mind that has taken him onto starships younger than anyone else who has ever gone."
Greg nodded. He wasn't big on religion, and he didn't know if Chekov meant 'miracle' in that kind of way, but he knew well enough that there wasn't anyone like Pasha anywhere.
"And now you, Gregor. You are the man my miracle son has chosen to bring home to me."
Greg's face went hot instantly. He looked over towards the house, but that little group still stood around chatting and Pasha was still nowhere in sight.
"I meant what I said," he said finally, since Chekov seemed to be waiting for him to say something. "I know I'm not good enough for him. He picked me, yeah, and I have no idea why but I'm not about to fight him over it." He looked back at Chekov, unsure. "I'm not good enough, sir, but one thing I can say is...from the first day I met Pasha, I been trying to make myself better."
Chekov glanced towards the house, but didn't seem concerned about Pasha coming back anytime soon. He stepped closer to Greg and reached out, planting his hand on Greg's shoulder in a way that almost seemed friendly.
"I have told you how often Pavel writes home to me. I know a great deal about you, Gregor. I know of the time when you saved my Pasha's life at the risk of your own. I know that you have taken my son to your bed."
Greg winced.
Chekov just smiled. "I know also that you were honorable to the point of driving my son to frustration before you gave in to him."
Greg relaxed a little, flushing. "Well. Wasn't like I didn't want..." He stopped, realizing who he was talking to. "I mean..."
Chekov spoke again, still chuckling. "My point, Gregor, is that as a father I might have asked you what your intentions were, or what you would be willing to do for my son. I might have asked if you could make him happy, or if you were a good man at all. But those questions have all been answered before you ever arrived. He is safe with you, and happy, and a father will never be able to ask for greater than that."
Surprise kept Greg quiet. He studied Chekov, his bright green Pasha eyes and the grin hidden under his beard.
It wasn't that easy, was it? Greg was the big dumb shithead fucking this guy's kid, there had to be more to this.
Chekov clapped his arm. "I asked if you were good enough for my son. Because you are sure you're not, that was the last piece I needed to convince myself that you are." He grabbed Greg suddenly by both arms and hauled him in.
Greg froze in shock when a fast, hairy kiss was planted on his cheek, but relief made him stutter out a laugh when Chekov released him and put an arm around his shoulder.
"Welcome to Ishevsk, Gregor! You are with my son, and so you are family. You are home here, an honorary Chekov, and in this village that means something!"
Greg stumbled forward when Chekov started them walking, and he grinned awkwardly at the chattering group by the house as Chekov led them up.
"Ivan, David, Mikhail, Pavel Vladimirov..." The names kept coming, and the people the names belonged to grinned and lofted their drinks and shouted greetings.
Greg found himself was a cup in his hand somehow, and he laughed with everyone else when Chekov whapped a guy in the head for speaking Russian in front of their American friend, and he didn't follow a fucking word even when they kept on chattering in English after that.
But he drank – whatever it was it tasted like apples and went down like acetone – and found himself talking a little clumsily about the Enterprise and Starfleet and everything.
It took him longer than he would've thought to realize that something important was missing.
Greg pushed the cracked door open wider and stuck his head in, peering around with a growing grin.
It was like a kid's room, like Chekov hadn't changed a thing since Pasha was born. The walls were papered with what looked like little ducks everywhere, and there were star charts all over the walls, and a big poster of some guy who looked important hanging over a small desk crammed with papers.
Looked like Pasha got up in mid-study-session and took off for Starfleet, and not a thing had been moved in the meantime.
"Wow. This is actually kinda what I pictured."
Pasha looked up from a small bed and smiled. His duffel was open but still full of clothes, and he sat with an open binder or book or something, still as peaceful and calm as he had been since they got to Russia.
"You are in one piece?"
Greg slipped in and shut the door behind him, cutting off the voices of the men who'd come in as night fell and the world got too cold around them.
"Yeah. Your dad..." He grinned, relief and that apple drink making him flush. "I like him. I mean, he's really great."
"He is." Pasha beamed, but stayed where he was. He gestured at the thick binder thing open on his bed. "Do you...would you like to meet my mama?"
Greg moved in instantly. "I saw her picture. Your dad showed me." But he sat beside Pasha and saw that the book was full of old photographs.
Pasha slipped the book over until it lay between them. He reached out and traced his fingers over a picture, a close-up, kind of blurry shot of a woman's face.
"Lenochka." Greg said the name carefully. "That's what your dad called her?"
Pavel drew in a breath, his hand stilling. He nodded. "But to me she was always Mama." He looked over at Greg, his eyes bright. "I was six when she died, but she wasn't well most of my life. They say it was having me that made her weak."
Greg frowned, studying him, remembering Chekov saying something about how Pasha was a miracle from birth.
Pasha didn't seem sad. His smile looked real.
"Papa says that when she was close to having me and the doctors told her it was too risky, it just made her want me more. She said that if she died as I was born it would just give her a chance to go to the place where souls are waiting for life, and see me off like a mother should."
Greg looked down at the lady's face in the book. She was smiling in all the pictures on the open pages, but she didn't look half as happy as she did in the one Chekov had in his wallet. The one where she was holding her baby.
He reached out and took Pasha's hand, feeling a little bit caught up by the pictures and Pasha's adoration for his parents. "I gotta remember to track her down once I get to that soul place. Tell her thanks for not listening to a bunch of doctors."
Pasha blushed and squeezed his hand. "I wish I had more memories of her, but every time I come back home it's like she's just out of sight. Like she just stepped out for a few minutes. She feels close here, I suppose."
Since Greg had Pasha all to himself with a shut door between them and Russia, he didn't fight the urge to lean in, to bring their joined hands to his mouth and kiss Pasha's fingers, feeling sheepish about it but infected by the mood somehow.
"Thanks," he said, looking over at Pasha. "For letting me come. And for telling your dad all about me, and saying whatever you said in your letters that made him say I was welcome here."
It hurt, saying that, because Greg realized how huge a thing this really was. This was Pasha's whole life right here, his whole childhood and the place he thought of as home. This was everything about Pasha that wasn't on the Enterprise, and that was a lot.
Mr. Chekov knew it was a big deal – 'you're the man my son has chosen to bring home,' he'd said, or something like that. It was important, special. Greg knew more about Pasha just by sitting in that room than he would have listening to Pasha tell a hundred stories about Russia.
That hurt, because it made him realize that his stupid little plan for running home and racing back here and never mentioning it to anyone again was completely fucked.
Pasha looked back at Greg, his bright eyes searching.
Greg drew in a breath. "Your dad says family is everything to people here. He says..." He blinked, surprised by how unsteady he felt suddenly. "He says I've got a home here, I guess for as long as I don't fuck things up with you."
Pasha smiled.
"I know it's important to you," Greg went on clumsily. "I can guess how big a deal it was for you, bringing me to meet your dad. And your mom." He nodded at the album. "It means something to you that it never meant to me. I know you don't get that. I think I must've hurt your feelings telling you I never would've took you home to meet my folks."
Pasha didn't answer, but he didn't deny it.
Greg had never done something before this that he was so sure was a mistake but felt so much like it was the right thing to to anyway. He had to try a couple of times before the right words came out.
"It won't be anything like this. I'm telling you straight out, Pasha, there's not gonna be anything good about it at all. I think..." He looked down at Pasha's hand in his. "I think it'll make you hate me, seeing where I come from."
"Grischa."
Greg went on fast. "I may not tell them that you're with me, like this. Not because I'm embarrassed or nothing, you know that. Just I think it'd be dangerous."
Pasha squeezed his hand suddenly, and Greg looked over. "Are you asking me to come with you tonight?"
Greg hesitated. Mistake, his instincts said. Shouted, almost.
But Pasha shared his mom with Greg, and wrote his dad about being in love with Greg, and gave him a whole other home to go to.
Taking him back to Hubert felt like a punishment to Greg, but he knew Pasha didn't understand that. He would, though. He'd understand it tomorrow. And maybe understanding something about Greg that he didn't really get now...maybe for a smart guy like Pasha that was a kind of reward.
At any rate, Greg nodded and looked down at their hands and tried not to panic. "Yeah. I guess I am."