Hey guys. I'm not as happy with this chapter, since it was very rushed, and written mostly because I needed a bridge between the last chapter and the next one, which starts with assignments on the Enterprise. I like the beginning, but the end is just kind of...blah. But anyway, here it is, and as I promised, the next chapter will start the events of the movie.
The seventh time she saw Pavel Chekov, she wanted to talk to him.
It wasn't a want so much as a need, actually. She had been in class, listening to someone talk about their pet back home, when a wave of nausea had flushed over her. She felt woozy, and as soon as she was dismissed she searched out Dr. McCoy, who had become a casual friend after the disaster of Kirk's second attempt at the Kobayashi Maru. She had found him walking across the campus, and walked with him, explaining her symptoms. He listened careful, and answered in an uncharacteristically soft tone.
"Listen kid, physically you're fine." He stopped, placing a hand on her shoulder and staring her down. "You're just homesick."
"No, I'm not." She denied automatically. He raised an eyebrow, and her shoulder slumped. "I shouldn't be. How do I fix it?"
"It's okay." He said. "It's certainly not the end of the world. Just go back to your room, call home if you can, and just let it run its course. You'll be fine." He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze before letting go and leaving. Natalia sighed, turning the opposite direction and heeding the doctor's orders.
She had almost reached her dorm when she changed her mind. It was nearly midnight in Barcelona, and she couldn't wake her family over something so trivial. She didn't want to go back to her room either, not when it was so beautiful outside. Instead, she reversed directions, heading towards the library.
She smiled when Chekov exited the building, right on schedule. He caught sight of her, and automatically smiled. She returned the gesture, though rather weakly, and she could have sworn his eyebrows knit together for a moment as he approached.
"Nata." He said. Her grin grew slightly, hearing his Russian accent and the nickname that he had chosen. It seemed odd that when she couldn't call home, she would jump to the opposite end of the spectrum.
"Dr. McCoy said I was homesick." She explained. He nodded, raising his eyebrows. "He told me to call home, but it's almost midnight there, and my parents are asleep. My sisters should be, but they are probably sneaking out of the house right now." Her accent, which had slowly faded after three years of English immersion, was returning in full force. Chekov wondered if he was as hard to understand, but found the new rhythm to her voice musical. He slipped his arm through hers, letting her talk as he lead them to shady patch of grass under a tree. "I don't want to wake the little ones either, because you never know when they're with Mama and when they are at their own homes. Sometimes she is just too nice, and takes in all her nieces and nephews." She sighed and sat down. "But anyway, I couldn't call home so I decided that I wanted to talk to you. Go figure."
"It makes sense to me." He said sitting down next to her and leaning against the wide tree trunk.
"Do you ever get homesick?" She asked, still confused on the phrase.
"It's not an actual illness, you know." He said, trying his best not to laugh.
"Yes it is." She argued. "Dr. McCoy said-"
"Dr. McCoy says a lot of things that you know aren't true." Chekov answered, shrugging lightly.
"Yes, but he should know about this." Natalia argued. "He's a doctor."
"Nata." He sighed. "Just trust me. It's not a real illness. You're just lonely."
"Oh." She blinked, and it made sense. She bit her lip gently, and turned back to her friend. "You didn't answer my question."
"Of course I get homesick." He said, watching her hands. She didn't seem to notice their movement, but he did. She seemed to be performing some sort of dance with them, rolling them and making shapes in the air. "Everyone does, even the cadets that live in America."
"How do you get rid of it?" She asked, looking up at him.
"Me?" He asked, and she nodded. "I usually just speak in Russian. Not to anyone in particular." He added, seeing the question forming in her mind. "I just talk myself through whatever I'm doing. It helps." He shrugged, suddenly wishing he hadn't told her. It seemed stupid when he said it out loud.
"I've never heard you speak Russian." She said. "Not seriously, at least. Sometimes you mess up and forget to speak English, but never on purpose."
"You wouldn't understand." He reminded her, but she shook her head.
"It doesn't matter." She smiled. "Let's try something." He didn't say anything, so she continued. "I'm going to say something in Spanish, and I want you to try and figure out what I'm saying."
"You want me to translate a language I don't know?" He asked, raising his eyebrows.
"No." She shook her head. "Don't use the words. You don't know the words. Listen to everything else, though. Trust me, it will work." He wasn't convinced, but he didn't stop her. She thought for a moment, biting her lip in concentration, and then smiled. "Okay, now listen." He did, watching her expression and the way she held herself. Then she started talking, and he felt like he had been hit by a truck. Her mouth moved quickly, the words rushing out in a wave of sound and emotion. She stopped, looking at him expectantly.
"I didn't hear anything." He said, shaking his head.
"Try again." She said. "I'll slow down, too. We tend to speak quickly." She took a deep breath, and this time her voice was less like a truck and more like the wind, floating over to him gently. He heard her voice rise and fall, heard a tenderness in her tone, and the occasional bright note of happiness countered by a few times where she dipped into a place of sadness. Her voice seemed to fade as she ended her speech, and she blinked at him, wondering if he had understood.
"You were talking about a person." He said, trying to remember his observations. "Whoever this is, you loved this person. You must still, but I don't think this person ever loved you. Or else you are far away from this person. Is he back home?" She didn't say anything, just watched him. "You love him, but you are sad, because he can't or won't love you back. You miss him, and he makes you happy." He stopped, opening eyes he hadn't realized he closed. "Who is it?"
"Just a friend back home." She said with a shrug. She smiled, looking up at him through her long eyelashes. "Now it's your turn."
"We never made that deal." He said, looking only slightly disgruntled. If he were being honest, he would have admitted that it was nice to have someone want to listen to him babble in his mother tongue. "Okay, listen closely." He warned. Then he started speaking.
Natalia tried. He was speaking slowly, she could tell that much. His voice fell more than it rose, and his tone was much deeper than it was when he used English. She felt lost, feeling the emotions but not knowing the words. She was reminded of the ocean, of waves not crashing, but simply breaking against the shore.
She hadn't noticed him stop talking until he said her name. She smiled. Even that sounded different from his mouth. He said her name the Russian way, with a "ya" instead of an "e-ah".
"You were talking about a girl." She said. "A girl you like." She kept her eyes lowered, hoping they weren't showing any of the pain these words were causing her. "You really like her. You're comfortable around her. She accepts you as you are, she doesn't try to change you. You want to change, though. She makes you want to be a good person." She was right, something Chekov couldn't believe. He had been talking about her, and she was guessing it right. "She's back home, though. That why you were sad. You miss her." She was wrong. He had been talking about her, and she was sitting right in front of him. The sadness had been because she would never know how much he cared for her. She couldn't know. He wouldn't destroy this perfect friendship.
"Yes." He said, nodding. She had trailed off, her eyes turning to look out at the bay. She was humming now, bobbing her head to the beat. She moved away from the tree, laying down and rolling onto her stomach. He laughed, pulling bits of grass out of her hair.
"You're like a dog, rolling around and not caring what it does to you." He said. She flashed him a bright smile, closing her eyes against the sun sneaking in through the leaves.
"You know, this is kind of ironic." She said suddenly. Chekov raised his eyebrows, and she explained. "I hated you when I first saw you. But now, when I needed home the most, I went to you." She shook her head, dropping her gaze to the ground. "It's just ironic, you know?"
He nodded. He remembered that first physics class. He was smugly proud of himself for catching her mistake. Now he felt guilty. Slowly, as though afraid she would run away, he reached out, brushing her hair with his fingertips. She looked up, and he was surprised to see tears in her eyes. Instinctually, he dropped his hand lower, resting his fingers against her temple as he brushed away her tears with his thumb.
"Gracias." She murmured, and he didn't need a translator.