I take it nobody suffered any ill effects from a few chapters ago. This is good. This is very, very good.
Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one.
Scotty finally makes a move to leave around one in the afternoon. "You sure you're going to be okay without me, kiddo?" he asks one more time.
"I don't remember you nagging this much," Chekov says from the sink, where he's washing up the dishes from lunch. Beside him, a carton of Indian food lies half eaten – remnants of their supper last night, when Scotty had insisted that he was hungry at eleven p.m. and had called the nearest restaurant on a whim. Chekov briefly wonders if he can attribute all his nightmares to the smell of curry; he could never tolerate spicy food anyway.
"Well," Scotty says, and his tone is serious for once, "if you need anything, call."
"I can't call you," Chekov reminds him, "you dropped your phone over the bridge when we went running that one day."
"Oh yeah," Scotty mutters. "Uh-"
"As hard as it is for you to hear this, I won't need your help," Chekov says. "I'm fine, Scotty. I'm not a kid anymore."
The former engineer leans his elbows on the small marble counter. "Ah, kiddo, you know I always worry."
"Well, you shouldn't," Chekov says simply. "I'm almost twenty-three. I can take care of myself." He carefully puts the last dish away. "See? Didn't break anything."
"When did you get so sarcastic?" Scotty wants to know.
"You've been living in my flat for four months."
"Point, laddie." Scotty shoulders his backpack. "Well, I'll be out of your hair soon. Everything's sorted, then?"
"As far as it can be."
Scotty hovers uncertainly. "You sure you don't want to come with me?"
"Nah." Chekov runs a hand through his mess of curls. "I don't think I'm traveling much, not these days anymore." Not since the Enterprise, his mind adds, but he won't say the words.
Scotty regards him with sympathy. "Alright, then."
"Where are you gonna go?" Chekov asks.
"Where the wind takes me. I was thinking Arizona."
"Wind's blowing you east."
"Maybe I'll send you a postcard. If you're lucky." Scotty winks before fumbling around in his wallet. "Hey, I know you don't want to talk to anyone about, well, you know." He clears his throat a little uncomfortably and that's how Chekov knows that he's been planning this conversation for a while. "I just think – well – if you need anyone to talk to – and seeing as to how I'm not going to be around-"
Chekov takes the small white card from Scotty's hands – who still uses business cards on paper? his mind wonders – and glances at it. It reads Cynthia Riley, Licensed Therapist. "Scotty," he sighs, feeling a little frustrated, "I don't need a shrink."
"She's not a real therapist," Scotty rushes to assure him. "She's actually quite terrible, really. Almost failed her psychology classes back in the day."
"So why are you giving her card to me?"
"I'm just saying, if you need someone to talk to – she's a good listening ear. She's er, well," Scotty coughs. "She's an old flame of mine. I see her from time to time to reconnect if you know what I-"
"I get it," Chekov says loudly and too quickly, ears flushing a bright red. "What if I don't want to talk to her?"
"Then I get it. Well, no, not really. I don't really get it. But hey, your life." Scotty shrugs. "As you keep on pointing out to me, you're not a kid anymore. So I'm not telling you to go see Cynthia, I'm just saying – she's an option."
"An option I won't have to take?"
"If you don't want to, you don't have to." Scotty adjusts his backpack. "Don't lose that card, lad. When I come back to San Francisco I might need that number again."
Chekov groans as he walks the smirking Scotty to the door. "Come on, Scotty."
"I'm just saying," the Scotsman protests. "That's all. Just putting it out there."
Chekov opens the door to the sound of the streets bustling outside. "Well," he says, suddenly feeling gangly and awkward and like a teenager all over again, "I guess this is goodbye."
"Just for now," Scotty says cheerfully. "I'll be back, don't you worry."
There's a sudden memory of a captain making a promise he could not keep, and Chekov feels the familiar pit of sadness yawn in his stomach. "Yeah," he says half-heartedly. "Yeah, you will be." He thumps Scotty on the back to mask the flood of sadness that's washing over him and threatening to pull him under. The last thing he needs right now is for Scotty to see him crumple like a piece of paper. "Have fun, Scotty. Send me messages when you can."
"You'll get so many that you'll hate me," Scotty promises, leaping down Chekov's stairs.
"Which means I won't get any," Chekov counters, smiling slightly.
"Aye, lad, you know me so well." Scotty waves as he trudges down the wet sidewalk. "Take care, Pavel! I'll see you soon."
Chekov waves until Scotty turns the corner and is out of sight before heading into his flat, listening to the echo of his footsteps on the wooden floor. Alone again. He resolutely passes by the unmade sofa bed (Scotty really needed to learn how to start picking up after himself) and instead flops onto his small mattress, staring up at the discoloured ceiling.
Funny how this was home but it didn't feel like home.
He listens to the sound of the other tenants screaming at each other from the flat upstairs; something about no milk and no cereal. Chekov wonders if he ought to wander upstairs and offer them some of his extra supplies; the last time he sent Scotty out to get breakfast, the Scotsman had staggered back with about five different kinds of boxes: "They don't have these brands in Idaho," he'd exclaimed, and Chekov didn't have the heart to tell him to take it back.
But he just lies there and listens and counts the spiders that scuttle across the ceiling. Finally, he pulls himself off the bed, noting with some dissatisfaction that somehow it's half past two in the afternoon.
The white card on the counter catches his attention when he walks past, and he pulls it off and glances at the crisp white edges. Cynthia Riley. He thinks about calling her, see if Scotty is right, if she would be a good listening ear.
Then he puts the card down. "Later," he says aloud to the room, as though Scotty can hear him. "I'll go later."
The card ends up in a drawer with some unused flashlights and a few candles.
