You guys make me smile. You rock. That is all.

Disclaimer: Yoooooooo - nooooooooo.


{June 2264}

"Tell me about Hikaru Sulu."

Chekov looks up at Cynthia as she thoughtfully taps a pen against her teeth. Today she's dressed in jeans, hiking boots and a Bohemian-style blouse and is draped precariously across the back of the couch. "Sulu?"

"Yeah." Cynthia twirls her pen. "I see you with him all the time. He's clearly a friend. Tell me about your relationship with him."

"What's that got to do with this?" Chekov asks.

"You're defensive," Cynthia remarks. "Oh my God, are you two like an item? Like partners? You don't have to hide, you know, it's the twenty-fourth century-"

"We're just friends," Chekov says.

"Right," Cynthia winks. "But you want to be more?"

"No."

"Alright, alright, Pavel, put your hackles down. I was just teasing." Cynthia pulls herself upright and slides down the couch into a cross-legged position. From there, she slings a leg over her neck and stretches. "How long have you known him for, anyway?"

"Six years," Chekov says, reconciling himself to the fact that Cynthia isn't going to drop the subject any time soon.

"Six. Wow, that's a long time to have known someone."

"You said you knew Scotty when you two were kids," Chekov points out.

"Yeah, but kids are kids. It's different." Cynthia shrugs. "Six years, huh? Where'd you meet him?"

"Starfleet. We lived on the same floor."

"College buddies! Those are my favourite kinds." Cynthia unscrews a jar and takes out a small cookie. "Store bought, darling, don't worry. I didn't try killing us today. Cookie?"

"Thanks," Chekov says, taking a cookie from her. "Yeah, I've known Sulu since Starfleet. We took almost all the same classes."

"Yeah? Why almost?"

"Well-" Chekov shrugs. "He's a pilot, so he was taking all those courses, and I was training to be a navigator, so I was taking like transporter theory classes and physics-"

"Got it. You were the brainy one, and he's the more hands-on type."

"Sulu's smart," Chekov says defensively.

"I'm not denying that," Cynthia says around a mouthful of cookie, crumbs spilling out of the corners of her mouth. "So you two stayed in touch after you graduated?"

"We…" Chekov pauses.

Cynthia waits, eyebrow raised. For once, Chekov wishes that she would say something to fill the silence, but she only waits expectantly, chewing on the cookie.

"We worked together," Chekov says at last.

"Really?" Cynthia's tone is too interested for it to be a coincidence, and Chekov's suspicion levels peak. "Where'd you work?"

"On a ship." Chekov nervously rubs his hands on his jeans. "He was the helmsman and I was the navigator. We were both only cadets."

"Only cadets?" To Chekov's relief, Cynthia grabs this point and runs with it. "Impressive feat. Six years ago would put you at seventeen years old, right, Pavel?"

Chekov is suddenly assaulted by memories of Bones glaring at Kirk like it was his entire fault: Oh good, Jim, he's seventeen. Like Kirk could have somehow known that an underage kid would be on the ship. He remembers Spock confirming his calculations, even then somehow knowing how Chekov craved affirmation and acknowledgement. Captain, Mr. Chekov is correct.

Something presses on his chest and it's suddenly like he's underwater, gasping for air. "I-" he manages to get out.

Cynthia is by his side in a flash, pressing his hand. "Pavel? I'm here. Take a deep breath."

"Listen to her," Kirk says from where he's standing by the window. There's a look of alarm on his face. "Pavel, breathe."

Almost as though his body is conditioned to listen to his captain's orders, Chekov feels the weight lift slightly. He grabs the handles of the chair, forcing himself to suck in deep breaths through his mouth as Cynthia rubs his back. Finally, the weight dissipates.

"It's okay," Cynthia reassures him, and suddenly she's a therapist, not just some woman in loose-fitting blouses and jeans who chatters endlessly. "Just an anxiety attack, I think. You're going to be okay, Pavel."

"I've never had anxiety attacks before," Chekov wheezes, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Neither have I," Cynthia quips, sitting back on her heels. "But something triggered it. Why is seventeen significant?"

Chekov blinks, and when he opens his eyes Kirk is no longer standing by the window. He tries to swallow the deep feeling of loss that roars to life in his throat, afraid that if he gives it reign, it would explode in a torrent of screaming. "When I was seventeen, it was the first time Sulu and I ever worked with a crew." He's too tired to try and shut her out.

Cynthia waits for more.

"I've never worked with another crew after that day," Chekov clarifies. "We were a family. I've never had a real family before, you see." He looks down at his fingernails.

"I see." Cynthia is quiet for a bit before she stands up. "Alright, let's change the subject."

"You don't want to talk more about this?" Chekov asks, taken aback.

"Do you want to talk more about this?"

"Uh-"

"I didn't think so," Cynthia says casually. Chekov furrows his brow, suspecting that Cynthia isn't quite the hare-brained therapist that she's painting herself to be, and feels a grudging seed of admiration blossom. "So, Pavel. You told me that you took transporter theory classes. What were those like?"


Yeah, Chekov, what were those like?

(1) This chapter may not be an accurate representation of what panic attacks feel like.

(2) or therapy.

(3) were they even cadets in Star Trek: 2009? I guessed. For the sake of this story I'm going to roll with it.

Much love,
ohlookrandom