A bit of a short chapter for this one - it leads into the next one, I promise! Also, we may be drifting back into deep waters again. You've been warned.
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"You give any more thought to my proposition?" Cynthia asks the next week when Chekov comes in for their weekly 'conversation', as she puts it.
"I don't think I'm going to do it," Chekov mumbles, rubbing his eyes. He makes a mental note to restock the sleeping pills; he hasn't gotten a new supply since Sulu and Scotty moved in.
"What? Why not?" Cynthia sits up straight in her chair. "You'd be great at it!"
"That's what Hikaru and Scotty said," Chekov says. "But – I don't know. I can't walk back into Starfleet. Not after what happened last time."
"Why, what happened last time?"
Chekov fiddles with his fingers. "I'd rather not talk about it."
Cynthia sighs before getting up. "Pavel. Darling. You know, you and I aren't really all that much different." She sits down beside him on the couch, crossing her legs and drumming on her knees. "I know you've been through a lot, but – sometimes it helps to talk about it, you know?"
He just shakes his head stubbornly, ignoring the ringing feeling in his ears and the sudden queasiness in his stomach.
"Okay." Cynthia holds up her hands. "We won't talk about it. Not until you're ready." She stares into space for a moment before brightening up. "So, tell me about your parents."
An involuntary snort escapes Chekov's nose. "My parents?"
"Yeah. You said you never had a real family before, so – you know – explain. Clarify. Tell me a story. Tell me about you."
"What if I don't really want to?"
"Then we can just sit here and talk about the weather for hours," Cynthia says cheerfully. "I don't have any other clients today, Pavel – I can keep this up for ages if I need to."
"Well," Chekov says, resignation in his tone, "what do you want to know?"
"Hmmmmmm." Cynthia taps her pen against her teeth. "Tell me… about your hometown."
Chekov raises an eyebrow, but he goes along with it for the moment. "I was born in Moscow, Russia."
"I've never been to Russia," Cynthia says thoughtfully. "It's something I've always wanted to do."
"It's beautiful," Chekov offers helpfully. He thinks he sees movement out of the corner of his eye, but when he turns to look, the world swims for a moment. Chekov blinks, and bright shapes appear before vanishing before his eyes.
"Oh, I'm sure it is. Okay, my turn."
"Your turn?"
"Yeah. This is a conversation, remember? You don't get to talk all the time," Cynthia winks. "Okay. Ask me a question."
Chekov sighs, wondering what stories he'd have to tell Sulu tonight. "Fine. Um… tell me about your hometown."
Cynthia pouts. "You're so not creative. Okay. I was born in Boise, Idaho. My whole childhood was characterized by one thing: potatoes." She grins. "It's such a stereotype, ain't it? But no, really – my family grew potatoes for a living."
"How did you decide to become a therapist, then?" Chekov asks curiously.
"Well – I mean – haven't you ever decided as a kid that you wanted to be something more than what your parents expected of you?"
Chekov thinks back to his own childhood – the years of education, tuition, and money spent on ensuring that he got the best teachers in math, physics, science. He remembers his father and his thin voice: you were cut out to be a scientist, and a scientist you'll be. Even then, he had always known that he belonged among the stars, that there was something more than the Russian winters that kept him at home.
He thinks with a bit of irony that he should have told Sulu that that was his biggest act of rebellion – defying his father's wishes.
"So I became a therapist," Cynthia is saying when Chekov drags his attention back to her. He shakes his head a little, wondering why his focus just isn't here today. "I like it better, too. More interaction with people, and actual people, not just potato farmers." She snorts. "My brother – my brother, he wanted to be something more than just a potato farmer, too. So he joined Starfleet."
"Your brother was in Starfleet?" Chekov asks, interest piqued.
"Sure was." Cynthia smiles proudly. "My little brother David. He wanted to go into personnel. David was a people person, just like me."
David Riley. The realization breaks over his head and Chekov wants to kick himself for missing it. Some precocious genius I am. The photos on the desk that he had never bothered to look at, the way Cynthia emphasized her 't's the way David did, the last names, her constant persistence in talking about Starfleet. How long has she known I've worked on the Enterprise?
"You look as though you've seen a ghost," Cynthia says, catching sight of Chekov's pale face. "Something wrong?"
"I worked with David Riley," Chekov says, rubbing his neck. His fingers come away cold and shaky. "On the Enterprise."
A shadow falls across Cynthia's face – for a second, she loses her cheery composure. "You did?"
"You didn't know?"
"David never spoke about his time in Starfleet." Cynthia folds her arms and leans back. "How long did you know him for?"
"Not very long. He came on board about halfway through our five year mission." Chekov clenches his fist and unclenches them. Unsurprisingly, it does nothing to relieve his stress. "I… I haven't seen him since the accident."
"What accident?" Cynthia demands.
"Come on," Chekov snaps, suddenly light-headed, "you know what accident I'm talking about. Isn't that what you've been maneuvering towards this whole time?"
Cynthia takes a deep breath. "I don't deny that I've been trying to get you to talk about Starfleet," she says calmly, "but I don't know about an accident. Nobody's told me anything, Pavel – certainly not David, since he's off on some mission somewhere and hasn't called in six months."
Chekov gets out of his seat and stalks towards the window. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Cynthia stand, too. "Pavel," she says, voice gentle again, "look. I get that you don't want to talk about whatever accident this is, but trust me when I say that talking about it will probably help."
"Why?"
"David-" Cynthia stops. "He was never the same after he came back from the mission. He was so much quieter. He had nightmares. And he would never tell me what happened."
Chekov watches his reflection in the glass. It stares back at him, skin pallid. shadow of his former self.
"You probably understand," Cynthia says quietly. "I get that maybe you don't want to talk about it. Maybe you think that it's easier to keep all your ghosts to yourself. But I saw what it did to David. I don't want that to happen to you, either."
"You wouldn't understand," Chekov mumbles.
"You ought to give her a try," Uhura says in his ear.
"Try me," Cynthia challenges.
"No," Chekov says to both of them, "it's too much, it's just too much-"
"Then let me help you," Cynthia says, coming around to lean against the glass. "I've got my own ghosts too, Pavel. But I've learned to let them go. I'm a happier person for it. And you-"
"And I will be fine," Chekov says through gritted teeth. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Shutting yourself off from the world won't help," Cynthia warns him.
"She's a licensed therapist, man, listen to her," Bones says sharply from across the room.
Chekov opens his mouth to say an emphatic no, but his knees crumple instead.
The last thing he remembers is an alarmed yelp from Cynthia as he cracks his head against the edge of the chair. And then the world dissolves into a soothing, comforting black.
Poor Chekov.
Much love,
ohlookrandom
