Sorry for the delay, guys! Here's a new chapter for all your patience :)

Big thank yous to everyone, as always!

Disclaimer: Nah.


{October 2264}

Cynthia and Scotty don't expect the timid knock on their door on a foggy October morning. San Francisco is back to about as normal as it gets, operating at its usual metropolitan pace; but this office is scarred and on edge, and with good reason. Scotty glances at Cynthia: "Expecting anyone?" he asks.

"No," Cynthia says in surprise.

Scotty shrugs. "Maybe one of your other boyfriends," he quips with a touch of humour.

"They're not quite as courteous as you to knock first," Cynthia says right back.

Scotty laughs, but the laugh dies several notes in when he swings open the door to reveal a drenched Chekov standing outside, shivering. "What the bloody hell, Pavel? Why are you dripping wet?"

"Forgot an umbrella," Chekov gets out through the chattering of his teeth.

"Scotty, get out of the way and let him in," Cynthia says in some alarm, scrambling for the thermostat and upping the temperature a few degrees. "There should be a towel in that bag over there-"

"What is wrong with you?" Scotty is demanding at Chekov as he roots through Cynthia's duffel bag. Chekov gratefully accepts the cup of warm tea that Cynthia hands him, thus missing the towel that Scotty flings over his shoulder and narrowly avoiding getting hit in the face.

"Scotty," Cynthia scolds. "Behave."

"What do you bloody expect me to say when he shows up in your office dripping wet?" Scotty wants to know. "You could have gotten pneumonia, lad, and we all know that that's worse than Mandimese flu when it comes to you-"

"I got the job," Chekov blurts.

"-I can't have you out there getting yourself killed-" Scotty stops in his tracks as Cynthia's hands fly to her mouth. "You got the job?"

"As an instructor in Starfleet." Chekov's teeth are chattering, but he manages a small smile. "I got the call just now – I thought I wanted you two to be the first to know."

"You got the job," Scotty repeats, a grin spreading across his weathered face. "You got the bloody job! Well, I never."

"Congratulations, darling!" Cynthia pulls him in for a hug. "This calls for some celebration – Scotty, hand me the bubbly-"

"Are you even allowed to have alcohol in your office?" Chekov asks in alarm.

"No. But when has the law ever stopped me?" Cynthia winks at him as Scotty pops the cork and pours her a glass.

Scotty's in the middle of pouring himself a glass of champagne when Chekov's communicator begins to vibrate loudly. "Best get that, lad, they're probably promoting you already," he snorts, putting the bottle behind the desk.

"Sure, they're probably calling to tell me I'm the department head," Chekov deadpans, putting aside his glass before hitting 'answer'. "Pavel Chekov, speaking, sir. Yes, Admiral. Thank you…"

"I wouldn't put it past them," Cynthia drawls, taking a sip from her glass. "From what I've heard of his theories, they sound even better than yours."

"Ay! Watch your tongue, lass."

"Make me," Cynthia retorts, sticking it out at him.

"Don't tempt me, Cynthia." But the sight of Chekov's rapidly paling face suddenly diverts Scotty's attention. "Pavel?"

Cynthia leaps up, already seamlessly seguing into concerned mother figure as she puts her glass of champagne aside. "What's wrong?" she asks.

Chekov holds up a finger to stop them from asking any further questions. Even from a distance, Scotty can see the white knuckles and shaking fingers. "Duly noted, Admiral. Thank you for…" He coughs on the last word and Scotty moves in protectively. "…calling. Yes, sir, I'll be there soon."

"Is everything okay?" Scotty asks when Chekov hangs up. "You can't have already been fired, can you?"

Cynthia doesn't even have time to glare at him before Chekov turns around, face ashen and terrified. "They've found Sulu," he says, his voice jagged and torn. "The Admiral says it's not good – he's in emergency surgery-"

"Bloody hell," Scotty swears. He grabs Chekov's jacket and throws it at him as Chekov makes a move for the door. "I'm coming too! Wait. Don't forget your jacket."

"I don't need one," Chekov shouts over his shoulder as he breaks into a sprint.

"Don't you dare tell me that," Scotty shouts back, tearing after him and waving the jacket over his head like a madman. "Put the damn jacket on, Pavel; if you die from pneumonia Sulu will kill me."

That stops Chekov in his tracks; he bends over double as though he is winded. Scotty catches easily up to him. "You usually run faster than that," he's about to say before he realizes how desperately Chekov is wheezing for breath, as though somewhere along the way he's lost his breath and is sprinting to get it back. Scotty realizes with some alarm that this is a panic attack; Cynthia's told him about it before and he doesn't know what triggers it but hell if he just stands around and does nothing.

"Alright, Pavel, look at me," he says firmly. Chekov raises pained eyes to him as he tries to suck in a deep breath. "You've got to calm down."

The look Chekov gives him could be described as scathing.

"Okay," Scotty says, "if you're giving me attitude then you're better than you think. Listen to me. Sulu isn't dead. Okay? Nod if you agree with me."

Chekov's eyes squeeze shut as he tries to take another breath, but he nods.

"They've found him," Scotty says. "That's a hell of a better thing than three weeks ago." He grabs Chekov's shoulders. "Hang in there. Breathe."

There's a clatter and both men look over to see Cynthia hastily scooping up her keys. "What?" she asks when she sees the both of them looking at her. "I'll drive. What were you going to do – run there?"

"That was the plan," Chekov manages to get out, clutching Scotty's shoulder tightly.

"Well," Scotty says as firmly as he can, looping an arm under Chekov's scrawny shoulder, "we've got a new plan. Come on, lad. We'll do this together."

"Scotty."

"Hm?"

"Thanks."


WE FOUND SULU. Or did we?

Much love,
ohlookrandom