My only excuse for the lateness of this chapter is that I'm lazy and sick and I'd prefer to go on Instagram than actually be a productive human. Anyhow, I got it out eventually, so that's what matters, right? Right?
Disclaimer: if I owned Star Trek, Spirk would be canon and Uhura would have her own TV show. As neither of those things are happening, it's safe to assume that I'm not the ghost of Gene Roddenberry (or whoever currently owns Star Trek [wait, can ghosts own things?]).
That night, Chekov finds himself tossing and turning in his bedroll, unable to rest in either body or spirit. His mind keeps replaying that odd scene with Sulu and Scotty - the third cigarette. Why was that making him anxious? Why does he feel that something terrible was about to happen?
"Chekov?" He starts slightly. He hadn't realised that Sulu was awake.
"Yes?"
He hears the other man shift in his bedroll. "You can't sleep, huh?"
"I...I am worried."
A shift, a sigh. "That's pretty normal for your first skirmish. The best thing you can do is get some sleep."
The advice seems redundant, but it's the best he'll get.
Chekov couldn't feel his fingers that morning for the cold. He hardly dares breathe as they creep through the forest, his rifle held ready and every nerve alight as they move. At any moment, they'll be spotted by a sentry and then the fighting will start, with all the blood and noise and chaos that accompanies it. But until then, they must be silent as they can possibly be.
A shout! A Romulan sentry has seen them, but before he can do more than cry out a bullet has left a tiny black spot on his forehead and he falls. Now here's the thick of the thing! No more crawling and creeping. Chekov is running, shooting, killing the Romulans before they can kill him. He has his orders; Scotty, Sulu, Kyle, and he, along with a few others, are to try and take the southernmost streets. So far, so good; a few Romulans have surrendered and are being held prisoner. Sulu leads them around the corner, checking the street. "Empty," he calls. "Let's go." He walks forwards, and a single gunshot rings out. Sulu falls, and Chekov knows he is dead. Nobody alive falls like that.
He feels a scream tear itself from his throat, and he dashed into the street, hell-bent on finding the Romulan and killing him. Something smacks into his shoulder, but he doesn't flinch. The shooter is sitting in the first-story window of a shop across the street, lifting his rifle to shoot again. Chekov lifts his own gun and shoots him, making him topple out the window and fall with an ugly crunch. Chekov shoots again, silencing the pitiful moan, and again, and again, over and over, channeling his rage from his friend's death into the bullets.
"That's enough, lad!" Scotty grabs Chekov's shoulder, jerking him out of the fury that threatens to consume him. "That's enough! He's dead. Dinnae waste your bullets." The Romulan's face is shot to pieces, a mess of blood and bone.
"The bastard killed Hikaru! He killed him!" He turns to Scotty, tears streaking down his face. The Scotsman drops his gun to grip Chekov's arms tightly, trying to ground him in the here and now.
"I know, lad. I know." He, too, has wet eyes, but he shakes Chekov slightly and then releases him, picking his rifle back up and stepping back a little. "You cannae bring him back, lad. But you can avenge him."
Chekov nods, the fury replaced by hatred - for Romulans, for this war, even for death itself. "I vill kill them. Let's go." He can't say much more than that.
The rest of the battle seems blurred to Chekov. It's all screams and gunshots and death, but they win in the end. It feels good in a horrible sort of way, to know that they've killed enough Romulans to make the rest surrender. He feels sick.
He's sitting by the brazier with Scotty that evening, eating hot beans with a bit of precious bacon stirred in, when he finally allows himself to stop being angry and start being sad. It's odd; one minute, he's quietly eating next to the Scotsman and watching the coals glow, and the next, he's sobbing into Scotty's shoulder and asking him why Hikaru has to die.
"War is a pointless, brutal thing, lad," Scotty murmurs into his curls, his breath warm in his scalp. "And death - ach, death is so unkind." His voice breaks a little, and he wraps both arms around Chekov, as if to keep him from breaking.
"You have lost someone?" Chekov murmurs into his shoulder once he has finished crying.
"Aye, lad. Lost a lot o' people. There was a pal o' mine - Keenser, his name was. We grew up together, and our first fight in th' trenches a stray bullet went right through his heart." His voice shakes a little, and he draws away from the Russian to put his hands on either side of the younger man's face. "Death is cruel, lad. Promise me ye'll live." An illogical statement, but Chekov nods anyway.
"I promise." And then, because he is exhausted from fighting and crying, and because Scotty is so kind and he's somehow beautiful in the firelight, he leans forward and presses a featherlight kiss to the other man's cheek.
Scotty freezes, and Chekov barely has time to feel icy dread that maybe he's done something wrong when he smiles and says gently, "I'll hold you to that promise."
That night, lying in his bedroll as he did barely twenty-four hours ago, Chekov sleeps. He's lost a friend that day, but he'll live.
He's made a promise.
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