Chapter 4

"Bistro."

Unnerved by the odd summons in Russian to enter, Chekov stepped into the cabin hesitantly. "You knew it was me," he stated when Spock appeared from within the sleeping area, a data padd in his hand.

"Stating the obvious is unnecessary, Ensign."

The younger man shifted uncomfortably. "I've never been to your cabin before, Sir. I would have thought it would at least be unexpected."

The First Officer titled his head slightly. "You have never felt the need to hide before, Ensign."

"I..." Chekov started, then straightened indignantly. "I am not hiding," he retorted. "It just seemed absurd to sit in the empty science labs waiting for you to come talk to me."

"Certainly more time consuming," Spock agreed. "However, that option does afford me the choice of not speaking to you at all."

The Navigator blinked, sudden irritation flaring in his dark eyes. "If you don't want to see me, you just had to say so, Sir."

"Ensign, sit down," came the calm order from the First Officer as he turned back toward the other room. "There is tea on the desk for you, as well as some tea biscuits. I know that you prefer strong black tea but I do not know your choice of sweeteners. Sugar will need to suffice on this occasion."

A quick glance told Chekov that the desk was, in fact, set as the Vulcan had described. He stood uncertainly for a long moment. The obvious preparation for a visit that wasn't planned was unsettling. Finally, he forced himself over to the desk and bent stiffly into the chair there. "You were expecting me," he maintained, not even trying to keep the note of accusation out of his voice.

Spock was still in the room, but his back was to the Ensign and he was writing on the data padd. "As I stated, since it is not within your usual behavior to be in my cabin it is likely that this is the last place anyone would look for you. It is, therefore, a logical place for you to choose to hide."

"Mr. Spock," Chekov pressed in a blatant challenge. "What would make you think I would want to hide?"

"Empathy."

The Navigator hesitated as he reached for a biscuit. "Empathy?" he repeated incredulously.

"Yes," the Vulcan confirmed as he continued to work on the data padd. "At times it offers the most logical way to predict the actions of Humans. In this situation, if I were Human–namely, you, Mr. Chekov," he said as he finally looked up from the data padd to regard the Ensign sedately. "I would want to hide."

"What exactly is it that I need to hide from?" the younger man demanded.

Spock raised an eyebrow, and Chekov got the distinct impression that the man was perturbed at the depth of the Ensign's apparent stupidity. "The crew."

Chekov balked, but by the time he had a retort the Science Officer was gone. He sat there seething for a few minutes but Spock never reappeared.

He gave in to his solitude finally, deciding to make use of his time by filling one of the porcelain cups from the matching tea pot. The brew was so strong that it looked like coffee–which was exactly the way he liked it. Taking several of the biscuits into a cloth napkin on his lap, he sat back with his tea and set his shoulders with determination, waiting defiantly for Spock to reappear.

It was a fruitless wait. He sat there so long he realized anyone else would have come to think they'd been dismissed. Chekov knew he would have sensed it if he were, however: Spock did not want, nor expect him, to leave.

The Navigator's resolve slowly ebbed away as the heat sank into his hands from the teacup. The warmth spread across his chest as he drank it and he started to feel comfortable–and foolish. He began to wonder why, in fact, he was there. He couldn't remember what–if anything–he wanted to talk to Spock about. Chekov eventually refilled the teacup.

"I don't think I ever pictured you as someone who could set a tea," he said. Although he was still alone in the room he wasn't surprised when Spock answered him.

"My mother is English. It is she who baked the tea biscuits."

The Navigator scowled and snapped one of the cookies in half. "That means you're English, Mr. Spock."

"I am Vulcan, Ensign."

"The Human part of you," he maintained irritably. "The Human part of you is English."

"I am Vulcan, Ensign."

Chekov chewed in silent resolve on the cookie, knowing that he'd never considered that Spock might have been treated to such decadent confections as a child. It was apparent that the First Officer's hearing, if nothing else, was Vulcan. "How long exactly is it that I am hiding for?"

"That would depend on a number of variable factors: including your intelligence, the depth of your stubbornness, and the scope of your passionate emotions."

Being alone, the Navigator allowed himself an indiscreet roll of the eyes. "I'm sure you've arrived at an estimation, given the amount of thought you've obviously put into this."

"Yes, Ensign: I have."

"And how long do you predict that I will be hiding here?"

"Despite my understanding of your situation, I must inform you that I do not desire a roommate, Mr. Chekov."

The Navigator glanced sharply at the room divider separating them, but he said nothing. Although he was irked by the man's words, he also knew that he was right. Had Chekov actually been hiding there, there wouldn't be a predictable end to the ploy. He fell silent again, drinking more tea and eating more cookies.

He began to wonder if Spock was going to journal the entire time he was there. That's what the Science Officer was doing: not working on some scientific problem, but journaling. Chekov somehow knew it as clearly as he knew his own name. He also knew that it must have been something the man's Human mother encouraged. Logs were specific, data orientated. Writing a journal encouraged you to explore what was going on in your mind, what you were feeling. The Navigator imagined what was being written down on the padd with his sense of fatalistic irony. "Mr. Chekov is still sitting in my cabin for no good reason, eating my cookies, drinking up the last of my mother's tea and preventing me from actually doing something useful with my extremely valuable and limited time..."

"Ribbitt."

Chekov froze, a cookie poised to be bitten at his lips.

"Ribbitt."

He lowered the cookie this time, twisting his head around, craning to see the man in the other room. "Sir, did you just..."

The First Officer appeared at the room divider, hands folded sedately behind his back and steady gaze fixed on the younger man.

The eyes were raw, blatant and unforgiving. Logic didn't allow any pretense of civility and whether Chekov knew what the man was thinking because of some telepathic sense or simply because he was good at reading people's eyes didn't matter. He heard the word again, silently: ribbitt...

The teacup in his hand shuddered and he got rid of the thing quickly, using it as an excuse to avert his eyes. It wasn't reasonable that Chekov would know why the man would say such an odd thing. Spock had known that he would, however, and he'd been waiting patiently to say it. The journaling had only been a distraction while he was waiting for the wildly emotional Russian to become a reasonable being again.

"I'm nobody," the First Officer stated. "Who are you?"

Chekov didn't turn to look at the older man: his familiar stance was etched there in his peripheral vision. It didn't give him the sense of all being right in the world as it usually did. This time it was a request, a directive.

"I'm nobody too," came his answer finally, his soft voice catching and stumbling over the words. He cleared his throat and took control of the raw, open thing that was his soul, finally forcing himself to look up and meet the Vulcan's gaze.

"Then there's two of us," Spock continued: his familiar, even pitch making the phrase sound warm.

Chekov smiled slightly as the man moved over to take the seat across the desk from him. He couldn't help it. There was so many other ways Spock could have broached the subject than to rely on the Navigator knowing a centuries-old American poem. In fact, it was so unlike him not to tackle it directly that the young man knew that the stalwart Vulcan hadn't searched for an appropriate reference in the computer banks. Spock had known that poem already. It touched him personally and when he quoted "Then there's two of us" he had actually meant it.

"My father was a prominent Ambassador with ties to the royal family. My mother was Human," Spock confirmed what Chekov was thinking. "It was impossible to be nobody while I was on Vulcan."

The Navigator returned the nod and picked up his cup of tea again. He didn't say anything. He didn't know what to say. Having the ship's First Officer reveal something so personal to him–to anybody–was as common and as likely as an unexpected supernova. It had the same effect on Chekov as that event would have had. Spock simply didn't talk about himself. He didn't talk about his family. He certainly didn't talk about his personal life.

Clearing his throat, Chekov looked up at the man to find him staring at him. He was waiting again. Waiting while the Navigator's thought processes reached their logical conclusion. The Vulcan wasn't the only one on the ship who guarded his personal background.

"I didn't go to space to be nobody," he informed Spock.

"If you had it would not be unacceptable."

"You don't go looking for something that you don't know exists, Mr. Spock." Chekov took another cookie but he didn't eat it. He simply held it, staring at it as he dragged his fingernail over it and sent crumbs tumbling into his lap. "Captain Kirk's father was a well-known captain. I've often thought that while he was at Starfleet functions, around Fleet personnel, he must have experienced the same thing as a child."

"It was not the same thing, Ensign."

Chekov wanted Spock to think it was the same thing. He wanted the First Officer to be like everyone else and drop the subject, thinking he understood the incomprehensible. The fact was, Spock did understand.

"No, it wasn't the same thing," the Navigator agreed. "When I was in Russia everyone knew me wherever I went. Political leaders, shopkeepers, school children: they all wanted to meet me, take my picture. My father says that I learned to smile for cameras before I learned to talk." He stopped, shifting uncomfortably at how egotistical he sounded. Chekov realized he had never said this aloud: even Sulu had seen it rather than heard about it. He took a moment to drink his tea.

"I didn't know–never even imagined–that any other life was possible until I went to the Academy. For the first time I wasn't recognized by everyone, I didn't have to be 'on' all the time. I could..." his voice drifted off. "Relax."

Chekov waited for an equivalent anecdote, even though he knew one wouldn't be coming. Spock had revealed as much as he needed to illustrate that he understood: nothing more.

"Posting to the Enterprise was literally beaming to another world," the Navigator continued. "No one recognizes me here except the people from Russia, and there's little chance of running into anyone unexpectedly. After a few weeks on board I realized I was doing something I'd never actually done before." Chekov shifted his eyes to his companion again and gave a rueful smile. "I was breathing. Mr. Spock, I don't remember ever breathing before I posted to this ship."

The First Officer inclined his head in a single nod of understanding. "I have noted that individuals in many species crave such notoriety: they desire to be known by all those they meet. It is especially prevalent in the Human species. I believe it gives them the illusion of being immortal."

Chuckling, the Ensign shook his head dismally. "And here I'm grateful that Pavel Andrieivich is dead. I like being Pavel Chekov. Sulu once told me 'no one smiles all the time': I told him 'Pavel Andrieivich does.'" He met Spock's gaze. "I don't suppose that was an issue on Vulcan for you."

"No, it was not."

The Navigator sighed again. "No one in Russia even knows my family name. I'm just 'Pavel, Andrie's son'."

"What name you choose to identify yourself with is immaterial. You shall always be Andrie's son, Ensign. That shaped who you are."

Chekov could hardly argue with Spock's logic. Throughout his entire life most people that met him assumed they knew him already. The ones that showed any interest in getting to know Pavel any better than they already did usually were only hoping to claim his friendship as a trophy. He had learned to be friendly to people and still not let them near him. If you wanted to be Chekov's friend you had to work to get to know him: work hard at it for a long time. He didn't consider it a noble quality he had, but it was the truth. He had simply become used to being known by those he met...and known only as Andrie's son.

"How dreary to be somebody," Spock said aloud as Chekov's thoughts trailed off.

The younger man sighed slightly and dutifully finished the poem. "How public, like a frog, to tell your name the livelong day to the admiring bog." He twisted his mouth up ruefully. "Ribbitt."

The Commander picked up a cookie and began eating it, which struck Chekov as an odd sight. Not as odd as the image of the man at high tea that appeared in his mind, nor as uncomfortable as the reason why Spock had chosen now to broach the subject of the Navigator's family.

"It is a logical choice for you to hide from the crew's initial reaction to your misrepresentation of your background," Spock said. "They will be more amenable given time."

The Navigator dropped his teacup on the desk in irritation and scowled at him. "I didn't lie to anyone."

"Mr. Chekov, you led the people on this ship to believe that you grew up in a rural peasant village..."

"I did!" he retorted.

Spock continued as if he hadn't spoken. "With parents that were file clerks in the dusty basement of an anonymous government office."

"They know we traveled," Chekov insisted, squirming in his chair. "I didn't lie!" he spat out again.

Spock's eyebrow raised, but Chekov didn't reward him with the further speech he was trying to evoke. "Your father is one of the top government officials in the Russian Federation. They have erected a statue in his honor."

"He made them take it down," the Navigator muttered irritably. He didn't have any illusion that it would interrupt the Commander's speech, however.

"Humans will interpret the misrepresentation as betrayal, Mr. Chekov. Humans do not react well to betrayal," he concluded.

"This wouldn't be a problem if Avdevyev and the others hadn't announced it to the whole dining hall," Chekov insisted with a bitter snarl. "They broke their promise!"

The Ensign saw Spock visibly hesitate instead of speaking. His eyebrows raised slowly as he cocked his head and regarded the younger man. "The crew is under the impression that your relationship with the other Russian citizens on board is a type of social club."

Chekov squirmed again and fixed his eyes on his empty teacup.

"Knowing they would recognize you, you have bonded them into silence to maintain your status as a nobody on this ship," the older man concluded.

"I wouldn't word it quite like that," the Navigator muttered.

Spock leaned forward, resting his elbows on the chair arms and clasping his hands together in front of him. "Ensign, I was unaware of the events you reference that occurred in the dining hall: and I believe those events are irrelevant. The crew will have already discovered the truth about your family background simply because you were very close to your father."

"I still am," Chekov said, perturbed. "What does that matter?"

"You spent a great deal of your time with him while in Russia. You traveled with him wherever he went. You even accompanied him to work on many occasions."

"I still don't see how that's relevant to the crew finding out that he's my father."

Spock raised his eyebrows, again giving the Navigator the impression that he was astounded by the depths of the younger man's stupidity. "You are in ninety-eight-point six percent of the stock footage being shown in relation to this news story."

Chekov froze into stone. "Ninety eight percent?"

"Ninety-eight point six."

He shifted and pulled the corner of his lip into his mouth to chew on it. "That's a lot, Mr. Spock."

"That figure is based on the news reports that I had time to review. It is inaccurate for the entire data pool available, but the crew knows, Mr. Chekov," Spock concluded. "They know."

The Science Officer was right, Chekov considered. Hiding was a logical course of action given the present circumstances.

"I can't stay here forever."

"I do not have that much tea," Spock confirmed. After a moment, he continued: "I was, however, in error in this instance. Ensign, you did not overestimate the gravity of what you did nor the scope of the problem it has caused. Your father is an extraordinary man, however, and will no doubt prosper whatever the outcome may be."

"I didn't realize you knew him, Mr. Spock."

The First Officer gave Chekov another look which seemed to be reevaluating his estimation of the younger man's intelligence. "I know the man his son has become," he stated.

Chekov's eyes widened and he sat back, regarding the man with blatant amusement.

Spock responded by giving him an unnerving stare. "Mr. Chekov, you were raised in what is quite possibly the worst circumstances for even adequate Human personality development. Even in these adverse conditions your father provided you with a sense of stability, moral accountability, social obligation, social etiquette, and strong ties to both family and community. Andrie ensured that you had a valid self-image and taught you to take responsibility for your actions."

Silently, the Navigator sat returning the older man's stare. The litany about his own character did little more than irritate him, but he didn't fail to notice the statement the First Officer had chosen to end it with. He shifted his jaw. "Mr. Spock, are you saying you that you've decided what I should do about my father's situation?"

Spock straightened. "No. I am saying that while you were growing up your father took care to provide you with everything you needed."

Somberly, the younger man nodded agreement. "Except one thing."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "What was it that you were lacking, Ensign?"

Chekov bit into another one of the tea biscuits. "A mother who could cook, Sir."