Chapter 12

Sulu didn't notice he was talking to himself until they went to turn a corner. Or, more precisely, he went to turn a corner.

Turning, he saw that Chekov had stopped walking a good 20 feet back. He fixed his friend with a knowing look. You have to come out of hiding eventually...

He could tell by his uncomfortable shift that Chekov had heard the silent statement. "You owe the entire crew an apology," is what Sulu said aloud. "This is your time to do that."

Chekov looked horrified. "I don't think I owe the ENTIRE crew an apology."

Sulu paced back towards him. "The chef's station was serving meatloaf tonight," he explained. "Everyone knows the only reason it's put on the menu is because YOU love it and they all blame you. You owe the ENTIRE crew an apology."

That the chef had been participating in the "fix Chekov's mood" campaign was clear. There hadn't been fish served all week: the meatloaf would have just been a grand finale gesture.

"What's not to love?" Chekov insisted. "It is meat with a side of potatoes. With potatoes inside it."

"Everything. Everything is not to love." And, clearly, the man didn't know how to make meatloaf.

"It's my mother's recipe," the Navigator declared.

Touche', Sulu thought. Using the one fact that ended every sane man's complaint about a food: if only Sulu didn't know Chekov's mother.

"Now we know that's not true," Sulu stated: stopping in front of him, dark eyes steady on the younger man's. "No one's died from eating it."

Chekov burst out laughing despite himself: losing all grip on his hot-headed façade. Sulu grinned. It was a rehearsed routine: the easy back and forth of brothers who had spent far too long in each other's company.

As the laughter died away, Chekov stood there uncertainly. Sulu eyed him curiously.

"I don't know...who to be in there," he admitted.

Sulu had never heard anything so….Chekov…before. It was a genuine concern for someone who juggled so completely how they acted based on who they were with. A genuine concern for someone so adrift…and it grieved him. "You're Pavel Chekov."

"I don't feel entertaining."

It was an admission of an act he put on for his fellow crewmates.

Sulu nodded deeply in understanding: but he proposed a change. "Pavel Chekov doesn't need to be entertaining. He just needs to not be angry and miserable."

Their eyes met a long moment. 'Chekov - not funny and entertaining, not miserable and angry' was not a frame of reference that existed for either of them. Thinking about it, though: it was one that could be argued was known to the crew of the Enterprise.

Sulu realized that he was leaning into the younger man's defensive mechanism of quips. "Pavel Chekov is known as a talented officer and leader," he surmised honestly. "That's all they expect. You're Pavel Chekov," Sulu repeated. "You're just Pavel Chekov whose coworkers discovered baby pictures of you. Not the first person it's happened to, won't be the last."

"Is that all?" Chekov wavered.

"Just be glad the pictures didn't include the year you refused to wear clothes."

Chekov glared at him. "It wasn't a year!"

Sulu smiled. It was too easy for him to manipulate the younger man. "Do you want me to find those pictures to check? I'm sure I can."

"You're an ass."

"Not the first person who's told me that." He slid his arm around Chekov's shoulders. He walked: propelling his friend onward.

"It's midnight: the rec room will be nearly empty. You apologize to the few people, they spread the word: you're home free."

"What if I don't apologize?" Chekov proposed. He gave an exaggerated shrug. It's not like I'll be on the ship much longer.

Sulu's eyes widened and he gave Chekov his best "you better if you know what's good for you" big brother fixed stare.

"What? You are going to tell my father?"

Given their past experience, it was altogether possible that was Sulu's plan. "Absolutely not," he answered casually as they walked. "I'm going to tell the villagers. You have to go before them to change your passport already. Perfect time to deal with this bratty behavior. They're not going to just require an apology," he concluded.

Sulu watched the color slowly drain out of Chekov's face. A person could convince one other person that there were legitimate excuses for bad behavior: but there was no getting away with embarrassing an entire community.

"It'll be okay," he assured him as they stopped at the door to the rec room. "If you can't trust the crew you serve with, what are you doing here?"

Chekov didn't look persuaded.

Sulu stepped aside and swept his hand gallantly, motioning for Chekov to enter first.

"Just so you know," Chekov said thickly. "I feel like I am going to the gallows."

"Of course you do."

Chekov hesitated when the door opened. He glared at Sulu.

The Helmsman shrugged innocently

The main rec room – the largest space on the ship – was completely full of people. Sulu had known he was lying. Sure, on a normal day, late night in the rec deck would usually only see the people from the last shift winding down after their watch ended: but they were scheduled for shore leave on Earth tomorrow. No one could sleep.

Eyes were on the Helm Team immediately: quick glances of curiosity became stares. The reaction spread through the room like a wave. The sound level dropped several decibels as more and more people noticed them.

Sulu bristled. It was like being back in Russia again. Though the attention was on Chekov, he was receiving the adjacent interest. Just like in Russia. For the first time, he wasn't looking forward to being back on Earth. He couldn't imagine how Chekov was dealing with the possibility of it being a permanent assignment. At least I'm coming back.

Stealing his nerves, Sulu edged Chekov into the room. The Helmsman's eyes were instantly sweeping the room: identifying the different groups and noting the location of both exits and sturdy architectural features.

Son of a bitch! I'm NOT his bodyguard, he thought fiercely. At least not here, he corrected miserably. There was no denying now that the impulse to keep the younger man safe was fully ingrained into him: he just knew automatically when he had to turn it on. An impulse, he realized, for which Chekov had no 'not here' location any longer: no place he could 'turn it off'. Sulu followed the younger man's gaze to the group of Russians in a conversation pit.

Chekov glared at him knowingly. Of course they didn't just happen to be there: Sulu had advised them to show up.

"I will start there," Chekov said heavily when Sulu refused to apologize.

"See you after," Sulu watched Chekov making his way through the groups of people for a moment before he turned and acknowledged the laser-like glare emanating from the other side of the room. As Chekov went to the Russians, Sulu ruefully made his way through the flood of people to join Uhura's table.

"He's avoiding me," Uhura drawled without looking at him as she emptied her glass of wine.

"No, he's just dealing with the worst first."

She twisted her head to glare up at him.

He shrugged: an admission that he didn't know which apology was going to be more difficult. Pulling out a chair, he sat down next to Uhura and nodded a greeting to Chapel and Sarah, who were also seated at the table. As he knew both the Enterprise officers had been introduced to Sarah on Starbase 6 as Chekov's 'girlfriend', he suspected that their 'getting reacquainted' session had been an interesting one. More people discovering Chekov's secrets.

Riley appeared then, balancing a tray of drinks. Setting the tray down was a feat of engineering as one of his arms was in a sling.

Sulu should have known the chair with the empty glass belonged to Riley because of the sheer number of appetizers filling the table. Kevin Riley never did anything part way.

The man delivered fresh drinks to the three women and himself, then moved a glass of glass of Japanese Scotch Whiskey in front of Sulu. It left an ice-encrusted bottle of Russian vodka and an empty glass on the tray as he sat down.

Sulu grabbed an onion ring and dunked it in BBQ sauce.

"He's glaring at you," Chapel observed.

"I know."

He shoved the entire onion ring into his mouth. Even without looking, he could feel the glare from across the room. Clearly, Chekov had discovered that the chef hadn't served his favorite meal and he didn't really have to apologize to the ENTIRE crew…at least not for meatloaf.

"How long does it take him to apologize? Uhura asked with irritation.

Sulu smiled as he swallowed the onion ring. "I take it he's never apologized to you."

"No. Never needed to."

"It's a process. You'll see."

After reaching for a piece of vegetable from the deconstructed kabobs, Sulu shifted his eyes to Chekov.

The Navigator was standing with his backside balanced against the edge of a table while he spoke to a large group of people sitting facing him. He was animated, his hands and body engaging them deeply where his words and eyes failed.

Sulu gestured for Sarah to push the nachos closer to him. "First, there's explaining everything you've done wrong in precise detail, making sure to add anything that could be related. Then, there's taking responsibility for your complete failure as a Human being. Then, finally, the apology."

He chased down the beef, cheese, sour cream, jalapenos, and nacho with a swig of whiskey. Probably not the best choice, he considered as his eyes fell back on Chekov.

"After he apologizes, he'll share the actual news and, finally, he'll entertain them so they forget completely there was even a need for an apology." It was an epic skill level which, clearly, Sulu had studied. After all, it could come in handy someday.

Uhura watched Chekov for a moment, then shifted her eyes to Sulu studying Chekov. "You're the two Bobbsey Twins," she said as she tapped her fingernails on her wine glass. "We're not the Three Musketeers."

Her claim would have been disputed by anyone else on the ship. For as long as anyone could remember, the three friends had been referred to as the Three Musketeers. While they had other friends, the core three could invariably be found hanging out together and, invariably, attracted an outer ring of others. Chapel and Riley often, but there was no limit to who you'd find with them. Always, though, it was the core three: Uhura, Sulu, Chekov.

It wasn't any of them who'd given themselves the moniker: it was some random crewmember that had called them that and it had spread like wildfire. They had willingly – eagerly – embraced it. Was it Kirk? Sulu suddenly seemed to identify. Did they hear it first from the Captain?

Now, however, there was apparently a crack in the trio. A very natural, very Human surge of jealousy from Uhura feeling isolated and removed from their conglomerate. It wasn't petty. It was a reaction to being reminded that, despite the moniker, the friendship between the three wasn't an equal one. Sulu and Chekov had known each other for 7 years: they'd lived together for 5 of them. It was simply natural – not exclusionary – that Uhura didn't know either of them as well as they did each other.

Sulu's eyes fell to the ice-cold bottle of vodka Riley had set on the table. Glancing over to confirm who the bartender was, he shifted his gaze to Riley. "Did you tell them the vodka was for Chekov?"

"Of course I did," the man replied proudly. "I know he has his own special brand."

"He does," the Helmsman acknowledged. Grabbing the bottle, he filled the rocks glass sitting next to it. The bottle was already open and had no stopper: because once a bottle of Russian vodka was opened it had to be emptied. That tradition made the lack of stopper on the bottle perfectly reasonable.

He slid the drink over to Uhura.

She laughed and sipped on her wine.

Sulu nudged it closer to her. "We are the Three Musketeers."

She leaned back, balancing her glance in her hand, eyes sparkling. "And this is some kind of initiation?"

"Yes," Sulu agreed to her classification. "Drink Chekov's vodka," he urged.

He waited as she sat there studying him and, seeing he wasn't wavering, eventually decided to go along with the request. She sighed, sat forward, and exchanged her wine glass for the glass of vodka.

"You've got to toss it all back neat."

She hesitated again, her brow furrowing as she glared at him again.

Sulu nodded and urged her on with his best 'trust me' smile.

Taking a deep breath, Uhura squared her shoulders and downed the entire glass in one gulp.

She came up coughing and sputtering: as you'd expect of someone who just downed 3 shots of Russian vodka at once. It was also what you'd expect of someone who'd just downed something completely unexpected. She covered her mouth with a hand as she tried to recover: coughing and sputtering occasionally.

Sulu sipped on his drink and innocently ignored the look she was giving him.

She finally grabbed his arm with a death grip and glared at him with wide, demanding eyes. "Is that always…."

"Chekov's bottle of Russian vodka?" Sulu finished the thought as he took another sip. "Yes. When he orders a bottle from Niedel, that's always what he gets. He usually gets a couple extra glasses of vodka with it," Sulu reminded her. "And sometimes he only gets the glasses: no bottle."

Uhura spluttered into her hand again, but this time she was laughing.

A wide grin splitting his face, Sulu toasted her. Yes: their Russian friend's legendary tolerance for alcohol was certainly helped by the fact that an ice-cold bottle of vodka was indistinguishable from an ice-cold bottle of water. All it took was a bartender who cooperated in the deceit.

"Are they always like this?" Sarah asked, setting her bottle of beer down on the table.

"Absolutely." "Yes." Chapel and Riley answered in unison.

"Actually, they don't usually finish their sentences. We just ignore the Twin-speak," Chapel told her. "It's maddening but it's not worth the mental energy."

"He's finished," Sulu told Uhura. The group of people around Chekov were laughing.

She reached out and took his took his hand in hers. "How are you doing?"

He met her warm eyes with his own. "Hasn't been my favorite week." He squeezed her hand in gratitude before pulling it away as Chekov approached their table.

Uhura sat back in her chair, straightened her shoulders, and fixed her eyes on the Navigator. A grey cloud hung over her: her face deadly stone.

Chekov made no move to sit down. "I didn't tell you who my father was," he said evenly to her. "I didn't give you any clue of my family's place in Earth's government, I didn't share the most basic facts of my childhood"…

"STOP." Uhura exchanged a knowing look with Sulu: he had accurately described this process.

She stood up and leveled her eyes at Chekov. "I don't care who your father is. I don't care if you spent your entire childhood swabbing decks and making out with president's daughters."

Chekov looked horrified. 'I didn't…." he faltered. It was clear to him that she was angry with him: but now he didn't know why.

She folded her arms across her chest and looked like she'd been betrayed. "You told me you couldn't dance."

Chekov blinked.

Sulu smirked and pushed another onion ring into his mouth. They were growing cold, so it wasn't satisfying. Not nearly as satisfying as witnessing Chekov completely baffled by the conversation.

Uhura wasn't angry about Andrie. She didn't care that he'd never talked about his childhood. All she cared about…

"You told me you couldn't dance."

"I never said such a thing!" Chekov insisted. He looked around the room quickly, his eyes darting over the groups of people scattered around the room. He pointed dramatically – rudely – when he located the group of half-drunk dancers every late night in the rec deck produced.

"I can't dance like THAT," he said thickly. "I can…" His voice caught. This is where his brain told him to stop. It was the practiced lie of omission. He straightened his shoulders and steeled himself to break past the carefully constructed barrier. This was Uhura – the 3rd Musketeer…and his friends. Besides, everyone on the ship already knew better now.

"I can do choreographed dances," he told her. Even that was a lie...but it was close enough. "Folk dances, Ballroom, musical theater." He glanced over at the dancers again. "But not – whatever that is."

Uhura shifted her hips, the gleam in her eyes making it clear she wasn't done with him. "And you can sing."

Sulu chuckled, understanding suddenly where she was going with her ire.

"Maybe he can't sing," Riley declared energetically, interrupting whatever response Chekov had. He waited until all his companions turned to look at him. "We all know he could sing when he was a kid…but he was a kid!"

All five of them stared at him: frozen, waiting.

"Oh," Chapel suddenly said in understanding, turning to look at Uhura. "Puberty."

Disappointment traced over Uhura's face. She unfolded her arms and smoothed her hair back into place. "Puberty," she repeated to Sulu's questioning look. "Puberty ruins a lot of male voices. And all the footage we've seen is before that."

Riley was right. The footage of Chekov performing with the Navy or his family abruptly stopped when he was 14. A dedicated researcher could have found one or 2 clips when he was 15 or 17, but they were almost non-existent.

"That's what I said," Riley insisted. "Go ahead, sing," he prompted. "Do 'Whiskey in the Jar'!"

Chekov eyed him dimly. "Go ndéana an diabhal dréimire de chnámh do dhroma ag piocadh úll i ngairdín Ifrinn."

"I don't speak Irish," Riley shrugged.

"Shame on you." Chekov's voice was dark and even, as were his eyes fixed on the Lieutenant.

Riley visibly shuddered in response. Horror immediately flashed over Chekov, and he winced an apology to him.

"How many languages do you speak?" Uhura asked suddenly.

"I'm fluent in…"

"I'm the Communications Officer," she interrupted him. "I know what your record says you're fluent in. I'm asking you how many languages you can have a conversation in."

"I don't know." His answer was flat, honest.

Sulu nodded confirmation of Chekov's answer. Traveling the Earth nearly continually as a child, Chekov picked up the languages he was immersed in as they went along. It was the natural way children learned to speak any language. Some of the languages Chekov was nearly fluent in, some of them he was barely conversational in. No one had ever bothered to sit down with him and figure out what they were and how many: but there were at least dozens of languages he spoke that Sulu knew of. It might even be hundreds.

"Well, that's ridiculous," Uhura told Chekov. "You….WE should know."

Sulu pitied him. Uhura would be correcting that oversight.

"Chekov has a beautiful singing voice," Sulu interjected as he stood up. "And strong. A 2.9 octave range."

"Is he an alto?" Uhura asked him, as if Chekov wasn't standing right there.

Sulu shrugged as he stood up. "I don't even know what '2.9' means – it's a soundbite we have."

"I'm a tenor," the Navigator said tiredly.

Sulu moved around the table and, pulling a chair from an adjacent table, settled in it between Sarah and Riley. Completely and totally out of the firing range between the other two musketeers.

It didn't go unnoticed by Chekov: who shook his head at him in disproval. "Folk songs," he continued, turning to Uhura. "I sing folk songs. Space shanties. Sea shanties. Musical theater. Gospel."

It was more than Uhura could bear. "I have a gospel choir!" she suddenly declared. "We put on musicals...and all this time, my 'friend' has been sitting there watching as I struggled to find talent, to choreograph, to..." she finished by feigning a backhand to his face and growling with frustration.

Sulu smiled and drained the last of his whiskey out of his glass.

Chekov couldn't claim what he sang wasn't the stuff of rec room amusement: because it all was. Yes, the dancing that broke out was what you'd see in any local bar: but no one sang modern songs while unwinding from the stress of the day. There, in fact, was the problem. People who started the songs came to be relied on. If Deladis Kincaid showed up in the rec room, everyone knew they'd be singing Blue Grass before the night was over. Chekov had spent 17 years as that person.

"Folk songs and musical theater: sounds like a job." It was if Chapel had heard what Sulu was thinking.

"What about musical instruments?" Uhura pressed. "What musical instruments do you remember how to play?"

Sulu spun his empty glass on the table with the tips of his fingers. His protective instinct was kicking in. How much do I allow him to endure? Chekov didn't owe a complete confession to anyone.

"I can play most hand-held string instruments,' Chekov replied.

"Balalaika," Sulu detailed helpfully, eyes focused on the glass he was twirling. "Guitar. Banjo. Violin. Fiddle."

The violin and fiddle are the same instrument, Sulu heard Chekov's annoyed thought.

You play it differently.

"The concertina," Sulu commented aloud. "The snare drum."

Chekov nodded. "For marches," he elaborated.

"Is this what we're settling on?" Uhura asked, her eyes narrowing at him. "You do realize anyone can do a computer search for 'Andriech', correct?"

"Yes," he maintained fiercely. "That's it.

"This is worse than the interview to get into the Academy," he added in a mutter to anyone who would listen. "And the spoons," he added suddenly with enthusiasm. "I play killer spoons."

Uhura cocked her head sideways and glared at him in warning.

"I am very serious."

"He is," confirmed Sulu easily.

"What kinds of spoons?" Riley was on his feet, eyes shining. "I've seen this on videos," he rushed on to Chapel and Sarah. "It's amazing. What kinds of spoons? Large? Small? I'll get…."

Chekov glanced sharply in warning at Riley. "Kevin..."

"What about the bodhrán? Do you play the bodhrán?!"

"D'Artangian!" Chekov spat out, spinning to face Riley. He hesitated then, his eyes falling on the sling RIley had on his arm. "What happened to your arm?" he asked, subdued.

The Lieutenant shifted uncomfortably. "I broke it. Last week."

"Last week? Broke it?" Chekov said with genuine concern. "How on Earth did D'Artangian break his arm?"

Riley's face clouded then. "I am NOT one of the 3 musketeers. Stop calling me D'Artangian!"

"But you are," Chekov insisted, his accent thick.

All the lightness was gone from Riley's form, however: a heavy grey cloud settling on him.

"D'Artangian..."

Kevin's green eyes shot daggers at Uhura. "I am NOT one of the Three Musketeers!"

"No one even noticed," he fumed, looking from Sulu to Chekov to Uhura. "A whole week and no one noticed. No one cared!"

He stormed out.

"Kevin!" Uhura spluttered as he disappeared out the door. She spun around to her companions. "I..."

"Let me." Chekov sped after him, out into the corridor and around the corner. "Kevin!"

Riley stopped, but stood with his back to Chekov.

"I'm sorry!" the Navigator insisted. "I apologize that I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to be a friend to you. And that I managed to suck everyone else into my self-pity. I'm really good at that," Chekov admitted when Riley just continued to stand there with his back to him. "I just… it wasn't fair to you."

Shaking his head slowly, Riley finally turned. "It's okay," he said. "It's just – I'm not one of the 3 musketeers – you 3 are. So please stop saying I am. Don't call me D'Artagnan. That's all."

Chekov straightened, the shadow permeating Riley weighing heavy. "You've never read the 3 musketeers, have you?"

"I'm not really a reader."

"But the films? You've never seen one?" Chekov wasn't sure why he was asking, because it was clear that he hadn't.

Riley just saluted him and turned and strode away.

Chekov watched him until he vanished around the curve, then turned and went back into the rec room.

When he reached the table again, the mood was extremely subdued. "Turns out that our D'Artangan does not actually know the Three Musketeers story," he said with a note of disbelief.

The group was past Riley, however.

Uhura, seated again, shifted uncomfortably. "What Christine said... It didn't occur to me that all of this used to be your job and it's probably something you don't really enjoy because of that. I was being selfish thinking you were the answer to all my problems and you were holding out on me."

Chekov glanced over at Chapel: who looked self-satisfied with her brilliant insight. It was remarkably empathic.

He turned back to Uhura and settled the widest, most innocent brown eyes on her. "Nytoya," he asked, his accent thick. "Do I strike you as the kind of person who doesn't enjoy being the center of attention?"

Uhura began to answer, but then the 'little-boy eyes' deepened…and she just burst out laughing. She stood up again and gathered Chekov into a bear hug. His little boy imitation should have expected nothing less.

He returned the hug, but his eyes shifted up to look at Sulu across the table. The little boy in his eyes had been replaced by a wicked gleam: which spread into the most evil of grins.

The Helmsman dipped his head instantly to stare into his glass…with an intensity that should have magically filled it back up. Damn him…

Uhura pulled back and reached up to put her hand on the side of Chekov's face. "Sweetheart, why on Earth haven't you been in any of our shows?" she asked, perplexed.

With a blink, the innocent wide brown eyes she expected were gazing back at her. The Navigator simply pointed to Sulu. "He won't let me."

As if scripted in a movie, the entire group spun to look at Sulu. They waited.

Why is this glass so empty?

Sulu shifted uncomfortably and raised his eyes: touching each person until they came to rest on Uhura. The third of the musketeers was standing with her hand on her hip, staring at him with a blatant demand for explanation.

He sighed and sat back in his chair. He twirled the empty glass in his fingers. "You post photos and the performances on the forums, right?"

"Of course I do," she replied with a gesture of her hand. "The Enterprise, by far, has the best…." her voice trailed off as Sulu gestured dramatically in the air that she'd answered her own question.

Chekov sank into the chair in front of him, as if to slink out of the conversation entirely…but she glanced in confusion from one to the other of them.

"WHAT is the problem?" she demanded.

The Helmsman shrugged. "You share a video of Pavel starring as 'Peter Pan' and the whole galaxy knows what ship he's stationed on."

"Why is that a problem?" Uhura asked honestly. She didn't wait for an answer. "They all know now."

"Do they?" Sulu answered, not convinced. His eyes met Chekov's. Not that it really mattered now.

"It's not like he's the answer to our problems," Chapel insisted to Uhura. "He could sing and dance 7 – 9? - years ago. That doesn't just stay with you: you have to keep practicing."

Uhura winced in agreement. "Even staying fit doesn't exercise the same muscles. A dancer's body is an entirely unique thing," Uhura added, looking at Chekov. "You don't ever use the dance studio."

"If I used the dance studio, then people would know I can dance, wouldn't they?"

Chekov felt a shock of warning shoot through him like a bolt of lightning. He had just casually said that: like he was talking to family and not standing in the middle of a crowded rec room. His eyes shifted around his companions. These people were as close to family as one could get.

"The dance studio is hardly the only place on the ship where someone can practice dance. I can sing and dance," he added defensively. "Do you want me to do 10 pirouettes, a forward flip, and a Grand Jete?"

"No." It was Sulu who answered. "NO."

"Can you do an entrechat-douze?" Uhura asked eagerly.

"No. Do I look like Rudolf Nureyev?"

Despite the disappointment, Uhura pressed on. "When you say 'musical theater', that means…"

"Ballet, tap, jazz, modern, acrobatics…" He shrugged. "I can tap, spin, jump."

"That will be very useful," Uhura said. "We could do Man from La Mancha," she suggested to Chapel.

"Or The Music Man…"

"Camelot," Sarah offered with a wicked smile.

"Aladdin."

Chekov vaguely listened to the women as they prattled on planning what appeared to be the next 12 years of his off-duty life. He eyed the bottle on the table – and bemoaned that it wasn't vodka. Feeling Sulu's worried glance, he shifted his eyes over to him and gave him a reassuring, thin smile of permission.

"They've issued an arrest warrant." Sulu's voice cut through the excited chatter. Silence fell on the table like a stone. "The Russian government has issued an arrest warrant for Pavel," he repeated. "He reports as soon as we establish orbit tomorrow."

The chattering stopped.

"When did this happen?"

"About 5 minutes after he confessed."

They sat in silence a long moment, the heaviness sitting on them like an iron cloak. Pavel wasn't going to come back.

Finally, Uhura reached out to grasp Chekov's hand and sighed deeply, dramatically. "Well, that's it I guess. No chance now that someday we'd get really drunk at a party and end up…getting to know each other better. Just the drunken once, of course," she concluded.

"It happens," Chapel smiled ruefully. "All the time."

"There's still tonight," Sarah suggested helpfully.

Sulu shook his head dismally. "If only you didn't think he's physically repulsive, Nyota."

"Well, yes," Uhura sighed, patting Chekov's arm before pulling her hand away. "There is THAT."

"There are ways to correct that," Chapel suggested helpfully.

Sarah shook her head firmly. "There's not enough depilatory in the quadrant."

Chekov looked from one to the other in mock offense: mostly that Sarah had immediately known what Uhura's issue with him was. "I could keep most of my clothes on," he insisted.

Uhura just shook her head, squeezing his hand. "Oh, sweetheart: NO."

Then she burst out laughing, unable to maintain the serious facade. It tripped over the table until all 5 of them were laughing.

"Your loss," Chekov commented with a shrug.

"Tell me," Chapel asked Sarah, still grinning. "Was he always a gorilla?"

Sarah thought for a minute. "No: he started off more as a chimpanzee."

Chekov rolled his eyes elaborately at the renewed giggles, then looked at the wrist chronometer he was wearing.

"You have a date?" Uhura asked, the request for details in her tone.

"Pease asked him to dinner," Sulu supplied.

"The Cultural Anthropologist? In the middle of the night?"

"That feels like an interview, and it's not tonight," Ch*apology, he responded with his own apology. "After that role, she'll get muscle cramps if she doesn't work the next day," he explained.

Sulu nodded understanding and popped another dim sum into his mouth.

Chekov turned and began making his way out of the rec room. It was slow progress, as he was stopped by virtually everyone he passed with comments and questions.

"Sister?" Chapel asked Sulu. "I thought he was an only child."

"So did I," Sarah said. "Do I have another cousin?"

"Foster sister," Sulu explained.

"I thought his parents adopted her," Uhura commented.

Sulu froze. He had forgotten the story for his current surroundings. He shifted and gave Uhura a weak smile then, gesturing with a mozzarella stick as he expertly covered his mistake. "She's an orphan. His parents take care of her. I've never seen the actual paperwork."

He had seen the paperwork. It was in Chekov's safe on the ship.

And it had no mention of his parents on it.

"I need another drink," Sulu decided. He grabbed his glass and stood up, but then hesitated and glanced back at Uhura.

"Swing Kids," he advised. "It'll kill two birds with one stone: he'll have to teach people to Lindy Hop and Jitterbug – and then he'll have people to dance with in the rec room."

Chekov's blaming Sulu for not appearing in the ship's musical productions was just another of his half-truths. The Navigator was determined to not be known as 'the dancing Captain' just because his 'leg day' workouts involved dance steps instead of resistance machines - but Sulu's suggestion would likely be irresistible to the young man. At the moment, the only people in the universe he could swing dance with were his mother and Tatiana.

Uhura handed him her wine glass to refill, eyes bright. "So you think he's coming back."

Coming back? Chekov and he had spent endless hours restructuring the Russian Navy – or, more accurately, structuring it for the first time. But….had that made any difference in the eventual outcome?

"No," he replied. "I don't see any way he could."

She leveled dark, even eyes at him. "Well, then, Sir: we need to get you glasses."