Fic: Checkmate (1/1)
Title: Checkmate
Rating: R
Pairing: McCoy/Chekov
Word Count: 702
Summary: They await collision; they are ready to collide. For haldoor, who requested “McCoy/Chekov” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Spoilers for Star Trek XI (2009).
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For haldoor: Another one of those pairings where even when I'd looked at it being posted, I couldn't quite wrap my head around how I could ever make it work. I did try, though ;) Inspired entirely by the special features on the casting process included in the DVD release, in which there is mention of chess being played.
Checkmate
Most of them play chess on this ship, but no one plays chess like they do.
The traditionals play in black and white; they play in frosted glass and crystal - all of it in shades of grey. The pieces are ancient, scratched; worn and well-used, but stronger for it, better. They work in two dimensions, because it’s the pair of them that brings the game, the dance of it, to life, gives it depth - not the board, nor the pieces.
They are the pieces.
The bishops, for Chekov, are like the spires of Saint Basil's; the peaks, the molds and the falls, the swell of them all the way down - and he respects the pieces accordingly, with every small intimation of memory underpinning his strategy; every time his mother held his hand walking through the old Krásnaya plóshchad, every time his father knelt to pray. He could take over the world with his bishop, slashing across and marking the spots where needed; he could take over the world with the way he bites his lip, the way his eyes reflect, shimmer in the the soft protrusion, the globe of glass at the top of the piece. Something shines, gleams in those eyes - an old soul, like diamonds and dust.
The knights remind Leonard of a place he still thinks of as home, thought its fading - finally - into a place he once stayed, a place he once loved; home, now, is elusive, but he can see the shades of it in front of him, soft lights starting to coalesce, to guide his way. It’s faint, but it’s there, and for the first time in his life he wants to risk the unknown, to tread the road not taken; for the first time, he wants to see where it leads.
Slowly but surely, he will follow - up one and over two - canter after the light at the end of the tunnel; limited where his quarry is unfettered, unbound, making his way into oblivion.
Leonard plays a defensive game, protecting his king like he protects his trodden soul; careful, conservative, never giving more than he can compensate for, never yielding where he’s weak. Pavel, though; he plays with vigor, with grace, daring and forceful and without rhyme or reason - at least, not to the untrained eye - he plays with a passion, and unrestrained heart, and if he’s left wide open, vulnerable without recourse, you’d never notice - he doesn’t seem to mind.
Leonard sips bourbon as Chekov - his adversary, his opposition - his tempter; goddamn devil incarnate, an angel in disguise - laps little by little at the vodka in his glass, licks at lips full of fever, full of promise, and Leonard wonders whether those glistening drops of liquor could survive on a mouth so sweet, would last long enough to taste if his tongue ran across the smooth pillow of it, dove further and dragged, teased against smooth teeth.
Their games last hours, rarely finish before they’re needed elsewhere, before the world beckons; but the score never changes, so it’s really no matter. They’re both in check, when it comes right down to it; and they sway back and forth in its grasp - they only feed its fire, this thing waiting to spring upon them, waiting to swallow them whole. One wrong move, and stalemate; and no one wins in a world of might-have-beens, conjectures - they both live in worlds overcome by enough what-ifs to leave them behind here, of all places.
But one right move - just one - and winning won’t matter anymore.
They both see the opening, the last move they can make at the very same time, the decisive blow - that point of no return that will change this, change everything, in the space it takes for a heart to beat; to stop beating. It’s their only out, their only in - and neither remembers whose move it is anymore, like it would even make a difference.
They await collision; they are ready to collide.
Rating: R
Pairing: McCoy/Chekov
Word Count: 702
Summary: They await collision; they are ready to collide. For haldoor, who requested “McCoy/Chekov” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Spoilers for Star Trek XI (2009).
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For haldoor: Another one of those pairings where even when I'd looked at it being posted, I couldn't quite wrap my head around how I could ever make it work. I did try, though ;) Inspired entirely by the special features on the casting process included in the DVD release, in which there is mention of chess being played.
Checkmate
Most of them play chess on this ship, but no one plays chess like they do.
The traditionals play in black and white; they play in frosted glass and crystal - all of it in shades of grey. The pieces are ancient, scratched; worn and well-used, but stronger for it, better. They work in two dimensions, because it’s the pair of them that brings the game, the dance of it, to life, gives it depth - not the board, nor the pieces.
They are the pieces.
The bishops, for Chekov, are like the spires of Saint Basil's; the peaks, the molds and the falls, the swell of them all the way down - and he respects the pieces accordingly, with every small intimation of memory underpinning his strategy; every time his mother held his hand walking through the old Krásnaya plóshchad, every time his father knelt to pray. He could take over the world with his bishop, slashing across and marking the spots where needed; he could take over the world with the way he bites his lip, the way his eyes reflect, shimmer in the the soft protrusion, the globe of glass at the top of the piece. Something shines, gleams in those eyes - an old soul, like diamonds and dust.
The knights remind Leonard of a place he still thinks of as home, thought its fading - finally - into a place he once stayed, a place he once loved; home, now, is elusive, but he can see the shades of it in front of him, soft lights starting to coalesce, to guide his way. It’s faint, but it’s there, and for the first time in his life he wants to risk the unknown, to tread the road not taken; for the first time, he wants to see where it leads.
Slowly but surely, he will follow - up one and over two - canter after the light at the end of the tunnel; limited where his quarry is unfettered, unbound, making his way into oblivion.
Leonard plays a defensive game, protecting his king like he protects his trodden soul; careful, conservative, never giving more than he can compensate for, never yielding where he’s weak. Pavel, though; he plays with vigor, with grace, daring and forceful and without rhyme or reason - at least, not to the untrained eye - he plays with a passion, and unrestrained heart, and if he’s left wide open, vulnerable without recourse, you’d never notice - he doesn’t seem to mind.
Leonard sips bourbon as Chekov - his adversary, his opposition - his tempter; goddamn devil incarnate, an angel in disguise - laps little by little at the vodka in his glass, licks at lips full of fever, full of promise, and Leonard wonders whether those glistening drops of liquor could survive on a mouth so sweet, would last long enough to taste if his tongue ran across the smooth pillow of it, dove further and dragged, teased against smooth teeth.
Their games last hours, rarely finish before they’re needed elsewhere, before the world beckons; but the score never changes, so it’s really no matter. They’re both in check, when it comes right down to it; and they sway back and forth in its grasp - they only feed its fire, this thing waiting to spring upon them, waiting to swallow them whole. One wrong move, and stalemate; and no one wins in a world of might-have-beens, conjectures - they both live in worlds overcome by enough what-ifs to leave them behind here, of all places.
But one right move - just one - and winning won’t matter anymore.
They both see the opening, the last move they can make at the very same time, the decisive blow - that point of no return that will change this, change everything, in the space it takes for a heart to beat; to stop beating. It’s their only out, their only in - and neither remembers whose move it is anymore, like it would even make a difference.
They await collision; they are ready to collide.