[Fic] You Eighteen Yet? [3/6]
You Eighteen Yet?
Third Time: 17.7
» Fandom: Star Trek (STXI Universe)
» Chapter Rating: T
» Classification(s): Humor, Romance, Action/Adventure
» Warnings: Language, Sexual Situations
» Pairing(s): Bones/Chekov
» Summary: Five times Bones asked the kid how old he was, and the one time he didn't have to. Cute and/or sexy times with the good doctor and his bit of Russian jailbait. Will contain mentions of other parings.
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Third Time: 17.7
"Ah'm gonna do it," Scotty insisted. In the course of the evening, his brogue had grown thick enough to spread on toast, and he swayed on his stool like a fisherman weathering rough seas. "Righ' now, an' no mistake."
As the Chief Medical Officer, McCoy was formally against risky behavior that might lead to substantial injury. As a friend, and a man with a few beers under his belt, he clapped his hand on Scotty's shoulder and said, "Go for it, man. I'll betcha none of Thiephan girls have ever seen a real highlander dance the barrels."
"S'righ'!" Scotty slurred with a grin. "Ah'll show 'em somethin'!" And the Scotsman slid off his seat and wobbled happily off into the crowd.
Uhura, who was sharing a table and a pitcher with them, watched him go with her chin on her folded arms. "How can you encourage him? He'll fall and crack his head open."
Bones eyed the cairns of empty shotglasses surrounding her and remarked, "You can't be doing so well yourself, Lieutenant."
She shot him a black look, just as the bar's central spotlights brightened and two burly men appeared rolling a massive black barrel out onto the floor. The crowd eddied around them in a confused mass, as the ubiquitous techno beats of the club petered out into silence. Scotty appeared from nowhere, jumping onto the lid with one surprisingly nimble hop. "I'll be damned," Bones said in admiration, as the bagpipes blared and Scotty began to move his feet, with a speed and precision that should not have been possible. The crowded floor stilled for a moment, a milling crush of confused clubhoppers unsure of what exactly to make of this new performer. Then someone started clapping to the beat, and in seconds, a chain reaction had set off the rest of the spectators in a spontaneous orgy of wild movement and whooping laughter.
Bones turned with a smirk to his bemused-looking tablemate. "Wanna dance?"
He lost her fairly quickly in the mess, as the natives seemed to think that the proper Scottish jig was equal parts jumping as high as you could and spinning very fast in circles. The dancers moved like excited electrons, centripetal force flinging them across the room and off of walls, into the arms of new partners. A slender body collided with his, and a cupid's bow mouth disconcertingly close to his own shouted, "Doctor!" above the din of the crowd and wailing fiddles.
"Vhat is Scotty doing?" Chekhov asked, grabbing Bones's hands and hopping in place like a rabbit. "It is like Russian Cossack dance! I vant to join!"
It would have been cute if it didn't look so damn stupid. The doctor rolled his eyes and whirled them around each other in a more classically recognized move, making the Russian laugh in delight. "There's hardly room up there for him, let alone you both," Bones told him.
"Zen I vill dance vith you!"
It was surprisingly fun. The kid was light on his feet and let him lead, which was more than Bones could say for his ex-wife. The room spun, the crowd reeled. The merry, rollicking ballad seemed to go on and on, the dancefloor in love with Scotty and the music and the moment the two created together. Bones danced with the Enterprise's runty little navigations officer, and enjoyed every second of it. When the rolling drumbeats finally stopped, the applause was immediate and deafening. Bones grinned down at Pavel, panting a bit, and the kid giggled breathlessly back at him.
A slower, more dreamy song started, and just as Bones opened his mouth to invite Chekhov back to their table the Russian cuddled into his chest, swaying slightly to the music. "Hey, come on. I'm tired." And this is a couple's song, you dolt.
He tried to back away, and realized that at some point the Russian had hooked fingers into the front pockets of his jeans and wasn't letting go. The boy looked up coyly through his lashes, and Bones let out a snort of surprised laughter. "How old are you again?"
Chekhov took that as permission to wind his arms up around the other's neck. "Approximately seventeen point seven, doctor. How old are you?"
Bones sighed in resigned annoyance, and allowed the embrace. In the background, a female vocalist began to sob about broken hearts. "Too old to be slow-dancing with a seventeen point seven-year-old."