Russian Roulette; Chekov
Title: Russian Roulette
Character/Pairing(s): Chekov
Rating: PG
Summary: Chekov plays his first game of Russian Roulette when he is thirteen years old.
Notes/Warnings: I love Chekov. That boy is too cute to be legal. I also happen to love the way Russian roulette sounds.
Russian Roulette
Pavel Chekov played his first game of Russian roulette when he was thirteen years old.
He was never a very brave boy, and looked at the gun held out to him with fear and a sort of sick appreciation. It’s an old-fashioned revolver, made some time during the eighteenth century, still gleaming silver.
“Isn’t it an antique?” he asked the boy who handed it to him. “How do you know it still vorks? Isn’t it dangerous?”
“No,” said Aleksandr with an innocent smile, while his friends, who have surrounded them, snicker. “I’ve done it a thousand times. It’s a test of bravery. If you do it, you’re one of us.”
“Or you die.” Chekov felt obliged to remind the older boy of this fact. He’d never been very close with the sixteen-year-old, but he was the only one who bothered to even talk to him, as others of his age found him incomprehensible, and most of the older ones thought him pretentious.
Aleksandr shrugged. “Or you die. But don’t vorry about it. Just load, spin, aim and fire. Unless, of course, you’re still too scared.” The boys around them had laughed again, louder this time, and mocking. Chekov felt his ears turn red and his face heat up, both embarrassment and rising anger. Ignoring the logical part of his brain that was screaming there was a one in six chance that he could die and how those odds weren’t nearly small enough to take such a stupid risk-he took the revolver from Aleksandr, as carefully as if it was made of the finest glass.
“Did you put in the bullet?” he asked him, while Aleksandr’s friends looked on nervous excitement and anticipation. Aleksandr nodded, grinning.
“Just spin and aim, Pavel. Spin and aim.” Chekov set his jaw and did as he was told, heart pounding as he pressed the cool muzzle to his head.
He never got a chance to pull the trigger. His father spotted him from the window, and within seconds had sprinted across the street and wrenched the gun from his hands. Aleksandr and his gang bolted, and Chekov was subject to the worst boxing of the ears he had ever had, so hard that he could barely make out his father’s shouting.
However, it didn’t matter that he couldn’t hear his father, for the older Chekov, shaking with both anger and fear, made his point by aiming the revolver at a nearby tree and firing. Chekov found he was shaking as he stared at the tree branch that had been hit, split into sizable chunks of firewood, painfully aware that it could have been him.
“And that,” said his father, staring intently into the pale face of his son, “is vhy you need to use that goddamned brain of yours in places other than school. If you can’t apply any common sense outside of your books, vhat makes you think you’ll see eighteen? You’ll never have any idea vhat you missed. Don’t do anything this reckless ever again.” He returned to the house, leaving Chekov where he was, still staring listlessly at the wreckage before him.
Less than two days later, Chekov received news that he had been accepted to Starfleet Academy.
~
In the end, Chekov doesn’t follow his father’s advice as closely as he intended. He kept out of fights, he studied hard, but as soon as he boards the Enterprise, all of his father’s advice flies straight out of his head.
His success in saving Kirk and Sulu through his own intellect keeps it out.
Losing the Commander’s mother brings in back in full speed, and again he feels the same cold shock and horror he felt as he watched the revolver go off, and realized that he had been pressing the very same one to his temple.
It is pushed back briefly, but as soon as the Enterprise lands again it haunts him, makes him wonder and makes him ill.
When he is invited to join some of the crew at the bar and a few drinks have loosened his tongue, Chekov relates the experience to Sulu, who listens, doesn’t pass judgment, pointedly ignoring Kirk and Bones bickering besides him.
“I don’t get it,” says Chekov miserably, “I don’t. It’s the same all over again.” He downs his vodka in one draught, barely grimacing, and orders another.
“What’s the same? Losing the Commander’s mother?” asks Sulu, even though Chekov knows that Sulu knows exactly what he is trying to say. The younger man nods, unsmiling, staring gloomily into his glass.
“Chekov,” Sulu starts, “Don’t feel too badly about it-” He stops abruptly at the Chekov’s incredulous stare. “Well, okay feel badly about it-just, not as much?” He groans, annoyed with himself and angry at the fact that he is probably lowering Chekov’s spirits even more, instead of raising them.
“Look,” he begins again. “I’m grateful-very, very grateful-that you took the chance you had to save the Captain and myself, and I’m sure he’s the same way about it. No one else would’ve had the brains or the guts to try what you did. And the Commander’s mother-you were competing with a black hole and God knows what else to bring her on the ship. No one blames you for that, not the Captain, not the Vulcan elders, and most importantly, not even the Commander. You were trying to save her; you tried your hardest. That sort of action, that sort of risk doesn’t compare to some screwed up, bloodthirsty, juvenile prank.”
The sentiment doesn’t close up his guilt, but it softens it, and a very small smile tilts up the corners of Chekov’s mouth. “You think so?”
Sulu nods and takes a sip of his beer, his work done. “Absolutely. Adventures, are risky business. And with him as our Captain-” he inclines his head towards Kirk, who is rip-roaring drunk and clearly hell bent on a fight, while Doctor McCoy is just as hell bent on not having to work tonight, “There is a good chance that risks we might not have ever considered as a course of action, will become a fact of life. You might have got out of a physical game, Chekov, but now you’re stuck in a proverbial one. And proverbs can have a lot more kick-take it from someone who knows.”
Chekov can feel his tiny smile grow into a full fledged grin, both at Sulu’s words and the air of resigned inevitability around his person.
“A never-ending game of metaphorical Russian roulette,” he muses, before turning his grin on Sulu. “So long as I have my numbers and my wodka, I can play a few rounds of this one.”
“That’s good,” Sulu frowns suddenly. “How do you drink that stuff?”
“It’s wery simple once you get used to it-would you like to try?”
“I’d rather not.”
“You must, Sulu, it is hardly a risky endeavor-”
Watching as Sulu gingerly picks up the thimbleful of vodka he poured for him, Chekov feels much lighter. It appears that small risks, like revealing secrets and tasting vodka for the first time, serve to temper and soothe the larger risks he will soon be confronted with, make them less ominous.
Character/Pairing(s): Chekov
Rating: PG
Summary: Chekov plays his first game of Russian Roulette when he is thirteen years old.
Notes/Warnings: I love Chekov. That boy is too cute to be legal. I also happen to love the way Russian roulette sounds.
Russian Roulette
Pavel Chekov played his first game of Russian roulette when he was thirteen years old.
He was never a very brave boy, and looked at the gun held out to him with fear and a sort of sick appreciation. It’s an old-fashioned revolver, made some time during the eighteenth century, still gleaming silver.
“Isn’t it an antique?” he asked the boy who handed it to him. “How do you know it still vorks? Isn’t it dangerous?”
“No,” said Aleksandr with an innocent smile, while his friends, who have surrounded them, snicker. “I’ve done it a thousand times. It’s a test of bravery. If you do it, you’re one of us.”
“Or you die.” Chekov felt obliged to remind the older boy of this fact. He’d never been very close with the sixteen-year-old, but he was the only one who bothered to even talk to him, as others of his age found him incomprehensible, and most of the older ones thought him pretentious.
Aleksandr shrugged. “Or you die. But don’t vorry about it. Just load, spin, aim and fire. Unless, of course, you’re still too scared.” The boys around them had laughed again, louder this time, and mocking. Chekov felt his ears turn red and his face heat up, both embarrassment and rising anger. Ignoring the logical part of his brain that was screaming there was a one in six chance that he could die and how those odds weren’t nearly small enough to take such a stupid risk-he took the revolver from Aleksandr, as carefully as if it was made of the finest glass.
“Did you put in the bullet?” he asked him, while Aleksandr’s friends looked on nervous excitement and anticipation. Aleksandr nodded, grinning.
“Just spin and aim, Pavel. Spin and aim.” Chekov set his jaw and did as he was told, heart pounding as he pressed the cool muzzle to his head.
He never got a chance to pull the trigger. His father spotted him from the window, and within seconds had sprinted across the street and wrenched the gun from his hands. Aleksandr and his gang bolted, and Chekov was subject to the worst boxing of the ears he had ever had, so hard that he could barely make out his father’s shouting.
However, it didn’t matter that he couldn’t hear his father, for the older Chekov, shaking with both anger and fear, made his point by aiming the revolver at a nearby tree and firing. Chekov found he was shaking as he stared at the tree branch that had been hit, split into sizable chunks of firewood, painfully aware that it could have been him.
“And that,” said his father, staring intently into the pale face of his son, “is vhy you need to use that goddamned brain of yours in places other than school. If you can’t apply any common sense outside of your books, vhat makes you think you’ll see eighteen? You’ll never have any idea vhat you missed. Don’t do anything this reckless ever again.” He returned to the house, leaving Chekov where he was, still staring listlessly at the wreckage before him.
Less than two days later, Chekov received news that he had been accepted to Starfleet Academy.
~
In the end, Chekov doesn’t follow his father’s advice as closely as he intended. He kept out of fights, he studied hard, but as soon as he boards the Enterprise, all of his father’s advice flies straight out of his head.
His success in saving Kirk and Sulu through his own intellect keeps it out.
Losing the Commander’s mother brings in back in full speed, and again he feels the same cold shock and horror he felt as he watched the revolver go off, and realized that he had been pressing the very same one to his temple.
It is pushed back briefly, but as soon as the Enterprise lands again it haunts him, makes him wonder and makes him ill.
When he is invited to join some of the crew at the bar and a few drinks have loosened his tongue, Chekov relates the experience to Sulu, who listens, doesn’t pass judgment, pointedly ignoring Kirk and Bones bickering besides him.
“I don’t get it,” says Chekov miserably, “I don’t. It’s the same all over again.” He downs his vodka in one draught, barely grimacing, and orders another.
“What’s the same? Losing the Commander’s mother?” asks Sulu, even though Chekov knows that Sulu knows exactly what he is trying to say. The younger man nods, unsmiling, staring gloomily into his glass.
“Chekov,” Sulu starts, “Don’t feel too badly about it-” He stops abruptly at the Chekov’s incredulous stare. “Well, okay feel badly about it-just, not as much?” He groans, annoyed with himself and angry at the fact that he is probably lowering Chekov’s spirits even more, instead of raising them.
“Look,” he begins again. “I’m grateful-very, very grateful-that you took the chance you had to save the Captain and myself, and I’m sure he’s the same way about it. No one else would’ve had the brains or the guts to try what you did. And the Commander’s mother-you were competing with a black hole and God knows what else to bring her on the ship. No one blames you for that, not the Captain, not the Vulcan elders, and most importantly, not even the Commander. You were trying to save her; you tried your hardest. That sort of action, that sort of risk doesn’t compare to some screwed up, bloodthirsty, juvenile prank.”
The sentiment doesn’t close up his guilt, but it softens it, and a very small smile tilts up the corners of Chekov’s mouth. “You think so?”
Sulu nods and takes a sip of his beer, his work done. “Absolutely. Adventures, are risky business. And with him as our Captain-” he inclines his head towards Kirk, who is rip-roaring drunk and clearly hell bent on a fight, while Doctor McCoy is just as hell bent on not having to work tonight, “There is a good chance that risks we might not have ever considered as a course of action, will become a fact of life. You might have got out of a physical game, Chekov, but now you’re stuck in a proverbial one. And proverbs can have a lot more kick-take it from someone who knows.”
Chekov can feel his tiny smile grow into a full fledged grin, both at Sulu’s words and the air of resigned inevitability around his person.
“A never-ending game of metaphorical Russian roulette,” he muses, before turning his grin on Sulu. “So long as I have my numbers and my wodka, I can play a few rounds of this one.”
“That’s good,” Sulu frowns suddenly. “How do you drink that stuff?”
“It’s wery simple once you get used to it-would you like to try?”
“I’d rather not.”
“You must, Sulu, it is hardly a risky endeavor-”
Watching as Sulu gingerly picks up the thimbleful of vodka he poured for him, Chekov feels much lighter. It appears that small risks, like revealing secrets and tasting vodka for the first time, serve to temper and soothe the larger risks he will soon be confronted with, make them less ominous.