Fic: "Grand Pas de Deux," Sulu/Chekov, Star Trek XI (Part 1/3)
Title: Grand Pas de Deux
Rating: NC-17
Status: Complete
Pairing/Characters: Sulu/Chekov. Also features Sulu/OFC; very brief mention of past Sulu/Kirk and Chekov/OMC; Sulu & Janice Rand BFFery.
Summary: Falling in love with Pavel Chekov, his daughter’s ballet teacher, is one of the most terrifying things Hikaru Sulu has ever done. Little does he realize that neither the attraction nor the terror are one-sided. Modern-day AU.
Author’s Note: Fill for this prompt on the kink meme: "Hikaru/Pavel AU. Hikaru is smitten over his daughter's ballet teacher, Pavel. He uses gets his daughter to ask Pavel personal questions and get in trouble so Hikaru has a reason to go up there." I wandered slightly far afield, but I think I got the meat of the prompt. Feedback is gratefully appreciated.
Hikaru Sulu flies up the community center stairs in three lanky-legged bounds, his heart beginning to flutter around wildly in his chest. Well, no - not beginning. This ridiculous fluttering has been with him all day, and it keeps getting worse as the time draws closer for him to pick up his daughter from ballet class.
The fluttering intensifies as Hikaru slips down the hallway and folds himself into the crowd of women that’s gathered outside the dance studio. Puzzled frowns and raised eyebrows greet him: even now, eight weeks into Demora’s ballet lessons, he’s still an object of curiosity. Among this group of parents Hikaru is the tallest, the youngest, the lone father, and one of only a handful who isn’t white. But then, he’d known he was going to stand out from the very first meeting when he enrolled Demora in the class. For his little girl’s happiness, it’s an easy bargain.
What Hikaru had not bargained for - what had completely blindsided him, in fact - was this damned fluttering.
He hasn’t had this kind of stupid-intense infatuation since he’d met Nami eight years ago, during a molecular biology course his senior year of college. Hikaru can still remember re-reading his notes after class and guessing at the precise points during the lecture when the vivacious teaching assistant must have smiled at him, just by seeing where his handwriting inexplicably trailed off. And if he and Nami had caused a minor campus scandal when their relationship hit the gossip mill - since, after all, she had broken off an engagement to a prominent professor in the English department in favor of an openly bisexual former student six years her junior - well, maybe that was when Hikaru had learned to ignore raised eyebrows.
For such a steady-as-you-go guy, you’ve got a pretty interesting dance card, Jim Kirk had always liked to tease. But then, he would know, having been on that dance card himself. Yeah, okay, so the curious stares hadn’t started with Nami. Being the dude who was screwing the all-American star point guard on the men’s basketball team had drawn its own share of attention.
Hikaru’s streak of unconventional partners had been a running joke back in college, but there’s nothing funny about it now. Because now, after five chaotic years, he’s finally established something like stability for himself and Demora. He’s got a steady income, having just renewed a contract with the community college that guarantees at least three more years of employment; Demora’s beginning to bond with a quartet of girls at school and her first-grade teacher regularly sends home positive reports; the flowers Hikaru’s cultivating in the backyard have become a source of supplemental money, now that he’s convinced Cupcake the local florist that he actually does know what he’s doing; and even the neighbors have stopped glaring at him, now that they’ve either forgotten about Nami’s public meltdowns or finally realized her husband had not driven her to them.
So Hikaru has worked too hard, sacrificed too much, swallowed too many indignities to ruin it all now. And yet -
It’s by a reflection in the dance studio’s floor-to-ceiling mirror that he spies Pavel Chekov stacking up floor mats, and that’s when the fluttering in Hikaru’s chest explodes into the nicest jolt. The ballet teacher’s encased his sleek frame in some thin, tight black material, scooped low enough at the neck to reveal delicate collarbones in the front and hint at strong shoulder blades in the back, loose gym pants slung low over his hips and swishing around his bare feet. His hair hangs in sweat-damp curls, and his face - Hikaru squints at the mirror, fascinated by every angle of its reflection, this porcelain Slavic doll whose features seem to have been permanently carved into an expression of droll mischief.
Hikaru suspects his own face must look a little pathetic right now, staring as he is into the dance studio while trying not to crane his neck too blatantly.
His contact with Mr. Chekov so far has been strictly parent and teacher: the initial flurry of introductions when he’d first enrolled Demora, the occasional phone call if she has to miss a class. But Mr. Chekov’s always uneasy when they talk, always seems to get all tangled up in his thick Russian accent, and then always goes into a terrible blush and stammers apologies over Hikaru’s attempts to reassure him that it’s fine. Eventually, having noticed that Mr. Chekov always seems to get tense and fidgety when he’s approached by any of the ballet parents, Hikaru concludes it’s best to hang back and not discomfit the obviously shy ballet teacher any further. Not least because he’s got no idea what he could hope to accomplish by approaching Mr. Chekov anyway.
Besides, Mr. Chekov’s far less shy with his students. Demora plainly adores him. And so if Hikaru can’t approach directly, he feels only a little sting of guilt at encouraging his daughter to ply the ballet teacher with questions Hikaru can’t ask himself.
From the information she’s relayed back, Hikaru has pieced together a basic sketch: Pavel Chekov had been born twenty-one years ago in what was then the USSR, the eldest child of a wealthy father and a ballerina mother. He had apparently inherited his mother’s skill, demonstrating a natural brilliance at ballet even as a young boy. As a result he had spent his childhood shuttling back and forth between Moscow and New York in increasingly prestigious ballet productions, right up until the age of seventeen, when he had dropped off the map without explanation.
The remaining details are left for Hikaru to fill in with daydreams, and he would die of embarrassment if anyone else knew just how many times a day he drifts off thinking about his daughter’s ballet teacher. His best friend - Janice Rand, the divorced psychotherapist who lives next door - would probably chuckle and tell Hikaru he’s subconsciously chosen a safe target of attraction. After all, there’s pretty much no chance that Mr. Chekov will actually return his silly infatuation; and therefore no chance that they’ll actually get involved with each other, and no chance for Hikaru to somehow repeat the trauma of his marriage.
“Daddy!” comes Demora’s gleeful shout.
His daughter races toward him out of the dance studio, ballet shoes and long black hair flapping over her shoulder in time with her rapid steps, her big grin instantly erasing all of Hikaru’s ruminations about his own love life.
“Hi, sweetie,” Hikaru says, kneeling down to catch her in a hug. He pulls back, still crouching and matching her grin with a distinctly silly-looking one of his own. “Did you have fun in class?”
“We got to do jumps today!” she answers, cheeks flushed. “And then Mr. Chekov showed us a movie, and the dancers were really good - they could almost jump across the whole stage! Daddy, do you think I can do that someday?”
“Pfft! Keep practice up and you’ll do even better,” Hikaru answers, chucking Demora on the chin, and this gets a huge round of giggles out of her. “You want to show me when we get home?”
“Yeah! Mr. Chekov says it’s really important to practice everything, even the things we don’t like.”
“Oh, does he? He’s right, you know. Especially the things you don’t like,” Hikaru answers. “C’mon. Are you hungry? It’s spaghetti and meatballs tonight-”
Still crouched before his daughter, Hikaru blinks a startled look up when he realizes Mr. Chekov is standing over them.
“Mr. Sulu,” Mr. Chekov says, his chin in a haughty lift. His shyness seems to have vanished completely.
“Er-” Hikaru answers, disengaging from Demora and rising to stand. He swallows hard, praying that his sudden nerves aren’t bad enough for his daughter to detect - or the other parents, for that matter, a few of whom have taken suspicious notice of his conversation with the ballet teacher. “Please, you can call me Hikaru, if you like.”
Mr. Chekov just sort of regards him for a long moment, totally unfazed by Hikaru’s slightly taller height. He wonders if he’s committed some cross-cultural breach of etiquette, since Mr. Chekov neither offers his own first name nor seems particularly interested in Hikaru’s.
“Of course. Hikaru,” he says with stiff congeniality. “I may please have a moment of your time?”
“Sure,” he answers, with a quick glance at his daughter. Demora’s crossed her arms, a silent dare for him to say no. “Yes, of course. I have time. Is there an issue?”
Mr. Chekov’s eyes narrow. “Perhaps you can tell me. Come, let us go to my office.”
Hikaru follows him around the corner from the dance studio, and a short way down the hall, definitely not watching the back-and-forth rhythm of the ballet teacher’s hips as he walks. Would you get a grip? he chides himself.
The office is windowless, closet-sized, with barely enough room for the bare workdesk and beat-up television set in the corner. Mr. Chekov shares this office with other part-time instructors, their specialties easy to guess from the mishmash cluttering the room: Broadway songbooks, ballet shoes, hockey sticks, board games, Carl Sagan paperbacks, dumbbells.
“Demora,” Mr. Chekov says. “Would you like to see a little more of the movie that we watched today?”
She beams. “Yeah!”
Mr. Chekov retrieves a cassette from the desk and slips it into the VCR, while Demora settles on the desk chair. The video flickers on mid-performance, and Hikaru’s briefly taken by the dancers’ perfect synchronization, twenty elaborate costumes moving at exactly the same moment. Then his eyes drift over to Demora’s face, and if he had ever doubted his daughter’s enthusiasm for ballet, her rapturous attention to the screen would put a firm end to that.
“Firebird?” he asks as they retreat out into the hallway, out of Demora’s earshot. As it leaves his mouth, Hikaru realizes this is probably not the most astute question he could have asked, given the dancer soaring across the stage in a flowing, gold-orange costume.
Mr. Chekov seems equally disdainful, his arms crossing and his spine a languid, defiant arch as he leans against the doorframe. When he’s in the crowd of mothers Hikaru feels tall, lanky; but now, smoothing down his tan slacks and blue sweater, he feels like a lumbering hulk compared to Mr. Chekov’s lithe frame.
“You wish to impress me somehow?” Mr. Chekov asks.
Hikaru blinks. “I’m sorry?”
“I am not stupid, you know.” Mr. Chekov’s eyes have narrowed, and the friendliness he’d shown in front of Demora has fallen away. “Demora told me something very interesting today. She said you have told her to ask about me?”
“I,” Hikaru gets out, and then grinds to a mortified halt.
The flutter in his chest has become a queasy plummet, as it dawns on him that he hasn’t concealed his attraction at all. Mr. Chekov probably thinks he’s some slobbering creep. That’s horrifying enough on its own, but not nearly as horrifying as the prospect that he’s gone and wrecked everything for Demora.
“Mr. Chekov, please,” he begins. “I- I know I’ve been inappropriate, and there’s no excuse. I accept whatever opinion you have of me, but please, for Demora’s sake-”
“Why don’t you let me tell you my opinions?” Mr. Chekov says. “Unless you would rather have me relay them through your daughter?”
Hikaru closes his eyes, humiliated. “All right. I’m sorry.”
“I do not understand people like you,” Mr. Chekov continues. “What kind of father could look at his own child and only see what is not good enough? Or do you actually think that your ambitions for her are healthy? Because I can tell you they are most certainly not. Do you see her watching the video now? Demora loves the ballet. But you will only make her hate it, and hate you. I doubt you even understand how much.”
Hikaru stares at the ballet teacher, not certain he’s heard correctly.
“My ambitions?” he repeats. “Wait. What exactly are we talking about?”
Mr. Chekov’s eyes flash. “Unbelievable,” he seethes. “My own father used the same trick, you know. Encouraging me to curry favor with the teachers so that I would receive more attention, better roles, better connections in the ballet world that would help me advance. This is your aim for Demora, yes? Did you think I would not notice such a tactic because of her young age?”
“Oh, my God.” Giddy with relief, it’s all Hikaru can do not to laugh. “You think I’m some kind of stage father?”
“You deny it?” Mr. Chekov asks, and shakes his head. “I have been dancing since I was a child, as you know, and I know this kind of parent well. You are one of these people who wishes to live through their child, yes? Except that unlike many of the other parents, you do not even contact me yourself. Is it because you think you are being clever, or because you simply do not have the nerve?”
“I- neither, because that’s not what I’m trying to do,” Hikaru splutters, still trying to figure out how this conversation had derailed into such surreal territory.
“What is most terrible of all is that your daughter loves this class. She does not need you to push her,” Mr. Chekov continues. “Demora has both skill and enthusiasm, and she will earn a good position in the dance recital without your help.”
Hikaru blinks. “Really?”
“Without your help!” Mr. Chekov emphasizes. “You are not listening! All her talent will be worth nothing if you crush her spirit. Which is exactly what will happen if you keep pushing her!”
“I’m not pushing her,” he answers. “I don’t know where you’re getting this from, but that isn’t what’s going on here.”
“Then what is?” Mr. Chekov crosses his arms. “Explain to me what I have apparently misunderstood.”
“It’s - “ he breaks off. It’s that I can’t believe the way I catch myself thinking about you? That even now, I’m kind of distracted by how fucking sexy you look when you’re angry? Indeed, Mr. Chekov’s skin is flushed hot, his lips sliding against each other in a disapproving pout. Hikaru closes his eyes, knowing that if he says any of this out loud, he really will wreck it all for his daughter. “I - can’t.”
“Hmph. As I thought.” Mr. Chekov looks him up and down, a silent accusation that lingers along Hikaru’s shoulders, his hips, his legs. “You are some kind of dancer, or athlete, yourself? I can tell by your posture, by the way you carry yourself. What is it?”
“Um.” His face warms. “Fencing? But that was way back in college.”
“I knew it,” Mr. Chekov mutters. “I could tell as soon as I saw you. But you never achieved any glory, yes? And so you have transferred your ambitions to your daughter now.”
“Hey, I won regionals,” Hikaru protests.
Mr. Chekov goes brighter red. “This is not a joke! We are talking about your child!” he says. “What would Demora’s mother say if I told her these things? Or is she complicit with you?”
And that -
-that kills every single one of the butterflies in Hikaru’s belly, and he straightens coldly.
His gaze flicks into the office, where Demora is thankfully absorbed in the video, before he leans in toward Mr. Chekov. “You haven’t asked Demora about her mother, have you?”
For the first time, Mr. Chekov falters. “N-no...”
“Good. And she better not ever tell me you have.” Hikaru stops, taking a deep breath, his shoulders thrown back in a sharp set. “You’re more than welcome to ask my wife what kind of father she thinks I am to Demora. And I would love nothing more than for her to be medically capable of answering you. Unfortunately, she isn’t, hasn’t been for several years now. Okay? Is that good enough for you, or should I bring a doctor’s note to prove it?”
“Medically-” Mr. Chekov draws back, his anger punctured by a pale horror. “Demora’s mother is ill?”
“Yes,” Hikaru answers tightly. “Listen. I am not some damn stage father, or whatever you think I am. But even so, my wife’s condition isn’t an excuse for me acting - weird. You’re right to be angry about that, and I won’t do it anymore.”
“Oh, I - oh…” Mr. Chekov says. “Mr. Sulu, I - I am so sorry. I did not realize -”
He pushes a hand through his hair. “Yeah. I know you didn’t.”
“What has happened to her?”
“Now you’re interested?” Hikaru snaps. “Forget it. It’s a private matter, so back off. And I’ll back off the things that are none of my business, and we can both just focus on making this class a happy experience for Demora, which truly is all I give a damn about. Deal?”
Mr. Chekov gives a little, broken-looking nod. “Yes,” he says, his eyes cast to the floor. “This is a deal.”
***
No longer does Hikaru cast his eyes into the ballet studio, hoping to eye Mr. Chekov. Now he hangs back in the crowd of mothers, grumpily reading and re-reading every flier and notice that’s pasted up on the bulletin board in the hallway, until Demora comes bounding out of class. She’s still happy and giggling when she emerges, still loves to chatter the entire drive home about how great Mr. Chekov is, at which Hikaru always smiles over gritted teeth.
At least he can console himself with the fact that Mr. Chekov has apparently kept to their “deal” and not allowed their argument to affect how he treats Demora. Which, as Hikaru reminds himself, is all that matters.
He’d be lying if he said he didn’t still fantasize about Pavel- think about how it would feel to work his lips apart with a slow kiss, to run his hands over those slim muscles, to spread those limber legs - but Hikaru’s now safely consigned such ideas to the realm of pure fantasy. To the never going to happen box at the back of his brain, sort of like how he vaguely wonders what it would be like to be a swashbuckler or an astronaut sometimes, except he doesn’t think about swinging a sword or flying in space when he’s alone in the big, cave-cold bedroom he used to share with Nami.
But really, Hikaru admits to himself, he had needed that cold splash of reality. How could he have even considered pursuing Mr. Chekov?
To begin with, he’s far too busy for such entanglements. In order to make time for someone else, Hikaru would have to give up on his backyard flowers, which would cost him money, or he’d have to cut back on his hospital visits to Nami, which would be unacceptable, or he’d have to cut back on his time with Demora, which would be completely unacceptable. And even if he could somehow spare the time, it wouldn’t be fair to Demora, who’s already been through enough upheaval at her young age, and who does not need her father trying some selfish romantic experiment. Besides, Hikaru knows Demora is already starting to get Where’s your mommy? questions at school. He won’t burden her with the obligation of explaining two daddies. And that’s assuming Mr. Chekov would even want to get involved with someone with a child, which someone so young and independent and worldly certainly would not.
So yes, Hikaru supposes he should thank Mr. Chekov for pissing him off.
Dimly, though, Hikaru suspects he’s not as rational about it as he’d like to be, because he can’t seem to stop replaying Mr. Chekov’s accusations in his head. Pushing her! She will hate you! They seep out of the back of his mind at the strangest times, when he’s driving to work or cooking dinner or grading a stack of tests. Hikaru finds himself stung deeper and hotter every time, dreaming up far crueler words he should have flung back at the ballet teacher in retaliation. As if he doesn’t already get a point-by-point review of everything wrong with his parenting skills during the monthly calls to Nami’s parents, or the tongue-clucking oh-you-poor-silly-father treatment during parent-teacher conferences. It’s humiliating enough coming from them. Coming from Pavel Chekov, it’s intolerable.
All of which sparks an extended rant directed at his neighbor Janice Rand one Saturday over their shared fence. Hikaru’s been tending to the plants in the backyard, and Janice is clutching armfuls of mint and basil he’s cut fresh for her, when she makes the innocent mistake of asking how he’s doing. Half an hour later she’s still clutching the mint and basil, and Hikaru’s too caught up in his righteous outrage to notice her glancing at her watch, shifting in her designer shoes, running an exasperated hand along her prim blonde bun, and edging back when he begins to gesticulate with the trimming shears still in hand.
“You know, Hikaru,” Janice finally breaks in, “for all you keep telling me this ballet teacher is an arrogant brat who doesn’t know what he’s talking about, you seem to have some pretty strong feelings invested in what he thinks of you.”
“My feelings-” Hikaru blusters. “Oh, come on, I’ve heard worse. It’s just - how could he say those things? How could he jump to that kind of conclusion about me?”
“Oh, okay.” Janice bites down on a chuckle. “You’ve made an incredibly convincing argument that this isn’t about your feelings.”
“It isn’t!” he says. “It’s just that I have to see this guy twice a week, and hear about him constantly, because Demora loves him. It’s like I can’t get away from him! Wouldn’t you find that aggravating?”
“Very aggravating,” she says. “So, is he cute?”
“What-” Hikaru huffs. “Okay, that’s not what this is about.”
“Is that a yes?”
He crosses his arms. “That question is - just - beyond irrelevant.”
“Oh,” Janice says with a raised eyebrow. “Really cute, then.”
Hikaru nearly stamps his foot. “Are you even listening? He said I’m a bad father! He said I was going to crush Demora’s spirit!”
“Uh huh,” she answers. “Totally not about your feelings.”
***
Hikaru maintains his silent aggravation with Mr. Chekov for another month. Maybe he’s hanging onto it for longer than he should. Maybe it means something that Mr. Chekov has begun hovering near the dance studio door when class is over, and that he peers out into the crowd of parents with a searching look, and that the look always comes to a stop on Hikaru with a hangdog, lip-biting intensity.
But Hikaru’s determined to hold up his end of the deal: nothing weird. So he makes it a point, during the rare moments when their eyes meet, to tighten his lips and look away. Deep down, he knows he’s just being pissy and immature, and even deeper down, he’s embarrassed at himself. But he’ll be damned if he lets this ballet teacher make a fool of him again.
The stalemate continues until one Thursday when Hikaru finds himself waiting for Demora for a little longer than usual.
And waiting.
And waiting.
And growing steadily more worried as he watches almost every other child in the class emerge from the dance studio and link up with their mothers. The crowd melts away one by one, until Hikaru’s left standing with three other parents. This isn’t like Demora, to be so late: usually, she’s one of the first to come racing out, eager to tell him all about that day’s lesson. Maybe Demora’s made a new friend in this class? Maybe she’s stayed behind to talk? Hikaru hopes so, but he’s hurrying toward the dance studio anyway, determined to check for himself.
There are three stragglers left, girls slipping out of ballet shoes and into sneakers, and not one of them is his daughter. Mr. Chekov isn’t in the dance studio today either, but any thought for him is obliterated by Hikaru’s heart-tripping realization that I have no idea where Demora is.
“Mr. Sulu,” says Mr. Chekov, having appeared behind him. Hikaru whirls, to find the ballet teacher holding up placating hands.
“Where is she?” he demands.
“Demora is in my office. She is all right.” Mr. Chekov takes him by the shoulder, urging him down the hallway. “Please, you must come.”
The fact that Mr. Chekov needs to specify she is all right only makes Hikaru fear the opposite. “What is she doing there?” His voice rises. “Did something happen?”
“There was… a disturbance today,” Mr. Chekov says as they hurry around the corner. “Two of the other girls were teasing Demora. I am sorry, I failed to see it sooner - I tried to stop it as soon as I did. But before I could, she, ah, struck one of them. In the face.”
Hikaru gapes. “You’re telling me my daughter hit someone?”
“She is not in trouble.” He pushes open the door to his office. “But I must warn you that she is very upset-”
The air goes out of Hikaru’s chest at the sight of her. Demora’s balled up on the chair, arms folded over her pink-stockinged knees, sniffling and swiping a hand over teary, blotched eyes. Someone’s draped an adult-sized gray sweater over her shoulders, which only makes her look tinier. Upon seeing her father in the doorway, her face twists in fresh distress.
“Daddy,” Demora wails, and seemingly can’t articulate anything past that.
“Oh, my God-” Hikaru says, rushing around the desk. “Demora, sweetie, what’s the matter?”
She practically lets herself fall into the arms he opens for her, and Hikaru sweeps her up and re-settles them on the chair, cradling Demora in his lap. There she burrows against him, her little fists knotting in his sweater, while he pulls her into a firm hug and holds her there. His eyes clamp shut when Demora convulses in renewed crying.
“Ssh, ssh,” he murmurs, stroking her back. “Okay, sweetie, okay. I’m here. No matter what, I’m here. What happened?”
Demora snuffles. “Two of the other girls, they were talking about Mommy,” she says, wavering. “They were making fun of her, and they said I was crazy just like she is.”
Hikaru’s eyes fall closed, his fingers tightening and his jaw working back and forth. It takes several deep breaths before he’s gotten control of the urge to get up and smash something. “They’re wrong,” he says. “You know they’re wrong, don’t you, Demora?”
She peers up at him fearfully, an I don’t know written all over her face.
“Are they doctors?” Hikaru says.
“…No,” Demora mumbles.
“Are they even very smart?”
This gets a little noise out of her, somewhere between a giggle and a sob. “No.”
“Then they don’t know anything.” He cups her face, thumbs away tears. “Demora, sometimes people are unhappy, so they say the meanest things they can think of, because they want everyone else to feel just as bad as they do. That’s all those girls were doing. They don’t know you, and they don’t know Mommy.”
“But… but what if they’re right?”
“They aren’t,” Hikaru says. Jesus, he’s still not ready for these conversations, no matter how much coaching he’s gotten from Janice. “Listen, Demora. I married Mommy, right?”
“Uh huh...”
“You know why?” he says. “Because I fell in love with her. She’s smart, and funny, and brave, and really kind to people. And that doesn’t change just because she’s sick, okay? You- you have everything that’s good about her. I love her, and I love you.”
The words sound like watery-thin consolation to Hikaru’s own ears. But they seem to calm Demora, even if they don’t erase the pained twist of her lips or the turmoil in her eyes. With a thoughtful finger in her mouth she settles into her father’s arms, and Hikaru wraps her in the fiercest embrace that he can. The gray sweater that she’d been given has fallen from Demora’s shoulders. He pulls it up around her, warm and snug, as if to make for her a cocoon. An ache for the time when Demora was an infant strikes Hikaru suddenly: back when she could not understand cruel words, back when he really could physically shield her from all harm. Now, the best Hikaru can hope is that the steady hand he strokes through her hair and the reassuring nonsense he murmurs near her ear will have even some small soothing effect.
Eventually, he remembers that he and Demora have not been alone for this conversation.
Mr. Chekov’s slotted himself between the door and its frame, like he’s pulled between the urge to stand guard and the urge to eavesdrop on their conversation. Certainly, he’s overheard everything. But his curly head is cast down, his mouth a sharp moody line, while shadows obscure the rest of his face.
Hikaru churns, resenting him for listening, unconsciously pulling Demora a little tighter against himself.
“Is that what happened?” he asks, low and cold.
Mr. Chekov turns, with heavy eyes falling first on Demora, before he lifts them to Hikaru. “It is accurate,” he answers.
“Then I want their names,” Hikaru says. “The girls who were teasing Demora.”
“They are no longer-“
“Their names. Now,” Hikaru barks. “Their parents are getting a call from me one way or another.”
“Ramona Lee and Carly Adams. I will provide their parents’ contact information for you.” Mr. Chekov ventures into the office toward them, his fingers skittering along the desk. “But I should first inform you that they will no longer bother Demora.”
Hikaru frowns. “What does that mean?”
“It means that after you go, I plan to call their parents myself. To inform them their daughters have been expelled from this class.”
“You-“ Hikaru says, drawing back in surprise. “What? Seriously?”
Mr. Chekov offers a patient smile. “Yes, seriously.”
“You would do that?”
“I would,” he answers. “And I am a private instructor, so I can.”
“But why? You...” Hikaru trails. You hate me? “You’re going to lose money, aren’t you?”
“Then I lose the money.” Mr. Chekov shrugs, with a wry tick of his lips. “I am overcharging for these lessons anyway.”
Hikaru grunts, a surprised laugh. “Well you just earned what I’m paying you, at least,” he says, and then with a hesitant narrow of his eyes: “You’re not... messing with me, somehow, are you?”
Mr. Chekov blinks, appearing mildly offended by the question, but after a moment he softens. “No, Mr. Sulu. I know we have had disagreements, but I would not do that to you.” He glances at Demora. “And especially not to her. Besides, I must tell you that Demora is not the first to be teased by these two particular girls. But today was unacceptable.”
“I - wow. I’m sorry. I’m not used to-” Hikaru breaks off. He leans down to Demora. “Did you hear that, sweetie? Those girls aren’t going to bother you anymore. Mr. Chekov’s going to ask them to leave, for being mean to you.”
Demora finally lifts her head, peeping up at him. “Really, Mr. Chekov?”
“Yes, really,” Mr. Chekov says. He leans down so that he’s at eye level with her, his normal droll deadpan melting away into a wide-open, boyish smile. The transformation makes Hikaru’s breath catch. “I don’t like having such mean people in my class, do you know this? I like to have nice people, like you. So, Demora, I would like you to keep coming back, because you are a very good girl and you practice hard. Do you want to come back?”
She nods, slow at first, then increasingly vigorous. “Yes,” she says. “I want to.”
“Good,” Mr. Chekov says. “Then I look forward to seeing you next week. You will keep practicing your stretches, yes?”
“Yeah,” Demora agrees, craning to look up at her father. “Is it okay?”
“Of course it is,” Hikaru says. “But listen, sweetie. You can’t hit people, even if you’re really angry. If anybody says anything mean to you, you have to go and tell an adult, like Mr. Chekov here. And you should always tell me.”
“Okay.” Demora’s quieting, and swipes at the last of her tears. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”
“It’s okay,” Hikaru says. It occurs to him that maybe he’s letting Demora off too easy. Maybe he’s a bad father after all, since there’s no way in hell he can bring himself to punish his little girl for socking someone in defense of her mother. Secretly, in fact, he’d sort of like to think Demora got that from his side of the family. But then, Nami had been no doormat herself.
“All right,” Hikaru says. Demora’s begun to squirm against his grip, and he helps her hop down to her feet. “Let’s go get your shoes, and then we’ll go home.”
They troop out of the office, Demora running ahead to the dance studio. Hikaru trails down the hall after her. With the immediate crisis having passed, he can’t help rubbing at his eyes and letting out a long, exhausted sigh.
Beside him, Mr. Chekov has slowed to keep pace. “I am sorry I could not do more.”
“You-" Hikaru clears his throat, embarrassed to realize that he doesn’t entirely trust his voice. “You did more than enough. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the way you’ve handled this.”
“I witnessed my own mother become very ill. I think it is an evil thing to make fun of.” Mr. Chekov admits this in a rush, and by the time Hikaru registers a startled look, he’s already hurried past the subject. “And anyway, although I wish it were not under these circumstances, I am glad for the opportunity to expel these two students. No, this is not a fair thing to say - it is not the girls’ fault. They cannot help how they are being raised. But their parents really do call me so often, both the mothers and fathers, seeming to think I can advance or favor their daughters somehow. And God help me if I suggest there may be behavior problems! I have begun to hate hearing the phone ring.” Chekov scratches at the back of his head. “You know, I did not anticipate how stressful it would be to teach.”
“Yeah.” A little chuckle breaks Hikaru’s dark mood. “I’ve gotten some pretty interesting phone calls myself. If it’s any consolation, the parents don’t always stop hovering once the student in question has turned eighteen. Or nineteen, or in some cases forty-three…”
“Oh...” Mr. Chekov laughs. “That’s right. Teaching is your profession, yes?”
“Yes,” Hikaru says. “Although to your credit, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t handle a class of six-year-olds. Much as I love my own.”
“Do I deserve such credit?” Mr. Chekov answers. “I wonder. I do not enforce the same discipline that my own instructors did. I think they would be appalled if they could see me now.”
“Well, I’m not,” Hikaru says. “Mr. Chekov, what you did for my daughter today - I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”
“You can call me Pavel, you know.”
“Oh.” A smile tugs at the edge of Hikaru’s mouth. “Pavel, then.”
“Yes.” He shifts on his feet, fingers coming together in a fidget. “But really, it - it is not so remarkable. I know quite well that this kind of situation, with her mother, is very difficult.”
“I’m sorry,” Hikaru offers. But upon seeing the tight pull of Mr. Chekov’s mouth and the quick shake of his head, realizes it’s best not to say any more. He takes a deep breath, and ventures: “With my wife, it’s - there’s an organic disease, in her brain. The dementia’s progressive and irreversible. She started to break down not long after Demora was born. About two years ago, it got bad enough that she had to be institutionalized. And Demora, she - she’s old enough to understand that something’s wrong with her mother, but not quite old enough to understand what. Hell, for that matter, there are a lot of things I still don’t understand-” He stops, letting out a sharp sigh. “Sorry. I don’t mean to dump our life story on you. It’s just that Demora’s been excited about ballet practically since she could walk. There are a lot of things she deserves to have, that she doesn’t. I can’t make up for all of those things, but this class at least seemed like one good thing I could give her. If those two girls had ruined it, I can’t tell you how devastating it would have been. So it’s - it’s very important that you’re not letting that happen.” Hikaru swallows. “And that you haven’t let me or my, uh, stupidity ruin it for her either.”
“Please, don’t.” Mr. Chekov casts his head down. “Mr. Sulu, I have been the stupid one.”
“You really haven’t-” Hikaru begins, but he’s distracted by the sight of Demora emerging from the dance studio in her sneakers and sweatpants. She’s not running, not grinning like she usually does.
Breaking off with an apologetic glance at Mr. Chekov, he hurries toward her.
“C’mon, sweetie,” Hikaru says, crouching and taking her shoulder gently. “Do you want to go home now?”
She nods, still subdued and untalkative, and he can’t help giving her a big tight hug. As they pull back Hikaru frowns, noticing she’s still carrying the gray sweater she’d been given.
“Whose sweater is that?” he asks.
“Oh,” Demora says, glancing down as if she’s just remembered it’s in her hands, and offering it to her father. “Mr. Chekov gave it to me.”
“Did he?” Hikaru says, and turns to the ballet teacher in surprise.
Mr. Chekov’s doing that haughty thing again, that disinterested look, but he seems faintly embarrassed. “It was lying around.”
“I see,” he says, handing the sweater back to him. He prompts Demora, “What do you say?”
“Thank you,” Demora says obediently.
“You are welcome,” Mr. Chekov answers. He leans down, focused on her, still skittish about meeting Hikaru’s eyes. “Demora, I will see you in class next week, yes?”
“Yeah.” Demora smiles, but it’s muted and unsteady. “Bye, Mr. Chekov.”
“Thank you,” Hikaru adds, emphatic. But Mr. Chekov is already retreating, waving as he disappears back down the hall.
Demora clings to her father’s hand as they make their way out into the parking lot, both of them quiet. Hikaru can’t seem to get a grip on his thoughts. He’s touched, almost paralyzed if he thinks about it long enough, by the kindness Pavel had shown. But mostly he’s heartsick for his little girl, knowing that no amount of soothing or spoiling or reassurance from either one of them will take away the hurt those bullying asshole girls had inflicted. Hikaru’s fist tightens, his teeth grinding, an anger that’s all the fiercer for how powerless it is.
Still, he puts on his most reassuring face as he gets Demora settled in the car. He’s just shut her door and headed back around to the driver’s side when he hears a shout.
“Mr. Sulu!” Mr. Chekov’s jogging through the parking lot. “Mr. Sulu, a moment, wait!”
The run has sent Mr. Chekov’s curls flying wild and reddened his cheeks, though he’s not remotely out of breath when he comes to a stop beside their car.
“Mr. Sulu,” he says, holding out a piece of paper. “You had requested the contact information for - ah, those parents?”
“Oh. Oh, yeah. Thank you.” Hikaru accepts it, temporarily cursing his absent-mindedness. But he gives Mr. Chekov a lopsided smile. “Call me Hikaru, remember?”
“Oh - yes.” Mr. Chekov’s mouth is stuck open, as if he’s faintly terrified of this information. He takes a few deep breaths, closes his eyes in a seeming effort to steel himself, and all but shoves a second piece of paper forward. “Then - Hikaru. I would like you to have this too.”
“What-?” Hikaru peers down at it in confusion. The Jumping Bean. Mon and Wed 5:30 a.m. - 3 p.m., Sat and Sun 7 a.m. - 5 p.m.
He looks up to find Mr. Chekov shyly shifting from foot to foot. “If you ever, ah, want a free cup of coffee,” he says, “this is my full-time job.”
Part 2
Rating: NC-17
Status: Complete
Pairing/Characters: Sulu/Chekov. Also features Sulu/OFC; very brief mention of past Sulu/Kirk and Chekov/OMC; Sulu & Janice Rand BFFery.
Summary: Falling in love with Pavel Chekov, his daughter’s ballet teacher, is one of the most terrifying things Hikaru Sulu has ever done. Little does he realize that neither the attraction nor the terror are one-sided. Modern-day AU.
Author’s Note: Fill for this prompt on the kink meme: "Hikaru/Pavel AU. Hikaru is smitten over his daughter's ballet teacher, Pavel. He uses gets his daughter to ask Pavel personal questions and get in trouble so Hikaru has a reason to go up there." I wandered slightly far afield, but I think I got the meat of the prompt. Feedback is gratefully appreciated.
Hikaru Sulu flies up the community center stairs in three lanky-legged bounds, his heart beginning to flutter around wildly in his chest. Well, no - not beginning. This ridiculous fluttering has been with him all day, and it keeps getting worse as the time draws closer for him to pick up his daughter from ballet class.
The fluttering intensifies as Hikaru slips down the hallway and folds himself into the crowd of women that’s gathered outside the dance studio. Puzzled frowns and raised eyebrows greet him: even now, eight weeks into Demora’s ballet lessons, he’s still an object of curiosity. Among this group of parents Hikaru is the tallest, the youngest, the lone father, and one of only a handful who isn’t white. But then, he’d known he was going to stand out from the very first meeting when he enrolled Demora in the class. For his little girl’s happiness, it’s an easy bargain.
What Hikaru had not bargained for - what had completely blindsided him, in fact - was this damned fluttering.
He hasn’t had this kind of stupid-intense infatuation since he’d met Nami eight years ago, during a molecular biology course his senior year of college. Hikaru can still remember re-reading his notes after class and guessing at the precise points during the lecture when the vivacious teaching assistant must have smiled at him, just by seeing where his handwriting inexplicably trailed off. And if he and Nami had caused a minor campus scandal when their relationship hit the gossip mill - since, after all, she had broken off an engagement to a prominent professor in the English department in favor of an openly bisexual former student six years her junior - well, maybe that was when Hikaru had learned to ignore raised eyebrows.
For such a steady-as-you-go guy, you’ve got a pretty interesting dance card, Jim Kirk had always liked to tease. But then, he would know, having been on that dance card himself. Yeah, okay, so the curious stares hadn’t started with Nami. Being the dude who was screwing the all-American star point guard on the men’s basketball team had drawn its own share of attention.
Hikaru’s streak of unconventional partners had been a running joke back in college, but there’s nothing funny about it now. Because now, after five chaotic years, he’s finally established something like stability for himself and Demora. He’s got a steady income, having just renewed a contract with the community college that guarantees at least three more years of employment; Demora’s beginning to bond with a quartet of girls at school and her first-grade teacher regularly sends home positive reports; the flowers Hikaru’s cultivating in the backyard have become a source of supplemental money, now that he’s convinced Cupcake the local florist that he actually does know what he’s doing; and even the neighbors have stopped glaring at him, now that they’ve either forgotten about Nami’s public meltdowns or finally realized her husband had not driven her to them.
So Hikaru has worked too hard, sacrificed too much, swallowed too many indignities to ruin it all now. And yet -
It’s by a reflection in the dance studio’s floor-to-ceiling mirror that he spies Pavel Chekov stacking up floor mats, and that’s when the fluttering in Hikaru’s chest explodes into the nicest jolt. The ballet teacher’s encased his sleek frame in some thin, tight black material, scooped low enough at the neck to reveal delicate collarbones in the front and hint at strong shoulder blades in the back, loose gym pants slung low over his hips and swishing around his bare feet. His hair hangs in sweat-damp curls, and his face - Hikaru squints at the mirror, fascinated by every angle of its reflection, this porcelain Slavic doll whose features seem to have been permanently carved into an expression of droll mischief.
Hikaru suspects his own face must look a little pathetic right now, staring as he is into the dance studio while trying not to crane his neck too blatantly.
His contact with Mr. Chekov so far has been strictly parent and teacher: the initial flurry of introductions when he’d first enrolled Demora, the occasional phone call if she has to miss a class. But Mr. Chekov’s always uneasy when they talk, always seems to get all tangled up in his thick Russian accent, and then always goes into a terrible blush and stammers apologies over Hikaru’s attempts to reassure him that it’s fine. Eventually, having noticed that Mr. Chekov always seems to get tense and fidgety when he’s approached by any of the ballet parents, Hikaru concludes it’s best to hang back and not discomfit the obviously shy ballet teacher any further. Not least because he’s got no idea what he could hope to accomplish by approaching Mr. Chekov anyway.
Besides, Mr. Chekov’s far less shy with his students. Demora plainly adores him. And so if Hikaru can’t approach directly, he feels only a little sting of guilt at encouraging his daughter to ply the ballet teacher with questions Hikaru can’t ask himself.
From the information she’s relayed back, Hikaru has pieced together a basic sketch: Pavel Chekov had been born twenty-one years ago in what was then the USSR, the eldest child of a wealthy father and a ballerina mother. He had apparently inherited his mother’s skill, demonstrating a natural brilliance at ballet even as a young boy. As a result he had spent his childhood shuttling back and forth between Moscow and New York in increasingly prestigious ballet productions, right up until the age of seventeen, when he had dropped off the map without explanation.
The remaining details are left for Hikaru to fill in with daydreams, and he would die of embarrassment if anyone else knew just how many times a day he drifts off thinking about his daughter’s ballet teacher. His best friend - Janice Rand, the divorced psychotherapist who lives next door - would probably chuckle and tell Hikaru he’s subconsciously chosen a safe target of attraction. After all, there’s pretty much no chance that Mr. Chekov will actually return his silly infatuation; and therefore no chance that they’ll actually get involved with each other, and no chance for Hikaru to somehow repeat the trauma of his marriage.
“Daddy!” comes Demora’s gleeful shout.
His daughter races toward him out of the dance studio, ballet shoes and long black hair flapping over her shoulder in time with her rapid steps, her big grin instantly erasing all of Hikaru’s ruminations about his own love life.
“Hi, sweetie,” Hikaru says, kneeling down to catch her in a hug. He pulls back, still crouching and matching her grin with a distinctly silly-looking one of his own. “Did you have fun in class?”
“We got to do jumps today!” she answers, cheeks flushed. “And then Mr. Chekov showed us a movie, and the dancers were really good - they could almost jump across the whole stage! Daddy, do you think I can do that someday?”
“Pfft! Keep practice up and you’ll do even better,” Hikaru answers, chucking Demora on the chin, and this gets a huge round of giggles out of her. “You want to show me when we get home?”
“Yeah! Mr. Chekov says it’s really important to practice everything, even the things we don’t like.”
“Oh, does he? He’s right, you know. Especially the things you don’t like,” Hikaru answers. “C’mon. Are you hungry? It’s spaghetti and meatballs tonight-”
Still crouched before his daughter, Hikaru blinks a startled look up when he realizes Mr. Chekov is standing over them.
“Mr. Sulu,” Mr. Chekov says, his chin in a haughty lift. His shyness seems to have vanished completely.
“Er-” Hikaru answers, disengaging from Demora and rising to stand. He swallows hard, praying that his sudden nerves aren’t bad enough for his daughter to detect - or the other parents, for that matter, a few of whom have taken suspicious notice of his conversation with the ballet teacher. “Please, you can call me Hikaru, if you like.”
Mr. Chekov just sort of regards him for a long moment, totally unfazed by Hikaru’s slightly taller height. He wonders if he’s committed some cross-cultural breach of etiquette, since Mr. Chekov neither offers his own first name nor seems particularly interested in Hikaru’s.
“Of course. Hikaru,” he says with stiff congeniality. “I may please have a moment of your time?”
“Sure,” he answers, with a quick glance at his daughter. Demora’s crossed her arms, a silent dare for him to say no. “Yes, of course. I have time. Is there an issue?”
Mr. Chekov’s eyes narrow. “Perhaps you can tell me. Come, let us go to my office.”
Hikaru follows him around the corner from the dance studio, and a short way down the hall, definitely not watching the back-and-forth rhythm of the ballet teacher’s hips as he walks. Would you get a grip? he chides himself.
The office is windowless, closet-sized, with barely enough room for the bare workdesk and beat-up television set in the corner. Mr. Chekov shares this office with other part-time instructors, their specialties easy to guess from the mishmash cluttering the room: Broadway songbooks, ballet shoes, hockey sticks, board games, Carl Sagan paperbacks, dumbbells.
“Demora,” Mr. Chekov says. “Would you like to see a little more of the movie that we watched today?”
She beams. “Yeah!”
Mr. Chekov retrieves a cassette from the desk and slips it into the VCR, while Demora settles on the desk chair. The video flickers on mid-performance, and Hikaru’s briefly taken by the dancers’ perfect synchronization, twenty elaborate costumes moving at exactly the same moment. Then his eyes drift over to Demora’s face, and if he had ever doubted his daughter’s enthusiasm for ballet, her rapturous attention to the screen would put a firm end to that.
“Firebird?” he asks as they retreat out into the hallway, out of Demora’s earshot. As it leaves his mouth, Hikaru realizes this is probably not the most astute question he could have asked, given the dancer soaring across the stage in a flowing, gold-orange costume.
Mr. Chekov seems equally disdainful, his arms crossing and his spine a languid, defiant arch as he leans against the doorframe. When he’s in the crowd of mothers Hikaru feels tall, lanky; but now, smoothing down his tan slacks and blue sweater, he feels like a lumbering hulk compared to Mr. Chekov’s lithe frame.
“You wish to impress me somehow?” Mr. Chekov asks.
Hikaru blinks. “I’m sorry?”
“I am not stupid, you know.” Mr. Chekov’s eyes have narrowed, and the friendliness he’d shown in front of Demora has fallen away. “Demora told me something very interesting today. She said you have told her to ask about me?”
“I,” Hikaru gets out, and then grinds to a mortified halt.
The flutter in his chest has become a queasy plummet, as it dawns on him that he hasn’t concealed his attraction at all. Mr. Chekov probably thinks he’s some slobbering creep. That’s horrifying enough on its own, but not nearly as horrifying as the prospect that he’s gone and wrecked everything for Demora.
“Mr. Chekov, please,” he begins. “I- I know I’ve been inappropriate, and there’s no excuse. I accept whatever opinion you have of me, but please, for Demora’s sake-”
“Why don’t you let me tell you my opinions?” Mr. Chekov says. “Unless you would rather have me relay them through your daughter?”
Hikaru closes his eyes, humiliated. “All right. I’m sorry.”
“I do not understand people like you,” Mr. Chekov continues. “What kind of father could look at his own child and only see what is not good enough? Or do you actually think that your ambitions for her are healthy? Because I can tell you they are most certainly not. Do you see her watching the video now? Demora loves the ballet. But you will only make her hate it, and hate you. I doubt you even understand how much.”
Hikaru stares at the ballet teacher, not certain he’s heard correctly.
“My ambitions?” he repeats. “Wait. What exactly are we talking about?”
Mr. Chekov’s eyes flash. “Unbelievable,” he seethes. “My own father used the same trick, you know. Encouraging me to curry favor with the teachers so that I would receive more attention, better roles, better connections in the ballet world that would help me advance. This is your aim for Demora, yes? Did you think I would not notice such a tactic because of her young age?”
“Oh, my God.” Giddy with relief, it’s all Hikaru can do not to laugh. “You think I’m some kind of stage father?”
“You deny it?” Mr. Chekov asks, and shakes his head. “I have been dancing since I was a child, as you know, and I know this kind of parent well. You are one of these people who wishes to live through their child, yes? Except that unlike many of the other parents, you do not even contact me yourself. Is it because you think you are being clever, or because you simply do not have the nerve?”
“I- neither, because that’s not what I’m trying to do,” Hikaru splutters, still trying to figure out how this conversation had derailed into such surreal territory.
“What is most terrible of all is that your daughter loves this class. She does not need you to push her,” Mr. Chekov continues. “Demora has both skill and enthusiasm, and she will earn a good position in the dance recital without your help.”
Hikaru blinks. “Really?”
“Without your help!” Mr. Chekov emphasizes. “You are not listening! All her talent will be worth nothing if you crush her spirit. Which is exactly what will happen if you keep pushing her!”
“I’m not pushing her,” he answers. “I don’t know where you’re getting this from, but that isn’t what’s going on here.”
“Then what is?” Mr. Chekov crosses his arms. “Explain to me what I have apparently misunderstood.”
“It’s - “ he breaks off. It’s that I can’t believe the way I catch myself thinking about you? That even now, I’m kind of distracted by how fucking sexy you look when you’re angry? Indeed, Mr. Chekov’s skin is flushed hot, his lips sliding against each other in a disapproving pout. Hikaru closes his eyes, knowing that if he says any of this out loud, he really will wreck it all for his daughter. “I - can’t.”
“Hmph. As I thought.” Mr. Chekov looks him up and down, a silent accusation that lingers along Hikaru’s shoulders, his hips, his legs. “You are some kind of dancer, or athlete, yourself? I can tell by your posture, by the way you carry yourself. What is it?”
“Um.” His face warms. “Fencing? But that was way back in college.”
“I knew it,” Mr. Chekov mutters. “I could tell as soon as I saw you. But you never achieved any glory, yes? And so you have transferred your ambitions to your daughter now.”
“Hey, I won regionals,” Hikaru protests.
Mr. Chekov goes brighter red. “This is not a joke! We are talking about your child!” he says. “What would Demora’s mother say if I told her these things? Or is she complicit with you?”
And that -
-that kills every single one of the butterflies in Hikaru’s belly, and he straightens coldly.
His gaze flicks into the office, where Demora is thankfully absorbed in the video, before he leans in toward Mr. Chekov. “You haven’t asked Demora about her mother, have you?”
For the first time, Mr. Chekov falters. “N-no...”
“Good. And she better not ever tell me you have.” Hikaru stops, taking a deep breath, his shoulders thrown back in a sharp set. “You’re more than welcome to ask my wife what kind of father she thinks I am to Demora. And I would love nothing more than for her to be medically capable of answering you. Unfortunately, she isn’t, hasn’t been for several years now. Okay? Is that good enough for you, or should I bring a doctor’s note to prove it?”
“Medically-” Mr. Chekov draws back, his anger punctured by a pale horror. “Demora’s mother is ill?”
“Yes,” Hikaru answers tightly. “Listen. I am not some damn stage father, or whatever you think I am. But even so, my wife’s condition isn’t an excuse for me acting - weird. You’re right to be angry about that, and I won’t do it anymore.”
“Oh, I - oh…” Mr. Chekov says. “Mr. Sulu, I - I am so sorry. I did not realize -”
He pushes a hand through his hair. “Yeah. I know you didn’t.”
“What has happened to her?”
“Now you’re interested?” Hikaru snaps. “Forget it. It’s a private matter, so back off. And I’ll back off the things that are none of my business, and we can both just focus on making this class a happy experience for Demora, which truly is all I give a damn about. Deal?”
Mr. Chekov gives a little, broken-looking nod. “Yes,” he says, his eyes cast to the floor. “This is a deal.”
***
No longer does Hikaru cast his eyes into the ballet studio, hoping to eye Mr. Chekov. Now he hangs back in the crowd of mothers, grumpily reading and re-reading every flier and notice that’s pasted up on the bulletin board in the hallway, until Demora comes bounding out of class. She’s still happy and giggling when she emerges, still loves to chatter the entire drive home about how great Mr. Chekov is, at which Hikaru always smiles over gritted teeth.
At least he can console himself with the fact that Mr. Chekov has apparently kept to their “deal” and not allowed their argument to affect how he treats Demora. Which, as Hikaru reminds himself, is all that matters.
He’d be lying if he said he didn’t still fantasize about Pavel- think about how it would feel to work his lips apart with a slow kiss, to run his hands over those slim muscles, to spread those limber legs - but Hikaru’s now safely consigned such ideas to the realm of pure fantasy. To the never going to happen box at the back of his brain, sort of like how he vaguely wonders what it would be like to be a swashbuckler or an astronaut sometimes, except he doesn’t think about swinging a sword or flying in space when he’s alone in the big, cave-cold bedroom he used to share with Nami.
But really, Hikaru admits to himself, he had needed that cold splash of reality. How could he have even considered pursuing Mr. Chekov?
To begin with, he’s far too busy for such entanglements. In order to make time for someone else, Hikaru would have to give up on his backyard flowers, which would cost him money, or he’d have to cut back on his hospital visits to Nami, which would be unacceptable, or he’d have to cut back on his time with Demora, which would be completely unacceptable. And even if he could somehow spare the time, it wouldn’t be fair to Demora, who’s already been through enough upheaval at her young age, and who does not need her father trying some selfish romantic experiment. Besides, Hikaru knows Demora is already starting to get Where’s your mommy? questions at school. He won’t burden her with the obligation of explaining two daddies. And that’s assuming Mr. Chekov would even want to get involved with someone with a child, which someone so young and independent and worldly certainly would not.
So yes, Hikaru supposes he should thank Mr. Chekov for pissing him off.
Dimly, though, Hikaru suspects he’s not as rational about it as he’d like to be, because he can’t seem to stop replaying Mr. Chekov’s accusations in his head. Pushing her! She will hate you! They seep out of the back of his mind at the strangest times, when he’s driving to work or cooking dinner or grading a stack of tests. Hikaru finds himself stung deeper and hotter every time, dreaming up far crueler words he should have flung back at the ballet teacher in retaliation. As if he doesn’t already get a point-by-point review of everything wrong with his parenting skills during the monthly calls to Nami’s parents, or the tongue-clucking oh-you-poor-silly-father treatment during parent-teacher conferences. It’s humiliating enough coming from them. Coming from Pavel Chekov, it’s intolerable.
All of which sparks an extended rant directed at his neighbor Janice Rand one Saturday over their shared fence. Hikaru’s been tending to the plants in the backyard, and Janice is clutching armfuls of mint and basil he’s cut fresh for her, when she makes the innocent mistake of asking how he’s doing. Half an hour later she’s still clutching the mint and basil, and Hikaru’s too caught up in his righteous outrage to notice her glancing at her watch, shifting in her designer shoes, running an exasperated hand along her prim blonde bun, and edging back when he begins to gesticulate with the trimming shears still in hand.
“You know, Hikaru,” Janice finally breaks in, “for all you keep telling me this ballet teacher is an arrogant brat who doesn’t know what he’s talking about, you seem to have some pretty strong feelings invested in what he thinks of you.”
“My feelings-” Hikaru blusters. “Oh, come on, I’ve heard worse. It’s just - how could he say those things? How could he jump to that kind of conclusion about me?”
“Oh, okay.” Janice bites down on a chuckle. “You’ve made an incredibly convincing argument that this isn’t about your feelings.”
“It isn’t!” he says. “It’s just that I have to see this guy twice a week, and hear about him constantly, because Demora loves him. It’s like I can’t get away from him! Wouldn’t you find that aggravating?”
“Very aggravating,” she says. “So, is he cute?”
“What-” Hikaru huffs. “Okay, that’s not what this is about.”
“Is that a yes?”
He crosses his arms. “That question is - just - beyond irrelevant.”
“Oh,” Janice says with a raised eyebrow. “Really cute, then.”
Hikaru nearly stamps his foot. “Are you even listening? He said I’m a bad father! He said I was going to crush Demora’s spirit!”
“Uh huh,” she answers. “Totally not about your feelings.”
***
Hikaru maintains his silent aggravation with Mr. Chekov for another month. Maybe he’s hanging onto it for longer than he should. Maybe it means something that Mr. Chekov has begun hovering near the dance studio door when class is over, and that he peers out into the crowd of parents with a searching look, and that the look always comes to a stop on Hikaru with a hangdog, lip-biting intensity.
But Hikaru’s determined to hold up his end of the deal: nothing weird. So he makes it a point, during the rare moments when their eyes meet, to tighten his lips and look away. Deep down, he knows he’s just being pissy and immature, and even deeper down, he’s embarrassed at himself. But he’ll be damned if he lets this ballet teacher make a fool of him again.
The stalemate continues until one Thursday when Hikaru finds himself waiting for Demora for a little longer than usual.
And waiting.
And waiting.
And growing steadily more worried as he watches almost every other child in the class emerge from the dance studio and link up with their mothers. The crowd melts away one by one, until Hikaru’s left standing with three other parents. This isn’t like Demora, to be so late: usually, she’s one of the first to come racing out, eager to tell him all about that day’s lesson. Maybe Demora’s made a new friend in this class? Maybe she’s stayed behind to talk? Hikaru hopes so, but he’s hurrying toward the dance studio anyway, determined to check for himself.
There are three stragglers left, girls slipping out of ballet shoes and into sneakers, and not one of them is his daughter. Mr. Chekov isn’t in the dance studio today either, but any thought for him is obliterated by Hikaru’s heart-tripping realization that I have no idea where Demora is.
“Mr. Sulu,” says Mr. Chekov, having appeared behind him. Hikaru whirls, to find the ballet teacher holding up placating hands.
“Where is she?” he demands.
“Demora is in my office. She is all right.” Mr. Chekov takes him by the shoulder, urging him down the hallway. “Please, you must come.”
The fact that Mr. Chekov needs to specify she is all right only makes Hikaru fear the opposite. “What is she doing there?” His voice rises. “Did something happen?”
“There was… a disturbance today,” Mr. Chekov says as they hurry around the corner. “Two of the other girls were teasing Demora. I am sorry, I failed to see it sooner - I tried to stop it as soon as I did. But before I could, she, ah, struck one of them. In the face.”
Hikaru gapes. “You’re telling me my daughter hit someone?”
“She is not in trouble.” He pushes open the door to his office. “But I must warn you that she is very upset-”
The air goes out of Hikaru’s chest at the sight of her. Demora’s balled up on the chair, arms folded over her pink-stockinged knees, sniffling and swiping a hand over teary, blotched eyes. Someone’s draped an adult-sized gray sweater over her shoulders, which only makes her look tinier. Upon seeing her father in the doorway, her face twists in fresh distress.
“Daddy,” Demora wails, and seemingly can’t articulate anything past that.
“Oh, my God-” Hikaru says, rushing around the desk. “Demora, sweetie, what’s the matter?”
She practically lets herself fall into the arms he opens for her, and Hikaru sweeps her up and re-settles them on the chair, cradling Demora in his lap. There she burrows against him, her little fists knotting in his sweater, while he pulls her into a firm hug and holds her there. His eyes clamp shut when Demora convulses in renewed crying.
“Ssh, ssh,” he murmurs, stroking her back. “Okay, sweetie, okay. I’m here. No matter what, I’m here. What happened?”
Demora snuffles. “Two of the other girls, they were talking about Mommy,” she says, wavering. “They were making fun of her, and they said I was crazy just like she is.”
Hikaru’s eyes fall closed, his fingers tightening and his jaw working back and forth. It takes several deep breaths before he’s gotten control of the urge to get up and smash something. “They’re wrong,” he says. “You know they’re wrong, don’t you, Demora?”
She peers up at him fearfully, an I don’t know written all over her face.
“Are they doctors?” Hikaru says.
“…No,” Demora mumbles.
“Are they even very smart?”
This gets a little noise out of her, somewhere between a giggle and a sob. “No.”
“Then they don’t know anything.” He cups her face, thumbs away tears. “Demora, sometimes people are unhappy, so they say the meanest things they can think of, because they want everyone else to feel just as bad as they do. That’s all those girls were doing. They don’t know you, and they don’t know Mommy.”
“But… but what if they’re right?”
“They aren’t,” Hikaru says. Jesus, he’s still not ready for these conversations, no matter how much coaching he’s gotten from Janice. “Listen, Demora. I married Mommy, right?”
“Uh huh...”
“You know why?” he says. “Because I fell in love with her. She’s smart, and funny, and brave, and really kind to people. And that doesn’t change just because she’s sick, okay? You- you have everything that’s good about her. I love her, and I love you.”
The words sound like watery-thin consolation to Hikaru’s own ears. But they seem to calm Demora, even if they don’t erase the pained twist of her lips or the turmoil in her eyes. With a thoughtful finger in her mouth she settles into her father’s arms, and Hikaru wraps her in the fiercest embrace that he can. The gray sweater that she’d been given has fallen from Demora’s shoulders. He pulls it up around her, warm and snug, as if to make for her a cocoon. An ache for the time when Demora was an infant strikes Hikaru suddenly: back when she could not understand cruel words, back when he really could physically shield her from all harm. Now, the best Hikaru can hope is that the steady hand he strokes through her hair and the reassuring nonsense he murmurs near her ear will have even some small soothing effect.
Eventually, he remembers that he and Demora have not been alone for this conversation.
Mr. Chekov’s slotted himself between the door and its frame, like he’s pulled between the urge to stand guard and the urge to eavesdrop on their conversation. Certainly, he’s overheard everything. But his curly head is cast down, his mouth a sharp moody line, while shadows obscure the rest of his face.
Hikaru churns, resenting him for listening, unconsciously pulling Demora a little tighter against himself.
“Is that what happened?” he asks, low and cold.
Mr. Chekov turns, with heavy eyes falling first on Demora, before he lifts them to Hikaru. “It is accurate,” he answers.
“Then I want their names,” Hikaru says. “The girls who were teasing Demora.”
“They are no longer-“
“Their names. Now,” Hikaru barks. “Their parents are getting a call from me one way or another.”
“Ramona Lee and Carly Adams. I will provide their parents’ contact information for you.” Mr. Chekov ventures into the office toward them, his fingers skittering along the desk. “But I should first inform you that they will no longer bother Demora.”
Hikaru frowns. “What does that mean?”
“It means that after you go, I plan to call their parents myself. To inform them their daughters have been expelled from this class.”
“You-“ Hikaru says, drawing back in surprise. “What? Seriously?”
Mr. Chekov offers a patient smile. “Yes, seriously.”
“You would do that?”
“I would,” he answers. “And I am a private instructor, so I can.”
“But why? You...” Hikaru trails. You hate me? “You’re going to lose money, aren’t you?”
“Then I lose the money.” Mr. Chekov shrugs, with a wry tick of his lips. “I am overcharging for these lessons anyway.”
Hikaru grunts, a surprised laugh. “Well you just earned what I’m paying you, at least,” he says, and then with a hesitant narrow of his eyes: “You’re not... messing with me, somehow, are you?”
Mr. Chekov blinks, appearing mildly offended by the question, but after a moment he softens. “No, Mr. Sulu. I know we have had disagreements, but I would not do that to you.” He glances at Demora. “And especially not to her. Besides, I must tell you that Demora is not the first to be teased by these two particular girls. But today was unacceptable.”
“I - wow. I’m sorry. I’m not used to-” Hikaru breaks off. He leans down to Demora. “Did you hear that, sweetie? Those girls aren’t going to bother you anymore. Mr. Chekov’s going to ask them to leave, for being mean to you.”
Demora finally lifts her head, peeping up at him. “Really, Mr. Chekov?”
“Yes, really,” Mr. Chekov says. He leans down so that he’s at eye level with her, his normal droll deadpan melting away into a wide-open, boyish smile. The transformation makes Hikaru’s breath catch. “I don’t like having such mean people in my class, do you know this? I like to have nice people, like you. So, Demora, I would like you to keep coming back, because you are a very good girl and you practice hard. Do you want to come back?”
She nods, slow at first, then increasingly vigorous. “Yes,” she says. “I want to.”
“Good,” Mr. Chekov says. “Then I look forward to seeing you next week. You will keep practicing your stretches, yes?”
“Yeah,” Demora agrees, craning to look up at her father. “Is it okay?”
“Of course it is,” Hikaru says. “But listen, sweetie. You can’t hit people, even if you’re really angry. If anybody says anything mean to you, you have to go and tell an adult, like Mr. Chekov here. And you should always tell me.”
“Okay.” Demora’s quieting, and swipes at the last of her tears. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”
“It’s okay,” Hikaru says. It occurs to him that maybe he’s letting Demora off too easy. Maybe he’s a bad father after all, since there’s no way in hell he can bring himself to punish his little girl for socking someone in defense of her mother. Secretly, in fact, he’d sort of like to think Demora got that from his side of the family. But then, Nami had been no doormat herself.
“All right,” Hikaru says. Demora’s begun to squirm against his grip, and he helps her hop down to her feet. “Let’s go get your shoes, and then we’ll go home.”
They troop out of the office, Demora running ahead to the dance studio. Hikaru trails down the hall after her. With the immediate crisis having passed, he can’t help rubbing at his eyes and letting out a long, exhausted sigh.
Beside him, Mr. Chekov has slowed to keep pace. “I am sorry I could not do more.”
“You-" Hikaru clears his throat, embarrassed to realize that he doesn’t entirely trust his voice. “You did more than enough. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the way you’ve handled this.”
“I witnessed my own mother become very ill. I think it is an evil thing to make fun of.” Mr. Chekov admits this in a rush, and by the time Hikaru registers a startled look, he’s already hurried past the subject. “And anyway, although I wish it were not under these circumstances, I am glad for the opportunity to expel these two students. No, this is not a fair thing to say - it is not the girls’ fault. They cannot help how they are being raised. But their parents really do call me so often, both the mothers and fathers, seeming to think I can advance or favor their daughters somehow. And God help me if I suggest there may be behavior problems! I have begun to hate hearing the phone ring.” Chekov scratches at the back of his head. “You know, I did not anticipate how stressful it would be to teach.”
“Yeah.” A little chuckle breaks Hikaru’s dark mood. “I’ve gotten some pretty interesting phone calls myself. If it’s any consolation, the parents don’t always stop hovering once the student in question has turned eighteen. Or nineteen, or in some cases forty-three…”
“Oh...” Mr. Chekov laughs. “That’s right. Teaching is your profession, yes?”
“Yes,” Hikaru says. “Although to your credit, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t handle a class of six-year-olds. Much as I love my own.”
“Do I deserve such credit?” Mr. Chekov answers. “I wonder. I do not enforce the same discipline that my own instructors did. I think they would be appalled if they could see me now.”
“Well, I’m not,” Hikaru says. “Mr. Chekov, what you did for my daughter today - I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”
“You can call me Pavel, you know.”
“Oh.” A smile tugs at the edge of Hikaru’s mouth. “Pavel, then.”
“Yes.” He shifts on his feet, fingers coming together in a fidget. “But really, it - it is not so remarkable. I know quite well that this kind of situation, with her mother, is very difficult.”
“I’m sorry,” Hikaru offers. But upon seeing the tight pull of Mr. Chekov’s mouth and the quick shake of his head, realizes it’s best not to say any more. He takes a deep breath, and ventures: “With my wife, it’s - there’s an organic disease, in her brain. The dementia’s progressive and irreversible. She started to break down not long after Demora was born. About two years ago, it got bad enough that she had to be institutionalized. And Demora, she - she’s old enough to understand that something’s wrong with her mother, but not quite old enough to understand what. Hell, for that matter, there are a lot of things I still don’t understand-” He stops, letting out a sharp sigh. “Sorry. I don’t mean to dump our life story on you. It’s just that Demora’s been excited about ballet practically since she could walk. There are a lot of things she deserves to have, that she doesn’t. I can’t make up for all of those things, but this class at least seemed like one good thing I could give her. If those two girls had ruined it, I can’t tell you how devastating it would have been. So it’s - it’s very important that you’re not letting that happen.” Hikaru swallows. “And that you haven’t let me or my, uh, stupidity ruin it for her either.”
“Please, don’t.” Mr. Chekov casts his head down. “Mr. Sulu, I have been the stupid one.”
“You really haven’t-” Hikaru begins, but he’s distracted by the sight of Demora emerging from the dance studio in her sneakers and sweatpants. She’s not running, not grinning like she usually does.
Breaking off with an apologetic glance at Mr. Chekov, he hurries toward her.
“C’mon, sweetie,” Hikaru says, crouching and taking her shoulder gently. “Do you want to go home now?”
She nods, still subdued and untalkative, and he can’t help giving her a big tight hug. As they pull back Hikaru frowns, noticing she’s still carrying the gray sweater she’d been given.
“Whose sweater is that?” he asks.
“Oh,” Demora says, glancing down as if she’s just remembered it’s in her hands, and offering it to her father. “Mr. Chekov gave it to me.”
“Did he?” Hikaru says, and turns to the ballet teacher in surprise.
Mr. Chekov’s doing that haughty thing again, that disinterested look, but he seems faintly embarrassed. “It was lying around.”
“I see,” he says, handing the sweater back to him. He prompts Demora, “What do you say?”
“Thank you,” Demora says obediently.
“You are welcome,” Mr. Chekov answers. He leans down, focused on her, still skittish about meeting Hikaru’s eyes. “Demora, I will see you in class next week, yes?”
“Yeah.” Demora smiles, but it’s muted and unsteady. “Bye, Mr. Chekov.”
“Thank you,” Hikaru adds, emphatic. But Mr. Chekov is already retreating, waving as he disappears back down the hall.
Demora clings to her father’s hand as they make their way out into the parking lot, both of them quiet. Hikaru can’t seem to get a grip on his thoughts. He’s touched, almost paralyzed if he thinks about it long enough, by the kindness Pavel had shown. But mostly he’s heartsick for his little girl, knowing that no amount of soothing or spoiling or reassurance from either one of them will take away the hurt those bullying asshole girls had inflicted. Hikaru’s fist tightens, his teeth grinding, an anger that’s all the fiercer for how powerless it is.
Still, he puts on his most reassuring face as he gets Demora settled in the car. He’s just shut her door and headed back around to the driver’s side when he hears a shout.
“Mr. Sulu!” Mr. Chekov’s jogging through the parking lot. “Mr. Sulu, a moment, wait!”
The run has sent Mr. Chekov’s curls flying wild and reddened his cheeks, though he’s not remotely out of breath when he comes to a stop beside their car.
“Mr. Sulu,” he says, holding out a piece of paper. “You had requested the contact information for - ah, those parents?”
“Oh. Oh, yeah. Thank you.” Hikaru accepts it, temporarily cursing his absent-mindedness. But he gives Mr. Chekov a lopsided smile. “Call me Hikaru, remember?”
“Oh - yes.” Mr. Chekov’s mouth is stuck open, as if he’s faintly terrified of this information. He takes a few deep breaths, closes his eyes in a seeming effort to steel himself, and all but shoves a second piece of paper forward. “Then - Hikaru. I would like you to have this too.”
“What-?” Hikaru peers down at it in confusion. The Jumping Bean. Mon and Wed 5:30 a.m. - 3 p.m., Sat and Sun 7 a.m. - 5 p.m.
He looks up to find Mr. Chekov shyly shifting from foot to foot. “If you ever, ah, want a free cup of coffee,” he says, “this is my full-time job.”
Part 2