Let Fortune Turn Her Wheel (1/3)

[mercaque]

Title: Let Fortune Turn Her Wheel
Pairing: Chekov/Sulu
Rating: R
Word Count: ~22,000
Status: Complete
Warnings: character death, angst, lolscience
Summary: A solitary man in his seventies, Pavel Chekov hasn’t seen Hikaru Sulu in six years. That will change the night he gets a call from Starfleet’s temporal mechanics department.
Author Notes: Fill for the Old Chekov, young Sulu prompt at the kink meme, which I’ll ‘fess up and admit was mine. When I posted the prompt, it truly was no more than a plotbunny I didn’t want to go to waste. Then a couple of weeks later, out of nowhere, I sat down at the computer and spewed a good forty percent of this story. Funny how the mind works! Anyway, feedback is humbly appreciated.



Professor Pavel Chekov frightens his students.

Or at least he frightens this one, the curly-haired girl he passes on his way home. Her eyes widen, right before she ducks her head and pretends she hasn’t seen him. She doesn’t go as far as crossing the street to avoid Chekov. But she does shy away as they pass, as if afraid he’ll suddenly lunge over and bite her.

Chekov harrumphs to himself. He knows his reputation, yes, but this is ridiculous. He has a dim memory of berating the girl after she had disrupted his lecture with some remedial question, but that was several semesters ago, and he’s long since forgotten her name. Besides, it’s not as if she had been the first student to receive Chekov’s blistering contempt, nor will she be the last.

He’s well known for his tirades, for his impatience, for failing at least half his students every semester. And he knows he’s come to look the part of a harsh schoolmaster: ice-clear eyes dominating a wrinkled face, curls flying around in an unkempt white shock, and his little mouth permanently twisted up in a grimace. At 73, his once-slender limbs and fingers have turned bony, his stooped shoulders shrinking his already-small frame by another inch.

There are men his age and older who still command starships; but Chekov is finished with adventure, finished with exploration. Teaching passes his days, and tinkering around in his home passes his nights, and it exhausts him to think of doing anything more.

Squinting into the brisk autumn wind, Chekov trundles up the steep road. For almost twenty years he’s lived in this slim, battered-white townhouse tucked into the side of a San Francisco hill, and it’s starting to feel almost as much his home as St. Petersburg had. Merely unlocking the door brings a smile of relief.

Chekov’s no sooner deposited his bag on the floor when he’s unscrewing a bottle of vodka, pouring himself a generous glass. Vodka can be replicated, of course, but Chekov imports his. The replicator makes it weak and watery. This - this burns clear and pure in his throat, reddening his eyes, stinging his face; he swigs again, harder, and then lets out a hiss when it’s done.

The burn hasn’t yet faded from his throat when he notices his computer console blinking. After refilling his glass, Chekov wanders over and discovers he’s missed ten communications.

He nearly hurls his drink at the screen when he sees how many are from Admiral James T. Kirk.

Instead Chekov growls a few choice Russian curses, and jabs at the delete button. Kirk hasn’t let a day go by in the last month without harassing him, goading and pushing no matter how many times he’s rebuffed, as if a high enough dose of his self-satisfied smirking charm will somehow make Chekov tolerate him again. He’s equally pitiless as he erases messages from Scotty and Spock in quick succession. It’s bad enough to listen to Kirk try to justify himself. But it’s worse that the man has seemingly pressganged every member of the old crew into his campaign to convince Chekov he’s just emotional. Just needs to move on and live a little and get on with his life. It achieves nothing besides making Chekov want to set his console on fire.

With a sigh, Chekov refills his glass, and settles down at the console to pass the evening as he so often does: half-heartedly grading his students’ work and sipping at his drink whenever he comes across a particularly stupid answer, which is often. At some point he’ll get up, replicate one of his three standard dinners, and eat about half of it before he settles back down at his console. After an hour or two, he’ll trudge upstairs to bed. Or sometimes, as Chekov does tonight, he’ll put his head down in his arms for a few moments, and find himself fast asleep at the computer.
***

A shrill beep startles Chekov awake.

He lifts his head from the console with a dull-eyed glare, peering around at his dark living room. The chronometer reads two o’clock in the morning, and he scowls like it’s personally insulted him. Who the hell is trying to contact him now? Maybe this is some new tactic of Kirk’s, sending comms at some ungodly hour of the morning in the hopes that Chekov will be too sleepy to notice who they’re from.

But no, it’s not from Kirk. The sender is listed as Nima Parsi, Temporal Mechanics Department.

Chekov squints in confusion. He trawls through his brain for a good five minutes, but nothing comes up; he has no idea who this person is. It’s probably a mistake, or a prank, Chekov thinks, and his hand hovers over the decline button. But then he shakes his head and, deciding this is too unusual to ignore, accepts it. He barely remembers to shove his vodka out of view before the screen blinks on.

A lanky boy in a blue Starfleet uniform appears, some olive-skinned wisp with big ears and black curls that reach for the sky. Well, maybe this person isn’t a boy. He could be anywhere between fifteen and thirty, but Chekov doesn’t care to tell these children apart anymore.

“What do you want?” he growls, still hoarse with sleep.

Doe-eyed and nervous, the young man takes a big swallow before he begins. “I’m sorry to disturb you at such a late hour, sir. I’m Dr. Nima Parsi-“

“Yes, I know,” Chekov interrupts. “Why are you calling me?”

“Because there’s been - well - a bit of an accident, sir. In the temporal mechanics laboratory.”

“You are all incompetent. What a surprise,” Chekov answers. “How does this concern me?”

“We were conducting an experiment, and there was an unexpected result.” Dr. Parsi chews his bottom lip, up and down. “Now we have a young man here, and he’s demanding to speak with you.”

“’Now we have a young man here’?” Chekov repeats. “As if he simply appeared from heaven? Do not insult me. You have committed some stupid mistake.”

“All right, yes, we miscalculated,” Parsi says. “We, uh... we accidentally pulled a man out of the time stream. He’s from the past.”

Chekov snorts flatly.

“And he says he’ll only talk to you,” Dr. Parsi says. “That’s why I’m calling. One of my assistants mentioned your book on subspace mechanics while we were trying to figure out what happened. This guy we pulled out of the time stream overheard your name, and he completely shut down. He’s refusing to answer any questions, or deal with anyone, unless he sees you first. Believe me, Professor Chekov, I know you don’t like to be disturbed. If I could contact someone else, I would.”

“Who is this person?” Chekov asks. “How does he know of me?”

“Um...” Dr. Parsi peers at a PADD, sounding the syllables out. “Hikaru... Sulu?”

And Chekov suddenly jerks, as if ice has shot through his veins; his body stiff and still, all except for the trembling that’s overtaken his hands.

“That’s impossible,” Chekov chokes out, once he’s found his voice.

“Sir, that’s the name he gave me,” Parsi insists. “Do you know him?”

He jumps when Chekov slams a hand down. “Is this a joke?”

“No!” Parsi cries. “No, I swear it, that’s what he said his name was!”

“If you are playing some kind of a game with me, boy,” Chekov seethes, “I will call in every favor I have ever earned, in all my fifty-six years serving Starfleet, in order to make you and your entire department suffer for it. Do you understand?”

“Please, sir. If anyone is joking, it’s him,” Dr. Parsi pleads. “Do you want me to bring him here, to my screen, so you can see him?”

“No,” Chekov says, shoving a hand over his face. It’s been six years since he last saw Hikaru; he’s not ready for this, not yet. “No, please, just - tell him I will be there as soon as I can.”
***

Oh, God, Hikaru is a child.

He’s being held in a sterile-looking medical room, several floors below ground level of some citadel-like Starfleet building. Chekov first glimpses him through one-way glass, meaning Sulu can’t see him: can’t see Chekov stagger backwards, barely reaching a chair before his legs fail him. Nor can Hikaru see his eyes squeeze shut, or the badly shaking fingers he raises to cover them, or hear the strangled noise low in Chekov’s throat.

At minimum, this Sulu has to be twenty-two, because that was his age when he’d met Chekov. But he doesn’t appear to be very much older. He’s probably fifty years younger than Chekov is now, and maybe fifty years younger than he’d been when Chekov last saw him, right before the casket closed and slipped away into space.

It takes several moments of breathing deeply in and out, rubbing at his face, knotting and unknotting his hands, before Chekov can bring himself to enter the room. He creeps in tentatively, with little halting steps, as if this young Hikaru is a mirage that will dissipate at the slightest jolt.

The mirage regards him with equal parts politeness and suspicion.

“Hello,” Sulu offers.

Chekov opens his mouth to reply. But his throat won’t produce words, and he can’t shake himself out of a dumbfounded stare.

Sulu looks like he’s been pulled out of bed, too. His hair is rumpled, and his bare feet stick out from under loose linen pants. He’s wearing a loose black shirt, with sleeves that stop above the curve of his bicep, and a deep V-shaped collar that exposes the shadow between his pectorals. As Chekov draws closer he can see the delicate crescent scar just below Sulu’s right eye: a remnant of his fight with Nero’s men, so tiny you’d never notice it unless you knew where to look. Of course it all but shouts its presence to Chekov, who easily recognizes a spot he’s thumbed over and kissed thousands of times before.

The sight of him sends something hot coiling through Pavel’s belly, something he hasn’t felt in years. He’s astounded, not to mention slightly ashamed, by the surge of blood into his groin. Not only has he been given Sulu back, he’s been given Sulu in his prime: with his lean athlete’s muscles and sleek Adam’s apple and pillowy lips. Temporal continuity be damned - Chekov wants to push this boy onto his back, spread his slender thighs, watch his face slacken with need, murmur I love you, I love you-

“Are you one of the doctors?” Sulu asks.

The question comes like a slap.

“What?” Chekov gasps. “Hikaru, you… you truly do not recognize me?”

His accent, unchanged in decades, easily identifies him. Sulu sits up straight, his eyes wild. “You,” is all he can manage, a shocked little burst. “I thought it was, but I couldn’t believe - Chekov?”

“Yes, it is me. Your friend Pavel,” Chekov answers. He does his best to smile. “I have not aged so terribly, have I?”

Sulu buries his face in his hands, muffling a noise of disbelief. “Then it’s true,” he says, slowly pulling his hands away. “Fifty-six years, they said it’s been fifty-six years- Chekov, please tell me this is a dream, it’s not really happening-”

“Only if the last seventy-three years of my life have been a dream,” Chekov says.

At this, Sulu grows faintly hysterical. “You’re seventeen where I come from,” he cries. “You’re supposed to be seventeen!”

“Hikaru. Hikaru, listen to me,” Chekov says, taking his hands in a gentle grasp. “You know the nature of the accident, yes?”

Sulu nods. “Some temporal experiment went wrong. I’ve been pulled into - the future?”

“Yes. But please, do not worry yourself so much. I know these scientists are working very hard to fix what has happened, and they are very close to a solution,” Chekov says. He doesn’t know why these reassurances are spilling out of his mouth; he only knows it’s killing him to see Hikaru so distraught. “They are going to find it soon.”

“But what if they don’t?” Sulu says. “They said - they said they’re not sure if they can send me back. That means Jim- and Uhura, and Gaila- my sisters- my parents-” His voice breaks. “If I’m really fifty-six years in the future, then I’ve lost my mother and father by now, haven’t I?”

He has. Chekov doesn’t have the heart to tell him this, nor to tell Sulu that his sisters are gone too: his eldest sister Hiroe killed in a shuttlecraft crash decades earlier, and the middle sibling Naoko by a brain aneurysm eleven years ago. Chekov had already watched Hikaru outlive his entire family once, but at least then it had been spread out over several decades. To inflict all of their deaths at once, Chekov thinks, would destroy him.

“I cannot tell you these things,” Chekov says. “I am not permitted, by Federation laws pertaining to time travel. But I can tell you this. These scientists are very smart. They are the most talented in the Federation, and our technology is very advanced. Since they could bring you here, they will certainly be able to send you back. You will probably not be here for very long at all, yes?”

“Really?” he asks. “You - Chekov, you’re the genius. I trust you.”

And Sulu looks up, lifting dark eyes that are so earnest, so vulnerable, that Chekov’s legs threaten to give out again.

“Yes, yes,” he answers. “There is nothing you need to worry about. They will fix this soon, and until they do, you will stay with me, at my home. I will take care of everything. I promise.”

Sulu nods, his face threatening to crumple. “Thank you,” he bursts out. “Chekov, I’m so glad they finally called you, I knew you would still be my friend-”

“Always,” Chekov says fervently, and squeezes Sulu’s shoulder. It’s not a fraction of what he wants to do; which is to snatch him up in his arms, kiss his hair, whisper over and over that it will be all right, until Sulu believes it. “They will fix this. Please, try to keep that in mind.”

“Okay,” Sulu agrees, and forces himself to smile. “Okay. Yeah, I guess I should try to get a grip, huh?”

Chekov tilts his head, staring again: for a moment he has a glimpse of the dashing, unflappably confident older boy he’d fallen in love with so many decades ago. Except now it’s a dissonant picture, because this Sulu is so plainly struggling to keep up his brave face.

“Do not be ridiculous. You are handling this better than many people would,” Chekov says. “Now. It is cold outside, so I should replicate some heavier clothes for you, and then we will go home.”

“Is it okay to do that?” Sulu asks. “I just realized - I don’t know what your life is like now. I guess I made you come here in the middle of the night, didn’t I?”

“This was hardly a sacrifice,” Chekov reassures him.

“Will your family be okay?”

“My family?” he replies in confusion, and then his chest constricts; Sulu’s gaze has fallen on wedding band that still encircles Chekov’s finger. “I… I live alone.”

“Oh,” says Sulu, his brow furrowing. “Oh, I see.”

“It is never an inconvenience to have you in my home,” Chekov informs him, a little more forcefully. “You will stay as long as you need to. That is the end of the discussion.”

Sulu stares at him, an impish smile coming over his face. “Now I know it’s really you, Chekov. I guess you don’t ever grow out of that bossy streak, huh?”

“Perhaps not,” Chekov answers, laughing. “But we do grow out of calling each other by last names. Please, call me Pavel.”

“Pavel.” By the way he tries it out, he’s clearly not used to it. Sulu brightens. “Well, I’m glad we get to that stage eventually.”

Chekov tries not to gape. Oh, this Sulu has no idea, not even a hint of what they would become to each other. Chekov fingers his wedding band; it seems incomprehensible that Sulu couldn’t know that he had worn its counterpart.

“We are friends, Hikaru,” he says, strained. “Now, I will go get those clothes for you.”
***

Nima Parsi and his colleagues lecture Sulu for nearly half an hour. Over and over, they stress that he’s only being released on the condition that Chekov shield him from as much of the future as possible. Sulu is permitted absolutely no information on his friends or family or professional career, and certainly not on whether his future self is now alive or dead.

Bundled in the woolen coat and gloves Chekov has replicated for him - because it’s late at night, in early November, and Hikaru has always been miserable in the cold - Sulu agrees to all of the doctors’ conditions on the spot, bouncing on his feet in his eagerness to leave. And then they’re let free, and Chekov finds himself thrust into one of the most hallucinatory experiences in all his seven decades of life: walking through San Francisco streets that would be familiar if they weren’t so dark and graveyard-quiet, accompanied by this ghost of his dead husband who would be familiar if he weren’t fifty years too young.

Eventually they arrive at Chekov’s home, and the spooky feeling gives way to flat-out embarrassment.

Chekov’s house is a wreck. The big front room, which had been clean and sunny six years ago, has become a shrunken cavern: the shelves bulge, the corners are rounded down, and the computer console is hemmed in by junk. Some of the clutter is left over from his life with Hikaru, things Chekov can’t bear to sort through and pack into boxes. But a lot remains because Chekov has simply lost the will to deal with it.

Sulu doesn’t seem to mind, though. He peers around like he’s in a museum, respectful and curious, his gaze occasionally landing on something that’s unmistakably his. Like the plants from across dozens of solar systems, sitting in a neat row of pots on a table next to the front window. They’re healthy and neatly pruned, one of the few bits of upkeep Chekov does bother with. Sulu’s eyes narrow, and his head tilts. But after a moment, he shakes his head and moves on.

“Would you like something to eat?” Chekov asks.

“Yes, I’m hungry, but-” Sulu’s swinging his arms and knotting his fingers. “I know I could always replicate something, but would you mind if I cooked? I know it’s a weird time for it, but I don’t think I can sleep. I need to do something, you know?”

Yes, he knows. Sulu’s tendency to putter around working off excess energy, at all times of day or night, had been a frequent source of bickering when they were married. Now Chekov smiles, indulgent, and gestures toward the kitchen.

“Of course,” he says, “although they will think I have brought you home just so I can have a personal chef.”

“It’s the least I owe you for coming to get me in the middle of the night,” Sulu replies. “So if you’d like to place an order...”

“No, no, no,” Chekov says. “Make whatever you like.”

He trails after Sulu, his embarrassment increasing. The kitchen is a small, cramped room at the back of the house. Apart from the replicator, it’s fallen into such disuse that Sulu’s got to brush a blanket of dust and cobwebs off the stove before he can use it, which sends him into a brief sneezing fit.

“Sorry,” Sulu snuffles, rubbing his nose.

“Do not be sorry. It is my fault for not keeping a better house,” Chekov replies, handing him a napkin. “In fact, I should clean the table, yes?”

“Okay.” He’s already washing his hands and preparing to replicate ingredients. “This won’t take long.”

Chekov drifts back out of the kitchen and down the hallway, pushing a slow hand over his face as he goes. The situation is cosmically strange, and yet, it’s like this younger Sulu has picked up his most mundane, everyday habits - right where his older self had left off. In a mordant moment, Chekov wonders if he’s finally drunk himself into an elaborate and very pleasant delusion.

Upon reaching the dining room, Chekov huffs in dismay. Clutter floods the room, just as it does every other room in the house.

Years ago, the broad dining table would have been spotless, a place to host their friends for dinner and the occasional group of Academy students for lunch. Now it’s become a reservoir for more junk, and Chekov doesn’t want to think about how long he’s been letting students’ PADDs and paper Russian novels and empty vodka bottles accumulate here. He clears off the worst of it, throwing his students’ work into a pile, discarding the bottles, stacking the novels on a far shelf. There’s no way to make the room attractive before Sulu finishes cooking. But at least he sets out plates and forks and glasses neatly enough that it seems fit for civilized people.

All at once Chekov stops, arrested by the scent of onions and butter and spices that’s begun to waft out of the kitchen. It’s as if his life finally righted its course, after six long years astray.

He’s transported back to the days when he would pore over star charts while Hikaru cooked, until the aromas grew strong enough to break his concentration. This would always prompt Chekov to abandon his work and go wandering into the kitchen, where he would find Hikaru tending to something on the stove. People who didn’t know them well were usually surprised to find out he was the cook of the pair, but it was only another example of Hikaru’s general skill with his hands: a quality that made Chekov wistful, having always been more comfortable in the realm of theory. But no matter how intensely Hikaru concentrated on a particular meal, he could always be distracted away when Chekov crept in behind him, slid an arm around his hips, and nuzzled the back of his neck with a kiss.

It was a pre-dinner ritual they had performed so many times that Chekov barely shakes himself out of doing the same now, pausing in the kitchen doorway and staring at this young Sulu with what must certainly be a ridiculous look on his face.

Oblivious, Sulu glances up from the skillet, where he’s pushing around mess of noodles and vegetables. “Everything okay?”

“Er. Yes,” Chekov gets out. He reaches into a cabinet and finds a full bottle. “Would you like a drink?”

“Oh.” Sulu’s eyes flick toward the disposal unit, causing Chekov to worry that he’s seen how many empty bottles it contains. “Is that vodka?”

“Yes, the occasion is special enough to call for it,” Chekov says lightly, retrieving two glasses and filling them with ice. “But there are other things you can drink, of course.”

“No,” Sulu says, “no, I’ll have some. Thanks.”

Chekov pours himself a full glass. When he gets to Sulu’s, he hesitates after filling the glass halfway.

“What’s wrong?”

“Hmm, I’m trying to remember the age when you finally learned to hold your alcohol,” Chekov answers mischievously. “Your early forties, I think?”

Sulu makes an indignant noise. “I can hold my alcohol just fine!”

“All right, all right.” Laughing, Chekov fills the glass the rest of the way. “I would hate to be a rude host.”

“You’re not.” Sulu puts down the spatula, turning away from the stove. “I really hope you don’t think that. Chekov - Pavel - this has all happened so fast. I didn’t know if there was anyone I could turn to. So what you’ve done by coming to get me, especially at this hour of the night, and by letting me stay with you - it’s very important to me. I owe you a lot.”

“Oh, Hikaru, you do not owe me. As I said, it’s hardly a great effort on my part.” Chekov frowns. “But how exactly did it happen?”

“I was asleep. Back home, on the Enterprise.” He throws his arms out in a helpless shrug. “All of a sudden something woke me up, a sensation like I was being yanked out of bed. At first I thought the ship was under attack, but then I blacked out. When I woke up, I was in that place. Their laboratory, I guess? They told me what year it is, and I kept making them repeat it over and over. And they made me wait a whole day before they called you. It was awful, sitting there with nothing to do except think about everyone-” Sulu swallows. “Anyway, I’m very grateful you came and got me. I don’t mean to sound weird, but I already feel better just being here, in a real house.”

“No, not weird,” he says quietly. He lifts his glass. “To home.”

Sulu breaks into a smile. “To home.”

They clink glasses, and Chekov throws his vodka back easily, draining half of it in one hard swallow. Sulu splutters when he tries the same thing, his eyes watering and face flushing scarlet, but he does manage to get it down after he finishes coughing.

“My God, what is this?”

“This is real vodka, from the oldest distillery in Russia,” Chekov informs him.

“I think my liver is sobbing,” Sulu says, and stares down at his glass like he’s sizing up a fencing opponent. “Maybe you were right about my tolerance.”

“You drank very well, actually,” Chekov says. “Most people are accustomed to replicated vodka, which is weaker.”

“Aha, I told you I’m not that bad.” He’s triumphant as he turns back to the stove. “Oh! This is ready.”

Sulu spoons out two steaming bowls of noodles, and they settle down at the table Chekov had set. He nearly laughs at how pointless it had been to fret about the state of his dining room, since Sulu barely notices it, too busy inhaling his food and attempting to drink his vodka (his face still screwing up after every sip). Chekov tucks in as well, and warmth spreads through him at first bite. This was why Hikaru had insisted on cooking all the years that they were married; it wasn’t that the replicator made bad food, it just made the precise, same, identical food every single time. It couldn’t compete with a meal uniquely prepared, dripping and tangy with crispy burned edges.

“This is so good,” Chekov remarks.

He looks up to find Sulu staring at him, his mouth hanging open in a crooked half-grin.

“What?” Chekov asks, wiping at his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Sulu says. He points loosely to his own lips. “It’s - it’s this thing you were doing, just now. It’s exactly the same face my Chekov makes sometimes.”

“Your Chekov?”

Sulu reddens. “I mean - the one in the past. I know you’re him, and he’s you, but...”

“This situation is very strange for me as well,” Chekov admits.

“Oh yeah?” he asks. “How so?”

Chekov’s mouth tightens. “Hmm. You know I must be careful what I tell you.”

He’s grateful for Starfleet regulations, because he has no idea where he’d even begin telling Sulu about the life ahead of him. His Hikaru had been cut and sculpted by a lifetime of adventure: scars slithering across his chest and back, and a nasty one mimicking the left side of his hairline; an irreparable limp after his right leg was blown out in a fight with the Orion Syndicate; a calm and humor wrought of experience that had made him a popular flight instructor at the Academy. And it had been one of these misguided adventures that finally killed him six years ago, and this young Hikaru probably does not want to know the random and inglorious death awaiting him: a phaser shot to the back, from one of the very refugees he had been helping transport to safety.

“You’re really going to stick to the regulations, huh.” Sulu settles back, defeated.

“I do have self-interest in making sure the timeline stays the same, you know,” Chekov says.

“I know. I just - can’t help wondering.” Sulu licks his lips, seeming to gather his courage. “Do you think it would screw up the timeline to tell me who you married?”

Chekov freezes. He hadn’t expected that question so directly, so soon. “That...” he says. “That would not be a good idea.”

“Not even a hint? Male, female, human, Andorian?”

“Hmm,” Chekov answers with false mirth, “perhaps all of the above.”

“Chekov, come on! Do I at least know this person?”

“No.”

Sulu’s face falls. “…Oh.”

“You see?” Chekov says gently. “It is not worth discussing.”

“They’re, um.” Sulu has become tentative. “They’re not here anymore, are they?”

Chekov grows brittle. “That is correct. My spouse is dead.”

“I’m sorry.” He drops his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Pavel. I shouldn’t have pried.”

“It is all right. Perhaps I should be more offended if you were not curious, yes?” Chekov tilts his head, unable to resist asking, “There is a reason you’re interested?”

“No.” Sulu goes a little pink. “No, it’s just, um. You’re still so young where I come from, so it was hard to imagine.”

“Ohhh. You think it is impossible to fall in love at such a young age?” Chekov asks.

“Well... no...” Sulu says. “Are you saying that is when you fell in love with your spouse?”

Chuckling to himself, Chekov says, “You really are so curious, Hikaru!”

“It’s all just a lot to take in.” Sulu slides one last look at the ring, an almost clownishly unhappy one. “You, ah, sound like you love this person a lot.”

“There was no one else I ever considered.”

“Wow.” Sulu blinks, heavily. “That’s - that’s very romantic.”

“I suppose,” Chekov answers idly, more interested in watching Sulu’s clumsy attempt to put down his fork. It could be fatigue, but more likely, he’s beginning to feel the effects of the vodka. His eyes go to Sulu’s glass, which is three-quarters empty.

“So, um.” The words slide against each other, and yes, he’s drunk. But even knowing this, Chekov’s still not ready for the shy, pleading eyes Sulu fixes on him. “Are you and me still good friends, at least? That’s - that’s very important.”

“Of course we are,” he forces out, and he’s trying so hard to sound casual, but can’t disguise how tight his voice has become. “We have always been loyal to each other. You were right to ask them to call for me today.”

Sulu smiles to himself, but it’s touched with bitterness. “Good.”

“So.” Chekov clears his throat, hoping he can steer the conversation in a lighter direction. “You are already friends with me in the past?”

“Yeah.” He brightens. “I’m supposed to try teaching you how to fence next week.”

Chekov laughs, snorting into his drink. The fencing lessons! That had been one of his earliest schemes to catch Hikaru’s attention, and his most mortally idiotic. His footwork was clumsy, the sword felt like a lump in his hand, and Hikaru getting sweaty and breathless and constantly touching him hadn’t much helped his concentration. After only a few such lessons Chekov had been ready to fling himself out an airlock, convinced he’d made a complete fool of himself.

Sulu looks at him, embarrassed. “Is... is that dumb of me?”

“No, no. Trust me, it has a good result.” Chekov is still chuckling to himself.

“So, if I remember correctly, this means you are twenty-three, yes?”

“Yes. And you’re a week or two away from eighteen.” There’s that reddening of his face again, and they both know he’s thinking, Not that I was counting. “So, if you’d like to give me any birthday present hints...”

“You are thinking of my birthday present at a time like this? How sweet.”

“Stop that,” Sulu mumbles down at his plate. “Now you’re just rubbing it in.”

Chekov leans forward. “What am I rubbing in?”

“Um.” He freezes like he’s said something he wasn’t supposed to. “Nothing.”

Sulu sits back in his chair unsteadily. A pink haze colors his nose and cheeks, and he keeps blinking and blinking but can’t seem to get his eyes to focus. Chekov grins at him stupidly. He’s far too old for these childish butterflies in his stomach, but he’d forgotten how damned cute it was back in the days when Hikaru was helpless against alcohol-

“I wish I hadn’t missed this much of your life,” Sulu blurts out. His whole face changes, a sudden anguished contortion. “And everyone’s life. Hiroe - that’s my sister - she’s supposed to have a baby soon, did you know that? But her son’s got to be older than I am now. More than twice my age. And everyone from the Academy, there aren’t many of us who survived Nero, but now a lot of them are dead now anyway, right? Fuck! I’m trying not to think about all this, Pavel, but I - I think my life is over if they can’t send me back.”

Chekov drains, left with a cold horror at how badly he’d misgauged Sulu’s mood. He wonders if he should have given Sulu the vodka at all; he should have remembered that Hikaru could be an emotional drunk sometimes (one of the reasons his tolerance had been so poor in the early days - he knew his own tendencies and had a near-phobia of social drinking). But no, it’s better for him to express this and get it out in the open, even if it pains Chekov to see.

“Hikaru.” Chekov takes Sulu’s hand in a gentle, two-handed grip, kneading at it lightly. “Look at me. They will get you home.”

Sulu looks down at where their hands are enjoined, and his expression does that awful half-crumple again. “Are you sure?”

“Very sure. They are very close to undoing their mistake.” Chekov smiles his encouragement. “I know it is not easy for you. But you are patient, and brave, and that’s one of the reasons we have always been friends. So you can endure this, yes?”

“That’s... that’s nice of you to say.” Sulu takes a breath, working to calm himself. “Okay.”

“And do you know how else I know they’re going to fix it?” Chekov says. “The future hasn’t changed. My life hasn’t changed. That means the past hasn’t changed either, so you will get to experience everything you should.”

Sulu frowns, and eventually rubs at his head in frustration. “I guess that makes sense,” he says. “Ugh. Did my future self ever mention that I almost failed temporal mechanics at the Academy?”

Chekov can’t help an amused snort. Fortunately, it doesn’t offend Sulu, who starts to laugh too.

“Good thing you’re the smart one,” Sulu says, and then abruptly sucks in a massive yawn.

“You are tired,” Chekov observes, stroking his arm. “I will prepare a bed for you.”

“No, no,” Sulu insists, but can’t keep down another yawn. “It’s… it’s trouble for you. I can sleep on the couch...”

“The couch is a mess,” Chekov says. “There is a guest bedroom. I will go prepare it.”

He interprets Sulu’s bleary mumble as agreement, and hurries upstairs. Chekov sets about grabbing spare sheets and making the bed faster than he’s ever done in his life. Not that it matters. By the time he returns downstairs, Sulu has already found his way out into the front room and curled up on the couch.

“Hikaru,” Chekov whispers, shaking him. “Come upstairs.”

Sulu smacks his lips and grumbles, but otherwise remains fast asleep. Chekov can’t help a resigned chuckle. He really should have known. Conceding defeat, he goes to the big front window and closes the drapes, so that the sunlight won’t wake Sulu in the morning. He then retrieves a blanket from the hall closet and throws it over his sleeping form.

And then - with the blanket tucked over Sulu, Chekov knows he ought to go to bed himself. But he can’t make himself leave. He stands transfixed by the fact that Sulu is here, physical and alive, after all this time. Sinking to his knees beside the couch, he runs an experimental hand over Sulu’s forehead, pushing his hair back. When this does not appear to disturb his sleep, Chekov presses a kiss to the same spot. He kisses again and again, a feather-light trail over his nose and cheeks, and then lingers on Sulu’s parted mouth.

The heat of it still burns on Chekov’s lips as he switches off the light and retreats upstairs.
***

At his age, Chekov doesn’t handle late nights very well. Especially not nights that keep him up until four o’clock in the morning.

He groans, a loud and miserable noise, when the sun shines bright enough outside his window to wake him up; groans again when the chronometer tells him he’s slept in until ten thirty. A headache radiates from Chekov’s temples all the way down his neck, while his eyelids feel like sandpaper. But he’s also dying to piss, thanks to the extra drink he’d had last night, and so he drags himself out of bed and shambles toward the bathroom.

Scratching at his chest, Chekov pushes his way in, and promptly yells out in shock.

He’s walked in on Sulu, who’s just stepping out of the shower, and who looks up in complete mortification. He scrambles to wrap the towel around himself, but not before Chekov catches a glimpse of his bare, supple buttocks and the heavy swing of his cock.

Well, Chekov thinks. At least he’s awake now.

“Oh my God, Chekov, I’m so sorry, I should have asked to use your shower but I didn’t want to wake you up-” Sulu babbles, apparently interpreting Chekov’s stricken look as one of disapproval.

Chekov swallows, staring too hard to bother insisting on being called Pavel. Sulu’s attempt at modesty only makes the peek of his hipbones, and the water rivulets tracing the outline of his muscles, seem more obscene.

“Ah - it is okay. Do you know how to replicate clothing?” Chekov answers.

“Yeah, um, yeah. I should probably go do that now,” Sulu says, and hurries past him.

It takes a few seconds, standing in the empty bathroom, before Chekov slowly shakes his head and begins to laugh.
***

Chekov takes over the bathroom next. He hasn’t cared much for his appearance since Hikaru died, but now he makes sure to wash and brush his hair until it resembles something neat, and makes sure he’s shaved, and even replicates a dark jacket and turtleneck that make it look like he’s still got shoulders.

While he shaves, Chekov listens to Sulu moving around the house, and rolls his eyes affectionately when he hears some tut-tutting over the state of the plants. Chekov’s always preferred formulae to flora, always mystified and slightly entertained by Sulu’s righteous conviction in matters of botany. Indeed, whenever the plants were left in Chekov’s custody for more than a day, he had always needed Hikaru to write down instructions in painstaking mathematical detail.

Chekov turns his attention back to the mirror, a little despondent as he examines himself. He’s not sure what he could accomplish by looking like a clean old man instead of a rumpled one; Sulu will still see an old man either way. But at least this way, Chekov thinks as he straightens up, he can claim to have some pride-

“Pavel!” comes a frantic shout, and Chekov’s razor clatters into the sink as he goes running.

He skids to a stop when he finds Sulu in guest bedroom, staring at one of the plants: an undulating green stalk, its stem and leaves traced by a natural embroidery of gold and blood-orange. The plant’s been kept under glass in this room for as long as Chekov has lived here.

“You have a Sylfidian rose?” Sulu squawks.

“You know I am old, right? You will give me a heart attack the next time you shout like that,” Chekov grumps at him.

“I’m sorry,” Sulu says, his gaze never leaving the plant. “I didn’t mean to shout. It’s just that these are so rare. How could you possibly have gotten one?”

Chekov freezes. I inherited it from my dead husband, who in turn earned it as a reward for some ridiculous show of heroism on a faraway planet is the answer, but he doesn’t dare tell Sulu.

“Ah,” Chekov fumbles. “It was... a gift.”

“A gift?” Sulu echoes, dumbfounded. “Are you kidding? You must have really impressed someone. And look-” He lowers himself to peer close, lifting his finger to the glass but not touching, like it’s a holy object. “Do you see these tiny tendrils that have started to come out of the top? It’s close, Pavel. I can’t believe it. These things only bloom once a century. This one is a few days away at most.”

Chekov swallows, turning away in the hopes that Sulu won’t notice the bitter twist of his mouth. His Hikaru hadn’t stopped talking about this plant for months after obtaining it, and Chekov had watched him nurse it like a child for decades, in the hopes of seeing exactly this moment. Chekov shivers when he thinks of how he had nearly thrown it out after the funeral.

“I can’t believe I might actually get to see this,” Sulu remarks, still too caught up to notice Chekov’s turmoil.

“We should watch it together,” Chekov suggests, and somehow his voice stays even. “So you can explain to me what is happening.”

Sulu looks up, and then breaks into a self-conscious laugh. “You’ll indulge my weird little hobby? I guess we are still friends.” His laughter fades as he takes in Chekov’s freshly-groomed appearance. “Wow, it looks like you end up being pretty distinguished in the future.”
***

After he finishes his survey of Chekov’s plants, and cooks a late breakfast, and plays four games of chess - three against Chekov, one against himself - Sulu starts to brood.

He won’t admit he’s doing it, insisting that everything is fine, but Chekov knows he’s always hated to sit idle. And Sulu also won’t admit the potential loss of fifty-six years is eating away at him, but Chekov can tell this too. He’s reminded of Hiroe’s shuttlecraft crash, which had occurred during the first year of their marriage. Chekov still remembers his own abject determination to be the most supportive husband ever - only for Hikaru to disappear, volunteering for every odd job on the ship because he couldn’t bear to sit still and think about his sister and nephew’s deaths for more than five minutes.

“Here,” Chekov finally says, holding out the brown wool coat he’d replicated last night. “Put this on. We should go for a walk.”

Sulu frowns. “Are you sure?”

“Well.” Chekov shrugs. “If you don’t mind slowing down for my sake.”

“Of course I don’t,” Sulu says with an exasperated smile. “What I mean is, am I allowed to see this much of the future?”

“I think it will be all right. We will only walk a short distance.”

As Chekov’s expected, Sulu brightens almost the second they’re outdoors and in motion, grinning into the wind and pulling his coat tighter.

“Thanks for doing this,” he says. “Your house is great, but I hate feeling so useless, you know?”

“Yes, I do,” Chekov answers, and winces when he sees the odd look Sulu gives him.

They wend their way down the hill, Sulu slowing to keep pace with Chekov’s smaller steps. They’d sometimes taken these walks together as an old married couple, and Chekov remembers their route: down the hill past colorful old townhomes, around the corner where the hill flattens into a broad boulevard, across the boulevard to a park. Now Chekov guides Sulu to a trail, where they walk under fiery autumn foliage and a glass-blue sky.

“That stand has real coffee. Not replicated,” Chekov says, pointing to a little kiosk at the edge of the park. “You would like to stop?”

“Sounds great,” Sulu agrees, and they join the back of a long line.

The kiosk is busy serving a stream of park visitors, parents and small children, runners and walkers, students and Starfleet officers, couples of every species and gender combination. Standing in line gives Sulu time to explore the menu, peering at it in deep concentration. Chekov watches him with some wry affection, knowing he orders the same thing every time.

“What do you want, Hikaru?” he asks, hoping it isn’t too obvious that he’s teasing, but it still creeps in a little-

“Oh, are you fucking KIDDING me?” blares the man in front of them, whirling around.

He’s slightly taller than Sulu and twice as wide, bearing down on them with a meaty face and butter-blond hair. His eyes glitter outrage, and he appears about two seconds away from violence.

“There-” Chekov falls back. “There is a problem?”

“Yes, there is a problem, Professor,” the man says. “The name Jarek Murphy ring a bell?”

“What?” Blankly, Chekov throws up his hands. “I... I am sorry, but it does not.”

“Oh, my God. You don’t remember me,” Murphy shouts, and now everyone within a twenty-foot radius of the coffee kiosk is staring. “You humiliated me when I took your class, you hateful little Russian fuck, and you don’t even remember me?” He glances over at Sulu. “You’re disgusting. They said it was your husband dying that turned you into such a psychotic bastard, but apparently you’ve moved on to your new boy, here-”

“That is ENOUGH,” Sulu thunders, stepping forward.

He’s positioned himself in front of Chekov, his arm held out in a shielding gesture, his other hand knotting in a tight fist at his side. Murphy takes a step back, not having expected such a commanding tone from a kept boy, or whatever he thinks Sulu is.

“I don’t care what you think he did to you,” Sulu continues. “You don’t talk to him like that. Apologize. Now.”

“Is he paying you to defend him?” Murphy sneers. “In addition to other services rendered?”

“No,” Sulu fires back, “I’m more than happy to kick your ass for free.”

“Wait!” Chekov cries, and puts a steadying hand to Sulu’s shoulder. “Wait. Mr. Murphy, you are right. I was terrible to you.”

A silence follows, in which it’s hard to tell whether Murphy or Sulu appears more floored.

“I do remember you,” Chekov continues. Actually he doesn’t, not very well anyway. But it’s a lie worth telling, since Murphy seems fractionally appeased by it. “And I remember that I was a terrible teacher to you. And the rumors you heard were correct - I was having a difficult period in my life.”

Murphy snorts.

“Which I do not tell you as an excuse,” Chekov hurries to add. “I tell you so that you know it was me, and my weakness, that made things difficult for you. Your academic capabilities are very good, and even if they were not, it would not be an excuse for the way I treated you. I was wrong, and I am sorry.”

By the time Chekov finishes, Murphy’s mouth is hanging open. He opens and closes it a few times, trying to muster a response. And Sulu - Chekov takes one look at his horrified expression, and can’t bring himself to look again.

“I,” Murphy gets out after a long, awkward moment. “Well… um. Are you serious?”

“Absolutely so.” Chekov holds up his hands in a surrender gesture. “I am sorry.”

“Then I guess, uh... Wow. Okay. I guess I accept.”

With a stiff nod, Chekov gestures to the coffee kiosk. “I do not pretend this will come close to making up for my actions, but I will purchase your order today.”

“All right,” Murphy agrees, before glancing at Sulu. “And, um, I guess I should say I’m sorry to you. For suggesting you were, you know...”

Sulu glares back, barely keeping the sarcasm out of his voice. “Yeah. Apology accepted.”

A stiff silence descends over all three men as they get their coffee. It persists even after Murphy goes away, even when Chekov and Sulu go walking back through the park. Sulu’s face grows darker and darker the more they walk.

“Please,” Chekov says. “You do not have to be angry. It is all right.”

“I could kill that guy for what he said to you.” Sulu shakes his head, tight and sharp. “I should have hit him. You shouldn’t have had to say all that stuff just to prevent a fight.”

Chekov sighs. “It does not occur to you that perhaps Mr. Murphy deserved that apology?”

“Of course not!” Sulu cries. “You’re not like that. I know you.”

“I...” A hot twist of shame goes through Chekov’s chest. “I wish I could say that I have always justified your high opinion of me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean that he was right. It… it was a bad year for me, and I took it out on my students,” Chekov admits in a rush of words, not bothering to amend that it had been a bad several years, not just one. “I am not a very beloved teacher at the Academy. And there is good reason for that.”

“Because of your husband,” Sulu says. “God, I’m sorry, Pavel. And I’m sorry for asking all those stupid questions about it last night. I wasn’t thinking, I should have realized it would hurt you-”

“You had the curiosity of a friend. You did not hurt me,” Chekov admonishes. “And it felt good to talk. As much as I am able to.”

“Okay,” Sulu says, sounding uncertain. “You know that if you want to keep talking, I’ll always listen, right? I… I wish you didn’t have to deal with this.”

Chekov pats his arm. “You are kind to me, Hikaru.”

Despite this, Sulu’s still disturbed by the incident. Once they return to Chekov’s home he continues to poke at the plants, continues to play chess games without any care for whether he wins or loses. And every now and then, that dark look creeps back across Sulu’s face; and then he seems to realize it a few moments later, and tries to force a calmer expression. Over the years Chekov had learned to spot this look. He’s always hated it, but never more than he does now, knowing it is he who has caused it.
***

By the next day, Sulu’s mood hasn’t much improved, and Chekov resolves to make up for it. He may not be allowed to tell Sulu about the future. But there’s no law that forbids him from drawing on five decades’ worth of knowledge to try to cheer his future husband up.

There’s no law against taking Sulu to the wharf, knowing it’s always been one of his favorite places, knowing how he always closes his eyes and takes a slow breath when he smells the salt-fresh air. No law against “accidentally” stumbling across Sulu’s favorite food stands, or against watching him light up as he discovers the best peppery shrimp and crisp beer and fried bananas. And no rule forbids Chekov from watching Sulu lick powdered sugar off his fingers, or from watching Sulu’s hair fly around his wind-reddened face, or from feeling like all of his military and scientific achievements are a mere footnote compared to the moment when Sulu’s dark mood finally breaks, and a helpless sort of grin comes over him.

The only sour notes come from strangers, some of whom glance at them in open skepticism. Chekov knows they must be assuming the same thing Murphy had yesterday: that the lecherous old professor is parading around his young plaything. Fortunately, when he mentions it, Sulu dissolves into riotous laughter.

Chekov raises a wry eyebrow. “Oh, my tarnished reputation is so amusing.”

“No, no,” Sulu protests, still laughing. “It’s just that you - well, you remember how it was when you started on the Enterprise, right? I never thought I’d see the day when the tables were turned.”

“Oh, yes, I remember those times very well. So how do you like being the jailbait?” Chekov teases.

“I’m not jailbait, I’m twenty-three,” Sulu says. “But it’s not so bad. In fact, I’m starting to think you had it good.”

“Do you? Nobody ever got me fried bananas,” Chekov says.

“Then I’ll do it when I go back,” Sulu declares. “I’ll make them for you, first thing.”

“Ohhh. Then I am very excited for myself. Perhaps even a little bit jealous,” Chekov answers, and it occurs to him that this is the kind of ridiculous conversation they used to fall into at the helm, the kind that used to make the rest of the bridge crew exchange dry looks, and would occasionally result in a text communication from the captain flashing up on his console: I know he’s cute but for the love of god get a room. Which always threw Chekov into a jealous sulk, until he found out Kirk liked to send the same message to an equally unamused Sulu.

“What is it?” Sulu asks, seeing Chekov grow thoughtful.

“I should not tell you about your future self,” Chekov says. “But you see, this is why we are friends. When I talk to you now, it’s like... it’s like you haven’t changed at all.”

Sulu blinks. “I guess that’s a good thing?”

“Of course it is!”

“What about everyone else?” Sulu asks. “Like Jim? Is he still the same crazy bastard he always was?”

Chekov can’t help hardening into a glare. “Yes.”

“Pavel, what...?” Sulu stops. “Did something happen?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Why not?”

Chekov turns to him in exasperation. “If I told you why I could not tell you, that would amount to telling you what happened in the first place.”

“So something did happen.”

“Stop being so clever, Hikaru,” Chekov says impatiently. “I have had a falling out with Adm- with Captain Kirk. That is all I can say.”

Sulu deflates. “Oh.”

“This is why I did not want to say anything,” Chekov says. “I knew it would upset you.”

“I’m not-” Sulu says, and shakes his head. “I’m just worried about you, Pavel.”

Chekov lifts astonished eyebrows. “Me?” he says, and teases gently: “You really don’t ever change, do you? Still babying me even when I’m fifty years older than you?”

“I’m not babying you, I’m-” Sulu looks upset. “Do I come across that way?”

“No, no, no,” Chekov laughs. “That is just my way of trying not to admit how much I like it when you look after me.”

There’s no answer; Chekov looks over and finds Sulu redder in the cheeks, his lips pressed together like he’s trying to hold down a smile.

“Was this a strange thing to tell you?” Chekov asks.

And now Sulu turns, and the smile gets the better of him. “It was a great thing to tell me.” He holds up his empty cup, still a little abashed. “I’d better go throw this away.”

Chekov watches him go, feeling as if his heart might swell right out of his chest; and then turns and casts his gaze out on the foggy bay. He is determined to remember this day. He is determined that every cell of his body will commit these sensations to memory, so that if he just wills it badly enough, he will have the salt air crisp in his lungs and cool wind shearing his cheeks and Hikaru, Hikaru’s helpless delight and loud laughter will always
surround him.

“Sir! Sir! Hey! Old man!”

Someone’s grabbed Chekov by the shoulder, yanking him out of his thoughts. Chekov turns, ready to murder this freckle-faced woman for interrupting him.

“Isn’t that the guy you’re with?” she says, pointing. “Something’s wrong with him!”

Chekov turns, and gives a shrill cry.

Sulu has frozen where he stands, rigid and agonized; at first it looks like he’s choked on a piece of food. But blood’s begun to trickle from his lips, and then drops out of his nose in heavy spurts, and his entire body is shuddering. After a moment the tension goes out of him, and he staggers toward Chekov. But it’s only a few steps before Sulu falls forward, black hair and wool coat sprawling across the ground.

“Hikaru!” Chekov shrieks, tearing through the crowd. His own Hikaru had never collapsed like this, for no apparent cause, so it must be related to his time traveling, perhaps Dr. Parsi’s experiment had destabilized Sulu’s body somehow, or maybe Chekov himself has done something to poison the time stream- He stumbles to a stop and falls to his knees beside Sulu, his voice broken and desperate. “What is it, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t - Pavel, I don’t know what’s happening-” Sulu gurgles, terrified eyes darting back and forth. He’s rolled onto his side, but almost immediately another full-body spasm seizes him, his muscles pulling so tight they might snap apart. Sticky, glistening blood smothers the bottom half of his face.

“No, no, NO!” Chekov wails, reaching down to cradle him. “Hikaru, please, no, I cannot lose you again!”

As soon as his arms close around Sulu, Chekov too cries out in pain.

Or at least he tries to, but the air’s been crushed from his lungs. Gravity slams down on him, as if Sulu’s body is a supercharged magnet, tearing at Chekov from the inside out. Around him the shouting bystanders and the wharf are fading, spinning, darkening until it all goes black.

And then Chekov’s vision dissolves back in, except it feels like he’s opened his eyes underwater. As dreamlike and hazy as everything appears, he recognizes exactly where they are: the transporter room of the Enterprise NCC-1701, back when it was brand new.

“We have him!” Chekov hears his own voice crying out. Except it’s not his, and hasn’t been for decades. Thunderstruck, he locks eyes with himself - a seventeen-year-old fawn, more than half a century younger, milky-cheeked and gangly, the same ice-clear eyes dominating his face.

“Who are you?” the younger Chekov breathes. And then his gaze lands on Sulu, bloodied and shock-pale, and he grows livid. “GET AWAY FROM HIM! YOU’RE RUINING EVERYTHING!”

“Ensign! Get a hold of yourself!” Kirk shouts, pulling him back - and Kirk is young too, with those slim athletic hips and blond hair. “Dammit, Scotty! What’s happening?”

“It’s something in the calculations. It’s nothing to do with this second person, there’s something fundamentally wrong-” Scotty looks up from the transporter controls in horror. “It’s us. Captain, our experiment is killing Mr. Sulu!”

“Mr. Scott appears to be right,” Spock puts in. “Lieutenant Sulu will die if we keep this up for much longer.”

“No. No! My calculations can still save him! Get rid of the second person and try again!” Chekov howls, his eyes never leaving Sulu.

“Belay that,” Kirk barks. “Abort the experiment. Send them both back.”

“Sir, are ye sure-”

“Abort it now, Mr. Scott! That is an order!” Kirk bellows, over Chekov’s protests.

And the world blurs again, and seventy-three-year-old Chekov finds himself deposited back on the wharf. He’s still clutching a lifeless-looking Hikaru, and he wants to beg him to wake up, wake up, wake up. But everything is spinning and spinning, and he pitches forward into darkness before he can get the words out.

Part 2