(no subject)
Morning on the Enterprise, lights on full, and Chekov is alone as he leaves his room for the mess hall. The corridors are crowded at this hour but he gets lost in the lively hum of the conversation, and keeps his head down as he hurries through the crowd.
The ensigns’ cafeteria is the largest mess area on the ship, fifty long tables with benches to hold them all. Carrying his tray, Chekov sits down near the end of an empty table to eat; he does not really enjoy eating very much but Dr. McCoy himself has said that he metabolizes too fast and has ordered him to eat rations plus half at breakfast and dinner. He likes the doctor, who jokes with him and claps his shoulder too hard as he passes, but he knows that to him, as to most people on the Enterprise, he is a child, an interesting and precocious child, but a child nonetheless. They are all kind to him; Lieutenant Uhura talks to him in Russian when things are slow on the bridge, asks him about his family and his childhood, and Mr. Spock engages him in dizzying discourse on theoretical astrophysics and transplanetary telemetry (he sometimes repeats these conversations with Scotty when he is sent to the engineering room to assist him, but with less logic and more swearing). Helmsman Sulu usually ignores him outside of what is necessary to pilot the ship, but this is not unique to Chekov; the pilot is just not a very talkative man, not unfriendly, but quiet.
The Captain, for Chekov always thinks of him with a capital C, teases him a lot, and Chekov isn’t sure how he feels about this. Half of him delights that Kirk pays any attention to him at all, and this half basks in even the most idiotic cracks at his accent and his age and his lack of experience in things that are not flying ships. But the other half, the half that won the Academy marathon at sixteen years, the half that so outscored his classmates on his first-year exams that he, like Kirk, was accused of cheating (though unlike Kirk, he hadn’t), this half detests the mockery, hates the way Kirk makes him feel like a child when he has earned his place here on the bridge, when he has already proven himself, when he has already saved the captain’s life. But every time Chekov resolves to remind the Captain that he is just as vital as anyone else on the bridge, and just as capable, he is swallowed up by this familiar fear of being the fool, and he finds himself grinning stupidly and pretending he doesn’t mind so that everyone will think he is in on the joke.
The crease in the young ensign’s brow, which had developed as he thought of the captain’s teasing, deepens as he feels someone sit down next to him. He glances over, trying not to look too surprised, as he has not eaten a meal with another person in several weeks. It is a man in red, perhaps a few years older than him; the engraving on his Starfleet badge identifies him as a member of Operations (probably security, if you go by the build). He has a friendly face and, yet Chekov can’t help but wonder why he has chosen to sit here so close when there is plenty of empty space on the bench. He opens his mouth to say something but shuts it because “What are you doing?” is not a very nice way to greet someone whose only crime is sitting next to you, and it is the only thing that his supposedly brilliant mind has offered him.
“You’re Pavel Chekov, right?” the man asks, sparing him the agony of coming up with a greeting.
“Da…yes,” Chekov replies uneasily.
“I’m Dylan….Dylan Rogers,” says the other man, extending his hand. Chekov hesitates, but finally sets down his spoon and shakes it.
“It is nice to be meeting you, Dylan Rogers,” Chekov says politely before he turns back to his breakfast, synthesized cream of wheat (not that there is much difference between regular cream of wheat and synthesized cream of wheat).
“You work on the bridge, right? I’ve seen you on the broadcasts.”
Still staring at his food, Chekov nods. He is still self-conscious about this part of his job because of his accent; he is forever wondering if people can actually understand him.
“Is it true that you beamed the captain up when he was falling without a chute on Vulcan, on that first mission?” Rogers asks suddenly. Eyes still glued to the table, Chekov feels his cheeks burn pink. He hates the way he loves this kind of attention.
“Yes,” he mumbles, hurriedly taking another bite of cream of wheat.
“Wow,” says Rogers, grinning. “That’s incredible.”
Chekov feels his heart swell up with childish pride, a warmth that turns sour in the pit of his stomach because he knows how stupid it is that he always reacts this way. He doesn’t need validation, he insists to himself, but every time he gets it it’s like he’s twelve again, trying to fill this insatiable appetite for attention and praise. He smiles awkwardly at Rogers in thanks and reaches for the salt to hide his displeasure.
“Is it also true you were the one who came up with the idea of using the…the electric whatsit around Saturn’s rings to sneak up on the Romulans?”
“Magnetic distortion,” Chekov cuts in automatically. Immediately he feels like a jerk and his face reddens again as he glances nervously at the other man. “Sorry.”
“Nah, it’s cool,” Rogers laughs, clapping him on the back. “There’s a reason you’re on the bridge and regular Joes like me aren’t.”
Chekov wants to say something nice, something inclusive, but either he is out of practice with conversation or he is inescapably egotistical because he can’t think of anything. Thankfully, some divine power intervenes and finishes his cream of wheat while he’s not thinking about it, the click of the spoon on the bottom of the bowl like the click of a key in the lock of this doomed attempt at friendly communication. He stands quickly and manages another pained smile at the other officer, who returns it with an easy, sincere one.
“You’re cute,” Rogers says, clapping his arm as he walks away. “See you around, Mister Chekov.”
“It was nice to be meeting you,” said Chekov stupidly in reply. He wants to slap himself. Instead, he sets his coordinates for the bridge, where he knows how things work.
Part One