"Seven", (7/7) ST:XI, McCoy/Chekov
Kinda late. The lorazepem knocked me on my ass for crazy-long, and tore my stomach to ribbons for most of today. I'm still kinda groggy, and blech about the stomach. But regardless! Shameless angst and pr0n!
Seven (7/7)
Author: _beetle_
Fandom: ST:XI
Pairing: McCoy/Chekov
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: No, they don't count for much.
Way AU, and a follow-up to Intense Dislike. Previous sins are here and also on DW, which is probably easier to read than narrow-ass comment boxes.
Summary: Written for the slashthedrabble prompts chosen by strickens_girl, “role reversal” and "seven deadly sins."
“Jesus wept, I didn't even know anyone still knew how to type!”
Pavel's fingers hesitate momentarily, then keep going. Autopilot is a wonderful thing. A few moments to regain his stride, and he hmms, but doesn't look up from the day's medical logs. He finds it nearly impossible to keep be both clear and concise while dictating, so he's taken to typing out the CMO's logs using the desk's virtual keyboard.
It's faster and more efficient, and Pavel Chekov is nothing, if not efficient. “Now, you know, Lieutenant. And you must only use this newfound knowledge for good.”
McCoy laughs, and even though he sounds more tired than amused, the room actually seems to brighten. Not that that would be terribly difficult. As is his custom after his shift has officially ended, he has the lights off, except for the monitor, backlit keyboard, and a small “night-light” panel near his office door that's set to forty percent. More than bright enough to avoid barking one's shins, more than bright enough that, were he to look up, he'd see the face that haunts his mind's eye regardless of lighting.
“How may I help you? Do you have more qvestions about Mr. Sulu's condition, or treatment?”
“Well, no, that wasn't what I . . . I mean . . . he's, ah, really alright, right? You didn't leave anything out before?”
That note of restrained worry finally stops Pavel's fingers, and he looks up at McCoy. Squints a little, wondering if he needs corrective surgery for his eyes, or if it's just all the stimulants making everything seem to blur at the edges. Either way, poor eyesight does run in his family, and it's only a matter of time, not of dodging genetic bullets. “I told you ewerything. He . . . is as alright as can be expected, under the circumstance. And I'm certain he vill get better. He is a wery determined patient, and I am a wery determined doctor. I vill be honest . . . he's not out of the voods yet, but he'll soon be back to finding new, more inwentive vays to get himself killed, yes?”
“Yeah, that's . . . I'm--thank you, Doc.” McCoy almost smiles, but can't quite seem to do it. His face looks drawn and haggard. Older.
If anyone should look that way over Hikaru Sulu is, it's his. . . .
That's not a thought that wants finishing, so Pavel doesn't. He focuses on his report again, or tries to. After staring blankly at his monitor for most of a minute, while McCoy stares at him, Pavel gives it up as a bad job and leans back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose and wishing the head-rest was a pillow. Not that he'd be able to sleep even if it was. “I've informed Sickbay personnel that you can wisit Mr. Sulu vhenever you like, since I imagine there'll be no budging you out of the Sickbay vhen you're not on shift.”
“You imagine correctly,” McCoy acknowledges, smiling. Pavel's stomach churns and churns, and he has to look away again. Back at the log, which, on first glance, makes absolutely no sense to him. He doubts it will, till well after McCoy goes back to sitting vigil. “So how fast a typist're you, anyway?”
“Em. Vhy do you you think I've timed myself?” That wry silence is as knowing as it is amused, and Pavel clears his throat. “I average approximately ninety vords per minute. Over vone hundred if vhat I'm typing reqvires less, em . . . thought or care.”
“And does what you're doing now require thought and care?” McCoy against the doorway lintel and crosses his arms like a man prepared to stay awhile. ”Which is my genteel and tactful way of askin' if I'm interruptin' somethin' important?”
“I'm, em, finishing out the day's medical logs, but no, you're not interrupting. This I can do on autopilot, so if you have other qvestions regarding Mr. Sulu's treatment, please. Ask them.” And mentioning the Lieutenant's treatment has the benefit of clicking the autopilot that is his over-stimulated brain back on. He's typing again, watching the computer's blocky, utilitarian Cyrillic fill the report field with no real idea of what he's typing, only that it's a continuation of what he'd started--a medical stream-of-thought.
Watching letters march squarely across the screen, for a moment, he misses his mother keenly. She'd begun teaching him to write in the old way before he'd learned to talk (and well before she bothered teaching him the barbaric, graceless slashes that are written Standard). Her Cyrillic was always strongly, and beautifully drawn, the handwritten letters she used to send him during his first year in the Academy worthy of framing, and if he'd known then what he knows now, he would have. Framed every single one and locked them all in a vault--
“So . . . Hikaru says I'm bein' an idiot.”
“Hmm.” Mind catapulted back to the present, Pavel frowns and deletes 'идиот'. Replaces it with 'гриппа' (since it's the Bolian 'Flu' Yeoman Deregibus has contracted, and not the Bolian 'Idiot'), and divides his attention roughly in half. “That is highly unlikely, Lieutenant, since he's currently in a coma that I von't be rousing him from for at least the next three days.”
“Actually, he told me I was bein' an idiot a week ago. It's, uh, only now that I'm startin' to realize . . . he was right.”
“Hmm.” Pavel's slipped completely back in that autopilot mini-zone, the one that's only for updating his logs, ordering supplies, and any other busy-work. He's actually managed to forget McCoy's presence altogether when a warm hand covers his own, and he nearly flies out of his skin--голенььььььь marches across the screen. He finds himself blinking up into McCoy's eyes, and for awhile, all they do is look at each other.
Insomnia aside, tenuous grasp on waking reality aside, Pavel is still mildly stunned to realize he's hard, and has been getting that way since McCoy first spoke.
“I, uh, didn't mean to startle you, but I said your name a couple of times and y'didn't seem to hear me.” Dark eyes search his own, a thousand questions in them, none of which Pavel has the correct answers to. All he knows is that when McCoy licks his lips, for a moment he, Pavel, ceases to exist, and there is simply want, so bright and dark and deep, that he can see himself lunging for McCoy like some Pon Farr-crazed Vulcan and just . . . but he doesn't. What he does, is take a deep calming breath that's really only one of those things.
“Jesus, Doc, are you okay?” McCoy's fingers brush his cheek, and Pavel turns his face away, shaken to his core and almost disoriented with how little he's moved on. “Sorry, I--”
“It's, em, I who should apologize for ignoring you.” Pavel can't seem to look back up. Is enough of a masochist that he can't even ask McCoy to leave him to his work. Anything just to have him in some small way, for some small while. “I'm used to being alone vhen I write, and there are a least tvice as many different stimulants in my system as there should be, making me jumpy. And it's been a long day--”
“It's okay, you don't have to explain it to me. I actually think I'm starting to get it. Get you,” McCoy amends. That hand covers Pavel's again, then doesn't leave. McCoy sits on the edge of the desk with a soft sigh and Pavel wants, absurdly enough to pull him closer. Lay his head in McCoy's lap and rest. Let McCoy stroke his hair, and say any old nonsense in his strange, lovely accent.
“I wanted to thank you again. For everything you've done--and don't think I don't know it's a miracle he didn't die dirt-side, let alone that he made it through surgery okay. And that it's you that kept him from shufflin' loose the mortal coil. No matter how long I live, I will never--” McCoy squeezes his hand hard “--never be able to thank you adequately for what you've done, Pavel.”
It's the sort of thing that Pavel should like to hear. And part of him does--part of him loves being recognized for the let's-not-mince-words-brilliant doctor that he is. But there's a larger part that's feeling something quite different in this instance. This larger part has been doing its level best to swallow him down its universe-sized maw for weeks, now. This larger part has necessitated that Pavel shuffle through most of his days, and his sleepless (but chemically wired and professionally productive) nights on autopilot, if only so that he doesn't lose hours to wondering if he completed a task, and on finding it done, trying futilely to remember how many times his autopilot let him do it.
Or fewer, but no less disconcerting hours wondering what he did wrong, and why, why McCoy wouldn't even speak to him long enough to let him make amends.
Or simply just tell him what he keeps doing so wrong so he can correct it--but that's a starship that's already gone to Warp.
He runs his hand over his hair. Doesn't even care that it probably looks ridiculous by now. He honestly can't even remember the last time he did anything to it besides wash and run nervous fingers through it (with increasing difficulty). “I vas only doing my job, Leo--I mean Lieutenant McCoy.”
McCoy's eyebrows quirk up in that contrary-yet-sexy way that makes Pavel want to kiss him breathless. “Is that all you were doing, Doc?”
Pavel shakes his head. It's increasingly difficult to think rationally, lately, but especially when McCoy is so near, yet . . . so damn far. He clenches his hands on the armrests of the chair. “I don't know vhat you vant me to say. Vhat I did, vas . . . I did my job, and somehow . . . I couldn't ewen tell you how, he lived--he barely had enough blood left for me to clone more of. So shall I be perfectly honest vith you? He should be dead. I vas kneeling in red mud, Leo, disruptor wounds reopening as soon as I closed them because they vouldn't clot properly. There vas more organ failure than organs, and--I vas vatching my hands move so fast and so slow at the same time, listening to myself give orders at . . . whoever beamed down vith me . . . and all I could think vas: 'this is not enough. He vill die. I am responsible for the death of the man Leo loves.'”
McCoy shakes his head, his dark eyes angry. “That's not--Jesus, Doc--”
Pavel laughs wearily, feeling every bit as helpless as he'd felt fourteen hours ago. He hasn't had a full night's sleep in almost three weeks. But a lot of the past day was spent deep in the Zone he slips into during medical emergencies . . . that completely awake place where everything is sharp and bright and immediate, and split seconds are eternities in which to explore every possibility.
Between the Zone and the probably unwise amount of artificial stimulants in his system, time is rather like taffy. Stretches and bunches according to its own laws and rationale. “There's a perfect blank spot in my memory of the minutes betveen realizing nothing I did vould be enough, and . . . stepping off the transporter pad vith Mr. Sulu on the gurney. His witals veren't steady, but he vas still alive. I didn't know how . . . I still don't know.
“I do know that he died tvice on the operating table, and ve vere able to bring him back both times. I remember that clearly, and could go into as much detail as you'd like. But for a play-by-play of vhat happened on-planet, you'll have to ask somevone else. I am sorry.”
“Ain't a damned thing to be sorry for.” McCoy still sounds angry, but that large, comforting hand leaves Pavel's and reaches out to brush his cheek again with impossibly tender fingers. It feels so nice that he wants more than anything to lean into it. But he doesn't. He doesn't lean away either, damned, he supposes, by his own vacillations. “You made a miracle happen, and I ain't about to qvestion your technique, Dr. Pavel, or critique ya on how you put my dyin' friend back together with nothin' but talent and sheer will!”
“But someone should, Leo! I have no idea vhat I did, can't even document it, so that it might be repeated, if necessary. And vhat if it had gone the other vay?” Pavel forces himself to hold McCoy's gaze. “Vhat if the Lieutenant had died? Vhat if it vas a mistake that I'd made that killed him? A mistake I vould go on to repeat and repeat. Vhat if--”
“You have the most expressive, kissable mouth,” McCoy says, apropos of nothing--McCoy is, Pavel realizes, the least logical person he's ever met. Including Jim Kirk--but he has the strangest look on his face as he tilts Pavel's face up a little. Runs his thumb along Pavel's lower lip. “Ain'tcha even gonna ask why Hikaru called me an idiot?”
Fighting and losing the battle to turn away--to even keep his eyes open--Pavel wonders if that pathetic, yearning noise is actually coming from his own throat. It must be, since it stops the moment he starts speaking. “I . . . I assumed that had you vanted me to know, you vould have told me.”
“And we all know what they say about assumptions. . . .” McCoy laughs a little, and those fingers are drifting slowly down to Pavel's throat, lingering at his pulse. And then he does something Pavel was certain would never be done again, at least in regards to himself: he insinuates himself between Pavel and the desk, and between Pavel's right leg and his left, when they automatically fall open. Leans his arms on either thigh and looks up at Pavel soberly.
“I'm an idiot, because most of the time, I forget how young you are,” he whispers guiltily. “I forget that some of this--maybe all of this thing between us is new to you, and that you don't always know what to say, or what to think, or what I'm thinkin'. Might not know if you were seventy, moody as I can be, lately. . . .
“I forget all that sometimes, Doc, and I need to apologize to you. For bein' too proud to get off my high horse and set the record straight about me and Hikaru. You picked the absolute wrong time to make a completely unfounded accusation, and made it in the most insultin' manner possible. And it hurt like hell, comin' from you.” McCoy sighs, and lays his head on Pavel's right knee. “Every time I thought about it, it seemed like it hurt a little more. I got a little more angry, till all I wanted was to make you hurt like I hurt. And if I could make you hurt enough, we'd be even, and I'd feel better and you'd be sorry that you'd hurt me, and . . . I dunno. It was convoluted and stupid. I never felt like we were even, and hurtin' you didn't ever make me feel better, only worse. And I wanted to hurt you for that, too.”
Confused, Pavel puts his hand on straight, dark hair and McCoy shifts a bit closer. “I . . . don't understand. I mean--I understand that I hurt you, and for that I am sorry. But the rest. . . .”
McCoy snorts. “'Course you wouldn't understand. It's a special kinda logic. The kind that only makes sense to a person workin' day and night to justify to themselves what's basically an immature hissy fit.” He looks up, and in the light from the monitor he is vital, and electric. “I just need to apologize. You made a mistake--an understandable one, given my track record. And instead of working to resolve the problem, I compounded it. Made us both miserable for no good reason. Over a mistake.”
“I vas mistaken?” Pavel says slowly, his tired brain latching onto the one thing that makes sense--that he wants to make sense. “You are not in a romantic relationship vith the Lieutenant?”
“No, I'm not.” McCoy smiles and Pavel tries to return it, but it all he can do is breathe in and out, fast and deep, like a man who's been running some nightmarish marathon and is finally, finally allowed to stop. It's relief so great there are tears welling in his eyes, then dripping down his cheeks and nose. He knows that if he closes his eyes and casts his mind back to every interaction between McCoy and Sulu that he's ever seen--if he replaces them with himself and Jim, what was even a few minutes ago as obvious and plain as the nose on his face, is neither. Is, in retrospect free from his own monstrous insecurity . . . a hypothesis so flawed as to be laughable to anyone with eyes.
Had he just thought McCoy was the least logical person he'd ever met? Pavel shakes his head. He may not have a sense of humor, but he can appreciate irony. Especially when it's this layered. We are such fools, he thinks, and it's a strangely freeing, joyous thought because: we are both quite well-matched.
“It vas like I couldn't breathe or speak or think vhen I saw you vith him,” he admits, realizing he's been doing nothing but staring and staring into McCoy's unusually serious dark eyes. His beautiful eyes. “I vas so angry, so--”
“Jealous?”
Pavel nods, though he'd been about to say scared. He supposes all three emotions boil down to the same thing, in this case. There've already been too many silly misunderstanding between them for Pavel to nit-pick, especially when McCoy is wiping his tears away and it feels . . . better than almost anything. “Yeah, I kinda guessed. Rationally, I knew jealousy wouldn't have been an issue at all if whatever it is we have didn't mean somethin' to you. Just like I wouldn't have turned angst into high art if I wasn't so gone on you.
“So. I'm only gonna say this once, Doc, and you'd better perk up your ears: I've never in my life so much as flirted with Hikaru Sulu, let alone kissed him, or let him fuck me. Even if I'd wanted to--which I haven't--Hikaru's as straight as a ruled edge. Now, all of that aside,” McCoy rolls Pavel's chair back till it hits the wall, then stands up. “All that aside, I'm old-fashioned when it comes to you and me, by which I mean I'm with you, Pavel. I'm with. You. No one else . . . only you.”
Pavel opens his mouth to says something (he doesn't know what) and all that comes out is: “Oh. Okay.”
McCoy's eyes narrow, but he doesn't seem particularly annoyed. Just uncertain. More uncertain that Pavel's ever seen him. “I think this is the part where you say it back, Doc. If you feel it, I mean. I know I've done the lion's share of talkin', and even after what I said, I'm still stupid enough to just assume you and I want the same thing--”
“Ve do.” Pavel nods once. Smiles, and this time it stretches from ear to ear, it feels like. His brain has entered some kind of stand-by mode, a little orange light blinking behind his eyes. The autopilot has gone to bed, for the moment. “Each other. And nobody else.”
“Well. Yeah.” McCoy grins almost shyly, then clears his throat and nudging Pavel's feet. It takes a few moments, but Pavel gets the idea and closes his legs. When he does, McCoy kneels on the chair and straddles them, his hands braced on the wall then on Pavel's shoulders for balance.
It's a tight fit, all told, since the chair wasn't made for this, but Pavel's not complaining. Not when McCoy--when Leo's kissing him in that desperately yielding way that means: I miss you. Tell me it ain't just me?
It ain't, Pavel reassures him via slow, intent kisses. Eventually he abandons the armrests for Leo's thighs, then his waist, then his ass. He squeezes and kneads. Pushes up Leo's shirts--Leo's out of them in a trice--and doesn't waste any more time. Kisses the center of his chest softly, before biting his right nipple just hard enough to make Leo hiss and shake.
“Oh, God, baby . . . I missed you,” Leo breathes, laughing a little, kissing Pavel's cheeks, his forehead, even his hair. Reaching between them to rub Pavel through his trousers. “Work of goddamn art . . . my timing's for the birds, Doc, but I need you in me any way I can get you: cock, fingers--”
“Fist?” Leo shudders and groans, and Pavel makes a mental note, kissing his way up to Leo's collarbone and sucking a love bite into the skin. He intends to repeat the pattern all over Leo's throat and shoulders.
“'S'at how you want me, Doc?” Leo's breath is light and quick on his temple, his voice low and rough. “On my back, spread open for you and beggin' for your hand?”
“On your back and on this desk. Or in your bed, or mine. Anywhere, everywhere,” Pavel adds, pulling down trousers and underwear with one hand, and bringing the other up to Leo's mouth, tapping his index and middle fingers on Leo's lips. His fingers get kissed, then nipped lightly, then welcomed into Leo's mouth like honored guests. Are feted with lascivious swirls of tongue and obscenely noisy sucking sounds.
Misunderstandings and time apart aside, this is one area where no guesswork is required. With his brain out of the way, his body always knows what it wants, and knows what it needs. He removes his fingers, turns his face up to Leo's, and is kissed again. And kissed. And kissed some more. It's impossibly good, just letting Leo kiss him, like Pavel Chekov's lips are his only goal in life.
What's even better is the amazing, growling sounds he makes as Pavel teases and feints with wet fingers. . . but doesn't quite breach that first ring of muscle, though not for lack of Leo trying and begging wordlessly . . . at first.
“Baby, c'mon. I can feel how hard you are, so fuck me,” he finally says, soft and ragged, voice like a skein of dark silk that's seen prouder days. He kisses down Pavel's jaw, to his neck. Bites his earlobe, and sucks on it. Pavel grunts, and has to fight the urge to push Leo back down to his knees. Simply remembering himself sliding down Leo's throat . . . Leo's hands clamped on his thighs, both of them fighting for every inch they can get. . . .
Simply remembering that is one scant step from it happening. And though Pavel wants it to happen--quite desperately--it's not what he wants just now. Now that he's got incentive, Pavel's more than willing to fight for what he wants. To fight for control, now, even as Leo's hand alternately strokes him, squeezes him, and wrestles with his fly.
“Fucking Starfleet issues goddamn motherfucking child-proof bullshit fucking pants just fucking unzip you fucking--goddamnit, Pavel, quit smirkin' an' gimme a hand here! I need you, and these pants are workin' my last, sane goddamn nerve!”
All of which is grumbled out on one single, rush of breath, and Leo's eyes are brilliant, equally annoyed and aroused. His brows are furrowed into a scowl, and his lips are pursed, and kiss-swollen.
He is . . . everything Pavel didn't know he wanted till he had it, and he knows he'd go to any lengths to keep it.
“Be still a moment,” he says, hoping the firmness of tone hides the laughter in it. It mustn't work too well, because Leo's scowl turns into a slightly wounded pout.
“'Be still'? God, you got any idea what you do to me, Doc?!”
“Yes. Vhat I do to you. No vone else,” Pavel says--insists, really, brushing Leo's hand out of the way to take care of his own fly, when suddenly Leo rocks forward, then backward hard, nearly toppling them both over trying get Pavel's fingers inside him, and swearing when he doesn't.
“Behave,” Pavel tells him, pushing chair away from the wall and feeling the underside of the left armrest for the tiny control panel. A second later, the chair soundlessly reclines to a forty-five degree angle, taking he and Leo with it. “I vill give you what need, but you must also do the same.”
Leo looks into his eyes, confused--but that confusion clears almost immediately, taking the last of his annoyance with it. He kisses Pavel's forehead. “No one else,” he reaffirms--promises, really, and Pavel nods. Exhales, and it feels like he's been holding his breath forever. “Y'hear that? No one but you, Dr. Pavel Chekov. Now please. Will you fuck me, already?”
“Yes. I vill make you come until you can't, anymore.” Pavel licks his lips. Licks Leo's lips, too, and fights for self-control, only barely winning. Just wanting Leo is enough to get him off. Actually having him is like overload-icing on the cake. “But first, I vant you to come for me now. Right now, Leo. Not because I'm fucking you, but because I'm telling you to. Come. Now.”
Leo's eyes widen and he makes a strangled, almost pained sound low in his throat and . . . comes. He throws his head back, then slumps forward, biting Pavel's shoulder to muffle his shout, his body shaking and shuddering almost alarmingly, and now Pavel pushes his fingers into heattightwarmperfect. Finds Leo's prostate and puts pressure on it repeatedly, till Leo starts shouting again and shaking harder than ever, rocking forward against Pavel without rhythm or reason.
Well after Pavel's added a third finger--and is debating the wisdom of a fourth after such a bare minimum of stretching--Leo's a shivering, moaning, wet-faced wreck. His lips are moving on Pavel's neck as if he's trying to say something, but every time he starts, all that comes out are hitches and more moans.
So Pavel decides the fourth finger can wait till another time. It's pointless now, when he's already kept his promise of making Leo come till he can't anymore. For the moment, that is all Pavel wants: the wrung-out, possibly sobbing man in his lap. And having gotten what he wants, he can at last relax a little of the iron-rigid control over his own body. Just enough to feel his own orgasm waiting like a herd of corralled horses ready to stampede as soon as the gate is opened.
How curious, he thinks, bemused and a little frightened. But he closes his eyes and leans his head against Leo's as he swings that gate wide. Comes much less dramatically, but no less powerfully than the man in his arms. And though his legs are effectively pinned, he can still and does still rock his pelvis upward no less eagerly for coming in proximity to Leo, rather than inside him.
There's plenty of time for that later. Time enough for everything they've ever wanted. Time. . . .
*
. . . is really is like taffy if you've gone without sleep for long enough.
Pavel doesn't know how long they've been sitting like this, only that his legs are completely numb, his underwear is cold and damp, and his arms are sore, and . . . he's indescribably happy.
He watches with unseeing eyes as the CGI fish on his monitor swim and chase each other. Watches till the monitor finally goes into standby and the virtual keyboard winks off, leaving the room dim. Then he closes his eyes and wiggles his toes--or ties to. He can't tell if they've received the message to wiggle, or not.
Leo's face is still tucked between his neck and shoulder, and he's breathing evenly, humidly. May even be asleep. It's been a long day for them both, and . . . Pavel is reluctant to disturb him, even to put him to bed in one of the free cubicles to either side of Lieutenant Sulu.
Running his hands up and down Leo's back, he kisses dark, still-damp hair. Leo takes a slightly deeper breath and sighs.
“Heyya, Doc,” he drawls, muffled and sleepy, and Pavel smiles, holds him tighter, and wonders if this is what love feels like.
“Hello, Leo.”
A rusty-voiced, slightly embarrassed chuckle. “That was, uh. . . .”
“Yes, it vas.” Pavel kisses his hair again and Leo hums a few bits of some broken melody.
“'M I killin' your legs?”
“You . . . are perfect.”
Leo snorts quietly. “You're s'posed to say that 'fore you get in m'pants, Doc, not after.”
“Ah. I apologize.”
“S'okay. I forgive ya.” A gently sucking almost-kiss on Pavel's neck. “C'n we stay like this for 'while?”
“Of course.”
“An' you're sure 'm not too heavy?” Leo starts to shift around, like he's trying to get up. Pavel holds him tighter, till he stills with another contented sigh.
“I'm sure. Stay vith me.”
“I . . . yeah, 'kay. Think I jus' might. Oh, fuck. Fuck, I am such a goner,” Leo adds irritably, and Pavel smiles. And smiles. And smiles, till Leo stops grumbling and drifts off again.
*
Seven (7/7)
Author: _beetle_
Fandom: ST:XI
Pairing: McCoy/Chekov
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: No, they don't count for much.
Way AU, and a follow-up to Intense Dislike. Previous sins are here and also on DW, which is probably easier to read than narrow-ass comment boxes.
Summary: Written for the slashthedrabble prompts chosen by strickens_girl, “role reversal” and "seven deadly sins."
“Jesus wept, I didn't even know anyone still knew how to type!”
Pavel's fingers hesitate momentarily, then keep going. Autopilot is a wonderful thing. A few moments to regain his stride, and he hmms, but doesn't look up from the day's medical logs. He finds it nearly impossible to keep be both clear and concise while dictating, so he's taken to typing out the CMO's logs using the desk's virtual keyboard.
It's faster and more efficient, and Pavel Chekov is nothing, if not efficient. “Now, you know, Lieutenant. And you must only use this newfound knowledge for good.”
McCoy laughs, and even though he sounds more tired than amused, the room actually seems to brighten. Not that that would be terribly difficult. As is his custom after his shift has officially ended, he has the lights off, except for the monitor, backlit keyboard, and a small “night-light” panel near his office door that's set to forty percent. More than bright enough to avoid barking one's shins, more than bright enough that, were he to look up, he'd see the face that haunts his mind's eye regardless of lighting.
“How may I help you? Do you have more qvestions about Mr. Sulu's condition, or treatment?”
“Well, no, that wasn't what I . . . I mean . . . he's, ah, really alright, right? You didn't leave anything out before?”
That note of restrained worry finally stops Pavel's fingers, and he looks up at McCoy. Squints a little, wondering if he needs corrective surgery for his eyes, or if it's just all the stimulants making everything seem to blur at the edges. Either way, poor eyesight does run in his family, and it's only a matter of time, not of dodging genetic bullets. “I told you ewerything. He . . . is as alright as can be expected, under the circumstance. And I'm certain he vill get better. He is a wery determined patient, and I am a wery determined doctor. I vill be honest . . . he's not out of the voods yet, but he'll soon be back to finding new, more inwentive vays to get himself killed, yes?”
“Yeah, that's . . . I'm--thank you, Doc.” McCoy almost smiles, but can't quite seem to do it. His face looks drawn and haggard. Older.
If anyone should look that way over Hikaru Sulu is, it's his. . . .
That's not a thought that wants finishing, so Pavel doesn't. He focuses on his report again, or tries to. After staring blankly at his monitor for most of a minute, while McCoy stares at him, Pavel gives it up as a bad job and leans back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose and wishing the head-rest was a pillow. Not that he'd be able to sleep even if it was. “I've informed Sickbay personnel that you can wisit Mr. Sulu vhenever you like, since I imagine there'll be no budging you out of the Sickbay vhen you're not on shift.”
“You imagine correctly,” McCoy acknowledges, smiling. Pavel's stomach churns and churns, and he has to look away again. Back at the log, which, on first glance, makes absolutely no sense to him. He doubts it will, till well after McCoy goes back to sitting vigil. “So how fast a typist're you, anyway?”
“Em. Vhy do you you think I've timed myself?” That wry silence is as knowing as it is amused, and Pavel clears his throat. “I average approximately ninety vords per minute. Over vone hundred if vhat I'm typing reqvires less, em . . . thought or care.”
“And does what you're doing now require thought and care?” McCoy against the doorway lintel and crosses his arms like a man prepared to stay awhile. ”Which is my genteel and tactful way of askin' if I'm interruptin' somethin' important?”
“I'm, em, finishing out the day's medical logs, but no, you're not interrupting. This I can do on autopilot, so if you have other qvestions regarding Mr. Sulu's treatment, please. Ask them.” And mentioning the Lieutenant's treatment has the benefit of clicking the autopilot that is his over-stimulated brain back on. He's typing again, watching the computer's blocky, utilitarian Cyrillic fill the report field with no real idea of what he's typing, only that it's a continuation of what he'd started--a medical stream-of-thought.
Watching letters march squarely across the screen, for a moment, he misses his mother keenly. She'd begun teaching him to write in the old way before he'd learned to talk (and well before she bothered teaching him the barbaric, graceless slashes that are written Standard). Her Cyrillic was always strongly, and beautifully drawn, the handwritten letters she used to send him during his first year in the Academy worthy of framing, and if he'd known then what he knows now, he would have. Framed every single one and locked them all in a vault--
“So . . . Hikaru says I'm bein' an idiot.”
“Hmm.” Mind catapulted back to the present, Pavel frowns and deletes 'идиот'. Replaces it with 'гриппа' (since it's the Bolian 'Flu' Yeoman Deregibus has contracted, and not the Bolian 'Idiot'), and divides his attention roughly in half. “That is highly unlikely, Lieutenant, since he's currently in a coma that I von't be rousing him from for at least the next three days.”
“Actually, he told me I was bein' an idiot a week ago. It's, uh, only now that I'm startin' to realize . . . he was right.”
“Hmm.” Pavel's slipped completely back in that autopilot mini-zone, the one that's only for updating his logs, ordering supplies, and any other busy-work. He's actually managed to forget McCoy's presence altogether when a warm hand covers his own, and he nearly flies out of his skin--голенььььььь marches across the screen. He finds himself blinking up into McCoy's eyes, and for awhile, all they do is look at each other.
Insomnia aside, tenuous grasp on waking reality aside, Pavel is still mildly stunned to realize he's hard, and has been getting that way since McCoy first spoke.
“I, uh, didn't mean to startle you, but I said your name a couple of times and y'didn't seem to hear me.” Dark eyes search his own, a thousand questions in them, none of which Pavel has the correct answers to. All he knows is that when McCoy licks his lips, for a moment he, Pavel, ceases to exist, and there is simply want, so bright and dark and deep, that he can see himself lunging for McCoy like some Pon Farr-crazed Vulcan and just . . . but he doesn't. What he does, is take a deep calming breath that's really only one of those things.
“Jesus, Doc, are you okay?” McCoy's fingers brush his cheek, and Pavel turns his face away, shaken to his core and almost disoriented with how little he's moved on. “Sorry, I--”
“It's, em, I who should apologize for ignoring you.” Pavel can't seem to look back up. Is enough of a masochist that he can't even ask McCoy to leave him to his work. Anything just to have him in some small way, for some small while. “I'm used to being alone vhen I write, and there are a least tvice as many different stimulants in my system as there should be, making me jumpy. And it's been a long day--”
“It's okay, you don't have to explain it to me. I actually think I'm starting to get it. Get you,” McCoy amends. That hand covers Pavel's again, then doesn't leave. McCoy sits on the edge of the desk with a soft sigh and Pavel wants, absurdly enough to pull him closer. Lay his head in McCoy's lap and rest. Let McCoy stroke his hair, and say any old nonsense in his strange, lovely accent.
“I wanted to thank you again. For everything you've done--and don't think I don't know it's a miracle he didn't die dirt-side, let alone that he made it through surgery okay. And that it's you that kept him from shufflin' loose the mortal coil. No matter how long I live, I will never--” McCoy squeezes his hand hard “--never be able to thank you adequately for what you've done, Pavel.”
It's the sort of thing that Pavel should like to hear. And part of him does--part of him loves being recognized for the let's-not-mince-words-brilliant doctor that he is. But there's a larger part that's feeling something quite different in this instance. This larger part has been doing its level best to swallow him down its universe-sized maw for weeks, now. This larger part has necessitated that Pavel shuffle through most of his days, and his sleepless (but chemically wired and professionally productive) nights on autopilot, if only so that he doesn't lose hours to wondering if he completed a task, and on finding it done, trying futilely to remember how many times his autopilot let him do it.
Or fewer, but no less disconcerting hours wondering what he did wrong, and why, why McCoy wouldn't even speak to him long enough to let him make amends.
Or simply just tell him what he keeps doing so wrong so he can correct it--but that's a starship that's already gone to Warp.
He runs his hand over his hair. Doesn't even care that it probably looks ridiculous by now. He honestly can't even remember the last time he did anything to it besides wash and run nervous fingers through it (with increasing difficulty). “I vas only doing my job, Leo--I mean Lieutenant McCoy.”
McCoy's eyebrows quirk up in that contrary-yet-sexy way that makes Pavel want to kiss him breathless. “Is that all you were doing, Doc?”
Pavel shakes his head. It's increasingly difficult to think rationally, lately, but especially when McCoy is so near, yet . . . so damn far. He clenches his hands on the armrests of the chair. “I don't know vhat you vant me to say. Vhat I did, vas . . . I did my job, and somehow . . . I couldn't ewen tell you how, he lived--he barely had enough blood left for me to clone more of. So shall I be perfectly honest vith you? He should be dead. I vas kneeling in red mud, Leo, disruptor wounds reopening as soon as I closed them because they vouldn't clot properly. There vas more organ failure than organs, and--I vas vatching my hands move so fast and so slow at the same time, listening to myself give orders at . . . whoever beamed down vith me . . . and all I could think vas: 'this is not enough. He vill die. I am responsible for the death of the man Leo loves.'”
McCoy shakes his head, his dark eyes angry. “That's not--Jesus, Doc--”
Pavel laughs wearily, feeling every bit as helpless as he'd felt fourteen hours ago. He hasn't had a full night's sleep in almost three weeks. But a lot of the past day was spent deep in the Zone he slips into during medical emergencies . . . that completely awake place where everything is sharp and bright and immediate, and split seconds are eternities in which to explore every possibility.
Between the Zone and the probably unwise amount of artificial stimulants in his system, time is rather like taffy. Stretches and bunches according to its own laws and rationale. “There's a perfect blank spot in my memory of the minutes betveen realizing nothing I did vould be enough, and . . . stepping off the transporter pad vith Mr. Sulu on the gurney. His witals veren't steady, but he vas still alive. I didn't know how . . . I still don't know.
“I do know that he died tvice on the operating table, and ve vere able to bring him back both times. I remember that clearly, and could go into as much detail as you'd like. But for a play-by-play of vhat happened on-planet, you'll have to ask somevone else. I am sorry.”
“Ain't a damned thing to be sorry for.” McCoy still sounds angry, but that large, comforting hand leaves Pavel's and reaches out to brush his cheek again with impossibly tender fingers. It feels so nice that he wants more than anything to lean into it. But he doesn't. He doesn't lean away either, damned, he supposes, by his own vacillations. “You made a miracle happen, and I ain't about to qvestion your technique, Dr. Pavel, or critique ya on how you put my dyin' friend back together with nothin' but talent and sheer will!”
“But someone should, Leo! I have no idea vhat I did, can't even document it, so that it might be repeated, if necessary. And vhat if it had gone the other vay?” Pavel forces himself to hold McCoy's gaze. “Vhat if the Lieutenant had died? Vhat if it vas a mistake that I'd made that killed him? A mistake I vould go on to repeat and repeat. Vhat if--”
“You have the most expressive, kissable mouth,” McCoy says, apropos of nothing--McCoy is, Pavel realizes, the least logical person he's ever met. Including Jim Kirk--but he has the strangest look on his face as he tilts Pavel's face up a little. Runs his thumb along Pavel's lower lip. “Ain'tcha even gonna ask why Hikaru called me an idiot?”
Fighting and losing the battle to turn away--to even keep his eyes open--Pavel wonders if that pathetic, yearning noise is actually coming from his own throat. It must be, since it stops the moment he starts speaking. “I . . . I assumed that had you vanted me to know, you vould have told me.”
“And we all know what they say about assumptions. . . .” McCoy laughs a little, and those fingers are drifting slowly down to Pavel's throat, lingering at his pulse. And then he does something Pavel was certain would never be done again, at least in regards to himself: he insinuates himself between Pavel and the desk, and between Pavel's right leg and his left, when they automatically fall open. Leans his arms on either thigh and looks up at Pavel soberly.
“I'm an idiot, because most of the time, I forget how young you are,” he whispers guiltily. “I forget that some of this--maybe all of this thing between us is new to you, and that you don't always know what to say, or what to think, or what I'm thinkin'. Might not know if you were seventy, moody as I can be, lately. . . .
“I forget all that sometimes, Doc, and I need to apologize to you. For bein' too proud to get off my high horse and set the record straight about me and Hikaru. You picked the absolute wrong time to make a completely unfounded accusation, and made it in the most insultin' manner possible. And it hurt like hell, comin' from you.” McCoy sighs, and lays his head on Pavel's right knee. “Every time I thought about it, it seemed like it hurt a little more. I got a little more angry, till all I wanted was to make you hurt like I hurt. And if I could make you hurt enough, we'd be even, and I'd feel better and you'd be sorry that you'd hurt me, and . . . I dunno. It was convoluted and stupid. I never felt like we were even, and hurtin' you didn't ever make me feel better, only worse. And I wanted to hurt you for that, too.”
Confused, Pavel puts his hand on straight, dark hair and McCoy shifts a bit closer. “I . . . don't understand. I mean--I understand that I hurt you, and for that I am sorry. But the rest. . . .”
McCoy snorts. “'Course you wouldn't understand. It's a special kinda logic. The kind that only makes sense to a person workin' day and night to justify to themselves what's basically an immature hissy fit.” He looks up, and in the light from the monitor he is vital, and electric. “I just need to apologize. You made a mistake--an understandable one, given my track record. And instead of working to resolve the problem, I compounded it. Made us both miserable for no good reason. Over a mistake.”
“I vas mistaken?” Pavel says slowly, his tired brain latching onto the one thing that makes sense--that he wants to make sense. “You are not in a romantic relationship vith the Lieutenant?”
“No, I'm not.” McCoy smiles and Pavel tries to return it, but it all he can do is breathe in and out, fast and deep, like a man who's been running some nightmarish marathon and is finally, finally allowed to stop. It's relief so great there are tears welling in his eyes, then dripping down his cheeks and nose. He knows that if he closes his eyes and casts his mind back to every interaction between McCoy and Sulu that he's ever seen--if he replaces them with himself and Jim, what was even a few minutes ago as obvious and plain as the nose on his face, is neither. Is, in retrospect free from his own monstrous insecurity . . . a hypothesis so flawed as to be laughable to anyone with eyes.
Had he just thought McCoy was the least logical person he'd ever met? Pavel shakes his head. He may not have a sense of humor, but he can appreciate irony. Especially when it's this layered. We are such fools, he thinks, and it's a strangely freeing, joyous thought because: we are both quite well-matched.
“It vas like I couldn't breathe or speak or think vhen I saw you vith him,” he admits, realizing he's been doing nothing but staring and staring into McCoy's unusually serious dark eyes. His beautiful eyes. “I vas so angry, so--”
“Jealous?”
Pavel nods, though he'd been about to say scared. He supposes all three emotions boil down to the same thing, in this case. There've already been too many silly misunderstanding between them for Pavel to nit-pick, especially when McCoy is wiping his tears away and it feels . . . better than almost anything. “Yeah, I kinda guessed. Rationally, I knew jealousy wouldn't have been an issue at all if whatever it is we have didn't mean somethin' to you. Just like I wouldn't have turned angst into high art if I wasn't so gone on you.
“So. I'm only gonna say this once, Doc, and you'd better perk up your ears: I've never in my life so much as flirted with Hikaru Sulu, let alone kissed him, or let him fuck me. Even if I'd wanted to--which I haven't--Hikaru's as straight as a ruled edge. Now, all of that aside,” McCoy rolls Pavel's chair back till it hits the wall, then stands up. “All that aside, I'm old-fashioned when it comes to you and me, by which I mean I'm with you, Pavel. I'm with. You. No one else . . . only you.”
Pavel opens his mouth to says something (he doesn't know what) and all that comes out is: “Oh. Okay.”
McCoy's eyes narrow, but he doesn't seem particularly annoyed. Just uncertain. More uncertain that Pavel's ever seen him. “I think this is the part where you say it back, Doc. If you feel it, I mean. I know I've done the lion's share of talkin', and even after what I said, I'm still stupid enough to just assume you and I want the same thing--”
“Ve do.” Pavel nods once. Smiles, and this time it stretches from ear to ear, it feels like. His brain has entered some kind of stand-by mode, a little orange light blinking behind his eyes. The autopilot has gone to bed, for the moment. “Each other. And nobody else.”
“Well. Yeah.” McCoy grins almost shyly, then clears his throat and nudging Pavel's feet. It takes a few moments, but Pavel gets the idea and closes his legs. When he does, McCoy kneels on the chair and straddles them, his hands braced on the wall then on Pavel's shoulders for balance.
It's a tight fit, all told, since the chair wasn't made for this, but Pavel's not complaining. Not when McCoy--when Leo's kissing him in that desperately yielding way that means: I miss you. Tell me it ain't just me?
It ain't, Pavel reassures him via slow, intent kisses. Eventually he abandons the armrests for Leo's thighs, then his waist, then his ass. He squeezes and kneads. Pushes up Leo's shirts--Leo's out of them in a trice--and doesn't waste any more time. Kisses the center of his chest softly, before biting his right nipple just hard enough to make Leo hiss and shake.
“Oh, God, baby . . . I missed you,” Leo breathes, laughing a little, kissing Pavel's cheeks, his forehead, even his hair. Reaching between them to rub Pavel through his trousers. “Work of goddamn art . . . my timing's for the birds, Doc, but I need you in me any way I can get you: cock, fingers--”
“Fist?” Leo shudders and groans, and Pavel makes a mental note, kissing his way up to Leo's collarbone and sucking a love bite into the skin. He intends to repeat the pattern all over Leo's throat and shoulders.
“'S'at how you want me, Doc?” Leo's breath is light and quick on his temple, his voice low and rough. “On my back, spread open for you and beggin' for your hand?”
“On your back and on this desk. Or in your bed, or mine. Anywhere, everywhere,” Pavel adds, pulling down trousers and underwear with one hand, and bringing the other up to Leo's mouth, tapping his index and middle fingers on Leo's lips. His fingers get kissed, then nipped lightly, then welcomed into Leo's mouth like honored guests. Are feted with lascivious swirls of tongue and obscenely noisy sucking sounds.
Misunderstandings and time apart aside, this is one area where no guesswork is required. With his brain out of the way, his body always knows what it wants, and knows what it needs. He removes his fingers, turns his face up to Leo's, and is kissed again. And kissed. And kissed some more. It's impossibly good, just letting Leo kiss him, like Pavel Chekov's lips are his only goal in life.
What's even better is the amazing, growling sounds he makes as Pavel teases and feints with wet fingers. . . but doesn't quite breach that first ring of muscle, though not for lack of Leo trying and begging wordlessly . . . at first.
“Baby, c'mon. I can feel how hard you are, so fuck me,” he finally says, soft and ragged, voice like a skein of dark silk that's seen prouder days. He kisses down Pavel's jaw, to his neck. Bites his earlobe, and sucks on it. Pavel grunts, and has to fight the urge to push Leo back down to his knees. Simply remembering himself sliding down Leo's throat . . . Leo's hands clamped on his thighs, both of them fighting for every inch they can get. . . .
Simply remembering that is one scant step from it happening. And though Pavel wants it to happen--quite desperately--it's not what he wants just now. Now that he's got incentive, Pavel's more than willing to fight for what he wants. To fight for control, now, even as Leo's hand alternately strokes him, squeezes him, and wrestles with his fly.
“Fucking Starfleet issues goddamn motherfucking child-proof bullshit fucking pants just fucking unzip you fucking--goddamnit, Pavel, quit smirkin' an' gimme a hand here! I need you, and these pants are workin' my last, sane goddamn nerve!”
All of which is grumbled out on one single, rush of breath, and Leo's eyes are brilliant, equally annoyed and aroused. His brows are furrowed into a scowl, and his lips are pursed, and kiss-swollen.
He is . . . everything Pavel didn't know he wanted till he had it, and he knows he'd go to any lengths to keep it.
“Be still a moment,” he says, hoping the firmness of tone hides the laughter in it. It mustn't work too well, because Leo's scowl turns into a slightly wounded pout.
“'Be still'? God, you got any idea what you do to me, Doc?!”
“Yes. Vhat I do to you. No vone else,” Pavel says--insists, really, brushing Leo's hand out of the way to take care of his own fly, when suddenly Leo rocks forward, then backward hard, nearly toppling them both over trying get Pavel's fingers inside him, and swearing when he doesn't.
“Behave,” Pavel tells him, pushing chair away from the wall and feeling the underside of the left armrest for the tiny control panel. A second later, the chair soundlessly reclines to a forty-five degree angle, taking he and Leo with it. “I vill give you what need, but you must also do the same.”
Leo looks into his eyes, confused--but that confusion clears almost immediately, taking the last of his annoyance with it. He kisses Pavel's forehead. “No one else,” he reaffirms--promises, really, and Pavel nods. Exhales, and it feels like he's been holding his breath forever. “Y'hear that? No one but you, Dr. Pavel Chekov. Now please. Will you fuck me, already?”
“Yes. I vill make you come until you can't, anymore.” Pavel licks his lips. Licks Leo's lips, too, and fights for self-control, only barely winning. Just wanting Leo is enough to get him off. Actually having him is like overload-icing on the cake. “But first, I vant you to come for me now. Right now, Leo. Not because I'm fucking you, but because I'm telling you to. Come. Now.”
Leo's eyes widen and he makes a strangled, almost pained sound low in his throat and . . . comes. He throws his head back, then slumps forward, biting Pavel's shoulder to muffle his shout, his body shaking and shuddering almost alarmingly, and now Pavel pushes his fingers into heattightwarmperfect. Finds Leo's prostate and puts pressure on it repeatedly, till Leo starts shouting again and shaking harder than ever, rocking forward against Pavel without rhythm or reason.
Well after Pavel's added a third finger--and is debating the wisdom of a fourth after such a bare minimum of stretching--Leo's a shivering, moaning, wet-faced wreck. His lips are moving on Pavel's neck as if he's trying to say something, but every time he starts, all that comes out are hitches and more moans.
So Pavel decides the fourth finger can wait till another time. It's pointless now, when he's already kept his promise of making Leo come till he can't anymore. For the moment, that is all Pavel wants: the wrung-out, possibly sobbing man in his lap. And having gotten what he wants, he can at last relax a little of the iron-rigid control over his own body. Just enough to feel his own orgasm waiting like a herd of corralled horses ready to stampede as soon as the gate is opened.
How curious, he thinks, bemused and a little frightened. But he closes his eyes and leans his head against Leo's as he swings that gate wide. Comes much less dramatically, but no less powerfully than the man in his arms. And though his legs are effectively pinned, he can still and does still rock his pelvis upward no less eagerly for coming in proximity to Leo, rather than inside him.
There's plenty of time for that later. Time enough for everything they've ever wanted. Time. . . .
*
. . . is really is like taffy if you've gone without sleep for long enough.
Pavel doesn't know how long they've been sitting like this, only that his legs are completely numb, his underwear is cold and damp, and his arms are sore, and . . . he's indescribably happy.
He watches with unseeing eyes as the CGI fish on his monitor swim and chase each other. Watches till the monitor finally goes into standby and the virtual keyboard winks off, leaving the room dim. Then he closes his eyes and wiggles his toes--or ties to. He can't tell if they've received the message to wiggle, or not.
Leo's face is still tucked between his neck and shoulder, and he's breathing evenly, humidly. May even be asleep. It's been a long day for them both, and . . . Pavel is reluctant to disturb him, even to put him to bed in one of the free cubicles to either side of Lieutenant Sulu.
Running his hands up and down Leo's back, he kisses dark, still-damp hair. Leo takes a slightly deeper breath and sighs.
“Heyya, Doc,” he drawls, muffled and sleepy, and Pavel smiles, holds him tighter, and wonders if this is what love feels like.
“Hello, Leo.”
A rusty-voiced, slightly embarrassed chuckle. “That was, uh. . . .”
“Yes, it vas.” Pavel kisses his hair again and Leo hums a few bits of some broken melody.
“'M I killin' your legs?”
“You . . . are perfect.”
Leo snorts quietly. “You're s'posed to say that 'fore you get in m'pants, Doc, not after.”
“Ah. I apologize.”
“S'okay. I forgive ya.” A gently sucking almost-kiss on Pavel's neck. “C'n we stay like this for 'while?”
“Of course.”
“An' you're sure 'm not too heavy?” Leo starts to shift around, like he's trying to get up. Pavel holds him tighter, till he stills with another contented sigh.
“I'm sure. Stay vith me.”
“I . . . yeah, 'kay. Think I jus' might. Oh, fuck. Fuck, I am such a goner,” Leo adds irritably, and Pavel smiles. And smiles. And smiles, till Leo stops grumbling and drifts off again.
*