Fic: We Have Loved the Stars Too Fondly to be Fearful of the Night - Part 4a

[brighteyed_jill]

Title: We Have Loved the Stars Too Fondly to be Fearful of the Night - Part 4a
Art: by wheres_walnut is here
Fanmix by snarkyrainbow is here
Characters/Pairings: McCoy/Chekov, Chekov/others mentioned, plus ensemble cast
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: slavery, non- and dub-con, violence (but no explicit torture), emotional abuse, but none of it inflicted by the good guys. Also, explicit sex.
Authors Notes: Thanks to redandglenda for catching my mistakes, vellum for not letting me get away with anything, and jaune_chat for everything always.Title quotation from The Old Astronomer to His Pupil by Sarah Williams.
Summary: More than anyone else on the Enterprise, Leonard McCoy knows that space is disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence. As much as he’s seen in the two years since the Narada incident, he’s not prepared when a simple mission ends in the disappearance of a crewmember. The crew must adjust to the idea that one of their own may never come home.



PART FOUR

Pasha woke up in sickbay again. McCoy sat sprawled in a chair next to his bed, head dropped back against the wall, asleep. Thicker-than-usual stubble decorated the doctor’s face, and his uniform was rumpled. Pasha saw no one else in the room, not even another patient. With surprise, he registered that McCoy must be here for him.

He pulled himself upright in bed as he tried to recall why he was here. He’d been in McCoy’s quarters. That strange man-Spock- who wore a uniform like McCoy’s but displayed none of the doctor’s warmth, had asked his permission to… The pain and distress of old memories crowded up and threatened to choke Pasha. “No,” he croaked. The voice that came out of his mouth sounded rough and foreign. Pasha had gone so long without speaking that the sound startled him.

In his chair, McCoy jerked awake. Pasha bowed his head to apologize for having disturbed him, but McCoy was already out of his chair and scanning Pasha with that glowing, beeping instrument he used so often.

“Good to see you up, kid. You feeling okay?”

Pasha nodded, and tested his voice again with, “Yes.”

McCoy’s head snapped up to look at him. “So it did work. I’ll be damned.” He glanced back down at his readout. “Does it hurt to talk?”

“No, I feel… I feel fine, m--. Sir.” He didn’t know what to say or how to speak to McCoy. At times, when watching fellow slaves struggled with the rules of when to speak, how to address their masters, and what words were most pleasing, Pasha had been glad he could not speak. Now, his sudden recovery opened up new and uncertain territory.

“I can’t believe that pointy-eared bastard pulled it off.” McCoy’s usual scowl had stretched into an almost smile. “Are you feeling any aftereffects of the meld?”

“I am not in pain,” Pasha said uncertainly.

“Chekov.” McCoy lowered the scanner and looked searchingly at him. “You know you can tell me if something is wrong.”

“Why do you call me Chekov?” Pasha hadn’t meant to ask out loud. He’d only been thinking it, but he wasn’t accustomed to having his voice back. He would have to re-learn how to guard his speech.

“Your name is Chekov,” McCoy said with a frown. “The scanner recognizes your DNA, see?” He turned the instrument around to show Pasha the glowing display: “Chekov, Pavel A” showed at the bottom of the screen.

Strange that even the technology in this place thought he was something he was not. “It is not what they call me,” Pasha said slowly.

“I saw.” McCoy’s expression soured.

Pasha didn’t understand for a moment until he thought back to the memories he’d relived when Spock had touched him. In his mind there had been a cold, alien presence, strolling through his memories like an unwelcome guest, but there had also been a strong, solid anchor encircling his mind even as McCoy’s arms had encircled his body. He remembered, vaguely, Spock’s warning to McCoy, that he might be drawn into the awareness of what they were doing, the “meld,” as Spock had described it. Pasha whispered, “You saw.”

McCoy nodded. “I saw enough.”

“Oh.” Shame and horror overwhelmed Pasha as he imagined what McCoy must think of him, to have seen him like that.

McCoy drifted closer to the bedside. “Do you want me to call you Pasha?” An involuntary flinch was enough to make McCoy draw away. “Okay. That’s a no. I like Chekov better anyway.” McCoy brought his scanner up again, like a shield. “Does your throat hurt?”

“No. Maybe,” Pasha said. “Not very much.” The quick flash of McCoy’s smile pulled him out of his misery. “What is it, doctor?”

“I guess I’d forgotten you had an accent,” McCoy said. “I missed it.”
--

“The subspace signal is leveling out, captain,” Uhura reported.

“Excellent,” Kirk said from the command chair. “Sulu, keep us within range of the signal, but far enough away that they won’t spot us. Kelso, see if you can figure out their trajectory and give us an idea of where they’re headed.”

Sulu’s “aye” blended with Kelso’s, but he barely noticed. Sulu focused all his concentration on the delicate job of keeping the Enterprise within range of Scotty’s improvised beacon while avoiding the long-range sensors of the slaver ship they were tracking. He knew these weren’t the same bastards who had first taken Chekov, but they might have information that would lead to them, and Sulu was keeping his sword sharpened for that day.

“Sir,” Kelso spoke up from his spot at the conn. “My best estimate of their heading is one thirty one mark six. They could be headed for Usia.”

“That’s a pretty long haul,” Kirk said.

“Ten days, sir,” Kelso answered.

“Like I said.” Kirk tapped his hand against the arm of the command chair. “Sulu, if we need to close with them, how long would it take us to catch up at this distance.”

“Minutes.” Sulu’s fingers flew over the controls of his station as he made the necessary calculations. “If they maintain their current speed and we went all ahead full, we could be on them in less than four minutes.”

“And if they spot us, they won’t maintain their current speed. Now…Where the hell is my first officer?” Kirk drummed his fingers against his chair again, impatiently this time. “Uhura--.”

“My apologies for my tardiness.” Spock appeared in the doorway as if summoned, and strode onto the bridge with his usual smooth assurance. “Captain, a word, please?”

The maneuvers Sulu was executing to keep them at the proper distance from their quarry were too intricate for him to turn around and watch the hushed conversation, but he couldn’t help but speculate. In the few days that Chekov had been on board, he couldn’t help but imagine all discussion revolved around their miraculously returned prodigal son. Kelso leaned across their joined stations and said, “You think we can catch them if they run?”

“We have to,” Sulu answered gravely.

“Mister Kelso,” Kirk raised his voice to call out orders. “Keep an eye on their heading. Sulu, maintain distance and keep us off their sensors. Uhura, if there’s any change in the signal, call me.” Kirk came over to the helm, dropped a hand on Sulu’s shoulder, and lowered his voice. “He’s talking. Come down to sick bay at the end of the shift.” He turned to go, calling over his shoulder, “Mister Spock, you have the bridge.”

Sulu stared after him for half a second before scrambling back to the controls to keep the Enterprise in its delicate balance. Spock loomed behind him. “Mister Sulu?”

Sulu sat straighter at his post. “It’s under control, sir.”
--

Not bringing Spock had been the right move. Since McCoy had recused himself from the proceedings-“He’ll spend the whole time worrying about what I want to hear.”-Chekov looked nervous enough even without an inscrutable Vulcan analyzing his every word. However, Kirk was starting to think he should have brought Sulu along, or someone who Chekov didn’t see as an authority figure. He hadn’t wanted Chekov to feel like he was being ganged up on, but this one-on-one chat wasn’t turning out as Kirk had planned. No matter how he tried to put Chekov at ease-joking with him, plying him with coffee, sitting closer, sitting further away-the man seemed freakishly immune to the Jim Kirk charm.

“What about on the Usite ship?” Kirk prompted. “What do you remember?”

“They were training us, sir.” Chekov sat stiffly in a chair at the briefing room table and didn’t meet Kirk’s eyes.

“Did they bring in any new prisoners while you were on board?”

“Yes. Two.”

Another short, perfunctory answer. Kirk reminded himself to give Chekov a commendation for withstanding interrogation. “What do you remember about them?”

“When they brought them on board, they told us what had happened: their ship had been disabled, and the Usites had signaled they wanted to help. Instead they captured them.”

“What kind of lifeforms? Humanoid?”

“Yes. Like a human, but…” Chekov frowned, considering. “The ears were different. Not like Mister Spock’s.”

“Okay.” Could be one of two dozen different species. “Go on.”

“It had been a family,” Chekov said haltingly, as if he was unsure how much he should share. “Settlers, they said. But our masters killed the parents and only brought aboard the son and his wife, who were perhaps as old as me.”

“What else?”

“They talked to us that night, but in the morning the masters took them away. When they brought them back, they did not know us. They did not know where they were or what had happened to them.” Chekov shifted uncomfortably. “They did not remember one another.”

They’d wiped their memories somehow, as they’d done to Chekov. But they hadn’t done it right away… “Chekov. If you remember their story, maybe someone remembers yours. Another prisoner, maybe, who met you when you were first taken.”

“Maybe yes,” he said warily. “Though, Captain, I do not want you to waste your time. If you want to catch them and take over their trade routes, I think there are different ways to get the information, and my story will not help you.”

Kirk blinked at Chekov while his assumptions jostled each other and rearranged themselves. “Excuse me?” he asked, because it was possible he hadn’t really heard.

“I will help you however you would like. I am only saying that I doubt my story will help you with your goal.”

“Chekov, we’re looking for the ship that took you because we want to stop them,” Kirk said slowly.

“Yes, I understand.”

Kirk was pretty sure that, however confident Chekov sounded for a change, that he really didn’t understand. “We want to find out how they capture their slaves because if we can find a pattern, then maybe we can prevent its happening to anyone else.”

Chekov frowned in confusion. “How would that help you?”

Kirk leaned back in his chair and pushed aside his impulse to analyze where, exactly, this conversation had gone way, way off the rails. Instead he asked, “Has anyone explained what this ship does?”

Chekov shook his head.

“The Enterprise is part of a humanitarian and peacekeeping armada,” he said, and swore that somewhere in the galaxy, Christopher Pike was laughing at him. “Part of our job is enforcing Federation law. And trafficking sentient beings is against Federation law.”

“I am a criminal?” Chekov asked in alarm.

“No, no,” Kirk said quickly. “The people who bought and sold you are criminals.”

“Doctor McCoy is not a criminal! He was only trying to help me,” Chekov snapped, his deference seemingly forgotten in his passionate defense of his de facto master. “And he didn’t even want to buy me in the first place, or to keep me, or even to lay a hand on me. He obviously knows not the first thing about owning a slave, so clearly he is no nefarious mastermind.”

“Agreed.” Kirk managed to keep the grin off his face. “He’s no criminal. But this ship, Enterprise, exists to help people. We decided to go after those slavers even before we knew they had you.”

“Why?” Chekov sounded genuinely puzzled.

“Because it’s wrong. They’re exploiting people who can’t defend themselves.” And Kirk had always had a soft spot for an underdog. “We help people like that.”

“But why, sir? Why should it matter to you if you do not stand to profit?”

“Well.” Kirk considered how to explain what seemed to him a pretty basic concept. “You know McCoy’s our doctor, right?”

“Yes.”

“Bones is a healer through and through. He sees a person hurt, he feels compelled to help him, even if the person in question is lying unconscious on unstable ground during a firefight in an enemy territory with wild beasts roving nearby. Hypothetically speaking, of course. Understand?”

“Sort of,” Chekov said cautiously.

“McCoy has to heal. It’s in his blood, in his damn bones. It’s kind of like that with this whole ship. We see someone in trouble, we have to help.”

“How strange.”

“Yes.” When Chekov put it like that, the whole thing did sound a bit far-fetched. “I guess it is.” He clapped Chekov on the shoulder and said, “That’s all for now. Thanks for your help. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

Chekov stood up and nodded in acknowledgement. “I, too, am glad to be of service.”
--

Spock was coming down the hallway at Kirk, giving him a Very Significant Eyebrow, which meant alpha shift was already over, and someone else was running the bridge. A glance at a chronometer on the nearest wall console confirmed Kirk’s suspicions. He hadn’t realized how long it had been since he’d sent Chekov off to be someone else’s problem and sat in the briefing room alone, considering what to do about the slavers they were chasing.

When Spock reached him, he gave Kirk an acknowledging nod and said, “A word, Captain?”

“Sure,” Kirk said, resigning himself to more bad news. He followed Spock back into the briefing room and threw himself down in the nearest chair.

Spock didn’t sit. “Are you aware Chekov has been sleeping in the doctor’s quarters?”

No, he hadn’t exactly been aware, but then he hadn’t thought the doctor’s sleeping arrangements more his business. More interesting than the arrangements themselves were the fact that the first officer felt the need to comment on them. “Spock. Are you really trying to say that you think he’s doing something…” Kirk waved a hand. “Inappropriate? Bones is a southern gentleman. More than that, he’s… He wouldn’t do anything like that. You know him better than that. How could you think he was--.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that Doctor McCoy was taking advantage of the situation,” Spock said quickly. “I merely observed that he seems to have formed a close attachment to Mister Chekov and therefore may not be making the most objective decisions about his care.”

“What kind of decisions do you mean?”

Spock gracefully perched in the chair across from Kirk. “When I engaged in a meld with Mister Chekov, I was able to remove the barrier that prevented him from speaking.”

“Right,” Kirk said. “Great. So what’s the problem?”

“I believe that a barrier similar to the one I previously removed is preventing Chekov from accessing his memories. I have already proven the theory that a mind meld is an effective tool against such a barrier.”

“You’re saying you could bring his memories back with a mind meld? Spock, that’s great! Still not seeing the problem.”

Spock’s eyebrow dipped precariously. “The previous meld was upsetting to Mister Chekov.”

“Emotional transference.” Kirk remembered his first experience with a Vulcan mind meld, and how shaken he’d been afterwards by feelings not his own. “Did he see something he shouldn’t have? Memories of yours?”

“No. However in the course of the meld, I experienced memories of Mister Chekov’s as he recalled them.”

Kirk didn’t know much about melds, but from what he knew of Chekov’s recent experiences, those memories couldn’t have been happy ones. “Are you all right?”

“Of course,” Spock said, a little tersely. “However, re-living those memories disturbed Mister Chekov. Doctor McCoy advised me to terminate the meld because of Mister Chekov’s agitation. Therefore I was unable to ascertain the cause of the amnesia.”

“Bones had to have a good reason for wanting you to stop.” Kirk could picture the scene: a flustered McCoy ordering Spock to get his Vulcan hands off his damn patient.

“That is not in doubt. I acknowledge that continuing the meld when Mister Chekov was in distress would have been ill-advised. Mister Chekov understandably has difficulty in trusting strangers, and I did not wish to damage his estimation of me. However, I surmise that the strong attachment he has formed to the doctor was a deciding factor in his agreeing to the meld.”

“So what are you saying?”

“Making Mister Chekov more comfortable with his role on the Enterprise will reduce his anxiety about re-experiencing memories in the course of another meld. After experiencing Mister Chekov’s memories in a limited capacity, I believe that key to making him more comfortable is for Doctor McCoy to become more comfortable with his role.”

Kirk reviewed Spock’s statement twice, but still couldn’t unravel his purpose. “If you want to meld with him, he has to be willing to meld.”

“Correct.”

“And he’ll be willing to meld if…”

“If he is confident of his position on the Enterprise.”

“Meaning what?” Kirk was starting to get the idea that he was missing an important point here.

“If his relationship with Doctor McCoy conforms to his expectations, he will feel more secure in this environment,” Spock said, enunciating slowly and clearly as if correct articulation could convey his meaning where words could not.

“Would you quit with the double talk and tell me what you mean?”

Spock clasped his hands together tightly behind his back. “I do not wish to discuss the matter further.”

Kirk’s jaw dropped slowly open as that clue sent the rest of Spock’s comments clicking into place. Comfortable with his role. Sleeping in McCoy’s quarters. Formed a strong attachment to the doctor.“You cannot be serious.”

“I am merely relaying the impressions I received from my meld with Mister Chekov.”

Kirk couldn’t be sure, but he thought Spock was clenching his jaw more tightly than usual. “And have you talked to Bones about this?”

“No. Sir.”

“Yeah. I thought as much.” Kirk scrubbed a hand through his hair and glared at Spock. “You’re hoping I’ll talk to him about it.”

“I believed it was not appropriate for me to discuss such a matter with him.”

“I’ll bet.” Kirk said, but he saw Spock’s point. He didn’t think Bones would take kindly to a suggestion from the Vulcan that he have sex with his patient. “Okay then. I’ll see what I can do.”
--

After his interview with the captain, Pasha hunted down Uhura to ask for some more reading material. It was too early in the shift to bother his master, but he didn’t want to be left alone with his thoughts right now after the strange things Captain Kirk had told him. He’d rather make himself useful in some small way. Previously, Uhura had given him material she’d thought he’d like. Now that he’d been able to explain more clearly what he was interested in (“I want to know what I am supposed to know. What he knew.” “He who?” “Chekov.”) Uhura had obliged with a veritable treasure trove of information on the part of Earth they said he was from: a country called Russia.

Pasha took his padd down to the mess hall. He nibbled on one of those pastries Sulu had introduced him to (“New foods slowly,” Christine had admonished, “Or you’ll be sick.”) and skipped from text to text until most of the shift had slipped away.

He tucked the padd under his arm and set off up to deck seven. The sick bay stood empty. Pasha followed the sound of voices back toward McCoy’s office. Through the open archway he caught a glimpse of Lieutenant Sulu talking to the doctor. He darted around the corner and pressed himself to the wall without knowing for certain why, except that hiding came as second nature to him. He desperately wanted to know what the two men were saying and if they were talking about him. He crept along the wall, always keeping an eye on the main med bay lest someone wander by and spot him.

“I only saw bits and pieces.” McCoy’s voice drifted clearly through the doorway. “Enough to get the idea. More than I ever wanted to see.”

“Is he okay?” That was Sulu’s voice. Chekov was surprised how familiar it sounded, but then again he’d been spending a significant amount of time with the man.

“I think so. This wasn’t exactly news to him, but I’m sure it couldn’t have been pleasant to relive the things they did to him.”

The meld. They had to be talking about him. Chekov held his breath, more determined than ever now to hear the rest of the conversation.

“What about you?” Sulu prompted. “I’ve never been inside a mind meld, but Kirk always said they were… intense.”

McCoy gave a sigh of a kind Chekov had never heard from him: unguarded and bone tired. “Are you off duty?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Have a drink with me.”

“That bad?”

The clinks of glasses and the musical sound of pouring liquid drifted through the doorway. “I never wanted to see anything like it. I’ve seen things before, but in that damn meld, I could feel it.” McCoy’s voice was tight, almost pained. “If I hadn’t been so concerned with making sure Chekov held it together, I would have been sick.”

Pasha slumped against the wall as shame flooded through him. He disgusted McCoy.

“I don’t like to think of him like that,” McCoy continued. “I remember him as being so…”

“The kind of guy who could beam up two officers in freefall over a planet being sucked into a singularity?” Sulu offered.

“Exactly. Brilliant and confident and…” He fell silent for a moment, and Chekov found himself leaning closer to the doorway, straining to hear. “I’d just like to see that Chekov again.”

A nurse entered the main sickbay pushing a cart of supplies. Before she could notice him, Pasha pushed away from the wall and slipped back into the corridor, trusting to the passing nurse to distract McCoy or Sulu from noticing he was ever there.
--

“I hate feeling so damn helpless.” McCoy poured another finger of whisky for himself and Sulu. “You don’t need to hear this. Forget about it.”

“I’m sorry.” Sulu picked up his glass and swirled it around, looking almost half as miserable as McCoy himself. “I should have--.”

“No. Not that stale horse shit again.” McCoy waved a hand at him dismissively. “The only people to blame for this are the ones who took Chekov. Nobody else.”

“Fine,” Sulu said evenly. “I’ll stop blaming myself when you do.”

McCoy clinked his glass against Sulu’s and drained it.

“Hello gentlemen.” Kirk leaned in the doorway. “I thought you might want to have a drink, but I see you started without me.”

“We’re off duty,” Sulu said, but he put down his glass without drinking it.

“Not objecting.” Kirk shrugged. “Just wanted in on the action.”

“Forget it.” McCoy shoved the bottle of bourbon back in his desk. “If the shift’s over, that means Chekov’ll be looking for me. ‘Scuse me.” He headed for the door, and Jim fell into step with him.

“One more thing. Bones--.”

“Can it wait?”

Kirk’s wide eyes betrayed his surprise, but he backed off. “Yeah, I guess it can wait.”

“Then I’ll talk to you later.”
--

Pasha had gone to ground in McCoy’s quarters. He curled up with his padd on the floor by the wall next to McCoy’s desk, but he couldn’t read. He sat staring blindly at the display and replaying in his mind the conversation he’d overheard. McCoy couldn’t help but see Pasha as damaged after witnessing those memories. He didn’t want McCoy to see him as weak. After all, the Usites’ training, as harsh as it had been, had not left him one of those mindless, broken slaves who could not function without orders. Pasha knew how to be obedient and clever. He could be an asset to McCoy, if only he had a chance. More, he could be a worthy companion: one who could appreciate McCoy’s talents and keep him from becoming bitter in his loneliness. However, he knew McCoy’s healer’s heart would not let him take advantage of one he thought was weak. He would have to show McCoy how strong he was.

The whoosh of the door sliding open startled him into dropping his padd. He snatched it up immediately and stood. He spent a second struggling to find an appropriate greeting before settling on, “Hello sir.”

“Don’t call me sir,” McCoy said.

Despite his mistake, Pasha refused to be discouraged. “You don’t want me to call you master. What should I call you?”

“McCoy.” He tossed the stack of pads he was carrying onto the desk and headed over to the closer. “That’s what everyone calls me.”

“Except the captain.” Pasha followed him.

“Well. He’s special.”

“But McCoy is your surname.”

“That’s right.” From the closet McCoy pulled clean sleep clothes--a black shirt and pants-and brought them to the bed with Pasha trailing behind.

“You have a first name?”

“Leonard.”

“No no.” Pasha sat down on the edge of the bed and looked up at McCoy, considering. “Leonard is too long. I should call you Leo. Lev. Like Tolstoy.”

McCoy stopped and turned to him eagerly. “You remember Tolstoy?”

“From today. I read about him today,” Pasha admitted reluctantly. “Sorry. I did not mean to raise your hopes.”

“It’s fine. I’m glad you’re learning,” McCoy said. He snatched up his clothes again and turned away. “Listen. I’m going to have some quarters made up for you.”

Pasha tensed. He’d been ready for this. “Is this about what you saw the other night? When I…” He gestured toward the bathroom.

“No. You’re your own man,” McCoy said, perhaps a shade too heartily to be convincing. “And now you don’t have to rely on anyone else to communicate--.”

“I don’t want my own quarters.”

“Well, you can’t stay here forever.”

This was not going as well as Pasha had hoped. “Leo…”

“Len.”

“Pardon?”

“Len. Is what my wife used to call me. Back when…” McCoy trailed off, as if he were embarrassed to have spoken. “Well, back.”

“Len.” Pasha tried out the word. “It sounds nice. Soft.”

McCoy shook his head quickly. “You need your own quarters.” He dumped his clothes on his desk chair this time and turned back to Pasha looking resolute.

“Don’t send me away,” Pasha said. “Please.”

“It’s not sending you away, it’s--.”

Pasha darted forward before he lost his nerve. He steadied himself against McCoy’s chest and sealed his mouth against McCoy’s, cutting off the flow of words. He’d kissed him before, on Bussar, but he hadn’t really known him then, hadn’t understood what he was like, and how lucky he was to be close to him. Pasha tried to put all that into the kiss.

McCoy turned his head to the side, breaking contact. “Hey…”

“Please…” Pasha tightened his grip on McCoy’s uniform. If McCoy refused him now, he might now have another chance. “Let me have this. Len? Please.”
--

“Chekov… No.” McCoy reached up and tried to pull Chekov’s hands from his shirt. “We can’t.” When he didn’t let go immediately, McCoy sighed, dragged Chekov over to the sofa, and forcefully sat him down on it. “I said no, damnit.”

Chekov stayed put, but he looked as if the distance between them wounded him. “I know what you think of me… What they all think of me. That I am stupid and worthless. That I am not him you lost. I know this, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I am not him. “ Chekov turned his face away. “You wanted him. Him. Chekov.”

McCoy was surprised how he could make the name sound like a curse. Like it was someone who wasn’t him.

“You wanted him, but you won’t even touch me,” Chekov went on. He sat up straighter, resolute, and didn’t take his eyes of McCoy. “I know I have no right to ask this of you. But I could be good for you. I know I am not the same as him. Brilliant and brave and happy. You wanted him. You loved him.”

McCoy dropped down next to Chekov on the couch. Chekov’s words cut close, but the worst, the absolute worst of it was Chekov putting into words things McCoy hadn’t admitted to himself. “You figured this out through the meld?”

“No. I hear you talk to Sulu. I hear the way you talk about him and I know that he means something to you that I do not.” Chekov tucked his feet up under him and turned to face McCoy. He leaned forward but didn’t touch, as if McCoy were a skittish animal he was afraid of spooking. “I am not good at many things, but this I can do. I could be good for you. I could.” Words dissolved into quick, panting breaths, and for a moment McCoy worried Chekov would hyperventilate. “It’s not fair, I know. You don’t ask for this. You are very busy and important man.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” McCoy ground out. His voice sounded harsh and hoarse.

“Don’t I?” Chekov’s eyes flashed at the challenge, and he inched closer. “Doctor, you are the first I can remember who has ever been kind to me. And you are the only one who does not look at me like I am a sick animal. If I could be allowed to stay with someone, I would choose you. Mister Sulu asked me yesterday what I thought of my future. I said I wished you would keep me, and he looked at me as if I had said something horrible.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Sometimes when I look at you working and doing brilliant things every day, I think my heart will beat right out of my chest because I am so proud. But then I remember that you do not belong to me. You belong to the ship and maybe to the Captain. You do not belong to me. I understand this. You are brilliant man. I have no right to you. But you are the best thing that could possibly have happened to me and I am sad that I think I have nothing you want. Nothing to offer you.”

“Chekov,” McCoy began, but Chekov waved him down. Evidently so long in enforced silence had left him with too much to say that couldn’t be stopped by such a half-hearted interruption.

“I could be good. I am not him, but there are things I can do.” He shifted his weight forward, pressing close to McCoy, and McCoy bore it. “I think if I can’t give you this, soon, you will send me away. I will have to go somewhere else because you have no need of me. And this makes me sad, but I understand. I accept this. I just wish you would give me a chance. You haven’t even let me try.”

Intelligent thought drifted out of McCoy’s grasp as Chekov’s eyes held him. “You’re not him, kid.” McCoy said at last. He turned his head away to focus on a dark corner of the room and not on the pleading face before him, but pressed together as they were, he was sure Chekov could feel his ragged breathing.

“How am I not him? You said I have his… genetic structure.” Chekov pulled at his clothes, at his hair. “This is his body. This is his brain. How am I not him?”

“You’re not him.” McCoy snatched Chekov’s wrists and pinned them to the couch on either side of him.

“Okay. Yes,” Chekov said in a small voice. “I see. I’m sorry.” In his voice, Chekov betrayed what he thought he’d heard from McCoy: It’s not you I want. It’s not you I love.

McCoy ached to be able to explain it to him: that he wanted Chekov, but not like this, not the way he was right now. Whatever he said would only hurt Chekov more, so he bit back his explanation and took the coward’s way out in silence.

Chekov leaned back, and McCoy released him. “If I promise not to touch you, can I stay?”

McCoy sighed. “Fine. Just tonight. But tomorrow I’m getting you your own quarters.”
--

McCoy needed coffee. He’d spent the whole night perched at the edge of his bed, waiting for Chekov to make another move. But in the dark, interminable stretch of hours from the time they lay down to the time McCoy admitted defeat and went stomping off to the mess hall, Chekov hadn’t so much as made a peep.

Once McCoy had a scalding hot mug of black coffee in his hand, the universe proved its dislike of him once again by sending an all-too-awake Jim Kirk striding into the mess.

“Bones! Sleep well?” Kirk asked. He dropped an arm over McCoy’s shoulder, and only some quick maneuvering saved him from a hot coffee burn.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” McCoy scowled.

Jim steered him over to an out-of-the-way table. “That’s what you get for ignoring me yesterday.”

“I can’t drop everything and listen to your asinine stories whenever you want,” McCoy snapped. “I’ve got some important things to worry about right now.”

“I know that,” Kirk said mildly. McCoy had just enough time to feel like an asshole for berating a friend who was trying to cheer him up when Kirk asked, “How are things with him?”

“Not good.” McCoy didn’t have the energy to fashion a pretty lie, and besides, Kirk would have seen through it anyway. As it was, Kirk watched him intently, waiting for him to elaborate. “You remember what I told you about that night on Bussar?” McCoy remembered with a rush of shame the pleasure he’d felt when Chekov touched him.

“Yeah.”

“Something like that.” He was a fool. A weak fool, to take advantage of this kid who by his presence made McCoy ache for Chekov-the Chekov he remember, maybe a hazy idea of a Chekov who never existed-and who had his mind set on tempting McCoy straight to special hell.

“I figured as much.” Kirk nodded sagely. “So here’s the thing…”

“Whatever you’re going to say, please don’t.”

Kirk continued as if he hadn’t heard. “I’ve slept with a lot of people, Bones.”

“You’re not going to fix this with sex, Jim!” The volume of McCoy’s objection caused the nearest crewmembers, several tables away, to studiously focus their attention on their food.

“Ease up.” Kirk held his hands up in surrender. “That’s not what I meant. I was just thinking.”

“Because that always ends well.”

“Listen, Bones. I’m trying to impart some wisdom here.” Jim leaned into the table. “I can’t imagine what those bastards told Chekov about who he is and what he’s supposed to do. But maybe the fact that he keeps trying to jump you should tell you something.”

“It tells me he thinks I’ll kill him if he doesn’t please me,” McCoy said bitterly. He still vividly recalled the abject terror in Chekov’s eyes that night on Bussar when McCoy had come at him with a hypospray.

“But you’ve told him you don’t want him for sex.”

“I’ve been pretty clear on that point, yes.”

“But people want sex for lots of different reasons,” Jim said. “This one girl--.”

“I am not in the mood to hear about your exploits.” McCoy started to stand, but Jim caught his elbow and pulled him back down.

“This is germane to the issue at hand.”

“Fine. But I don’t need the gory details about your conquests.”

“Here’s the thing. His sense of self-worth is completely bound up in his bedroom skills.” Kirk paused, waiting for a response, but McCoy didn’t care to speculate on whatever convoluted point his misguided friend was making, so he remained silent. Kirk forged ahead. “Bones. Chekov thinks he’s a sex slave. You’re telling him that the one thing he’s supposed to do, he shouldn’t. In fact, I bet you squealed like a nun whose virtue had been threatened and then ran away.”

“I didn’t run away,” McCoy objected. Although now that he thought about it, he had pretty much fled in terror when he found Chekov in his bathroom flushed from the aftermath of an orgasm. “Okay, once I ran away. The other time I hyposprayed him.”

“See?” Jim threw up his hands. “He probably thinks he disgusts you, or he’s not up to your standards or some nonsense. He’s trying to fit in here, but you won’t let him do what he does best.”

“You’re saying I should sleep with him?” McCoy asked incredulously. “Why of all the irresponsible--.”

“No, no,” Kirk said, and gestured expansively. “At least, not necessarily. I’m just saying try to imagine what he’s going through.”

“I was there, Jim.” McCoy reined in the anger that threatened to have him shouting at his friend. He didn’t find this situation funny in the least. “I saw how they treat their slaves. I know what they did to him. Don’t tell me to imagine; I don’t have to imagine. I understand.”

“Well good,” Jim shot back, equally serious. “He’s obviously looking for you to help him! Would it kill you to offer him a little affection?”

“No, that’s the damn problem!” McCoy blurted.

“Oh.” Jim cocked his head to the side as if he’d just heard something at a frequency only audible to dogs and starship captains.

“What?” An uneasy feeling welled up in McCoy as he recognized the sight of Jim working through a theory.

“Oh Bones.” Jim’s smile was sad, and didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re a mess, old man.”

McCoy deliberately refused to try to interpret that. Instead he said, “Don’t you have some sort of captainly duty you need to be doing?”

“Yes, actually.” Jim grabbed McCoy’s coffee and, ignoring its temperature, stole a generous gulp. “And you’re coming, too.”
--

Kirk admired the cool manner Spock maintained in their briefings with Commander Trenach, but he had to believe that under that patient exterior, Spock wanted to punch the man just as much as anyone. All things considered, Kirk was proud of himself for remaining relatively civil, as opposed to Bones, who sat at the far end of the conference table, openly fuming.

“We have had little difficulty tracking the ship,” Spock was saying.

“Yes,” Trenach said tersely. “However, the longer we follow the ship at this distance, the greater the risk of losing track of it.”

“Are you suggesting we try to attack?” Kirk asked. He was really going to have to find a better way than hypothetical questioning to convey to Trenach that his tactics were crap. “They’ve got a cargo bay full of what are essentially hostages.”

“I’m simply suggesting that we take advantage of all the resources at our disposal.”

“Like what?” Kirk asked suspiciously.

“What information have you been able to retrieve from that collar? The one that belonged to Mister Chekov?”

“Mister Scott had not yet succeeded in decoding any relevant information,” Spock reported serenely. “The initial scan of the collar provides only an identification number and the date of the last purchase. Presumably more information is stored inside the collar, but it is written in some sort of rough code or dialect probably familiar to authorized traders.”

“Surely Mister Chekov could provide some of the information you’re looking for.” Trenach’s smooth, oily tones failed to make his proposal sound less ridiculous. “Locations and names of traders, for example.”

“Mister Chekov has recently been through a very traumatic experience, and he’s not in any shape to be interrogated,” Kirk said tightly.

“I understand you had a long discussion with him yesterday,” Trenach said.

“That was different,” McCoy broke in. “An informal discussion with someone he knows is a hell of lot less stressful than facing a panel of ‘Fleet brass. We don’t even know what all they did to Chekov. He’s talking, sure, but there’s still a lot he doesn’t understand about us. Half the time I think he’s convinced we’re slave traders, too.”

“Perhaps Starfleet command would be better able to provide appropriate care for him.” Trenach turned back to Kirk. “The intelligence service has doctors with experience in dealing with patients who have been prisoners of war, or undergone other stressful missions. They may be better equipped to--.”

“Are you saying the medical care we’re providing is substandard?” Bones eyebrows seemed to be in danger of becoming permanently furrowed. “If you think--.”

“Bones, hold it.” Kirk held a hand out to warn McCoy off. “Trenach, it’s not a matter of experience. Mister Spock performed a mind meld with Chekov and concluded that the best thing we can do for him right now is make sure he feels safe and comfortable.”

“I’m sure that the care your crew is providing is excellent, Captain.” Trenach somehow managed to make the statement sound like an insult. “However, by your own admission you don’t know what they did to him. He could be a sleeper agent. You don’t know what the Usites are capable of. And Mister Spock, although we are of course grateful for your ability to mind meld, I’d like to remind the captain that you are not a trained healer.”

“Chekov is getting all the care he needs,” Bones snapped.

Trenach ignored him. “You have more to consider than Mister Chekov’s health, Captain. Lives hang in the balance, and the Fleet needs whatever information Chekov might have. Starfleet is better equipped to retrieve that information.”

“He’s not a damn computer--.”

“Bones,” Kirk said warningly.

“You’ve been unable to determine the cause of Mister Chekov’s amnesia thus far, and it seems to me that it’s in the patient’s best interest to let someone else look at the case.”

Spock attempted to interject, but McCoy beat him to it.

“Medical code states the treatment and transport of a patient is to be determined at the discretion of his attending physician. Which is me.” McCoy’s face was turning an alarming shade of red.

“Bones,” Kirk said, more sharply this time.

Trenach returned to addressing Kirk. “Need I remind you that Mister Chekov has valuable information pertaining to an ongoing investigation? If Starfleet Intelligence deems it necessary, I can have him detained for interrogation.”

Bones rose from his chair and stabbed a finger in Trenach’s direction. “If you’d think for just one damn minute about what’s best for Chekov instead of glory-hounding--.”

“Doctor, I object to the insinuation that--,” Trenach fumed, but McCoy rolled right over him.

“You wouldn’t be threatening to take a trauma victim away to have his mind poked and prodded at by some damn telepath-sensitive interrogators who won’t--.”

“Doctor McCoy!” The snap of command in Kirk’s voice, along with the use of his name and title, finally stopped Bones in mid-rant. “That will be all. You’re dismissed.”

McCoy recoiled as if he’d been slapped. Fixing Kirk with a glare that could have melted steel, McCoy closed his mouth on whatever else he wanted to say, swallowed hard, and strode from the room. As the door hissed closed, Kirk turned back to the table, where Trenach sat straight-backed and smug, and Spock had his hands folded neatly in the way that meant he very much wanted to have words with Jim.

Trenach smiled thinly. “Thank you, Captain.”

Kirk smiled back and said sweetly, “You’re not taking my crewman off this ship.”

Trenach’s smile disappeared. “Do you understand how important he could be to this mission? He has valuable information that could help us figure out how their trade works and where they might be headed. Are you really willing to throw all that away?”

“My crew’s safety comes first. Chekov’s not leaving my ship until my chief medical officer says he can.”

“I’m sure the Doctor McCoy will be happy to help facilitate your investigation as long as it doesn’t interfere with the treatment of his patient,” Spock added. “But of course any discussion you’d like to have with Chekov would be at the good doctor’s discretion.”

Trenach looked between the two of them and frowned. “We’ll see about that.”
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