FIC - TURN DOWN THAT RACKET, PG - Chekov
title: TURN DOWN THAT RACKET
rating/warnings: PG, swearing, crazy ol' mccoy
wordcount: ~470
prompt: at the kink meme HERE
pairings/characters: Chekov, McCoy, Sulu, Kirk, various crew
Usually when someone protested but he's only seventeen it was because Chekov was proving them wrong, or he was volenteering for a mission completely within his rights to request, or because he was doing something miraculous and so, so against regulation to save the ship. Occasionally, and more suprisingly, there were times when Chekov, bright eyed and lean, somehow managed to embody the concept of 'seventeen' and it sometimes caught everyone off guard.
The mission was technically a geological survey of the planet with a few treaty discussions and a tour or two 'of interest'. There was something about the planet's atmosphere where they couldn't beam directly to the surface, and Scotty worked feverishly on the Enterprise, trying to recalibrate the transporters. Everyone generally hated the situation even if it sounds like a dulled version of shore leave.
So everyone piled into one crowded, tin can of a shuttle, dressed casual and just wanting to get the whole trip down there over with. Doctor McCoy was smack in the center, drinking from a flask and swearing, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder between a napping geologist and the Captain.
"My god," he muttered, all arched eyebrows and crazy eyes, "Chekov. CHEKOV."
The ensign was across the cabin, in his usual post of navigation, with Sulu piloting to his left. While the planet's atmosphere disrupted transporters, the decent from space to the surface was easy, smooth and slow. Sulu played a Bajoran card game on a secondary console screen, and Chekov's attention remained mostly focused on the PADD in his hand.
"CHEKOV," McCoy bellowed, over two rows of people.
The navigator peered over his shoulder, expression quizzical. Gently he tugged one earbud from his ear, the barely muffled Euro techno dance pop suddenly amplifying even louder. "Yes, Doctor?" He said.
"You're going to go deaf," McCoy said, "I can hear your goddamn Russian remix from over here."
Chekov shrugged, put the head phone back in. "I will be fine. Is only on fourteen of thirty."
"CHEKOV."
The younger man made an irritated noise, and swiveled around in his chair. He stared at McCoy, frowning deeply. "What."
"TURN IT DOWN."
Chekov's mouth twisted slightly as if he were going to refuse. To the side, Sulu coughed pointedly and the navigator rolled his eyes, making a show of lifting the PADD so McCoy could see; he turned it down two volume settings.
McCoy's eyebrow raised a little higher.
He scowled, flicked at the volume setting until it was half what it was. The music from his headphones could still be heard vaugely, but only as a faintly rhythmic buzz. Without waiting to see if it was acceptable, Chekov spun his chair away and slouched in his chair. After a pause, he kicked his heel up on the console ledge.
"He's seventeen, Bones," Kirk murmured.
"Shut up, Jim," he replied.
rating/warnings: PG, swearing, crazy ol' mccoy
wordcount: ~470
prompt: at the kink meme HERE
pairings/characters: Chekov, McCoy, Sulu, Kirk, various crew
Usually when someone protested but he's only seventeen it was because Chekov was proving them wrong, or he was volenteering for a mission completely within his rights to request, or because he was doing something miraculous and so, so against regulation to save the ship. Occasionally, and more suprisingly, there were times when Chekov, bright eyed and lean, somehow managed to embody the concept of 'seventeen' and it sometimes caught everyone off guard.
The mission was technically a geological survey of the planet with a few treaty discussions and a tour or two 'of interest'. There was something about the planet's atmosphere where they couldn't beam directly to the surface, and Scotty worked feverishly on the Enterprise, trying to recalibrate the transporters. Everyone generally hated the situation even if it sounds like a dulled version of shore leave.
So everyone piled into one crowded, tin can of a shuttle, dressed casual and just wanting to get the whole trip down there over with. Doctor McCoy was smack in the center, drinking from a flask and swearing, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder between a napping geologist and the Captain.
"My god," he muttered, all arched eyebrows and crazy eyes, "Chekov. CHEKOV."
The ensign was across the cabin, in his usual post of navigation, with Sulu piloting to his left. While the planet's atmosphere disrupted transporters, the decent from space to the surface was easy, smooth and slow. Sulu played a Bajoran card game on a secondary console screen, and Chekov's attention remained mostly focused on the PADD in his hand.
"CHEKOV," McCoy bellowed, over two rows of people.
The navigator peered over his shoulder, expression quizzical. Gently he tugged one earbud from his ear, the barely muffled Euro techno dance pop suddenly amplifying even louder. "Yes, Doctor?" He said.
"You're going to go deaf," McCoy said, "I can hear your goddamn Russian remix from over here."
Chekov shrugged, put the head phone back in. "I will be fine. Is only on fourteen of thirty."
"CHEKOV."
The younger man made an irritated noise, and swiveled around in his chair. He stared at McCoy, frowning deeply. "What."
"TURN IT DOWN."
Chekov's mouth twisted slightly as if he were going to refuse. To the side, Sulu coughed pointedly and the navigator rolled his eyes, making a show of lifting the PADD so McCoy could see; he turned it down two volume settings.
McCoy's eyebrow raised a little higher.
He scowled, flicked at the volume setting until it was half what it was. The music from his headphones could still be heard vaugely, but only as a faintly rhythmic buzz. Without waiting to see if it was acceptable, Chekov spun his chair away and slouched in his chair. After a pause, he kicked his heel up on the console ledge.
"He's seventeen, Bones," Kirk murmured.
"Shut up, Jim," he replied.