A Coordinated Effort, Part 4/?
Still failing to make actual posts. I'll go back and fix that one of these years. A warning in case I don't end up posting part 5 before the 17th - I'm leaving for a European tour with my choir then, and I won't be back for a week and a half or so. I won't even have e-mail, so obviously nothing will be forthcoming. Thanks to all who have read despite my lazy posting and infrequent updates. :)
Gamma shift lunch on the Enterprise, officers sitting in clusters around circular tables smaller than the ones in the ensigns’ mess, and Chekov enters alone. He spots Kirk, Uhura, Sulu and a few other bridge officers at one table, and avoids their eyes because he doesn’t want them to think he is snubbing them when he just avoiding the inevitable humiliation of conversation. Spotting an empty table across the room, he picks up his tray, which the replicator has just filled, and makes a beeline for it; he has a miniPADD in his pocket, the kind that fits in your hand, meant for personal media (rumors abound regarding the Captain’s definition of “personal media” but Chekov just has books and technical journals and a few old Russian films). With it in his hand, no one will have to feel sorry for him, sitting by himself. But suddenly he notices that someone else has crossed his intended path. Interception course, his brain supplies; the unidentified craft is closing in on his table, and panic wells up, hot like the adrenaline of an emergency that isn’t this pathetic. All-stop, all-stop! his brain commands, but the pilot in charge of his feet is not as quick as Lieutenant Sulu is with the Enterprise, and before he can fix it, Chekov finds himself locking eyes with the table thief.
It’s Rogers, the security officer from breakfast, and he looks surprised and pleased to see the navigator heading for him. Chekov’s lips spit out a soft curse in Russian, even as they twist up into what he hopes is a friendly smile. No escape now; the pull of politeness is like a tractor beam, dragging him to his doom. Then he wonders disgustedly when he became so melodramatic, tells himself to calm down, that it is just one lunchtime, just one lunchtime with just two people at just one table…
He sets down his tray with deliberate slowness, sliding into the seat across from Rogers, whose rank he does not know, though Chekov is now sure he is security - on-duty, he is wearing his phaser belt and holster.
“Hello,” Chekov says politely, tucking his napkin into his lap and supervising the process carefully as to avoid looking up (no one has yet invented technology to keep Starfleet officers from dropping crumbs on themselves).
“Hello,” says Rogers in return, more warmly. When Chekov finally looks up, the other man is smiling, looking at him a little funny. Instinctively, Chekov touches his face, as if there must be something there to make Rogers look at him this way, but the other man just laughs, shaking his head in amusement and reaching for his cup.
“You all right?” he asks as he tips it to his lips, seeming just as comfortable with this situation as Chekov is not.
“Yes, I…yes,” Chekov replies, wondering if he should elaborate, or ask why Rogers is laughing. Nervousness is battling with hunger for control of his stomach but hunger wins; he picks up his sandwich and fills his mouth the way he can’t fill the awkward silence.
“Nice to see a familiar face,” Rogers comments as Chekov chews, looking around the room at all the other people. “I’m posted by the bridge twice a week, and we have to stagger our lunches so there’s always four of us on guard, make sure all you geniuses can do your jobs in peace.” He laughs. “Makes for a bit of a lonely lunch with us out here just one at a time, though.”
Chekov nods sympathetically, still chewing. It is easier to look at Rogers when Rogers himself is looking around the room because Chekov never knows how much eye contact is appropriate. He is good at staring, the kind of staring he practiced on the professors at the Academy as they lectured, and he is good at not looking at people at all, as he did in the hallways to avoid being picked on for his size or his age or his accent or his sheer brilliance, or some permutation of the four (fifteen possibilities, his brain supplies). But meeting others’ eyes, with this he does not have much practice, and so he is a bit dismayed when the guard turns back to him and to his meal, apparently done with his perusal of the room.
“Yeah, I only know two people who actually work on the bridge,” Rogers shrugs as he bites into his lunch, then quickly adds with his hand over his mouth, “besides you, of course.”
“They are very kind,” says Chekov fairly of his coworkers. He doesn’t know everyone, but no one has ever been mean to him. Condescending, sometimes, but never mean, and of course very good at their jobs.
“I’m sure they are,” Rogers nods, smiling over at Chekov, who really looks at him for the first time. Rogers is probably twenty-two, maybe a little older, with tan skin and the beginnings of laugh lines around his eyes. His hair is dark brown and cropped short against his head, the way most of the security officers wear it, and something about the way he sits in his chair so relaxed makes him seem very handsome to Chekov, very welcoming to his eyes. When he catches the Russian looking at him, he flashes him an easy grin, though he gets only flushed cheeks and averted eyes in response.
“So what makes a guy like you sit with a guy like me when you could sit with any of your bridge buddies?” he asks as Chekov stares at his sandwich.
The one truth, I was trying to sit alone and you stole my table, is a bit rude, and the other truth, I don’t have any “bridge buddies,” is a bit pathetic.
“Perhaps there is not so much difference between a guy like you, as you say, and a guy like me,” Chekov replies enigmatically, and smiles for real this time, because this is the perfect thing to say. It is a complete sentence, it responds directly to the previous comment, and it atones for his earlier failure to come up with something inclusive to say. It shows that he is not a snob, that he does not consider himself above the crewmembers who did not attend Starfleet or who do not work on the bridge. It atones for his awkwardness this morning and shows that he is interested in talking to Rogers more, which he is; he feels strangely at ease around him. The guard does not seem bothered by his usual hesitant speech or by his avoidance of eye contact and talks to him without pity, without condescension; Chekov feels as if he is getting a fresh start every time he opens his mouth.
“You know, a lot of people on Deck F think you’re a bit big on yourself,” Rogers says, raising his fork as if he is about to wave it around to lecture the offending crew members. He is referring to the deck on which both their quarters must be, the deck where ensigns and lower-ranking officers live, and where they encountered one another at breakfast that morning. “They say you’re always off sitting by yourself because you don’t want to mix, because you think you’re better since you work with senior officers. But I don’t think that’s true. I think you’re just shy, Pavel. Can I call you Pavel?”
“Da, yes, of course,” says Chekov hurriedly. The use of his first name is almost a relief after being called “Mister Chekov” or “Ensign Chekov” or simply “Chekov” for so many months. He is too young to fit comfortably into those names yet; they are like a jersey he has yet to grow into. He smiles hesitantly at Rogers now. “May I call you…ai, forgive me. I have forgotten your first name.”
Before today, this failure would have burned embarrassment red on his cheeks. Now it is just something that the two of them laugh at before carrying on.
“It’s Dylan,” Rogers says easily. “And sure, of course you can call me that. And now you have to tell me all about what exactly it is you get to do up on the bridge.”
The way to Chekov’s heart is through his work, and this time, he slips easily into the conversation, alternately chewing and explaining his duties to Rogers, who proves to be as good a listener as he is a speaker. He doesn’t understand all the physics, but he asks questions when he needs to, and lets Chekov reduce it into simpler terms, and seems genuinely interested despite his distance from the subject at hand, like he cares about it just because Chekov cares about it. The minutes go by with unexpected speed. Before Chekov knows it, he is finished with his meal, and surprises himself by staying a few minutes with his empty tray to finish explaining his current project with Scotty to Rogers, who wishes him luck as they both finally stand up to deliver their empty trays to their appropriate destination. Then, in comfortable silence, they walk to the turbolift, where they will part ways, Rogers to relieve the guard in the hallway opposite it, and Chekov to ride it back down to the bridge.
“Hey, it’s been good talking to you, Pavel,” Rogers says, holding out his hand. When Chekov reaches out to shake it, their eyes meet, and for once he does not blush. It just feels right, that they should shake hands like this. It is almost like they are becoming friends - he barely dares think it.
“Yes, yes it has,” he replies with a cautious smile as he steps into the lift. “Maybe we bump into each other again sometime?”
“Sure hope so,” Rogers says, and his grin is the last thing Chekov sees as the lift doors shut in front of him. When they open again, it’s to the lively hum of the bridge, the blue and yellow and red of the officers he has worked with for months without really getting to know. Still, to know that somewhere on the ship is someone who maybe perhaps cares a little about him, it makes a difference. He is not dreading the end of his shift so much as he ordinarily would, even if he still has nowhere to be.
Shoving thoughts of off-duty hours out of his head, he sets his coordinates for productivity, mentally rolls up his sleeves, and gets back to work.
Gamma shift lunch on the Enterprise, officers sitting in clusters around circular tables smaller than the ones in the ensigns’ mess, and Chekov enters alone. He spots Kirk, Uhura, Sulu and a few other bridge officers at one table, and avoids their eyes because he doesn’t want them to think he is snubbing them when he just avoiding the inevitable humiliation of conversation. Spotting an empty table across the room, he picks up his tray, which the replicator has just filled, and makes a beeline for it; he has a miniPADD in his pocket, the kind that fits in your hand, meant for personal media (rumors abound regarding the Captain’s definition of “personal media” but Chekov just has books and technical journals and a few old Russian films). With it in his hand, no one will have to feel sorry for him, sitting by himself. But suddenly he notices that someone else has crossed his intended path. Interception course, his brain supplies; the unidentified craft is closing in on his table, and panic wells up, hot like the adrenaline of an emergency that isn’t this pathetic. All-stop, all-stop! his brain commands, but the pilot in charge of his feet is not as quick as Lieutenant Sulu is with the Enterprise, and before he can fix it, Chekov finds himself locking eyes with the table thief.
It’s Rogers, the security officer from breakfast, and he looks surprised and pleased to see the navigator heading for him. Chekov’s lips spit out a soft curse in Russian, even as they twist up into what he hopes is a friendly smile. No escape now; the pull of politeness is like a tractor beam, dragging him to his doom. Then he wonders disgustedly when he became so melodramatic, tells himself to calm down, that it is just one lunchtime, just one lunchtime with just two people at just one table…
He sets down his tray with deliberate slowness, sliding into the seat across from Rogers, whose rank he does not know, though Chekov is now sure he is security - on-duty, he is wearing his phaser belt and holster.
“Hello,” Chekov says politely, tucking his napkin into his lap and supervising the process carefully as to avoid looking up (no one has yet invented technology to keep Starfleet officers from dropping crumbs on themselves).
“Hello,” says Rogers in return, more warmly. When Chekov finally looks up, the other man is smiling, looking at him a little funny. Instinctively, Chekov touches his face, as if there must be something there to make Rogers look at him this way, but the other man just laughs, shaking his head in amusement and reaching for his cup.
“You all right?” he asks as he tips it to his lips, seeming just as comfortable with this situation as Chekov is not.
“Yes, I…yes,” Chekov replies, wondering if he should elaborate, or ask why Rogers is laughing. Nervousness is battling with hunger for control of his stomach but hunger wins; he picks up his sandwich and fills his mouth the way he can’t fill the awkward silence.
“Nice to see a familiar face,” Rogers comments as Chekov chews, looking around the room at all the other people. “I’m posted by the bridge twice a week, and we have to stagger our lunches so there’s always four of us on guard, make sure all you geniuses can do your jobs in peace.” He laughs. “Makes for a bit of a lonely lunch with us out here just one at a time, though.”
Chekov nods sympathetically, still chewing. It is easier to look at Rogers when Rogers himself is looking around the room because Chekov never knows how much eye contact is appropriate. He is good at staring, the kind of staring he practiced on the professors at the Academy as they lectured, and he is good at not looking at people at all, as he did in the hallways to avoid being picked on for his size or his age or his accent or his sheer brilliance, or some permutation of the four (fifteen possibilities, his brain supplies). But meeting others’ eyes, with this he does not have much practice, and so he is a bit dismayed when the guard turns back to him and to his meal, apparently done with his perusal of the room.
“Yeah, I only know two people who actually work on the bridge,” Rogers shrugs as he bites into his lunch, then quickly adds with his hand over his mouth, “besides you, of course.”
“They are very kind,” says Chekov fairly of his coworkers. He doesn’t know everyone, but no one has ever been mean to him. Condescending, sometimes, but never mean, and of course very good at their jobs.
“I’m sure they are,” Rogers nods, smiling over at Chekov, who really looks at him for the first time. Rogers is probably twenty-two, maybe a little older, with tan skin and the beginnings of laugh lines around his eyes. His hair is dark brown and cropped short against his head, the way most of the security officers wear it, and something about the way he sits in his chair so relaxed makes him seem very handsome to Chekov, very welcoming to his eyes. When he catches the Russian looking at him, he flashes him an easy grin, though he gets only flushed cheeks and averted eyes in response.
“So what makes a guy like you sit with a guy like me when you could sit with any of your bridge buddies?” he asks as Chekov stares at his sandwich.
The one truth, I was trying to sit alone and you stole my table, is a bit rude, and the other truth, I don’t have any “bridge buddies,” is a bit pathetic.
“Perhaps there is not so much difference between a guy like you, as you say, and a guy like me,” Chekov replies enigmatically, and smiles for real this time, because this is the perfect thing to say. It is a complete sentence, it responds directly to the previous comment, and it atones for his earlier failure to come up with something inclusive to say. It shows that he is not a snob, that he does not consider himself above the crewmembers who did not attend Starfleet or who do not work on the bridge. It atones for his awkwardness this morning and shows that he is interested in talking to Rogers more, which he is; he feels strangely at ease around him. The guard does not seem bothered by his usual hesitant speech or by his avoidance of eye contact and talks to him without pity, without condescension; Chekov feels as if he is getting a fresh start every time he opens his mouth.
“You know, a lot of people on Deck F think you’re a bit big on yourself,” Rogers says, raising his fork as if he is about to wave it around to lecture the offending crew members. He is referring to the deck on which both their quarters must be, the deck where ensigns and lower-ranking officers live, and where they encountered one another at breakfast that morning. “They say you’re always off sitting by yourself because you don’t want to mix, because you think you’re better since you work with senior officers. But I don’t think that’s true. I think you’re just shy, Pavel. Can I call you Pavel?”
“Da, yes, of course,” says Chekov hurriedly. The use of his first name is almost a relief after being called “Mister Chekov” or “Ensign Chekov” or simply “Chekov” for so many months. He is too young to fit comfortably into those names yet; they are like a jersey he has yet to grow into. He smiles hesitantly at Rogers now. “May I call you…ai, forgive me. I have forgotten your first name.”
Before today, this failure would have burned embarrassment red on his cheeks. Now it is just something that the two of them laugh at before carrying on.
“It’s Dylan,” Rogers says easily. “And sure, of course you can call me that. And now you have to tell me all about what exactly it is you get to do up on the bridge.”
The way to Chekov’s heart is through his work, and this time, he slips easily into the conversation, alternately chewing and explaining his duties to Rogers, who proves to be as good a listener as he is a speaker. He doesn’t understand all the physics, but he asks questions when he needs to, and lets Chekov reduce it into simpler terms, and seems genuinely interested despite his distance from the subject at hand, like he cares about it just because Chekov cares about it. The minutes go by with unexpected speed. Before Chekov knows it, he is finished with his meal, and surprises himself by staying a few minutes with his empty tray to finish explaining his current project with Scotty to Rogers, who wishes him luck as they both finally stand up to deliver their empty trays to their appropriate destination. Then, in comfortable silence, they walk to the turbolift, where they will part ways, Rogers to relieve the guard in the hallway opposite it, and Chekov to ride it back down to the bridge.
“Hey, it’s been good talking to you, Pavel,” Rogers says, holding out his hand. When Chekov reaches out to shake it, their eyes meet, and for once he does not blush. It just feels right, that they should shake hands like this. It is almost like they are becoming friends - he barely dares think it.
“Yes, yes it has,” he replies with a cautious smile as he steps into the lift. “Maybe we bump into each other again sometime?”
“Sure hope so,” Rogers says, and his grin is the last thing Chekov sees as the lift doors shut in front of him. When they open again, it’s to the lively hum of the bridge, the blue and yellow and red of the officers he has worked with for months without really getting to know. Still, to know that somewhere on the ship is someone who maybe perhaps cares a little about him, it makes a difference. He is not dreading the end of his shift so much as he ordinarily would, even if he still has nowhere to be.
Shoving thoughts of off-duty hours out of his head, he sets his coordinates for productivity, mentally rolls up his sleeves, and gets back to work.