Present for enkanowen
Title: Put an X Where I Lost My Way
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Reboot!McCoy/Reboot!Chekov/TOS!McCoy
Warnings: sex, selfcest, possible AU
Recipient: enkanowen
Beta: Will be revealed when authors are revealed
I.
He doesn’t even know how this is possible, because it shouldn’t be; it shouldn’t be possible. When he sits up from where he’s been lying on a couch with an afghan thrown over him, they are talking quietly with each other.
“You don’t belong here,” Doctor McCoy says. He is older, thinner, smaller, with hair just starting to go gray at the temples. He’s also got some stubble around his chin that doesn’t suit him and cornflower blue eyes. He’s wearing jeans and a button-down shirt in too-pale a blue with the sleeves rolled up, open at the collar, and he looks unhappy, but this doesn’t really surprise Chekov because his McCoy looks unhappy by default, so why should this one be any different.
Chekov swallows several times; his mouth feels dry and his throat is sore like he’s been yelling or screaming. “Where are we?” he manages to get out, and both men turn to look at him. Chekov is relieved to see that his Doctor McCoy looks the same as he did last time Chekov saw him, all wide shoulders and dark eyes, still wearing his uniform. McCoy, his McCoy’s, tightens his jaw, but it’s the older one who speaks.
“Georgia.”
Chekov thinks about this for a moment, “As in, America?”
The older man’s eyebrows rise, “Yes.”
“So we are on Earth?”
This time the doctor only nods curtly, and Chekov swallows again; he looks over the older man’s shoulder to see that not only is his McCoy’s jaw set in a straight, angry line, but his fists are clenched as well. The older man sighs and then moves past them, out of what must be the living room. It’s small and slightly untidy, filled with books and PADDs and old but well-kept furniture. Chekov looks at McCoy and then slides off the couch, tests standing on his own and discovers that, despite feeling shaky, he can. He folds the afghan neatly and puts it back on the couch.
“He,” he nods toward the doorway where the older man had gone, “he is you, yes?”
McCoy sighs and rubs his forehead, his heavy gold ring glinting in the light, “Yeah.”
He looks tired and upset, and Chekov instinctively goes to him, puts his arms around the other man’s waist and hugs him tightly. “It will be all right,” he tells McCoy softly. “We will figure it out.”
II.
Except that he can’t, he can’t figure it out. They are stuck here in Georgia, on Earth, in the future, of all things. He and his McCoy both agree this must be the past of the alternate universe the Ambassador’s from, either that or another alternate universe altogether. Technically there are an infinite number, and that’s just one of the problems Chekov’s been having. He tries to think through it reasonably and rationally, to write equations, to figure out how they will get back, but he can’t even remember where they got lost in the first place. It’s all too much - too many possibilities, not enough data. He keeps trying though.
The other McCoy is a good man, quiet in his habits, although loud when he starts talking. He has the same accent as Chekov’s McCoy, the same sweet nature underneath the bluster. He studies, writes and reads most of the time, leaves the other two alone. Every once in a while Chekov will look up from his table full of PADDs and impossible equations to see intense blue eyes focused on him. They won’t talk - after several long moments of staring at each other they’ll just go back to their own work.
McCoy’s house is small, old but clean, out in what little countryside still remains, but only a short ground car ride to the nearest city. There is a garden out back and fields beyond it and trees beyond the fields, and McCoy prefers to keep the windows open instead of adjusting the climate controls inside. It’s very quiet and very beautiful, not that Chekov goes outside much, seeing as how he’s got impossible problems to solve.
“You seem to be handling this whole ‘meeting your alternate self’ well,” Chekov says that night when they are both lying together in the older McCoy’s guest bedroom.
McCoy makes a strange noise that manages to sound both annoyed and amused. “You think so?”
Chekov shifts around, trying to see McCoy’s face in the dark, and McCoy’s arms slip around his waist, pulling him closer to the other man, until he’s pressed against McCoy’s chest, and McCoy kisses his hair lightly, kisses down across his face, kisses his lips finally, hard and desperate. They’ve done this a hundred times before, but there is something achingly new about doing it now, in a bed where the sheets are old and smell clean but not sterile, where he can hear crickets and the wind and every so often a passing ground car instead of just the whirr of the ship. Chekov closes his eyes tightly and presses his hands against McCoy’s chest, which is warm and strong, kisses him back fiercely and tries hard not to cry.
III.
Both McCoys drag him out of the house finally. They all pile into the older McCoy’s ground car and head to the nearest city. It’s hot, humid in a way Chekov’s not used to, and the older McCoy drives like he’s afraid the whole car might explode any minute; it only take a couple minutes before his McCoy starts grumbling about how slow they’re going.
“You really want me to go faster?” The older McCoy’s eyes don’t leave the road, but his eyebrows do rise, “With the way we get sick in ground cars?”
“Well I want us to get there sometime before I get old and die,” McCoy tells him and then throws a sideways glance at the other man, “or before you do.”
The car comes to a screeching halt.
“You want to drive?” McCoy demands, and his younger self only glares. Chekov gets out of the back seat and walks around to the driver’s side, yanks open the car door and grabs the keys from the older man.
“Neither of you is driving,” he says, trying to keep calm, and both men stare at him, and he merely points at them, “Get in the back.”
The older McCoy opens his mouth like he’s going to argue and Chekov just glares, and after a moment he snaps his mouth shut and gets out of the car. The younger McCoy mutters something under his breath as he also gets out of the car, but when Chekov looks up sharply at him he’s also grinning.
They make it into the city without incident. They find a shopping complex and the older McCoy starts calling up clothes on the screen, and Chekov watches over his shoulder and points when stuff appears that he might want. Finally he brings his data rod to the counter so they can replicate his choices and goes to try on the clothes. He picks out several shirts, mostly dark colored t-shirts with geometric or mathematical designs, and dark jeans and a pair of boots, and finally a leather jacket and pair of sunglasses for good measure. When he comes out, both McCoy’s are waiting for him, and his McCoy is dressed in baggy, washed-out jeans and a blue-green t-shirt with a tree on it. Chekov thinks he looks good because the shirt shows off McCoy’s arms, and that never fails to make Chekov go all dry-mouthed. He does wish McCoy would wear jeans that were a little tighter. He knows for a fact the other man has a great ass, and it wouldn’t hurt if he showed it off every now and then. He just nods though, and the older McCoy buys it all for them and they head back to the house.
IV.
Several days later the older McCoy gives in and cleans out one of the rooms at the back of the house, then helps Chekov move all his books and PADDs and the big, clear equation boards. The younger version of the doctor is working in the garden today, so the older McCoy and Chekov are left on their own to do all the heavy lifting. McCoy finds an old desk and a chair and sets that up too, and Chekov is already in front of one of the boards, pointer in hand, sliding numbers and symbols across its clear surface.
“You going to be ok here?” McCoy asks from the doorway, and Chekov turns, squinting over his shoulder, trying to figure out if he means in this office or in some deeper way. McCoy looks worried and a little shy and he’s got dust on his sleeves, and his hair is a little rumpled. He might be physically smaller and older than the man Chekov knows, but he still radiates strength, and Chekov suddenly wants in a way that makes his mouth go dry, makes him cross his arms across his chest protectively. The older man looks away then, unhappiness settling around him again, and Chekov’s desire to close the space between them only increases.
“How,” McCoy’s voice is a little rough and he clears his throat, “how old are you?”
“Twenty.” It feels strange, almost like déjà vu, but Chekov tilts his chin up and tries not to let his discomfort show.
McCoy stares, then mutters something under his breath, turning away, and Chekov snaps.
“What, too young?” He crosses the room in several long strides, grabs the other man, hands coming up to ghost along McCoy’s jaw, not really even touching; McCoy looks up at him, anger, fear, and something else turning his eyes to slate grey, and Chekov sucks in a long breath and wishes it wasn’t so hot here, wishes he couldn’t feel the sweat rolling down his back, wishes he couldn’t feel the other man exhale against his wrists. McCoy looks like he’s going to say something, like he’s going to lean forward and kiss Chekov. Instead he pushes himself away sharply and turns, moving fast down the hallway, and after a moment Chekov hears a door slam. He sighs and storms through the house and it’s all suddenly too much, too wrong, too hot, too foreign. He doesn’t stop until he’s out the back door, outside, standing in the heat and the dust and the blinding light. His McCoy looks up from where he’s been working shirtless in the garden. Chekov finally just lets go and screams and kicks at the rocks and the ground and the dirt, until strong hands clamp around his wrists, draw him backward against a big, sun-warm chest. McCoy just holds him, and Chekov shouts and screams and swears until he runs out of energy, runs out of breath. Then McCoy just holds him and Chekov leans against him limply because that’s about all he can do.
“We’re not getting back. Not ever,” he finally says softly, resignedly, staring up at the cloudless blue sky. McCoy strokes his hair and kisses his cheek, but he doesn’t tell Chekov he’s wrong.
V.
He’s not smart enough to figure it out. That’s what he keeps thinking as his McCoy makes them both sandwiches and then takes him to bed. He touches Chekov with his lips and the tips of his fingers like he’s afraid Chekov will break with anything more strenuous. Even later, when he feels his McCoy’s breathing even out next to him, the bigger man’s arm thrown carelessly across the smaller man’s chest, he’s still thinking it.
If it had been Spock or Scotty here, they would have already figured it out, figured out what the anomaly was and how to reverse engineer it, would have at least made some progress, and he’s got nothing, not even an idea of where to go next. He removes McCoy’s arm from around his waist and gets out of bed and pads through the house in t-shirt and boxers until he gets to the office they’d set up earlier that day. He starts to work again, eyes burning a little from straining in the dark.
“You’re nothing like him.” He turns and sees the older McCoy still fully dressed, shirt sleeves undone again, standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. “The Pavel Chekov of this universe.” McCoy shrugs. “You’re nothing like him. Not even a little.”
Chekov puts down the pointer and rubs both hands across his face; he thinks of Nero and the destruction of Vulcan and becoming a member of the Enterprise bridge crew at seventeen, “Maybe I just had to grow up faster.”
McCoy watches him and Chekov crosses the room, comes to stand in front of the older man. Slowly, like he’d done earlier, Chekov raises his hands and cups the older man’s face, and McCoy lets him, watches him out of impossibly blue eyes, breath coming a little faster, and Chekov leans forward and kisses him. There, too, McCoy lets him, lips sweet and pliant under his, and one of McCoy’s hands rises to cup the back of Chekov’s neck, just brushing against soft curls. Then they pull back.
“I can’t.” McCoy’s voice sounds a little ragged and he turns away.
“Why?” Chekov’s hands slip from McCoy’s face and ball into the soft cloth of his button-down shirt. “You are the same as him; he has me, so why can’t you?”
McCoy laughs softly without humor, “You know perfectly well it doesn’t work that way, and even if it did, I’m more than twice your age - a lot more - you do realize that?”
Chekov sighs, feeling a headache coming on; he’s always hated this particular conversation. It always comes down to the fact that he’s too young, always too young. His McCoy never did that, never treated him like he was child or a cute little toy, always respected his intellectual age over his biological one. He really doesn’t want to have this conversation right now. So he kisses the older McCoy again, kisses him hard and demanding this time, his tongue pressing against the older man’s soft, thin lips until they open for him, and Chekov pushes in, dominating and controlling. McCoy’s hands come up to his shoulders, and he lets Chekov take as much as he can stand to. When they pull apart finally, McCoy’s face softens and his hands rise to brush across Chekov’s cheeks, and only then does Chekov realize that he’s crying. He tries to turn away, but McCoy catches his chin, kisses him lightly, almost shy, whispers, “It’s ok, it’ll be ok,” over and over against his skin.
They both turn at the small noise, and the other McCoy, Chekov’s McCoy, is standing in the doorway watching them, pajama pants riding low on his hips, hair rumpled from sleep. For a moment Chekov wonders what on Earth he’s going to say to explain this, and how do you explain to someone that you’ve been cheating on him with him. He opens his mouth, but the older McCoy moves past him, goes to his younger self. They hold a conversation, too low for Chekov to hear, both of their voices sounding almost alike at such a low volume.
They both look back at him at the same time, and he knows he must look a mess, standing there in his pajamas, dark circles under his eyes, tears running down his face. He wraps his arms protectively around his body, and his McCoy goes to him then, pulls him close, kisses his lips and his face and across his hair. Chekov leans against him, tries to sink into him. His McCoy leads him back to their bedroom and helps him lie down on the bed, undresses him carefully, kisses down his chest and across his stomach to the slight dip of his hips.
“You’re so beautiful.” McCoy’s voice is quiet and rough, and he kisses across Chekov’s stomach, “So precious to me.” Chekov reaches down and strokes through the other man’s dark hair, whispers Leonard over and over, and McCoy looks up at him with dark eyes gone almost black.
Chekov looks behind the other man when he’s completely naked to see the older McCoy standing hesitantly in the doorway. The younger McCoy moves on the bed so that he’s kneeling beside Chekov’s head, and Chekov glances up at him. His McCoy nods ever so slightly and Chekov holds out his hands to the older man, who comes to him. Chekov pulls him down and kisses him deeply and runs his hands down the smaller man’s body, feeling the strength in him, and it’s completely possible to believe this is the man he loves.
He unbuttons McCoy’s shirt and runs both hands down the other man’s chest. This McCoy’s chest is narrower than the one he’s used to, with thick, light brown hair running down to his belly, and it surprises Chekov a little but it’s not unappealing to him, not at all, and he carts his fingers through it and bends forward to kiss and then lick at one of the man’s small nipples, and above him McCoy sighs and shifts against the bed. He closes his eyes and kisses up and down this new McCoy’s chest and feels fingers gently stroking his hair and knows it’s his McCoy and smiles slightly. The older man bends down then and kisses him, and Chekov chases those lips when he tries to pull away and kisses him again and again, wet and open-mouthed.
“What,” Chekov pulls back a little, moving his hands to the older man’s waist, feeling the younger McCoy’s fingers still in his hair, “what should I call you?”
The two McCoys exchange another one of those knowing glances over Chekov’s head, and the older man bends his head and kisses along Chekov’s throat, “You can call me Len.”
Chekov smiles at that and pulls the other man’s face up with one hand to kiss him while he reaches the other hand up to tangle his fingers with his Leonard’s. For many long minutes they just kiss and touch, and Chekov moves against the bed feeling the closeness of the one man kneeling by his head even as he explores the body of the other man bending over him, and he pushes at Len’s pants, manages to get them unbuttoned and then gives up. Len huffs out a laugh at this and slides off the bed, peeling off the jeans and tossing them aside along with his socks and the shirt that had still been hanging from his narrow shoulders. He comes back and kisses Chekov again, mapping down the young man’s body with his fingers. His touch is too light and too gentle and Chekov moves against the bed fretfully, spreading his legs, feeling his need build.
Finally he just gives up trying to make Len go faster and untwists his fingers so that he can push up against the older man, and he is small, the smallest of the three, but that doesn’t mean he’s not strong. Len lets out a small, surprised noise as Chekov flips him and rolls him over. He crawls onto the older man, straddles his thighs, looks down at Len’s cock arching, hard and flushed against his belly, and slowly Chekov raises his own hand and sucks on his fingers, licks across his own palm, watching Len watch him with those strangely blue eyes. Chekov brings his hand down and lines up their cocks and wraps his small, pale hand around both of them and starts stroking them, setting a pace that’s slow but firm. Len watches him, flushed, panting a little, but also smiling.
“Pushy little thing.” The older man rises to brush away a few stray curls that have fallen across Chekov’s face. Light glints off the ring on his hand and Chekov doesn’t waste breath correcting him. He moves his hand in one long, smooth motion, jacking them both off, and after a moment he feels arms go around his waist holding him from behind. The younger McCoy, his McCoy, his Leonard, presses against his back, breath coming in shallow, little pants. Leonard kisses his ear and along his neck, thrusting against his back, down against the crease of his ass. Len’s hands come up then, wrapping around both their cocks and covering Chekov’s as they move together, and Chekov can’t help but moan, eyes falling closed. Someone calls him beautiful, someone calls him darlin’, someone’s hand moves across his chest, and someone pulls a little at his hair, and Chekov moans and thrusts his hips into Len’s hand, pushes himself back against his Leonard. Leonard comes first, body suddenly going still against Chekov’s, and Chekov can feel the other man’s come against his lower back and ass and it’s enough to send him over the edge, crying out as his cock jerks and pulses across their two hands, and Len comes almost directly after him, swearing and turning his head to the side. Chekov thinks he might cry again, but instead he flops limply to the side and curls up against Len’s body, drowsiness coming quicker then he had expected. It’s only then that he notices that both McCoy’s are holding hands, and he has no idea how long they have been.
He wakes sometime during the night to find both men gone from the bed, and for a moment he’s confused and afraid. He sits up, and only then does he see his McCoy, the younger McCoy, standing by the window, his shoulders shaking. Chekov’s about to go to him when he sees the older McCoy reach out and touch the younger version’s shoulder, sees his McCoy turn, and they say things to each other that Chekov can’t hear. The older McCoy takes the younger man’s face between his hands, kisses him on the lips, and the younger man says something else that makes the older McCoy frown and draw back. Then it’s the younger McCoy who moves, wraps his arms around the older man, holds him close, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Chekov suddenly feels very much alone and apart, but there is nothing he can do about that, so he sighs softly and turns over and goes back to sleep.
When he wakes the next morning he’s alone again, so he puts on the older McCoy’s abandoned shirt and pads into the kitchen. He finds the older McCoy drinking coffee, reading the news at the kitchen table, and the younger one making eggs and grits, and suddenly it’s ok; whatever this is, it’ll be all right.
VI.
“We’ll get back, you know,” McCoy tells him softly, and Chekov looks over at him where they both sit together in the field behind the older McCoy’s house. “Spock and Scotty will find a way, or you will.” McCoy sounds so confident about that and Chekov looks up at the sky and sighs.
“What if,” he licks his lips and tries to think of a way to say this, “what if we aren’t meant to get back, what if we’re here because he needs us?”
He nods at the house slightly below them.
“He doesn’t need us.” McCoy doesn’t look at him, although he does look towards the house, back the way they’ve come. “Kirk needs us, the Enterprise needs us. We’re not who he needs.”
Chekov thinks about waking up that morning like they’ve done every morning for weeks now, all three of them tangled together on the same bed. He thinks about watching both McCoys fight over just about anything and nothing, thinks about arguing with the older McCoy about why he really, really shouldn’t try growing a beard. He thinks about working on equations in the little back room, cooking dinner together and watching his McCoy work in the garden. He thinks about being happy here, about how he’s started to think of this place as home in his own head.
He wants to argue the point, wants to tell McCoy that even if the older version doesn’t need them, he needs this other McCoy too, he needs them both. He doesn’t though, he only lies back in the grass and stares at the endless blue sky.
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Reboot!McCoy/Reboot!Chekov/TOS!McCoy
Warnings: sex, selfcest, possible AU
Recipient: enkanowen
Beta: Will be revealed when authors are revealed
I.
He doesn’t even know how this is possible, because it shouldn’t be; it shouldn’t be possible. When he sits up from where he’s been lying on a couch with an afghan thrown over him, they are talking quietly with each other.
“You don’t belong here,” Doctor McCoy says. He is older, thinner, smaller, with hair just starting to go gray at the temples. He’s also got some stubble around his chin that doesn’t suit him and cornflower blue eyes. He’s wearing jeans and a button-down shirt in too-pale a blue with the sleeves rolled up, open at the collar, and he looks unhappy, but this doesn’t really surprise Chekov because his McCoy looks unhappy by default, so why should this one be any different.
Chekov swallows several times; his mouth feels dry and his throat is sore like he’s been yelling or screaming. “Where are we?” he manages to get out, and both men turn to look at him. Chekov is relieved to see that his Doctor McCoy looks the same as he did last time Chekov saw him, all wide shoulders and dark eyes, still wearing his uniform. McCoy, his McCoy’s, tightens his jaw, but it’s the older one who speaks.
“Georgia.”
Chekov thinks about this for a moment, “As in, America?”
The older man’s eyebrows rise, “Yes.”
“So we are on Earth?”
This time the doctor only nods curtly, and Chekov swallows again; he looks over the older man’s shoulder to see that not only is his McCoy’s jaw set in a straight, angry line, but his fists are clenched as well. The older man sighs and then moves past them, out of what must be the living room. It’s small and slightly untidy, filled with books and PADDs and old but well-kept furniture. Chekov looks at McCoy and then slides off the couch, tests standing on his own and discovers that, despite feeling shaky, he can. He folds the afghan neatly and puts it back on the couch.
“He,” he nods toward the doorway where the older man had gone, “he is you, yes?”
McCoy sighs and rubs his forehead, his heavy gold ring glinting in the light, “Yeah.”
He looks tired and upset, and Chekov instinctively goes to him, puts his arms around the other man’s waist and hugs him tightly. “It will be all right,” he tells McCoy softly. “We will figure it out.”
II.
Except that he can’t, he can’t figure it out. They are stuck here in Georgia, on Earth, in the future, of all things. He and his McCoy both agree this must be the past of the alternate universe the Ambassador’s from, either that or another alternate universe altogether. Technically there are an infinite number, and that’s just one of the problems Chekov’s been having. He tries to think through it reasonably and rationally, to write equations, to figure out how they will get back, but he can’t even remember where they got lost in the first place. It’s all too much - too many possibilities, not enough data. He keeps trying though.
The other McCoy is a good man, quiet in his habits, although loud when he starts talking. He has the same accent as Chekov’s McCoy, the same sweet nature underneath the bluster. He studies, writes and reads most of the time, leaves the other two alone. Every once in a while Chekov will look up from his table full of PADDs and impossible equations to see intense blue eyes focused on him. They won’t talk - after several long moments of staring at each other they’ll just go back to their own work.
McCoy’s house is small, old but clean, out in what little countryside still remains, but only a short ground car ride to the nearest city. There is a garden out back and fields beyond it and trees beyond the fields, and McCoy prefers to keep the windows open instead of adjusting the climate controls inside. It’s very quiet and very beautiful, not that Chekov goes outside much, seeing as how he’s got impossible problems to solve.
“You seem to be handling this whole ‘meeting your alternate self’ well,” Chekov says that night when they are both lying together in the older McCoy’s guest bedroom.
McCoy makes a strange noise that manages to sound both annoyed and amused. “You think so?”
Chekov shifts around, trying to see McCoy’s face in the dark, and McCoy’s arms slip around his waist, pulling him closer to the other man, until he’s pressed against McCoy’s chest, and McCoy kisses his hair lightly, kisses down across his face, kisses his lips finally, hard and desperate. They’ve done this a hundred times before, but there is something achingly new about doing it now, in a bed where the sheets are old and smell clean but not sterile, where he can hear crickets and the wind and every so often a passing ground car instead of just the whirr of the ship. Chekov closes his eyes tightly and presses his hands against McCoy’s chest, which is warm and strong, kisses him back fiercely and tries hard not to cry.
III.
Both McCoys drag him out of the house finally. They all pile into the older McCoy’s ground car and head to the nearest city. It’s hot, humid in a way Chekov’s not used to, and the older McCoy drives like he’s afraid the whole car might explode any minute; it only take a couple minutes before his McCoy starts grumbling about how slow they’re going.
“You really want me to go faster?” The older McCoy’s eyes don’t leave the road, but his eyebrows do rise, “With the way we get sick in ground cars?”
“Well I want us to get there sometime before I get old and die,” McCoy tells him and then throws a sideways glance at the other man, “or before you do.”
The car comes to a screeching halt.
“You want to drive?” McCoy demands, and his younger self only glares. Chekov gets out of the back seat and walks around to the driver’s side, yanks open the car door and grabs the keys from the older man.
“Neither of you is driving,” he says, trying to keep calm, and both men stare at him, and he merely points at them, “Get in the back.”
The older McCoy opens his mouth like he’s going to argue and Chekov just glares, and after a moment he snaps his mouth shut and gets out of the car. The younger McCoy mutters something under his breath as he also gets out of the car, but when Chekov looks up sharply at him he’s also grinning.
They make it into the city without incident. They find a shopping complex and the older McCoy starts calling up clothes on the screen, and Chekov watches over his shoulder and points when stuff appears that he might want. Finally he brings his data rod to the counter so they can replicate his choices and goes to try on the clothes. He picks out several shirts, mostly dark colored t-shirts with geometric or mathematical designs, and dark jeans and a pair of boots, and finally a leather jacket and pair of sunglasses for good measure. When he comes out, both McCoy’s are waiting for him, and his McCoy is dressed in baggy, washed-out jeans and a blue-green t-shirt with a tree on it. Chekov thinks he looks good because the shirt shows off McCoy’s arms, and that never fails to make Chekov go all dry-mouthed. He does wish McCoy would wear jeans that were a little tighter. He knows for a fact the other man has a great ass, and it wouldn’t hurt if he showed it off every now and then. He just nods though, and the older McCoy buys it all for them and they head back to the house.
IV.
Several days later the older McCoy gives in and cleans out one of the rooms at the back of the house, then helps Chekov move all his books and PADDs and the big, clear equation boards. The younger version of the doctor is working in the garden today, so the older McCoy and Chekov are left on their own to do all the heavy lifting. McCoy finds an old desk and a chair and sets that up too, and Chekov is already in front of one of the boards, pointer in hand, sliding numbers and symbols across its clear surface.
“You going to be ok here?” McCoy asks from the doorway, and Chekov turns, squinting over his shoulder, trying to figure out if he means in this office or in some deeper way. McCoy looks worried and a little shy and he’s got dust on his sleeves, and his hair is a little rumpled. He might be physically smaller and older than the man Chekov knows, but he still radiates strength, and Chekov suddenly wants in a way that makes his mouth go dry, makes him cross his arms across his chest protectively. The older man looks away then, unhappiness settling around him again, and Chekov’s desire to close the space between them only increases.
“How,” McCoy’s voice is a little rough and he clears his throat, “how old are you?”
“Twenty.” It feels strange, almost like déjà vu, but Chekov tilts his chin up and tries not to let his discomfort show.
McCoy stares, then mutters something under his breath, turning away, and Chekov snaps.
“What, too young?” He crosses the room in several long strides, grabs the other man, hands coming up to ghost along McCoy’s jaw, not really even touching; McCoy looks up at him, anger, fear, and something else turning his eyes to slate grey, and Chekov sucks in a long breath and wishes it wasn’t so hot here, wishes he couldn’t feel the sweat rolling down his back, wishes he couldn’t feel the other man exhale against his wrists. McCoy looks like he’s going to say something, like he’s going to lean forward and kiss Chekov. Instead he pushes himself away sharply and turns, moving fast down the hallway, and after a moment Chekov hears a door slam. He sighs and storms through the house and it’s all suddenly too much, too wrong, too hot, too foreign. He doesn’t stop until he’s out the back door, outside, standing in the heat and the dust and the blinding light. His McCoy looks up from where he’s been working shirtless in the garden. Chekov finally just lets go and screams and kicks at the rocks and the ground and the dirt, until strong hands clamp around his wrists, draw him backward against a big, sun-warm chest. McCoy just holds him, and Chekov shouts and screams and swears until he runs out of energy, runs out of breath. Then McCoy just holds him and Chekov leans against him limply because that’s about all he can do.
“We’re not getting back. Not ever,” he finally says softly, resignedly, staring up at the cloudless blue sky. McCoy strokes his hair and kisses his cheek, but he doesn’t tell Chekov he’s wrong.
V.
He’s not smart enough to figure it out. That’s what he keeps thinking as his McCoy makes them both sandwiches and then takes him to bed. He touches Chekov with his lips and the tips of his fingers like he’s afraid Chekov will break with anything more strenuous. Even later, when he feels his McCoy’s breathing even out next to him, the bigger man’s arm thrown carelessly across the smaller man’s chest, he’s still thinking it.
If it had been Spock or Scotty here, they would have already figured it out, figured out what the anomaly was and how to reverse engineer it, would have at least made some progress, and he’s got nothing, not even an idea of where to go next. He removes McCoy’s arm from around his waist and gets out of bed and pads through the house in t-shirt and boxers until he gets to the office they’d set up earlier that day. He starts to work again, eyes burning a little from straining in the dark.
“You’re nothing like him.” He turns and sees the older McCoy still fully dressed, shirt sleeves undone again, standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. “The Pavel Chekov of this universe.” McCoy shrugs. “You’re nothing like him. Not even a little.”
Chekov puts down the pointer and rubs both hands across his face; he thinks of Nero and the destruction of Vulcan and becoming a member of the Enterprise bridge crew at seventeen, “Maybe I just had to grow up faster.”
McCoy watches him and Chekov crosses the room, comes to stand in front of the older man. Slowly, like he’d done earlier, Chekov raises his hands and cups the older man’s face, and McCoy lets him, watches him out of impossibly blue eyes, breath coming a little faster, and Chekov leans forward and kisses him. There, too, McCoy lets him, lips sweet and pliant under his, and one of McCoy’s hands rises to cup the back of Chekov’s neck, just brushing against soft curls. Then they pull back.
“I can’t.” McCoy’s voice sounds a little ragged and he turns away.
“Why?” Chekov’s hands slip from McCoy’s face and ball into the soft cloth of his button-down shirt. “You are the same as him; he has me, so why can’t you?”
McCoy laughs softly without humor, “You know perfectly well it doesn’t work that way, and even if it did, I’m more than twice your age - a lot more - you do realize that?”
Chekov sighs, feeling a headache coming on; he’s always hated this particular conversation. It always comes down to the fact that he’s too young, always too young. His McCoy never did that, never treated him like he was child or a cute little toy, always respected his intellectual age over his biological one. He really doesn’t want to have this conversation right now. So he kisses the older McCoy again, kisses him hard and demanding this time, his tongue pressing against the older man’s soft, thin lips until they open for him, and Chekov pushes in, dominating and controlling. McCoy’s hands come up to his shoulders, and he lets Chekov take as much as he can stand to. When they pull apart finally, McCoy’s face softens and his hands rise to brush across Chekov’s cheeks, and only then does Chekov realize that he’s crying. He tries to turn away, but McCoy catches his chin, kisses him lightly, almost shy, whispers, “It’s ok, it’ll be ok,” over and over against his skin.
They both turn at the small noise, and the other McCoy, Chekov’s McCoy, is standing in the doorway watching them, pajama pants riding low on his hips, hair rumpled from sleep. For a moment Chekov wonders what on Earth he’s going to say to explain this, and how do you explain to someone that you’ve been cheating on him with him. He opens his mouth, but the older McCoy moves past him, goes to his younger self. They hold a conversation, too low for Chekov to hear, both of their voices sounding almost alike at such a low volume.
They both look back at him at the same time, and he knows he must look a mess, standing there in his pajamas, dark circles under his eyes, tears running down his face. He wraps his arms protectively around his body, and his McCoy goes to him then, pulls him close, kisses his lips and his face and across his hair. Chekov leans against him, tries to sink into him. His McCoy leads him back to their bedroom and helps him lie down on the bed, undresses him carefully, kisses down his chest and across his stomach to the slight dip of his hips.
“You’re so beautiful.” McCoy’s voice is quiet and rough, and he kisses across Chekov’s stomach, “So precious to me.” Chekov reaches down and strokes through the other man’s dark hair, whispers Leonard over and over, and McCoy looks up at him with dark eyes gone almost black.
Chekov looks behind the other man when he’s completely naked to see the older McCoy standing hesitantly in the doorway. The younger McCoy moves on the bed so that he’s kneeling beside Chekov’s head, and Chekov glances up at him. His McCoy nods ever so slightly and Chekov holds out his hands to the older man, who comes to him. Chekov pulls him down and kisses him deeply and runs his hands down the smaller man’s body, feeling the strength in him, and it’s completely possible to believe this is the man he loves.
He unbuttons McCoy’s shirt and runs both hands down the other man’s chest. This McCoy’s chest is narrower than the one he’s used to, with thick, light brown hair running down to his belly, and it surprises Chekov a little but it’s not unappealing to him, not at all, and he carts his fingers through it and bends forward to kiss and then lick at one of the man’s small nipples, and above him McCoy sighs and shifts against the bed. He closes his eyes and kisses up and down this new McCoy’s chest and feels fingers gently stroking his hair and knows it’s his McCoy and smiles slightly. The older man bends down then and kisses him, and Chekov chases those lips when he tries to pull away and kisses him again and again, wet and open-mouthed.
“What,” Chekov pulls back a little, moving his hands to the older man’s waist, feeling the younger McCoy’s fingers still in his hair, “what should I call you?”
The two McCoys exchange another one of those knowing glances over Chekov’s head, and the older man bends his head and kisses along Chekov’s throat, “You can call me Len.”
Chekov smiles at that and pulls the other man’s face up with one hand to kiss him while he reaches the other hand up to tangle his fingers with his Leonard’s. For many long minutes they just kiss and touch, and Chekov moves against the bed feeling the closeness of the one man kneeling by his head even as he explores the body of the other man bending over him, and he pushes at Len’s pants, manages to get them unbuttoned and then gives up. Len huffs out a laugh at this and slides off the bed, peeling off the jeans and tossing them aside along with his socks and the shirt that had still been hanging from his narrow shoulders. He comes back and kisses Chekov again, mapping down the young man’s body with his fingers. His touch is too light and too gentle and Chekov moves against the bed fretfully, spreading his legs, feeling his need build.
Finally he just gives up trying to make Len go faster and untwists his fingers so that he can push up against the older man, and he is small, the smallest of the three, but that doesn’t mean he’s not strong. Len lets out a small, surprised noise as Chekov flips him and rolls him over. He crawls onto the older man, straddles his thighs, looks down at Len’s cock arching, hard and flushed against his belly, and slowly Chekov raises his own hand and sucks on his fingers, licks across his own palm, watching Len watch him with those strangely blue eyes. Chekov brings his hand down and lines up their cocks and wraps his small, pale hand around both of them and starts stroking them, setting a pace that’s slow but firm. Len watches him, flushed, panting a little, but also smiling.
“Pushy little thing.” The older man rises to brush away a few stray curls that have fallen across Chekov’s face. Light glints off the ring on his hand and Chekov doesn’t waste breath correcting him. He moves his hand in one long, smooth motion, jacking them both off, and after a moment he feels arms go around his waist holding him from behind. The younger McCoy, his McCoy, his Leonard, presses against his back, breath coming in shallow, little pants. Leonard kisses his ear and along his neck, thrusting against his back, down against the crease of his ass. Len’s hands come up then, wrapping around both their cocks and covering Chekov’s as they move together, and Chekov can’t help but moan, eyes falling closed. Someone calls him beautiful, someone calls him darlin’, someone’s hand moves across his chest, and someone pulls a little at his hair, and Chekov moans and thrusts his hips into Len’s hand, pushes himself back against his Leonard. Leonard comes first, body suddenly going still against Chekov’s, and Chekov can feel the other man’s come against his lower back and ass and it’s enough to send him over the edge, crying out as his cock jerks and pulses across their two hands, and Len comes almost directly after him, swearing and turning his head to the side. Chekov thinks he might cry again, but instead he flops limply to the side and curls up against Len’s body, drowsiness coming quicker then he had expected. It’s only then that he notices that both McCoy’s are holding hands, and he has no idea how long they have been.
He wakes sometime during the night to find both men gone from the bed, and for a moment he’s confused and afraid. He sits up, and only then does he see his McCoy, the younger McCoy, standing by the window, his shoulders shaking. Chekov’s about to go to him when he sees the older McCoy reach out and touch the younger version’s shoulder, sees his McCoy turn, and they say things to each other that Chekov can’t hear. The older McCoy takes the younger man’s face between his hands, kisses him on the lips, and the younger man says something else that makes the older McCoy frown and draw back. Then it’s the younger McCoy who moves, wraps his arms around the older man, holds him close, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Chekov suddenly feels very much alone and apart, but there is nothing he can do about that, so he sighs softly and turns over and goes back to sleep.
When he wakes the next morning he’s alone again, so he puts on the older McCoy’s abandoned shirt and pads into the kitchen. He finds the older McCoy drinking coffee, reading the news at the kitchen table, and the younger one making eggs and grits, and suddenly it’s ok; whatever this is, it’ll be all right.
VI.
“We’ll get back, you know,” McCoy tells him softly, and Chekov looks over at him where they both sit together in the field behind the older McCoy’s house. “Spock and Scotty will find a way, or you will.” McCoy sounds so confident about that and Chekov looks up at the sky and sighs.
“What if,” he licks his lips and tries to think of a way to say this, “what if we aren’t meant to get back, what if we’re here because he needs us?”
He nods at the house slightly below them.
“He doesn’t need us.” McCoy doesn’t look at him, although he does look towards the house, back the way they’ve come. “Kirk needs us, the Enterprise needs us. We’re not who he needs.”
Chekov thinks about waking up that morning like they’ve done every morning for weeks now, all three of them tangled together on the same bed. He thinks about watching both McCoys fight over just about anything and nothing, thinks about arguing with the older McCoy about why he really, really shouldn’t try growing a beard. He thinks about working on equations in the little back room, cooking dinner together and watching his McCoy work in the garden. He thinks about being happy here, about how he’s started to think of this place as home in his own head.
He wants to argue the point, wants to tell McCoy that even if the older version doesn’t need them, he needs this other McCoy too, he needs them both. He doesn’t though, he only lies back in the grass and stares at the endless blue sky.