Precision (Fidgeting) (1/1)
Title: Precision (Fidgeting)
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Chekov/Sulu (though a good deal of Sulu gen)
Rating: PG-13, really, but I dropped more than one f-bomb, so, R. Also, boykissing, attempted groping, and highly suggestive comments.
Spoilers: General for the movie, to be safe
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: WHY ARE THEY SO CUTE. WHY. Takes place about a year after the movie so CHEKOV IS EIGHTEEN, OKAY.
Summary: In the year he's spent under James Kirk's command, Sulu has come to think of him as one of the best captains in the fleet. Despite this, Sulu is ninety-nine percent sure that Kirk has absolutely no idea how hard it is to dock a starship when people are fidgeting all the fuck over the place.
Spacedock. At long last. When even Spock looks like he needs to get off the ship, it's obvious that they've been in deep space too long.
The captain keeps crossing and uncrossing his legs, drumming his fingers on the armrest of his chair. (He's going to accidentally make some things happen if he doesn't stop.) Sulu wishes he'd quit it. In the year he's spent under James Kirk's command, Sulu has come to think of him as one of the best captains in the fleet. Despite this, Sulu is ninety-nine percent sure that Kirk has absolutely no idea how hard it is to dock a starship when people are fidgeting all the fuck over the place.
Because the problem with the captain being on edge is that it makes everybody fidgety. Chekov hasn't been able to sit still for twenty minutes. If he shifts in his seat one. More. Time... Sulu's this close to telling him he can go make his own plans for the next week if he can't calm down for the next five very important minutes.
A muttered exhalation in Russian breaks his concentration for the tenth time (Sulu is trying to properly set up the nav computer for the series of minute course corrections he's going to be entering once they have clearing to dock), and that is it. Sulu's slammed in an annoyed message and sent it to Chekov's console before he's really thought about it.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Chekov glance down at his display. His eyes widen slightly, and the sharp look he sends at Sulu has overtures of kicked-puppy-ness to it. In retrospect, maybe If you can't sit still for two goddamn seconds then you can just fuck off back to Russia for a week and I'll go to my fencing tournament by myself may have been slightly harsh.
His fingers flicker over the console. Sorry.
Chekov's smile is slightly shy, more so apologetic, and Sulu forcibly reminds himself not to be so edgy.
"Uhura, have you gotten a response to our hail yet?" Kirk asks for the third (or possibly the millionth) time. Sulu's not entirely sure why the captain's so anxious to get off the ship--though he's heard some rumors involving Doctor McCoy, Commander Spock, and Las Vegas, which, if true, provide ample incentive for wanting to get planetside as soon as possible. He's trying not to think about the captain's impatience. Sulu's trying to calm himself as much as possible. The ship's still mostly new, after all. Scratching the paint (or, say, an accidental shift in maneuvering thrusters jerking the ship up a few hundred meters and crushing the bridge) is out of the question.
Finally, Uhura's "Aye, captain" draws a collective sigh of relief from the entire bridge. "U.S.S. Enterprise clear for docking in Bay 04. Coordinates transmitted to helm control."
Sulu feels a very familiar pulse of adrenaline in the pit of his stomach as his console chirps at him. "Coordinates received, sir."
"Take us in, Mister Sulu."
It's easier to share in the captain's excitement, now. It's never not exciting, flying this ship. She's the most precise, most responsive beauty of a flier Sulu's ever flown. Which is good, now, because precision is kind of crucial.
In a matter of seconds, the only thing in the galaxy that matters is his console. Four different proximity sensors tell him all he'll ever need to know. Enterprise beneath his hands is the only ship he'll ever need to fly, and the next millisecond of motion is the only motion that needs to happen in the world. Until the next fraction of a second. Sulu's living nanosecond to nanosecond and this is exactly what he's good at, exactly what he loves.
Ten kilometers too close to the starboard dock. Starboard maneuvering thrusters for point-five seconds. Too fast into the bay. Decrease stern thrusters by point-two-five. Port thrusters for one second. Easy, easy...
He only breathes when the edges of his vision blur. Enterprise is delicate, deliberate. Deadly precise.
It's fantastic.
Port and starboard proximity sensors are green. Dorsal and ventral sensors are green. Fore and aft sensors are green.
"All stop," and his voice sounds foreign to his own ears. In two eternal seconds he's forgotten that speech is necessary.
The engines power down, thrusters are taken offline. In less than a second, they're just another still, quiet part of space.
The faint thump of docking clamps engaging reverberates throughout the ship, and Sulu exhales slowly.
Smiles faintly.
Oh, he is the man.
Trying not to grin like the proverbial cat with the cream, Sulu turns in his chair. "Enterprise is in spacedock, Captain."
Kirk's eyes gleam with admiration, approval. "Brilliant as always, Mister Sulu."
He nods, openly grinning (he can't help it. Adrenaline comedown always makes him a little giddy), turning back to his console. The captain's giving the usual orders for shipwide announcements, shore leave approval, locking out their consoles before they leave, but Sulu's not really listening. His job's done.
Good job, he thinks, resting his hand on the smooth glass of his console. We make a great team, you and I.
Enterprise doesn't answer in so many words, but she doesn't really need to. He knows anyway.
Slight movement beside him draws his eye, and Sulu glances up at Chekov.
Chekov's bottom lip is caught between his teeth, and his eyes are literally glittering as he and Sulu share a very long look. There's a faint flush in Chekov's cheeks, and Sulu feels answering color rising in his face as Chekov tilts his head ever so slightly (toward the turbolift, Sulu notices, and has to swallow rather hard) and turns back to his console, the perfect image of professionalism. "Captain Kirk, conn is cleared and locked," Chekov announces, his voice slightly hoarser than his usual light tone.
Sulu hastily enters his authorization code and locks down his console. "Helm clear and locked, sir."
"Got it," Kirk answers slightly distantly, not looking at them, leaning on the back of Uhura's chair and studying shore leave request forms. "See you two in a week. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"Aye, captain," they chorus, and practically bolt for the turbolift.
Sulu is absurdly thankful that Chekov waits for the turbolift doors to close before hitting "hold" and slamming him against the wall. Even with the senior officers as distracted as they were, Chekov pinning him and devouring his mouth in public is bound to draw a few questions. Anyway, having an armful of enthusiastic Russian conn officer all to himself is Hikaru Sulu's idea of the perfect end to a day, especially when he's getting a pretty good idea of why Chekov was having a hard time sitting still.
"You," Chekov breathes against his lips, hands on either side of Sulu's head, a deceptively strong, lithe frame holding him against the cool wall of the turbolift, "are the most brilliant pilot I have ever seen." He punctuates this observation with another deep, nigh-ferocious kiss, and somehow Sulu's hands are tangled in soft reddish curls without him putting them there. Huh. Not that he's complaining, mind; keeping Chekov's lips fused to his for as long as humanly possible is a lot easier this way.
"It wasn't bad, if I do say so myself," Sulu gasps, resting his forehead against Chekov's and grinning fiercely.
"Fucking amazing," Chekov murmurs, kissing him again (and oh dear sweet God Sulu loves Chekov's accent when the Russian has sex on his mind). He bites down not-so-gently on Sulu's lip as he draws back (and it's a good thing their bodies are so tight against each other because Sulu's knees are threatening collapse right about now) and smiles faintly, nose brushing against Sulu's in an oddly gentle contrast.
"Kinda hard with you squirming next to me," Sulu teases, trailing one hand down Chekov's spine, loving the shiver.
Chekov's eyes roll heavenward. "He expects me to sit still with him sitting next to me looking like that," he grumbles, drumming his fingers in annoyance on Sulu's collarbone. "Of course. Pavel Chekov the superhuman." His gaze flickers back to Sulu, eyes narrowing slightly. "You're not really going to leave me in Russia, da? After I was so very, very good..." His voice drops to a murmur, and he trails a line of kisses along Sulu's jaw.
Sulu's grin turns wicked, and his head rolls lazily back against the wall of the turbolift. "I still might."
Chekov freezes for a millisecond, then continues kissing his way along Sulu's jaw as though Sulu hadn't spoken. "I don't think you mean it," he breathes in Sulu's ear. "You'd miss me." And his teeth close on Sulu's earlobe as his hand slides down Sulu's chest and down his stomach.
Sulu's breath catches in his throat, and he grabs Chekov's hand before it can slip any lower. He laces his fingers with Chekov's nimble, delicate ones and squeezes slightly. "Yeah, probably," he surrenders with a grin, and his free hand brushes his lover's cheek. Chekov turns his head into the touch for a brief moment, then tilts his head up for a slower, gentler kiss.
They're both grinning when they break apart, and Sulu arches an eyebrow at him. "Are you seriously looking forward to a week of just watching me fence?"
Chekov stares at him blankly. "Are you seriously asking me this question?"
Sulu sighs, smiles, leans back against the turbolift. "No, Pavel, I guess not. Now hit 'resume' before Scotty sends someone to rescue us."
"That would be bad," Chekov agrees hastily, but he steals one more kiss before releasing the turbolift.
He does not, however, release Sulu's hand. And Sulu's just fine with that.
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Chekov/Sulu (though a good deal of Sulu gen)
Rating: PG-13, really, but I dropped more than one f-bomb, so, R. Also, boykissing, attempted groping, and highly suggestive comments.
Spoilers: General for the movie, to be safe
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: WHY ARE THEY SO CUTE. WHY. Takes place about a year after the movie so CHEKOV IS EIGHTEEN, OKAY.
Summary: In the year he's spent under James Kirk's command, Sulu has come to think of him as one of the best captains in the fleet. Despite this, Sulu is ninety-nine percent sure that Kirk has absolutely no idea how hard it is to dock a starship when people are fidgeting all the fuck over the place.
Spacedock. At long last. When even Spock looks like he needs to get off the ship, it's obvious that they've been in deep space too long.
The captain keeps crossing and uncrossing his legs, drumming his fingers on the armrest of his chair. (He's going to accidentally make some things happen if he doesn't stop.) Sulu wishes he'd quit it. In the year he's spent under James Kirk's command, Sulu has come to think of him as one of the best captains in the fleet. Despite this, Sulu is ninety-nine percent sure that Kirk has absolutely no idea how hard it is to dock a starship when people are fidgeting all the fuck over the place.
Because the problem with the captain being on edge is that it makes everybody fidgety. Chekov hasn't been able to sit still for twenty minutes. If he shifts in his seat one. More. Time... Sulu's this close to telling him he can go make his own plans for the next week if he can't calm down for the next five very important minutes.
A muttered exhalation in Russian breaks his concentration for the tenth time (Sulu is trying to properly set up the nav computer for the series of minute course corrections he's going to be entering once they have clearing to dock), and that is it. Sulu's slammed in an annoyed message and sent it to Chekov's console before he's really thought about it.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Chekov glance down at his display. His eyes widen slightly, and the sharp look he sends at Sulu has overtures of kicked-puppy-ness to it. In retrospect, maybe If you can't sit still for two goddamn seconds then you can just fuck off back to Russia for a week and I'll go to my fencing tournament by myself may have been slightly harsh.
His fingers flicker over the console. Sorry.
Chekov's smile is slightly shy, more so apologetic, and Sulu forcibly reminds himself not to be so edgy.
"Uhura, have you gotten a response to our hail yet?" Kirk asks for the third (or possibly the millionth) time. Sulu's not entirely sure why the captain's so anxious to get off the ship--though he's heard some rumors involving Doctor McCoy, Commander Spock, and Las Vegas, which, if true, provide ample incentive for wanting to get planetside as soon as possible. He's trying not to think about the captain's impatience. Sulu's trying to calm himself as much as possible. The ship's still mostly new, after all. Scratching the paint (or, say, an accidental shift in maneuvering thrusters jerking the ship up a few hundred meters and crushing the bridge) is out of the question.
Finally, Uhura's "Aye, captain" draws a collective sigh of relief from the entire bridge. "U.S.S. Enterprise clear for docking in Bay 04. Coordinates transmitted to helm control."
Sulu feels a very familiar pulse of adrenaline in the pit of his stomach as his console chirps at him. "Coordinates received, sir."
"Take us in, Mister Sulu."
It's easier to share in the captain's excitement, now. It's never not exciting, flying this ship. She's the most precise, most responsive beauty of a flier Sulu's ever flown. Which is good, now, because precision is kind of crucial.
In a matter of seconds, the only thing in the galaxy that matters is his console. Four different proximity sensors tell him all he'll ever need to know. Enterprise beneath his hands is the only ship he'll ever need to fly, and the next millisecond of motion is the only motion that needs to happen in the world. Until the next fraction of a second. Sulu's living nanosecond to nanosecond and this is exactly what he's good at, exactly what he loves.
Ten kilometers too close to the starboard dock. Starboard maneuvering thrusters for point-five seconds. Too fast into the bay. Decrease stern thrusters by point-two-five. Port thrusters for one second. Easy, easy...
He only breathes when the edges of his vision blur. Enterprise is delicate, deliberate. Deadly precise.
It's fantastic.
Port and starboard proximity sensors are green. Dorsal and ventral sensors are green. Fore and aft sensors are green.
"All stop," and his voice sounds foreign to his own ears. In two eternal seconds he's forgotten that speech is necessary.
The engines power down, thrusters are taken offline. In less than a second, they're just another still, quiet part of space.
The faint thump of docking clamps engaging reverberates throughout the ship, and Sulu exhales slowly.
Smiles faintly.
Oh, he is the man.
Trying not to grin like the proverbial cat with the cream, Sulu turns in his chair. "Enterprise is in spacedock, Captain."
Kirk's eyes gleam with admiration, approval. "Brilliant as always, Mister Sulu."
He nods, openly grinning (he can't help it. Adrenaline comedown always makes him a little giddy), turning back to his console. The captain's giving the usual orders for shipwide announcements, shore leave approval, locking out their consoles before they leave, but Sulu's not really listening. His job's done.
Good job, he thinks, resting his hand on the smooth glass of his console. We make a great team, you and I.
Enterprise doesn't answer in so many words, but she doesn't really need to. He knows anyway.
Slight movement beside him draws his eye, and Sulu glances up at Chekov.
Chekov's bottom lip is caught between his teeth, and his eyes are literally glittering as he and Sulu share a very long look. There's a faint flush in Chekov's cheeks, and Sulu feels answering color rising in his face as Chekov tilts his head ever so slightly (toward the turbolift, Sulu notices, and has to swallow rather hard) and turns back to his console, the perfect image of professionalism. "Captain Kirk, conn is cleared and locked," Chekov announces, his voice slightly hoarser than his usual light tone.
Sulu hastily enters his authorization code and locks down his console. "Helm clear and locked, sir."
"Got it," Kirk answers slightly distantly, not looking at them, leaning on the back of Uhura's chair and studying shore leave request forms. "See you two in a week. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"Aye, captain," they chorus, and practically bolt for the turbolift.
Sulu is absurdly thankful that Chekov waits for the turbolift doors to close before hitting "hold" and slamming him against the wall. Even with the senior officers as distracted as they were, Chekov pinning him and devouring his mouth in public is bound to draw a few questions. Anyway, having an armful of enthusiastic Russian conn officer all to himself is Hikaru Sulu's idea of the perfect end to a day, especially when he's getting a pretty good idea of why Chekov was having a hard time sitting still.
"You," Chekov breathes against his lips, hands on either side of Sulu's head, a deceptively strong, lithe frame holding him against the cool wall of the turbolift, "are the most brilliant pilot I have ever seen." He punctuates this observation with another deep, nigh-ferocious kiss, and somehow Sulu's hands are tangled in soft reddish curls without him putting them there. Huh. Not that he's complaining, mind; keeping Chekov's lips fused to his for as long as humanly possible is a lot easier this way.
"It wasn't bad, if I do say so myself," Sulu gasps, resting his forehead against Chekov's and grinning fiercely.
"Fucking amazing," Chekov murmurs, kissing him again (and oh dear sweet God Sulu loves Chekov's accent when the Russian has sex on his mind). He bites down not-so-gently on Sulu's lip as he draws back (and it's a good thing their bodies are so tight against each other because Sulu's knees are threatening collapse right about now) and smiles faintly, nose brushing against Sulu's in an oddly gentle contrast.
"Kinda hard with you squirming next to me," Sulu teases, trailing one hand down Chekov's spine, loving the shiver.
Chekov's eyes roll heavenward. "He expects me to sit still with him sitting next to me looking like that," he grumbles, drumming his fingers in annoyance on Sulu's collarbone. "Of course. Pavel Chekov the superhuman." His gaze flickers back to Sulu, eyes narrowing slightly. "You're not really going to leave me in Russia, da? After I was so very, very good..." His voice drops to a murmur, and he trails a line of kisses along Sulu's jaw.
Sulu's grin turns wicked, and his head rolls lazily back against the wall of the turbolift. "I still might."
Chekov freezes for a millisecond, then continues kissing his way along Sulu's jaw as though Sulu hadn't spoken. "I don't think you mean it," he breathes in Sulu's ear. "You'd miss me." And his teeth close on Sulu's earlobe as his hand slides down Sulu's chest and down his stomach.
Sulu's breath catches in his throat, and he grabs Chekov's hand before it can slip any lower. He laces his fingers with Chekov's nimble, delicate ones and squeezes slightly. "Yeah, probably," he surrenders with a grin, and his free hand brushes his lover's cheek. Chekov turns his head into the touch for a brief moment, then tilts his head up for a slower, gentler kiss.
They're both grinning when they break apart, and Sulu arches an eyebrow at him. "Are you seriously looking forward to a week of just watching me fence?"
Chekov stares at him blankly. "Are you seriously asking me this question?"
Sulu sighs, smiles, leans back against the turbolift. "No, Pavel, I guess not. Now hit 'resume' before Scotty sends someone to rescue us."
"That would be bad," Chekov agrees hastily, but he steals one more kiss before releasing the turbolift.
He does not, however, release Sulu's hand. And Sulu's just fine with that.