The One Where the Away Team is Kittens
Fandom: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series
Rating: FRT, for language.
Pairing: Unresolved Chekov/Sulu
Length: ~1,500 words
Summary: Like it says on the tin: the Away Team is turned into kittens! And Chekov is having difficulty maintaining appropriate boundaries. (Written for Chulu Week 2013, Day 6 Challenge: "Crack!fic.")
The clothes are gathered in piles: not folded, but collapsed in on themselves, as though the men and women wearing them all disappeared where they stood.
It isn’t hard to identify Sulu’s. His collapsible katana is lying atop the mound, next to his phaser belt and golden jersey. Chekov kneels down beside it and passes his tricorder over the area in slow, methodical sweeps. The readings are all normal, no evidence of electromagnetic or biochemical disturbance. Chekov looks out at the reedy grassland stretching out for miles in all direction. There’s nowhere to hide, no large predators to contend with.
Where could they all have gone?
“Meow.”
Chekov blinks down in surprise. A tiny tuxedo kitten is standing next to him, with two little paws propped up against Chekov’s thigh and kneading gently at the fabric. The kitten looks up at Chekov pleadingly and meows again, half-sorrowful and half-hopeful.
The communicator pings. “Acting Captain Spock to Away Team. Have you located the Captain and missing crew?”
McCoy stands from where he’s been crouched over the Keptin’s uniform. “We’ve found their clothes, but no bodies. And I’d guess by the arrangement of the clothing that they didn’t voluntarily disrobe. Supplies and weapons are still here. Hell, their god damned boots are all still laced and upright. It looks like they vanished.”
“I… agree with Doctor McCoy’s assessment, sir.” Chekov stands and dusts off his own pants. The kitten gives a warbling whine. “There’s no evidence of anomalous behavior. No residual polarity or static charge, no scorching. I’m not sure what happened, but it appears to have been very abrupt.”
A chorus of mewling erupts from the brush to their right, and a small pack of kittens, led by an orange tabby, emerge. The other cats linger by the grassline, but the orange tabby makes a beeline straight for McCoy.
“Ugh, no,” McCoy groans, trying to dance out of reach. His efforts are futile; the tabby catches him and scales his pantleg to about mid-thigh before the Doctor pries him off. “A feral cat population. That’s just what I need.”
The tabby kitten is clearly upset with this treatment, yowling in indignant protest. He sits back, perhaps considering making another attempt at a climb, and must think better of it because he tears around McCoy instead and tumbles into the pile of the Keptin’s abandoned uniform.
“Hey!” McCoy sputters, attempting to shoo the kitten out. This time the tabby refuses to go peaceably, digging claws into the shirt and tangling himself into the fabric. “I need that. Jesus. Scram! You’re contaminating our evidence!”
The four-kitten choir mewling pitiably from the grass’s edge gives up their song and adopts the tabby’s tactic instead. They each bound to a pile of clothing and begin to squirm into the shirt sleeves and boots, nesting themselves firmly, and the security detail join McCoy in the awkward process of trying to disentangle contorting cats from a puddle of fabric.
Chekov watches, a small frown forming on his face. There are six cats, total; one cat to each bundle of clothing. Chekov glances down at the tuxedo kitten sitting patiently by his feet. He has his paws on Chekov’s boot again and is staring up at him with wide eyes. He meows.
“Chekov to Enterprise. Did the previous away team mention encountering any local wildlife? Cats, perhaps?”
“Affirmative,” Commander Spock replies. “Why?”
Gently, Chekov lifts the tuxedo and holds him at eye level. “Lieutenant Sulu?”
The kitten places his a paw to each side of Chekov’s face meows a solemn affirmative.
“Oh hell,” Doctor McCoy groans.
The tuxedo kitten is sitting on Chekov’s desk, meticulously grooming its fur.
Chekov props his elbows on the desk and leans in so that their faces are close. “Are you really-Lieutenant Sulu?” He doesn’t know why he’s asking; Doctor McCoy had tested each of the kittens in a variety of complex verbal commands and higher memory functions to determine that, yes, they are the members of the missing Away Team and, yes, they are essentially still themselves.
The Keptin, in orange tabby form, had spent the entire briefing perched on Doctor McCoy’s shoulder, resolutely refusing to get down, which was probably the most perfect demonstration of the point. But Chekov still has a bit of difficulty resolving the kitten washing primly in front of him with his friend and colleague.
Sulu meows, then leans and licks Chekov neatly on the nose.
It’s scratchy and rough, but also tickles, and Chekov pushes back from the desk to laugh. “What does that mean?” he asks, still laughing and rubbing at his nose. “Does that mean you’re hungry?”
Doctor McCoy is still working with Acting Captain Spock to determine the cause of the change, but he’s confident that-given the rate of extrachromosomal decay-they ought to revert to their native state in a day or two. Chekov is grateful for this. Sulu makes a very handsome kitten, but Chekov prefers the Sulu that can pilot beside him, and give him private fencing lessons during rec hours, and actually talk.
However, while they are waiting for the affliction to wear off, Chekov volunteered to assist Lieutenant Sulu in whatever capacity he might require. His decision was not entirely altruistic; Sulu in kitten form is more tactile and affectionate than his human counterpart, and Chekov was hoping-
Sulu stretches, arching his back and flexing his claws. Chekov is struck by the desire to touch him: to stroke his fur-which Chekov knows from the brief opportunity to hold him is remarkably soft-and skritch behind his ears until he dissolves into purrs. Chekov squashes the feeling, because it would be wildly inappropriate, and Sulu hops down off the table and goes to stand beneath the replicator.
“Alright, yes, food. What would you like? Do replicators make cat food?” Sulu yowls, making Chekov laugh again. “Alright. Not cat food. Um. What do cats eat? Avian species, I suppose. Or fish. Do you have a preference between chicken or tuna?”
Sulu just brushes against Chekov’s leg contentedly, so Chekov orders him both.
They eat at Chekov’s desk. Sulu picks at both the fish and fowl, then gets distracted by a PADD stylus that’s lying out. He spends the rest of the meal rolling it between his paws. Chekov enjoys his meal more slowly, entertained by watching Sulu tease the stylus across the desk surface. When it clatters to the ground, Sulu jumps down after it and rolls merrily on the floor.
After Chekov’s cleared the plates away, he sprawls onto his bed to listen to the datascreen and get caught up on his physics journals. Sulu loses interest in the stylus in favor of a shoelace that’s dangling over the edge of Chekov’s desk chair: first swiping at it determinedly and then rolling onto his back and trying to catch the swaying lace between his two upstretched paws. Chekov tries to focus on reading his physics journals, but is enchanted by the soft fur on Sulu’s belly and the playful flash of his tiny claws.
The soft, natural sounds lull him into a light sleep, and he wakes up to Sulu kneading the bed beside his head and purring with droopy-eyed contentment. Chekov startles upright, blinking Sulu out of his stupor. “Oh! I’m sorry, I must have fallen asleep. How silly.” He blinks blearily around the room. “You are probably waiting on me to walk you back to your room, yes?”
Sulu makes a big show of yawning and stretching out, and then knocks his head into Chekov’s knee.
Chekov grimaces and stands, collecting his boots. “Yes. Of course. How thoughtless of me. You must be very tired, after all you have been through today.”
Sulu knocks his head against Chekov’s leg again, more insistently, and then weaves between his legs.
“No, no, do not fret. I will get everything set up for you there, and I will of course come check on you in the morning, too, first thing!” Chekov pads over to the door and palms it open.
Sulu glances between Chekov and the door with an unimpressed expression. He huffs discontentedly-Chekov can hear him mentally rolling his eyes-and hops up onto Chekov’s bed. He makes himself comfortable on the pillow.
“You want to stay here?” Sulu blinks sleepily at him, and Chekov nods. “Oh. Okay. Yes. Um. I shall make you a bed, then? Or would you prefer-I can put the pillow on the desk? You will be comfortable there?”
Sulu folds himself into a neat oval shape on the pillow and tucks his tail underneath his nose, as if to say, ‘Why are we still talking about this.’
“Okay,” Chekov whispers. “Okay, um.” He turns the datascreen off and then searches the room for something else that still needs doing. There’s nothing. The whole ship has gone quiet, lulled into sleep by Sulu’s easy huffs of breath against Chekov’s pillow. Chekov retreats into the bathroom to change into his pajamas and brush his teeth.
His pillow-with Sulu on it-are occupying an appreciable amount of area on his tiny twin bed, and Chekov doesn’t want to disturb them, but he’s not sure he’ll be able to comfortably fold himself into the remainder of the bed space. As gently as possible he pushes the pillow to the side of the bed, so that he will at least be able to stretch out, and then he climbs underneath the sheets and cuts the room lights.
In the darkness, Chekov once again wants to reach out and pet Sulu. He’s already lifed his hand before he catches himself, and the offending hand hovers in the air above Sulu’s ears, so close that he can feel the heat from his little kitten head. They’re both so still in that moment, waiting to see what will happen.
Sulu might be in the form of a cat, but he is still a Starfleet officer and Chekov’s immediate superior, and-more importantly-his friend. Chekov doesn’t know if Sulu would appreciate being petted or if he would consider it a gross violation of his space, and Chekov is too afraid to ask, too afraid that Sulu will know the real reason behind his curiosity.
Chekov wants to cuddle Sulu to his side and nuzzle against his adorable kitten face and wrap him up in a hug-but he wants all those things even more with the Sulu that isn’t a cat, that is human and warm and real.
He pulls his hand back and rolls away, to prevent himself from doing anything untoward in his sleep.
“Goodnight, Lieutenant,” Chekov whispers into darkness. Sulu trills happily, though sleepily, in response.
He wakes in the middle of the night to discover that Sulu has abandoned his perch atop the pillow to curl against Chekov’s chest. He’s purring, and it’s a gentle vibration against Chekov’s ribs.
Rating: FRT, for language.
Pairing: Unresolved Chekov/Sulu
Length: ~1,500 words
Summary: Like it says on the tin: the Away Team is turned into kittens! And Chekov is having difficulty maintaining appropriate boundaries. (Written for Chulu Week 2013, Day 6 Challenge: "Crack!fic.")
The clothes are gathered in piles: not folded, but collapsed in on themselves, as though the men and women wearing them all disappeared where they stood.
It isn’t hard to identify Sulu’s. His collapsible katana is lying atop the mound, next to his phaser belt and golden jersey. Chekov kneels down beside it and passes his tricorder over the area in slow, methodical sweeps. The readings are all normal, no evidence of electromagnetic or biochemical disturbance. Chekov looks out at the reedy grassland stretching out for miles in all direction. There’s nowhere to hide, no large predators to contend with.
Where could they all have gone?
“Meow.”
Chekov blinks down in surprise. A tiny tuxedo kitten is standing next to him, with two little paws propped up against Chekov’s thigh and kneading gently at the fabric. The kitten looks up at Chekov pleadingly and meows again, half-sorrowful and half-hopeful.
The communicator pings. “Acting Captain Spock to Away Team. Have you located the Captain and missing crew?”
McCoy stands from where he’s been crouched over the Keptin’s uniform. “We’ve found their clothes, but no bodies. And I’d guess by the arrangement of the clothing that they didn’t voluntarily disrobe. Supplies and weapons are still here. Hell, their god damned boots are all still laced and upright. It looks like they vanished.”
“I… agree with Doctor McCoy’s assessment, sir.” Chekov stands and dusts off his own pants. The kitten gives a warbling whine. “There’s no evidence of anomalous behavior. No residual polarity or static charge, no scorching. I’m not sure what happened, but it appears to have been very abrupt.”
A chorus of mewling erupts from the brush to their right, and a small pack of kittens, led by an orange tabby, emerge. The other cats linger by the grassline, but the orange tabby makes a beeline straight for McCoy.
“Ugh, no,” McCoy groans, trying to dance out of reach. His efforts are futile; the tabby catches him and scales his pantleg to about mid-thigh before the Doctor pries him off. “A feral cat population. That’s just what I need.”
The tabby kitten is clearly upset with this treatment, yowling in indignant protest. He sits back, perhaps considering making another attempt at a climb, and must think better of it because he tears around McCoy instead and tumbles into the pile of the Keptin’s abandoned uniform.
“Hey!” McCoy sputters, attempting to shoo the kitten out. This time the tabby refuses to go peaceably, digging claws into the shirt and tangling himself into the fabric. “I need that. Jesus. Scram! You’re contaminating our evidence!”
The four-kitten choir mewling pitiably from the grass’s edge gives up their song and adopts the tabby’s tactic instead. They each bound to a pile of clothing and begin to squirm into the shirt sleeves and boots, nesting themselves firmly, and the security detail join McCoy in the awkward process of trying to disentangle contorting cats from a puddle of fabric.
Chekov watches, a small frown forming on his face. There are six cats, total; one cat to each bundle of clothing. Chekov glances down at the tuxedo kitten sitting patiently by his feet. He has his paws on Chekov’s boot again and is staring up at him with wide eyes. He meows.
“Chekov to Enterprise. Did the previous away team mention encountering any local wildlife? Cats, perhaps?”
“Affirmative,” Commander Spock replies. “Why?”
Gently, Chekov lifts the tuxedo and holds him at eye level. “Lieutenant Sulu?”
The kitten places his a paw to each side of Chekov’s face meows a solemn affirmative.
“Oh hell,” Doctor McCoy groans.
The tuxedo kitten is sitting on Chekov’s desk, meticulously grooming its fur.
Chekov props his elbows on the desk and leans in so that their faces are close. “Are you really-Lieutenant Sulu?” He doesn’t know why he’s asking; Doctor McCoy had tested each of the kittens in a variety of complex verbal commands and higher memory functions to determine that, yes, they are the members of the missing Away Team and, yes, they are essentially still themselves.
The Keptin, in orange tabby form, had spent the entire briefing perched on Doctor McCoy’s shoulder, resolutely refusing to get down, which was probably the most perfect demonstration of the point. But Chekov still has a bit of difficulty resolving the kitten washing primly in front of him with his friend and colleague.
Sulu meows, then leans and licks Chekov neatly on the nose.
It’s scratchy and rough, but also tickles, and Chekov pushes back from the desk to laugh. “What does that mean?” he asks, still laughing and rubbing at his nose. “Does that mean you’re hungry?”
Doctor McCoy is still working with Acting Captain Spock to determine the cause of the change, but he’s confident that-given the rate of extrachromosomal decay-they ought to revert to their native state in a day or two. Chekov is grateful for this. Sulu makes a very handsome kitten, but Chekov prefers the Sulu that can pilot beside him, and give him private fencing lessons during rec hours, and actually talk.
However, while they are waiting for the affliction to wear off, Chekov volunteered to assist Lieutenant Sulu in whatever capacity he might require. His decision was not entirely altruistic; Sulu in kitten form is more tactile and affectionate than his human counterpart, and Chekov was hoping-
Sulu stretches, arching his back and flexing his claws. Chekov is struck by the desire to touch him: to stroke his fur-which Chekov knows from the brief opportunity to hold him is remarkably soft-and skritch behind his ears until he dissolves into purrs. Chekov squashes the feeling, because it would be wildly inappropriate, and Sulu hops down off the table and goes to stand beneath the replicator.
“Alright, yes, food. What would you like? Do replicators make cat food?” Sulu yowls, making Chekov laugh again. “Alright. Not cat food. Um. What do cats eat? Avian species, I suppose. Or fish. Do you have a preference between chicken or tuna?”
Sulu just brushes against Chekov’s leg contentedly, so Chekov orders him both.
They eat at Chekov’s desk. Sulu picks at both the fish and fowl, then gets distracted by a PADD stylus that’s lying out. He spends the rest of the meal rolling it between his paws. Chekov enjoys his meal more slowly, entertained by watching Sulu tease the stylus across the desk surface. When it clatters to the ground, Sulu jumps down after it and rolls merrily on the floor.
After Chekov’s cleared the plates away, he sprawls onto his bed to listen to the datascreen and get caught up on his physics journals. Sulu loses interest in the stylus in favor of a shoelace that’s dangling over the edge of Chekov’s desk chair: first swiping at it determinedly and then rolling onto his back and trying to catch the swaying lace between his two upstretched paws. Chekov tries to focus on reading his physics journals, but is enchanted by the soft fur on Sulu’s belly and the playful flash of his tiny claws.
The soft, natural sounds lull him into a light sleep, and he wakes up to Sulu kneading the bed beside his head and purring with droopy-eyed contentment. Chekov startles upright, blinking Sulu out of his stupor. “Oh! I’m sorry, I must have fallen asleep. How silly.” He blinks blearily around the room. “You are probably waiting on me to walk you back to your room, yes?”
Sulu makes a big show of yawning and stretching out, and then knocks his head into Chekov’s knee.
Chekov grimaces and stands, collecting his boots. “Yes. Of course. How thoughtless of me. You must be very tired, after all you have been through today.”
Sulu knocks his head against Chekov’s leg again, more insistently, and then weaves between his legs.
“No, no, do not fret. I will get everything set up for you there, and I will of course come check on you in the morning, too, first thing!” Chekov pads over to the door and palms it open.
Sulu glances between Chekov and the door with an unimpressed expression. He huffs discontentedly-Chekov can hear him mentally rolling his eyes-and hops up onto Chekov’s bed. He makes himself comfortable on the pillow.
“You want to stay here?” Sulu blinks sleepily at him, and Chekov nods. “Oh. Okay. Yes. Um. I shall make you a bed, then? Or would you prefer-I can put the pillow on the desk? You will be comfortable there?”
Sulu folds himself into a neat oval shape on the pillow and tucks his tail underneath his nose, as if to say, ‘Why are we still talking about this.’
“Okay,” Chekov whispers. “Okay, um.” He turns the datascreen off and then searches the room for something else that still needs doing. There’s nothing. The whole ship has gone quiet, lulled into sleep by Sulu’s easy huffs of breath against Chekov’s pillow. Chekov retreats into the bathroom to change into his pajamas and brush his teeth.
His pillow-with Sulu on it-are occupying an appreciable amount of area on his tiny twin bed, and Chekov doesn’t want to disturb them, but he’s not sure he’ll be able to comfortably fold himself into the remainder of the bed space. As gently as possible he pushes the pillow to the side of the bed, so that he will at least be able to stretch out, and then he climbs underneath the sheets and cuts the room lights.
In the darkness, Chekov once again wants to reach out and pet Sulu. He’s already lifed his hand before he catches himself, and the offending hand hovers in the air above Sulu’s ears, so close that he can feel the heat from his little kitten head. They’re both so still in that moment, waiting to see what will happen.
Sulu might be in the form of a cat, but he is still a Starfleet officer and Chekov’s immediate superior, and-more importantly-his friend. Chekov doesn’t know if Sulu would appreciate being petted or if he would consider it a gross violation of his space, and Chekov is too afraid to ask, too afraid that Sulu will know the real reason behind his curiosity.
Chekov wants to cuddle Sulu to his side and nuzzle against his adorable kitten face and wrap him up in a hug-but he wants all those things even more with the Sulu that isn’t a cat, that is human and warm and real.
He pulls his hand back and rolls away, to prevent himself from doing anything untoward in his sleep.
“Goodnight, Lieutenant,” Chekov whispers into darkness. Sulu trills happily, though sleepily, in response.
He wakes in the middle of the night to discover that Sulu has abandoned his perch atop the pillow to curl against Chekov’s chest. He’s purring, and it’s a gentle vibration against Chekov’s ribs.