Wanna Get Ficced?

Title: Sudden Influx of Dating [1/1]
Author: Perpetual Motion
Fandom: New!Trek
Pairing: Scotty/Chekov
Rating: R [Scotty curses.]
Summary: Scotty, Chekov, 13 weeks to repair the ship, transporter experiments involving fruit and almost-subtle references to "Hot Fuzz", the "Terminator" franchise, and "Serenity". Bonus points if you catch the last one.

Dis: Bullshit and lies. As always.

Author's Notes: Many thanks to leaper182 for a lookover. Can't believe I forgot the author's notes when I posted. Sorry, hon!


Sudden Influx of Dating [1/1]
By Perpetual Motion

They all get medals. Scotty eyes it when the Admiral pins it to his chest and wonders what he’s supposed to do with it. Next to him, the little Russian—Scotty can’t quite remember his name—beams and straightens his shoulders. It makes Scotty check his posture and puff out his chest. He’ll be damned if some Russian kid outdoes him in pride. He’s Scottish, for cripe’s sake.

*

“I am Chekov,” the little Russian says to Scotty an hour later while Scotty wonders if he’s saluted his arm off. “Pavel Chekov. But you can call me just Chekov.”

“All right, Just Chekov.”

Chekov laughs. “And you are the man from Delta Vega.”

“Montgomery Scott. Scotty.”

“Montgomery Scott Scotty,” Chekov repeats and nods. “I will remember.” He taps a finger to the side of his head and smiles at Scotty.

Scotty smiles in return. “Are you—”

“Chekov! Scotty!” Kirk’s cutting a path between dignitaries, Dr. McCoy at his side. He reaches them and holds out his hand, giving Scotty a firm enough handshake he wonders if he’s cracked something. “You’re in, right?”

“In?” Chekov asks, eyebrows furrowing.

“For the crew,” Kirk says like it’s a foregone assumption. “I’m a captain now—”

“Which I still think is a trick,” Dr. McCoy interrupts.

“And that means I get to pick my crew,” Kirk continues like the doctor didn’t interrupt. “So, you’re in, yeah? I need a Chief Engineer and a Navigator.”

Chief Engineer. Scotty blinks. On the Enterprise. “I’m in.” He says, his voice cracking a little.

“I want engineering time.” Chekov declares, and Scotty wonders what kind of lunatic he is to demand any sort of clause to work on the Enterprise. “I will navigate, of course, but I want—”

“Sure,” Kirk says with a wave of his hand. “Never hurts to have another red shirt digging around in the wires.”

“I am in!” Chekov says and shakes Kirk’s hand with more enthusiasm than Scotty’s sure he’s ever seen in a handshake.

“I’ve gotta catch Sulu,” Kirk says, and Scotty sees the way he discreetly shakes out his arm. “You guys go celebrate.”

Chekov beams at Scotty when Kirk and Dr. McCoy have walked away. “We should celebrate!”

“There’s not a bar in a mile’s radius that’ll serve you,” Scotty says, laughing at the pure glee on Chekov’s face.

“No,” Chekov agrees. He wraps his hand around Scotty’s arm and tugs. “Come with me.”

“I should—” Scotty starts, thinking of everything he needs to do until his assignment actually comes through, but Chekov is already pulling him down the block, and Scotty can’t help but follow his energy.

*

Two miles from Starfleet headquarters, Chekov pulls Scotty into a bar. He gives a cheer, and everyone in the room answers with raised glasses. Chekov says something very quickly in Russian that Scotty is fairly certain translates—roughly—to “And then I was on a great ship and there was a fight, and I was brilliant, and then we were in another fight, and I was brilliant again, and then we came back and our captain told me I could be on his ship, and I am going to be brilliant when I get there.”

Everyone cheers when Chekov finishes, and Scotty finds a drink in his hand.

“What part of Russia?” A man asks as he toasts his shot glass against Scotty’s.

“Scotland,” Scotty answers automatically.

“Close enough,” the man says.

Scotty throws back his shot and has to breathe through his nose. “Well!” He exclaims when he can breathe again.

“Very good, yes?” Chekov asks as he pours Scotty another shot. “Come! I will introduce you to everyone.”

And he does, in fact, get introduced to everyone. Their names are a blur of rolling consonants and laughing stories that come out in mostly Russian. Scotty sits in the chair Chekov pushes him into and stops counting shots after number six.

“I’m a bit drunk,” he says to Chekov, much later, as Chekov leans against him and sings something raucous next to his ear.

“Good.” Chekov grins, and his carefully combed hair falls into his eyes.

Scotty pushes it out of his face and laughs when Chekov bumps their foreheads together.

*

“13 weeks?” Scotty asks the next day, staring up at the Enterprise where she’s moored to the repair dock.

“That’s what they say.” Kirk’s arms are crossed, and he’s glaring at the repair crew like they’re personally out to get him. “We did a number on her. They’ve got to fix her.”

“I could have her fixed in two days. Give me some bailing wire and a decent screwdriver,” Scotty mumbles.

“Wish I could.” Kirk shakes his head. “What the hell are we going to do for thirteen weeks?”

Scotty grins at Kirk. “Pub?”

*

“Not fair,” Chekov says late that night as he, Scotty, Kirk, and McCoy stand outside a bar. “I am in Starfleet. I have earned proper respect.”

“You have,” Kirk agrees instantly, and Scotty sees he means it. “But the law’s the law.”

“That’s pretty good, coming from you,” McCoy says with a snort. “What was the final list? Reckless driving, resisting arrest, public urination—”

“Bones,” Kirk says cheerfully, “Shut up.”

Scotty raises his eyebrows. “Is it safe to be near him?” He asks McCoy.

“No worse than on the ship.”

“That’s not reassuring,” Scotty replies and shrugs when Kirk throws him a look. “It’s not.”

“There’s got to be a place that respects what you’ve done for the Federation,” Kirk says to Chekov.

Scotty expects Chekov to lead them straight to the bar from the night before. “No,” Chekov says instead. “Not that I have found.”

“Plan B, then.” Kirk pushes Chekov at Scotty. “You got a place in town?”

“I’ve been off-planet four years,” Scotty replies. Kirk keeps looking at him. “Got a hotel room,” Scotty adds with a shrug.

“Great. Where?” Scotty rattles off the address. Kirk repeats it twice. “All right. See you there in forty minutes.”

“I—” Scotty says, but Kirk and McCoy have already walked away. Scotty looks at Chekov. “You know a bar,” he says accusingly.

“That is a bar for friends,” Chekov replies. “Not captains.”

“We’re not friends.” Scotty winces after he says it. “I mean—”

“We have 13 weeks shore leave,” Chekov’s smile is almost blinding. “Plenty of time.”

*

They get very, very drunk off passably decent whiskey mixed with soda from the in-room food slot, and Scotty gets to the point that he starts explaining the difference between whiskey and scotch.

“They’re completely different!” He yells. Kirk and McCoy laugh. Chekov giggles and throws himself on the bed next to Scotty, and someone in the next room yells at them to “shut the fuck up; you stupid drunk bastards”.

“It’s about aging—” is as far as Scotty gets before Chekov puts a hand over his mouth.

“You are very loud Scottish man,” Chekov says.

“You’re a tiny Russian,” Scotty replies, pulling Chekov’s hand from his mouth.

“I can’t understand a goddamn word from either of you,” McCoy says with a shake of his head. “Sounds like a couple of dogs growling at one another.”

Chekov says something in Russian that Scotty responds to in engineering jargon. Kirk laughs so hard he falls out of his chair.

“That’s our cue,” McCoy says with a grin as he pulls Kirk off the floor. “Chekov, you need me to carry you home, too?”

“I am staying awhile longer,” Chekov tells him.

Scotty can only nod when McCoy throws him a look. “He’s small. I’ll hang him in the closet.”

“Don’t come to me for hangover cures,” McCoy says in farewell.

“He is a mean man,” Chekov throws himself fully onto Scotty’s bed, arms and legs akimbo. “And I am not small.”

“Not where it counts, right?” Scotty asks and shoves at Chekov until he makes room.

“Russian men are—”

Scotty puts a hand over Chekov’s mouth. “Stop that before I have to prove you wrong.” There’s a sudden gleam in Chekov’s eyes that makes Scotty wonder if he’s drunk enough to try. “I’m going to pass out, now,” he says and closes his eyes.

When Chekov rolls towards him and curls an arm over his midsection, Scotty just breathes deep and lets the whiskey take him to sleep.

*

Scotty wakes up the next morning and rolls over to find Chekov sitting at his little table with a cup of tea, a danish, and a news PADD. His hair is flat on one side, and his shirt is wrinkled.

“There is a film festival at Art Institute,” Chekov says when Scotty pulls himself upright. “If you are not hungover.”

“I can hold my whiskey,” Scotty snaps. Chekov’s smile is incredibly irritating when Scotty’s tongue tastes like the matted fur of a sick cat.

“Tea?” Chekov asks, reaching behind him towards the food slot.

“Earl Gray.” Scotty stands and scratches his head. “Shower,” he mutters and rubs at his eyes.

“It is ancient films,” Chekov calls as Scotty starts the shower. “They are twentieth century films about the future.”

“Don’t you have to check in at the ‘Fleet dorms?”

“I am an Ensign with position. I do not have curfew or classes,” Chekov says. There’s a pause. “You are very grumpy when you wake.”

Scotty smiles at himself in the mirror. “Slot me a cherry danish,” He replies.

The shower helps Scotty clear his head, and he steps back into the main room, towel around his waist, and gives Chekov a puzzled look. “Did you cuddle me last night?”

“I do not cuddle,” Chekov says, just a touch haughty. “Russians simply find warmth.”

“Cuddler,” Scotty mutters and sips his tea.

“Some of the movies have robots,” Chekov tells him.

“What time?”

“It begins at two.”

Scotty glances at the clock. It’s just after nine. “You need a change of clothes and a shower.” He shakes his head when Chekov raises his eyebrows. “You want clothes, you’re on your own. I barely have anything not made for sub-zero.”

Chekov takes a drink of his tea. “After breakfast.”

“I’m not a morning person,” Scotty tells him and rolls his eyes when Chekov beams. “You’re one of those all the time twats, aren’t you? Chipper at four in the damned morning?”

“I like four in the morning. Very quiet. Good for studying.”

Scotty slumps into his chair and sips his tea. “No talking until I’ve had breakfast.”

Chekov makes an affirmative sound that Scotty notes does not, in fact, count as talking, and eats his danish distractedly as he reads his PADD. Scotty drinks his tea and eats his danish with more attention. He doesn’t want to have to scrub cherry filling out of his chest hair now that he’s already showered.

*

They make it forty minutes into a movie about an evil computer taking over the world and sending robots to kill the savior of humanity before Scotty and Chekov get forcibly removed for arguing with the film.

“That is not science!” Chekov yells as the usher pushes them out the door of the theater. “Time travel does not—”

“And what kind of computer would make a robot that looked like a person?” Scotty adds. “That’s just ridiculous. A computer wouldn’t—”

The usher shoves them out the front door and walks away.

Chekov looks at Scotty. Scotty looks at Chekov. They track the usher for thirty seconds, sneak in around him, and settle into the back row of the theater.

It’s another fifteen minutes before they’re thrown out again. This time the usher stands at the entrance until they walk away.

“I cannot believe people believed teleportation—”

“How is he inconspicuous? No one else talked like—”

They both pause, stare at one another, and then Scotty throws an arm around Chekov’s shoulders. “Early supper, then?”

“Pizza,” Chekov agrees.

*

Scotty gets a call entirely too early in the morning three days later. It’s the captain, sounding just as excited to be up as Scotty feels.

“Engineering seminar,” Kirk half-growls, obviously still mostly asleep. “’Fleet science building. Room 4-something. Go. Now.”

“Yes, Sir,” Scotty mumbles, sitting up in bed on reflex.

“And take Chekov with you if you can find the sneaky bastard. He’s not at the dorms, and no one I’ve talked to has a current address on the little weasel.”

Scotty looks across the bed, where Chekov is curled around a pillow and snoring lightly because they stayed up incredibly late theorizing, and it was easier to have him stay the night. “I can track him down,” he says.

*

By a bit of luck—and, Scotty thinks, Chekov’s ability to look innocent—they do not get kicked out of the Engineering seminar. When Scotty starts to argue with the woman giving the lecture, Chekov says something in Russian that Scotty’s pretty sure translates, loosely, to, “You’re making a complete asshole of yourself; not because you are wrong, but because she won’t admit you are right”, and it makes him laugh, mid-argument, and take his seat again.

“She is wrong,” Chekov declares when the lecture is officially over. The woman in question is still on the stage, and she glares at Chekov.

“I’ve written three research papers, a dissertation, and two books about transporter capabilities,” she informs him coolly.

“And you are wrong,” Chekov replies. “You think inside lines.”

“Box,” Scotty corrects. “She thinks inside the box.”

“And the lines.”

Scotty snorts. “Sure. Yeah.”

“And you think you have better ideas?” The woman asks, her tone implying the “you snot-nosed brat” without vocalizing it.

“Yes,” Chekov says with a nod, and then he’s walking away.

“Prove it!” She calls after him.

“Nyet. It is outside…” Chekov looks at Scotty.

“The lines,” Scotty fills in, and the woman turns a very bright shade of angry pink as Scotty and Chekov run for the door.

*

Chekov’s ideas involve fruits of various sizes, starting with kiwis. “Not enough beagles,” he tells Scotty. “Lots of food slots.”

“Someday,” Scotty says, giving the food slot an appraising look, “I’m going to program one of these things to give me fresh uniforms and clean socks.”

“And good vodka,” Chekov adds. “Slot vodka is…” He shakes his head rather than finish the sentence.

“Whiskey, too,” Scotty agrees. He looks at Chekov’s notes, and squints at the ideas written in English. “Explain the kiwis,” he says and pulls his chair close enough they both get jostled if one of them tries to get up.

*

Admiral Archer finds them in transporter practice room 3. He holds up half of a kiwi. “Mr. Scott,” he says, “why am I not surprised you’re involved?”

“Smaller than a beagle,” Scotty answers and flinches when Chekov kicks him in the shoe.

“Where was it?”

“It landed on Athos,” Archer tells Chekov.

Chekov looks confused. “Athos?”

“Beagle,” Scotty tells him. “The…”

“Replacement,” Archer says, “for the one that Mr. Scott…what was the word?”

“Misplaced,” Scotty fills in.

“Right,” Archer replies and holds out the half-kiwi into Scotty’s palm. “Away from my office, if you could.”

“Yes, Sir,” Scotty says with a nod and just manages not to grimace when Archer flattens the half-kiwi into Scotty’s hand.

“He does not like you,” Chekov tells Scotty after Archer leaves.

Scotty raises his eyebrows when Chekov’s very serious expression turns mischievous. “What?” He asks, feeling slightly giddy.

Chekov wields the knife they’ve been using to halve the kiwis and slices up three into finely diced bits. He puts them on the transporter and presses the button to energize.

“Mr. Scott,” Archer’s voice over the comm echoes in the bay. “It just rained kiwi in my office.”

“Admiral, sir!” Chekov nearly yells before Scotty can find his voice. “Very sorry! Bad calculation! Is dog okay?”

There’s a pause. “Your name?” Archer asks after a moment.

“Pavel Chekov, sir.”

“Mr. Chekov, I’ll be having a word with your commanding officer.”

“Yes, sir,” Chekov says promptly. “You will speak with Captain Kirk.”

There’s another pause, and Scotty and Chekov share a grin when Admiral Archer swears quietly. “No more fruit showers. And stay the hell away from my dog.”
“Of course, sir. Very sorry!” Chekov holds it together until the comm link cuts. “Okay?” He asks Scotty.

“I can’t…” Scotty shakes his head and can’t say anything as he laughs. “Bastard,” he finally wheezes out, and Chekov grins at him.

*

They work their way from kiwis to cantaloupes to pumpkins. Commander Spock finds them as they’re stealing watermelons from the Academy kitchen. “Will you be attempting to remove the seeds?” He asks, face so bland Scotty thinks he might be trying to make a joke.

Chekov’s eyes light up. “We had not—”

“Gotten that far,” Scotty interrupts. “It’s on the list.” He doesn’t want to admit that it’s only the list because Spock mentioned it. “What can we do for you, Commander?”

“I am here to speak with Ensign Chekov.” Spock inclines his head to Chekov. “I have been informed by the Records office that you do not have an address on file for your period of leave.”

“I am…” Chekov licks his lips and glances at Scotty. “I am—”

“He’s staying with me,” Scotty cuts in.

Spock raises his left eyebrow. “Are you not in a single room, Mr. Scott?”

“There’s a couch,” Scotty replies.

“Very well,” Spock says with a nod. “Stop by the records office, Mr. Chekov, and make sure they have your contact information on file.”

“Yes, sir,” Chekov says and nearly drops his watermelon as he tries to salute.

“Good day, gentlemen,” Spock turns on his heel and walks away.

“Are you certain?” Chekov asks once Spock is out of hearing range.

Scotty shrugs, fumbling to catch his watermelon. “Hell, you’re staying most nights anyway. Pay half the bill at the end, and we’re square.”

“Done!” Chekov says, beaming. “Now, about watermelon seeds.”

“I can’t believe we didn’t think of it!”
*

Scotty gets the list of repairs needed on the Enterprise halfway through week four of his leave. “Bastards,” he mutters and shows the PADD to Chekov. Chekov mutters something in Russian that Scotty’s learned from experience translates out as, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Well, bollocks to this,” Scotty says with a wave to the mostly-obliterated watermelons.

“I can help?” Chekov asks, eyebrows up and grin hopeful.

“Spanner?” Scotty asks, holding out his hand.

Chekov looks around the bay, pauses a moment, and then sketches the rough shape of a spanner into Scotty’s palm with his finger. “Yes?”

“Close enough.”

*

“Fuck! Fuckity! Fucking! Fuck! Fuck!” Scotty yells two days later when one of the main power relays tries to explode in his face. He jumps out of the way as sparks fly again, and Chekov catches him by the shoulders as he trips.

“You are burned,” Chekov says, pointing to Scotty’s forearm.

“Damnit,” Scotty mutters and kicks the power relay. It sparks again.

“We will go to Dr. McCoy,” Chekov tells him. “And then we will go on break and toast your success at dodging the very mean sparks.”

Scotty glares until Chekov’s very serious expression slides into a smirk. “You want to get down there and set your hair on fire?” He holds the spanner out of reach when Chekov grabs for it. “Sarcasm, tiny Russian man.”

*

Captain Kirk looks at Scotty and Chekov in disbelief, the requisition PADD resting on his knee. “Explain it to me,” he says, but his smirk calls them crazy.

“I can transport people when they are moving,” Chekov explains. “I want to show Sco—Mr. Scott how it works. But it is…”

“He got lucky,” Scotty fills in. “The last time he did it.”

“Not lucky!” Chekov says, standing up straighter. “Talented.”

“Depending on the view,” Kirk interjects, “they’re pretty much the same.” He looks at the PADD again. “And how do thirty rubber balls, no less than 15 centimeters in diameter, work into this…” Kirk waves his hand in the air for lack of a word.

“Training exercise, sir,” Scotty explains. “We send an away team somewhere in San Francisco to kick around the balls, and then we practice beaming them back here.”

“And this is better than people because?”

“The watermelons blew up sometimes,” Chekov says.

Kirk blinks. “Watermelons?”

“We were short on beagles.”

Scotty catches the barest smirk at the edge of Chekov’s mouth. “Pardon him, sir. He’s being a bit of a shit.”

Kirk chuckles. “One of you is going to blow up the other someday. Be prepared for that.” He presses his thumb against the designated square on the PADD. “Requisition granted. Call me when you’ve perfected it on inanimate objects. We’ll grab a few of your engineers for the live tests.”

*

A week later, Scotty’s under one of the consoles in Med Bay. Chekov’s handing him tools and trying to convince him to re-wire the whole kit rather than replace a few bits that were fried in the battle with the Romulans.

“We could give it more power.”

“It doesn’t need more power,” Scotty yells to be heard from inside the console. “It needs three fuses and a wire replaced.”

“But more power—”

“The wife and I used to fight like this,” McCoy says as he walks by. “Hope the make-up sex is good.”

“Yours obviously wasn’t,” Scotty shoots back as he slides out from under the console and wipes his hand on a rag Chekov hands him.

“Maybe not,” McCoy replies, “but she was never jailbait.”

Chekov’s brow furrows. “Jailbait?”

McCoy walks away laughing. Scotty wonders how quickly he can re-wire the man’s food slot so that it only gives him brussel sprouts and tofu.

“Jailbait?” Chekov repeats, still looking confused.

“Self-professed genius,” Scotty says as he slides back under the console, “and you don’t know the meaning of ‘jailbait’.”

“I know meaning!” Chekov exclaims and passes Scotty the wire cutters. “But I do not qualify. I am of legal age to be on the Enterprise, and that means I am—”

“Fuse!” Scotty shouts to drown out the last of Chekov’s sentence.

“And we are not dating!” Chekov finishes, ducking his head under the console to look Scotty in the eyes. “Are we?”

Scotty drops the wire cutters, nearly hitting himself in the face. “What?!” He shifts to see Chekov around the wires he’s been trying to reconstruct.

Chekov’s confused look makes a furrow between his eyebrows that Scotty can see becoming permanent in another ten years. “Are we dating?”

Scotty blinks. He picks up his wire cutters. He stares at the wires that made sense fifteen seconds ago. “No?”

“Oh.”

Scotty can’t see Chekov’s face, but he feels the loss of body heat as Chekov backs away. “Fuse,” Scotty says, holding out his hand.

Chekov passes it to him and says nothing.

*

“It’s not dating,” Scotty says to his reflection later that evening after he’s taken an hour-long shower. His reflection looks unconvinced. “And what the hell do you know?” He asks. His reflection still looks unconvinced.

He walks out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, and Chekov is sitting at the little table next to his bed. He turns to the food slot and punches the code for Earl Gray tea.

“Damnit.”

Chekov grins. “We are dating.”

Scotty sits on the bed and drops his head into his hands. “How did I miss this?”

“I am young and foolish,” Chekov says, his grin widening. “I do not know your excuse. Perhaps because you are old and Scottish.”

Scotty considers getting angry at being called old. He considers asking Chekov who the hell he thinks he is, knowing they’re dating and not sharing that necessary piece of information. He stands up instead, pulls Chekov out of the chair, and kisses him on the mouth. Chekov flails for a moment, arms pinwheeling before he steadies himself and grabs Scotty’s biceps. He presses himself against Scotty’s front and kisses back enthusiastically.

“So,” Scotty says as he pulls away from Chekov’s mouth. “We’re dating.”

“Yes.” Chekov beams. “You have to buy me nice things now.”

Scotty laughs. “Oh?”

“Shiny new spanners and dark blue sheets.”

“Dark blue sheets?” Scotty presses his hand against Chekov’s mouth before Chekov can say anything. “This is going to be a sexual reference, isn’t it?”

Chekov’s voice is muffled but clear enough. “Of course!”

“You even had sex?” Scotty jerks his hand away when Chekov bites his fingers. “Bastard,” he mutters.

“Put on pants,” Chekov orders him and tugs at Scotty’s towel. “I will buy you dinner.”

*

Chekov takes Scotty back to the bar from their first night on the town. They walk in and Chekov, much like the first night, rattles off something in Russian that Scotty—when the entire room stares at him—realizes translates out to, “This is my boyfriend. He drinks the wrong booze and did not know we were dating.”

“You told them I didn’t know we were dating,” Scotty hisses at Chekov as someone shoves a drink into his hand.

“Yes,” Chekov admits and clinks his shotglass against Scotty’s. “But I also told them you are brilliant engineer.”

“Well—” Scotty pauses as someone yells out something with the undertone of tradition. Scotty yells approval with the rest of the crowd and downs his shot.

“They wish us good luck,” Chekov tells him and pulls him across the room to sit at a table with a group of people who hug Chekov and pour Scotty another drink.

Hours later, nearly as drunk as the first night, Chekov presses his forehead against Scotty’s forehead and smiles. “Was a hint I liked you,” he says. “On the first night.”

Scotty kisses him, hand brushing the hair off Chekov’s forehead. “Yeah, well, I’m caught up now.” Chekov laughs against his mouth and says something in Russian that makes Scotty feel so warm he doesn’t need to guess at a translation.