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perpetual_motionTitle: Love in the Age of Space Explosions
Author: Perpetual Motion
Fandom: Star Trek (New)
Pairing: Scotty/Chekov
Rating: PG (swearing)
Summary: There's an explosion, a concussion, and a bit of angst.
Dis: Lies and bullshit, as always.
Author's Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
leaper182 for her holiday ficlet. I do hope you enjoy, hon. Also, unbeated, so feel free to point out typos (I did read through it, but that promises nothing.).
Love in the Age of Space Explosions
By Perpetual Motion
"Report!" Kirk shouts as they dodge another volley from an unknown ship in a half-explored sector.
"Hull is holding—" Chekov yells.
"Hold onto something!" Sulu interrupts, and Chekov white-knuckles the conn as Sulu flips the ship like a coin and pulls them above another blast from the unknown ship.
"Shit!" Kirk yells and rolls across the bridge. He's back on his feet in another second, fingers tight on the back of his chair as Sulu flips the ship again. "The hell, Sulu?"
"Fastest," Sulu grits out. "I'm—"
"Captain!" Scotty's voice comes through the static on the comm; Chekov thinks its interference from the unknown weapons. "We're getting interference on the unknown weapons." Chekov awards himself two points.
"And?" Kirk barks. "Kind of in the middle of getting blown to shit, Scotty."
"We're having trouble reading the power out—" The comm squeals, statics, then dies.
"Scotty?" Kirk calls. "Scotty!" he yells.
Chekov forces himself not to turn around and watch Kirk move. He forces himself to concentrate on the readouts in front of him, the blips of the alien ships that Sulu is finally starting to out-maneuver.
"Bones!" Kirk shouts into his wrist comm. "Bones, come in!"
"Busy!" Bones replies, and the comm channel sounds clear again.
"There was probably an explosion in engineering," Kirk reports. "Get a team down there."
"On it," Bones promises.
"Sulu, report." Kirk orders.
"We're leaving them behind, Sir," Sulu says, only sounding shaky on the 'sir.' "I think we're leaving their sector of space."
"Chekov, plot us a course around them for the return trip," Kirk says. He steps behind Chekov, looks at the readings. "I don't want Sulu to do his pancake impression again if I can help it." His hand lands on Chekov's shoulder, gives it a squeeze. "Once we're certain we've left whoever that was behind, you and Sulu take five. You could probably use fresh shorts."
"Yes, Sir," Chekov says. He looks up when Kirk doesn't lift his hand. Kirk says nothing, just gives him a small nod, and Chekov feels better, a little.
"Holy hell," Sulu mutters ten minutes later when they're relieved and off the bridge. "I didn't think I'd pull that off."
"You flew very well," Chekov mutters, wanting to run to medbay.
Sulu gives him a shove between the shoulder blades. "I can change shorts on my own," he says, and he's smiling, but he looks worried.
"Thank you," Chekov replies, and then he's running for medbay, dodging around crew members and avoiding the lift to clatter down the ladders and stairs.
"Got him!" a nurse yells as she grabs Chekov by the back of the collar.
"Keep him back!" Bones orders from across the medbay. "He's not dead," he says to Chekov as he runs a tricorder over an engineer's burned arm. "But he's unconscious. If you promise to sit still, Nurse Barrett will let you go."
"Promise," Chekov says immediately. "Double promise."
Bones scoffs but spares a moment to wave the nurse to release him. "Bed four."
Chekov laughs without meaning to. It's always bed four, somehow, and he thinks Dr. McCoy does it on purpose, to give some semblance of tradition to their various injuries. He stops laughing when he gets to the bed. There's soot all over Scotty's face and on his hands. Chekov wipes the soot from his cheek and reaches for the PADD with his information.
"No," Nurse Chapel says, snatching it from his hands. "I'm under orders from Dr. McCoy to keep you away from all medical information.
"Power of attorney!" Chekov yelps, indignant.
"Pain in my ass," Chapel replies. "He's concussed and has some burns, and he should wake up in a couple of hours, and you don't get to play 'contradict the chart' while you wait." She pushes on his shoulder, gets him to sit in a chair. "Here," she offers, and holds out another PADD. "It'll live-feed the repairs list. You can read it to him."
Chekov's not sure what to think about the fact that he's so well known in medbay. He's spent his share of time here for his own injuries, but Scotty's always come out worse. He's always closer to the parts of the ship that explode, and Chekov sometimes thinks about throwing up his hands and walking away, leaving Scotty to his spanners and fuselages and setting up with someone less likely to die.
And then he thinks about his hours in engineering, shoulder-to-shoulder with Scotty as they repair or improve on something. Thinks about Scotty reading to him at night when they've had a day like today and Chekov crashes from the adrenaline rush and gets a migraine. Thinks about Scotty making him tea, humming tunelessly as he works equations, says good morning to Chekov in Russian so thick in a Scottish accent Chekov thinks it should count as its own language.
"There were no hull breaches," Chekov says, voice pitched low. He moves his chair closer to the bed, rests one of his hands on Scotty's forearm. "Power was lost on decks nine, ten, and twelve." Chekov squints on that. "If power was not lost on eleven," he says, "then you crossed wires somewhere." He looks at Scotty's face, but his eyes are still closed.
A nurse stops by an hour later. She wipes down Scotty's face and hands and apologizes to Chekov for not having done it sooner. "We got twenty from engineering up here all at once," she explains as she lifts Scotty's hands. "We were concentrating on needed treatment."
"It is fine," Chekov tells her. "He would not have noticed if he woke up before you got here." It's true, he thinks, as she gives him a kind smile. Scotty only notices the dirt and grime he picks up when he's in the shower. Then, he'll give Chekov a running commentary of all the places he's dirty. Sometimes Chekov will get into the shower with him, offer to check him over. Scotty always laugh, leans against the wall, and tells Chekov to start behind his ears.
Dr. McCoy comes up to the bed an hour after the nurse had left. He looks at the medical PADD, squints at the machines, gives Chekov a sharp nod. "He'll be fine," he promises. "The hydro's got his brain nearly healed, and he'll wake up as soon as the swelling goes away. Shouldn't be more than another twenty minutes."
"Thank you," Chekov murmurs. He waits for McCoy to leave and cocks his head when McCoy sits in the chair across the bed.
"How many times, now?" McCoy asks.
"Six," Chekov answers.
"And you've been seeing each other how long?"
"Three years," Chekov replies.
McCoy thinks for a moment, shrugs. "Not so bad, then, really. Twice a year for a hospital visit is downright slow for some folks." He stands up, flexes his hands, and gives Chekov another nod. "Be in the office if you need me."
"Thank you," Chekov repeats, and as he watches Dr. McCoy walk away, he wonders how tired he must be at times like this, when he's worrying over twenty separate people. Chekov is exhausted worrying about Scotty.
A half an hour later, Scotty groans, turns on his side, coughs, and opens his eyes. Chekov beams at him, reaches for his hand. "You had concussion," he tells him. "But you are fine because you are stubborn and Scottish."
"Damn right," Scotty replies and coughs again. He sits up with Chekov's help, gives him a tired smile. "How long this time?"
"Two and a half hours," Chekov says. "Rounding down." He kisses Scotty on the cheek. "I win. You said next concussion would put you down for at least three, rounded down."
"Damn," Scotty mutters. He pulls Chekov close, runs his hands over him looking for damage, kisses Chekov on the mouth when he tilts up his chin. "Suppose I owe you a pint."
Chekov wraps his arms around Scotty's middle, hears the whoosh of the doors as Dr. McCoy comes out of his office, and doesn't let go until McCoy clears his throat at the foot of the bed. "Yes," he says against Scotty's neck. "You owe me a pint."
Author: Perpetual Motion
Fandom: Star Trek (New)
Pairing: Scotty/Chekov
Rating: PG (swearing)
Summary: There's an explosion, a concussion, and a bit of angst.
Dis: Lies and bullshit, as always.
Author's Notes: For
leaper182 for her holiday ficlet. I do hope you enjoy, hon. Also, unbeated, so feel free to point out typos (I did read through it, but that promises nothing.).Love in the Age of Space Explosions
By Perpetual Motion
"Report!" Kirk shouts as they dodge another volley from an unknown ship in a half-explored sector.
"Hull is holding—" Chekov yells.
"Hold onto something!" Sulu interrupts, and Chekov white-knuckles the conn as Sulu flips the ship like a coin and pulls them above another blast from the unknown ship.
"Shit!" Kirk yells and rolls across the bridge. He's back on his feet in another second, fingers tight on the back of his chair as Sulu flips the ship again. "The hell, Sulu?"
"Fastest," Sulu grits out. "I'm—"
"Captain!" Scotty's voice comes through the static on the comm; Chekov thinks its interference from the unknown weapons. "We're getting interference on the unknown weapons." Chekov awards himself two points.
"And?" Kirk barks. "Kind of in the middle of getting blown to shit, Scotty."
"We're having trouble reading the power out—" The comm squeals, statics, then dies.
"Scotty?" Kirk calls. "Scotty!" he yells.
Chekov forces himself not to turn around and watch Kirk move. He forces himself to concentrate on the readouts in front of him, the blips of the alien ships that Sulu is finally starting to out-maneuver.
"Bones!" Kirk shouts into his wrist comm. "Bones, come in!"
"Busy!" Bones replies, and the comm channel sounds clear again.
"There was probably an explosion in engineering," Kirk reports. "Get a team down there."
"On it," Bones promises.
"Sulu, report." Kirk orders.
"We're leaving them behind, Sir," Sulu says, only sounding shaky on the 'sir.' "I think we're leaving their sector of space."
"Chekov, plot us a course around them for the return trip," Kirk says. He steps behind Chekov, looks at the readings. "I don't want Sulu to do his pancake impression again if I can help it." His hand lands on Chekov's shoulder, gives it a squeeze. "Once we're certain we've left whoever that was behind, you and Sulu take five. You could probably use fresh shorts."
"Yes, Sir," Chekov says. He looks up when Kirk doesn't lift his hand. Kirk says nothing, just gives him a small nod, and Chekov feels better, a little.
"Holy hell," Sulu mutters ten minutes later when they're relieved and off the bridge. "I didn't think I'd pull that off."
"You flew very well," Chekov mutters, wanting to run to medbay.
Sulu gives him a shove between the shoulder blades. "I can change shorts on my own," he says, and he's smiling, but he looks worried.
"Thank you," Chekov replies, and then he's running for medbay, dodging around crew members and avoiding the lift to clatter down the ladders and stairs.
"Got him!" a nurse yells as she grabs Chekov by the back of the collar.
"Keep him back!" Bones orders from across the medbay. "He's not dead," he says to Chekov as he runs a tricorder over an engineer's burned arm. "But he's unconscious. If you promise to sit still, Nurse Barrett will let you go."
"Promise," Chekov says immediately. "Double promise."
Bones scoffs but spares a moment to wave the nurse to release him. "Bed four."
Chekov laughs without meaning to. It's always bed four, somehow, and he thinks Dr. McCoy does it on purpose, to give some semblance of tradition to their various injuries. He stops laughing when he gets to the bed. There's soot all over Scotty's face and on his hands. Chekov wipes the soot from his cheek and reaches for the PADD with his information.
"No," Nurse Chapel says, snatching it from his hands. "I'm under orders from Dr. McCoy to keep you away from all medical information.
"Power of attorney!" Chekov yelps, indignant.
"Pain in my ass," Chapel replies. "He's concussed and has some burns, and he should wake up in a couple of hours, and you don't get to play 'contradict the chart' while you wait." She pushes on his shoulder, gets him to sit in a chair. "Here," she offers, and holds out another PADD. "It'll live-feed the repairs list. You can read it to him."
Chekov's not sure what to think about the fact that he's so well known in medbay. He's spent his share of time here for his own injuries, but Scotty's always come out worse. He's always closer to the parts of the ship that explode, and Chekov sometimes thinks about throwing up his hands and walking away, leaving Scotty to his spanners and fuselages and setting up with someone less likely to die.
And then he thinks about his hours in engineering, shoulder-to-shoulder with Scotty as they repair or improve on something. Thinks about Scotty reading to him at night when they've had a day like today and Chekov crashes from the adrenaline rush and gets a migraine. Thinks about Scotty making him tea, humming tunelessly as he works equations, says good morning to Chekov in Russian so thick in a Scottish accent Chekov thinks it should count as its own language.
"There were no hull breaches," Chekov says, voice pitched low. He moves his chair closer to the bed, rests one of his hands on Scotty's forearm. "Power was lost on decks nine, ten, and twelve." Chekov squints on that. "If power was not lost on eleven," he says, "then you crossed wires somewhere." He looks at Scotty's face, but his eyes are still closed.
A nurse stops by an hour later. She wipes down Scotty's face and hands and apologizes to Chekov for not having done it sooner. "We got twenty from engineering up here all at once," she explains as she lifts Scotty's hands. "We were concentrating on needed treatment."
"It is fine," Chekov tells her. "He would not have noticed if he woke up before you got here." It's true, he thinks, as she gives him a kind smile. Scotty only notices the dirt and grime he picks up when he's in the shower. Then, he'll give Chekov a running commentary of all the places he's dirty. Sometimes Chekov will get into the shower with him, offer to check him over. Scotty always laugh, leans against the wall, and tells Chekov to start behind his ears.
Dr. McCoy comes up to the bed an hour after the nurse had left. He looks at the medical PADD, squints at the machines, gives Chekov a sharp nod. "He'll be fine," he promises. "The hydro's got his brain nearly healed, and he'll wake up as soon as the swelling goes away. Shouldn't be more than another twenty minutes."
"Thank you," Chekov murmurs. He waits for McCoy to leave and cocks his head when McCoy sits in the chair across the bed.
"How many times, now?" McCoy asks.
"Six," Chekov answers.
"And you've been seeing each other how long?"
"Three years," Chekov replies.
McCoy thinks for a moment, shrugs. "Not so bad, then, really. Twice a year for a hospital visit is downright slow for some folks." He stands up, flexes his hands, and gives Chekov another nod. "Be in the office if you need me."
"Thank you," Chekov repeats, and as he watches Dr. McCoy walk away, he wonders how tired he must be at times like this, when he's worrying over twenty separate people. Chekov is exhausted worrying about Scotty.
A half an hour later, Scotty groans, turns on his side, coughs, and opens his eyes. Chekov beams at him, reaches for his hand. "You had concussion," he tells him. "But you are fine because you are stubborn and Scottish."
"Damn right," Scotty replies and coughs again. He sits up with Chekov's help, gives him a tired smile. "How long this time?"
"Two and a half hours," Chekov says. "Rounding down." He kisses Scotty on the cheek. "I win. You said next concussion would put you down for at least three, rounded down."
"Damn," Scotty mutters. He pulls Chekov close, runs his hands over him looking for damage, kisses Chekov on the mouth when he tilts up his chin. "Suppose I owe you a pint."
Chekov wraps his arms around Scotty's middle, hears the whoosh of the doors as Dr. McCoy comes out of his office, and doesn't let go until McCoy clears his throat at the foot of the bed. "Yes," he says against Scotty's neck. "You owe me a pint."
