Fic: Though My Soul Has Set in Darkness (Part One)

[brighteyedjill]

Title: Though My Soul May Set in Darkness
Author: brighteyed_jill
Fanmixer: echoinautumn
Fanmix: Music!
Artist: acquiescence_
Art link: Poster, banner, and icons
Word Count: ~60,000
Characters/Pairings: McCoy/Chekov + ensemble main crew, background OCs and other pairings
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: implied and remembered non-con, graphic dub con, implied underage, slavery and inherent consent issues, messing around with people’s minds, violence, non-graphic torture, aphrodisiac substances employed deviously (none of it perpetrated by the good guys), and angst. Also, pseudo!science.
Beta(s): the eagle-eyed vellum and the queen of idea-bouncing jaune_chat
Note: This story is a sequel to We Have Loved the Stars Too Fondly…, my big bang entry from last year. I'd recommend reading that first, but there's a "previously on" at the top of this story's first part if you need it.
Summary: Chekov has recovered from a year spent in captivity after an away mission gone wrong; he’s repaired relationships with his friends and built a new love with a certain surly ship’s doctor. A new undercover mission could offer Chekov closure, but other crew members object to putting himself in danger again. Chekov knows he’s strong enough to face his fears, but can he convince those closest to him that this mission is worth the risk?


Previously, on Star Trek: While on an away mission on a seemingly safe planet, Chekov vanishes without a trace. McCoy, to whom Chekov had just confessed his attraction, and Sulu, his best friend, lead the effort to search for him without result. A year later, McCoy goes with Kirk and Spock on an undercover mission to a planet that trades in slaves. At the auction there, McCoy recognizes Chekov, and purchases him. However, Chekov has no memory of McCoy, the Enterprise, or anything else prior to his life as a slave. His captors had tampered with his memory, and rendered him mute for his defiance. McCoy brings Chekov back to the Enterprise and, with the assistance of the rest of the crew, helps Chekov feel safe again. However, McCoy is convinced that Chekov’s attempts to win his affection are simply residual effects of his slave training. With McCoy’s encouragement and Spock’s mind-meld capabilities, Chekov is able to defeat the mental blocks his captors had put in place, regain his memories, and convince the Doctor that his feelings are genuine. But questions about the aftermath of Chekov's captivity, as well as the current status of the slave-trading syndicate, still linger...




----


“Though my soul may set in darkness, It will rise in perfect light,
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”
– Sarah Williams The Old Astronomer to His Pupil



Doctor Leonard McCoy ran his finger over the small, square package in his hand. The creased lines of its wrapping reminded him a little of the diagrams of skeletons in his old medical textbooks, which reminded him that he had to file a report about Crewman Haidar’s wrist fracture, and that meant digging that chart out of his records, and that was not at all what he should be worried about right now. The rec room buzzed with quiet conversation that served as a comforting distraction from his churning thoughts. He looked up at the door for the fifteenth time in three minutes and said, “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“Hush.” Uhura patted his shoulder. “They’ll be here any minute.”

“Are you sure?” Kirk asked. “If Scotty starts expounding on one of his great theories, he might forget this experiment he’s supposed to showing Chekov is a ruse.”

Spock leaned over. “I did mention to Lieutenant Keenser that he should intervene if Mr. Scott should forget his charge.”

“Thanks,” McCoy grumbled.

“Why are you nervous?” Uhura moved closer, speaking only to McCoy under the buzz of the gathered crew members. “He’s not going to be angry at you for organizing a birthday party.”

“You never know.” McCoy shook his head. “Maybe he had something different in mind. I shouldn’t be making decisions for him.”

Uhura’s smile soothed him. “Doing something nice for your boyfriend isn’t the same as trying to control his life. Besides, Pavel is perfectly capable of expressing his opinion.”

“That’s true.” McCoy smiled ruefully as he remembered how hard Chekov had fought to convince McCoy to be with him in the first place.

“They’re coming!” Sulu called from the console by the door. He punched in a command, and the lights dimmed to ten percent.

Uhura pulled McCoy down behind a couch as other crew members sought what little cover the other furniture and equipment provided. The whole group fell silent. McCoy, who didn’t believe in letting curiosity go unsatisfied, leaned out to the side of the couch to watch the entrance. The package in his hands seemed to weigh him down out of all proportion.

The door slid open to reveal Scotty, Keenser, and Chekov outlined against the bright backlighting of the corridor.

“What has happened to the lights?” came Chekov’s voice.

“Now,” Kirk stage-whispered from his hiding place behind a holo-projector.

“Surprise!” A score of crew members shouted together as the lights jumped to full.

McCoy didn’t shout as he pulled himself up from behind the couch. His entire attention focused on Chekov, waiting to intervene if he reacted badly.

Chekov burst into delighted laughter and waved a finger accusing at Scotty. “I started to wonder about your so-called experiment, sir.”

“Humph. I thought I strung you along pretty well,” Scotty said.

Keenser made a disapproving clicking sound.

Kirk strode up to catch Chekov in a one-armed embrace. “Happy half-birthday, Ensign.”

“This is a birthday party?” Chekov looked uncertainly at his captain.

“Since we didn’t get to celebrate your last birthday, you deserved a party,” Kirk explained. “And a half-birthday’s as good as any other stardate.”

Chekov glanced at Sulu, who still stood by the door’s console. “You planned this?”

“Actually,” Sulu said, “it was McCoy’s idea.”

Chekov’s eyes slid to McCoy, still standing next to Uhura behind their sofa. Chekov’s smile bowed into a wide grin. “Of course.”

The assembled crewmen took this as a signal to start talking. Chapel went to the console and set some music playing. Sulu brought out bowls of replicated snacks. Kirk started organizing crewmen to stow away the furniture and clear a dance floor. Uhura gave McCoy’s hand an encouraging squeeze, then walked over to join Spock by the door.

Chekov drifted toward McCoy; the crowd made way for him as if he were royalty. He stopped inches away and looked up at McCoy with that sunlit smile.

“Happy birthday.” McCoy thrust his hand forward, clutching the package.

Chekov glanced at the rumpled, paper-wrapped square. “A present?”

“Yes. It’s your birthday. Half-birthday,” McCoy corrected himself. He kept his eyes on Chekov and refused to speculate on how Chekov might have spent his previous birthday. The only blessing McCoy could think of was that, at the time, Chekov probably hadn’t known what day it was. “Here.” He extended his present again.

Chekov lifted the package from McCoy’s hands. He smoothed the bedraggled wrapping. “You’ve already given me so much.”

“Hardly,” McCoy scoffed. He felt the eyes of other crewmen observing this exchange, and wondered if they were as baffled as he as to why Chekov cared for him. “I think you’re still ahead in the favor department.”

“If you really think so,” Chekov said so softly that McCoy had to strain to hear it over the conversations swirling around them. “I will let you give me another present later tonight,”

McCoy groped for an appropriate response other than “Yes, please,” until Chekov showed mercy and held up his present again.

“Should I open this?”

“Sure.” McCoy tried to sound nonchalant, although his heart was pounding so fast he was amazed he hadn’t set off a medical alert yet.

Chekov neatly broke the adhesive seal on the wrapping and pulled the paper away. He carefully lifted out the delicate square inside. “A data chip? I do not understand. What is on it?”

McCoy noticed Sulu and Uhura casually hovering nearby, and silently blessed them for preventing him from handing this present to Chekov and running away like a schoolgirl. “Here. Take a look.” He pulled out his padd and handed it over. Chekov carefully inserted the chip and watched intently as the images and data inside swirled onto the display.

“They’re star charts,” McCoy said. “For the systems we visited in the past year. I… Sulu told me you liked to name constellations. Spock helped me put together the renderings of the star fields as they appear from the planets’ surfaces. We did one for each place we made landfall. So you could see everything you… Everything you didn’t get to see. “

Chekov stared down at the padd, just looking at the whirling display. He held still so long that McCoy glanced over to Sulu for assurance. Sulu grinned back at him like a big, sappy idiot.

Then McCoy was gripped by the shoulders and spun around to receive a thorough kiss from Chekov.
--

Sulu wove his way between three Science ensigns who were tuning Brindmolian lutes, and he made a mental note to ask Chapel to turn up the recorded music. He spotted Kirk holding court among a group of young-looking crewmen; Sulu guessed they must be cadets here for their intern assignments.

“And that,” Kirk said with a grand gesture of his mostly-empty glass, “is why the Delorians never wear plaid!”

The cadets laughed, and Sulu took advantage of the moment to grab Kirk’s elbow and steer him away.

“Don’t you love that story?” Kirk grinned.

Sulu took Kirk’s glass away. “Spock was looking for you. Sir.”

“Business?” Kirk asked. The suddenly tense set of his shoulders betrayed that he wasn’t nearly as inebriated as he was pretending to be.

“Didn’t seem urgent.” Sulu glanced over at Spock, who stood at the far end of the room paying polite attention to the wildly gesticulating Keenser. “But he looked at his padd and almost frowned, so it must be serious.”

“Noted.” Kirk took his drink back from Sulu and threw back on his merry smile. “Thanks for the heads up, Lieutenant.”

Kirk headed off through the crowd, greeting crewmen and patting backs jovially. His movements seemed casual and random, but Sulu recognized that the captain was steering right toward Spock.

Uhura appeared beside Sulu holding a fizzy blue drink. “That doesn’t bode well,” she said.

“Have you heard something?”

“No. But I know Spock. I know he wouldn’t bring up business at a party unless Kirk truly needed to know.” A small smile played over her features. “He says that handling ship business at a social function decreases the positive moral impact of the event.”

“It’s certainly decreasing my morale.”

“Hikaru, don’t.” She laid a hand on his arm and lowered her voice. “Stop worrying about things that haven’t happened. Tonight is for Pavel.”

“I know.” Sulu scanned the crowd for his wayward friend and spotted him on a sofa, leaning in to whisper to a red-faced McCoy. “Looks like he’s enjoying himself.”

“Good. I like seeing him this way.”

“What way?”

“Happy.”

Sulu nodded his acknowledgement. The old Chekov—frightened, subservient, and confused in the wake of his captivity—came too easily to mind. Chekov had regained his memories, and with them much of his former self, months ago, but Sulu hadn’t forgotten the ache he’d carried around for the year he’d held himself responsible for Chekov’s loss.

Uhura’s fingers closed around his arm. Her uncanny ability to tell what he was thinking came in hand sometimes. “Come on, Hikaru. Let’s get you another drink.”
--

“Next time, lad, you’ll have to see the real transmatter beaming apparatus I’ve put together in my work room. I wasn’t making it up.”

“Of course not, Mister Scott,” Chekov said. “I would like to see what you are working on.”

“Damn dangerous, if you ask me,” McCoy grumbled. “No idea what kind of radiation a contraption like that could be putting out. You’re just asking for your brain to be fried like an egg.”

“To each his own, doctor,” Scotty said good-naturedly, and took another swig of his drink. “You couldn’t make me work with all those chemicals and bacteria cultures you throw around up in that sickbay. Like to give yourself a case of mutant space measles that way.”

“No, I am sure you are both very careful.” Chekov looked McCoy up and down critically. “But perhaps I should check you for spots, just in case.”

“I’ll leave you to it, lad.” Scotty gave Chekov a wink and McCoy a pat on the back. “Good night, doctor.”

Not many crew remained at the party. Sulu had wandered off half an hour ago, Uhura sat talking to Nurse Chapel at a table in the middle of the room, Kirk and Spock stood close together in a corner, and a few other groups of crew were clustered around the room chatting and drinking. Chekov gave Kirk a polite wave and received a distracted smile before Kirk turned back to Spock. Probably he and the first officer had already begun strategizing for their next mission, in the Rubicon Sector.

Chekov extended a hand to help McCoy off the couch, smiling at his muttering of, “making me feel like a decrepit old man.” McCoy followed Chekov out of the rec room into the nearly-deserted corridor. They walked a while in companionable silence. Chekov hadn’t let go of McCoy’s hand.

“Thank you for organizing the party. I did not expect it.” Chekov held up the data chip. “I did not expect this.”

"You like it?” McCoy asked. Beneath his gruff exterior, Chekov could easily see the signs of uncertainty. “I thought it might be--"

Chekov stopped him with a kiss. He made a habit of taking every opportunity to reassure McCoy of how much he meant to him, and this way it was no unpleasant task. When their lips parted, he said, "I love it."

"I'm usually terrible at giving presents, so I wouldn't get used to it," McCoy said with one of his rare, brash smiles that sent Chekov’s stomach twisting in anticipation.

"You are not so terrible as you claim. Come on." Chekov twined his arm around McCoy's, and they walked back to the room that way, content to enjoy each other's presence without speaking in the wake of the party's bustle.

By unspoken agreement, the two of them inhabited McCoy's quarters; as the ship's chief medical officer, he rated a fairly lavish set of rooms by Starfleet standards. Chekov had never occupied the quarters he'd been assigned when he was reinstated as an officer. At the time, Chekov had suggested that he didn't need quarters at all, but McCoy had balked. "You should have some place to go, if you ever want to," McCoy had said. "I don't want you to ever feel trapped." Another piece to add to the growing pile of evidence that McCoy still felt the need to treat Chekov delicately.

It wasn't that Chekov didn't appreciate McCoy's desire to protect him, but he was beginning to suspect that McCoy would never feel confident enough in Chekov's recovery to treat him as a full partner, capable of making his own decisions and looking out for his own well-being.

When they reached their destination, Chekov preceded McCoy inside. He set his data chip gently on the desk. He didn't need to turn around to know that McCoy was watching him. He drew his uniform shirt up over his head and tossed it into a corner, leaving his black undershirt for now: he liked the way it looked when it clung to him, outlining the muscles he'd regained in the past months. Next he bent over at the waist to pull off first one boot, then the other. Behind him, he heard McCoy hum appreciatively. He grinned at the special thrill of having found another way to drive his typically closed-off lover to lose himself in a moment of pleasure. McCoy deserved more relaxation in his life, and after he'd gone to such trouble to organize a celebration tonight, Chekov wanted to give McCoy something special in return.

Chekov turned around and languidly stripped off his remaining shirt. This time he got the pleasure of seeing McCoy's eyes slide over his body hungrily. Chekov closed the space between them with a step that was half-leap, and he pinned McCoy against the doorway with a kiss. McCoy's held on tightly to him, his large hands spanning Chekov's ribcage.

"I have been waiting for this all night," Chekov whispered into McCoy's mouth. "But I thought the others would gossip too much if I dragged you off to a closet somewhere to have my way with you."

"They would have gotten over it," McCoy said, and Chekov filed that unexpected response away gleefully. "Still, I'm glad we stayed. I like watching you with your friends, too. I like that they know how amazing you are."

"And you like knowing that I'm yours."

"Hell, I know they all wonder why exactly you settle for me, anyway."

"No,” Chekov said with a gentle nip at McCoy’s mouth. “I think probably when they get that faraway look in their eyes, they are wondering what we look like in bed together, and then possibly drooling a little."

"Pavel." McCoy’s looked like he might be about to drool, himself.

"Let's not argue about who is luckier, yes?"

"Alright."

"I knew I could get you to see sense. You really can be a very reasonable man, when you are in the right mood." Chekov dropped gracefully to his knees: a skill he could thank his slave training for. He braced his hands on McCoy's waist and leaned in to slide his face against the prominent bulge at the front of McCoy's uniform trousers. "And I think perhaps you are in the right mood."

"Well for the love of God, you’re talking about dragging me off to a closet, how the hell--ohhh." McCoy's words dissolved into an incoherent moan as Chekov rubbed his cheek against McCoy's clothed erection.

"What were you saying?" Chekov asked. He casually set about unfastening McCoy's pants and sliding them down his legs. "You were objecting to the way I talk, perhaps?"

"No, no," McCoy said quickly. He reached down to tug his fingers through Chekov's curls, and his fond smile said he knew exactly what Chekov was up to, and didn't mind letting him have his way. "By all means, continue."

"Thank you," Chekov said primly. He finished stripping McCoy from the waist down efficiently, while McCoy obligingly removed his shirts. Then he stood patiently while Chekov began to tease him with his mouth: feather-light licks all up and down the length, the barest swirl of his tongue around the head, a press of lips around the base with just a hint of teeth.

Chekov felt McCoy's fingers tighten in his hair, and looked up to see the visible effort McCoy made to relax, not to demand more. Chekov exhaled gently before sucking in just the tip of McCoy's weighty cock. He tongued the slit, and pressed his lips tight to make a seal, but went no further. McCoy stared resolutely at the ceiling, his stubbled jaw clenched tightly. Chekov wondered what obscure medical facts he might be reciting to keep himself under control.

Getting McCoy to make a move might be more difficult than he'd anticipated. He'd have to try something more direct. He gave McCoy's cock one last lick and let it slide from his mouth. He wrapped a hand around it instead, and pumped the spit-slick length gently as McCoy looked down to see what he was up to.

“You said you would give me another present,” Chekov said.

“Did you have something in mind?” McCoy said. He was remarkably articulate for a man being so mercilessly teased.

“Yes.” He used his grip on McCoy's waist to pull himself up to standing; he knew McCoy might not take this request well if Chekov was on his knees. So he leaned his weight against McCoy and adjusted his thigh to press tantalizingly against McCoy's erection. “I want you to be rough with me.”

McCoy blinked at him. “Be rough?”

“You are always so gentle and patient, and I like that, too. But I know the strength in you; I know you hold back.”

“It’s not a hardship.” Now McCoy looked suspicious.

“I will not break," Chekov said. He pressed his thigh harder between McCoy's legs, and was rewarded with an involuntary buck of McCoy's hips. "In fact, I seem to recall receiving a higher score on my combat proficiency check-up than a certain chief medical officer.”

“Are you saying you could put me in my place?” McCoy still looked wary, but amusement warred with caution in his expression.

“Oh most certainly, if I desired,” Chekov said with a grin.

“Oh certainly.” McCoy smirked. “If you desired.”

“Right now my desires are elsewhere. Len…” He sank back to his knees, slowly. “Please.”

McCoy paled, and he quickly closed his eyes. “I don’t know that’s a good idea.” Chekov could imagine what he was seeing: Pasha, the well-trained slave, kneeling and cowering in abject fear.

"Listen." From where he knelt, Chekov grabbed McCoy's wrists and pinned them against the wall. "I will not let the past haunt us, not in this. Not here. If any other lover asked you to try this, would you?"

"I don't have any other lover," McCoy muttered, but his hands unclenched from fists, and Chekov let him go. "What do you want me to do?"

"Only treat me like I am not delicate. If something is happening I do not like, I will say stop."

"How do I know what you'll like?"

"Len, please. What I like is to give you pleasure. For you to take your pleasure with me, understand? I want to fulfill your need this way. And this has nothing to do with what happened to me. I liked this before I was taken."

That seemed to decide McCoy. He looked pale, but he nodded."If anything hurts, or if you feel afraid, you'll say stop."

"Yes."

"Swear it."

"I swear it."

"Okay."

Chekov darted forward to swipe his tongue over McCoy's cock again, too light to be satisfying. This time, now that he knew what Chekov was playing at, McCoy took the hint. He tangled one hand in Chekov's hair and guided his mouth gently but firmly onto McCoy's cock. The thrill of it, of McCoy controlling him, immediately left Chekov light-headed as all his blood-flow re-routed to his groin.

"Is this what you want?" McCoy's voice sounded rough, and deeper than usual.

Chekov sucked enthusiastically to reassure McCoy that yes, this was exactly what he wanted. After a moment, McCoy pulled Chekov back, then forward again, setting up an easy rhythm. Chekov relaxed into the feel of McCoy's cock sliding in and out of his mouth. He was careful to keep his teeth covered, and he used his tongue generously on every stroke. His hands gripped the back of McCoy's thighs, squeezing in gentle encouragement.

"That's it, darlin'," McCoy whispered. His accent crept into his voice more when he was aroused, and Chekov found he liked the warm sound of it as a counterpoint to the strong grip McCoy held. McCoy's other hand found Chekov's shoulder and held on tight as he fucked Chekov's mouth faster. The first slam of McCoy's cock against the back of his throat knocked loose a delighted moan from Chekov.

McCoy froze immediately, and looked down to meet Chekov's eyes. There was that doubt again: his certainty of Chekov's frailty. Chekov merely pushed his mouth back down the length of McCoy's cock, and set his own pace until McCoy regained his grip and began guiding him again. They weren't going much faster or harder than they had in the past, but McCoy was actually taking the lead for once, which made all the difference to Chekov. He dropped one hand from his grip on McCoy to press against the front of his pants, which he wished he'd thought to take off earlier.

"Wait." McCoy tightened his grip on Chekov, and pulled him off entirely. "Not yet." He closed his eyes tight and squeezed a hand around his own cock, staving off his orgasm. Any doubts Chekov had had about whether McCoy would enjoy playing this way evaporated as he watched McCoy fought off the release that threatened to overwhelm him after only a few minutes.

When McCoy had himself more under control, he looked down thoughtfully at Chekov. He seemed to have realized that he couldn't hide the effect Chekov's request was having on him, and he might as well concede. "Go to the bed," he rasped.

Chekov scrambled to the bed, arranged himself on all fours, and glanced back over his shoulder at McCoy.

"You're so beautiful." McCoy approached the side of the bed and ran a hand reverently over Chekov, down his spine, then cupping his ass. "So beautiful, and too damn clever by half." He ran his hand back up Chekov's right side, where he knew he was ticklish. Chekov shivered, but managed to remain otherwise still. "Stay here."

McCoy walked away from the bed, and Chekov could hear him moving around the room out of his line of sight. Chekov closed his eyes and relaxed, letting himself drift deeper into the mindset of obedience. McCoy returned almost immediately. He climbed onto the bed and leaned over Chekov's back. Chekov pressed back against him, taking comfort in his warm skin against the chill recycled air of the room.

"You've been waiting so patiently, I think you deserve a reward," McCoy said. He quickly unbuttoned Chekov's pants, and pulled them down along with his briefs, finally freeing Chekov's erection to hang heavy between his legs. McCoy ignored that for now, and instead ran a slick finger along the cleft of Chekov's ass. "Is there something you want?"

"Please." The word dropped easily from his lips, and sent his cock throbbing. "Please, Len. Fuck me."

"Hm." McCoy slid a single finger inside Chekov, gently and oh-so-slowly. "I could do that. Fuck you how?"

"Hard." Chekov tried to push back against McCoy's hand, to take more, but a firm hand at the small of his back stopped him.

"Patience," McCoy said. "Tell me exactly what you want me to do to you, and maybe you'll get it."

"Please." Chekov licked his lips; his mouth was suddenly very dry. This kind of submission warmed him, though right now he felt that the heady abandon of it might pose a danger. He couldn't let himself slip under entirely, not if he wanted to be aware enough to re-assure McCoy that he was enjoying himself. "I want you to fuck me hard and rough. I want you to pound into me until all I can think of is you. I want to feel you all day tomorrow, every time I move, every step reminding me I am yours. I want to feel your mark on me. Please..." He almost said sir, but he stopped himself in time. "Please, Len."

"Shh." McCoy brushed a hand down his back. "Okay." He added another finger, and scissored them inside Chekov easily. The prep was probably unnecessary; Chekov felt relaxed enough to take McCoy immediately if not sooner, but he'd submit to anything that would make McCoy more comfortable. McCoy pulled out his fingers. Chekov heard the wet sound of lube against skin, and then McCoy's cock pressed against his entrance.

"Please," Chekov whispered.

McCoy pushed into him in one long thrust: not too fast, but not the slow, leisurely pace he usually set, either. When he was seated all the way inside Chekov, he wrapped his hands around Chekov's hips and took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Please," Chekov breathed again.

McCoy pulled out almost all the way, then slammed into Chekov, knocking the breath out of him. From there, Chekov had to struggled to get the air back, because McCoy pounded into him mercilessly, pulling Chekov back onto his cock and slamming in to the hilt on every thrust. Chekov's cock bounced, throbbing and on the edge of release just from this treatment, from hearing McCoy's labored breathing and half-strangled curses.

McCoy rode him faster, and Chekov barely managed the brainpower to push back against McCoy to meet his rhythm. More than the physical sensation, the demonstration of McCoy’s strength fueled the flames of Chekov’s arousal. He’d known McCoy had been holding back before, but experiencing a taste of that strength while knowing with a bone-deep certainty that McCoy would never, ever hurt him—that allowed Chekov a kind of freedom he’d been missing.

Chekov dropped his chest closer to the mattress, and suddenly every muscle clenched tight when the angle changed, and McCoy's cock slid against a place that sent electricity sparking through Chekov's every nerve.

Chekov barely had time to wrap his hand around his cock before his hips bucked forward and he spilled his release against the sheets. Behind him, McCoy gave a strangled moan. He picked up his pace, fucking Chekov hard through the aftershocks, until his hands gripped Chekov's hips with bruising force, pulling him back one more time as McCoy slammed into him, reaching a climax of his own.

"Damn it..." McCoy slumped over Chekov while he regained his breath. He pulled out gingerly, and Chekov managed to repress a wince. The mattress shifted as McCoy stood, but dipped again immediately as he returned with a warm wet cloth to clean Chekov up.

Chekov, for his part, submitted to McCoy's ministrations patiently, until the silence started to worry him. He rolled over on his back to see McCoy frowning down at his hands. He glanced over at Chekov, searching his face carefully. "Are you alright?"

"I am better than alright," Chekov said with a sleepy smile. "I have just received two very excellent birthday gifts, and am feeling myself to be a very lucky man."

McCoy's wariness didn't go away. "Did I hurt you?"

Chekov shook his head. "I will be sore tomorrow, but I want to be." He grabbed McCoy's hand and gave it a squeeze. "I will be sitting on the bridge, thinking of how good it felt to have you fuck me without holding back, and all day Kirk will wonder why I am blushing."

"Pavel, you are out to kill me." But the haunted look had fled, replaced by one of cautious contentment. McCoy lay down next to Chekov. He wrapped an arm protectively over him and pressed a kiss to the nape of Chekov's neck. "Happy birthday."

"Thank you." Chekov shifted back to press his back to McCoy's chest, enjoying his heat. Chekov was still floating on the endorphin high of his release, but he couldn't help analyzing McCoy's response to the night's events. As long as McCoy still feared hurting him, he wouldn't be able to enjoy their relationship as much as he should. Chekov would just have to work to gain his trust, and show McCoy that he was stable enough to play this way. They had time; he refused to let his past rob them of any pleasure they could explore together. With that admirable goal in mind, Chekov surrendered to sleep.
--

McCoy awoke to Chekov tracing feather-light paths along his back.

“Gmph?” he said.

“Good morning,” Chekov said. He drew his had away, looking a little guilty. “I did not mean to wake you.”

“S’alright,” McCoy said, and, for all that he would normally wish death on anyone who interrupted his sleep, he meant it. There was nothing he’d rather wake up to than the sight of a contented, naked Chekov in his bed.

“You can go back to sleep,” Chekov whispered. “It is early yet.”

“So why are you up?” McCoy asked. The nightmares Chekov had suffered for months had become less and less frequent. There hadn’t been any in eighty-two days. Not that McCoy had counted. But he would have noticed if Pavel had had one of those. In fact, he’d half-expected last night’s exertions to have triggered something of the kind.

“My thoughts woke me up,” Chekov said, as if that explained something. He returned to trailing a finger over McCoy’s back. “I said last night I’d check you for spots, but I got distracted. I like these little marks on your skin.”

“Freckles?”

“Like constellations,” Chekov said. “I like knowing them.”

“You probably know them better than I do.” McCoy tried to crane his neck over his shoulder to see what Chekov did, but gave up at the sound of a popping joint. “I don’t spend a lot of time looking at my back.”

“Hm.” Chekov traced a long line from McCoy’s shoulder to just above his hip on the opposite side, and McCoy found himself trying to decipher the pattern being created. “I had forgotten about naming constellations, you know.”

McCoy turned over. He’d known the gift might bring up feelings of regret. Perhaps it had been a mistake. “Should I not have--?”

“No,” Chekov said quickly. “The present was perfect. You have given me back more than this, you know.” Chekov leaned over to kiss him. “And for the record, I contend that you are still ahead in being owed favors. You are making it difficult to keep up.”

McCoy gave an incredulous, “Hmph. As if you’d have any trouble keeping up with a foolish old man.”

“Not so foolish. And not so old, either. At least, not so old to want sleep more than me.”

“No,” McCoy agreed. “Certainly not that old.”

Then he relaxed and surrendered to the pleasures of a gentle morning session of love-making. Chekov’s hands played over him, warming and waking him, until at last Chekov straddled him and rode him to completion. With the enviable energy of youth, Chekov pressed a kiss to McCoy’s temple before bounding off for his turn in the shower.

McCoy didn’t both looking at the chrono, but allowed himself to drift in a peaceful half-sleep. He was glad to see Chekov so cheerful this morning; despite all Chekov’s assurances, he wasn’t sure everything had been all right last night. In retrospect, he wished he’d been able to retain a little more control, but Chekov stripped his resolve away like no one else, until he couldn’t help but give in to desires he probably shouldn’t be indulging. Not with Chekov. Not when his actions might trigger a bad memory and make Chekov re-live even a moment of the hell he’d endured as a slave. McCoy didn’t think he could live with himself if he was the cause of the kind of mindless panic he’d seen Pasha exhibit back on Bussar when faced with his master’s disapproval.

Soon enough Chekov came out, scrubbed clean and effortlessly handsome. He gave McCoy a kiss on the cheek before going to dig out a clean uniform. With a reluctant sigh, McCoy dragged himself into the bathroom to get ready for the day. When he emerged, Chekov stood in the center of the room, with his unbuttoned pants hanging loosely on his hips, staring down at the padd in his hands.

“What?” McCoy asked as he toweled his hair dry. “Are we late for our shift?”

“No.” Chekov’s voice seemed distant, as if it came from the bottom of an old well. “No, we are to attend a briefing at eleven hundred hours.”

“Plenty of time, then.”

“The briefing…”

“What?” McCoy asked with mounting concern.

Chekov couldn’t get out any more, so McCoy snatched up his own padd from his desk and thumbed through to the message about the meeting. His eyes caught on the subject line. “Commander Trenach.”

Chekov had already thrown on his shirt and was quickly pulling on his boots.

“Pavel, what is this about?”

“I do not know.” He strode over to McCoy, held very still for a moment, then dove in for a quick, hard kiss before darting out the door.

“Pavel, wait!” McCoy scrambled to pull on a pair of pants before he followed Chekov into the corridor, but Chekov had already disappeared into the stream of crewmen on their way to alpha shift.
--

Kirk evidently hadn’t waited for McCoy’s arrival to start the briefing. Not that McCoy had deliberately wandered in late to save himself suffering through the re-introduction of Commander Trenach. He’d just gotten tied up in sickbay, that was all.

Only Kirk gave McCoy a second glance as he slipped into the briefing room. Trenach was already in mid-rant. McCoy certainly hadn’t missed his grating prattle. Sulu looked pained, Scotty concerned, Spock intent, Uhura coolly attentive, and Chekov strangely blank.

“And thanks to those efforts, we’ve tracked the organization to another base of operations on Ranii. Some of the players are the same: same traders and suppliers who relocated there. Others have been there for years. Our intelligence suggests they’re part of the same branch.”

For some reason, most of the eyes in the room slid to Chekov, who nodded. “The syndicate maintains its own rules and traditions. During my time in captivity, we moved between many planetary systems. The different location would not affect their expectations of behavior,” Chekov said carefully. “My experience should still be relevant.”

While McCoy tried to interpret that little remark, Trenach went on. “The target is the main slave market in Rechii, the capital city. Their annual festival is coming up, and the syndicate will be sending a representative to receive tribute. We need to gather information about the major players, and if possible plant tracking devices on their ships. If we can track the syndicate’s representative back to their home base, so much the better. ”

“The highest ranked trading officials socialize regularly,” Chekov said. “With careful planning, it may be possible to earn an invitation to such a function.”

“What did I miss?” McCoy leaned over and muttered to Sulu.

Sulu turned to him with an expression of smoldering resentment. “Pavel volunteered to go undercover as a slave,” he whispered.

“What?” He realized he’d shouted when everyone in the room turned to look at him.

“Something wrong, doctor?” Trenach asked mildly.

“I apologize for my tardiness,” McCoy said through clenched teeth. “If I’d come a bit earlier my medical expertise might have been useful in preventing everyone from losing their damn minds.”

From Sulu’s other side, Scotty piped up, “What did you say to set the man off?”

“Nothing that wasn’t true,” Sulu grumbled.

“Bones, calm down,” Kirk said. “We’re just discussing scenarios at this point. Since he has firsthand knowledge about the slave trade, Chekov suggested that posing as--”

“And what in the whole wide universe would make you think anyone going undercover with these barbarians is a good idea, let alone Chekov?”

“Chekov is right here, Doctor,” Chekov said acidly. “And he is going undercover because he is the only one who has a chance of plausibly passing as a trained slave. And he has suggested this plan because he believes it is the best chance for breaking this trade ring.”

“Well I believe this is the damn definition of medically unadvised.”

“I thought you had cleared Ensign Chekov for duty,” Trenach broke in.

“Yes,but--”

“And I was on four weeks of light duty before that,” Chekov snapped.

“Yes, but--”

“Either I am fit to do my duty or I am not. Are you suggesting I have not made a full recovery, Doctor McCoy?”

McCoy knew from the cold anger in Chekov’s eyes that if he answered incorrectly, Chekov might never speak to him again. He chose his words carefully. “Physically, you’re fine, but I doubt the wisdom of anyone throwing himself back into a potentially triggering situation.”

“If anyone else had the knowledge I do, I would not be needed for this mission.”

“This is a unique opportunity that may never come again,” Trenach said. “Only Ensign Chekov has a chance of pulling this off.”

“I am thankful for the chance to do something to help stop those who imprisoned me. Who knows how many others they might hurt?”

“Chekov,” Kirk said warningly. “If you don’t want to do this, we’ll find another way.”

“But of all we have discussed, this scenario has the highest probability of success, is that correct, Mister Spock?”

“That is correct,” Spock said slowly. Even the Vulcan’s natural calm seemed ruffled by the tension in the room.

“You’re really going down there to pose as a slave.” McCoy looked slowly around the room, meeting several uncertain expressions. “No one seems to think this is the most terrible idea since that posing as princesses scheme of Jim’s.”

“That turned out okay in the end,” Kirk piped up.

“Fine. Worse than princesses.”

“He won’t be alone, Doctor,” Trenach said, and turned to Chekov. “Ensign, there is the matter of who should accompany you.”

Chekov glanced over at McCoy, and for the first time, he looked unsure. “I would like to propose that Doctor McCoy join the mission. He was seen on Bussar as an owner, and he has had direct exposure to the slave culture.”

“Commander Spock is the logical choice,” Trenach countered. “His touch telepathy would allow you to communicate silently.”

“I also have some natural defenses against interference from the Usites,” Spock put in. “It would be more difficult for them to control my mind or alter my memories should they resort to using their telepathy against us.”

“The presence of a Vulcan might be a wee bit suspicious, Spock,” Kirk pointed out. “Plus, Intah’s men saw both of us. If we were recognized, Chekov’s cover would be blown. What about Sulu?”

“Same problem as before,” Uhura said. “The Usite syndicate has speciesest tendencies. Lieutenant Sulu, you clearly look like a Terran, and there just aren’t any Terran owners.”

“Ridiculous,” Sulu muttered.

“This mission does hold some risk of injury,” Chekov said. “Doctor McCoy would be able to deal with such an emergency should it arise.”

“Kid makes a good point, Bones,” Kirk said. All eyes in the room slid to McCoy.

“Doctor McCoy?” Spock prompted.

“I don’t want any part of this.” McCoy turned his back and walked out of the briefing.
--

McCoy had expected Kirk to come yell at him. Locked in his office at the back of sickbay, he’d sat with a full bottle of bourbon and an empty glass, rehearsing what he would say to convince Kirk to call off this impending disaster. But Kirk didn’t burst into the room swearing. Instead, an hour after McCoy’s dramatic exit, the office door chime rang, clean and polite.

“Who is it?”

“Commander Spock.”

“This had better be a medical emergency.” McCoy hit the command to open the door, and Spock stepped in with his hands neatly clasped behind his back. “I don’t see blood.”

“I am not injured. I’ve come to discuss the upcoming mission to Ranii.”

“You all seemed to be making enough of a mess on your own. In my medical opinion, you’re a bunch of damn fools.”

“I urge you to reconsider your refusal to volunteer for this mission.”

“I urge you to look up the definition of volunteer. Kirk can’t assign me to an undercover mission. I’m the ship’s chief medical officer. I’m totally unqualified to be--”

“No, Jim cannot give you this assignment. If you are to participate, you must volunteer.”

“I’m not going to volunteer. If Jim wants to defend his hare-brained scheme, why isn’t he down here?”

“He suggested giving you time to ‘cool off.’”

“Maybe you should listen to him once in a while. They say he’s a genius.”

“Yes. I believe I can make you see reason in this matter.”

“’S that so?”

“Yes. If you do not volunteer, this assignment will be given to Mr. Trenach.”

McCoy’s mouth hung slack and half-open. “I…”

“Having pursued the trading ring for more than a year, he is relatively familiar with their methods,” Spock pointed out. “Lacking a candidate with first-hand experience in the slave culture, the captain will have to alternative but to select Mister Trenach to accompany Mister Chekov.”

McCoy managed to get his voice working again. “Does Pavel know this?”

“It was discussed at the briefing.”

“Spock, you saw his memories. You saw what they did to him.” McCoy closed his eyes to fend off the images that accompanied those memories: nightmarish recollections of Chekov’s captivity. Spock had to remember, from his mind-meld with Chekov, the power of those hurts. “How can you condone sending him back to that?”

“You talk as if he is going back into slavery, doctor. He is not.”

“You can’t tell me that this is a simple undercover mission. It’s a damn sight more difficult than that.”

“I do not deny that certain personal feelings may complicate this mission. However, Mister Chekov seems determined to proceed.”

“Spock, you saw. You saw.” Outrage choked McCoy’s words, and he had to force himself to continue. “If something goes wrong on this mission, he could go through that again. Are you willing to let that happen?”

Spock pressed his lips together slightly in the Vulcan equivalent of a deep scowl. “The decision is not mine. Mister Chekov makes his own choices.”

“Get out of here,” McCoy snapped. He dropped into his desk chair, feeling wrung out as if with fatigue. When Spock didn’t move, McCoy turned a desperate look on him. “Please.”
--

Chekov kept his eyes firmly on his console. He could feel the steady weight of Sulu’s gaze on him, but he refused to acknowledge it. The whole shift, since the morning’s disastrous briefing, had passed this way: in a precarious dance of avoiding the disapproving looks of Sulu and Uhura.

“Got those course plans, Ensign?” Kirk appeared beside Chekov and dropped a hand on his shoulder. He seemed to be touching Chekov more than usual today: reassuring pats on the back, a playful ruffling of his hair. Apparently Kirk was trying to diffuse the tension on the bridge by acting especially chipper. Chekov thought Kirk’s tactic was unlikely to make much of a difference to Sulu.

McKenna came in to relieve Sulu ten minutes early. Sulu went about briefing him with his usual efficiency. When Spock gave him the clear to leave his station, Sulu went immediately to Uhura’s station. The two spoke together in low tones; Chekov chose to ignore them.

Lieutenant Kelso arrived three minutes later. Chekov gratefully relinquished his post with all possible haste and all but sprinted to the turbolift. Too late; Sulu and Uhura caught up with him at the door and crowded into the lift, bracketing him as if he might try to bolt. Silence held between them until the door slid closed.

“We have to talk,” Sulu said.

“You cannot convince me to abandon this mission,” Chekov snapped. He’d been preparing for this fight all day. He’d mapped out all the arguments—logical and otherwise—that would force his friends to understand why he needed this mission. He had even prepared himself for the possibility that they would not understand and that he would have to undertake his task without this friends’ support or approval. “My mind is made up.”

“We know,” Uhura said.

Chekov opened his mouth to retort; her words took several seconds to penetrate the fortifications of his planned defense. “You will not attempt to dissuade me?”

“As if we could,” Sulu scoffed. “You’re more stubborn than a Russian winter. Or so your mother once told me.”

Chekov managed a weak smile at that, but he couldn’t relax. “Then what is it you want to discuss?”

“Come have dinner with us,” Uhura said.

When Chekov continued to look warily at them, Sulu added, “We have a proposition.”

Looking from one to the other’s expression, Chekov couldn’t hope to guess their intention. “Very well. Dinner.”
--

Sulu led the way to the mess. He and Uhura hadn’t had much chance to plan their strategy, but Sulu imagined that Chekov wouldn’t be eager to start a screaming fight in front of the rest of the crew, so this venue seemed the best choice.

The room swarmed with crew members coming off alpha shift. The buzz of a hundred conversations would cover any secrets they didn’t want to become ship-wide gossip.

They made their selections in silence and brought their trays to a table in the far corner of the mess. Sulu and Uhura sat on one side of the table. Chekov set his tray down across from them and glanced around the mess as if checking for listeners.

Uhura tucked into her salad with quick, efficient bites. She projected the very picture of confidence, and Sulu wished he could pretend to be half as calm. Chekov sat with his arms folded across his chest, watching Sulu and Uhura suspiciously. He obviously had no intention of eating just yet. Sulu pushed his baked potato listlessly around his plate, mostly to give the impression that Chekov’s silence didn’t bother him.

At last, Uhura put down her fork, glanced reproachfully at their untouched food, and leaned back in her chair. “When are they deciding who’ll go on the mission with you?” she asked Chekov. Trust Uhura, as always, to get right to the point.

“It seems to be decided already,” Chekov said stiffly. “There is no viable volunteer other than Commander Trenach. We are to begin training for the mission in two days’ time.”

“Hm.” Uhura raised an eyebrow in an eerie echo of a typical Spock expression. “Is Trenach trained in hand-to-hand combat?”

“No. Not more than any officer.” Chekov said slowly, as if trying to guess the reason for this line of questioning. Then, more quickly, “But neither is the doctor.”

“The doctor,” Uhura repeated.

Chekov pursed his lips, as if he was sorry he’d brought up McCoy. He stabbed a fork angrily into one of the pelmeni in the bowl before him. “Many officers are not trained in advanced hand-to-hand combat. It is not often necessary.”

“We had an idea.” Sulu hadn’t meant to blurt the matter out so quickly, but he needed to stop Chekov’s busy brain from speculating worst-case scenarios on why they would want to speak to him.

“You cannot talk me out of going,” Chekov said. He looked tense, as if he might flee the room should Sulu try.

“We know, Pavel.” Uhura’s voice remained blessedly calm. “I’ve read everything I could find about the traditions of the syndicate’s slave culture. Some of the firsthand accounts seem to give conflicting information. I was hoping you could clear up a question I have.”

“Perhaps,” he said warily.

“One account talks of a class of slaves who are allowed to break certain taboos: making eye contact, speaking to free men, even carrying weapons. It sounded like they were some sort of religious order.”

“This is from the report of Vhatus Rho, from his encounter on Fenton Gamma?” Chekov asked.

“Yes. But his brother’s account speaks of an attempted slave abduction, in which the attack was foiled by a fellow slave, who was carrying a weapon. He didn’t mention any relation to the phenomenon his brother described, but it seemed strange.” Uhura gave a credible performance of confusion. Sulu would bet she did genuinely want to know more about this aspect of the syndicate’s culture, but she also played wisely on her knowledge of Chekov; explaining a complicated phenomenon would put him at ease and give him something to focus on other than his suspicions of Uhura and Sulu’s motives. “I wondered, is it common for slaves to conceal weapons?”

“No. For such a thing to be discovered would mean death.”

“So only slaves that are members of this religious order are allowed to go armed.”

“It is not exactly a religious order,” Chekov said slowly. “More like a caste. But yes, they have special privileges.”

“And they’d use these special privileges to defend fellow slaves?” Uhura asked.

“No, not quite. You see, he only has these privileges for that reason,” Chekov shook his head slightly, unsatisfied, and rephrased his explanation. “His function is to protect his charge.”

“You said they’re trained to defend. Like bodyguards?”

“Yes. Owners buy them to protect expensive slaves.” Chekov’s expression turned sour. “The word they used on Bussar meant the same as watch dog.”

“Could one carry a phaser?”

“No. No range weapons are permitted. He is only allowed a hand weapon, only to defend.”

This information was more helpful than Sulu had dared to hope. Sulu glanced at Uhura, who gave a small nod.

Chekov looked at Uhura, then at Sulu, with a frown etched into his face. “Why are you asking me this?”

“This is the idea we wanted to talk to you about.”

“You want me to pose as one of these bodyguard slaves? How would that help? I am not even trained in--” Chekov stopped mid-sentence, and Sulu could see the pieces of the puzzle clicking together behind his eyes as he fixed his gaze on Sulu. “You. You want to pose as one of these slaves.”

“You can’t do this alone,” Sulu said. He was proud of the way his voice remained steady. “If there’s a culturally appropriate way to provide you with a bodyguard, you’d be a fool to turn one down.”

“You do not have the knowledge of the culture.”

“I’ll learn.”

“You could be in danger.”

“Less than you will. I am not losing you again.”

“Hikaru,” Chekov said softly. “You do not want to do this. These slaves have special privileges, yes, but they are still slaves.”

“If you’re willing to take this on, you can’t object to my volunteering.”

“I… You are very clever ambushers, you two.” He nodded, once. “Thank you.”

Sulu grinned his victory to Uhura, but worry gnawed at the edges of his triumph. He’d expected Chekov to argue more. If he’d given in so easily, he must be more worried about this mission than even Sulu had guessed.
--

McCoy hesitated at the door to his quarters. He’d thought about sleeping in his office, but when he'd started to linger after his shift Chapel had given him such a dark look that he didn’t dare stay in sickbay. He doubted that Chekov would be anywhere but here, waiting for him. Chekov certainly didn’t lack for courage when it came to confronting a problem. McCoy, on the other hand, found himself torn between wanting to comfort Chekov in the face of the resurgence of all the old memories, and wanting to shake some sense into him at suggesting this fool-hearty plan. He couldn't do either standing in the hallway.

With a deep breath and a silent plea for bourbon, he went inside.

Somehow he'd expected Chekov to be standing in the center of the room, tapping his foot and waiting to confront McCoy. Instead, he was settled on the sofa, as usual, with bare feet tucked up under him, still in uniform. He intently studied the padd in his hand, and worried the end of the stylus in his mouth. He glanced up when the door swished open, smiled at McCoy, and turned his attention right back to his padd.

He stayed there, absorbed in his own little world, while McCoy went to the desk to drop off the stack of data chips he'd brought back: paperwork he'd do if Chekov wasn't speaking to him. From the calm, domestic scene that had greeted him, McCoy had no way of knowing where he stood with Chekov. If his stomach acid wasn't trying to bore a hole through his gut, he'd have sworn this was a normal evening.

"Have you eaten?" Chekov looked up from his padd to nod toward some dishes on the table. "I was hungry, so I replicated a snack earlier. I was not sure what time you would return. If you would return." He shook his head quickly. "Would you like something?"

McCoy turned toward Chekov, who looked infuriatingly calm, as if all was well in the world. Somehow the calmness galled him. “Aren’t you going to apologize?” he blurted.

Chekov blinked; he probably hadn't expected McCoy to start a confrontation for once. He recovered quickly enough; he was a genius, after all. “For doing my duty?" He swung his feet off the couch and planted them firmly on the floor, as if readying to evade an attacker. "Len, I am sorry I did not get to talk to you before I decided, but I am not sorry to be doing what I am doing. You must see that there is no one else for this mission. “

"There's another way. There has to be,” McCoy snapped. “Don't they have intelligence operatives who train for this sort of thing?"

"None that have first-hand experience with this syndicate."

"What about civilians? Aren't there civilian experts? I refuse to believe you're the only slave who's ever escaped or been freed."

"You think a civilian is more likely to succeed than I am?" Chekov asked with a glint of challenge in his eye.

"No. That's not what I meant."

"I am a Starfleet officer. You yourself declared me fit for duty. Why are you so opposed?"

"I understand trauma victims.” McCoy had no wish to hurt Chekov, but he had to make him understand the very real risks he was running off to face. “Security officers injured on an away mission who freeze up the next time they're in a firefight. Pilots who survive crashes who lose their lunch at the first sign of turbulence. How can you know you won't do the same when you're kneeling on a filthy floor somewhere letting a trader paw you over?"

"You cannot stop me from going."

"I know, damnit!" McCoy shouted. That admission sapped all the fight from him; he slumped into the nearest chair. "I know. I can't stop you. I can't even help you. The odds were minuscule the last time around; I could so easily have gone to my hotel instead of to that auction, or we could have been delayed by a day and missed the auction altogether, or someone could have figured out I was from Starfleet and killed us both. We were damned lucky to get you back last time. I'm so grateful for that... Throwing yourself right back into danger seems like the worst kind of tempting fate."

"Len." Chekov rose from the couch and approached him slowly, as if afraid of startling him. "I am not doing this to hurt you." He climbed into the chair, draped himself over McCoy and embraced him. McCoy felt his anger draining away with every second Chekov held him. "Would it help," he asked in a whisper, "if I admitted I am afraid?"

"No." McCoy wrapped his arms around Chekov. "Not in the least. No one should have to face this. Jim should know better."

"The captain did not ask me to do this." Chekov pulled away far enough to look McCoy in the eye. "It is my decision. I am strong enough for this, Len."

For once, McCoy saw no trace of the shy, bewildered creature who'd come back to the Enterprise months ago. This Chekov, determined and strong, had emerged instead: a fusion of the light-hearted genius and the traumatized slave. "My head knows that," McCoy muttered. "I don’t want you in danger. Not this kind of danger, anyway.”

“Do you want what happened to me to happen to thousands more? Helpless people who have no miraculous Starfleet rescue waiting for them?”

"Of course not."

"Then you know why I must go."

"I just wish I could help." As soon as the words left McCoy's mouth, he knew he shouldn't have said them. How could he convince Chekov that his reluctance wasn't cowardice? McCoy would only be a liability on a mission like this; he had no head for strategy, no talent for subterfuge, and certainly no tolerance for seeing Chekov in danger. If there was a worse idea than sending Chekov on his mission in the first place, McCoy was convinced that his tagging along was it.

"Well." Chekov slid off his lap gracefully. "As long as we are through fighting about this, I will be content."

McCoy nodded mutely, and allowed Chekov to draw him out of his chair and lead him to the bed.

Their lovemaking that night was quiet and somehow desperate, and McCoy felt like they were trapped together behind enemy lines, knowing this might be the last time.

---

Master Post
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