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By PB Wrapper The lieutenant slammed the door of his suite and turned to face his team. His entire team of one. "Explain yourself," he said. Chekov took a deep breath. "I don't think I need to." "I didn't ask what you *think*, Ensign. I'm not even sure that you ever do. I asked for an explanation of your actions." Chekov was still white and shaking, and Sulu didn't think it was terror at anything his temporary CO might do which was producing that reaction. "Well then. They expected us to... and she was a... and they put those crustacean things with the green shells... and..." He faltered. "Sulu... I couldn't." "You seem to be having difficulty stringing more than two words together." The ensign nodded miserably. "Then I'll have to do it for you, won't I? The Halmaddi Crown Prince invited us to dinner. He served the most exquisite local delicacies in the traditional manner which the Halmaddi have used to honour their guests since before the Earth was last covered in five metres of permafrost. Yes, the main table decoration was a naked virgin, but..." "Sulu, it was... horrible. I mean, she was beautiful, and I'm sure the food was delicious, but... I would rather eat dry bread off the floor. They had no right..." "This is their planet, Chekov. *We* have no right to tell them what they can and can't do." "I know that," Chekov agreed, his tone suggesting the exact opposite. "Let them eat how they want, but *I* am not..." "Remember, Mister, we're not talking about what *you* think about it. As long as you're in Starfleet, you'll do what your commanding officer tells you to do." Chekov shrugged and finally attempted a smile. "And you are going to order me to eat my dinner off a naked woman? Really?" "In case you didn't notice, Chekov, I already did." That took the wind out of the ensign's sails for a moment. "Yes, but..." "Didn't I?" "But..." "But what? You didn't think I really meant it? You disagreed with me, so you decided to ignore it? Or maybe since I'm not James Kirk, you don't think it counts?" Chekov shifted uneasily. He bit his lip. Knowing that the ensign was almost as uncomfortable if forced to lie as he was if forced to do something he considered dishonourable, like using people as tableware, Sulu made it easy for him. "What? All three?" "No. Not exactly. Well... That is... Yes." Sulu turned away and poured himself a glass of water from the chiller by the window, leaving Chekov to think over what he'd just said. "Of course, I do not only obey the orders of Captain Kirk, and..." Sulu put the glass down, but didn't face his friend again. "I don't believe I gave you permission to speak." He heard Chekov's intake of breath. "But you might as well finish your excuses, since you've started." "I do not only obey the captain, as I say, but you are less experienced than he is at these matters. Hardly any more experienced than me, and... and I am sure that he would think of some diplomatic way to avoid the problem. So..." "Go on." "And secondly, yes, I did disagree with you. Of course, in a different situation, like a battle, I would not refuse to obey an order because I disagree with it, but, in this situation, where we are..." Chekov ground to a halt again. "And thirdly?" "And thirdly, because your order was absolutely unreasonable, immoral and unthinkable, I assumed you could not possibly intend that I should follow it." Chekov pulled himself to parade attention, his coordination only slightly marred by the three or four glasses of wine he'd consumed before the trolley with the unusual centre-piece had been wheeled into the Crown Prince's dining room. "Sir." Sulu turned round and looked Chekov up and down. He sighed, as if he'd been expecting something more inspiring. "The captain, who is so experienced, has put me in command of this part of the mission. Therefore, I have exactly the same authority as him, as far as a wet behind the ears ensign is concerned. Am I right?" If Chekov had been sober, he'd have at least said 'yes', but he was beginning to get irritable. "Sulu..." he objected impatiently, "I know that, but..." "Am I right, Ensign Chekov, or am I wrong?" "You are right, sir," Chekov answered grudgingly. "And in this situation, in which we are doing our best to *avoid* a battle through diplomatic means, I cannot carry out *my* orders effectively if I can't depend on the men under my command to obey me. Am I right, or..." "Right, sir." This time Chekov's response was a good deal faster, but Sulu got the impression that he was only cooperating in order to bring the slow verbal torture to a conclusion. "And lastly, the order, in the context in which I gave it, was lawful, proper, in keeping with our mission, and compatible with a proper respect for the culture and traditions of our hosts." Chekov seemed to have lost his tongue again. "I take it that you would find it distasteful to apologise to the Crown Prince and return to his table?" "I would." "I thought as much. But it doesn't really matter, since I don't think he would have accepted an apology anyway." Chekov's eyes widened. "You think..." "No, I don't think he'll demand his father goes to war just because you annoyed him, Chekov. So long as he knows you've been appropriately disciplined." The ensign sighed resignedly. "He said that?" Sulu had remained in the dining room for a couple of minutes after Chekov's abrupt departure. Chekov had been assuming that the time had been used in making apologies on his behalf, not in discussing sanctions. "He was more reasonable than I hoped," Sulu said. "He told me loud enough for everyone to hear that you should be disciplined, but once I'd agreed with him, loud enough for everyone to hear, he said you weren't worth the trouble, and it'll be good enough if everyone just thinks I've paddled you." Chekov's eyes widened and the corners of his mouth tightened. "'Paddled'?" "Spanked," Sulu interpreted. "Apparently, it's what they do around here." "You see? I told you they were barbarians." Chekov jutted his chin in the air. "So, am I on report? Or are you going to let the captain deal with it?" Sulu watched Chekov silently cross the fingers of both hands when he didn't answer immediately. The captain would deal with it, if necessary. Letting him do so, however, would merely reinforce Chekov's obvious conviction that, in the command stakes, Hikaru Sulu somehow didn't count. "No, you're not on report." Sulu dragged out the agony to breaking point before he continued. "And I'm not going take this to the captain." "Then..." "I'm going to give you a lesson in respecting local customs, obeying orders whatever your opinion of them happens to be, and learning that stripes are stripes, whoever's wearing them. "Oh," Chekov said warily. "Okay." "What the fuck do you mean, 'okay'? Are you saying you're graciously allowing me permission to discipline you? Because if you are, I think you're missing the point here, Ensign. I don't need your fucking permission." "No. Of course. Sir." Sulu had drunk several glasses of the local brew too. He hadn't thought it was very strong, but now he felt hot, cross, and just slightly out of control. His relief at the Crown Prince's good natured reaction to the situation was the fatal final ingredient in an effervescent mixture of emotions. "I am going to teach you to obey orders. My orders. Understood?" "Yes, sir." The ensign had gone quiet, too quiet for Sulu's taste. "'Yes, sir'," he parroted mockingly. "You think I don't mean it, don't you?" "No, sir," Chekov said. "It's a little too late for 'yes, sir, no, sir' now. When I tell you to jump, I expect you to jump immediately, not after I've spent five minutes yelling at you." Chekov's eyes darted uncomfortably back and forth as he sought a response that it wasn't 'a little too late for'. "I will, sir." "Good," Sulu said. Chekov was watching him, and he wasn't at all sure what he meant to do next. It was all very well threatening discipline, but the apartment's bathroom was already spotless, space for 'walking the deck' was distinctly limited, and anyway, he wanted something outrageous, something Chekov really would find unacceptable. "Move that chair." "Sir!" Chekov picked the heavy wooden throne up by the seat. The back legs were far heavier than the front and it made an awkward load. With an exaggerated sigh, Chekov put it down again and moved round to take hold of it more efficiently. "Where shall I move it to, sir?" "The middle of the room." The ensign struggled not to drag the feet across the polished wood floor. He straightened up once the chair was in position and stood to attention next to it. Sulu waited to see if he'd be able to resist the temptation to pass comment on what he'd been asked to do. Yes. Chekov could have been turned to marble. The upsurge of annoyance that Sulu felt at Chekov's belated obedience should have warned him to stop before the situation slid any further out of control. For some reason, it didn't. "Grasp the seat with your hands." Chekov hesitated, but not long enough for Sulu to yell at him about it. The helmsman pursed his lips. And realised that what he was actually doing was trying to get Chekov to balk, so that he could yell at him about it. Which maybe wasn't the right way to be handling this. This wasn't a crisis, and he should let Chekov calm down and sober up. He should let himself calm down and sober up. The chair creaked, just enough to give away that Chekov had shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Stand still!" "Yes, sir." Sulu walked round the chair once, and then walked round it again, wondering how to proceed. Chekov should, by now, have protested. Presumably, he wasn't protesting simply in order to be aggravating. Sulu had forgotten until now, that while Chekov frequently spoke up out of turn, he was also an expert with pointed silences. This silence had a sharp end on it like a rapier. So, Chekov didn't think he'd carry through. Sulu wondered if the down-turned face was smiling at the dead end Chekov's behaviour had forced his CO into. On his next turn around the chair he veered over to the desk and picked up the ruler from the elaborate selection of pens, inkpots and blotters. He flexed it to see if it was fragile. It sprang back resiliently. About fifty centimetres long and three wide, its only drawback as an instrument of correction was the sharpness of its edges for the person holding it. Of course, he couldn't, but... "If you want me to write out one hundred times 'I will obey orders', I can rule my own lines." Sulu swung round, ignoring the discomfort as he tightened his grip, and brought the ruler down -- swish! snap! -- on Chekov's backside. Chekov straightened up, white-faced. "You... You hit me!" Sulu pointed to the seat with the end of the ruler. "I didn't give you permission to move." "You can't..." "As you were, Ensign." "This is silly," Chekov said indignantly, once he'd resumed his former position. He waited for a reaction. "The joke is over now, right?" "Wrong, Mister Chekov. Just because you don't approve of something, that doesn't make it silly. And just because you don't find something amusing, that doesn't mean the joke is over." Sulu heard Chekov swallow, then take a deep breath as he prepared to say something. The lieutenant suspected that the last thing he'd said himself didn't entirely make sense, so he forestalled Chekov's response with another, harder, stroke from the ruler. It was even more enjoyable than the first. "Ow!" Chekov raised a hand to rub the wound, and earned a stinging crack across his knuckles. "Keep your hands on the seat." The fingers Chekov had been sucking flew back to the chair. Sulu judged that the message had finally been received. Chekov wasn't going to raise any more objections. He added a round ten strokes to the two already given just to see if he was right. Chekov didn't move. His breathing was audibly unsteady. "You can get up now," Sulu said impatiently. Chekov straightened somewhat stiffly. His mouth was set in a rigid line and his eyes were bright. He met Sulu's gaze for a defiant second and then looked away. Sulu opened his mouth a couple of times, once to apologise, and once to remind Chekov that he was responsible for the whole ugly mess. What he actually wanted to say was too complicated a combination of both to put into words. He became aware of a clock somewhere in the room, each tick placing another brick in an emotional wall that he somehow had to get over before it grew too high. "Chekov..." "Permission to go to my quarters. Sir." "If you... Uh... No. The captain moved everyone around. I'm not sure... I think we're sharing now." Sulu swallowed. "I meant to tell you before dinner, but..." Chekov continued to stand silent and immobile. "That we're sharing. We could probably arrange something else, but..." Sulu swallowed again. "...everyone else will be at the Ambassador's gala dinner, so..." He looked at the only bed in the apartment, and the lack of a couch, or even of a chair that one could sleep in. "Chekov..." "Permission to go the bathroom, sir." "Sure. I mean, yes." No sooner had Chekov vanished than someone knocked sharply on the door into the apartment. Sulu wrenched his attention back to their diplomatic duties and smiled politely at a visitor he'd gladly strangle in return for five minutes to straighten things out with Chekov. It was a young Halmaddi male in what looked like casual civilian clothes - almost everyone they'd met up until now had been wearing Ruritanian-style military uniform. "Yes?" "About what happened just now..." "What about it?" Sulu almost snapped. "I've already apologised until I'm blue in the face..." He stopped. The Halmaddi looked familiar, but he couldn't quite... "Oh, no! I didn't recognise you. Your ma.... I mean, your royal highness." "Without the medals and the wig?" The crown prince laughed. "Don't worry. I shouldn't have come to see you without fourteen chamberlains and a troop of outriders. In fact I shouldn't have come to see you at all. Summoning people to come and see me does at least give them time to stop hyperventilating. But I wanted to keep this informal, at least for the moment, unless you want to demand an apology from me. For a start, I should never have served you a meal like that. Your officer was quite correct. It's outmoded barbarism. I was just showing off." Sulu frowned. He couldn't begin to think of an appropriate response. "You didn't do anything terrible to him?" the crown prince asked. "Because he probably would have thought up a suitable excuse if he hadn't been drinking the Broderian wine. I was supposed to warn you. Well, actually, I wasn't supposed to be serving it to you at all. Apparently it does things to humans that it doesn't do to us." "What kind of things?" Sulu asked. His visitor shrugged unhappily. "I'm not a pharmacologist, but when we served it to a Federation trade delegation, all seven of them spent the night in the same bed. According to the staff." He folded his arms defensively across his chest. "Actually, that's why everyone's a bit touchy about aliens at the moment. But we've been getting on so well these last few days, I just forgot you weren't one of us." Sulu slowly nodded his head. He already knew what he'd done to Chekov had been catastrophically stupid, but at least now he knew why. "Thank you for telling me this. I'll be careful..." "Well I'd better be going," the prince said airily. "I expect you've got to write up a report or something. Underline the titles and don't forget to put your name at the top of the page, all that." He smiled at Sulu's blank expression. "Ruler," he said, pointing to the forgotten instrument in Sulu's hand. "Yes. Right." Sulu grasped the ruler guiltily. "Report. Yes. Your Majesty." The prince frowned and backed away towards the door as if he'd suddenly decided Sulu was slightly dangerous. "Leave you to it, then." "Yes. Thank you." "Goodnight." "Goodnight." Sulu walked over to the desk and put the ruler down. He would have sat down to think, but that would require him to move the chair. By moving it, he would be acknowledging the fact that it was in the centre of the room, where he'd ordered Chekov to put it, and for the moment, it seemed easier not to admit things. "What he did was still wrong," he said to himself. "But the fact that he was intoxicated does partially excuse that." He pulled a sheet of paper over towards himself and selected a pen. "But I didn't know he was drunk, so I was justified in disciplining him." The pen hovered above the paper. "Only not like that." He threw the pen down in disgust. He'd been out of his skull with some alien aphrodisiac disinhibiting intoxicant, and he didn't like what he'd done as a result. He didn't like it one little bit. He took in a sharp breath. There was no way Chekov could spend the night here. He'd have to double up with... Sulu gazed hopelessly out of the window at the black Halmaddi night. McCoy? Spock? The captain? Fat chance. Or one of the more junior officers in the party, with whom he could share, in detail, the reasons for his relocation. Sulu groaned. He looked over his shoulder at the bed. It was wide. If he and Chekov were merely run of the mill mortal enemies, they could probably share it with no great difficulty. But as things stood... Maybe one of them could sleep in the bathtub. If there was a bathtub in the bathroom. He was pretty sure there was some kind of spa-pool thing that didn't empty. He wondered how much longer Chekov was going to stay in the bathroom. He didn't know how long he'd been in there already. He should put the chair back by the desk before he came out, that was for sure. He grabbed it, and began to drag it. Freezing paralysis locked his back. He tried to straighten. Paralysis turned to pain. Maintaining the angle of his back precisely, he shuffled across to the desk. His spine signalled muffled protests to him. He leaned across to pick up his communicator and yelped as the pain suddenly quadrupled. "Shit! Fuck! Fucking shitting..." "Enterprise," Uhura said, her composure unruffled. "You know, that's not a regulation call sign, Lieutenant." "I've put my back out. I can't move. I need help." "I'm under strict orders not to disturb the Captain and Doctor McCoy for at least another four hours. Do you want us to beam down a medical team?" Sulu's back insisted 'yes'. The extreme delicacy of the present situation -- thanks, Sulu now knew, to the trade delegation -- countered 'no'. He could call a medical team down in an emergency, but certain people would want to know exactly how the emergency arose. "No, look, put me through to Chris Chapel. Chekov's here. He can follow her instructions." "Okay," Uhura said. "Don't go away." "Very funny." Sulu turned toward the bathroom without thinking. "Fuck! Ow!" A sob of anguish closed his throat. "Hold on, honey," Uhura encouraged, abandoning regulation language herself. "I know exactly where Chris is. Get Chekov to take over the communicator and just stay perfectly still." "Chekov!" Sulu yelled. "Chekov!" There was no reply. "Chekov, I need you out here now. This is important. Chekov!!!" "Well, we know your lungs are okay," Chapel snapped. "Sorry. He's on the other side of the bathroom door and I can't make him hear me. Chekov!!!!!! Damn him. If he's just pretending he can't hear me..." "Why would he do that?" "Nothing. He wouldn't. He's probably taking a shower. Chekov!!!!!! If you don't get out here this minute, I'm going to..." The bathroom door opened and Chekov emerged. "Do you want me?" "No, of course I don't fucking want you. Get over here and take this communicator." Chekov couldn't help his eyes widening in his stony mask of pretended indifference as he approached the desk. He took the communicator from Sulu's now tremulous grasp and looked warily at the lieutenant for further instructions. "Chris Chapel," Sulu said. "Tell her you're here." "Miss Chapel? Ensign Chekov here." "Huh?" Chapel said, startled by his formality. "Okay, as you've probably realised, Hikaru's put his back out." "Yes." Chekov caught Sulu's eye, and idly - oh, so idly - looked at the ruler. "Don't you fucking even think about it," Sulu snarled. "What's going on?" Chapel demanded. "Nothing. Yes, I can see that Lieutenant Sulu has a problem with his back." "O-kay," Chapel said. "Now, I'm not supposed to come down there for anything short of a cardiac arrest, so you're my hands and eyes, Chekov. Is there a bed where you are?" "Yes." "How high off the ground? Standard bunk, sickbay biobed or somewhere in between." "It's actually..." Chekov hesitated as if assessing its height to the nearest millimeter. "Somewhere in between." "Fucking get on with it," Sulu sobbed. "Okay. How firm is it? Standard bunk, sickbay..." "I will find out." He vanished from Sulu's field of vision. The bed creaked a little. Then it creaked again. "It is quite comfortable." "I want to know how firm it is, Chekov." "Well. It has..." Another creak. "A solid wooden frame with wooden slats each approximately..." A pause. "One point four three centimeters... oh, these are not centimeters. They are a Halmaddi unit. Perhaps the ship's computer..." "What's on top of the slats, Chekov? Tell me quickly before I start rearranging your next six monthly physical to include a brain transplant." "A mattress about seven centimetres thick, composed of wadded plant fibres," Chekov said, reasonably briskly. "Perfect. Okay, turn down the sheets and get back to Sulu." "Yes, ma'am." "Are you okay, Chekov?" "Yes, ma'am." "Okay," she sighed. "I'll take your word for it. Now, you have to help Sulu over to the bed. I want you to keep him in exactly the position he's in at the moment if you possibly can. We'll straighten him out when we've got his weight supported by the bed. Understood?" "I'm not sure about this," Sulu said, as Chekov moved round him, assessing how he could take hold of the helmsman. "I am... what is the expression? Ah, yes. I am the only show in town, Lieutenant." "What's the problem?" Chapel demanded. "Nothing, except... we've both had a few glasses of wine tonight. I'm not sure either of us is that steady. Can he give me a pain killer before he..." "No. I need him to know if he's doing anything wrong, and since he can't move you and look at a tricorder at the same time, your nerves are the best alarm system available. Sorry." "Not as sorry as I am." Sulu flinched as Chekov slid an arm round his chest. "Did that hurt?" Chekov asked. "No. No, it didn't. I just expected it to. It was fine. Really it was fine. But look, how about if I just lean on you... if I hold your... no, make a cradle with your hands... yes, that's right. Now, I can lean on you..." Sulu transfered one hand, then the other, from the desk to a firm grip on Chekov's wrists. "Okay, now I'm going to shuffle... if you just keep up with me... Christ, Chekov, if you let me go... ow. Uh. Uhhhuh. That's okay." Sulu completed the difficult manoeuvre of turning away from the desk and towards the bed. "That's fine. Just keep this up, 'cause if you let go, I'm never going to forgive you." "Then we'll be even," Chekov said, so quietly that for a moment, Sulu thought he'd imagined it. He ground his teeth together and took another hesitant microstep. "Are you by the bed yet?" Chapel asked. She didn't sound impatient exactly, more frustrated by this exercise in distance nursing. "About another... two minutes," Chekov estimated. "You could go have a cup of coffee." "Chekov..." Sulu growled. The careful process of edging nearer and nearer to the bed, the blessed, longed-for bed, continued. Every time Chekov moved, Sulu couldn't stop his diaphragm tightening apprehensively. The pain was building and his legs seemed to be turning numb. He stumbled as the numbness made him clumsy and a change in Chekov's position left him almost off-balance. Chekov caught him, but the pain turned the world dark grey and nauseous for a moment. "Be careful," he pleaded. "I *am* being careful." They halted. Chekov pulled the communicator off his belt. "Are you still there? We're by the bed." "Good. Now, I want you to help him to lie down on his side, keeping his back as immobile as you can. Does he have his back to the bed?" "Yes." "Okay, stand with your feet either side of his, in a line with his. Grasp him round the chest under the arms, and let him lower himself. Don't *you* bend forward. He's got to brace himself on you. As he sits, you bend your knees, not your back. Understood?" "Yes." "Let me know when he's sitting down." "Yes." Chekov flipped the communicator to land on the bed. He looked Sulu in the face. "I didn't realise you had such a low opinion of me," he said matter-of-factly, following Chapel's instructions. About four inches separated the tips of the men's noses. "Chekov, not now." Sulu could feel sweat beading on his forehead and round his mouth. "Why not now? I am just a... a scaffolding system. You are the active participant. I may as well talk. You think I have no professional standards, no judgement, no discretion..." "Chekov, that's not true." "Then why are you not letting me take your weight? You are making this much more difficult." Sulu breathed out through surge of pain. "I think you're mad at me. I think... I think I made a mistake and you have some excuse to be mad, but for now..." "For now... Oh. I am sorry. You did not give me permission to speak." "Chekov..." "But since I have started, I may as well finish..." "Chekov..." "I am glad that you admit I have 'some reason' to be mad at you." "Chekov..." "Although I would have put it a little more strongly myself. In fact, I would say..." "Chekov!" "...That I probably have grounds to register a complaint under at least fourteen different..." "Shut up!" Chekov closed his mouth into a straight, thin line again and the two men looked at each other. The phrase 'kiss and make up' floated into Sulu's head from nowhere. "Okay, take my weight," he said. He settled into the cradle of Chekov's arms. Chekov faultlessly, smoothly, gently, lowered him to sitting on the bed. "He is sitting on the bed," the ensign reported into the communicator. "Well, don't rush him," Chapel snapped sarcastically. "Now, you have to lie him on his side so you can scan his back for me, and I can talk you through getting things back into place. Get him undressed as far as possible first. Tunic and undershirt off and pants undone, okay?" Chekov turned and looked at Sulu. "Do you need help?" "No." Sulu was unfastening the neck of his tunic. "Well yes, but not with my tunic, just the shirt. Just to get it off over my head, okay? I already got my belt." Chekov stepped over and took hold of the tunic, pulling it up and off without getting too tangled with Sulu's arms. Then he stood there, holding it. Sulu felt himself blushing. "Thanks." "Don't mention it. Undershirt?" "Yeah. Um. This is going to be more difficult... I mean, because it's tighter." "It will stretch." Chekov knelt down on the floor and easily manipulated the knit fabric off its owner. He look up from between Sulu's legs and pursed his lips. "See? Easy. Let me get your pants..." Sulu knocked Chekov's hands away as if they'd been poisonous spiders. "I said I already got my belt! I'm not a cripple." He sat there, feeling his heart race. Chekov shrugged. "I'm sorry. I misunderstood. He's undressed," he reported to the communicator. "Shall I push him over onto his side?" "Have you two been fighting?" Chapel asked. When there was no reply, she continued briskly, "Well, more or less, yes. Lateral movement shouldn't be too much of a problem. Just don't let him twist his back at all." Chekov half-guided, half-supported Sulu until he was horizontal, then dragged the sheet underneath him until he was lying safely in the middle of the big bed. That done, he removed Sulu's boots. "I'll get the medikit," he told Chapel. They checked through its contents together. Once Chapel was sure Chekov had all the equipment he needed, they patched the tricorder through to the communicator, and in a moment, she was looking at Sulu's back for herself. "Classic slipped disk. We can ask the Halmaddi for permission for a medical transport, or you can deal with it down there. If the treatment works, he'll be up and working in ten minutes." "And if it doesn't?" Sulu asked. The pain had vanished now that he was lying immobile on the mattress. He felt he could happily stay like this until their scheduled departure by shuttle the next day, or next week, or next year. Getting to the shuttle might still be a problem, but on the other hand, the whole thing might cure itself given a good night's rest. "Well, trying it isn't actually likely to make things any worse," Chapel reassured him. "It's not hurting right now. I could just wait until tomorrow..." "And if you need to go to the bathroom..." "Did you have to say that?" Sulu grumbled. "He's going to use a microwave pulse to soften the connective tissue around your spine, pop the disk back in place, then give you a dose of something that will firm everything up again. After that, you have to lie nice and still for ten minutes, and then just be careful for twenty four hours. By then, you'll be back up here, and Doctor McCoy can check you out to see if he needs to do some work to stop this happening again. Okay? You understand all that?" "Yes." "Chekov, the tricorder should be displaying a diagram of what you need to do. Do you understand *all* of it?" "Yes, ma'am." "Then off you go." As Chekov sat down behind him, Sulu felt the mattress give, just enough to make him tense defensively. "You still don't trust me," Chekov observed. "You should be glad I gave this medikit a test run just now. Otherwise, I would find it quite difficult to sit still." "I didn't hit you that hard." Sulu could hear faint clicks as the ensign dialled up the correct setting to turn his ligatures to syrup. "You're not going to be able to move after I do this. You do know that, don't you?" "I thought it was just a local thing, just around a few joints in my spine?" Sulu said. "Oh. I'm sorry. I'm not being precise. You will be able to move, but all the other discs in your spine will 'pop' if you do." "God, Chekov, don't wind me up." "I'm just warning you not to move." "Okay. I understand that. I won't move. I don't *want* to move. I just want to lie here and not hurt for a while." "Good. Now, first I have to give you a liiiittle dose of tranquilliser..." The hypo hissed soothingly. "...and a local anaesthetic..." "Chekov, does that stuff react with alcohol?" "It could combine to affect your judgement a little..." "Oh." "... if you had any. Now, this is the point where you absolutely must not move." A dull warmth radiated from something Chekov was holding in the small of his back. Sulu resisted the urge to wriggle closer to the comforting sensation. "Now, I shall move your hips... and your shoulders... to put your spine in a nice, straight line with nice, big gaps between the vertebrae..." "I don't need the description." "Don't worry. I don't charge for the running commentary. You know, I can see the disc. It is completely out of alignment. It looks horrible." "It *feels* horrible. Chekov, if you know what you're doing, please, just get on and do it." "Nurse Chapel, should I reposition the disc now?" "Yes. You shouldn't have to use any significant force. If it doesn't almost go on its own, don't force it." "Right." Sulu waited. Then he waited some more. "Chekov? What are you playing at? Are you going to do it or not?" He felt the bed shift a little. A moment later, Chekov came into view on the other side of him. "What about my back?" he asked. "It's done." "What?" "Back in place. Nice and straight. Nurse Chapel, does it look okay?" "Perfect." "Then I will call you again in a half hour." "Or sooner if he's in pain, okay?" "Of course. Chekov out." The communicator clicked shut. Sulu frowned. "You should give me the stuff that means I can move again." "I have. But you still can't move for ten minutes." Chekov knelt down on the floor and rested his folded arms on the edge of the bed, so that he could look Sulu in the eye. "If I disobeyed medical instructions, and you were injured as a result, what do you think Captain Kirk would do to me?" "You're just making me nervous, Chekov." The ensign sat back on his heels and lowered his chin onto his arms. "*Really* nervous. I mean, I know you're not going to do anything stupid, but... But you're still making me nervous. I'm not sure if it's the tranquilliser or that dodgy liquor the Halmaddi were serving us, but..." "Dodgy?" "Yeah. The Crown Prince came and apologised, while you were in the bathroom. Apparently it's more potent than it tastes. So... well, you might have been less responsible for what you did than I thought." "Oh." "And I... uh... might have been..." Chekov tipped his head to one side, as if to make better sense of Sulu's words by looking at him the right way up. "I might have been..." "You still can't move for another seven minutes." "It's not a problem, Chekov. I *do* trust you. I just wish you trusted me." Chekov frowned. "You didn't trust me to assess the situation and deal with it. Okay, you might not have liked the way I was dealing with it. I didn't like it myself, but you... you just assumed I was making the worst possible choice. That your feelings mattered more than months of patient diplomacy. That your damsel in distress wasn't going to move straight on to someone else's dinner table and pocket a fat fee in the process." Chekov's lower lip began to protrude rebelliously. "Hell, you could have told them you were allergic to shellfish." The lip tucked itself defensively back into Chekov's mouth. "I went over the top, and I'm sorry, but you drive me nuts sometimes." "How?" Chekov demanded. "By... by... by being wrong for all the right reasons. It's impossible to keep you in order without sounding like a miserable old fart." The anaesthetic was beginning to wear off. Sulu could feel his back aching dully. "I need to move, Chekov. I hate lying on my side like this. It isn't natural." "Five more minutes." "You're torturing me." Chekov abruptly moved away. He paced up and down furiously between the desk and the bed. "What is going on here?" he demanded, jabbing an accusing finger at Sulu. "Why all of a sudden do I make you *nervous*? If you don't think I am going to kill you through sheer incompetence, of course." Sulu blinked at him. "What I meant was..." "I know what you meant!" Chekov exploded. "Why don't you just admit how little respect you have for me? Why do you need to pretend you are drunk?" "But that's not the point, Chekov. The point is..." "Yes?" "The point is, I didn't hit you because I don't respect you. And I didn't hit you because I was drunk." "So you hit me because... what?" "To prove that I could. To prove that however stupidly offensive it was, you had to obey my orders. To make you see that." He swallowed. "No, I suppose I didn't do it to make you see anything, because if I'd thought about it, I'd have realised we'd just end up having exactly this argument. I suppose I did it to convince myself that I still had the upper hand. And I know that sounds pathetic, but... but you pushed me into it, and right then, it seemed like a really good idea. In fact, it seemed like the best idea I'd had in weeks. And will you please stand still so I'm not tempted to move my head to keep you in view?" Chekov halted immediately. He looked at Sulu the way he'd have assessed a star chart. "Would it help if there was something to stop you rolling onto your back?" "You mean like a pillow? I don't think they use them. Look in the closets." Chekov complied. He walked through Sulu's field of view, shaking his head. "No pillows, but I know..." A moment later, Sulu felt a warm body edging up to his back. A shoulder braced firmly against his, and he was able to relax the muscles in his torso. "Better?" Sulu bit his lip. He really wasn't sure if he was imagining things, or if Chekov really was deliberately making this as difficult as possible. Still... he had to admit, "Yes." "You are welcome." For a while, Sulu lay and counted the seconds ticking by impatiently, until it suddenly occurred to him that Chekov might be counting the seconds too, ready to make a quick getaway. He cleared his throat. "You didn't mean that, did you? About never forgiving me?" He felt Chekov stiffen. "I mean... I'd hate that." Chekov was silent. "It would be so stupid." Chekov continued to be silent. "I mean, if you took something I did while I was drunk that seriously, that would be... it wouldn't be stupid, but it would be... it might be an over-reaction." "But you weren't drunk." "Yes I was! You heard... oh, no you didn't hear. The Crown Prince said..." "You were not drunk. I scanned you with a tricorder ten minutes ago. You have almost no alcohol in your blood, the equivalent of a single small vodka at most." "But he said..." "No alcohol, and nothing else that would affect your mood or your behaviour." "He said..." "Perhaps it was a convenient excuse to deal with an embarrassing situation." "You're sure?" Chekov went silent again. "Of course you're sure. You can read a blood alcohol indicator on a tricorder. You're not an idiot." "Thank you," the ensign said. "I *thought* I was drunk. Thinking you're drunk can be almost as bad." "Perhaps you should devote your life to thinking you are sober." "I felt drunk. You're drunk. I know when you're drunk." "I was drinking from a different bottle. Perhaps the shellfish caused a reaction," Chekov suggested. "Perhaps you should have told them you were allergic." Sulu didn't answer. He could feel Chekov's breath on the nape of his neck. The velour of the ensign's tunic was soft against his naked back. He rubbed his left heel on the bed experimentally. It felt fine. He flexed his left knee a little. That produced no ill effects either. "Is that what you mean?" Chekov sounded less agressive, a little unsure of himself. "Me saying things like that?" Sulu swung his right foot cautiously to and fro, wriggling the toes. "It's not that you say it. It's that you say it when you shouldn't. It's you saying it to me in a situation where you'd never say it the captain, or even another lieutenant." "But... Yes, I see. I suppose I do. I see that would be annoying." "Right." "But I still don't understood why you said I made you nervous. That..." "Forget it." "No. This is too important to forget. I need to know." When Sulu didn't answer, Chekov butted his head against Sulu's back. "Please." "Well. I was pretty outrageous, doing that to you. I guess I was worried you were going to do something outrageous to me." "Outrageous?" Chekov echoed. "Like what? You *know* I wouldn't risk injuring you, or anyone. Don't you?" "Yes. I do. I don't mean that. I meant..." Sulu hesitated. He wasn't sure what he meant. "I don't know. Maybe it wasn't you at all. Maybe I just felt vulnerable. That's it. I felt... exposed." Chekov rested his hand on Sulu's shoulder. He rubbed it in a small circle. "I was tempted." "To do what?" "When I was helping you to sit on the bed." He chuckled. "You looked so mad at me already, I began to think it wouldn't actually make you any madder..." "If you did what?" "Just... leaned forward a few centimetres and kissed you." Sulu's mouth went dry. "You crazy Russian," he said, and wondered if Chekov could hear the papery lack of moisture in his voice. "If I had... what would you..." "God knows. What kind of a conversation is this?" "A ten minute conversation?" "Right. Just filling in the time until you walk out of my life forever." Well... except then, where would I sleep tonight?" "Good point." Silence settled again. Sulu wondered again if it was companionable silence or threatening silence. The navigator shifted his weight and ended up, if anything, a little closer to Sulu. He wrapped his left arm round Sulu's waist. "So," he said into Sulu's ear. "You 'paddled' me because you thought that I would only let you do that because you were my commanding officer. Otherwise, I would never allow you to get away with it, correct?" "Yes. That's it exactly. Uh, even though it sounds so ridiculous." "Yet now, you expect me to let you get away with it?" "Well... like I said, I thought I was drunk." "Now, if Mister Spock was here, he would probably say this. Ensign Chekov, he would say, appears to be letting you get away with this insult, this gratuitous and unlawful insult, despite that fact that it is an insult of the kind one would not normally expect to get away with. What can we deduce from this?" "You're a friend in a million?" Sulu suggested desperately. "No." Chekov's hair tickled the back of Sulu's neck as he shook his head. "What can we deduce then?" "That Ensign Chekov intends to exact revenge or retribution, knowing that you cannot complain without bringing your own conduct to the attention of higher authorities." Visions of unrepaid loans, swaps to less enticing shoreleave options, and bartering of particularly boring nightshifts that coincided with the best parties filled Sulu's head. "Hold on a minute, Chekov..." "Or alternatively... we can deduce that your gratuitous insult... was not in fact intended to be seen as an insult at all." "What?" "Oh, you know what I mean very well." Chekov ground his groin against Sulu's ass. Sulu sat up. "Twelve minutes," Chekov said, "fortunately." "Shit." The helmsman cautiously worked his way off the bed, keeping his back straight, as he spoke. "See what I mean? You are *always* winding me up." He wriggled his shoulders and put his weight on first one foot then the other. "And you know what I *really* hate? The fact that you're getting too good at it for your own good. Or mine." He walked a few cautious steps, keeping his burning face away from his colleague. He took a deep breath. "This conversation is over. This whole topic is off limits. You can file a report when we get back to the ship tomorrow." "Okay." "You're doing it again!" "Yes, sir." "I'm going to the bathroom. I'll leave the door unlocked in case of emergencies." "Yes, sir. Uh..." "What now?" "Which side of the bed do you want?" "Whichever side you're not in." "I will sleep on the floor if you prefer." Chekov scuffed his boot pointedly over the cold tiles. "That won't be necessary. Unless you want to. You can sleep where you damn well want to." Sulu went into the bathroom, slammed the door shut and locked it without thinking. With extreme care, he removed his pants and briefs. He thought about bathing, but decided it involved too many risks. There was a sonic shower, which would normally be his last choice, but since it didn't involve stepping into or over anything, or drying himself afterwards, he gratefully allowed it to vibrate away the day's grime. While he was in there, he reviewed exactly what he'd drunk that evening. At *least* three glasses, of something that tasted very much like wine. 'I must have been drunk,' he insisted to his image in the big mirror as he cleaned his teeth. 'I must have. What more evidence do I need?' He turned sideways, to look at his spine. It seemed to have been reassembled in the correct order. 'If it wasn't alcohol, it must have been something in the food.' There was a knock on the door. "Sulu? Are you okay?" "Yes." He took a bathrobe and eased it over his shoulders, then padded out into the bedroom. The lights had been lowered to a golden halo around the bed. Chekov was tucked up on the far side, a glass of water beside him, and the datapadd with the mission briefing in his hand. Sulu dropped the robe on the floor and slipped between the sheets. He waited to see if Chekov would say anything. The ensign did not. "You checking up on something?" Sulu asked after a moment. "Just... finishing my... personal log entry." Chekov laid the padd on the shelf and dialled the lights down to nothing. He turned back and forth a few times before settling, as if the medikit hadn't been entirely effective in removing his bruises. Sulu lay quite still for five minutes, then, "Chekov?" "Yes?" "Did I wake you?" "No, of course Sir did not wake me." "I'm sorry. If I did, which I don't believe for a moment. There's two things..." "The lecture continues." "No. Nothing like that. First, I really don't think I'm going to be able to sleep tonight without a pillow of some kind." Chekov grunted irritably, raised the lights, and padded around buck naked while he fetched a towel, folded it and handed it to Sulu. "And?" "And I'm sorry. You're right. Captain Kirk would have thought of a way out. Hell, if I realised after the event that just saying you were allergic would be sufficient, I should have thought of it while it would still do some good. Or I could have just remembered you're Jewish, or something." Chekov sighed melodramatically. "Oy, vey," he said, in a stagey Yiddish accent. "But then, if I was going to be Jewish, I might have to forgive you. As to which, as my old Jewish mother is so fond of saying, 'Forget it.'" He rolled away from Sulu and turned the lights down again. Sulu swallowed. "I really don't want to fall out with you." He waited for Chekov to point out that he should have thought of that earlier. Instead, Chekov said, "I know, but you make it so difficult." "What do you mean?" "Why don't you simply admit that you are sexually attracted to me, and then we can behave rationally about it?" "But that's not the problem!" Sulu protested. "I think it is. All my friends think it is. Even Christine Chapel thinks it is. Couldn't you tell?" "Don't be ridiculous," Sulu said desperately. "Ensign Quaid is taking bets at six to one that you make a move on me at the Science Department Christmas party." "This isn't about me, it's about your attitude..." "Does Mister Scott have a problem with my attitude? Does Mister Spock?" "No, but... but Captain Kirk does, sometimes." "Precisely." "You're making all this up!" "Ask him yourself." "Captain Kirk? Oh, sure." "Quaid, I mean." "I'm *not* attracted to you, Chekov. Infuriated by you, yes, but not..." "So why 'paddle' me, when anyone else would have ordered me to memorise the Federation..." "But *I* know you already have it memorised." "You could easily think of something else." "No, I couldn't. I tried, and I couldn't." "See." "Oh, for fuck's sake, Chekov, go to sleep." "Yes, sir." "No, hold on a moment. If Quaid's saying that kind of thing, we need to do something about it. What have I ever done to encourage that kind of rumour? Or is it something you've done?" "Well, if you think it is something *I* have done, wait until he hears about this evening's little... adventure." "We have to kill this thing, right now." "Why?" "Because it's not true." Chekov snorted quietly. "It'll get back to the captain, and he'll..." "What? What will he do? Stop rearranging our accommodation so that we share a bed? Then perhaps I'll get some sleep." "You know what I mean, Pavel. It's the kind of stupid rumour that makes people think twice about... about landing party assignments, and... "And promotions?" "Well, yeah." "Even more than when they find out you like to spank your subordinates, even *though* you aren't in a relationship with them?" "I..." "That is probably your best defence, you know. If you tell the captain that we are in a relationship, you can claim that spanking me was bad timing rather than sexual harassment." "I am not going to tell the captain anything of the sort, Chekov." "Then you are in big trouble." Silence fell again. Sulu stared into the darkness, wondering what madness had possessed him when he'd let Chekov get away with the first smart ass remark, the first minor insubordination, the first oh-so-apologetic cupid grin that had led to this path of mutually assured destruction. In retrospect, it was rather obvious. Something -- heavens knew what -- about the ensign had sent all his navigation beacons into a tailspin, and he was still headed nose down for destruction. He could tell that Chekov was waiting for him to say something. He took a breath and crossed his fingers. "Kiss me 'goodnight', Chekov." Chekov sat up and chastely complied. Then he lay down again with his head on Sulu's shoulder and sighed happily. END Back to the Archive Please use the form below to feedback to the author. Your message will also be forwarded directly to the author. Thank you. |