The thing about Pavel Chekov is that he gives the notion that he's the walking, talking essence of angelic innocence.

Dig a little deeper, and spend a little over a year with him on the USS Enterprise and you'll discover quickly that he's a lying little shit who knows how to work people around his teenage pinkie, and probably keeps a tally mark of all the people he's slept with on this damn starship. Leonard McCoy learns this the hard way. No pun intended.

It starts with frequented visits to the sickbay and McCoy thinks by the way the kid is smiling (and obviously flirting) with one of McCoy's nurses that she's pretty much the kids next target. At this point, Chekov's little ventures aren't exactly a secret, but no one dares to gossip about the precious, adorable eighteen-year-old ensign with his endearing Russian accent. And forget about labels, the damn kid doesn't even get one of those ship nicknames.

Needless to say, McCoy's plans are to steer clear of Pavel Chekov because he does not need to be a tally mark, no sir, and he made a pact with himself not to be fooled with boyish charm, which sounds really skeevy when you look at it that way. Oh, then there's the whole age difference thing, but when the year is 2260, these things don't really matter much anymore.(You could get into five years with the same handful of people but that's bringing on a whole tangled mess of complications and McCoy would rather not take a trip on that part of the thought train.)

So when Chekov shows up at the sickbay for the third time that week sporting open gashes along his forearm and God damn thigh from a beam-down trip gone wrong, McCoy takes a minute to exhale steadily through his nose and wish, not for the first time that day, that he had his flask with him.

McCoy thinks he's a little too cheery with someone bleeding from open wounds in his body, all smiles and dimples and legs swinging back and forth as he sits on the exam table chattering away incessantly about what exactly happened. (Of course, McCoy's already read the report because he's a damn good Chief Medical Officer and he's on top of every medical emergency, Pavel Chekov involved or not.) McCoy satisfies himself with the ability to tune out with little more than "hmms" and vague "Yeah"s which he's perfected due to his friendship with Jim Kirk. The kid's accent becomes more difficult to discern with the McCoy's tuning out on top of that cake, and so, in fact, McCoy doesn't have to listen at all as he gathers supplies and avoids Chekov's gaze while he prepares the dermal regenerator.

McCoy, naturally, starts with the wound along Chekov's forearm because he's going to procrastinate on that thigh wound as long as he can while still being medically professional (and probably legal), and he takes the ensign's wrist and draws his arm forward, pushing the sleeve up and out of the way. The laceration isn't that deep, even for its length, but the point is that Chekov has halted in his retelling of the events that caused the injury in the first place and is watching McCoy with a level of care and concentration that makes the doctor's skin crawl.

"That's uh," McCoy clears his throat but doesn't meet Chekov's stare. "Interesting." The word falls flat off of McCoy's tongue and Chekov's eyebrow twitches like he's going to raise it, but stops himself.

"Yes," Chekov nods, accent putting too much strain on the vowel. He works the tingle out of his fingers when McCoy lets go of his arm, fingers trailing over the already fading scar on his forearm. "But ze keptin is far worse off than me." Chekov nods towards Kirk on the other hand of the sickbay, who's moaning and complaining to Christine Chapel about his broken wrist, and Spock's hand is on Kirk's shoulder, but Mccoy doesn't think that's going to stop Jim from bitching at all.

"Jim's just a pansy," McCoy snorts without really meaning to, and Chekov lets out a tinkling laugh that McCoy does not find cute, no he doesn't, because that would be highly inappropriate and he is not going to be one of those goons wrapped around Chekov's finger.

Of course, McCoy isn't the lying type (unless it's absolutely necessary, but that's rare enough to be comfortable), and so he's not going to tell you that he doesn't find Pavel Chekov attractive. Because he does, and really, who /doesn't/, the kid is all ethereal, angelic beauty and McCoy doesn't just toss words like beautiful around for no good reason, so that's really something. But Chekov isn't the type of man to settle in, that much is obvious in his gait and easy smiles and the people that leave his room in the middle of the night, and so McCoy is not going to go much beyond physical attraction. There's no reason to, it's illogical as that pointy eared bastard would say, and McCoy doesn't go for casual sex, especially not with eighteen-year-old Ensigns.

And all of this is why he most certainly does not stutter when he tells Chekov to take off his pants.

The damn kid isn't even shy about it either, just stands and steps out of his uniform trousers like everybody isn't watching him, and McCoy's gaze is not lingering on long, pale legs - nope, just that gash on his inner thigh that's even less of a threat than the one on his forearm, and McCoy is not about to crouch down with the dermal regenerator because then his face would be far too close to the kid's crotch and McCoy has never been more uncomfortable in his life, God damn it.

To make it worse, Chekov just hops right back on top of that table, and bears his inner thigh for McCoy with a raised eyebrow and a fucking smirk, and Mccoy wants to scoff and turn around and just walk away but that'd be highly unprofessional and - oh my God is that a tattoo.

It is a fucking tattoo. On his fucking inner thigh. The cut missed it by just two inches, leaving it intact, and McCoy's seen enough mangled tattoos in his day, so he knows the kid is too luck for his own good. He shouldn't, but he pauses to study it as it is, just because it's something so intricately detailed and coloured dark for a /thigh/ tattoo, and it's relatively well-done, if only slightly faded with the sign of age. McCoy doesn't think it can't be /that/ old, the kid's only eighteen.

"Nice tattoo," McCoy can't help but say, because he's going to employ this multi-coloured distraction as he passes the dermal regenerator over the laceration on Chekov's thigh, regardless if he knows what it means or not. Chekov's answering grin is too large and too sneaky, like their sharing some sort of secret that McCoy doesn't know a damn thing about. Chekov doesn't offer an explanation and simply takes his pants back when McCoy hastily passes them over. The doctor suppresses a sigh of relief when he's finally able to turn his back and give Chekov an "All clear", because the ensign keeps giving him these looks that makes him red all over and Jesus, this is getting way out of hand way too fast. This isn't the first time Chekov's attempted at flirting, but none of McCoy's brushing offs seem to be of any use and really, he's torn between irritation and downright embarrassment which is fucking ridiculous, but not really something he's gotten under control.

Needless to say, he's a little more than relieved when the kid saunters off after another grin and a "Thank you, dokter", and McCoy resists the urge to duck out of the medbay to find a drink.


McCoy drinks a little too much.

In his defense, which is weak to be honest, but it's his, it's one of those "the crew's gonna party it up" days that happen more often than he thinks it should, and there has to be something in the Starfleet rulebook that prohibits this. Of course, knowing Jim Kirk, he'd just find a way around it, because Jim is usually the one that starts them up in the first place. He burst into one of the rec rooms with a chocolate bar for Spock and it's pretty much gone all downhill from there all night.

For someone with a broken wrist and a headache, Jim sure spends a lot of time expanding his abundance of energy by running around like a fucking maniac, Spock trailing

behind him like some sort of drunken puppy, and McCoy is perfectly content with huddling in his corner with his flask. It's half empty, because Leonard McCoy is a pessimist, and he frowns down into the flask with a sigh. He hadn't meant to drink that much - the room is tilting a little, the edges too dark, and McCoy grumbles to himself that he ought to learn how to lay off.

"Bones!" Jim calls then and he's suddenly in McCoy's face, yanking on his hands to bring him to his feet. "Did you know Uhura has a badass voice and Spock has this weird ass Vulcan-harp thing, come on their playing music in Rec Room 3." Kirk's eyes are dilated and his grin is far too large for his face, making it so that he resembles something akin to a chipmunk. He's been drinking, probably more than Bones himself, and that eases him a little bit.

McCoy attempts to wave him off, shaking Jim's grip from his wrist but Jim T Kirk is not the kind to give up that easily, so he just grabs them again and hauls McCoy to his feet. "You're not going to sit here and mope in the corner, old man," Jim argues and the next thing McCoy knows he's being half-dragged to Rec Room 3.

The room is too crowded considering it's one of the smallest of the Rec rooms, and there's a loose circle gathered around Spock and Uhura who are putting on some sort of performance with a synchronicity that speaks of practice. Bones doesn't recognize whatever it is they're playing, but it's upbeat and there's a few people swaying to the music and laughing. McCoy can't help but smile through another grumble as Jim breaks out in a grin and pretty much runs to be by Spock's side, leaning on him, arms folded over his shoulder for support. There's even the whole clapping-to-the-beat routine that's as old as music itself, and McCoy's hands itch like they want to join in but he's not about to let that happen.

Christine Chapel catches sight of him with a smile and motions for him to stand and join in - she's very keen to McCoy's grumpiness, and he owes her a lot for that - but he just shakes his head and waves her off. Leonard McCoy does not dance. He heals people and eases them into whatever's beyond the stopping of a heart and he drinks and sometimes he plays a mean poker game but he does not dance.

So when a pair of hands find themselves on his shoulders, accompanied by another large grin, his first instinct is to shove them off and grumble out the standard, "Dammit, Jim." But the smile is not snarky enough to be Jim's - too much teeth, not enough smirk - and the fingers digging into his shoulder blades are too slender.

"You must!" an accented voice says, the grey-ish blue of the eyes staring at him blown out of proportion by enlarged pupils.

Oh you have got to be kidding me.

McCoy is a little more gentle than he'd like to be when he shrugs Chekov off of him, turning his face away. "Not now, kid," he gives him a sidelong glance and holds up his flask as if to say cheers before tossing it back. Chekov just gives a pronounced frown that makes him look like a fucking kitten, Jesus Christ, and takes the flask out of McCoy's grasp.

"What are you -" McCoy begins but Chekov's already downed the rest of the fucking drink and is setting the flask on the nearest table and hoisting McCoy to his feet with enoughs strength and persistence to rival even Jim. When he settles one hand on McCoy's /hip/ and holds McCoy's own with the other, it's with a manner that suggests it's part of some larger plan, and if that doesn't just make McCoy eight hundred kinds of uncomfortable. Jim, fucking Jim, whoops like an idiot and before McCoy has the slightest sense to step away and hightail it out of there, he's dancing with Pavel Chekov.

"Jesus Christ," he grumbles out but he's following Chekov's quick steps and watching him laugh, and he's never been so angry with himself in his whole life.

"Come on," Chekov continues to urge, and really, who lets an eighteen-year-old get a hold of alcohol? Lord knows they upped the legal drinking age decades ago (not that that ever stopped McCoy, but the stipulation remains.) McCoy doesn't know what's more disturbing, the fact that nobody else said anything while Chekov drowned half of a fucking flask, or the fact that McCoy himself didn't.

The music around them fucking /picks up beat/ and Leonard is very aware of the other officers moving around them, but his gaze is fixed on Chekov's throat as he throws his head back to laugh and Jesus, that's it, he's fucked. He's so fucked.

Everything in him tells him to pull away and get the Hell out of dodge, but when he so much as flexes out of Chekov's grasp, the ensign holds on tighter, fixing him with sharp green eyes and smiling an almost dangerous smile and after a while, McCoy gives up.

It's not even fifteen minutes later that Jim leaves the room, tugging Spock along with him, and Leonard really really does not want to settle on that thought too long, because he's not too fond of throwing up, thank you.

"It's getting late, kid," McCoy chokes out to Chekov, who blinks up at him with long lashes and dear God, don't do that, Jesus Christ.

"Very well," Chekov nods, his accent fucking up the v and w, and then he's pulling McCoy out of the Rec room in the same manner Jim did Spock, and wow, that's a thought he's going to have to banish quickly, but damn, that alcohol's getting to him. The kid can hold his liquor well, apparently (figures, since he's Russian), and isn't even the slightest bit tipsy.

"Kid -" McCoy begins when they're out of the rec room, but Chekov hushes him and says, "Pavel."

"Pavel," McCoy blinks. He'd known that of course, he'd just never specifically put the name with the face and it's a little unsettling. "If you don't mind -" he pulls his wrist out of Chekov's - Pavel's - grasp, and rubs it uncertainly, hating the tingling sensation that still lingers. "I'll just be, ah, going."

Pavel fixes him with a stare that makes him stop and grins that dangerous grin again. "Are you sure?"

Of course he's sure, why else is he stepping away and totally ignoring the way that Pavel smiles and steps closer, and oh God, the kid's right there and all he can see are too-green eyes and damn fuck, he really should pull away, the kid's eighteen but oh, oh he's kissing him.

Leonard hasn't been kissed in years, and he's no Jim Kirk who particularly revels in that sort of thing, but Pavel's all soft lips and perfect rhythm, and he slots his mouth against McCoy's and reaches up to cup his jaw, and it's probably seven hundred and eight two kinds of wrong but Pavel's mouth is downright sinful, and the thing he can do with his tongue is a trick that took Leonard years to master and - fuck. Fuck, he's totally fucking getting hard, and if that just doesn't make him feel like some drunk, dirty old man, but Pavel just smiles against his mouth and he has no idea where the kid's pulling him to but he's following blindly.

For somebody a good six inches shorter, it doesn't take much for Pavel to have Leonard pressed against the wall and kissing him again, his hands roaming, and wow, they're all slow and sensual and fucking teasing when they go to reach down his Goddamn pants and Leonard really, really, really should pull away, but he doesn't think he's going to.

And wow, the kid's all talent (he has got to stop thinking of Pavel as the kid or things are gonna go way south way fast), and watches Leonard's face while he works him in his hand, with that stupid smile and there's about a thousand things McCoy wants to say but they all come out in heavy breaths and grunts and fucking hell, he's more of the teenager here than Pavel.

The damn ensign's muttering in Russian, and Leonard never really thought of Russian as a romantic language per se, but it's all smooth and almost soothing in Pavel's voice, and when he goes to his knees and replaces his hands with his mouth - well let's just say Leonard is screwed in every way in the galaxy and he's going to throw himself off the ship the second he gets a chance.

Eighteen year old ensigns really shouldn't be able to make their throat work around anybody's cock like that, let alone Leonard's, and he's burying his fingers in those curls without really thinking about and wishing he knew a foreign language to get Pavel all hot and bothered too; Leonard thinks Spock would call that thought illogical and oh my God, he can't think about that hobglobin with a Russian teeanger's mouth on his cock.

To make matters worse, all it takes is for a couple of god damn long hard sucks and McCoy's coming harder than he's ever had in his whole fucked up life, and fucking Pavel Chekov just takes it all down and bats his eyelashes again and Leonard really hates his life.

Pavel just looks him with pride in his stupidly green eyes and says, "I vill see you in Alpha shift tomorrow," and is sauntering off without even getting himself off, the little Russian bastard, and it takes Leonard a good three and a half minutes of collecting himself before he can push off the wall and find his quarters.

He collapses onto his bed and mutters, "Dammit," into his pillow, and that's the story of how Leonard McCoy becomes another notch in Pavel Chekov's belt.