Pandora’s Box
by
Patricia Wright
James Kirk patted the man’s back as he strode past the command chair. “Take good care of her, Kyle,” he urged. “Scotty, are you
going to the main dining room?”
The Chief Engineer moved to join the rest of the gathering Alpha bridge crew at the back of the bridge. “What’s the cook serving
tonight?”
“Meatloaf,” Sulu answered him.
Uhura hissed with a look of pain. “I thought we got him to relegate meatloaf to emergency rations only.”
“We did,” the Chief Helmsman insisted, casting a sharp glance at Chekov as the younger man entered the lift. “Until someone came
aboard that actually likes the stuff.”
Scott pulled up short and scowled at the Navigator. “Lad,” he advised him. “You’re fishing for a transfer already.”
A chuckle ran through the retiring bridge crew, but the Captain’s gaze was fixed on his new Navigator, standing alone in the open lift. “I’ll
meet you in rec room 12, Scotty: by the replicators,” he assured him as he passed. “Gentlemen,” he nodded to Uhura and Sulu. “Have a
good night.”
Uhura’s hand darted out and caught Scotty’s wrist, her arm effectively blocking Sulu from the lift as Kirk turned and took hold of the
control. Kirk’s nod of appreciation was barely noticeable as the doors closed behind him.
Chekov fixed his eyes on the wall opposite him as the lift began to move and his stiff form made it clear he was more than aware that,
despite the end of the duty shift for the entire Alpha shift, he had somehow ended up on the lift alone with the Captain.
Kirk smiled at him warmly. “Mr. Chekov, you’ve been on the bridge two months now: how are you finding your navigational duties?”
“Routine, Sir.”
Hazel eyes sparkled as a wry smile tugged at the older man’s lips. “Yes, well, I hope you’re finding Mr. Spock’s additional research
project challenging.”
“Yes, Sir. I appreciate the opportunity,” Chekov responded without moving his eyes.
“Dr. McCoy recommended you for the overtime personally,” Kirk commented. “He felt your energy would benefit from the extra
challenge.”
“Yes, Sir. Mr. Spock told me.”
The Captain shifted. “The evaluations of the ship’s department chiefs are in universal agreement. Since your arrival, Ensign, you have
shown yourself to be professional, exceptionally skilled, responsible to a fault, unexpectedly mature, and full of character.”
This finally brought a quizzical glance from the young man. “I am a character?”
Kirk chuckled. “No. I meant you have character,” he explained. “Your work ethic is exceptionally strong: you approach your duties with
enthusiasm, always give 110%, and require both thoroughness and accuracy of yourself. You can be relied on to consistently apply
creative thinking, and aren’t afraid to go beyond what is required or tackle whatever duty is presented to you. In fact, you have a talent
for grasping the entire picture and taking on what you see is needed–beyond expectations,” he added with slight smirk. “I am
exceptionally satisfied with your work and the potential I see in you.”
Chekov looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Thank you, Sir,” he finally replied.
“I am telling you this, Ensign,” the Captain continued, hazel eyes regarding him warmly. “Because it’s what I plan to put in your record as
your initial evaluation. I think it’s important to let people know how we think they’re doing before I put it in stone, so to speak.”
The younger man practically squirmed. “Thank you, Sir.”
“You don’t agree with this evaluation, Chekov?” the Captain asked with interest.
“It’s just that I am aware of several areas in which I could show improvement, Sir.”
Kirk grinned. “You’ve been out of the Academy six months: give yourself time, Ensign.”
“I’ll try, Sir,” he responded sincerely.
“Good.”
“You’ve also fit easily into the social structure of the ship: an important consideration on a deep space ship. In fact, your growing
friendship and easy camaraderie with the Chief Helmsman has noticeably improved the Helm Team efficiency rating for the Alpha shift.”
“I knew Lt. Sulu previously at the Academy, Sir.”
“Yes, he told me when you first posted to the ship,” Kirk agreed. He eyed the young man curiously then. “Tell me, Mr. Chekov, do you
always discount everything positive said about you?”
“I do, Sir,” the younger man winced apologetically. “I respond better to criticism.”
“I’ll try to remember that,” Kirk smirked.
“Thank you, Sir.”
The Captain gently cleared the amusement out of his throat. Hazel eyes fixed on the younger man then, and he stood for a moment
considering the new Navigator soberly. “Mr. Chekov.”
The Navigator’s dark eyes shifted back to the commanding officer at the obvious summons.
“With all your potential, I wouldn’t want the first entry into your active service record to be a reprimand for failure to adhere to
regulations regarding personal hygiene. Is that understood?”
The Ensign’s face paled. “Yes, Sir,” he said tightly.
Kirk’s lips tightened. “No explanation, Chekov?”
“None acceptable, Sir.”
“Humor me.”
Chekov shifted again, his eyes moving back to the wall. “I simply have not found the spa’s operating hours to be convenient with my
duty schedule lately.”
“You’re a commissioned officer, Mr. Chekov,” the Captain maintained. “Order someone to be there when it is convenient.”
Despite his obvious, continued discomfort, the Ensign nodded. “Yes, Sir.”
Kirk hesitated at the door as he moved to leave the lift, turning back to fix an icy look on the younger man. “As a captain, I would look
dimly on any member of my command team that I have to waste my time and energy giving ridiculous orders to, and you will find my
mood easily fouled by being forced to do any more record keeping than I already have to do.
“I plan to work on the personnel records Friday afternoon. I expect you to prevent the necessity of my having to do either, Ensign.”
----* ----* ----*
“More goodies?” Uhura asked eagerly as soon as she entered the cabin. She quickly helped herself to a home-baked morsel out of the
box on the desk. As she pushed it into her mouth with a finger, she cast an amused glance at Chekov who was seated at the desk:
hands gripping each other in his lap fiercely and eyes downcast sullenly.
“What’s the matter, did they run out of meatloaf, sweetheart?” Uhura asked with sympathy. “That seems hard to believe,” she added
with a wink at Sulu.
The Helmsman flashed her a wry smirk from where he sat in the other chair. “Kirk told him to get a haircut.”
“Well, I don’t doubt it!” she exclaimed. “It’s getting ridiculous, Chekov. You haven’t had your haircut since you got here.” Hesitating, her
eyes narrowed in tentative interest. “Did you tell him why?”
“I told him the ship’s spa has not been open when I was off duty,” Chekov muttered miserably. After a pause, his dark eyes shifted to fix
rigidly on the Communication’s Officer.
She accepted it with a roll of her shoulders and leaned back against the wall. “It’s not much of an excuse,” Uhura noted easily as she
helped herself to several more of the assorted baked goods.
“He said I could just order them to be open,” the younger man added irritably.
“Well, you could,” Sulu agreed. He had simply settled with a pile of the treats on his lap for convenience sake.
Chekov’s jaw hardened into stone and he made no reply.
Chuckling, Sulu exchanged an amused glance with Uhura. “It takes a bit of getting used to, Pavel, but being an officer means you have
to tell people what to do. Making an off-hours haircut appointment seems an easy place to start.”
The Navigator lurched out of the chair, kicking it aside as it fell in his path to storm into the bedroom. “What good would it do to order
them to be there,” he demanded angrily. “If they won’t give me a haircut?!”
The older man laughed out loud: a deep, resounding sound. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize the crew had latched onto your hair as their
newest sport. It’s part of the settling in process, Pavel. The crew always gives new officers a hard time. You have to ride it out and get
tough with them or you’re not going to make it. Once they think they can walk all over you, you’re dead.
“They simply can’t refuse to give you a haircut!”
Chekov spun back angrily, dark eyes glaring at Uhura again before fixing on his friend. “They can if a superior officer previously left a
standing order not to! I’m an Ensign, I can’t countermand a Lieutenant’s orders unless it’s an emergency!” he retorted.
“Now you’re being ridiculous,” Sulu insisted through a mouthful of food. “Who would give such an order?”
Color flushing into his face, the younger man simply glared at the Communication’s Officer before plunging into the sleeping area.
Sulu froze, eyes widening as they darted back to his companion. “Nytoya,” he exclaimed. “You didn’t!”
She straightened indignantly. “Of course I didn’t order them not to give him a haircut.” Setting her shoulders, she folded her arms
across her chest. “I just ordered them not to give him that haircut.”
“What?!”
“Well, look at him!” Uhura exclaimed, thrusting her arm toward the unseen man in the bedroom. “That...that stuff on his head is
preposterous! He looks ridiculous!
“All he has to do is agree to a new style and they’ll cut his hair,” she concluded with put-on simplicity.
“New style, Chekov!” the woman called out louder. “It’s not asking much!”
“I’ve had this style since I entered the Academy!” the younger man retorted, sticking his head out just long enough to glare at her again.
“Well, hell, it looks like you’ve got a mop on your head!” she declared.
“He’s starting to look like Cousin It,” Sulu agreed ruefully.
“Who?”
“Never mind,” he dismissed her question with a wry grin.
Uhura shook her head in amazement. “Just who gave you that haircut to begin with anyway? It’s horrible!”
Sulu snorted as he tried to swallow his laughter unsuccessfully. Dark eyes watched the room divider, but when the Navigator remained
pouting invisibly, he tipped over toward the Communication’s Officer. “His mother,” he divulged.
“His mother?!” she gasped, eyes widening in alarm. In horror, she demanded: “What did she use: pruning sheers?!
“Good God, Chekov,” Uhura continued, striding over to peer into the darkened bedroom. “What on Earth did you do to her that earned
you that punishment?!”
He appeared only inches from her, his face strangely placid. “My mother always cut my hair: my whole life. I never went to a barber until
I entered the Academy.”
“Well, that explains it,” she remarked.
“Explains what?” Chekov demanded.
“Why you look like a five year old child!” she spat back into his face. “Sweetheart, that is the most ridiculous thatch I have ever seen.
And I work in space with aliens!”
“Leave me alone,” he answered sullenly before disappearing back into the sleeping area.
Uhura sighed and leaned back against the end of the room divider. She tapped her fingers on her thigh. “Come out and listen for a
minute, Chekov,” she coaxed. “I’m trying to give you a woman’s point of view.”
“You’ve made your point of view very clear to me,” he answered without reappearing.
Sulu crossed his legs leisurely, grinning at Uhura as she rolled her eyes in frustration. “I had no idea you two had become so close.”
“Oh, yes,” she insisted. “We’ve had many a heart to heart.”
Chekov appeared then. “We’ve had one heart to heart,” he maintained stiffly. “Many times. You should put it on tape and save your
voice!” he rasped at her. “I could go to sleep listening to your nagging!”
Uhura straightened indignantly. “I am NOT a nag!”
Dark eyes gleaming, the Navigator screwed up his face. “Than I need a better English dictionary!
“And I am not getting my haircut like Riley or...or the Captain! They’re bald!” he declared.
Sulu’s laughter made him start choking on his food.
“They are not bald,” Uhura assured him tolerantly.
“They don’t have any hair!”
“It doesn’t have to be drastic, sweetheart,” the woman resorted to reasoning in a soothing voice. “Just start with something simple: put in
a part and brush the bangs out of your eyes.”
“They wouldn’t be in my eyes if I got them cut!” Chekov rasped.
“Chekov,” Uhura said firmly. “I’m telling you as a friend: you need to do something to get your hair away from your face. You just don’t
look good in long hair.”
The younger man pulled himself to his full height and straightened his shoulders. “I have always had long hair. It’s not like I’m ugly.”
“Yes,” she replied deadpan. “Yes, you are.”
He glowered at her and disappeared back in the bedroom.
Sulu cleared his throat, eyes dancing with amusement as he gathered together the edges of the napkin in his lap. “You don’t
understand what he means by ‘long’,” he explained to Uhura: depositing his food on the desk as she took a seat at it.
“He’s a little pig-headed,” she sighed as she began eating again. “Who made this: his mother?” she asked curiously.
“No, Chekov’s mother’s signature dish is toxic waste.”
“Sulu!”
“Mariya Chekov is a wonderful woman,” he shrugged. “She just can’t cook.
“Here, I’ve got something for you to look at,” the Helmsman added as he moved into the other room. “Lights,” he ordered.
Chekov glared at him from where he was pressed into the corner sulking. “What are you doing?”
“I’m just showing Uhura what you’re talking about,” Sulu explained as he retrieved a large book and returned to the living area.
“Hey, give that back!” the younger man demanded as he trailed after him. “That’s personal!”
Sulu thrust a finger at him violently. “Back off! Or I’ll give her the first one!”
Chekov jammed his arms across his chest and glowered at him sullenly.
“What first...? Oh!” Uhura exclaimed as she opened the book in her lap. “Printed pictures!” She flipped through the first pages. “No
adorable little baby pictures,” she deduced with disappointment. “Oh well, maybe someday.
“I’ve always wanted to put a family album together like this but I never seem to get around to it,” she continued as she casually
examined the photos.
“My mother gave them to me as a present when I left for the Academy.”
“What a wonderful idea!” Uhura remarked. Her fingers hesitated, a frown creasing the corner of her wide eyes as she studied the album.
“Chekov,” she asserted. “Your hair was short in these when you were a teenager.”
“No, it wasn’t,” he replied tartly. “It was long: past my shoulders. It always was.”
“No,” Uhura argued as she smoothed the very first picture in the album. “Your bangs are brushed away and it’s short on the side. You
were cute,” she added.
Chekov moved over and peered tentatively into the book. “It’s in a braid. I always wore my hair in a braid.”
“That made it look short. Your hair looks much better in these photos.”
“Well, it’s too short to braid now,” he maintained irritably.
The Communication’s Officer darted an amused glance at Sulu. “I could french-braid it for you, sweetheart,” she informed Chekov
studiously.
“I don’t think so!”
“Just look at all these adorable sailor suits you’re in,” Uhura marveled as she turned the pages carefully.
The Navigator scowled and straightened again. “They’re uniforms–not ‘sailor suits’. I was in the Russian Navy.”
She nodded and smiled up at him. “On old sailing ships: I know. I just hadn’t thought of you in little sailor suits, though.”
“Uniforms,” he corrected stiffly.
“That’s why he always had a braid,” Sulu interjected helpfully as he sat on the opposite edge of the desk and began eating again. “It’s
an old superstition. Sailors believe having your hair in a braid prevents you from being killed.”
“Superstitions can be so silly,” Uhura commented.
Chekov scowled darkly. “Sailors used to fight in hand to hand combat. Try slicing through a tarred braid to knock someone’s head off.
“Superstitions are usually based on wisdom,” he added.
“Mmm,” the Helmsman mumbled agreement through the food in his mouth. “Walk under a ladder and you’re libel to get something
dropped on your head.”
“I suppose,” Uhura sighed, turning another page. “OH!” she suddenly started, sitting bolt upright and clasping her hand to the bottom of
her throat. “Oh, my God!”
“What...?” Chekov asked in alarm, craning to get a better look at the album.
She shied away, pulling the album with her and closing it so he couldn’t see what she was looking at. Widening, her dark eyes shone as
they carefully traveled up and down the young man’s form. “Now, who...” she drawled, poking a finger into his bicep. “Would...have
thought...!”
“Ow! Stop that!” the young man spat out, jerking away as she kept poking him about the chest and arms. “Hey, that hurts!” he protested
as she tried to pinch him.
“Well, it wouldn’t if you had anything soft to grab hold of,” she grinned shamelessly.
Smirking in ignorant, but complete, collusion, Sulu crawled his arms over the food to peer into her lap. “What are you looking at,
Nytoya?” he asked curiously.
“Beefcake!” she exclaimed with a laugh, pushing the top edge of the album toward the Helmsman so he could see it. “Just look at that
body!
“Pavel Chekov,” Uhura continued in appreciative amazement, “You are not a scrawny little thing!”
“Who said I was?” he asked stiffly, folding his arms across his chest again in discomfort.
“Well, with your clothes on...look...,” she declared. “Just look at...good heavens you’re buff! Who would have thought you had biceps
and pecs!”
“We worked hard.”
“I’ll say you did,” she marveled with a sigh. “That incredibly tanned, sweaty, pumped...”
“Okay, stop it!”
“I am....”
“Uhura!”
“I’m truly in awe, Chekov.”
He glowered at her. “If you’re going to look, look: keep turning the pages or give it back to me!”
The Communication’s Officer laughed happily. “I have the right to drool, Pavel. Oh, please: be a doll. Let me just have one of these
pictures of you.”
“What for?”
“To remember you by when the Captain transfers you for not getting a haircut,” Sulu quipped as he sat back up.
“I’ll give you a Academy graduation picture,” Chekov snapped.
“I want this one!” she insisted. “I promise not to post it on the ship’s internet.”
Throwing his hands up in frustration, the Navigator spun into the bedroom muttering unintelligibly.
Sulu leaned back toward the giggling Communication’s Officer and muttered: “I’d reserve my choice, if I were you.”
She hesitated and eyed the man curiously. “Wh...”
He shot up a finger to silence her. “Keep turning,” he advised in another mutter, then straightened up: peering into the other room
expectantly. “The great thing about working on a sailing ship,” he announced loud enough for anyone even passing in the corridor to
hear, “Is that when you work hard and get hot and sweaty, there’s a whole ocean of water around to cool off in.
“Sailors go swimming all the time,” Sulu added innocently.
“NYET!” Chekov suddenly screamed in horror. He vaulted over the bed in one leap, scrambling toward Uhura and the deadly thing in
her hand. “BOHZE MOI! NOOO!”
A gasp had already burst out of Uhura, however: her mouth dropping open in shock. “Oh...my....God!”
The Navigator drew up short. “Uhura,” he pleaded in quiet desperation. “Give me the photo album now.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” she drawled with a breathy sound as she stared at the picture. “Not on your life.”
“Please!”
“My, oh, my,” the woman continued, fanning her face with a delicate hand. “My, oh, my.”
“They don’t wear swimsuits,” Sulu interjected helpfully with a grin, dark eyes gleaming wildly.
“I...noticed,” she half giggled. “Just look at...” Uhura paused to cast a devilish look up at Chekov. “All that thick, long hair.”
“I had it exposed to the sun to dry it,” the young man muttered defensively.
Her eyebrows raised and she grinned. “That’s not all you were hanging out to dry, sweetheart.”
Chekov’s eyes sank closed in a wince.
“And your chest!” she marveled. “You’ve got an incredibly hairy chest.”
“I am not in the mood for bear jokes,” he muttered miserably.
Uhura waved her hand at him encouragingly. “Oh, no, sweetheart: it’s perfect. All that thick, dark hair on your pecs; tapering down in a
triangle and thinning out until...” She grinned wickedly again. “It gets thick again.”
“You can have the other picture,” he insisted suddenly, opening his eyes to glare at her. “Just give me the album now.”
“Oh, no,” she declared. “I’ve changed my mind about the picture!
“It’s just a shame there’s no rear view available,” she muttered to herself.
“Turn the page,” Sulu advised with a smirk.
“Don’t tell her that,” Chekov rasped. “There’s no pictures of my backend in there.”
“Yes, there is,” the Helmsman insisted. “Up on the right there’s a picture of the sailors being hosed off.”
“I am not in the showering picture!”
“Look!”
“I don’t need to look! I’ve seen the picture!”
Sulu craned his head around. “The guy on the right toweling his hair off,” he directed her.
“You’re making things up, Hikaru. There’s no way you can tell that’s me.”
“Don’t be embarrassed, Chekov,” Uhura smiled. “It’s a fine...picture.”
“It’s not me!”
“Chekov,” Sulu intoned forcibly. “I shared a dorm room with you for two years at the Academy: I know what your ass looks like!”
“If I had known you were making such a study of my ass, I would have asked for a different roommate!”
The Helmsman screwed up his face and waved at the younger man dismissively. “I was your assigned mentor, you didn’t have a choice.
And believe me, it isn’t impressive enough to study...despite what Uhura thinks,” he added, winking at the woman.
The Navigator sank into a sullen pout again, silently stewing as Uhura turned back to leisurely study the earlier picture.
“Relax, Chekov. There’s nothing here I haven’t seen before.”
He blinked at her in surprise.
She let out a light-hearted laugh. “Not on you, sweetheart.”
Tapping the desk quietly with his fingers, Sulu caught the woman’s gaze and gestured that it was time to ease up on the younger man.
“There’s really nothing to be embarrassed about, Chekov,” Uhura assured him as she closed the book and hugged it to her chest.
“Really. You’re a fine specimen and its an artistic picture.”
“Wonderful,” he muttered before slinking into the sleeping area again.
“Stop in my cabin,” Sulu advised Uhura as he stood and collected the box of food.
“Isn’t that Chekov’s?”
“Can’t have him getting fat on you,” the Helmsman quipped. “Besides, he’s just going to sulk the rest of the night.”
“What about the party?”
“Change of plans. Sulking,” Sulu quipped as he strolled past her, through the bedroom and disappeared into the bathroom.
Uhura followed him into the bedroom. She paused and set the album on the bed next to the young man who was sitting there...sulking.
“I wasn’t teasing you to be mean,” she assured him quietly.
“I know you weren’t,” he replied soberly.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Uhura,” Chekov’s voice stopped her as she reached the bathroom door.
“Yes?”
“Give me that picture back.”
Straightening, her eyes widened as she touched her throat gently. “Picture?”
“Yes,” he bit out, raising his eyes to fix her with a dark look. “I want the picture back that you took.”
She lowered her hand, considering his words a moment. “Maybe you’ll just have to find it yourself.”
Chekov’s face lightened unexpectedly. “Don’t make suggestions that I may not be inclined to refuse, Lieutenant.”
The woman sighed and strolled back a few steps toward him. “You can’t just expect me to give it up without any incentive,” she urged.
“I’ll give you the other one,” the Navigator said with resignation. “The... ‘beefcake’... one.”
“Hardly an equitable trade,” Uhura tsked. “I’ll tell you what,” she drew out. “If you let me keep the picture, I’ll give you my African flute.
You love it.”
Chekov straightened, screwing up his face. “A pornographic picture of me in exchange for a carved stick?” he rasped irately. “Try
offering me something there’s a possibility I may actually want.”
She coughed reflexively, quietly. “It’s art,” she corrected. “Not porn.”
The Navigator looked dubious.
With a tender smile, Uhura sauntered leisurely toward the bed. She reached out and gently brushed the hair back from his face.
“There is something that I very much want to give you, sweetheart,” she said softly. “If you let me, I promise to give the picture back.”
Chekov eyed her warily. “Although remarkably tempting, I suspect this may...involve pain.”
Smiling sweetly, Uhura cooed: “Don’t you trust me, Pavel?”
“It is going to hurt,” he concluded immediately.
“Not permanently. I promise.
“Come to my cabin later, sweetheart,” she entreated, dropping her hand and turning to leave. “We may just be able to help each other.”
Sulu turned as Uhura entered his cabin from the other side of the bathroom. “I was beginning to think you got lost coming through the
bathroom.”
“Used the facilities as I was passing through,” she lied.
“That’s what they’re there for,” the Helmsman agreed as he thumbed through the paperback book he held.
“You know,” he started, hesitating long enough to raise his eyes to her. “Maybe you should lay off him for a little while, Nytoya,” Sulu
urged gently. “The kid was still in the Academy six months ago.”
“He’s a big boy,” Uhura assured him. “A big boy,” she added in a significant mutter, eyes sparkling. She glanced away furtively from Sulu’
s sharp glance, smoothing her hair back with a smirk.
The Helmsman strolled over closer to her. “I know,” he sighed under his breath. “We share a bathroom.”
“I’m worried about him,” Uhura confessed. “Chekov is absolutely consumed with work and trying to impress everyone. He’s way too
serious.
“You were his roommate for two years at the Academy. Does Chekov ever smile?”
Sulu hesitated, glancing over at her. “Being in the Fleet means a great deal to him,” he observed after a moment. “Chekov wants to
take advantage of all the opportunities there are for him here.”
“He doesn’t have to do it all in the first few months. Do you know how much overtime he’s already racked up? Now, he’s baling on
tonight’s party,” she observed with an exasperated tone.
“And you think a haircut is going to help?”
“I don’t know,” she sighed. “We have to try something. I just think maybe a new look will help him come out of his shell, you know?”
Chekov could smile. Uhura knew he could because she’d actually seen him do it once. He had just informed Scotty that ‘fool me twice,
shame on me’ was a saying that had its origins in Russia–and Chekov had smiled. No one believed the Communication’s Officer when
she told them so, but she had seen it. So Uhura knew the action wouldn’t cause him physical damage if Chekov employed it every so
often.
“Nytoya, sometimes a haircut isn’t just a haircut,” Sulu informed her. “I thought you could use this,” he continued, holding the book out
to her.
Curiously, she took the book and turned it over to read the cover. “Village Life in Late Tsarist Russia.” Uhura smiled at him. “Are we
taking a Russian history course so we can argue with Chekov?”
“No,” Sulu replied quietly. “I’ve noticed you’re becoming close to Pavel, so I thought this might be helpful.”
Her dark eyes shone as she lowered the book. “You’re not jealous, are you Hikaru?”
He chuckled, shaking his head as he walked away. “We’re not twelve, Nytoya. I’m friends with him, I’m friends with you. I like you both. I
admit I was hoping you’d like each other when I introduced you so we could all hang out together.”
Sulu stopped long enough to eat the food he pulled out of the box now on his own desk before turning back to her. “Am I supposed to
resent it now that it turns out that you do?”
“Well, no: I suppose not,” she agreed as she moved up to lean against the room divider. “But sometimes these things can get awkward.”
“Yes,” he insisted. “When you’re twelve.” The Helmsman sucked on sticky fingers for a moment.
“Are the two of you going to start whispering about me behind my back?” he asked casually.
Uhura rolled her eyes melodramatically. “Of course not.” She grinned. “We’ll be sure to talk loud enough for you to hear.”
“Good. As long as we understand each other.”
“Understand?” she mused lightly. “Well, of course. You do speak Russian, don’t you?”
He laughed at her. “I wouldn’t count on my ignorance, Nytoya.”
“I’m impressed, Hikaru,” Uhura marveled honestly.
“Don’t be,” Sulu assured her through another mouthful of food. “Some things are a matter of survival.”
He moved over to her, waiting until he swallowed before he leaned close and confessed: “He had me proposition his mother the first
time I met her.”
“Sulu!”
“I have never said anything I didn’t translate myself since then,” he insisted, straightening and brushing the remaining crumbs off his
hands. “She didn’t care,” he observed. “But his father–standing next to her at the time–wasn’t impressed.”
Uhura winced. “Oh, my.”
Sulu chuckled, dark eyes sparkling. “Andrie knew. He’s been dealing with Pavel a lot longer than we have.
“Chekov grew up in a Historic District in Russia: in a rural village,” he continued. “That book does a good job of explaining their culture.
It helps to understand where he’s coming from.”
The Communication’s Officer twisted her face in curiosity, turning the book over to study it again. “So he’s not a New Russian,” she
concluded thoughtfully.
Sulu froze, glancing at her sharply. “Don’t ever use that term,” he intoned forcefully.
Eyes widening, Uhura used the book to fan herself gently. “Russia always had a very unique culture, Hikaru. When the Soviet Union
disbanded in 1991, the democratic Russian Federation was formed and most of it’s citizens adopted the values and culture of the rest
of the planet. They’re called New Russians.”
“The rest of the world calls them New Russians,” he agreed tonelessly. “You shouldn’t.”
She lowered the book curiously. “I’m a linguist, love. I need an explanation.”
He hesitated, making a clear effort to choose his words carefully. “You’re aware of the use of the word ‘nigger’ in the late twentieth
century United States?” he asked.
“Yes,” Uhura nodded. “For a time, it was accepted as a descriptive term between black Americans. For anyone else, it was an
unspeakable, utterly unacceptable insult.”
“ ‘New Russians’ is the same thing: only reversed,” Sulu explained. “Ignorant people outside the culture use it as a descriptive term.
Among Russians, however, it’s an utterly unacceptable insult.”
“Meaning what?”
He shrugged. “Generally, it means ‘a person with more money than either taste or brains.’ I think of its meaning as ‘an amoral sellout’.”
“I’m not Russian,” she reminded him.
“You’re a friend,” he stated bluntly. “It counts.”
“So how do Russians refer to people who aren’t...Traditional Russians, isn’t it?” Uhura asked curiously.
“Yes,” he confirmed. “You’re either a Traditional Russian or a Western Russian.”
“Meaning you either follow the traditional Russian culture or the more universal western culture on Earth,” she mused. “And Pavel is a
Traditional Russian.”
“That’s right.”
Uhura tucked the book gently under her arm and moved toward the door. “Well, thank you, Hikaru. I appreciate your understanding:
and your help.”
His dark eyes glinted. “I’ve had practice. Read the book, you’ll understand.”
“I’ll get it back to you as soon as possible.”
“No,” he corrected, shaking his head. “Go ahead and keep it: I’ve got other copies.
“I dog-eared a page,” Sulu added. “You should read that section soon.”
“Thank you,” she repeated. “I will.”
“Nytoya,” the Helmsman stopped her as the door to the corridor slid open, turning somber eyes on her. “You should read it soon.”
Frowning, she eyed him curiously. “I said I would, Hikaru.”
“I mean soon,” he insisted forcefully.
“Like tonight?” Uhura asked in amusement.
“Like immediately.”
----* ----* ----*
Chekov let the towel tumble down his back, settling on his waist as he sat down. Stretching luxuriously, he let out a sigh of pleasure. “I
like your shower,” he mumbled. “It’s hotter than ours.”
Uhura slipped her cool fingers onto his damp shoulders and began massaging the firm muscles. “You can adjust the temperature. Ask
Sulu to show you how.”
A scowl tugged at his lips. “He’ll accuse me of trying to scald him.”
“He’s a baby,” she said, pushing her hands forward. He sat silently as her fingers parted tunnels in the thick curls of his chest hair.
“Uhura?”
“Nytoya.”
“Uhura?”
“Yes?”
“I...” he hesitated a moment, then twisted his head back to give her a slight, apologetic look. “I don’t remember how the regulations
require I word it, but you’re making me uncomfortable.”
She straightened, pulling her hands back up to his shoulders as he turned back around.
“And more than a little interested,” Chekov added.
“Party pooper,” she scolded with a put-on tone of disappointment.
He sighed dismally. “I’m sorry. It’s my own fault: I’m...physically oversensitive. It’s what happens when you’re a 22 year old virgin,” he
complained.
Uhura froze, blinking repeatedly. She tried to speak. She tried: several times, but no sound came out.
Chekov twisted around to look at her again, dark eyes intense. “I meant I haven’t had sex since I was 21.”
He ducked, but she still managed to slap him upside the head. “Sorry,” she said immediately. “Officer’s aren’t supposed to hit each
other.”
“I deserved it,” he conceded.
She pinched his shoulders fiercely. “Especially since your birthday was last month.”
“Don’t remind me,” he muttered miserably. “It’s my only complaint about this ship.”
Uhura shook her head in silent futility, then leaned down and touched her lips softly to kiss the spot beneath his ear. “I’m sure I can help
with that.” She withheld the chuckle as she saw his eyebrow raise.
“Do you think so?” he asked hopefully.
“I’m sure of it,” she repeated. Uhura tightened her hands on his shoulders again. “Are you still sure you want to do this, sweetheart?”
Chekov nodded tersely. “Just get it over with already.”
“This won’t hurt much,” she assured him as she straightened and pulled the towel up to drape it over his shoulders. “Ready?”
“Just do it,” he said tightly.
Wincing as the cold metal touched the back of his neck, a sharp whimper escaped him as it snapped and the vibration ran down his
spine.
“Don’t whine,” Uhura scolded. “It wasn’t that bad. See?” she soothed, reaching around to show him the small pile of hair she had
collected in her hand.
He eyed it suspiciously. “That’s it?” he ventured tentatively.
She leaned back, smoothing the back of his hair down with the back of her finger. She tilted her head to study it. “I’m afraid I don’t think
so. Your hair is very thick but there’s no curl in it.”
“My father’s is very wavy.”
“You didn’t get those genes,” Uhura commented. “Your hair has plenty of body but it’s not going to pull up much when it dries, so it’s still
longer than regulations permit.”
Chekov pressed his lips together tightly and made a sour face. “Hurry up and cut it already. I don’t want to sit here all night.”
“Okay,” she gave in, drawing the scissors quickly across the back of his wet hair. “That’ll do it.”
“We’re done?” the Navigator asked brightly, moving to stand.
She pushed him back down in the chair. “Not quite. Your bangs, remember?” Uhura reminded him as she moved around the front of the
chair. “Spread your legs.” When he did so, she straddled his leg and stepped up close to him, pulling his bangs down in front of his face
with the comb.
“My mother never used to stand like that.”
“I’m not your mother. Stop complaining or I’ll kneel on you.”
“You said you were just going to part my hair and brush my bangs to the side,” Chekov continued irritably.
“They still have to be cut,” Uhura intoned, eyeing them critically. “I’d like to know our Navigator can actually see the stars.”
“The viewscreen is only a projection,” he maintained. “The image is actually distracting.”
“Shut up, Pavel.”
Chekov pushed her hands away in frustration and, grabbing a chunk of his wet hair, pulled it out in front of him. “How much?” he
demanded.
“Enough so it doesn’t come down to the end of your nose anymore,” she chided. “Just close your eyes and sit still.”
He sank into a pout and did as instructed, chewing on his lip as he waited nervously. He gasped in horror as she sliced across his hair,
blood spurting out of his lip he bit down on it so hard.
Chekov moaned softly. “Done?” he asked hopefully. His hands tangled with hers as he pawed at the remainder of his hair as she tried
to sweep his hair across his forehead.
“Stop it! Chekov!”
“That’s all you said you were going to do,” he spat out. “We’re done.”
Uhura shook her head, her mouth screwing up ruefully. “It’s so thick and all one length, so the part just won’t stay in.”
“Oh, well,” he shrugged, rising. “Back to the same style that works.”
“It does not work!” she retorted, shoving him back down. “You look like you have a mop on your head.”
“A shorter mop,” he clarified helpfully.
“But still a mop,” Uhura maintained, refusing to be cowed by him. “You promised to let me try a new style,” she reminded him, then
smiled. “And I still have that picture: I think it’d be very popular posted in new chat room.”
Chekov scowled, fuming as she pushed her fingers experimentally through his hair. “We just need to do something to bring out your
best features.”
“Which features are those?”
“How would I know?” Uhura declared. “I’ve never seen your face!”
His eyes were his best feature, she knew, but wasn’t prepared to tell him that. Those huge, soulful brown eyes could never be
overshadowed by anything a haircut could reveal. It was just that Chekov’s huge eyes were always so dark, so intense: like him. The
man actually frightened people.
Uhura pushed the hair back past his ears, twisting and turning her head to study him. “Why don’t we try trimming it around your ears?”
A low growl came out from the depths of his throat. “I don’t want to look like Riley!”
“You won’t,” she assured him, straightening. “Did your mother just trim the length when she cut your hair?” she mused then, almost to
herself. “She must have, it was always one long length. “I’ll just shape it around your ears. Okay?
“It’ll be fine, sweetheart,” she said soothingly as moved around beside him. “Trust me.”
“I don’t want to look like Riley,” he repeated defiantly.
“You won’t,” she insisted. “Relax.”
“And not like the Captain or Mr. Scott!”
“If you don’t shut up, I’ll make you look like Mr. Spock.” Uhura grinned at his look of horror. “Pavel...” she drew out tolerantly. “What
about Dr. McCoy? I’m just talking about long hair with your ears showing.”
He eyed her in thought. “Like Dr. McCoy?”
“Yes,” she agreed with relief at his softened tone. “Or like Sulu.”
“Sulu,” he repeated as if to reassure himself and he settled back in the chair. “Oh.
“Have you cut anyone’s hair before?” Chekov suddenly asked.
“Of course. I used to cut my brother’s hair all the time.”
He knocked her hands away, shrinking back in alarm. “I’m relatively sure your brother has a completely different texture of hair than I
do!”
“Stop being a baby!” she ordered, slapping his hands away. “I swear you act like a five year old: just like your hair makes you look. Now
hold still or I’ll make you look like Vincent Van Gogh!” Uhura yanked the comb through his hair and swept the scissors around his ear.
“There. Looks better already.”
“Uhura!” Chekov gasped in horror as the freed hair tumbled down onto his hand. He clutched at the long wad of hair. “You cut all my
hair off! You promised you wouldn’t make me look like Riley!” he accused angrily. “Look what you did!”
Uhura rolled her eyes. “I just trimmed it around your ear, Pavel.”
“My ear isn’t that big!” he declared.
“No, but your head’s that fat,” she muttered.
“What?” the Navigator asked suspiciously.
“I said your hair was that long. That happens when it’s practically all one length.”
“That’s enough,” Chekov announced. “You’ve... ow!”
She ground her kneecap down into his thigh, forcing him to sit back down. “You can’t leave until I make both sides of your hair look the
same.”
He growled. “I’ll start a new style.”
“Not and blame me, you won’t!” she rasped back. “Now just sit there and shut up a minute.” Moving around the other side of him, Uhura
cut away the hair until his other ear appeared.
“Oh, stop whining already,” she ordered. She stepped back in front of him and eyed him critically, pushing and pulling on his hair. “It
stays wet a long time,” she commented.
“Forever,” he complained.
Tilting her head, Uhura winked at him. “I’ll arrange for some sun if that will help.”
Chekov growled. “Shut up, Sir.”
She laughed. “Having it all one length like this really doesn’t do you justice, Pavel.”
“It’s not all one length: it’s shorter around my ears.”
“But all the hair is one length,” Uhura maintained. “You look like you’re wearing a pumpkin on your head.”
His eyes widened in alarm. “You made me look like a pumpkin?! Uhura!”
“You already did,” Uhura chided. “I’m just saying that with hair this thick, if you let me layer it than it will be much more manageable and
it will let people see your face.
“You’ve got beautiful eyes, you know, sweetheart.”
“Stop trying to con me by flirting,” he bit out stiffly. “I know the ploy.”
“Pavel,” she sighed in exasperation. “The only thing people can see now is this great big wad of hair.”
He remained sullen, sulking silently.
“You promised to let me try.”
“You already did,” he insisted, miserably pawing at the sides of his head. “I already feel like I’m getting an ear infection.”
Sighing, Uhura wandered around him, pushing his thick hair around with her fingers. She swept her hand along the back edge of his
hair. “It’s a shame you cut your hair to begin with.”
Chekov didn’t answer. He slipped his hands protectively over the small wooden box he’d been balancing in his lap.
A soft smile touched her lips as she smoothed his damp hair with her hand. “Why did you cut it, sweetheart?” she asked.
His knuckles on the box turned white. “I had to,” he answered stiffly.
She peered around at his face with mild curiosity. “Not for the Fleet,” Uhura observed gently. “The braid met both Academy and Active
Duty regulations.”
“It wasn’t for the Fleet,” Chekov said tonelessly. “It just...had to be cut.”
Her dark eyes shifted from the face that betrayed nothing and she began pulling the long lengths of hair out down between her splayed
fingers. She chuckled quietly. “I was thinking about nuns.”
This brought her an odd look from the younger man.
Uhura smiled. “Their hair, Chekov. Don’t nuns cut their hair short when they take their final vows?”
“I doubt it,” he said. “They used to: it was considered an outward sign that they were leaving the world and it’s ways.”
She drew the flat of her hand slowly down his damp hair. “That’s what you were doing, wasn’t it?” Uhura asked quietly. “By cutting off
your braid, you were showing that the Navy was no longer a part of your life.”
He sat motionless, allowing a tense nod after a long moment.
“I saw the picture,” Uhura explained. It was a haunting image of the sailors gathered on the sailing ship’s main deck. From their tortured
expressions and tear-streaked faces, she had assumed that they were watching a flogging. Chekov’s, to be exact: he was missing from
the photo. She had since realized they were actually watching his hair being cut short.
“You were close to the other sailors, weren’t you?”
“They were my family,” Chekov replied. “Actually,” he drew out, glancing around the room before he turned to meet her gaze–as if he
were making a confession. “They were like my big brothers. The youngest sailor in the crew was 25 years older than me. They adopted
me. Looked out for me.”
She smiled warmly. “That must have been nice after bing an only child.”
“I don’t think anyone’s ever been so loved,” he agreed, brown eyes glassy. “They used to compete to see who would take my innocence
first.”
Uhura’s hesitation brought a sparkle to his dark eyes. “Not sexually, Sir. In things like...who was going to get me drunk first.”
“Oh,” she chuckled. “I see. Well, after that, what’s left?”
“I learned from Volya to spit, but I don’t think they truly embraced my ‘education’ with zeal until Sergie taught me to swear.”
“What exactly did this ‘education’ consist of?”
“I can cheat at cards, do bad magic tricks, pick pockets...”
“Goodness!” she declared. “It’s amazing you had time to learn to read and write.!”
“If it had been up to the sailors, I wouldn’t have.” Chekov lapsed into silence again, dropping his gaze to the box as he turned it over in
his hands.
“They always knew I was going into the Fleet when I was old enough,” he drew out hollowly then. “They encouraged me when I was
trying to get my appointment to the Academy, helped me study for the entrance exams, threw a huge party when I got in...”
He hesitated, fingertips tracing the intricate design carved into the box’s lid. He chewed on the corner of his lip. “I didn’t realize that it
didn’t occur to them that it meant I was leaving,” he said hoarsely. “Then...Mitya asked me to go to Moscow with him on Saturday and I
reminded him I would be at the Academy.”
Chekov lapsed into silence. “So Sasha suggested we go on Monday instead.”
“That’s when you cut your hair,” she concluded quietly. “So that it was real to them: so they could see that you were really leaving the
Navy.”
Chekov nodded tersely and pressed the box tightly against his abdomen.
“Pavel, what’s in the box?” Uhura asked gently.
“You’ll think it’s weird.”
“Now, why would you say that?”
“Because it is weird,” he replied stiffly.
“Sweetheart,” Uhura laughed lightly. “Weird takes on a whole new definition when you work in space. Let me see your box.”
She accepted it from him and took a moment to stroke it admiringly. “This is birch, isn’t it? You know they make beautiful jewelry out of
birch bark.”
“Yes, I know,” he said. “Shoes too: but they’re not beautiful. Or comfortable.”
“I don’t imagine they are,” she commented, but hesitated as she moved to open it the box. Holding it away from her warily, Uhura eyed
him. “You’re not tricking me into opening Pandora’s box, are you, Chekov?” she asked dubiously.
“Who? That’s my box,” the Navigator said with slight indignation. “My mother gave it to me when I left for the Academy.”
She smiled in amusement at his claim of ignorance, sweeping aside the latch with a finger and raising the lid. Her fingers tightened on it
as she resisted the urge to recoil in horror.
Chekov squirmed. “I told you,” he said tightly.
Pursing her lips, she prodded at the contents gingerly with a finger. “Pavel,” she suddenly asked, “Did you know that one of my hobbies
is researching and collecting old Earth fashion accessories?”
“I did not know that.”
Uhura nodded firmly. “Well, it is. And this isn’t weird at all, Pavel.” She smiled and cast him a warm look. “Taking a piece of a loved one
with you when you had to leave home was considered a profound compliment. They used to make jewelry out of their loved ones hair:
so they would always be close. Women, in particular, used to give men in the military locks of their hair to carry.”
She flashed him a wry grin. “Sweetheart, you must have left a lot of girls back home.”
Chekov started slightly, giving her an odd look. “Those aren’t from my girlfriends.”
“I know,” she interrupted his further protest. “I’m teasing. They’re from the sailors, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
Removing one of the small, braided locks of hair, she turned it over in her hand curiously.
“That’s my father’s hair,” he said as he watched her.
“It is very wavy...and black. Can you tell who they all belong to?” she asked curiously as she replaced it and began sifting through them
with the tip of her finger.
“Of course I can.”
A smile swept over her face as she pulled another small braid out to inspect. “This is yours.”
He glanced at the hair in her hand sharply. “No, it’s not.”
The amusement danced in her dark eyes and she held the lock out against his head. Uhura fixed him with a look of victory.
“That’s not my hair,” Chekov insisted.
“Pavel, it’s...” she hesitated, the determination in his face registering on her mind. “It’s your mother’s,” she corrected.
“Yes.”
“How were you sure it’s not yours?”
“My hair is in the other compartment.”
Prompted by this new information, Uhura examined the box until she found a way to open the other section. She hesitated and an easy
smile swept over her face. “Chekov, that superstition about not being killed as long as your hair is in a braid...” she began.
“Doesn’t say anything about the braid having to be attached to your head,” he concluded ruefully. “Or at least that’s what my mother
said.”
“So she saved your braid, just in case,” Uhura said warmly as she closed the box and handed it back to him. “I can see she’s not a
person to take any chances where the safety of her son is concerned.”
“I told you it was weird.”
“It’s sweet,” she argued. Brushing his bangs back out of his face again, she made a rueful face. “It’s too thick to hold the part,” she
observed again. “It should be layered, Pavel.
“We’d be able to see your face,” she urged again after a moment.
He made no response, pulling in his lower lip to chew on it sullenly.
Uhura let her hand fall to brush stray, loose hair off his exposed neck. “Russian peasants don’t wear their hair short either,” she
observed.
Chekov twisted his head up to give her a sour look. “Sulu gave you a copy of the book.”
“The book?” She resisted the urge to tease him. “Yes, he did. Where did he get it?”
“I gave it to him,” Chekov confessed with a sigh as he turned back to stare at the box in his hands. “I had no idea that he’d consider it
an instruction manual.”
Uhura chuckled. “He does seem to,” she agreed.
“Information in that man’s hands is dangerous,” the Navigator observed miserably.
“He’s your friend,” she commented. “According to the book, peasants all kept their hair long, in the same style, as a sign that they were
a member of the community: no better than anyone else.”
“Our communities work because everyone contributes equally,” Chekov said. “No one is more important than anyone else. Conceit is a
liability that is dealt with quickly.
“But some serfs still cut their hair short, didn’t they?”
“Yes. The serfs that worked for the landowners usually cut their hair short in the fashion of their employers.” There was a hesitation in
his voice. “They were different from the rest of the villagers. Having short hair is still considered a sign that you’re a sell-out to the
community.”
“I didn’t get that impression,” she disagreed. “From my reading, Pavel, I understood it is merely considered a sign of servitude.”
“They were kiss-assess to the slave owners,” he retorted indignantly. “What’s the difference?”
“I don’t know,” she drew out thoughtfully. “I suppose I’d have to study it more.”
In apparent resignation, she lay down the comb and scissors and strolled over to the chair where his uniform shirt lay. Picking it up,
Uhura sat down and spread it’s golden cloth over her thighs. Tracing the insignia with her finger, she smiled dreamily. “Still your first
uniform, isn’t it?
“I remember vividly when I got my first real uniform,” Uhura insisted without waiting for a response. She laughed childishly, a distant
shine in her dark eyes. “I swear, the entire year I was a fourth level cadet I had a rash from the Academy uniforms. My skin actually
crawled with the need to get out of them. At the time it felt like we were stuck in summer camp uniforms!
“On commencement day, when I was finally allowed to put the real uniform on...” she shook her head in amazement at how powerful the
emotion still was, even in memory. “I cried,” she admitted.
“I was so proud to have earned the right to wear it, so proud to finally take the oath that bound me into the service of the Fleet.” Uhura
stroked the uniform in her lap tenderly. “I was deliriously happy, but I knew how much I was giving up. It’s like being born all over: you
swear to abandon everything you knew before.
“We’re a strange breed of people, Chekov,” she observed. “We give our lives completely over to the Fleet. They decide where we live
and work; when and where we sleep; when and what we eat; what work we do; they even control what people are available to be our
friends.”
Shaking her head, she sighed. “Do you have any idea how many times they make us repeat ‘I will serve’...”
“I only took that oath a few months ago,” he reminded her.
“I suppose you did,” Uhura sighed, folding the uniform reverently. “I don’t suppose you cried.”
“I was relieved,” Chekov commented. “I had the feeling they were going to find a reason not to let me take the oath after all.”
She smiled in response. “Do you wear your uniform at home?” Uhura asked suddenly.
He eyed it in her lap. “It’s not an easy uniform to get,” Chekov observed soberly. “You have to have a nearly perfect record; get an
appointment by the time you’re fifteen; pass the entrance exams; make it through the Academy courses, internships, psychological
tests, character tests...
“Than to get this kind of posting...” An edge of amazement in his voice, he shook his head. “There are only a handful of constitution
class ships, only twenty nine officers aboard each, only so many of them on deep space assignments, even less on exploration
missions.”
“And only one Enterprise,” Chekov stated with finality.
“Yes,” he finally answered. “I wear my uniform at home. I’m proud of that uniform and I don’t regret for an instant the choices I’ve made
about how to live my life.
“I’m not stupid,” he spat out suddenly, shooting a dark glance at her. “I know what you’re doing, Uhura.”
Chekov shifted uncomfortably. “But it worked.”
“What?” she asked with a mild note of innocence.
“It worked,” he repeated soberly, straightening. “It’s occurred to me that no one ever told the serfs to cut their hair: owners don’t care
what their slaves look like. The serfs decided on their own to cut their hair even though they knew they would get hassled as being
different. They weren’t ashamed of the choice they’d made in how to live their lives.
“Do it,” Chekov ordered with a catch in his voice. “Cut it.”
She rose slowly, eyes fixed on his pallid face. “Pavel, they won’t tease you back home?”
“Of course they will. Uhura,” he drawled ruefully. “I’m short, I weigh 140 pounds dripping wet, I’m smartest kid in class and I used to wear
a sailor suit with a Donald Duck hat. Frankly, I’m looking forward to them having my hair as an obvious target.
“Cut it,” he repeated forcefully. “Layer it. Part it. Chop it all off. Just do it already.”
With a soft smile, she retrieved the comb and scissors and moved around to the back of the younger man again. She smoothed the
back of his hair down. After slipping the scissors along the base of his skull, Uhura hesitated as she felt his neck and body turn to rock.
“You’re a brave man, sweetheart,” she assured him soothingly.
“Uhura...” he interjected suddenly.
She grinned. “Not like Riley.” The scissors made a sharp snap as they exposed the back of his neck for the first time in his life.
An immense tear splashed onto his hand.
Uhura moved quickly, pulling the hair into a part and sweeping layers through it. Several times she paused when the mass of hair falling
on his exposed hands sent a tremble through his body. “Almost done,” she encouraged. “Hold on, sweetheart.”
When she was finished, Uhura gathered the comb and scissors in her hand and moved around the front of him. “Now, let’s see,” she
coaxed as she raised his chin gently to study his face. A worried frown scurried across her forehead.
“Uhura?” Chekov asked with a shrill edge of alarm. “Uhura!” he implored. “What did you do?”
“I...”
“Give me a mirror!” he demanded.
She retrieved a hand mirror off the dresser and gave it to him hesitantly. “I didn’t mean it was bad,” Uhura commented quietly. She
cleared her throat. “It’s different.”
“Yes,” Chekov agreed as he twisted the mirror around to scrutinize himself. “I’ve never had my hair...layered...you called it?”
“Yes,” she replied as he lowered the mirror to his lap.
Chekov ducked his head down, chewing on his lip a long moment before he chanced to cast a tentative glance up at her. Huge, soulful
eyes of melted chocolate gazed up at Uhura through impossibly long lashes. “Do you like it?” he asked in a fragile, hesitant voice.
Like... Uhura thought hesitantly as her heart skipped a beat. She felt herself falling, melting seamlessly into the swirling, depthless
vortex of brown that held her gaze. Oh my.... She straightened and blinked deliberately, breaking the hold of his mesmerizing eyes.
“It’s a very flattering look for you,” she observed out loud, a worried edge in her tone.
A brilliant, happy smile swept over his face and shone in his eyes.
She was thankful for the pigment of her skin and prayed that he could not see the flush of heat she felt rush over her face and through
her body.
“Put your shirt back on,” Uhura ordered quickly, grabbing the mirror from him and turning away. She strolled over to the dresser to
replace it...and to get away from the young man.
She froze as she felt a tantalizing warmth brush lightly over the back of her neck. The delicate, moist touch of his lips sent a shiver
coursing down her spine.
“Pavel....”
Toying, puppy dog eyes appeared in the wall mirror, peering over her shoulder. They shone, the light dancing in their dark depths as
he pressed his face against her. “Thank-you, Nytoya,” he murmured into the flesh of her shoulder.
“Yes...” was all she managed as she felt herself melting seamlessly again into the wells of warm chocolate. Hell, even in the mirror he’s...
Oh shit. What have I done?
----* ----* ----*
Uhura stood with her back pressed against the room divider, her eyes downcast somberly. Her fingers kneaded the shelf behind her
back.
Sulu froze as he stepped in the cabin, eying her suspiciously. “So, did you do it?”
“Yes,” she replied flatly without raising her gaze from the floor.
He paced across the room, approaching the Communication’s Officer carefully. “Uhura?” his asked with a rising uncertainty and a note
of accusation. “What did you do to him?”
She drew her arms protectively around her as she made a movement to try to sink into the bulkhead. “I didn’t know, Sulu! I wouldn’t
have done it if I’d had any idea!”
“Nytoya?” Sulu insisted, voice strident with alarm. He hesitated as his boot touched the waste basket. “Uhura!” he gasped as he glanced
down into it. “Good God, did you shave his head?!” he demanded.
“I did not!” she retorted indignantly. “I just layered his hair!”
“That’s a hell of a lot of hair!” the Helmsman exploded.
“He had a lot of hair!”
“I know,” he agreed, forcing a calmer tone into his voice. He shook his head in mute wonder. “But we should get rid of it before he sees
it all...gathered...in one place.”
“I was thinking I’d make pin braids for Chekov out of some of the hair I cut off,” Uhura remarked. “I thought maybe he’d like that.”
Glancing up at her, Sulu smiled slightly. “He’ll need 36 of them,” he said. “Yeah, I know about the box. But you’re not telling me anything.
How did the haircut turn out?”
“I told you. I wouldn’t have done it if I had known.”
Sulu groaned in exasperation. “Well, what did Chekov say?”
“Nothing,” Uhura insisted with a worried tone. “He just smiled, love.”
“Well, that must mean he likes...” he hesitated, eyeing her. “You called me ‘love’. That’s not good.”
“I call you ‘love’ all the time,” Uhura retorted defensively.
“Right. I’m ‘love’, Riley is ‘honey’ and Chekov has become ‘sweetheart’...But only when you want something. What do you want?”
She winced painfully. “Forgiveness?”
“How bad is it?” Sulu asked in alarm. “Can the spa fix it?”
Sighing miserably, Uhura shook her head in futility. “No one can fix this, love.”
“Where is he?” the Helmsman demanded.
“In the bathroom. Looking at himself.”
“Chekov!” he called out, striding over to the bathroom door. It was locked so he pounded on it. “Pavel!” he entreated in a more soothing
tone. “It’s Hikaru. You have to come out eventually. Come on and open the door.”
The Helmsman went to pound on the door again but froze in mid-air: his hand hovering inches from the side of Chekov’s head when he
appeared suddenly.
“Come on out, Pavel,” Sulu encouraged as he stepped back. “Let’s see what she did.”
The younger man edged out carefully, his hand lingering tentatively on the doorjamb. He stood patiently, a warm gaze on the Helmsman
as the man studied him.
“Pavel?” Sulu asked cautiously, a nervous shudder in his voice.
Chekov flashed a wild, crooked grin at his friend, his eyes sparkling devilishly. “So, what do you think?”
The door chime interrupted any response he might have made.
“That must be Riley,” Uhura remarked. “He’s picking us up for the party.”
“I’ll let him in,” Chekov declared happily as he pushed past the older man.
Sulu fell back several steps, swinging on Uhura. “Holy mother of God!” he roared when the Navigator had disappeared into the living
area. “What have you done, Nytoya?!”
Wringing her fingers together, Uhura winced again. “Maybe his mother will hate it and he’ll grow it back for her,” she suggested
hopefully.
“Oh, like that’s going to happen!”
“Holy shit!” Riley burst out as he appeared in the bedroom. “Chekov looks like an entirely different person!”
Uhura gave him an odd look. “That’s what I’m worried about.”
“This is just what Chekov needed,” Riley gestured with great enthusiasm. “A complete change. Chekov’s got to lighten up if he’s ever
going to fit into our ‘family’. He’s so intense, I swear, sometimes it’s like working with another Vulcan!”
“He can hear you,” Sulu warned.
“So what?” Riley snorted. “It’s not like the three of us haven’t said it to him repeatedly already. This is the perfect opportunity for Chekov
become a human. He can consider tonight his ‘coming out’ party!”
“Be careful what you wish for,” the Helmsman said dryly.
“I’m not sure I’m ready for a party with a ‘new’ Chekov,” Uhura observed thinly. “I...” she hesitated, listening to voices that were coming
from the living area. “Riley, is Brigid here?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “She’s in the other room. I figured I’d introduce them before the party.”
Sulu and Uhura exchanged a worried look. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Good Lord,” Riley commented as he strolled over to where the two rooms met. “You two are getting as uptight as Chekov.”
The Lieutenant peered curiously into the other room, smiling brightly as he saw Chekov and Farrell talking. “You see, they’re getting
along just...” He hesitated, the smile wavering.
A shy, charming smile teased over the Navigator’s face as he spoke to the woman. She had both his hand in hers, clasping them
urgently as she edged closer and closer to Chekov. Every wicked glint in the dark eyes, every devilish tug at the corner of his mouth,
brought a peel of abandoned laughter out of Riley’s newest girlfriend.
Uhura folded her arms leisurely across her chest as she stepped up next to Riley. “Kevin,” she observed sedately. “I don’t think that
Chekov’s going to have any complaints about this ship after tonight.”
“What does that mean?”
“You don’t want to know,” she assured him dryly.
The Communication’s Officer glared fiercely at Sulu. “You should have told me he could be...be.....charming!” she accused.
“Charming?” he asked incredulously. “Hell, Nytoya, the man’s a shameless flirt! He can’t turn it off!”
“Well, he hasn’t been like that since he came aboard the Enterprise,” she said stiffly. “He’s smiled once in six months!”
“He’s been storing it up,” the Helmsman growled sourly.
“Uhura,” Riley demanded, turning back to stare at her incredulously. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!”
“I know exactly what I’ve done,” the Communication’s Officer insisted, raising her chin in fierce defiance. “I opened Pandora’s box.”