Chapter Text
Kirk looked around. He let a slow “pop” build between his lips and heard the disgruntled sigh from beside him that followed. “So,” he started. He didn’t finish.
“So,” Chekov said back, hesitant. “Ehm…”
“You grew up in, ah, Moscow, right?”
“Yes. And you in, uh…”
“Riverside, Iowa.”
Chekov hummed. “Warm zhere?”
“Oh, uh, I guess.”
“Moscow is not.”
Kirk couldn’t help his laugh. “Figured.”
Chekov laughed, too, and a small part of the tension in the air eased. “You miss it, Keptin?”
“Eh, sometimes. You?”
“A leetle.” There was movement beside Kirk, and the whole bed moved. Chekov sighed. “Sorry, Keptin. Zhis bed is - ”
“Uncomfortable,” Kirk finished with the ensign. “I know. Sorry we ended up like this.” Incredibly sorry. Not that Ensign Chekov wasn’t a wonderful crew member (especially considering all the torture and mind-control and trauma he went through - honestly Kirk was surprised he’d still wanted to be on board the Enterprise let alone still in Starfleet after all of it), but Kirk hadn’t exactly planned to be bunking with him. But oh, reservations for shore leave just had to be last minute, and Kirk and Chekov just had to be the only two without a conference so they could turn in early, and the hotel just had to have had a wedding reception the night before, and just had to have only arranged the single-bed room when they checked in. Kirk felt as if he were in some sort of bad romance novel he read in his cadet days (and sometimes in his captain days, but that secret would die with him and one Montgomery Scott), where he and Chekov would fall madly in love after being forced to share a room together.
Chekov cleared his throat, and when he spoke his voice was higher than usual. “So, Keptin…who would you rather share zhis bed with?” Oh no, that was right out of one of those novels.
Kirk rolled over to look at Chekov quickly, eyebrows high. “Um…er, Chekov - Pavel - you’re a great guy, but - ”
“Vhat!? No, no, I vas not hitting on you!” Chekov’s eyes were wide and his face red. “I was trying zhe - zhe bonding zhing Doctor McCoy said to do!” Even though when he said it everyone knew he’d meant Spock. Still, Chekov wanted to cover his bases. Better than whatever not-conversation he and the Captain had been having before, right?
“Ah.” Kirk let out a relieved breath. “Not that I’m not flattered, Ensign.” And he smirked, because James Tiberius Kirk is not and will never be above teasing flustered men who happened to be in his bed.
Chekov did not look amused. “Sir.”
“Now listen, I’ll admit, I am a very attractive man - ”
“Keptin, please.”
Kirk decided to take pity on the poor kid. He grinned only once more and then looked up at the ceiling. “Oh, um, I guess I should answer your question, huh?”
“After zhat, I zhink you owe me a bottle of wodka, too,” Chekov huffed.
“Don’t push it.” Kirk sighed and shut his eyes. “Although maybe I do need to be drunk to admit this…”
“Zhere is room service.”
Kirk peaked open one eye to glance at Chekov. “There is.”
Ten minutes later they had two bottles of vodka and sat facing each other on the bed. “We each ask questions and zhe other must answer. Good bonding game.”
“Fine.” Kirk took a big swig of his bottle, sighing as the alcohol numbed out his mouth, ready for it to numb out his brain. “Okay, okay. So. I, um…I have a cru - no, that sounds stupid. I…oh boy. I am…harbouring feelings…rather intense feelings…for, um, Commander Spock.” Kirk kept his gaze firmly on the bottle. Sure, queer crew-members weren’t unheard of by any means, and the Federation was a welcoming place in ideology, but Starfleet was…well, Starfleet. Homophobia was not the biggest problem in the Fleet, by any means, but it didn’t stop his heart from hammering a little whenever he’d tell someone. And again, Chekov was a good guy, a good crew member, but Kirk didn’t really know what to expect. All of this, of course, wasn’t even considering the fact that Kirk had not only admitted to being interested in a man, but his First Officer, who was an “emotionless Vulcan” no less.
When Kirk looked up, Chekov blinked at him. “Da.”
“ ‘Da?’ What the fuck do you mean, ‘da?’ I just spilled my guts out to you!”
“But eweryone knows you like Mr. Spock!”
“What?”
Chekov screwed up his eyes as he stared at his captain in genuine disbelief. “Keptin…no disrespect meant, but did you really zhink you vere being subtle?”
Kirk huffed indignantly and took another swig of vodka. He grumbled something after that that Chekov didn’t hear, but it sounded a lot like Dr. McCoy when he was upset. “Anyways,” Kirk huffed. “I may or may not have hoped that…that Spock and I would be assigned this room.” Kirk scowled as he eyed Chekov up and down.
Chekov knew that it wasn’t personal, but he still threw his chin in the air and puffed out his chest. “Eh, I am a catch! You are lucky to hawe such a fine man in your bed, Keptin!”
“My god, Chekov.” Kirk took another big sip of vodka, and yep, he was definitely feeling the buzz. “So, look, I answered. Now, uh…back to you. Bonding. Um. Who’d you want in this bed?”
Chekov let his chin fall and slumped back down to his previous position. He took a gulp of vodka just cause he was thirsty more than anything - he’d probably have to drink over half the bottle to get where Kirk was half a sip ago. Chekov considered calling Kirk a lightweight, but he certainly wasn’t drunk enough yet to think insulting his superior like that a good move. With that in mind, Chekov took another drink. “Vell, Keptin, since apparently zhat was some big rewelation - ” Chekov could have sworn Kirk sobbed and took another drink. “ - I vill ‘spill my guts’ also.” Deep breath in. Deep breath out. This was fine. “I also harbour feelings for a crew member.”
“Is’t that ssssssexy yeoman who just transferred here?” Kirk asked. Sweet Mother Russia, his eyes already looked glassy. And this was Dr. McCoy’s best friend?
Chekov reserved his judgement and shook his head. “No. It is, ehm, vell, Keptin, it is Mr. Sulu.”
Kirk furrowed his brow, seeming to consider. Then he nodded. “Fair enough, he’s a good look’n guy. I’d do him.” Kirk took another drink while Chekov stared in bewilderment.
“Vhy would you say zhat? I just told you I like him.”
Kirk mumbled something that was supposed to be, “I don’t fucking know,” and came out more like, “Iuhhh dufffen *hiccup* goh.”
“Are you zhat drunk already?” Chekov was absolutely not laughing. No. Of course not. He knew better than that.
Kirk blushed a deep red and looked away. “I may not drink vodka very of’en.” Kirk then sighed and - with an almost wistful look - set down his bottle. “Bu’ listen, Chekov - er, Pavel. Can I call ya Pavel?”
“Sure.”
“Pavel, ya should just talk to the guy. I’m sure he likes you. You’re pretty cute and whatever and like you guys are already best frien’s, right?”
Hesitantly, Chekov nodded. Kirk made some interesting points. “But…you and Mr. Spock are also best friends. And you are also - ” Chekov stopped himself. “To clarify, again, not hitting on you.” Kirk was flirty enough when he was sober (case and point, earlier that evening), so Chekov wanted to make himself clear.
Kirk, surprisingly, just nodded. “Of course.”
“Okay, good, but yes, you are objectiwely an attractive man. So vhy hawen’t you told Mr. Spock you like him?” Chekov took a drink as though he had won some argument.
Kirk rolled his eyes. “That’s not the saaaame.”
“Oh? How?”
“Because…because…I’m too sober for this. It’s just not. ‘Kay?” Kirk grabbed the bottle again and pressed it to his lips. Chekov watched in amazement as Kirk swallowed down at least another cup of the drink.
“Ehhm…perhaps you should go easy on it, Keptin.”
“Why? We’re on shore leave!” Kirk pitched forward and smacked Chekov’s arm. “We’re gett’n drunk!”
When Chekov opened his mouth to argue, Kirk gave the best angry pout Chekov had ever seen. With a quick glance at his bottle, Chekov shrugged. Wouldn’t be the first time, now would it?
An hour later, Kirk was hunched over his near-empty bottle while Chekov lay down on his stomach and toyed with the edge of the blanket, their game long forgotten.
“Mean, wha’ wou’ I even say to him?”
Chekov gave a low moan of agreement or…something. Kirk had been droning on about Spock for the last forty minutes, and Chekov had found the quilt beneath him far more interesting at this point.
“Like I jus’ kiss ‘im or wha’? Like - ” Kirk cleared his throat and for some reason put on a deeper voice. “‘Gee, you’re soooo pretty. Fuck, come ‘ere an’ kiss me.’ ” Kirk grabbed his bottle and laid a smacker on the guy on the logo, causing Chekov to finally look up at the odd sound. But, as strange as the sight was, it was kind of inspiring.
“Yes! Like zhat, Keptin!” Chekov exclaimed, louder than he’d realized. Chekov gestured to Kirk’s bottle and back to his face, and said quieter, “Vhy not?”
Kirk blushed and grumbled under his breath, “Why ‘on you with um…whas ‘is face? Sulu.”
It was Chekov’s turn to blush. “I am awkward, zhat is why. You, zhough, you flirt vith ewerybody!” Chekov leant towards Kirk and shoved him lightly - or rather, meant to shove him lightly. He always forgot how strong he was when drunk; it probably didn’t help that Kirk was even drunker. Whatever the reason, Kirk went falling over the bed and landed with a thud.
“Keptin!” Chekov gasped. He scrambled to the edge of the bed where Kirk lay on the ground. For a terrifying moment, he was sure he’d killed his Captain. Oh shit, he was going to get courtmartialed, and sent to jail, and never get to go to space again unless he was kidnapped by the Klingons -
Kirk let out a low groan of pain. “Chekov…”
Chekov nearly sobbed in relief. “Sorry, Keptin,” he said with what little breath he had. Chekov offered a hand and Kirk took it shakily, heaving himself back onto the bed with a sigh.
“Jim. We’re drunk,” Kirk corrected stubbornly. Kirk then glanced at the bed, groaned again, and flopped unceremoniously onto it, face-first. “Sleep now,” came his muffled voice.
Chekov glanced outside at the setting suns. “Da, good plan,” he whispered back. Why were they whispering again? Whatever.
Chekov lay down and reached for the blankets. When he found none he turned towards Kirk and found that his captain had stolen all of them.
“Keptiiiiiiiin!” Chekov whined, tugging at a blanket.
“Jim,” Kirk grunted sleepily, totally unaware of Chekov’s woes.
“Jiiiiim!” Chekov whined instead, and tugged harder.
Kirk suddenly understood the coded messages and relinquished his iron-grip on the blankets.
With a loud, contented sigh, Chekov huddled under the blankets and let a drunken sleep take over.