Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek or any of the characters therein.

Chekov's Little Problem

Four months into the Enterprise's mission, Pavel got dressed one morning and realized that his shirt sleeves ended a good inch and a half above his wrist.

Well. He was actually fine-tuning some equations based on Scotty's new theory of trans-warp beaming on his PADD and didn't notice it until his suite mate (a rather loud and voluntarily bald but not entirely unfriendly ensign named McGinnis) barged in to borrow a razor and pointed it out as if it were the most fascinating thing to have happened on the ship since the captain found out he was allergic to leeks.

Pavel lied, of course. He must have picked up the wrong size by mistake after coming back from that mission on Epsilon Fourteen (which, conveniently, the captain forbid anyone outside of the away team to talk about).

Ensign McGinnis blinked, opened his mouth to say something like 'But that was three weeks ago,' and teased Pavel about it mercilessly, but, for once, he thought better of it, and went back to his room. If Pavel believed in karma, he would have thought this was repayment for not staring at Lieutenant Ryla's cleavage that time she was wearing the shirt with the ruffles when he went to that bar on that planet with the captain and Lieutenant Sulu. But he didn't, so he just thanked his lucky stars and promised himself that he wouldn't look at porn for a week in return.

It wasn't a big deal, Pavel told himself as he made his way to the storage rooms. So he grew a couple inches, so what? It was only natural. So maybe he was the only human to have had a growth spurt after being assigned to a starship; it was nothing to be ashamed of. He was totally fine with it.

Well. That's what he told himself.

But when he discovered that Spock ripped apart the last of the yellow, size medium tunics and used them to capture the giant slug that had sneaked on board at Sigma Seven, Pavel spent a good four minutes muttering things about Mr. Spock that would have made the captain blush.

She'd warned the captain. She'd warned him that if he misused the universal translator like that again, she was going to make sure he paid for it.

Oh, she wasn't going to 'make sure he paid for it,' not now. She was going to end him.

Uhura stalked towards Kirk's quarters with a gleam in her eyes and a grim smile on her lips that made anyone unfortunate enough to get in her way scurry out of it as quickly as possible.

When she reached the superior officer's deck, however, she was surprised to see that she wasn't the only one who had something to settle with the captain. Chekov was pacing back and forth in front of the door to Kirk's room, one hand gesturing in front of him and the other tugging nervously at the curls at the back of his head, muttering to himself under his breath.

"Hi," Uhura said when she got near enough, and Chekov gasped like he'd nearly jumped out of his skin. "Is the captain busy?"

Chekov smiled, frowned, and pursed his lips so quickly he looked like he was in pain. "No," he said, his accent coming out thicker than usual, "I think he is just doing some paperwork."

"I see." Of course she didn't, but it probably wasn't her business. "Are you- are you waiting for someone?"

Chekov smiled. "No. Not- no, thank you."

"I see." Uhura took a few steps towards the door, but stopped short of it. It might not be any of her business, but there was obviously something bothering him, and if she left him out here, he was probably going to skulk off before he could ask the captain whatever he'd come for. Probably something silly and innocuous, but Chekov – Chekov was younger than he seemed, when it came to some things. It was easy to forget just how young he was.

Uhura sighed and walked back until she stood just in front of him. "Chekov...is everything all right?"

Chekov blushed so hard his eyes watered, and he looked around the hallway furtively before he shrugged. When he spoke, it was so quietly that Uhura had to lean in to hear him.

"I need- I need a new shirt."

Uhura blinked. "Okay. Did someone trash your clothes? Because if they did, you just tell-"

Chekov sighed and stuck out his right arm. His shirt stretched across his shoulders uncomfortably, and the sleeve fell short of his wrist by a good two inches.

Uhura couldn't help it. She took one look at Chekov, with his ill-fitting uniform and that terribly forlorn look on his face, and laughed. It was hardly what she'd imagined when she'd seen him pacing up and down.

Chekov flushed even redder and pulled his arm taught against his side. "Is not funny."

Uhura felt a small pang of regret even as she steadied her breaths. "I'm sorry, I just- sorry, Chekov. You're right. It's not funny." She smothered a chuckle and put a hand on his shoulder. "Why don't you just get some from inventory? They might not fit just right, but you can get them to tailor a couple. Shouldn't take more than a week."

Chekov sighed and looked down at his boots – which, Uhura noticed, were looking very scuffed. "Mr. Spock used the last yellow shirts for zip line," he said. "When he caught the slug with the hysteria slime."

Uhura resisted the urge to ruffle Chekov's hair. Poor thing. With the way Kirk and the doctor – the entire crew, actually – insisted on calling him 'kid' and teased him about his age, the last thing he probably wanted was to call attention to the fact that he was still very much a teenager. Kirk and the rest of them didn't mean badly, but...well, she'd have to mention it to Spock. Until then, though, there was something else she could do.

"Hey," she said. "I'll tell the captain to-"

Just then, the door to the Kirk's quarters swooshed open, and Kirk himself stumbled out, blearily rubbing at his eyes and almost running into them.

"Hi," he said as he took them in. "What's up?"

Chekov opened his mouth to speak, but Uhura beat him to the punch.

"Captain."

It was hilarious, the way Kirk's eyes widened. She could almost see his brain working. Uhura – angry – translator – oh, shit.

"I can't believe this." Uhura lowered her voice and advanced a step.

Kirk swallowed. "Lieutenant, about that...it was...well, the delegate from Andoria was-"

Uhura very carefully schooled a puzzled expression on her face. "Andoria? Captain, I was talking about the uniform inventory."

Kirk blinked, and his mouth hung open like his jaw had come unhinged. "Uni-huh?"

"You let the lieutenant-commander rip apart half our stock of uniforms to take down the slug from Sigma Seven, and you didn't bother to order a restock. Do you realize how completely irresponsible that was? Did you never think of the possible consequences that might arise if we get stranded without our uniforms? How about the next time we run into a giant, hysteria-inducing slug? Maybe if we just close our eyes and wish, it'll disappear, hmm?"

Kirk's mouth wobbled open and closed several times before he straightened up and shut it. "I'll – I'll go order those uniforms right now, Lieutenant. You'll have them – uh, by next week. Yes."

"Thank you, sir. Good afternoon." Uhura smiled, sweetly, and turned on her heel, grasping Chekov firmly by the upper arm. As she walked off, to Chekov's effusive thanks in Russian, she could practically feel the waves of relief from Kirk. This had been nothing next to what he knew would have come for the translator incident.

That was fine. She'd let it go, for now. Chekov was happy and relieved, and that was enough for one afternoon.

And besides, if Kirk thought he'd gotten away with it for a couple of days, it would be far more fun to watch him squirm when he got his comeuppance.