Hey everybody! This is my first every Star Trek: 2009 fic, and I'm actually quite proud of it. I wrote it in a surprisingly short time. It's shorter than I had hoped though, just under 1,000 words. Oh well. I also experimented with my style in this story, so I would really like some feedback. By the way- it's not a songfic. I'm just horrible with titles. ^.^

I'm rating this 'M' just to be safe. I don't feel like getting kicked off for not rating something strongly enough.

Bones/Chekov needs MORE LOVE!!!!! This pairing is SO hard to find.

Anyway, I don't own any part of Star Trek.

One last thing- is it Trekkie or Trekker? I've always heard Trekkie before, but now I've heard people say, "No, Trekkie is insulting, it's actually Trekker." Personally I think that either way, you're still a Trek fan, so it really shouldn't matter what term you use, but I would still like to know. Thanks a lot guys!

I'm gonna go to hell for this, Dr. McCoy thought. He was standing in front of a biobed, staring down at a half-naked Pavel Chekov, who was fairly bouncing up and down with impatience. McCoy was trying his best not to look at the young Ensign's bare chest (but McCoy's best wasn't good enough, because his traitorous eyes roved over every inch of that beautiful bare skin, wondering how it would feel if-)

McCoy banished the thoughts and tapped his fingers on his PADD, going over Chekov's medical files.

"How long vill zis take, Doctor?" Chekov asked.

"As long as it needs to," McCoy replied, not looking at his patient.

Chekov had been walking down to the mess hall when a pipe had exploded. He had been doused with boiling plasma, leaving third degree burns on most of his upper body. He'd needed extensive skin grafts and cell regrowth, and despite the top-notch medical equipment and McCoy's training, recovery had been slow. However, Chekov had been extremely lucky- he had no major nerve or muscle damage from the accident. McCoy would have claimed it was a miracle, if he believed in such things.

It had been nearly two weeks since the accident (two weeks of paranoia and test after nerve-wracking test and constantly checking vital signs and snapping at the other officers and worrying and lying about to Jim, but he knew, somehow that bastard just knew). Chekov had healed remarkably well and was now anxious to leave sick bay, but McCoy had insisted on one final checkup. This is why Chekov was sitting half-naked on the biobed, fidgeting and glancing at the clock every ten seconds.

"Sit still, kid," McCoy said gruffly. Chekov looked up at the doctor with a look of mild indignation.

"I am not kid, Doctor," Chekov said, offended. "I turned eighteen last veek."

McCoy rolled his eyes. "Oh, yes, how could I ever forget that."

Chekov's best friend, pilot Hikaru Sulu, had insisted on throwing the recuperating Russian a birthday party in sick bay. Half of the Enterprise crew turned up to wish the Ensign a happy birthday, get well soon, and someone had the bright idea of bringing vodka. McCoy had thrown everyone out at one in the morning, shouting himself hoarse about recovering patients and underage drinking.

Chekov grinned up at the doctor. "It vas fun. I don't really remember much, but it vas still fun."

McCoy rolled his eyes again and set down the PADD. The time had come for the physical part of the physical exam. C'mon, Leonard, he told himself. Pretend you're that pointy-eared goblin and that you don't even know the meaning of the word 'lust'.

"Stick out your arm," McCoy ordered. Chekov obeyed and McCoy waved the scanner over the boy's limb. All clear. McCoy then took Chekov's arm and began bending it at the elbow, the wrist, and each of his fingers, checking that the muscles were working properly. McCoy repeated the procedure with the other arm. After that he moved to examine Chekov's torso, poking and prodding and all but running his fingers over the newly formed skin, checking for anything abnormal. McCoy inwardly marveled at how smooth Chekov's skin was and how, despite being so skinny, his muscles were well-developed (he wanted to know what that skin felt like during sex, hot and sweaty and sweet, wanted to feel those muscles coil and shudder beneath him-)

"Is something wrong, Dr. McCoy?" Chekov asked suddenly. McCoy started. "What?" he said, accidentally looking into Chekov's bright blue eyes.

"You looked wery strange," Chekov said, concerned. McCoy shook his head. "It's nothing. I just haven't eaten yet."

"Oh. Vell, you should try some pelmeni! They're wery good!" the teenager responded.

McCoy nodded, moving on to examine the young Russian's neck. He didn't quite trust himself to speak just yet. After another minute of inspection, McCoy leaned back and said, "You have a clean bill of health, kid. You're free to leave."

Chekov's face lit up with a huge grin. "Thank you, doctor!" And before McCoy could move a muscle, the overexcited boy had stood up and embraced him. McCoy all but had a heart attack at the contact, and despite the natural instinct to wrap his arms around Chekov's waist and never let go, the doctor kept his hands at his sides.

"You took wery good care of me," Chekov said, his breath warm on McCoy's ear. "Thank you."

McCoy came dangerously close to losing it, but Chekov released him and went to put his shirt on. McCoy took a shaky breath, willing his heart to slow down.

"Chekov?"

The blonde boy poked his head through his shirt. "Da, Doctor?"

McCoy took a deep breath and looked the Ensign straight in the eye. "The only time I ever want to see you in here is for your annual checkup, got it? So… just… be careful, will ya, kid?" Don't come back here in a thousand bloody pieces that I can't put back together.

Chekov seemed to understand what McCoy meant, because he nodded earnestly. "Yes, Doctor."

McCoy turned around and waved his hand dismissively. "See ya, kid."

He heard the boy start to walk away, but then the footsteps paused. "Doctor McCoy?"

"Yeah?"

"Could I still come in to wisit?"

McCoy felt a peculiar sort of warmth spread across his chest at those words. "Sure, kid, you can visit. Just don't distract me," he said sternly, hiding how happy he was.

"Yes, Doctor!" Chekov said brightly. McCoy heard his footsteps fade as the Russian scurried out of sick bay. The brunette man sighed heavily and sat down, realizing for the first time that he was utterly exhausted. He laid his head down on his desk to take a nap. McCoy closed his eyes and an image of Chekov's smiling face danced across his vision.

"Yup," he murmured sleepily. "Definitely going to hell."