In the Nether Realms of Sanity

Kirk surveyed the clipboard that Spock handed him with more care than usual.

"Entering standard orbit."

"Thank-you, Lieutenant," the Captain replied. After a moment, he raised his eyes to the Ensign that sat at the Navigation Station.

"Mr. Chekov, you're not taking advantage of the shore-leave opportunity?"

The man turned his dark, wide and painfully hollow eyes to meet his Captain's. "No, Sir," he answered without emotion, and turned back to the panel before him. "I've seen Space Stations before."

Kirk grimaced slightly as he met the recriminating stare of the Doctor who stood beside the command chair. Without glancing at him, he pushed the clipboard back to his First Officer. "You have the con, Spock."

McCoy was waiting in the lift by the time the Captain got there. His arms folded across his chest, the recriminating stare had only hardened.

"You could order him on leave," the ship's Chief Medical Officer growled.

"Deck 12. So could you," Kirk noted, glancing at him. "However, we both know that it wouldn't do any good to force him to leave the ship." He sighed softly. "Chekov would just sit in a room on the Space Station for the duration.

"You know he's been picking up extra duty shifts at night?"

Kirk nodded and glanced at his friend again. "It's the one thing I find somewhat heartening, Bones. The boy has always embraced his work with zest: he likes to keep busy."

"Yes," McCoy rasped, scowling. "As always, he pulls his Alpha Bridge duty--currently mornings, helps Spock with his pet projects afterward, and NOW, he's pulling night duty, too. Can you perhaps enlighten me as to when he might be sleeping?"

The ship's commanding officer considered the young man's quiet demeanor, the now ever-hollow eyes.

"He's eating," was the only comment he could offer.

"Yeah, like he's obese. Chekov's got a high metabolism and inhales vast amounts of food: of which he doesn't seem to have any dislikes. He's been eating so little he's lost ten pounds in the last month."

Kirk turned his full attention to McCoy then. "You've had him in sickbay?"

The Doctor blinked, startled. "In his mood? Hell, no. I can just tell by looking at him: and he doesn't have the weight to lose, Jim."

The Captain shifted uncomfortably. "Do you think he'll make it, Bones?" he asked with quiet concern.

Shaking his head, McCoy scowled. "Of course he'll make it. I don't know that anyone's ever died from self-loathing. Whether he'll ever come anywhere close to being himself again, or even a useable officer, is what's in doubt."

"No one on this ship is responsible for what that sick alien made them do under its influence."

The Doctor shook his head slowly. "Jim, we're talking about the human psyche. I've found that everyone affected generally thinks that the alien found and pulled out and acted on some deep-seated dark secret they didn't know about themselves. I'm afraid I'm finding they tend to be right. I won't lie: sickbay has had their hands full for the last month."

Kirk scowled this time. "I have trouble believing that. Are you trying to tell me that the probably most conservative male on this ship is secretly a rapist?"

McCoy shrugged. "Not exactly, but it's not unlikely that someone who tends to wait until…well he thinks he's in love would somewhere have the desire to just…let loose, if you know what I mean."

The Captain shook his head silently. It was not in the Pavel Chekov he knew to rape a Klingon woman. "Isn't there any specialists in Sickbay who can help?"

"Yes, we've got the specialists, but Spock's told you our Russian friend has mental blocks that are so strong telepathy just might destroy him: which means he can't be hypnotized. You already know he keeps everybody but his best friends at an arms length so he's never going to cooperate with psychotherapy."

"Even to save his career?"

McCoy studied the man in silence as the lift door opened. "Jim," he finally said as he entered the corridor. "There's parts of his medical record that are even still sealed to me: and I'm pretty sure he trusts me now."

"I didn't think that was possible," Kirk commented as they moved through the ship.

"I think I'm pretty skilled at developing trust in my patients…" the Doctor protested indignantly, but shrugged in defeat when the Captain glared at him. He grinned at himself, but gave the Captain the information he wanted. "Yes, it's possible. I get all the medical information, but details are confidential. I only get them with a patient's express release. Chekov had an accident when he was sixteen and I still have no clue what happened: I know the medical details only. He'd made it abundantly clear it's a verboten subject. I'm not even sure Sulu knows about it, and he's his best friend," McCoy concluded.

Kirk pursed his lips and sighed again, but the intercom interrupted his thoughts.

"Communications to Captain Kirk."

He punched the nearest intercom button. It wasn't Uhura, so the Alpha Bridge Team's shift had ended. "Kirk here. What is it Lieutenant Burton?"

"Captain, we're receiving a communiqué' from the Space Station. There's a civilian requesting permission to come aboard."

"A civilian!" McCoy blurted out. "What on earth for?"

Kirk eyed his friend with amusement, realizing he actually felt the stirring of hope somewhere within: despite the improbability of his thoughts. "Bones, Fleet regulations allow off-duty officers to receive visitors aboard the ship, with the Captain's permission."

"I knew that," the Doctor grumbled, folding his arms across his chest again.

The Captain smiled outright then. The man clearly had not known it. "Who is it, and what's the purpose of his visit?"

"Captain, they give the man's name as Andrie Nik…" the Lieutenant hesitated then and Kirk interrupted before he massacred the name.

"Andrie Nikolaievich," he said, the smile completely bursting over his face. If he had prayed, he'd be marveling at the swift answer he'd received. Bright hazel eyes met the Doctor's gaze as he continued. "He's here to see Ensign Chekov?"

"Yes, Sir." There was mild surprise in the man's voice.

"Permission to come aboard. Notify Chekov so he can meet him in the transporter room."

"Jim?"

Kirk punched off the intercom with delight. "Andrie Chekov," he explained to the bewildered Doctor. "Pavel Chekov's father: psychotherapy to order."

"Chekov's father?" McCoy asked, more bewildered as Kirk turned and began striding back to the lift. "Hey!" he called, hurrying to catch up to the commander. "He said the man's name was…"

"Andrie Nikolaievich," Kirk repeated, hesitating while waiting for the lift to arrive. "Andrie, son of Nikolai; father of Pavel Andrieivich--Pavel, son of Andrie. Russians don't use their family names among themselves, not generally," he explained with a lilt in the voice as he entered the lift.

"Hey, I thought we were going to get something to eat," McCoy protested as he followed the Captain into the lift.

"Transporter Room," he said, then to the Doctor: "With Andrie Chekov coming aboard? This Captain is going to welcome him. The food will still be there in a half hour, Bones."

"Who the hell is Andrie Chekov that you're so determined to meet him?" He scrambled to keep up with his commanding officer's long strides.

Kirk glanced at his friend, but it took him a minute to decide what to say. "I want to meet the man who was able to put up with our impetuous, hot-headed Chief Navigator for seventeen years and stay sane."

"Right," McCoy mumbled in disbelief as they entered the Transporter Room. They had made it there before Chekov, but it was Lieutenant Commander Scott who was at the control panel. Being on the Alpha Bridge Team, he, too, was off-duty: there were no secrets within the confines of a space ship.

"Shall I beam him up, Captain?"

"No," Kirk replied, raising his eyebrows. "You know regulations require the Officer responsible for the visitor to greet them as they come aboard."

"Aye," the man sighed and leaned easily against the control podium.

Chekov entered then, Sulu close on his heels. They hesitated at the sight of the senior officers, but Kirk just nodded to the Chief Engineer.

"Proceed, Mr. Scott."

The man who materialized was the Navigator's exact build and height, and wore polished black boots, black trousers and a white silk peasant blouse with delicate gold embroidery. His thick, wavy coal-black hair was twisted into a short braid at the back of his neck: secured with a black velvet ribbon. A neatly trimmed beard and mustache framed his deeply tanned face.

"Permission to come aboard, Captain Kirk?"

The ship's commander blinked, realizing too late that he'd been staring. The man's large, dark eyes regarded him with nothing but tolerance, however.

"Permission granted, Si…Mr. Chekov."

"Andrie, please, Sir," the man corrected as he stepped down off the transporter platform.

"Jim. I know this is not an official visit, but if you have time to fit in an official tour, I'd be honored."

The man nodded, his expressive eyes warm. "We'll see what we can do, thank you for the offer."

"It does not appear that you need introductions," Chekov commented, but turned to the other senior officers. "This is our Chief Medical Officer, Dr. Leonard McCoy."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Chekov," he responded with a firm handshake. The man's hands were thick-skinned from work.

"Andrie," he corrected again, but then glanced at his son and leaned closer. "My sympathies, Doctor," he murmured out of the side of his mouth.

McCoy laughed, grinning as he dropped the senior Chekov's hand.

"Chief Engineer, Lieutenant Commander Montgomery Scott."

"Andrie," the Engineer said as he pumped the man's hand. At least he had gotten the point.

"It's a pleasure to meet such a legendary innovator. Frankly, I don't think I would have trusted anyone else's transporter."

This brought a chuckle of pride from the ship's Engineer.

Andrie's gaze turned to Sulu then. When the Helmsman hesitated, shifting uncomfortably, the visitor's dark eyes sparkled. He glanced briefly to Kirk, then back again. "He knows we're Russian, Hikaru: Traditional Russians."

Sulu's face broke into a wild grin. "Papashka!" He threw himself at the older man, who gathered him into a fierce bear hug. They kissed each other on each cheek and then again on the first cheek. After a moment, Andrie pulled back slightly and spoke quietly into the younger man's ear. Sulu nodded and received a final squeeze before he completely pulled away.

"Are you done?" Chekov asked, his own dark eyes sparkling with amusement. It was the first time Kirk had seen any emotion in them for longer than he cared to think about.

"Papa," was his greeting, and they exchanged the same bear hug and kisses.

"You don't look anything alike," McCoy blurted out, glancing from one to the other when they separated.

The two Chekov men exchanged a glance before the visitor's eyes met the Doctor's steel blue ones. He smiled.

"Ahh…" McCoy drawled, his face flushing slightly as everyone else in the room chuckled.

"Enjoy your visit. Mr. Chekov knows how to contact…well, any one of us, should you find yourself needing anything."

"Thank-you, Jim," he said as the majority of the group moved to leave the room. He stopped the Doctor with a hand on his shoulder. "Also, his mother has green eyes," Andrie remarked quietly, "And she's not quite as hairy as we are."

McCoy was still laughing when door slid shut with only the Chekov men still in the Transporter Room.

"He's a right friendly sort," Scotty commented, smiling as they moved to follow the Captain toward the food he'd promised McCoy.

"Well, our Chief Navigator is a friendly sort," the Doctor said in defense of the younger man.

Kirk waited against the back wall of the lift until the rest of the group entered. "Andrie Nikolaievich has a way of putting people at ease."

"Yeah," Sulu agreed as the doors slid shut. He folded his hands behind his back and pursed his lips. "Just don't piss him off."

"How did you get here?" Chekov asked when the others had left the room.

Andrie shrugged insignificantly. "Government cruiser, Mr. Scott's transporter."

It was amazement in his son's eyes. "You hate space travel."

Nodding, he straightened his belt. "Extraordinary how those twenty-third century sedatives work."

The Navigator grinned brightly. "I didn't expect you to be wearing…"

The man glanced down at his clothes. "Well, I am on leave from…my 'government job'," he observed, meeting his son's dark eyes with his own. "Kirk and Hikaru are the only ones that know exactly what I do for a living."

"You're a cultural anthropologist," Pavel said. Andrie was not the kind of father who would presume to take control of his son's life. 'I've barely got control of my own life…'

"So I've heard," Chekov's father said, unconsciously straightening his braid.

The Navigator's eyes drifted to the action, then lingered there as they narrowed. "You're not wearing your earring."

The man grinned, the crooked grin the Starfleet Officer saw daily in his own mirror. "Didn't want to look like a pirate, Malyenki."

"Thanks," the younger man expressed. He knew his father had done so, like the clothes he wore, to be less conspicuous on board the ship where his son had to live.

"Well, are you going to show me this cabin you live in?"

"Yes," he said hurriedly, and led the man out into the ship's corridor. "But why are you here?"

"You haven't written lately."

"Papa, you traveled half way across the galaxy because I haven't written?"

The dark eyes sparkled and glanced at his son. "This seems uncharacteristic to you?"

"No, it's exactly something you would do. But it's only been a few weeks."

"How long was Hikaru on Earth your last shore leave before I went and dragged him home?"

"Thirty-six hours."

"Exactly. Thirty-six hours and he hadn't bothered to come home." There was no question in anyone's mind where exactly they considered Sulu's home on Earth to be.

"He had to go to his Cousin's wedding, Papa. His Aunt's is his only family left on the planet."

The man stopped instantly and fixed dark, cold eyes on his son.

"Biological family."

Andrie nodded acquiesce to that point and continued striding down the corridor. "American weddings don't take thirty-six hours. Hikaru's biological family…" he thought better of what he was going to say and stopped.

"I heard that," Pavel chuckled as they entered the lift. "Seems you told him to find reasons to respect his family."

"Yes," he agreed. "But I don't need to." The man was silent until the lift doors opened again. Their eyes met. "His father is missing the companionship of a fine young man."

"His father is an asshole," Chekov snorted. He shifted uncomfortably under his father's glare. "You're worth sharing, Papa. C'mon."

The man's eyes slowly took in the contents of the cabin as he moved through it. A function of his photographic memory, even the smallest detail would be remembered.

"Surprised?"

"At what? You described it in vivid detail a thousand different times."

To a thousand different people, Pavel thought. "Backdoor," the Navigator explained as the man noted it. "Bathroom."

"Sulu's cabin is on the other side?"

Nodding, Pavel sat down on the edge of his bed. "Fortunately, the ship lost a few officers and we got our own cabins. We still share the bathroom, and he's still a slob."

His father stepped back from where he was peering into the bathroom and turned his eyes to his son. "You've chosen a good friend, Malyenki."

Chekov stared at the floor and nodded, then looked up after a moment to meet the man's gaze. "He wrote to you."

Andrie shrugged dismissively and sank onto the bed next to him. "He always writes me."

Pavel jerked to his feet and strode away. "Did he tell you I tried to rape a Klingon?"

A raised eyebrow of curiosity was his response. "Was it a woman?" Amusement was playing across his face when Chekov turned back to him.

"Funny."

He shrugged again. "Must have been a strong woman. Takes a lot to deter you when you've made your mind up."

"Kirk punched me." The Navigator tried to remain sober, dismal, but he could see his father's sly grin out of the corner of his eye. The color flushed into his cheeks and he grinned despite himself. He was never allowed to take himself too seriously around his family: especially his father.

"Everybody around here seems to think the whole incident with Mara is what's put you into your latest funk."

Pavel snorted in response, but thought: Good God, he even knows her name. "You obviously don't think so," is what he said aloud as he dropped back on the bed.

The man leaned back, balancing his hands on the bed, and took a moment to absently read the names of the hard-bound books on the shelf he faced.

"You told them the Klingons killed your brother Piotir." He turned his eyes and watched as the color drained out of his son's face. It was another moment before he spoke again. "There's a name I haven't heard you speak since you were eight."

"I wish they had," he snarled instantly, the hatred that had been festering inside him spewing forth in a vehement outburst. "I wish they had tortured him to death…slowly." The sheer loathing consumed him. It was not anything he could have shared with anyone else, not even Sulu, but his father was his dearest friend and more, he knew Pavel Andrieivich down to his atom's parts. "I wish…why did that BEAST have to find his name?"

His father studied him and, even without looking, Pavel could feel the affection in his eyes. He didn't feel worthy of it at the moment, didn't feel he earned it: but that was the thing about love; it didn't need to be deserved to be given.

"I had come to believe that you would never remember him."

"I don't," he stated. Tucking his right foot beneath his left thigh, he turned to face his father. "I don't remember him: not really. I don't know what he looked like. I can't remember anything about him."

"Malyenki, is that what's bothering you?" The older man sat up, turned and tucked both legs beneath him.

"Why…why?" Chekov asked desperately. "Why doesn't anyone ever talk about him? All these years and not one mention of his name even. Not one picture of him in any of the photos. WHY? Aren't there even pictures of him?"

"I have all the pictures," his father answered calmly. He glanced at a photo on another nearby shelf. It was the latest picture of the family posed with the men that worked for his father. Pavel had grown up thinking of them as older brothers. Older brothers, Andrie thought as he studied the picture and the dog in it--the dog the man had forbidden. Older brothers who spoiled him to the very point of intolerance. This young man should be a monster. But then, there was always Sergie's influence."

"Didn't you ever wonder why there were no group photos around before you were nine?"

Chekov glanced at the picture in question briefly. "I guess I just always thought it hadn't occurred to Mama to do it before then."

Andrie shook his head, his dark eyes tender. "Pavel, the day after Piotir died, you got up and went about your business like nothing had ever happened. Like he had never existed. Sasha mentioned his name and you…" He stopped for a moment, and noticeably swallowed. "You were only eight and he was the first person you lost that was close to you. We just thought you needed time."

Pavel smiled sardonically. "A little more time than you expected, I imagine," he murmured. His extended family; mother, father, the men he considered brothers, the villagers where they lived: it was not within their communal makeup to not give one of their own whatever it was they deemed the person needed, especially emotionally. Even if it was space, or time.

"What was he like, Papa?"

Andrie met his son's eyes with a steady gaze. "He was young--just sixteen." He stopped then, strangely enough, and stared off into the distance beyond Pavel.

"He wasn't happy," he continued when he finally met the younger man's eyes again. "Something about his childhood made it so he could never accept that he was worthy, or deserving, of any amount of praise, affection, tenderness or anything good that happened. I never did find out why." There was regret in his father's tone, a man who was skilled at knowing people, a man who valued people above all else.

"No one ever found out. Piotir kept people at an arms length. That's who you learned that particular skill from, Pavel."

He began to protest that he did no such thing--did no such horridly un-Russian thing; but it would have been futile. They both knew that he did. He had grown up the son of Andrie Nikolaievich and had the disadvantage of being known already by nearly everybody he met. The trusting boy had learned early on that rarely were their intentions pure, rarely did they actually have any interest in Pavel himself.

"For such a charming, friendly guy," McCoy had once commented, "You don't seem to have that many actual friends."

Quality, not quantity.

February 8th," his father drawled languidly. "I remember the exact date you let Hikaru in."

So did Chekov. He'd been assigned junior classmen Sulu as his 'big brother' when he entered the Academy, and thus they had become roommates--not for the last time. When he had discovered that the man had no family ties on Earth except to an Aunt he had met only twice: had no real family ties anywhere. Chekov had taken him home to his family, as it was unconscionable that Sulu was without what he valued most. His family and his community had accepted the outsider without hesitation because Pavel had brought him home to them.

When he had also discovered American-born, Space station-raised Sulu had actually never seen his native country, Chekov had taken it upon himself to spend their free time dragging him to every cultural spot in the United States he could imagine. Landmarks, monuments, National Forests, National Historic Sites, museums: the son of cultural anthropologists, he had a font of imagination on the subject.

Pavel Chekov was a good person, so he was a good friend to Hikaru Sulu. It was not until February 8th that Pavel Chekov realized he had a friend in return. Sulu had insisted on taking the reigns that Saturday. Chekov, who couldn't eat seafood, agreed finally and dismally looked forward to a day touring San Francisco's authentic sushi bars. Only Hikaru Sulu had taken him to MGM Studios instead. The upperclassmen had obtained open backstage passes and spent the day exploring the back lots and long forgotten sets with his roommate. After finding Gene Kelly's umbrella and hat, Sulu had even arranged for it to rain. He insisted that it would not stop until Pavel had expressed his delight in the manner of Gene Kelly.

Of course, Chekov knew that Sulu had gotten the passes through Andrie's clout: but the fact that he'd even approached the man with whom he still had just a tenuous bond said much to Pavel, his father, and his people. By the time the visited Russian next, their travels had become a folk story told around the village fires with gusto: culminating in the vivid image of Pavel Andrieivich dancing in the rain. It was then that Sulu found himself utterly and completely adopted as one of their own. It was the villagers who had first referred to the man as Pavel's brother. Neither Starfleet cadet had found reason to object to the classification.

It was not the trip to MGM itself which gained Pavel's trust. In order to plan the day, Sulu had to have noticed which old American films Chekov was always watching in their room. He had to have noticed that they were nearly all musicals, found out they were mostly made by MGM and what's more, he had to have paid attention to which particular scenes sent Pavel into utter abandonment. Hikaru Sulu had paid attention to who Pavel Chekov was--and he had specially tailored a day to his enjoyment.

He was, in fact, a friend.

The day had also confirmed what Sulu had suspected since he had first met Andrie. Pavel's father was prone to burst into joyful dances whenever the mood seized him. Folk dances, tap, ballroom: he did them all equally well. Chekov knew the folk dances his father taught, but the trip to MGM proved to Sulu that he could once tap as well as his father too.

Hell, Chekov thought. You have to find something to do in the Russian spring when the outside world was buried a foot deep in mud.

"Did Piotir love me?" he suddenly asked.

"Love you? Pavel, you're the only thing in life we ever found that made him smile. We used to set you the same tasks so he could work with you."

"I know he used to tend the chickens. I don't remember him doing it: I just know he did."

His father nodded. "You used to help him."

"I do remember the day he died. I can't see his face, but I can se him sitting next to me." He paused and took in a deep breath, looking off past his father. " 'Pavel Andrieivich', he said, 'You're gong to make a difference in this universe.'"

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see it was his father's face that lost all color this time. "He spoke to you?" The question came from somewhere off in the distance.

Pavel didn't look at his father, he just nodded. "His last words were 'Pavel Andrieivich, you're going to make a difference in this universe.'"

Neither one of them spoke for a long while. "You knew, didn't you?" Chekov finally asked, finally turning to search his father's eyes. "You knew all these years it wasn't an accident, didn't you? And you knew what happened to the chickens."

"I had no proof," the man answered quietly. "But yes, I knew."

"How could he do that to me if he loved me?" Chekov demanded.

Andrie gave him a tolerant look. "You believe that he set out to purposely hurt you?"

Chekov cast his eyes down. It wasn't Andrie's way to come right out and call you an egotistical moron, but he managed to get his point across anyway.

"Of course not. He wasn't thinking of me at all."

"He was happy that day: really happy for the first time since we met him. That morning it was as though the black cloud he always carried had suddenly disappeared."

"That's a major sign to watch for: they taught us that in command school."

Andrie scratched his thigh absently. "Yes, well, I never made it to command school." In fact, the well-renowned educator had not actually made it through much formal schooling at all.

"You taught me more about leading people than the fleet ever will, Papa."

The older man eyed him with warmth. "Thank-you." He smiled then, merriment bubbling in his eyes. "I'm glad you got my charm as well as your mother's temper."

"Unfortunately, I got my strong will from both of you."

Andrie laughed out loud. "Son, your problem is not just that you're stubborn, you're also a spoiled brat."

"All Traditional Russian children are spoiled."

"And eventually I intend to spoil an entire horde of grandchildren." There was no question that Pavel's children would live with his extended family in his village: even if he was still somewhere in deep space.

"Hmph," was his mumbled response. "Not if I keep running into women like Martha."

"She still have you pissed at the fairer sex?"

Chekov shrugged, but when he looked back at his father he had a sparkle in his eyes. "There's a Native American Lieutenant in the Science Labs who's actually learned to start a conversation with me in Russian."

"Now there's an intriguing pick up technique." Andrie smiled. "What nation?"

"Lakota."

"Lakota? We've been there: you know her language."

The Navigator nodded. He'd traveled so extensively as a child, been immersed in so many cultures, he didn't even know how many languages exactly he could manage a conversation in. He didn't advertise the skill.

"Are you going to let Kirk give me his official tour?"

"Sure," Chekov smiled. "Afterward, I'll show you the bowling alley."

His father blinked. "Bowling alley? You bowl now? I heard you're a pool shark."

Chekov's smile deepened. "Hikaru will never forgive Nytoya for teaching me that game. I'm an expert navigator. Navigation is all geometry, billiards is all geometry. I tried bowling once but I wasn't impressed. It's a very loud game and the acoustics in the room amplify the sound unbelievably."

"You think introducing me to this game is vital to my cultural knowledge?"

"Hell, no," Chekov replied and leaned over to the man conspiratorially. "But late at night no one's there. The alleys are long strips of real wood polished to a high gloss."

His father understood immediately. "And the acoustics…"

"Are astounding."

The man smiled wildly, but then glanced at his feet in dismay. "I only have my boots with me."

"We wear the same size," Pavel reminded him. "I have shoes here."

"But if I wear your shoes…" Andrie drew out thoughtfully.

Chekov understood the implication and laughed. "Papa, I have more than one pair of shoes."

His father's smile came back. "I miss my favorite male partner." Other men cold dance, but no one else had the utter passion for life the Chekov's did.

"So did I, Papa"