Pandora's Box

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 watch 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 device's control. The Commanding Officer's nod of appreciation was barely noticeable as the doors closed behind him.

Chekov fixed his gaze on the wall opposite him when the lift began to move. 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 with wry humor. "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 independently taking on what you see is needed–beyond expectations," he added. "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 haven't seemed to make many friends yet, but you've fit easily into the social structure of the ship: an important consideration on a deep space ship. Give it time," the Captain advised. "I must say that 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 informed him. "I respond better to criticism."

"I'll try to remember that."

"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, you can't be surprised!" 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 the glare 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 gestured with friendly encouragement. "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. "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.

The Helmsman froze, eyes widening dramatically as they shot back to his companion. "Nytoya!" he exclaimed in a horrified gasp. "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 in horror. "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.

"Chekov's a little pig-headed," the Communication's Officer sighed as she righted his discarded chair and settled into it.

Sulu cleared his throat, eyes dancing with amusement. "You don't understand what he means by 'long'." He gathered together the edges of the napkin in his lap and deposited it on the desk. "Let me show you something." He stood and moved into the other room, ordering "lights" as he did so.

Chekov glared at him from where he was pressed into the corner sulking. "What are you doing?"

"I'm just showing her what you're talking about," Sulu explained. He retrieved a oversized book from one of the shelves and returned to the living area.

"Who made these: his mother?" Uhura asked the Helmsman as she pushed yet another pastry into her mouth in order to free her hands and take the book he offered her.

"No, Chekov's mother's signature dish is toxic waste."

"Sulu!"

He shrugged, but his voice had an affectionate tone when he spoke. "Mariya Chekov is a wonderful woman. She just can't cook."

"Hey, give that back!" the younger man demanded as stomped into the room. "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 with impotent fury.

"What first...? Oh, printed pictures!" Uhura exclaimed delightedly when she opened the book in her lap. After she flipped through the first pages, she cast a toying glance at the ship's new navigator. "Chekov, you're hiding your adorable baby pictures. This is in chronological order.

"I've often thought of putting a family album together like this," she continued as she casually examined the photos, "but I never seem to get around to it."

"My mother gave them to me as a present when I left for the Academy."

"What a wonderful gift idea!" Uhura hesitated then, a frown narrowing her wide eyes. "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.

"I'm still cute."

The woman refuted the statement by giving him a dubious look.

Chekov moved over and peered tentatively into the book. "My hair's in a braid in these pictures. I always wore my hair in a braid."

"That made it look short," Uhura reasoned. "Your hair looks much better in these photos than it does now."

"Well, it's too short to braid now," he maintained irritably.

The Communication's Officer ducked her head to help hide the amused smile that threatened her lips. "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," she marveled as she turned the pages carefully.

The Navigator scowled and straightened again. "They're uniforms, not 'sailor suits'. I served in the Russian Navy before I entered Starfleet."

Uhura 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. He balanced his hip on the opposite edge of the desk and began eating out of the care package again. "It's an old superstition. Sailors believe having your hair in a braid prevents you from being killed."

"Superstitions can be so silly," the woman commented.

Chekov scowled darkly. "Superstitions are fundamentally based on basic wisdom. Sailors used to fight in hand to hand combat: try slicing through a tarred braid to knock someone's head off."

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!"

"What...?" Chekov asked in alarm, craning to get a better look at the album.

She shied away, pulling the album with her and pressing it against her body so that he couldn't see what she was looking at. She widened her dark eyes melodramatically and let them slowly rake over the young man's form. "Now, who..." she drawled, poking a finger into his bicep playfully, "...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.

She grinned shamelessly. "Well, it wouldn't if you had anything soft to grab hold of."

"What are you looking at, Nytoya?" Sulu asked curiously and bent over the box of food to peer into her lap.

"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.

"Good heavens, you're buff! Your clothes do a formidable job of hiding it. 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, Chekov. Oh, please, be a doll: let me have this picture of you."

"What for?"

"To remember you by when the Captain transfers you for not getting a haircut," Sulu supplied helpfully as he sucked the crumbs from his fingers.

"I'll give her an 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 cast an amused glance at the giggling Communication's Officer. "I'd reserve my choice, if I were you.

"Keep turning," he advised with a wink when she frowned at him.

Craning his head to peer into the other room expectantly, the Helmsman pronounced in a dramatically loud voice: "One of the great things about working on a sailing ship is that when you get all hot and sweaty from working in the blazing sun, there's a whole ocean of water around to cool off in. The Russian Navy let's their sailors go swimming all the time."

"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 said 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 painful 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 seductive 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 which picture I want! It's just a shame there's no rear view available," she added in a rueful mutter.

"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 said 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. 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 horror.

She let out a light-hearted laugh. "Not on you, sweetheart."

Sulu smirked but tapped quietly on the desk with his fingers in a gesture that it was time to ease up on the younger man.

"There's really nothing to be embarrassed about, Chekov." The Communication's Officer closed photo album and hugged it to her chest. "Really," she assured him. "You're a fine specimen and its an artistic picture."

"That's just wonderful," he muttered before slinking into the sleeping area again.

Sulu slid off the edge of the desk and gathered up the box in his arms. "Come over to my cabin," he directed.

"You're taking Chekov's food with you?"

"Can't have him getting fat on you. Besides, he's just going to sulk the rest of the night."

"What about the party?"

"Change of plans. Sulking," the Helmsman 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 said quietly.

"I know you weren't."

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"Uhura," Chekov's voice stopped her as she reached the bathroom door.

"Yes?"

"Give me that picture back."

She turned back toward him curiously. "Picture?"

"Yes," he bit out darkly. "I want the picture back that you took."

A wicked glint sparkled in her dark eyes. "Maybe you'll just have to find it yourself, sweatheart."

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're always admiring 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 when Uhura entered his cabin through the bathroom he shared with Chekov. "I was beginning to think you got lost."

"Used the facilities," 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. The kid was still in the Academy six months ago."

"He's a big boy," the Communication's Officer assured him. "A big boy," she added in a significant mutter, eyes sparkling. She glanced away furtively from Sulu's sharp glance and smoothed her hair back with a smirk.

"I know," he sighed under his breath as returned to browsing the book. "We share a bathroom."

"I'm worried about him," she 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 looked taken aback for a moment. "Being in the Fleet means a great deal to him," he finally said. "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 said 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 he held 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 that was 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?"

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, if I were you."

"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."

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 hesitated again. "Generally, it means 'a person with more money than either taste or brains.' I think of its meaning as 'an amoral sellout'."

"Among Russians," she reminded him. "I'm not Russian."

"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 Chekov is a Traditional Russian."

"That's right."

Uhura tucked the book gently under her arm and moved toward the door. "Thank you, Hikaru. I appreciate your understanding: and your help."

"I've had practice," he said with a note of amusement. "Read the book: you'll understand."

"I'll get it back to you as soon as possible."

"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's somber tone stopped her as the door to the corridor slid open. "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 and it settled 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 dark 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 when 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 easily.

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 the spot beneath his ear. "I'm sure I can help with that." She withheld a 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?"

She leaned back, smoothing the back of his hair down with the side a 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 drew 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 insisted. "I'd like to know our Navigator can actually see the stars."

"The viewscreen is only a projection: 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 when the scissors 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 while she was trying to sweep it across his forehead.

"Stop it! Pavel!"

"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 all one length and so thick that 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," Chekov clarified helpfully.

"But still a mop. You promised to let me try a new style," the Communication's Officer reminded him, then smiled. "And I still have that picture: I think it'd be very popular posted on the ship bulletin board." The young man 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.

She 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," Uhura 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 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 am 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?"

"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 grinned and said: "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," she 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. "I know the ploy."

"Pavel," she said 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?"

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 gaze shifted from the dark eyes and face that betrayed nothing and she began pulling the long lengths of hair out between her splayed fingers. She chuckled. "I was thinking about nuns."

This brought her an odd look from the younger man.

Uhura smiled. "Their hair, Pavel. 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 slowly smoothed 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, then allowed a tense nod after a long moment.

"I saw the picture," the Communication's Officer 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 being an only child."

"I don't think anyone's ever been so loved," he agreed. "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."

"I see," she chuckled. "Well, after that, what's left?"

"I learned from Volya to spit," he elaborated as he turned back around. "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, open locks, pick pockets..."

"Goodness!" Uhura 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 observed, 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 carefully. "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 with an unsteady voice. "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 softly. "So that it was real to them: so they could see that you were really leaving the Navy."

He 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," the Communication's Officer 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. Shoes too: but they're not exactly beautiful."

"I'm sure it's a matter of perspective," she commented, but hesitated as she moved to open the box. Uhura held it away from her warily and eyed him dubiously. "You're not tricking me into opening Pandora's box, are you, Pavel?"

"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, swept aside the latch with a finger and raised 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, Uhura prodded at the contents gingerly with a finger. "Pavel, did you know that one of my hobbies is researching and collecting old Earth fashion accessories?"

"I did not know that."

"Well, it is," she remarked. "And this isn't weird at all, Pavel. In the past, people often gave those they cherished a lock of their hair as a remembrance. It was a sign of great devotion. They often fashioned it into jewelry: putting the hair into lockets and broaches, or making watch fobs. Women, in particular, used to give men in the military locks of their hair to carry.

She flashed him a wicked 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," Uhura 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 that filled the box, 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 resolve.

"Of course I can."

Her smile took on an affectionate warmth as she pulled another of the small braids out. "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 chuckled. "Chekov, that superstition about not being killed as long as your hair is in a braid..."

"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 says."

"So she saved your braid," the Communication's Officer acknowledged 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."

"She has her reasons," he remarked in an off-hand comment, then added: "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. In apparent resignation, she lay down the comb and scissors and strolled over to the chair where his uniform shirt lay. Uhura picked it up as she 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 gave a childish laugh. "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..." the Communication's Officer 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: proud to finally be allowed to take the oath that bound me into the service of the Fleet." Uhura stroked the uniform in her lap tenderly, a distant shine in her dark eyes. "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, Pavel," 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," Chekov reminded her.

"I suppose you did," Uhura agreed as she folded his uniform shirt reverently. "I don't suppose you cried."

"I was relieved. I had the nagging feeling they were going to find a reason not to let me take the oath after all."

She smiled in response, then suddenly asked: "Pavel, do you wear your uniform at home?"

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.

"And I'm not stupid," Chekov rasped, dark eyes glaring at her. "I know what you're doing, Uhura."

He shifted uncomfortably. "But it worked."

"What's that?" she asked with a mild note of innocence.

"It worked," he repeated soberly, straightening. "It has 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 be tormented for being different. They chose to be different and 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 studying his strangely 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 am 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."

The Communication's Officer pressed her lips together tightly, eyes warm with affection as she retrieved the comb and scissors. She moved around to the back of the younger man again and 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 the back of 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 to imply that 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 in the silence for an excruciatingly long time. He finally 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, dissolving seamlessly into the swirling, depthless vortex of brown that held her gaze.

She straightened and blinked deliberately, breaking the hold of his mesmerizing eyes. Oh my... "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 the brown in his eyes took on a ethereal resplendence; shining with the warmth and power of a star going nova.

Uhura 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," she 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 warm breath 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...

Long lashes fluttered over the huge, soulful eyes with the innocence and utter vulnerability of a new-born child.

Oh shit. What have I done?

------------

Uhura stood with her back pressed tightly against the room divider, her eyes downcast somberly. Her fingers kneaded the shelf behind her back.

Sulu froze as he stepped in the cabin. He eyed her suspiciously and then asked: "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 explained somberly. "I thought maybe he'd like that."

Glancing up at her, Sulu smiled slightly. "In exchange for the box? Yes, he'll appreciate that. 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 again but froze in mid-air: his hand hovering inches from the side of Chekov's head as the door vanished 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 gleaming 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 uneasily. "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...charming!"

"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. "Chekov'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."