A/N: WOOT! First Star trek fanfiction! Feel free not to go easy on me; this is far from my first fanfiction (see profile) and I welcome all kinds of crit.

Disclaimer: Seriously? Who's going to read this to where I'd be sued, J.J. Abrams? Some out-of-work lawyer? Yeah, I see no point. You know that I know that you know that I don't own Star Trek, right? Even without the disclaimer? Yeah, that's what I thought.

Pavel Chekov was more than accustomed to doing things for himself.

It had started as a child. His father, more often than not, was either out, or passed out somewhere in the house, while his mother spent her days at one job and nights at another. It wasn't the best way to grow up, but he'd survived. And from that childhood came a deep hatred of asking for help, even with the most simple things. If someone even suggested he couldn't do something, he would not only attempt it despite any unpleasant after effects, but likely do it better than expected with assistance.

So he had a few choice reasons to dislike the fact that he was accident prone.

Now, I don't just mean accident prone like rolling out of bed in the middle of the night or getting a little cut every time you even think of touching something remotely sharp, I mean accident prone. As in, get-you-in-the-sickbay-once-a-week-with-something-broken accident prone.

He never told anyone why he had the odd limp occasionally, or why he seemed to favor this hand over that. They never asked, or they stopped asking. After the third or fourth 'It's nothing; joost a leetle accident,' people got tired of the not-answers and just shut up about it. The only person that still pushed was McCoy, and the two didn't see each other often enough for the CMO to drag the accident prone Russian to sickbay.

So, of course, no one ever found out it wasn't just accidents.

There were plenty of people who didn't think the seventeen year old should have been on the Enterprise, or any Starfleet craft for that matter, just like they believed that James Kirk shouldn't be Captain at barely twenty-five. Those people were more than happy to show their disapproval.

They never did anything to their Captain - no, that would cause too much suspicion - but they never seemed to have a problem showing their feelings to the young Ensign. It's always at the end of shift, too. When he's leaving the Bridge after a long day, tired and wary of who could be around the next corner when no one is watching. When it's over he goes off to his cabin, treats whatever new wounds he has that time, figures out how to hide anything on the face the next morning, and almost passes out on his bed, still in uniform.

So, when he wakes up late one morning and has no time for hiding new and old bruises, people notice.

Kirk is the first one to note it, asking where the black eye (which is by no means the only thing) came from. Chekov's eyes widened slightly and he bit his lip for a moment before laughing, slight nervousness slipping in. "I tripped on my vay out and fell into my bed." He inwardly sighed in relief. It seemed like a plausible enough excuse; there was no way he was going to tell them that some cadet twice his age dislocated his shoulder and punched him the previous day. How no one had heard his scream while he forced it back in place was beyond him, but it was a nice little miracle.

Kirk raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Sulu, on the other hand, was still curious.

"What about your hand?" He said, motioning to the bruised the bloody knuckles. It was clear he was hoping for a straight answer, even if it was a lie, more so since Pavel had already given one answer, which was a rarity.

Another nervous laugh. "I shut my hand in a drawer." Not quite as believable, but it worked. The Ensign self consciously pulled his sleeve over the defense wound as Sulu stared at his hand for a moment longer. No other comments were made. Well, except…

"Maybe you should get that checked out." Sulu suggested, still studying the half-covered hand. "Seriously, aren't you due for physical anyway?"

Chekov pursed his lips, eyes shinning with defiance, but said nothing, leaving an awkward tension hanging in the air for a second too long. "Of course. Keptain," he said, turning his chair to face Kirk. "Vould you mind if I…?"

Kirk shook his head. "Of course not. Oh and… tell Bones I said sorry about last night." At the inquisitive cocked head the Captain merely laughed. -"You don't want to know." Chekov nodded, getting up from his seat and silently limping -when had he acquired that limp anyway? Last week, week before that?- toward the lift.

The trip to sickbay takes far to little time, in Chekov's opinion. He barely had enough time to think up even semi-reasonable excuses for a good portion of his injuries, let alone ones that McCoy might actually believe. "Sheet." He mutters, his thick accent distorting the curse as he enters one of the few places (What few? It was the only.) on the Enterprise he despises.

The sudden brighter light and the smell that all hospitals and sickbays carry overwhelm his senses for the first few seconds, and he sways slightly on his feet. There's an arm at his elbow in an instant, but he doesn't know who it is. He's too busy staring at the ground trying not to pass out.

A dismissive flick of the hand. "I am fine." The grip tightens when he tries to take another step only to stumble over his injured leg.

"No, you're not. God, kid, you look awful. What have you been doing to yourself?" The voice was gruff with a slight southern drawl, and Chekov kept his gaze firmly on the floor as McCoy (just his luck) drags him to the nearest biobed.

"Joost accident prone, Sir." Its such a familiar lie it flies off his tongue before he can stop it, and he's happy about that. No one would even consider the truth if they were told.

McCoy nods, distracted by the scanner in his hand before looking up. "Take off your shirt."

"Vhat?"

"I said, take off your shirt. You've got two cracked ribs. So take. Off. The. Shirt."

Chekov's mouth opened slightly, a small "Ah," escaping his lips. He winced as he grabbed the material, a sharp pain shooting through his hand, but said nothing, merely gritting his teeth as he tried to pull the shirt over his head.

So while the shirt was covering his head, he didn't see McCoy's expression.

Bones' eyes widened and his jaw dropped. The kid's (he refused to think of the seventeen year old as anything but) chest was covered in bruises and cuts, some nearly healed and some fresh. If he looked he could see that some of the imprints were boot-shaped, mainly the ones near the abdomen, and he feels rage rising in his chest. Who could do this? To a kid no less. A kid that's not even seventeen…

A kid that shouldn't feel he has to hide pain,

The realization startled him out of one revere and into another. His mouth shut with a slight clicking noise as he stares into blue eyes, now revealed. They're pain filled and ashamed - ashamed at weakness? What weakness? At having to come to sickbay? At needing help? Something must be seriously messed up in this kid's brain, he thought.

"Kid," Bones said. "No one is accident prone enough to get injuries like this. What happened?"

Chekov bit his lip, trying to think of some sort of lie to cover up the bruises (among other things). Sparring? No. the only person he sparred with was Sulu, and fencing didn't really count. The fact that yes he was accident prone enough? No. It really was impossible for someone to have such bad luck. Suddenly, and idea struck him.

"I get into fights with some of the older crewmembers sometimes." Not exactly a lie. "Eets nozing, Doktor. I can take care of eet myself."

The older man laughed mirthlessly. "Trust me when I say this, Pav, there is not a being in this galaxy that could get into fights this much," he said, gesturing to the array of colors -and therefore rough dates- on the Russian's chest. "Not even Jim, and especially not you. Now cut the crap and tell me what happened."

"I really don't know."

Somewhere, a flip was switched inside the CMO's brain.

"How can you not know?! Someone has obviously beat the crap out of you - more than once! How can you not know?!" He wasn't exactly yelling, but his voice was slightly louder than before, and angrier. Chekov flinched.

"Eet's been… a lot of someone's, And I don't know vhy." His voice is quiet, and childhood memories are flashing through his mind. Tears fill startling blue eyes, but none fall. Bones is pretty sure that's what kills him the most.

He sits down beside the kid, putting an arm around Chekov's shoulder and pulling him close. He knows why; he's heard some of the older crew members talking, though they never indicated violence. "God damnit, I worked hard for the position I have now, and some punk becomes Captain in a day?! And that Ensign…! He's not even eighteen yet. He shouldn't have been able to enlist until he was at least eighteen!" And they'd continue to rant, more so to themselves because no one really listened, but they never sounded like they wanted to actually hurt their crewmembers, no matter how much they thought they 'didn't belong on the ship'.

"I'm sorry." Bones mutters, feeling the kids shoulders shake, but not a sound passes his lips. "Damnit kid, you should have told someone. You're lucky I push to find problems. Do you know how this could have progressed? How often does this happen?" All the while he's leading the young Ensign to his office, so none of the nurses see him like he is, and on to the couch, keeping a firm but gentle grip on the kids shoulders. He needs comforting right then, not to think that the older man is going to push him away if he sheds a few tears.

"Almost ewery day." For the first time, Chekov sounds broken. There's none of the youthful enthusiasm. The 'little ray of sunshine' (as people are so fond of calling him) is clouded over, leaving nothing but heavy rain. But after every heavy rain, there's gotta be a rainbow, right?

"Oh Chekov." And Bones doesn't say a word more. He doesn't let his instinct from dealing with Jim take over, knowing if he lectures the boy he'll curl into himself and there won't be another word; just tried to offer a sense of security.

Chekov whimpered slightly, clutching McCoy's shirt like a drowning man does a life raft. His shoulder hitch with sobs and tears stream down pale cheeks. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He whispered over and over, and McCoy pulled him in tighter.

"You have nothing to be sorry about."

A/N: Really sorry about Bones' OOCness. And Chekov's. And I'm also sorry if there were a lot of tense changes. I was never good with those buggers... So just tell me if there were any freaky points (because I'm sure there are) where we go from past tense, to present tense, then back.

*sniffles* I feel so bad about this, but the idea's been infesting my brain for a good week now, and I though some of the hurt/comfort fans on here might like it. :D Do ya?

Also, should I continue, or just leave it as a one-shot? Because it could work for either. I don't know. :/