Fic: Sun Protection Factor (Sulu/Chekov)

Title: Sun Protection Factor
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sulu/Chekov
Word Count: 7148
Summary: Sulu does everything wrong, and it's all because of Chekov's freckles.
Warnings: Some gratuitous liberty-taking with various alien races and planets, a bit of angst, and a bit of fluff.
Notes: This fic was based primarily on the prompt Sulu is entranced by Chekov's freckles, but I also included They're in a bar on some planet and one of the locals is showing a little too much interest in Chekov. Sulu has to stake a claim to get the local to back off. Thank you so much to all the people who helped beta/hash out this fic with me: cmere, reallycorking, celebros, sarisia, and jehnt. Thanks also to furiosity, who helped me learn some Russian. :)



Sulu first notices while on shore leave on a planet in the Omicron Delta system, when Chekov's skin starts turning brilliantly pink after only a few hours in the sun. The freckles that before were just barely visible on the surface of his pale skin come out full force, vibrant despite the burn, spattering across his nose and cheeks and running down the back of his neck to disappear under his shirt. Sulu almost brings them up but then thinks better of it, opting instead to take off his hat and place it on Chekov's head.

"You forgot sunblock," he says. Chekov laughs.

"Yes," he agrees, and he adjusts the hat and goes back to helping Sulu collect plant specimens.

*

The problem is, Sulu's fascination doesn't fade with Chekov's freckles. It's two weeks since shore leave and Chekov's skin has mostly gone back to normal, but Sulu is still transfixed, struck by how many details about the ensign he's never noticed before.

"Sir?" Chekov says, startling Sulu out of his silent but probably not terribly subtle study of the curls at the nape of Chekov's neck. "We're off duty, sir."

Sulu blinks at the time on the console—four minutes past the end of their shift—and forces a tight-lipped smile. "So we are," he says. He stands up and straightens out his uniform, wondering if Chekov has been eyeing the time and waiting for him to lead the way off the bridge like he normally does.

"Do you have any plans for tonight, sir?" Chekov asks as they enter the elevator, an entirely innocent question that nonetheless causes Sulu's mouth to go dry.

"We're off the bridge, Chekov," Sulu reminds him, deciding not to answer him directly. "You don't need to call me 'sir.'"

Chekov bows his head and gives him a bashful smile. "Sorry. Do you have any plans for tonight, Mr. Sulu?"

Whether being referred to by Chekov as Mr. is better or worse, Sulu can't quite decide. Still, he's at least gotten used to it. The elevator doors open before he can formulate a response, and he and Chekov step out onto deck nine. Chekov's quarters are to the left and down three more winding hallways; Sulu's are almost immediately to the right. Normally, since Thursdays are their shared night of the week off, he and Chekov head to the rec room or pick one of their quarters in which to drink and play cards. If Sulu were to make other plans—and what the hell would those be, anyway—he would let Chekov know about it ahead of time. Chekov asking about his evening is nothing but a formality.

"To be honest, I'm not feeling too well," Sulu says, fumbling a bit over the lie, and Chekov's brow instantly furrows. "I might just take it easy and turn in early."

"You are not sick, I hope?" Chekov steps forward, almost as if he's about to put a hand on Sulu's forehead, but he stops himself mid-movement. "Have you seen the doctor?"

Sulu shakes his head and takes half a step back, disgusted with himself and ashamed in the face of Chekov's concern. "I'm sure it's nothing," he says. "Just a headache. I'll be fine once I get a good night's sleep."

"I see." Chekov doesn't seem the least bit suspicious of Sulu's sudden, unprecedented ailment, and Sulu wonders if it's ever even occurred to the kid that people lie, that his superior officers are capable of lying. "Then go get your sleep, yes? I will see you tomorrow on the bridge."

"See you tomorrow, yeah."

Sulu's only been in his quarters ten minutes when someone beeps in at the door and it opens to reveal Chekov once again, one hand outstretched with a small pill resting in the flat of his palm.

"For your head," he says. Sulu doesn't have to ask to know he went all the way back to sickbay to retrieve it. "Sleep well, sir."

"Thanks," Sulu manages, stunned, and then Chekov is walking away and Sulu has to bite his lip and fight the urge to call him back, feeling strangely bereft, with nothing but the image of the freckles he spotted on the back of Chekov's curved neck to haunt his sleep for the rest of the night.

*

There are three freckles arranged in a perfect triangle just below Chekov's right temple. Sulu discovers them quite by accident as they're suiting up for a throw-away mission analyzing the terrain of a Class K planet, when Chekov fumbles with the helmet he has to pull over his head and asks Sulu for help. Besides this discovery, Sulu can smell Chekov's hair from up this close—if he wanted, he could count every one of Chekov's eyelashes—and it's so disconcerting he almost fucks up the helmet, despite having done this before.

"All set?" asks Scott, snapping Sulu out of his reverie. Sulu gives Chekov a friendly thump on the visor and Chekov smiles.

"Ready," they say in unison.

"Let us know if you find any trouble down there," Scott says, and next thing Sulu knows they're beaming down, along with Ensigns Riley and Harrison, to the surface of a planet with more sand than life forms and an average midday temperature of 60 degrees Celsius.

Despite their special protective gear, Chekov almost immediately looks as if he's about to wilt in the sun. He collects specimens and scans them as well as the other ensigns, but Sulu's sure the stress of the environment is getting to him, if the pained expression on his face and the clunkiness of his movements are anything to go by.

By the end of their first six hour shift, Sulu has grown inexplicably anxious. Every moment spent on the planet's surface he feels like he's more sharply focused on Chekov than the task at hand, and it makes him clumsy, stupid. They've got two more days of this to look forward to, and there is no doubt in Sulu's mind that he's going to do something unforgivably irresponsible if things keep up the way they're going, with Chekov's health plaguing him along with his responsibility as senior officer on an away mission.

As soon as they're beamed back aboard the Enterprise and he's stripped himself of his outerwear, Sulu tracks down Kirk, quietly requesting a private audience with him at the captain's convenience.

"What's the problem?" Kirk asks, guiding Sulu by the elbow into his observation lounge.

"I think you should take Ensign Chekov off the away team," Sulu says without preamble.

Kirk frowns and appears to study him more closely, and Sulu wipes self-consciously at a smudge of dirt on his cheek.

"Why? Are you two like, fighting or something?"

"No. It's not personal, sir," Sulu says, perhaps a little too quickly. "I just—I'm concerned the climate is disagreeable to Ensign Chekov's disposition."

To Sulu's dismay, Kirk waves a dismissive hand at this. "Chekov's a member of Starfleet just like the rest of us," he says shortly. "If he couldn't handle the line of duty, he wouldn't be here."

"I know that, sir, I just—" Sulu pauses to wet his lips and he notices Kirk's face take on a more troubled look, like he can tell Sulu is genuinely agitated but remains clueless as to why. "Surely there must be something in Starfleet protocol about assigning missions as appropriately as possible, to officers who will be most capable in completing their tasks safely and efficiently?"

After a beat, Kirk nods, conceding this.

"I'm just asking you to consider it," Sulu says. "I don't want to see him hurt doing something minor and largely pointless."

"All right. I'll take it under advisement," Kirk says, still leveling Sulu with an uncomfortably heated gaze.

"Thank you, sir," Sulu says, and he slips away before Kirk can follow up with any prying questions.

In the end, it's not Kirk he needs to worry about.

"You told the captain to take me off the mission," Chekov accuses, waiting in the transporter room with his arms crossed in front of his chest after Sulu returns from his second day on the planet's surface. Sulu removes his helmet, coughs, and steps off the pad.

"Uh," he says, glancing sideways at Riley, Harrison, and Deem—Chekov's replacement—to see if they're watching. Naturally, they all are. "Can we have this conversation somewhere else?"

Chekov scowls but gestures one hand in the sweeping after you motion, and Sulu, swallowing down a lump in his throat, leads the way back to his quarters.

"I didn't tell him to take you off the mission," Sulu says once they're finally behind closed doors, shrinking slightly under Chekov's incredulous look. "I just—I asked him if he didn't think you would be better assigned to another task. Obviously, he agreed."

"I don't understand," Chekov says, and his voice is still harsher than Sulu has ever heard it. "I did nothing wrong. I performed competently. I see no reason for you to have said these things to the captain unless you had some other problem with me."

"No, that's not—" Sulu cringes, runs a hand through his dusty hair, and wishes more than anything he could grab Chekov's shoulders and just hold him there until all the tension dissipates and it's like they were in the beginning again, playful and friendly and never uncomfortable or at odds. "That's not it," he finishes lamely, unable to find the words.

"Indeed." It horrifies Sulu, the way Chekov's voice and expression can get icy cold like this, the fact that he alone is responsible for making it happen. "I think you are lying," Chekov says simply. "I think you are lying, and I think you have treated me wrongly."

There's no arguing that, really, so Sulu doesn't try, just watches miserably as Chekov storms out of his quarters and the door slides quietly shut behind him. A small yet persistent voice in the back of Sulu's head demands if he noticed the pleasant way Chekov's cheeks flushed in anger, how his freckles stood out against the pink.

"You are so fucked," Sulu groans, kicking the foot of his bed, and when he trudges into the shower to rinse off all the dirt and sweat he forces himself not to think about anything at all.

*

Fucked doesn't begin to describe it, Sulu discovers, not when seeing Chekov stone-faced and silent beside him every day is torture and not seeing him during their shared time off is even worse. Chekov's not unreasonable, Sulu knows, and it would probably just be a matter of hunting him down and explaining himself in order to make things right again, but the explaining himself part is where Sulu gets tripped up. Somehow, just saying "Sorry I kicked you off the away team, but I was getting really distracted staring at the side of your face" seems a bit insufficient, and the more he ponders it, the more he realizes he has no better excuse. Sure, Chekov had looked a bit weary and delicate in the heat, but Sulu had probably looked no better. He remembers with startling clarity that Riley and Harrison had looked like hell, too; he just hadn't bothered to worry about them.

Which makes him not only a shit friend, but a kind of lacking commanding officer.

The realization stings, and it follows him all the way to the bridge as he prepares for yet another early morning shift side-by-side with Chekov. Chekov looks up when he enters, already seated and ready at his console, but doesn't greet him with a friendly smile like he used to. Sulu bites his tongue and walks stiffly to his seat.

"Sulu," Kirk says, before Sulu is even properly settled in, "set in a course for Moropa, warp two."

"Setting in course, sir," Sulu says automatically. It takes a moment for it to sink in that this isn't the course they should be taking; they should be heading steadily toward Andoria to aid in diplomatic talks about easing tension between the Andorians and the Elasians.

Of course, by the time Sulu's fuzzy brain has registered it, Chekov is already on top of things. "What about Andoria, sir?"

Kirk grins broadly at the entire bridge, pausing before he answers, probably for dramatic effect. "The Andorians contacted Starfleet to let us know the conflict has been resolved and our assistance is no longer required," he says. "I figured, with all our unexpected free time, a brief, unscheduled shore leave was in order?"

Their last shore leave was less than a month ago, and Sulu can't keep the disbelief off his face at the news. To follow up one vacation with another so quickly is, in Starfleet, unheard of. "Sir," he says. "Won't Starfleet want us to account for—"

"You don't need to worry about Starfleet," Kirk interrupts. "It's taken care of." To his side, Spock is looking considerably more constipated than usual, Sulu thinks, but already his thoughts are turning to more important matters. Like how the hell he's supposed to enjoy a shore leave without Chekov to spend it with, for starters.

"Whaddaya think?" Kirk asks. "Who wants to join me for a drink tonight at 2100 hours?"

Which is how Sulu ends up squashed in a booth next to Chekov in a Moropan bar, head spinning with the amount of alcohol he's had to ingest to put up with the sheer volume of Kirk and Scott's combined voices and the amount of effort it takes to not simply grab Chekov by the chin, tilt his head back, and touch every single one of those freckles with his tongue.

The alcohol might also be impacting his better judgment and inhibitions just a bit.

"Look," Sulu says, turning toward Chekov, emboldened perhaps by the Moropan ale and by the fact that all their crewmates have suddenly abandoned them for some strange kind of billiards-like game or the dance floor. Chekov turns his wide eyes on Sulu—he's had plenty to drink, too—and Sulu swallows hard.

"I was completely—" he begins, just as a Moropan male slides into the booth on Chekov's other side and plants a hand on his thigh.

"You are from Earth, yes?" the Moropan asks in broken English. Chekov looks to Sulu, one eyebrow raised, before nodding.

"Then you are," the Moropan says, "Earth male, or Earth female? With this one, I cannot tell."

Chekov's brow furrows, but surely not as much as Sulu's, who is half-standing and ready to tear the hand on Chekov's thigh clean off. Another pair of Moropa approach from behind, seeming to sense Sulu's hostility, and the original smirks.

"Male," Chekov says firmly, brushing the hand off his thigh himself. He gives Sulu a warning look, probably intended to tell him to back off, but Sulu feels like every one of his nerves is on fire. He can only stand up straighter, fists balled at his sides. "On Earth," Chekov adds, "such a question would be considered rude."

The Moropan laughs. "Not meaning to be rude," he says. "It makes no difference to me which you are."

It's the way the Moropan looks at Chekov that does it, his mouth quirked to the side like he's just won something rare and priceless. And maybe it's because Chekov is both of those things that Sulu is so damned determined to not let the Moropan look at him that way a second longer.

"He's spoken for, actually," Sulu says, stepping around the table and dropping a hand to the Moropan's shoulder. He purposefully refuses to meet Chekov's eyes, because he's not sure what kind of reaction he's going to find there. "It would really be best if you would go."

"Ah, so?" The Moropan looks from Chekov to Sulu, apparently amused, then settles his gaze again on Chekov. "The Moropa, we are bigger," he says, gesturing between his legs. "You might prefer it."

"No, thank you," Chekov says, just as Sulu grabs the Moropan by the front of the shirt and punches him in the face.

The fight should be over about as soon as it's begun, because there are three of them and only one of Sulu, but the mixture of alcohol, adrenaline, and fierce, blinding rage have so gone to his head that it's almost like he's invincible. Sulu slams the offending Moropan to the floor, jamming his knee into his chest to hold him there while he punches over and over and over again, and he hears Chekov curse loudly in Russian before launching over them both to stop a second Moropan from breaking a bottle over Sulu's head. He wants to yell at Chekov to stay out of it, this isn't a fight he started and the thought of seeing Chekov hurt in it makes Sulu physically ill, but it's a bit too late for that now.

Instead of talking, he punches until he can't tell whether it's the Moropan's blood or his own dripping from his knuckles, and he keeps kicking and swinging blindly when three new Moropa finally manage to drag him off and throw him against a table. He sees a handful of Starfleet officers, Kirk among them, running in to help out of the corner of his eye, and thank God, thank God Chekov is still standing and holding his own and doesn't seem to have anything wrong with him beyond a bloody lip. It's the last thing he sees before the Moropan he thought he'd rendered unconscious appears from out of nowhere and hits him upside the head with something very large and very hard, and he sinks to his knees and watches the world go black.

*

When he comes to, Sulu's first thought is that he's in sickbay. His second thought is, Oh, fuck, just before he leans over the side of the bed and heaves his guts out into a conveniently placed garbage can.

"That Moropan ale's hell once the buzz wears off, ain't it?"

Sulu tries to turn his head to better take in Dr. McCoy, who's approaching his bed from the left, but it's at that precise moment he notices his nose is bleeding profusely. He stays angled over the garbage can and struggles not to choke on the mingled bile and blood in his throat.

"C'mere," McCoy says gruffly. He sticks something incredibly frightening-looking into one of Sulu's nostrils and, after a flash of pain that feels like a quick burn, Sulu's nose stops dripping.

"Thanks," Sulu croaks.

"My pleasure," McCoy says. "You had some broken ribs, too. Let me check to make sure they've set properly."

Sitting up is easier said than done, Sulu discovers, the dull throb in his side suddenly drawing his attention as soon as he tries to move. McCoy helps lift him by the armpit and then scans his side with another, slightly less intimidating instrument. He seems satisfied with his work, nodding and setting the instrument to the side as he starts to prod at Sulu's ribs with his fingers.

"Is everyone—" Sulu starts, trailing off partially because his throat protests when he tries to talk and partially because he's scared to hear the answer. "Is everyone else all right?" he manages at length.

McCoy lets out a dry chuckle. "If you mean everyone besides the Moropan you nearly sent into a coma, sure, kid, everyone's fine. A couple bruises and bloody noses here and there, but believe it or not, I've seen worse shore leaves."

Sulu nods, overwhelmed with relief that Chekov and the rest of the crew are fine but also struggling against a wave of something vaguely like guilt. "So the Moropan. . . ."

"Worried about him now, are you?" McCoy lifts an eyebrow and Sulu has the decency to look ashamed, lifting his arm to allow McCoy to prod further.

"He'll live," McCoy finally concedes, allowing Sulu's arm to drop to his side. "Although, believe it or not, his headache's going to be worse than yours in the morning. And I'll be damned if I'm giving you anything for that hangover."

"Fair enough," Sulu says, cracking a weak smile. McCoy steps back and looks him over, giving Sulu reason to hope they're done with medical procedure. "Can I have some water?"

"There'll be water for you in the brig."

Sulu and McCoy both turn with a start to find Kirk hovering in the doorway, a vibrant purple bruise standing out against his cheek and a more disapproving look on his face than Sulu thinks he's ever seen on the captain before.

"Get yourself cleaned up," Kirk says, nodding toward the bathroom. "Then we're going for a walk."

It takes Sulu less than ten minutes to rinse the blood off his face and hands and change into a set of nondescript white scrubs that have been set out for him, although when he first sees his reflection in the mirror he's so horrified he can't believe he'll ever look normal again. Most of the gore is just caked on and not actually coming from an injury, however, and by the time he's completely ruined one of McCoy's white washcloths, he's actually looking quite human. He even goes so far as to steal a toothbrush and toothpaste from the shelf behind him and scrub out the rancid taste in his mouth, sucking water greedily from the tap and spitting it into the sink until it runs clear again instead of pink. When he emerges, neither Kirk nor McCoy appears to have moved an inch.

"Thanks," Sulu says to McCoy, who only nods.

Kirk allows Sulu to pass through the door in front of him and then they fall into step side-by-side, presumably en route to the brig. Sulu's never actually been there.

"Okay," Kirk says. "First of all, I will concede that you fight like a fucking badass."

Sulu tries not to stare too openly at Kirk, who is still looking blankly ahead as if he hadn't just said something utterly ludicrous.

"Uh," Sulu says, rubbing the back of his neck. "Thanks?"

"But," Kirk says, "you also started an unprovoked fight on an allied alien planet and pretty damn near killed a guy."

Still not exactly what Sulu was expecting, but more along the right track. He nods miserably.

"And because I'm a new captain," Kirk continues, "and because more than a few of the Enterprise's visits to alien planets have resulted in some less-than-diplomatic behavior on the part of its crew," —he clears his throat here, and Sulu wonders if he's tallying in his head how many of those less-than-diplomatic incidents were of his own making—"I'm kind of in deep shit if I don't punish you."

The way he's putting it is almost enough to make Sulu laugh. "I understand, sir," he says instead.

"I thought you would." Kirk slaps a hand on Sulu's back and comes to a sudden stop, making Sulu realize they've already reached their destination: a long hallway with doorway after doorway leading into empty cells, well-lit and clean if a bit sparse and utilitarian.

"There'll be a mark on your permanent record," Kirk says, keying something into a pad on the wall outside the nearest cell, "and you'll have to stay in here the next twenty-four hours, but honestly, it's not so bad." He grins when he adds, "You wouldn't believe how many marks I had on my record before I even made it onto a starship."

I probably would, Sulu does not say. "Thank you, sir."

Kirk nods, gesturing to the cell, and Sulu steps inside. He can hear the force field activate behind him, but when he turns around, it looks as if there's nothing between him and Kirk but the air they breathe.

"I'm curious, Sulu," Kirk says suddenly, leaning up against the frame of the cell and leveling him with a searching look. "Why the hell did you pick that fight, anyway? I asked Chekov, but he won't say a word."

Just hearing Chekov's name is enough to make Sulu's chest constrict. There's no way in hell he'll be able to fix things now, he's sure of it, and the thought almost makes him wish he could just stay in this cell for the rest of his life rather than have to leave it in a day and face reality again.

"I—" Sulu stammers, "—it was." He licks his cracked lips, frowning at the floor, and starts again. "He said some inexcusable things, sir," he admits. "To Chekov."

Kirk snorts in a way that could be amused or could be scornful. "I see." It seems like that might be the end of it; Kirk steps away from the frame and makes as if to leave, but then he stops with his back to Sulu, heaving a weary sigh.

"You know," he says, "sometimes I look at that guy and I think, Jesus, he is so damned young. But then I tell myself, shit, he saved my ass when I was about to get smeared across some rock face in Vulcan. I couldn't've pulled that off when I was seventeen."

Sulu blinks, something very small and delicate inside of him feeling like it's just been shattered.

"Also," Kirk says, turning around to flash Sulu a bright grin, "dude, you're barely even legal to drink where I come from, and you're a lieutenant."

"Oh," Sulu says, weakly.

"Replicator's to your right." Kirk gestures behind him as he walks away. "If you need anything, you can still hail anyone onboard at any time."

And just like that, Sulu is alone in the brig. Which is just as well, as he's got plenty to think about.

*

Sulu is planning to spend his time in the brig pondering everything he wants to say to Chekov. He thinks maybe, given twenty-four hours to perfectly script and rehearse the conversation, he might be able to get his words right, might be able to at least begin to untangle this fucked-up-beyond-all-recognition mess he's created.

Naturally, Chekov shows up about ten minutes after Kirk leaves.

"Pavel?" Sulu says incredulously when Chekov appears in the doorframe of his cell. He immediately wants to kick himself for slipping into the more familiar name; the handful of times he's addressed Chekov that familiarly before, they were both drunk.

Chekov doesn't respond, hovering in front of what Sulu knows is the security pad on the wall and punching some sort of code into it. After less than a minute, Sulu hears the force field make a sort of withering sound and Chekov enters the cell without hesitation, striding forward to meet Sulu, who stands up from his bunk.

"Did you—did you just hack into the security panel?" Sulu asks.

"It was a small adjustment," Chekov says, waving an impatient hand. "I can get in, you cannot get out. Are you very hurt?" The look on Chekov's face seems to be hovering between concern and disapproval, which is half better than Sulu was expecting, at least.

"I'm fine," Sulu says. He wants to return later to the fact that Chekov just apparently hacked into Starfleet security and changed the settings to suit his fancy without so much as batting an eyelash, but now is not the time. "McCoy fixed me up," he adds. Chekov grabs his chin, frowning, and tilts his face up and to the side for inspection, and Sulu can feel himself getting warm. "Are you okay?"

Chekov's frown deepens and he drops his hand from Sulu's face. "Fine," he says. "But I am embarrassed. Everyone keeps asking about it." He takes a step back from Sulu and crosses his arms, as if suddenly remembering he's still angry. "That was very stupid of you."

"I know." Sulu groans and pinches his temples. "Look, Chekov—"

"No." Chekov cuts him off sharply. "I have things to say to you, first."

What strikes Sulu as so heartbreakingly endearing is that here Chekov pauses, apparently waiting for Sulu to give his assent for him to continue.

"Go ahead," Sulu says, fighting the insane urge to smile.

"I am not a child," Chekov begins. "I do not need hand-holding on away missions, and I do not need protecting in bars. Okay?"

"I know. Chekov, I—"

"I think you don't know. I think you are being the child, and I want you to stop."

Sulu stares at him pathetically, unable to formulate anything intelligent to say to that. "I'm sorry," he manages in a weak voice.

At this Chekov seems to soften a bit, but he still sighs as if Sulu isn't quite getting it. "I expect it from the others," Chekov explains. "With you, more than them, it bothers me."

"Why?" Sulu can't help but ask.

Chekov pauses to fiddle with the hem of his shirt, his cheeks going slightly pink. "It just does," he says. "I thought you were different."

I am, Sulu wants to scream, but he contains himself. "Chekov," he says. "I know I've been a complete jerk and an idiot. I don't have an excuse, but I—I never wanted you to feel like this. I'm so sorry."

Still playing with his shirt, Chekov glares down at his hands. "If it is just a matter of forgiving you, then okay. Done. That is not a problem for me. But I still want you to explain. At least try."

Sulu is so stunned he almost doesn't hear the last part of Chekov's speech. Did Chekov really just pardon him for everything, as easy as that? "Uh," Sulu stammers. He blames it on his addled brain when the explanation that slips out is, "It was your freckles."

Chekov looks up and cocks his head, obviously convinced he's misheard something. "Excuse me?" he says.

Crap.

"I mean," Sulu recovers quickly, "I've been under a lot of pressure lately, and—"

"Freckles?" Chekov points at his cheek, not distracted for a second. "These?"

It's futile to pretend any longer, Sulu figures, so he just slumps his shoulders and lets out a long, shaky breath. "Yeah," he says. "Those."

"Explain more, please," Chekov says, quite reasonably.

Taking a seat on the edge of his bunk, Sulu swallows down his panic and decides, for better or worse, it's going to be now. "On shore leave," he says, "in Omicron Delta. Before that I never thought about anything like that, I swear to God, but you got sunburned and then they were just there, and even after it faded I could still see them, and it was like I couldn't stop, anytime I was around you—"

"Slow down," Chekov says. "I am not sure I am understanding."

"That's because I'm not making any sense." Sulu laughs, although nothing about this is funny. "I can't stop thinking about you," he says, looking up into Chekov's perplexed eyes. "If I think even for a second you might be in danger, it makes me sick. That's why I was acting like an asshole. That's why I feel like I would go back and kick that Moropan's ass all over again if I got half a chance." Sulu closes his eyes and swallows, unable to bear looking at Chekov any longer.

"That is why you said I was spoken for?" Chekov asks, dropping to his knees in front of Sulu, and before Sulu can answer, Chekov kisses him.

"Shit," Sulu gasps against Chekov's mouth, pulling back to take in his expression with wide eyes and placing one hand on either side of Chekov's face. Chekov smiles and imitates him, resting his hands on Sulu's cheekbones, rubbing small circles with his thumbs.

"Better?"

It's such an endearing question Sulu has to force himself not to laugh out loud and ruin the moment. "Better," he agrees. "Yes. God. Yes."

"So no more fighting people," Chekov says, suddenly stern. "Or talking to the captain about taking me off away teams. Right?"

"Right." Sulu does laugh this time, in a chastised sort of way. "Promise."

"Good." All the sternness melts away and Chekov is suddenly warm and pliant, climbing into Sulu's lap and leaning over him until Sulu bangs his head against the wall.

"Hold on," Sulu says, just as Chekov is bending down for another kiss. Chekov looks puzzled but stays still, and Sulu lifts his hand to the freckles on Chekov's cheeks, tracing them with the pad of his thumb from one cheek to the other and down the side of his neck.

When he's finished, Chekov seems slightly out of breath. Sulu leans forward and presses their foreheads together.

"Okay," he says. "I'm good."

Chekov's only response is a whimper before they're kissing again, deep and long and messy this time, Chekov exerting so much startling force that Sulu is flat on his back and being straddled on the bunk before he even knows exactly what's happened. He groans and arches up when Chekov grinds down against him, grabbing onto Chekov's hips just so he has purchase on something.

"I've been thinking about you, too," Chekov says, breathlessly, in between kisses to Sulu's mouth and chin and neck. "Since before Omicron Delta. Since forever."

Something starts warming Sulu from the inside and he smiles, leaning forward to bite at Chekov's lip and surging his hips up with such force that Chekov rises on top of him and gasps. "Guess we should have gotten into a fight sooner, then," Sulu says, and Chekov laughs.

"No," Chekov says. "We should have skipped the fighting and started here."

"Good point."

They come to a mutual, unspoken agreement that the time for conversation is over when Sulu slides a hand under the hem of Chekov's shirt, tracing his abs, and Chekov shifts in his lap, the cleft of his ass dragging painfully across Sulu's hard-on. It's so dizzyingly hot that Sulu groans, his hands again grappling with Chekov's waist. It occurs to him that they are doing this in a cell with no door, that anyone happening to pass by or stopping in to check on him could appear with no warning and interrupt, but Sulu will be damned if he's going to be the sensible adult here and stop.

"Off," Chekov whines, bringing Sulu back to reality as he tugs at the bottom of his shirt. Sulu lifts his arms and lets Chekov undress him, first the shirt, then, lifting his hips helpfully, the pants and boxers. He wastes no time in tearing Chekov's shirt off next, but hesitates when his hands drop to the waist of Chekov's uniform trousers. He's reminded suddenly of one of the first times they drank together, when Chekov had a few too many shots and admitted he'd never done much beyond some casual making out and groping.

"Pavel," Sulu says, carefully, but at least confident in his choice of names this time. "Are you sure . . . ?"

The glare Chekov throws him before he can even finish his question is harrowing. "I know what I am doing," he says, without any room for argument.

And he kind of does, Sulu discovers, as soon as Chekov's stripped completely, bending down low until he's lying flat on top of Sulu and grinding their dicks together with a sort of building urgency. He's a natural at the movement, twisting in all the right ways to get Sulu desperate with need, and Sulu hisses at the contact, dragging his hands up Chekov's back and trying not to get so carried away that he takes things too fast. Then he thinks To hell with it and snakes a hand down in between them, grasping both their dicks and jerking them at the same time. Chekov gasps and writhes against him, mouthing at Sulu's neck and collarbone in between quiet little moans and whispered, incoherent words.

Sulu kisses any skin he can reach, starting with Chekov's temple and moving down to his nose and cheeks, lingering briefly at his mouth before he continues on to his chin, neck, and shoulders. Chekov kisses back sometimes, but more often than not he just makes noises and exhales hotly against Sulu's skin, which is perfectly all right as far as Sulu's concerned. He feels like just touching the smoothness of Chekov's back and listening to him breathe would be enough to get him off under the right circumstances.

"Hikaru," Chekov says, in an urgent tone Sulu recognizes.

"Sit back," Sulu urges him, momentarily disappointed when Chekov obeys and the hot warmth between them disappears. It's worth it, though, when Sulu drags his thumb slowly along the underside of Chekov's dick and he gets to watch the expression on his face.

Chekov twitches and thrusts forward, muttering a string of broken words in Russian that to Sulu's ears sound unbearably filthy, and Sulu rewards him by wrapping his fingers entirely around Chekov's dick and starting to pump him steadily. Watching him like this is perfect, better than anything Sulu could've ever asked for, but he's almost more turned on by the thought of all the things he wants to do to Chekov, all the things he might actually get the chance to do in the near future. He thinks about sucking Chekov's cock for the first time, about Chekov sucking his, about fucking Chekov into the bed and getting fucked so hard neither of them can move for hours.

"Hikaru," Chekov says again, more drawn out and breathy this time, as if he's reading every one of Sulu's thoughts with him, as if he wants them as badly as Sulu does.

"Come on," Sulu says, propping himself up on his elbow to bring them closer together, his stomach twisting in almost unbearable arousal when Chekov leans forward as well and they're breathing into each other's mouths, hovering just short of touching. Chekov comes with a final twist from Sulu's hand, coating Sulu's chest and arm, and Sulu wants to pause to stroke Chekov's hair and kiss him all over but he's too turned on to do anything but thrust up against Chekov's thigh and make noises he knows he'll be embarrassed about later.

"God, yes," he pants as Chekov blissfully wastes no time in returning the favor, wrapping delicate fingers around Sulu's cock and stroking with increasing confidence as Sulu melts beneath him.

"Kakoj zhe ty krasivyj," Chekov says next to Sulu's ear, causing him to moan instantly. "How beautiful you are."

Hearing Chekov say this to him seems like the ultimate act in irony, but it nonetheless spikes the warmth in Sulu's chest and the heat in his gut. He slides a hand up the back of Chekov's neck and pulls him in for a kiss, tangling his fingers in the curls there just like he's been dying to do for weeks and sucking greedily at his bottom lip. Chekov opens his mouth and licks across Sulu's teeth and tongue and that's it, Sulu's done for. He curses and thrusts up into Chekov's hand once more as he comes with jarring force, rocking his hips a few more times to ride out his orgasm before going utterly limp on the bunk.

When he works up the energy to open his eyes again, Chekov is watching him, a drowsy but very pleased look on his face. Sulu smiles and finally starts to stroke Chekov's hair, finding it just as satisfying as he expected.

"Better?" he asks.

Grinning, Chekov nods. "Better," he agrees. "Yes."

They relax on the bunk until neither of them can take the drying stickiness between them anymore. There's no shower in the brig but Sulu gets some water from the sink and wipes them both down with his dampened shirt, trying not to blush too furiously at the ridiculousness of it all.

"You can leave whenever you want," Sulu tells him, pulling on his boxers and handing Chekov his own underwear. "I wouldn't expect you to stay in the brig all night."

"But then we could not do this again," Chekov says, tossing his underwear back on the floor where Sulu retrieved them and tugging at Sulu's hand.

Sulu couldn't argue that one even if he wanted to, so he lets himself be pulled back down to the bunk, fully prepared to enjoy the best night in the brig he'll ever have.

*

The next time Sulu gets assigned an away mission, he hurries to find Kirk before the names of his team members have even been announced.

"If it's all right, sir, I'd like Ensign Chekov to be a part of my team."

Kirk lifts an eyebrow and doesn't even try to hide his smirk. "Oh?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you think Ensign Chekov will be well-equipped to accomplish the task you've been appointed?"

"Yes, sir."

And he does, although that's not the only reason Sulu wants him assigned. He's heard Cait has some lovely vegetation unique to the planet alone, and the mission promises a little down time for poking around. Chekov's been practically begging for them to go out collecting plants again.

"It's a pretty standard assignment," Kirk says, poking around on the PADD in his hands carelessly. "I was actually only planning on giving you one assistant."

Sulu can't think of anything to say to this.

"All right." Kirk sets down his PADD, grins, and slaps Sulu on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "Go get 'em, tiger."

Proper protocol would mandate Sulu thanking Kirk, but he can barely manage to keep from punching him for calling him "tiger." Instead of doing either, he just nods tersely and then escapes as fast as he can, eager to tell Chekov the good news.

They only have to wait two days to begin.

"Okay," Chekov says, starting forward with purpose the moment they've been beamed down to the surface. "Which way are the plants?"

"Every way," Sulu says with a laugh, grabbing Chekov by the elbow. "Come here."

He pulls a bottle of sunblock out of his pack and globs some of it on his palm, warming it up before smearing it onto Chekov's face. Chekov wrinkles his nose and looks put-out.

"I thought you liked when I get sunburned," he says, with a slowly growing smile.

Sulu can feel a teasing coming on, so he makes himself as stern-faced and serious as possible. "I don't like when you get sunburned," he insists. Chekov makes a face like he doesn't believe him, so Sulu adds, "I know where all your best freckles are now, anyway."

Chekov flares up into an almost immediate blush, just like Sulu knew he would, and of course, all the freckles stand out against his skin just as brightly as if he were burned.

"Perfect," Sulu says brightly. "Let's go."

"Bastard," Chekov says, but he lets Sulu plant a kiss on the side of his face and take his hand anyway.

end


X-posted a bit, sorry if this spams up your flist. :x