Chapter Text
The chance to go shopping for real food was like heaven.
Replicating ingredients to cook with was great and all, but really, it just didn’t have the same flavor as something grown in the ground, no matter what scientists and replicator engineers said. In days of old it was said that cafeteria food was never so good as your mother’s or wife’s, and Chekov liked to agree, so when Kirk gleefully told the ensign of their upcoming stop on a agricultural hub planet under human care, famous for its outdoor produce markets, Chekov made quick and decisive plans to go shopping with his captain.
Thus, the pair were dressed in civilian clothes, with honest-to-god wicker baskets, picking out greens and meats for their loving ‘husbands’.
Kirk had on a pair of comfortable denim pants and pale blue button down, a dark rectangular half-apron strung across his hips to carry credit chips and ID. The blonde was pulling out tomato-equivalents and inspecting them before discarding them or adding them to his basket. Chekov, next to him, was inspecting an earth-origin celery stalk for cleanliness. The air was fresh with the smell of dirt and sunshine and spring or summer, and the noise of a crowd was familiar and comforting.
“Your dress looks nice,” Kirk said, as they paid for their items and moved on to the next wooden farmer’s stall to look at potatoes of various types and planetary origins. Chekov grinned and skipped forward to twirl and show off the pretty thing his man had bought for him, light fabric of it billowing out and displaying pale, shapely legs nicely. The dress was thin, but sturdy slate blue linen, which covered the navigator from collarbone to knee. It had a sash belt just beneath his breastbone and cute, decorative buttons in the shapes of little stars. Most of it was covered by an apron that haltered over his neck and wrapped around his waist, in the same dark blue as the cardigan swamping his frame and making the entire ensemble all the more bohemian and, in the captain’s eyes, adorable.
“Spock is a lucky, lucky man,” he said.
Chekov giggled femininely, kicking up one booted foot, “What is Uhura’s loss, is my gain, Keptin!”
“Sure is, kiddo, sure is.”
It would have been hard to mistake Chekov for anything but what he was, a male housewife; and it probably would have shocked the poor farmers that smiled at the boy to know he held a day job as the head navigator to starfleet’s flag ship. “What are you going to be making for the doctor today, Keptin?”
Kirk smiled lazily, “Tomato basil chicken, in a bed of couscous or rice. A good garden salad, too. Some light wine to drink, probably. But while I’m here I want to get a good few gallons of milk. Len hates the replicated stuff. And you for Spock?”
“I was going to get some vegetables for a veggie loaf experiment, some exotic lettuces for his lunch salad, and any fruits that catch my attention. I need to find flour for making bread, however. He liked it last time I did, and making bread means he can have more bread variety.”
Kirk nodded, “If you make some rolls, make a few extra and I’ll buy some off of you. Breads were never my specialty, but Len loves them.”
“Will do!”
They wandered the market, buying veggies, cheeses, flour, spices, fruits, and in the case of Kirk one butcher-paper wrapped package of chicken breasts, leaving with heavy baskets and bright smiles just as the sun was reaching its zenith. They beamed back to the enterprise happy, and Chekov popped a mint sweety into Mister Scott’s mouth as they passed him by to leave the transporter room.
Chekov input the code to Spock’s officer’s quarters hardly looking, more focused on what else he had a mind to do today for the other. He wanted to dust the main living area, and vaccum all the carpets, the bathroom needed scrubbing, and all the glass ought to be polished. He could throw a load of laundry into the refresher and have it folded, and probably do all of that before starting on bread for dinner, take a bath, then finishing dinner just in time for Spock to get off of his shift.
Grinning, Chekov set his basket on the tiny kitchen’s counter, and set to work.
Given that life on space in a ship barely a few hundred yards long tended to be crowded, the quarters were on the smaller side. An apartment in San Fransico’s downtown area could often be bigger, so the work wasn’t too difficult to complete, and Chekov let his mind wander as he set to it.
He wondered what his favorite Russian drama shows were doing in their new seasons. They weren’t overly cerebral shows, oft plagued with unrealistic and outrageous plots, but that made them fun, even when Spock didn’t get them. They wouldn’t be data-beamed to him for several months yet, though. The ship was too far out from earth to get the live-broadcast, but his lovely friend Ivana was kind enough to record them for him so he could watch them earlier than six months past their release dates.
He wondered how Spock’s day was going, and if he’d liked the ginger and citrus salad Chekov had made with replicated ingredients. It had been a simple recipe his mother had sent him that she had found on some page or another of the sub-space web, and if Spock liked it, Chekov would be sure to make it again. Chekov loved to cook, it reminded him of spending time in the kitchen with his mother, because she could spare no other time with him between working to provide for their family and taking care of his younger sisters. His papa had been a wonderful man when he’d been alive, but sickness took him from them when Chekov was still a boy, and his mother did not want her eldest boys to work, saying to them that education was much more important. It was hard work, to take care of everyone, but she did it.
Chekov had admired her from the moment his little heart could understand the sacrifices she made for them, and though the understanding was feeble at best to his young mind, it was there, and Pavel, only nine years old, decided that he wanted to be just like her.
Of course, Pavel was a genius, however, and his mother seemed much more interested in that than his wish to be a provider like she, so he bent to her wishes, attending private schools and conservatories until finding himself at Starfleet for a final year of school before rocketing away in space. It wasn’t necessarily the life Pavel would have chosen, he had to wear pants for one thing, something the conservatories in Russia never seemed to mind that he never did, but it was a good life that made his aging mother happy. And it did not matter that he wanted to give care to his boyfriend/lover/’husband’ when he was off duty, cooking and cleaning for them. Just so long as he played at being a good officer when in his command-track golds and sitting on the bridge, holding the conn until his friends and Spock came back from whatever harrowing adventure Spock could relate to him over one of Pavel’s nearly home-cooked meals.
Pavel hummed quietly as he made two large dough-balls from the flour he’d gotten at the market with Kirk. He dampened clean dishtowels and draped them over the dough, and left to let them rise. Pavel could stand to wash up after cleaning, and Spock wasn’t due back for a while, yet.
Chekov stripped out of his dress and apron, cardigan having been abandoned as soon as he’d walked into the hotter rooms Spock preferred to keep, and he dropped the articles into a basket receptacle for un-fresh clothes. Dressed only in his cotton panties, Chekov stepped into the freshly scrubbed bathroom and into a steaming shower. He decided that Spock was not going to lure him into a conversation about theoretical trans-warp beaming physics tonight, as interesting as the topic was (Pavel was a genius), today had been too perfectly domestic to ruin it on ‘shop talk’. Spock liked Pavel’s housewife leanings, enough so that Uhura’s lack of them eventually led to their professionally stiff break-up, so the teenager wasn’t all that worried about finding something to distract the half-Vulcan with.
He soaked for almost forty minutes, long even for him, and snickered wickedly, sure that Spock would not approve if he learned, and equally sure that the other would only raise one eyebrow, make an indecipherable comment on waste water, and pout in that uniquely Vulcan style that sent the poor captain into fits of girlish giggles, even if he was on the bridge. Spock let Pavel have his indulgences with the barest of fuss nowadays, though in the beginning things had gotten rough every week or so as Pavel’s feelings got hurt any time Spock reacted to something in a perfectly logical wrong way.
Finished with his bath, and emerging, hair the scent of his clean rain shampoo and skin taking on his desert flower soap, Pavel dried and dressed in another skirt, a casual number he loved to lounge in. It was a sand-colored peasant skirt, four ‘tiers’ of gathering ruffle, that perfectly displayed the curve on the top of his rear and fell to his ankles. It never failed to make Pavel feel like he was dressed for a renaissance fair. He wore it with a simple pale blue blouse that matched his eyes. He dabbed on mascara and chapstick and returned to the kitchen.
There he put the large loaves in the oven and set about making a good potato and lentil style soup. The soup base was milk and potatoes, with various vegetables and cheeses and herbs for flavor. Smiling with satisfaction, Chekov smelled at the dish with happy anticipation. His husband was going to be so proud! He might even turn up a corner of his mouth! The oven dinged, and Pavel removed the breads, using a serrated knife to cut out their tops to make bread bowls. He shredded the hard tops and fluffy insides into the soup, then glanced at the time piece.
Good! Just enough time!
Pavel set the table and finished tossing a salad just in time for Spock to enter the living area, which by then surely smelt of cheese and potatoes.
“Spock! Welcome back!” Chekov said, very carefully not saying ‘home’. Spock had not taken to that very kindly the first time Chekov had done it. “I’ve made some dinner, bread bowl soup!” He put the filled bread bowls onto the table, comfortably close on the small cafe sized piece of furniture, bolted to the floor. “Here, let me take that, you sit,” the teen said, taking a small stack of PADDs from the science officer. He paused, and gently brushed his fingers over Spock’s, smiling warmly at their higher temperature into his blankly stoic stare.
Spock twisted his wrist slightly, to catch the pale digits with his own. “Good evening, Pavel, I see your day of rest was well.”
“It most certainly was! So no scientific talk tonight, okay? I will get frustrated and today was so nice that I would hate to ruin it.”
“Logical. Proceed.”
Spock’s fingers disentangled themselves with what the ensign could only deduce was a hint of hesitation, and Pavel disappeared into the bedroom to drop the PADDS in their specified cubby holes over the desk before returning to the table.
Spock politely waited for Pavel to sit and say a prayer before they both took up their utensils to eat, after a few silent bites, Pavel took up conversation. “The planet we are over right now has very good farmer’s markets, as I got to see today. The keptin and myself bought many things for cooking there this morning.”
“Including this evening’s meal, I presume?”
“Yes.”
“I see. It is most satisfactory,” Spock said, with the half smirk and quirked eyebrow of approval.
“Thank you! It was not a hard meal to prepare! Speaking of, your lunch today…?”
“Also satisfactory, though less so than this soup. I find more hearty flavors are palatable, but I see how citrus would be agreeable now and again.”
“So I should make it again?”
“Yes.”
“But not often?”
“Not too often, no.”
Pavel smiled, blowing on his chunky soup to cool it before taking the bite.
“And the rest of your day?” Spock asked.
“Oh, I just made sure the dust in the room would not bother you.”
“My allergies are quite controllable with medication, Pavel.”
“I know. But it is something I like to do for you.”
There was silence for a while longer as the meal began to wind down, delicious as it was. Then, Spock spoke.
“I …My day was of the normal routine. Outside of one yeoman suffering sudden family emergency, nothing outside of the ordinary occurred.”
Chekov blinked, it wasn’t like Spock to put forth little nothings about his day, but…it was awfully nice to hear, so Pavel, gathering up the dishes from the table, pat at the other’s cheek with the warmest smile he could muster, “That’s good, then, moya lyubov’, very good. This ship sees so much chaos that it is good to see a day of rest.”
“Yes. Very.”
Spock did not speak again, and Pavel took his time cleaning the dishes before joining Spock on his small couch. Spock was fingering the blue cardigan.
“You wore this today?”
“Er…yes, with the blue sun dress and black suede boots. I’m sorry that I did not ask permission first, but you had already left for your shift.”
“It is fine.”
Just as the teenager was sure that it probably wasn’t fine, because Spock was tense in all the wrong ways for it to actually be fine, Spock spoke again.
“It is more than fine. I enjoy the sight of you in my sweaters, and my shirts. I find myself wishing I had seen you before you had changed. Pavel?”
“Er…yes, Spock?”
“Are you happy with me?”
Pavel sat up, clearly this was to be a serious conversation. “Very. You do not judge me for being so radically feminine, nor do you hurt my feelings intentionally. You are smart, and handsome, and brave.” Folding his hands into a knot on his knees, Pavel continued, “There are many things that I like about you, I like that I can speak about physics with you just as easily as cooking. I like that you do not mind when I make up new recipes, or clean your rooms for no reason. I like that you will help me when I ask, without scorn or patronization. Many things. May I…ask why?”
“I was speaking with Lieutenant Scott this afternoon. At one point in the conversation, I referred to you as my wife, and though I corrected myself, the term caused great warmth in me.”
Pavel gaped, and nervously chuckled, “Is that all? That is fine. I call you my ‘husband’ all the time! If no one takes it seriously, it can do no harm, and I often act this way, do I not? As your wife? I cook and clean,” he said, waving an arm around the room, “I make you things with my crochet, I even rub your back and feet and fetch you drinks when we are reading together! So this is not serious, no?”
“On the contrary, Pavel, I find this very serious.”
Pavel swallowed thickly, a lump knotting up his throat even as he did so.
“I was so warmed by calling you this, that I did so again while on the bridge, and even though you and I are not so much as betrothed, not one member of the crew did not know to whom I was referring.”
There was silence, and Pavel did not know how to or what to respond with.
“What are you saying, Spock?”
A super-hot hand gently came to rest over Pavel’s, cupping over the youngster’s knee so chastely that Pavel could not stop the flush reddening his cheeks.
“I should like to know if you would marry me, Pavel.”
Stunned, Pavel could only manage a thin nothing-sound.
Spock would not meet his eyes, “You need not decide immediately. I only hope that should the answer be in the negative that you not also immediately terminate our current arrangement.”
“Spock, we have been dating for only eight months.”
“I know that this is considered a short duration for courtship.”
“And I am not yet even nineteen years old.”
“I understand the social implications of our age difference.”
“And you mind neither?”
“I fail to see the logic in allowing our lives and our decisions for happiness to be dictated by the comfort zones of others.”
“I see.”
“Please think about—”
“I will.”
“…what?”
“I will marry you.”
“I will inform the captain.”
“Will you want a Vulcan ceremony? I don’t think my mother would allow me to get married without a proper earth-style ceremony, but you are part Vulcan, so I would hate –”
“Pavel?”
“Yes?”
“In all honesty, I would prefer it if at this moment you were to get up and get dressed for bed; for I find that there is much time to think upon the wedding, but only one night to celebrate this moment in.”
Pavel grinned, and leaned over to kiss his fiancé on the mouth.
“The silk teddy or the satin night shift?”
“Mmmm…” Spock made a great show (for a Vulcan) of mulling it over, “…the teddy.”