Chapter Text
James T. Kirk is, by far, the most feared captain in the Empire, and, by extension, the most respected. He comes out of every battle with hardly a scratch on him, and he always leaves a trail of blood behind. There’s never any hesitation in his voice, and others fall to their knees at the snap of his fingers. He’s gorgeous and he’s terrible, everything in one.
For the first two months Pavel is on the Enterprise, he lives only in constant fear. He isn’t strong like the rest of the ensigns around him. One week in, he sees Lieutenant Sulu run a fold-out sword through a man in Engineering, and he’s unable to sleep for the next three days. He falls asleep at his post as a result and spends four hours in an agonizer, until he’s sure he’s going to go mad. He’s extra diligent after that. Every time he feels the captain’s eyes slide over the back of his neck, he shivers.
The Captain only speaks to him by way of clipped, barked orders, rarely even with his name attached—just ‘ensign.’ For the first two months, Pavel’s content to keep it that way.
On the first day of his third month, he’s sitting in the mess hall. He’s picking at his salad at a small table in the corner, alone and away from anyone. Pavel tries not to make too many friends, because on the Enterprise, friends lead to phaser wounds. He sits with Sulu sometimes, but he’s always careful not to get too close—sometimes Sulu’s eyes linger on him too long. Many of his peers are like that. Pavel’s young, but he isn’t that young. He knows his weakness makes him an easy target, and he isn’t surprised that his medical examination this morning involved him losing all of his clothes and being impaled on several cold instruments. It still hurts to sit down, but hurting is part of the Enterprise.
He knew that when he applied for this posting, and he doesn’t regret it now; the stars are worth it all.
He only looks up when a shadow falls directly over him, ice already in his gut. His eyes go very wide when he sees who it is, and he almost drops his fork.
Sulu always asks to sit, even though ‘no’ obviously isn’t an acceptable answer. Captain Kirk doesn’t bother. He slides Pavel’s tray over and helps himself to the other chair. His meal is much larger than Pavel’s, including a full steak, fries, and a drink. He carves himself a red chunk and grumbles, “This synthesizer food is shit, don’t you think, Ensign?”
“Yes, keptain,” Pavel says immediately, because he’d never even dream of disagreeing with a superior officer. Kirk nods and shoves the large piece into his mouth, chewing messily.
This is a very, very surreal moment. Pavel’s stomach grumbles its protest at his still fork, but he can’t bring himself to eat. He’s busy being shocked. The captain’s sitting with him. Pavel shrinks back in his chair, his eyes mindlessly roaming the vision before him.
There are many reasons Kirk is captain. For example, he’s very difficult to kill. From what Pavel understands, he’s very intelligent, and he certainly looks very strong. He’s confident and brutal. His sexual prowess is something of a legend. Pavel can see why. Kirk’s more handsome than any man has a right to be, and it’s hard not to watch the way his teeth tear through his meat, his lips opening and closing as he chews. His blond hair is messed from who knows what, and his sleeveless uniform shows off his biceps. Halfway through his plate, Kirk reaches over and skewers a piece of Pavel’s salad. Pavel doesn’t protest.
“Any particular reason you’re eating like a rabbit, Chekov?”
Pavel shivers at the use of his name. He doesn’t have an answer other than he genuinely likes salads, so he simply says, “Sorry, sir.”
Kirk smirks, going back to his own plate. He uses his fingers to go through his fries. “Trying to keep a good shape for someone?” When Pavel blushes furiously and shakes his head, Kirk adds, “How old are you, Ensign?”
“Eighteen, sir.” His voice is unsteady.
Kirk arches an eyebrow. “Young.” Even though he’s the youngest captain in a long time. Pavel read all his records, of course, and he did indeed get through Starfleet Academy in record time. “What’re your areas?”
That’s a very general question. Pavel hesitates to say, “Nawigation and adwanced theoretical physics, keptain.” His job and what he studied. Kirk nods, still eating his steak, like he isn’t even paying attention. Pavel still feels like he’s being strung up and interrogated, and he’s sure any wrong answers will earn him time in an agonizer. Assuming he isn’t punished by Kirk’s own hand, of course. Pavel bites his lower lip, trying not to think about that. The idea of having Kirk’s hands on his body... isn’t nearly so horrible as it should be.
Kirk stops eating again. He stares at Pavel’s lips, and Pavel, feeling self-conscious, stops chewing the bottom one. Without looking away, Kirk asks, “What accent is that?”
“Russian, sir.”
“Say ‘vodka.’”
Cheeks red, Pavel says, “Wodka, sir,” then corrects, “Sorry, sorry—wod... vodka...” It’s incredibly embarrassing, and Pavel’s whole face is hot. Kirk chuckles at him, and while Pavel doesn’t normally enjoy being made fun of, he’s oddly glad to have made Kirk smile. It reaches his eyes, impossibly blue. They suck Pavel in, so Pavel forces himself to look down at his salad.
He finds a fry under his nose. Kirk orders, “Eat it.” Pavel obediently lifts his hand towards it, but Kirk says, “With just your mouth.” Pavel drops his hand back into his lap, blushing up to his ears.
He leans forward over the table, though Kirk pulls the fry a few centimeters back, and Pavel has to lean over further, tilting his head back. He opens his mouth and catches it in his teeth, lips brushing the captain’s fingers. He waits for Kirk to let go, but that doesn’t happen.
So Pavel does his best not to look around at all the inevitable spectators. He closes his eyes and takes a bite, chewing and swallowing as discretely as possible before moving up the fry and taking more into his mouth. It’s a little too salty and doesn’t have any ketchup on it. Pavel gets it down in small bites, until his lips are right against Kirk’s fingers, and when he’s done, he gives in and licks the remaining salt off them.
Then he settles back in his chair, feeling bizarrely wanton, even though he’s a virgin and he didn’t mean to do anything. Kirk reaches over and grabs his chin, tilting his face up and locking their eyes. “What’s your full name, Chekov?”
“Pavel Andreievich, sir.”
Kirk opens his mouth, probably to ask another question, but he’s cut off by Commander Spock’s arrival at the side of their table. As usual, Kirk drops everything for his first officer, pushing away his tray and standing up, already discussing orders. Pavel goes back to trying to be invisible, until Kirk turns around and orders, “Finish my plate, Ensign.”
Pavel says, “Yes, keptain,” immediately, even though he isn’t hungry, and there’s a lot of steak left. He’ll gladly take stuffing himself and throwing up over an agonizer, or, even worse, the wrath of his captain.
Kirk stays to watch him eat the first bite before leaving.
He’s on the captain’s radar. He wasn’t before. Men who used to pin him to walls or hiss warnings in his ear now ignore him completely, and even Sulu has stopped subtly suggesting they return to his quarters together. Pavel doesn’t feel that different, really, other than his new inability to look away whenever the captain’s in the room. Now that he’s really stopped to look at just how attractive Kirk is, he can’t un-see it.
He finds himself daydreaming, often, of a world in which things were different. Where something could possibly happen between them, something where there was no Empire. Where they’re two regular people in a calm universe, in which one stray move wouldn’t put Pavel in an early grave.
Unfortunately, he lives in this universe, where he witnesses Ensign Johnsen being dragged off to an agonizer after failing to laugh at the captain’s joke. Pavel laughs with everyone else, of course, and he sets the course Kirk tells him to, while Sulu takes them out of the port.
Pavel keeps his eyes ahead when he’s on the bridge, but his ears are listening. He hears the footsteps trailing towards him, and then Kirk’s at his side, leaning over his shoulder to examine his console. Pavel’s eyes flutter closed. Captain Kirk smells very distinct: masculine and intoxicating. He wanders back to his chair without a word, leaving Pavel chewing his lower lip and struggling to concentrate on star charts.
When Kirk inevitably grows bored and saunters off the bridge, Pavel isn’t the only one to watch him go, all hard muscles and too-tight clothes. Pavel knows he’s not the only ensign that croons after their leader, but that doesn’t make him croon any less.
He looks back at his console and pretends he’s in a cold shower.