Would I be able to request more fluffy Pavel Chekov/Reader? Maybe a time frame around the movies, but like cooking together?
I absolutely adore 'Simple' btw 🫶
Pairing: Commander Pavel Chekov x fem!Reader
Summary: (happens after the 4th movie) You and your husband prepare a celebration dinner for the party dedicated to the crew's success in saving Spock and, along the way, Earth. A small accident disturbes your peace, though not in the way you first expected.
Authour's note: This one turned out to be a bit more serious than I originally planned. Thank you dearly for your compliments! I'm very glad you liked my previous story, hopefully, this one happens to be to your taste as well! Thank you for your patience, too.
Warnings: the reader is an astronomer, brief mentioning of cutting a finger on a broken glass; slight angst; references to the previous movies/the series; neither Chekov nor reader are good cooks (sorry).
The kitchen felt hot and messy.
Stretching, you glanced around with an exhausted sigh. Every surface from long wooden counters to the very ceiling was stained, or occupied by yet another dirty pot, platter, bottle, a piece of unused food which was either an oversized peel, a rotten vegetable, or a failed attempt not to burn...Um... Whatever that was. Chaos, in short, seasoned with a thick scent of fried chicken, herbs and pastries floating in the air.
That what happens when you decide to do things "the hard way" and, instead of a convenient replicator’s service, choose to cook a feast for a dozen people of different tastes and preferences on your own, with no one but your husband to help you. While neither of you two is exactly good at cooking...
- Y/N, could you, please, bring out ze crystal set? I think it suits ze occasion! - Pasha turned to you, voice struggling to break through the white noise of running water.
His shirt was half-unbottened, sleeves rolled up, uncovering tan arms and chest with slight soft fluff adorning them. He was elbows deep in the sink, “clearing the evidence” of your recent culinary experiments. Just like you, he was red and sweaty from the heat, and definitely tired, but a big, satisfied grin he gave you suddenly made all those hours of torture worth it.
- Sure! - You shouted back, dropping the towel you dried the dishes with and moving to a big black cabinet stretching across the entire opposite wall.
Things of that sort were a rarity in the 23rd century. The era of functional, minimalistic design looked down on large, rigid forms of yesterday’s furniture. Yet, you had to admit, those awkward lines held their own unique charm. As your husband mentioned once, the cabinet originally belonged to his great grandmother’s grandparents. It was passed on from generation to generation as a familial reliquary.
Same went for the "crystal set". A nice collection of glasses and bowls made of natural Ural crystal; given its age and intricate ornaments, it would look more at home standing on pedestal in a museum rather than on a shelf in an average household.
Back in the day every Russian family had one and used it only in special cases – or so you were told.
Carefully, you pulled at the handle of a transparent magnetic door and started taking out the items one by one. Even the smallest ones laid heavy in your palms, planes of small carved squares and triangles sparkling proudly under a thin layer of dust.
Only two or three more glasses were to take out, when, suddenly, a surge of weakness ran through your limb.
Was it the consequence of hard work, or you'd wandered too far in your thoughts, you didn't know. But, before you could react, the wine glass you were holding slipped and fell on the floor with a drizzling clink.
Pavel turned around when you'd already knelt before the shards.
- Vait, don't touch! - You hissed and jerked away, red droplet swelling on your finger. - Oh, goodness....
With guilty eyes, you watched him sweep the shards away in a quick motion of a foot, then lower himself on the floor beside you and taking your hand.
- It's nothing, darling. - He mumbled softly, checking the cut with a concerned frown. - Dermal generator will fix it in a…
His eyes followed you pointing at the discarded pieces.
- Well, one more, one less. As my fazer vould say, dishes breaking are a lucky sign!
He quickly stood up and left.
All the time he was away you kept looking at the broken glass. Such a beautiful thing gone, and he didn’t even bat an eye.
Pasha returned with the generator. He helped you up from the floor on a close-by chair, grasping your hand again, quiet beeping of the device filling the room. You carefully searched his face for signs of anger or disappointment, and couldn’t find any.
Your husband’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.
– Well… My clumsiness. – You breifly glanced at the cabinet and the rest of the set nesting on the table. - I know how much thiey mean to you. And here I am - what did you say that Russian expression was? - an elephant in a china shop…
The beeping stopped. After the last thorough examination Pavel put your hand down.
He brought a chair for himself and, gently, cupped your face, smiling. You knew that smile – a little shy, a little sad, but oh-so very loving.
– It iz a shame ze glass is broken. I don’t think I will find anozer quite like zis. - He shrugged. – But after all, it’s just a glass! Meanwhile, you could seriously hurt yourself, and zat’s what bozers me.
Pasha patted on his hip. Obediently, you crawled onto his lap; his arms locked around your stomach, dragging you further into his familiar warmth. You felt a kiss pressed against the top of your head.
For a moment, he stayed silent.
– You are ze most important thing to me in ze whole universe, you know zat?
You felt his heartbeat drumming heavily through your ribcage. The grip tightened.
– After everything we’ve been through in zese few years… I lost so many things. Two ships. Two cloze friends. One of zem is fine now, yes, but such memories are not easily erazed. To be honest, zere were moments I thought I wouldn’t stay alive myself. It really makes you re-imagine your values, you know?
Pasha’s cheek rubbed into your temple.
– Плевать я хотел на этот проклятый бокал. К чёрту. Мы живы, мы вместе. А всё остальное – к чёрту… (I don't care about this damn glass (literally: I would spit on this damn glass). To hell. We are alive, we are together. As for the rest - to hell it goes...)
It was one of your partner’s cute quirks – switching to his native tongue every time his emotions overflowed. Not that it was a problem; after living together for as long as you’d already had, you could understand him quite a bit. Every time Russian words unexpectedly started spilling out of his mouth, you couldn’t help but giggled at him, honestly.
Except moments like that one.
Slowly, you turned to face him. God, Pavel was pretty: that soft dark hair, the lips, the eyes. Deep brown, almost black, framed with long lashes any woman would envy. Those eyes skimmed over your every line, boring right into your soul. You remembered seeing such intense eyes only when your colleagues at the observatory would find a new star or solve a mystery of a stubborn nebula. Stiill, even them couldn’t match with the longing and pure adoration staring back at you there and then at the kitchen.
The kiss happened naturally. Your arms rose, fingers finding their way to his neck, stroking gently; bodies and breaths colliding. Mouths lapped at each other in an unhurried dance, comfort and tenderness winning over hunger. The guilt that you felt, the ghost of dull pain in your finger… It all dissipated. Just like the day he crossed the doorstep and practically fell into your arms, near collapse of your home planet fresh in both your minds, you kissed and touched one another like it was the last time you would ever get to. Trying to convey, if not with words (which would be useless anyway), the depths of your shared despair and relief, of fear and hope which were the tale of the darkest… and the happiest moments of your life.
After all those days of doubt and uncertainty, he was home, and he was yours.
Kind, gentle, silly, brave, loving, obstinate, affectionate.
Precious, fragile joy that, you prayed, would never be broken...
The haze was pierced through by a chime of a video phone on the wall behind you.
With a startled yelp you span around, still clinging to Pavel who leaned forward to accept the call.
A signature smirk and an electric blue gaze of the old Enterprise CMO met you on the other side of the screen.
– So, this is how you two are being busy preparing for our arrival, huh? – McCoy taunted with fake censure, but his tone was affectionate.
– Hello, doc! – Pavel waved, grinning. You smiled too, already recovered from the shock. – Yes, but we’ve just finished dealing wiz ze food. Where are you guys?
– At the high command’s still. – Leonard delivered a very expressive eye roll. – As much as we would want to shrug off the ceremonies and roll out into the sunset, Jim and Spock seem to be stuck with those bureaucrats and politicians like apple skin between one’s teeth!
– I see! – You giggled. Your friends were screwd for sure. – So, are you coming at all?
– Yeah… Though we might be half an hour late, or something like that. I’ve sent Sulu, Nyota and Scotty forward to lend you a hand around there. They should probably show up soon.
– Understood. – Pavel nodded. – Then I see you in half an hour. Good luck getting out of there!
– Thanks, kid. Gonna be worse than taking a Vulcan up for a ride in your brains… - Old medic grumbled before waving good bye and hanging up.
You and Pasha exchanged glances and shared a good laugh.
– His is so funny. Must be a real treat to spend time around while on the ship!
– Yeah… When he iz not taking me apart for samples. – Pasha’s nose brushed against yours in a playful caress.
He was so soft and warm, so cozy... But you still had work to do.
Not without disappointment, you stood up from your place on Pavel's lap – and almost jumped as you heard a loud *crack* under your shoe.
The glass, of course. You completely forgot about it.
– I’ll take care of zis. – Pavel got up too, sliding his hand across your forearm in a soothing motion. – Could you, please, finish with ze dishes?
– No problem. – You straightened the bands of his collar and planted one last peck on his jaw. – Aren’t you afraid I might break something else though?
– So be it. – Pasha sighed in defeat. His amethyst eyes were twinkling like two joyful stars. – We will have an excuse to renovate stuff. As my father would say, dishes breaking are a lucky sign.
And if one broken dish equals another happy year with you, I’ll break each and every one of them myself.
