AN: Part of my "Zaichik" series but not necessary to read the others first to understand this fic. This is a slight AU in that I play with Chekov's age a bit. Other than that, canon applies! Bon apetit!

Bones stared at the paper.

Read it again.

Stopped.

The world turned fuzzy. He tried moving his mouth but no sound came out.

Sure, he'd suspected something. His examination of the unconscious youth yielded some strange findings. But this? This wasn't only ludicrous—it was illegal.

The file folder in his hands started to shake. Red dots seeped at the corners of his vision.

For one awful, chest crushing second, Bones thought he might kill someone.

Instead, he tucked the file under his arm and thundered into the hall. Headquarters thrummed with activity. The crowded corridors parted like butter, however, at the incensed medical officer. Young Starfleet graduates whispered behind their hands. One girl jumped away with a cry.

Leonard growled, eyes ahead.

His harsh steps made it to the admiral's private office.

"Excuse me! You can't get in without an appointment…" The receptionist raised a hand, but one look at McCoy's face and she lowered it.

Bones slammed open both mahogany doors. He swooped into the office, an avenging angel with a heart rate that would've made his own doctor swoon.

Jim and Spock were cut off in their report of the bombing and rescue. They stood at McCoy's puffing rage. He ignored them. Admiral Jenkins rose at a more sedate pace. He didn't even get two words out before Bones rounded on him.

"You foul, loathsome excuse of a man." Leonard surprised himself at how low it came out.

"I beg your pard—"

Bones slapped the file down. The admiral bristled at a name stamped on top.

"You knew," Leonard snapped. "You were on the recruiting board then and you knew!"

"Doctor McCoy," said the admiral. "I don't see how any of this pertains to your patient. He's recovering, is he not?"

Bones narrowed his eyes. "How dare you. How dare you pretend to care one iota about the boy you coaxed to go on an armed ship at just fifteen."

At his side, Jim went rigid.

"The academy training is one thing," Bones pressed, "prodigy fulfilling his potential and all that 'benevolent' crap. But using his grandmother's bills to make him join the Enterprise crew…"

The doctor had to swallow. His hands itched to close around the admiral's neck.

"Fifteen?" Jim echoed, horrified. Spock was unreadable, but his eyes dilated. "Starfleet told me he was seventeen about to turn eighteen, that his guardian had signed permission."

The admiral shrugged, though he had the grace to look nervous. "His grandmother lived alone in Russia, weak as a child. I allowed Mr. Chekov to sign his own papers."

Just when Bones was ready to lunge across the desk, Spock spoke, tone measured but unusually high enough in volume that the doctor paused.

"And yet you told both Captain Kirk and myself that he was soon to be of legal age." Spock turned over one of the file's pages. "You falsified Mr. Chekov's records. Does he know this? Does Starfleet?"

Bones had little care for official policies. They had allowed a fifteen-year-old to be in bombings and deal with Klingons and suffer alone and take over for Scotty.

The admiral shifted, eyes roving. "No, Starfleet does not know his true age. None do but the boy and those in this room. He is a smart lad who can take care of himself. Heaven knows he has been for years before he came to us."

Jim had to hold Bones back. "Bones! Stop it! This isn't what Pavel would want."

The CMO deflated.

"Wait…" Jim's brow knit. Then his face drained of colour. "He's…he's only sixteen now? He nearly died! There was so much blood." He put a hand over his mouth. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"You've broken Starfleet's code of valour and treatment of life," said Spock. "Along with numerous other government and custody laws—not just on Earth but other planets as well."

Then Spock's gaze darkened and the room's temperature dropped.

"You abused a young teen," the Vulcan said, checking the papers again, "by placing not only the sole responsibility for his guardian's future on his shoulders…but your own future as well."

"His?" Jim asked. "How?"

"Tell them," Bones hissed. "Tell them that you didn't expect Chekov to live through the Nero fiasco—that you sent him to the slaughter because you were supposed to be our assigned navigator."

A dangerous silence filled the room. No one breathed.

Then the admiral chuckled. "It all worked out. I let him stay on for the Harrison directive too. I, as acting admiral, now have custody of the boy and all will be fine. One day he'll look back and laugh."

The itch returned to strangle him. Bones did the next best thing. He decked the pompous pencil-pusher across his pompous nose and broke it.

Neither Spock nor Jim lifted a finger to stop him.

Surely I am wheat by now.

His pulse spun at hair raising velocities and a blacksmith pounded iron in his temples. But at least he was warm. He had a vague recollection of swallowing something metallic before the world went cold. Frigid.

He could breathe too. That was new.

The floor under his tender head felt soft.

A balloon, Chekov decided. I'm lying on a giant balloon.

A strange sorrow accosted him. There was only one place he had ever experienced such safety and comfort and it was gone. Isolation, that familiar companion, made Chekov groan.

"Pavel? Son? Think you can open those eyes for me?"

Chekov's forehead scrunched. The voice triggered images of white cloth, broad shoulders, and something that smelled of antiseptic.

"C'mon. I know it's hard, but if anyone can do it, it's the kid who saved James Tiberius Kirk."

His nose tingled. The tingle stretched down his throbbing larynx. Pavel, instinctively, knew he needed to at least try and obey that voice.

Though it was like shoving at twin anvils, Chekov finally cracked his lids. He closed them with another groan.

"I know," said the voice, sympathetic. "The lights probably hurt that migraine you're nursing. You've been out almost a week. The rumor mill is in full gear over you."

Hands gently removed a breathing tube. Pavel felt calloused fingers squeeze his before patting his cheek. That was nice; Grandpapa always had callouses, even after he retired as a grain farmer.

Trying for a second time, Pavel opened his eyes. The voice finally matched a face.

"Doctor McCoy?"

His warm smile caught Pavel off guard. "The last member of our infamous crew is awake. About time."

He stood to fiddle with a remote beside Chekov's bed. After pressing a button, Chekov slowly rose to reclining height.

"Doctor?" he croaked once more.

"Here." McCoy brought a plastic cup to Pavel's lips. He kept pouring until his patient had his fill. "Wonder of modern medicine, really—your punctured lung is as good as new, better even. Your trachea healed."

McCoy retook his bedside seat. "But, alas, we can't make new muscle tissue. You're going to have to do that on your own and you may find yourself out of breath for the first few days."

Chekov, staring at the wall ahead, took this in with a small nod. He remembered everything now. It came back with a warm rush to his ears. McKnight…

"Now the amount of blood you swallowed, in your stomach, that caused us some sleepless days. We mended the marrow of your ribs and you'd never know they had been broken."

Setting his hands on his abdomen, Chekov poked at the healed ribs high up near his sternum.

"Before you ask," McCoy ploughed on, "the rest are fine. Uhura required some stitches but nothing to fret over. Kirk, well, he had a mild concussion but you'd think he'd lost an arm, the whiner. Other than some record setting goose eggs and being scared half to death by a Russian who shall go nameless, yours truly is in tip-top shape. It's a miracle, frankly."

Chekov remembered the growl of machinery and the somersault of his gut when the blast went off.

"Pavel?"

The dark closed in on his narrow chest. He felt the air pressure press on his lungs. His eyes burned. He didn't want to blink, didn't want this orphaned lot to be his reality.

"Pavel!"

Chekov finally tore his eyes from the wall. At McCoy's worried face, Chekov deflated.

"You're here on Earth," the doctor said softly. "It's over, Pavel. We got you. You're at Starfleet headquarters in the hospital."

The doctor leaned forward and clasped Pavel's hand. Then he sat back, elbows propped on his knees.

"As part of every patient's assessment exam, when he or she comes in unresponsive, I look at things like teeth, bone growth, neural levels, you get the idea." McCoy wouldn't speak above that low murmur. "I found…let's just say my first tip was your lack of facial hair."

An icy blanket tucked around Pavel's chest. He caught himself holding his breath.

"Pavel—you've been in here a week with nothing on your chin and blood tests showed you…show someone no older than sixteen, still in puberty. According to all Starfleet records, however, you're at least nineteen."

McCoy's lips trembled, just for a blink, and Chekov looked away, at his lap. He put both hands over his face.

"Pavel, we brought this before the Federation and Admiral Jenkins has been exposed, permanently fired from government work for the rest of his life. Should've seen the trial."

McCoy stopped suddenly. His hand landed in the honey curls. Pavel looked up.

"You're free. You never have to fear that man again. Why didn't you tell us, kid?"

Pavel's jaw worked one way and then the other. So this was how his career ended. Foiled by a medical exam and his lack of facial hair.

"Pavel?" Bones ignored the rushing in his ears.

"I knew this day would come," said Chekov in a dead tone. His eyes remained on a wine colored stain in the linen sheets. "I just hoped it would be when I vas older. Everyone knows now, I suppose."

The mattress dipped. Chekov's stain wrinkled like a geisha fan. "I've never seen Uhura scream like that—she had to be escorted out of the courtroom. Vulcan authorities were…I would say livid based off behavior, but they don't show much on their face."

"Jim, is now really the time—"

"Point is," the captain spoke over his friend, "that we could've dealt with this ages ago. If you had confided in us."

Chekov frowned. "It was the only vay! Vhat was I supposed to do? Let Babu die? I had wanted to work for Starfleet anyway!"

"Chekov! Chekov—calm down." Jim coiled a hand around his arm. "No one is mad at you. We're just furious that Jenkins used that as leverage to make you work in such a dangerous position so soon."

"I knew about Jenkins being navigator when I agreed to switch," said Pavel. "He made up my Starfleet record. He said I could either go on for him or Babu would die."

McCoy made a strangled noise. "That bast—sorry. You knew?"

"It was the only way to keep Babu in the hospital, let alone out of debt. I already had to sell the farm."

A drawn out silence followed. A muscle fluttered in Jim's cheek and he exchanged a murderous look with McCoy.

"Fifteen." Bones scrubbed both hands over his face, muffling a choice word. "I still can't believe he manipulated a minor."

Chekov's nose wrinkled but he didn't protest. "I vas fourteen, actually, when I signed the permission papers. Fresh with my astroavionics degree. Only three days after my fifteenth birthday I boarded the Enterprise with you."

Jim didn't even mask his swearing.

"Pasha." Jim patted his shoulder. "Thank you."

Bones experienced a stab of envy. Only Jim could get away with the tender nickname.

"For what?" asked Pavel, eyebrows high.

Jim ruffled the curly mop. "For saving our lives, genius. Bones and I played the dramatic Shakespearean card, thinking it was the end and you—you—provided our escape."

Chekov's was pensive for a minute, lips pursed. "I was unconscious for that."

"Doesn't matter," Jim insisted. "I never knew that about the radiation chamber being detachable. Your brain saved us. For that I'm grateful. This time the chamber saved my life instead of taking it."

Pavel rumbled and fiddled with something in his lap. Jim smiled.

"It was…very cold," said the navigator at last. "Seeped through my lungs." He shuddered.

Bones and Jim shared a concerned look.

A glow settled over them. Nurses and staff milled about, discussing weekend plans.

Most people complained about flat tires as the worst part of their day while Bones, daily, tried to swell a rising panic whenever he heard a blast on a television set. He thought of the grey weight of Pavel in his arms and his choked cries. The dichotomy was too large for anyone but Jim or Pavel to ever comprehend.

Bones finally recognized the ancient Rubik's Cube in the boy's lap, a gift from Scotty while the youth was out.

"I think these belong to you." Jim produced headphones and a music player from his pocket.

Chekov sat up off the pillows. "Sank you, sir! I thought they had been lost." He tucked them to his chest.

"Yeah, well, I played some 'Yellow Submarine' when your heart rate got low."

Pavel's ears flushed. At that sight, Bones knew he'd be okay, that his youthful innocence wasn't complete beaten down.

Chekov shook his head and tossed the Cube—completely finished—at Jim's face. "Very sly, Captain!"

"Time! Time!" Pale, blowing like a fish, Chekov groped for a stool.

Bones let go of his arm to slide one over. The boy sank on it.

"I just…need…a m…moment."

"Yeah," said Bones. "Sure." He raised a dubious brow and turned so Pavel couldn't see it.

"How long was zhis time?"

"Uh…" Bones checked his watch. "Six—no five. Five minutes."

Chekov collapsed over his knees with a gargantuan exhale.

"Hey." Bones knelt to be at eye level. "That's three minutes better than yesterday. We even made it to the staff lounge!"

Glancing around at the coffee grounds and potted plants, Pavel sighed. "Of course. But it will take weeks at this rate."

"Not necessarily." Bones smiled. "I have a respiratory specialist coming in. There's a new stimulant that you inhale, strengthens the lining and capacity of the lung sacs."

Chekov nodded. "Like a corticosteroid?"

Bones worked very hard to hide his surprise. "Only much better. And permanent."

He paused to examine his patient. Even with the fluffy sweater and sleep pants, Chekov's ribs were visible above the collar. His angular, thin sternum made Bones' heart race. The boy's body refused to gain weight.

Weight Pavel desperately needed.

It was like a rake wearing a poncho. Sure, the boy ate a little less than most his age, but nothing alarming. In fact, the ensign loved sweets, especially anything made with honey.

Jim had been caught sneaking in baklava and squares on several occasions. Just this morning he'd enlisted Sulu. Both were found with baklava in their "Starfleet briefcases."

Nice try.

"Ready to walk back?" Pavel asked.

Bones blinked. "That's my line. And we can wait longer if…"

"Let's do it!" Chekov took Bones' elbow. They walked back.

Bones exhaled through clenched teeth.

"Doctor McCoy? Is something the matter?"

McCoy rarely floundered. His nerves jittered like piano mallets.

"You know you can call me Bones." A hesitant smile broke through. The youth—bless him—mirrored it. "I've told you that. Jim's told you that. I won't be offended."

Pavel, regaining some colour, nodded. "It's hard to switch. It seems disrespectful. Babu taught me to call my elders by their titles or surnames."

He went quiet, now a familiar habit to Bones. The boy leaned heavily on Bones' arm, his mouth set in a grim line.

"Pavel, where did you usually go while on shore leave? With the farm…gone?"

The navigator thought for a minute. "I vould catch first flight to Russia. To sleep in a hospital chair by Babu. Though now…I'll board here at Starfleet for a few weeks, I suppose."

Bones caught Pavel by the shoulder. "I don't think you understand. They've ordered us on shore leave for at least another three months, after Christmas at least, while they rebuild the Enterprise."

It came as the peeling apart of a paint can in fire. Graceful, sudden, disturbing. Chekov, having made it to his room in the infirmary, grappled with the doorframe in a fierce battle to stay upright. Nurses rushed over. His eyes widened, brows knit in some inner agony.

Bones had never witnessed such a visceral moment of realization in another human being.

For all that, Pavel's voice came out like a faulty television.

"Admiral Jenkins he…my guardianship. Now that he is gone, Starfleet can depose me. Send me into the…" Chekov shuddered. "The system. Child Protective Services. I have no control…"

Shooing away pesky nurses, Bones set his hands on his knees. "Pavel? Look at me."

Chekov's jaw worked. His fingers were marble.

Bones swallowed. "Please?"

The youth look up from the floor. His swimming eyes met Bones'.

"I've meant to tell you this for a few days. After a tense court hearing and a generous heaping of Jim's clout, they agreed…I mean I asked to become…"

You idiot. You've waited this long. But Bones couldn't get it out.

Chekov shook his head as if to clear a mirage. "You? You want custody of me?"

"I…yes." The doctor's voice grew solid again. "Yes, I do. Very much. You're an incredible young man and you deserve someone who will stick around."

Chekov stared at him. He flopped onto the edge of the bed. His head landed in both hands.

"It's still your choice," Bones hurried to add. "And there's no rush to decide. They may even emancipate you if you petition for it."

"You did this without asking me," said Pavel.

Bones' face fell. The quiet words were worse than any shout. "You are recovering and I didn't think—"

"No."

Bones froze. "What?"

"No," said Pavel, his tone exhausted and irritated. "I am not a child."

"I am aware of that, Pavel. That wasn't why I kept this from you."

"Please, leave. I wish to be alone."

Stupidstupidstupid. Always gotta ruin everything. This is no different than the last time someone trusted you with a family.

"Pavel, son—"

Chekov's head whipped up and Bones knew he had crossed an invisible line.

"Go!"

Bones turned and fled.