Title: The Intoxication

Author: The Inamorata

A/N: I've been meaning to write a drunk!fic for a while, haha. First one that's not a prompt! Also, someone kick me so I go work on the Kirk/Chekov multi-chapter fic I've started (actual posting TBA) rather than these silly oneshots.

Also, I am neither a drinker nor a speaker of Russian. I did my research, but you never know.

PLEASE JOIN THE KIRK/CHEKOV C2!

Pavel Chekov was very, very drunk.

Apparently, in Russia, they did not have the same sorts of laws when it came to drinking. And although Starfleet looked down upon underage drinking in the service, the crew of the Enterprise seemed to look the other way whenever their ridiculously adorable whiz-kid ordered a drink. It was these times, however, they wished they paid a little more attention to just how much they gave him.

"What'll we drink to next, lad?" Scotty asked from across the table, his words already a bit slurred. Chekov's eyes were unfocused as he held another shot--the count having long been lost--in his hand.

"Za zdorovye!" he shouted, downing the glass, a trail of the clear liquid spilling from the side of his mouth and down his shirt. He set the shot glass down rather roughly, making a loud bang on the table. The other crewmen kept looking over at the two nervously.

"I dunno what yer sayin', lad, but… I'll drink to that!" Scotty downed his own glass, and soon they both held another.

"Za zhenschin!" Both roared with laughter as they downed another shot, though Chekov's increasing shakiness made him drop the empty glass. It crashed to the floor and shattered, but in his drunken state he could do nothing but laugh.

"Another, another!" he called, tears in his eyes. The crewman manning the bar eyed him skeptically.

"Sorry sir, but I'm gonna cut you off."

"Sir!" Chekov mocked loudly, a large smile on his face as he leaned over the bar, swinging his arm around the man. "Sir! Za vas, za vas!"

His rowdy laughter filled the room, everyone abandoning their previous engagements to watch the young man blabber on in Russian. No one really knew what he was saying, or what to make of the situation, although Scotty found it hilariously funny.

"More vodka!" he shouted, still in high spirits, swinging his arms about. "More vodka! Za nas!"

And it continued this way for about ten more minutes, until Chekov's keeper finally came to retrieve him. Or at least, that's what the crew of the Enterprise called him. Kirk rolled his eyes at the sight, forcibly removing Chekov from the bartender and swinging the heavy arms over his own shoulders.

"Captain, I am the Czar of all Russia!" he shouted, heavily leaning on him for support.

"How many did he have?" Kirk asked the bartender, skeptical that he could really be this wasted. The bartender motioned to the table, littered with shot glasses; a dozen, at the least.

"Yeah," he said, readjusting the weight on his shoulders. Chekov was still yelling about in Russian. "That's a lot of shots for a kid."

"I am not kid! I am Chekov!" he shouted as they left the rec room.

"Sure… have you put on weight or are you just being passive resistant?" At this point Kirk was practically dragging Chekov down the hall and into the turbolift. Once inside he let go, but Chekov swayed so he grabbed hold again.

"Captain, kiss me," he said, closing his eyes and moving his head closer. Kirk jerked his head upward so his lips came in contact with nothing but his neck.

"Not here. You're drunker than… your… Russian grandmother," he said irritably, though he knew some sort of allusion to Russia would make him do whatever he said. He turned his head away from him, trying not to smell the vodka on his breath. Couldn't the kid be sober for once?

"Ha! My grandmother… invented drunk!" The hysterical laughing had started again, as had the dragging as they exited the turbolift. Kirk had given up on Chekov's even half-walking, and was literally dragging him by the arms at this point, his butt dragging on the floor as he began to sing a Russian ballad.

Somehow Chekov managed to wretch his arms free, and was now lying on the floor. Kirk's impatience was beginning to get the better of him, as he rolled his eyes and picked the Ensign up princess style.

"Chekov, this is ridiculous."

"Captain!" Chekov exclaimed, apparently moved to tears by his movement. "You love me!"

Kirk rolled his eyes again.

"Captain, I am a beautiful Russian bride!"

"Yeah… I'll be letting them know you're not allowed to touch any more alcohol after this."

For some reason, Chekov was now sobbing hysterically into Kirk's shoulder.

"You must now… take my virginity!"

"Ugh, we quiet already!"

The doors to Chekov's quarters slid open, and Kirk--lacking any possible gentleness--flung him onto the bed, where he promptly began drooling and crying into the pillow. Kirk smacked a hand to his own forehead and brought the boy a glass of water, which he downed in record speed. He then returned his horizontal position on the bed.

"Captain…" he began, having finally calmed down. Kirk couldn't be sure whether or not this was a sober thought, or still just blabbering in a drunken haze. "Do you love me?"

Kirk rolled his eyes, his fingertips brushing through Chekov's hair as he sat beside him.

"Go to sleep, Chekov." Although he said this as an order, it was rather gentle. Chekov closed his eyes, and before long, had drifted into the world of his subconscious.

Kirk watched him sleep for several moments, the young face peaceful and completely at ease. How little responsibility, how little worry it held. He wanted to touch it, caress it, kiss it. He wanted it love him--but the young, innocent, sober him, not the drunk version they had seen that night.

He looked around, though obviously no one was in the room. He bent over and softly kissed Chekov's forehead; a gentle, quick touch, barely noticeable. He stood from the bed, turned off the light, and left the room. He couldn't stay; after all, he had to prepare for the worst hangover Chekov would ever have in his life.