Title: The Russian Way

Pairing: McCoy(Bones)/Chekov

Rated: T for liquor

Author's Note: Heh, so this was a prompt written for a lj thingy. Really fun, I must admit. Took me a good twent minutes, but I think it's cute. Prompt: McCoy/Chekov - Chekov has a few Russian ways of thanking the good doctor for his treatment of his sick patient. Given by hebrewhammer42 on lj(obviously).

It was a prickling at the back of his neck. A feeling that he was being watched, but not with just a normal stare, but more with hunger.

But every time he turned to look, no one was there. Well, there was always the normal nurse milling around, but no one significant.

There hadn't been anything big in the past few days that caused him too much stress. Well, almost anything. The adorable Russian kid had limped into the sickbay a little before midnight and had turned up with a sprained ankle, but there was nothing else.

Maybe the feeling was just his imagination. He couldn't tell, but he was paranoid, something he was known for.

Jim had asked him about it this morning, but he couldn't reply with an answer. There was no answer.

Bones sat now at his desk just inside the sickbay. Well, not his, but he could pretend so. No one was hurt, so he was bored. He could have tried getting a signal on the gorram broadcaster, but that required that he get up from his seat.

Before he could make the decision, though, he was stopped when someone entered the sickbay. His eyes automatically went up to see the cute ensign he had treated the other day. With a smile, he waved.

"Something wrong today?" he asked the boy. The Russian shook his head and instead pulled a chair up. He held a bag in his hand and he placed it on the desk.

"You look bored," he commented in his thick accent.

"It's not very busy, I agree," Bones replied with a shrug. He watched as the ensign pulled a bottle from his bag and his eyes widened.

"I can help you," the younger said with a glint in his eye. Opening the bottle, he held it out towards Bones. "Drink."

"Aren't you a little young to have that out?" Bones asked the ensign as he took the bottle. The boy was seventeen, if he remembered from the file. Pavel Chekov, Seventeen. Prodigy.

"In Russia, you're never too young." And just like that, he spent the night getting drunk with the youngest member of Starfleet. Well, he was getting drunk, Chekov seemed to be doing just fine.

"You're pretty," Bones muttered into soft brown locks. He didn't remember moving across the desk, but now he sat across the ensign's lap.

"I know."

And all Bones wanted to do was wipe the smirk straight off of the Russian's face.

So he kissed him.

It must have been a Russian thing.