milliways_bar | (no subject)

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When you throw together groups of people--no matter what the year or advancements made from the past conditions of the (primarily) human race--that have what are perceived to be irreconcilable differences, problems will eventually happen. It's been a few days on the other side of the door for one teenaged Pavel Chekov, going relatively smoothly as he works at studies and his running.

It had gone decently as he'd been placed into another course, rising through his chosen program with high grades. Until, of course, some of the older cadets had realized he was only fifteen. That had earned him a few insults--most of which he didn't mind, but it was the one about his mother that got to him--and when he'd returned with a very rude and very colorful snap of Russian, a fist to the face.

He enters the bar with one hand cupped over his nose and mouth, though the red of his blood is staining his cadet's uniform undershirt in splotches, the overshirt discarded already. His nose is bleeding freely, broken by the look of how he's refusing to touch it, and his eye socket is throbbing from the glancing blow of knuckles. Chekov supposes Milliways is fortunate, since he was on his way to the infirmary anyway, but this way there hopefully won't be any awkward questions. (Though really, even he doesn't believe it'll be that easy.)

[tiny teenage tag: Pavel Chekov]
[ooc: Just like before, he's still fifteen and though his icons don't show it will appear in Academy reds--like these unless otherwise noted. Also, all threads millitimed to after the Bones one, though feel free to see him come in and mention it in your tag.]

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He knows that uniform. He spent enough time in it (or some variation thereof) when he left Georgia. He doesn't recognize the person wearing it, but that is entirely secondary.

Is it bad that he recognizes a uniform already half broken-down? Possibly. He doesn't dwell on the thought as he abandons his lunch and storms across the barroom.

"Goddamn, son, have they not taught you how to get out of the way of a fist yet?" He grumbles, more habitual than truly meant, as he approaches.

Pavel doesn't bother to snap back--he recognizes the uniform enough to tell he's outranked enough that to do that would be a very stupid decision--and bites down on the very sarcastic and curse-interspersed Russian response he wants to give.

Instead he mutters something as clearly as he can about moving right when he should have moved left, which isn't very clear at all given the thick accent and the unhelpful broken nose. (He'll explain after he can talk again that the punch was likely deserved given what he said.)

Most people wouldn't understand that at all - the combination is pretty daunting. But McCoy has a few advantages. One is that he understands 'broken nose' fluently... and the other is an Other.

"Mmmhmmm. Let's get you sorted out before someone reports that."

It's very likely too late to prevent it being reported, but then Chekov isn't overly concerned with that part right now.

He lifts his hands to reveal a definitely broken nose, blood still wet on his lips and chin and down his throat, and though normally his face could be described as pretty for a boy, he looks about as angry as he's gotten in a long time--ever, that anyone's seen in him in the bar. It's probably less rare than McCoy wants it to be that he ends up fixing broken body parts on people not yet old enough to apply for a learner's permit.

Chekov isn't going to say it hurts, though it does; he doesn't want to make the situation worse.

It was one of his favorite rants, when he was still stationed in San Francisco. Now things are a little different... sort of. There's less youngsters on board ship (though emotional maturity is an entirely different matter), but he has gotten his fair share of underaged patients here.

He eyes the damage, and shakes his head.

"But damn I don't miss the academy. Come on." He sighs, leading the way towards the infirmary.

He follows the doctor to the infirmary, trying not to drip blood on the floor. "Is not zat bad, sir." Pavel manages the words through the blood coating his tongue now too, coppery and bitter, but he's not even attempting to get out of getting it fixed.

It actually hurts a bit too much to fully ignore.

"It is if I say it is." He retorts, gruffly. "Sit down a spell, tell your woes to old Uncle McCoy." He digs his kit out, quickly finding the tools he'll need.

"Not allergic to anything, are you?"

The noise that comes out of Chekov is halfway between a laugh and a snort--and it makes him wince at the unexpected jolt of pain it causes, in addition to the renewed bleeding, no longer as sluggish. Okay, that was stupid.

Pavel merely shakes his head at the allergy question, tilting his head back to avoid messing his shirt more than it already is. Perhaps he'll have the bar clean them, if indeed she does that. But then again perhaps not if he doesn't want to explain how he miraculously healed a broken nose and got a clean uniform in the fifteen minutes he's been out of the classroom.

"Tch. Vas a stupid zing to do."

"Not your brightest move, son." He agrees, shooting him up with a painkiller (no matter which universe, McCoy is a fast hand with the hypospray) and handing him a towel. "Now, give that a minute to kick in, and we'll see about putting your face back together."

He was expecting the hypospray--not that fast, but he doesn't move to dodge it. He has no problem with painkillers.

"He insulted my parents," Chekov says, more smoothly now that it doesn't hurt to breathe through his nose. "Normally I vould be qvicker to dodge." But, he thinks with some small amount of satisfaction, the other cadet will have an interesting time with the bruise Pavel gave to his diaphragm with the heel kick.

"And so getting into a brawl like a pair of barflies was a good idea, huh?" He drawls, setting his fingers along the break and, with a quick twitch, snapping the dislocation back into alignment.

His protest is stopped midway through Chekov taking the breath to voice it by the way the doctor fixes the dislocation; his bicep tenses, but Pavel makes no noise save letting that breath back out in a sigh.

"Nyet. It vas not really a brawl," he says. "He hit me, I hit him back and I left," he says. Being quick on your feet is a good thing that way. "And I hawe newer been to a bar outside zis one."

"Might I suggest skipping the first step of that, and not going through with the second. It will make your future career a lot easier, son." McCoy notes as he stops the bleeding with the hemostasis unit. "You have a name?"

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Sharpe knows a uniform when he sees one, even partly removed, as well as a young officer. He glances the boy over with sympathetic amusement.

"Hope you gave as good as you got."

"Ech, mostly, sir," he answers. Pavel didn't precisely stick around to see how badly a kick to the midsection hurt the cadet who'd punched him in the face, but given he's both a runner and has practiced ballet for the last ten or so years his legs are quite strong enough to hurt.

"Good lad." He grins. "Looks like you could do with some cleaning up, though. You know the way?"

He could set the boy's nose, but it would hurt. A lot.

He nods. "To ze infirmary?" That was one of the first places he asked about upon getting here, because not knowing where sickbay is located is a very stupid idea.

"The infirmary", he agrees. "And then you'll be wanting a change of clothes."

Pavel nods, and mutters that he'll be back shortly, though how understandable that is might vary given his accent is thick and Russian on a good day without a broken nose.

It takes him maybe thirty minutes to get that part fixed, and get a set of clean clothes from the bar, before he comes back over. "I am sorry about zat. Zere vas...tch."

"A fight?" Sharpe says easily. "You're young. It happens. I'm Sharpe, by the way."

He nods. "Da, a fight. In a manner of speaking. I am Pavel Chekov."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Chekov." He gestures to the empty chair opposite him. "Stop a while, if you like."

"Zank you," he says. "I vas done viz classes," he says with a shrug, much better now that he has a painkiller in him. "So is not imperatiwe I get back to anyvhere."

Not that it really ever is given he can pass the tests already.

"And you likely wouldn't miss a thing if you weren't", Sharpe tells him. "Or are you one of the unlucky ones that doesn't get time frozen for them?"

"I...hawe not heard time stops," he says. He hasn't really been needing it to, and hasn't been particularly paying attention to it. "But da, I suppose it does. Zat explains qvite a lot."