ST:TOS/Bab5 xover fic

[icarus_chained]

Because I saw the prompt somewhere, ages and ages ago. I don't know when or where or why, but ... Here we go. Random, I know, but the muse sayeth, and all must obey her whims, lest they be cast out from the hallowed circle of honoured scribes. *blinks* Have I mentioned I'm a little hyper tonight?

Title:  All Good Things ... Come From Russia
Fandoms:  Star Trek (original) and Babylon 5
Rating:  PG
Characters/Pairings:  Ivanova/Chekov
Summary:  He's giving it a go, despite the incredibly handicap of looking like one of her worst enemies. Because Pavel would.
Wordcount:  1150
Disclaimer:  I own nothing

All Good Things ... Come From Russia

 

 

Alright. She could handle this. No problem. She was Susan Ivanova. She could handle anything, and let's be honest. A ship from another universe really wasn't even close to the weirdest thing she'd had to deal with on this job. So. No problem.

But why, why, did that ship have to come crewed with not only the most chauvinistic excuse for a man she'd seen since college as its captain, not only an engineer who could drink Mollari under the table, not only a green, passionless alien telepath that no-one, no-one at all seemed to have a problem with ... not only all these, but this blessed ship also apparently came with its very own, mint condition, young and innocent Alfred Bester look-alike. Young, innocent, sincere, polite, charming, with a nervously genuine smile that only looked so much worse, so much more unfair, when it seemed to come from his lips.

Casting her eyes pleadingly to heaven, she asked again, and only slightly frantically, what heinous sin she had committed to deserve this.

"Commander Ivanova?" A smiling, ingratiating voice sounded at her elbow, the accent on her name unusually stressed to emphasize the first syllable, as it would have been in the original Russian pronunciation. The little bastard just would not take a hint. Giving up on politeness, one hand already raised to emphasize her point, Susan turned to explain once and for all that she really, really was not interested.

"Look," she said, warning smile already on her lips. Chekov blinked up at the sudden movement, his eyes alighting easily and appreciatively on her face. "I'd really love to chat, Mr Chekov, but I am rather terminally busy at the minute, so if you could please just wander back the way you came and continue watching your friend and Mollari finish off their livers?"

The boy blinked, his smile faltering for a second, but it was back in moments, bouncing back with the eternal optimism of youth, and a somewhat surprising undercurrent of wry awareness. It hit her like a blow to the stomach, that look, on those features.

"Forgive me," he murmured, glancing pointedly sideways at the drink nestled by her elbow. "I thought you were off duty." She opened her mouth to argue, and he rushed in his invitation before she could. "And it is Pavel, my lady. For one such as you, my name is Pavel only."

She blinked, and paused, mildly stunned by his temerity, and the courage he seemed to miraculously pull from nowhere. On first sight, she would not have credited it to him. "Pavel," she echoed, half contempt and half curiosity, and he smiled happily as if he had won a great victory.

"Yes, proud lady," he murmured, a glimmer of humourous intelligence lurking behind the innocence in his eyes. "Before a goddess of your might, I am reduced to my simplest, my most elemental. Pavel, at your service." And he bowed a little in his seat, a gentleman greatly daring, and she had to laugh. She had to.

"Alright," she conceded, with a certain grace. "Susan. Susan Ivanova." He took her hand with pleasure, and kissed it with the look of a man who knows he is putting his life on the line, and loving it anyway. She bit her lip, shaking her head. You had to credit him for guts.

"Honoured, beautiful lady," he murmured. "Susan. It is good name. Proud. Firm. Very Russian. All the best names come from Russia, you know." And that was earnest, and sincere, and so very honestly said that she instantly suspected he was joking at her expense. Or possibly everyone's expense. But with a face so innocent, there was no way to tell, and it mildly horrified her to think of the other, to think of Bester with that face, lying to the world in utter seeming sincerity. And like that, the simple joy of this game faded, and she rubbed her hand between her eyes to ward off the burgeoning headache. And when she looked up, his eyes were concerned.

"Look," she said, tired and unsure how to explain, to this boy without fault, what his face did to her. "I'm sorry. I know I'm not very friendly, Pavel, but the fact is everytime I look at your face, I'm horribly reminded of a man I would dearly love to introduce to the wrong side of an airlock." His expression froze a little in shock, and she pressed on, taking something of a vicarious pleasure in emphasizing her point. "In slow motion. With popcorn. And a video to review later at my leisure. I think you can see the problem here, yes? So if we could just call it a conversation, and move on ..?" And she squeezed her eyes shut against the headache, breathed deep to calm the spirit, picked up her drink and started to walk away.

Barely two steps later, his voice called her to a halt, wry and humourous, and so charmingly hopeful. "I have never had conversation with a woman who had her eyes closed," Pavel mused gently. "It would be an interesting experience, I think. After all," and this time the mischievous pause let her know he really was joking at her expense, "looks are not everything, yes?"

She stopped, eyes rising instinctively to the heavens, a slow, almost disbelieving smirk slipping onto her features, and turned very, very slowly to face him. He smiled at her, hands raised to emphasize his harmlessness, his innocence, his humour, and even as she started to shake her head, he was speaking.

"I am worthy man, after all," he smiled, the joke heavy and happy. "You would not love me for my looks alone. I have wonderful personality. Wonderful mind. Promising career. And," he laughed, coming forward, hunched slightly as if still ever so aware that he was taking a chance with a woman more than capable of knocking him on his ass, moving with wary, hopeful grace ... "Best of all," he murmured, reaching out to gingerly take her hand, "I am Russian, yes? Like yourself, beautiful lady. And you know, better than anyone, yes, that all the best things ..."

And she laughed, shaking her head in exasperated admiration, and raised his hand so she could plant her own kiss to it, taking the masculine role with clean and perfect ease, and laughing silently at the joke of it all. "All the best things come from Russia," she finished, biting her lip as she guided him back to the seats, and calling the barkeep with a nod to serve him.

A half an hour, in more than pleasant company, would hardly hurt. Maybe even a night, the simple, complex Russian at her side willing. Not so hard a chore, for a man of such winning personality, despite those questionable looks ... She smiled, meeting his wry, willing gaze with her own. Besides, he was right.

All the best things did come from Russia.