Characters/Pairing: Chekov + Riley
Bingo Card: babel.crackerboxpalace.com/stbingo/bookd
Bingo Progress: [4/8 needed to complete bingo]
Warnings: None, PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek, but do I have a nice bottle of Boru Irish vodka
They seemed destined to become either great friends or great rivals, the young Irishman with a crown of honey-blonde waves and the even younger Russian capped with gold-blonde curls. They were both aiming for a bridge position in navigator/tactical, Chekov with a dual major in computational physics and Riley with a second major in a more hands-on variety of engineering.
Naturally they'd run into each other in classes and study groups, but the first memorable interaction was during a training simulation.
"Ah Lord and would you look at the shite they're throwing at me now?" Riley asked of the air above his head while still efficiently targeting and destroying the computer generated warbirds on his screen.
It was the fourth such nonsensical, annoying (and distracting) comment that Chekov had heard from the man whose station was right next to his. The monologue pretending to dialogue hadn't made him miss a shot yet, but Pavel suspected that it was affecting his time, which a covert glance showed to be just a hair shy of Riley's.
"I vas not knowing that you vere religious Kewin," Chekov snarked.
"What can I say Pavel?" Riley winked while still managing to fire with precision. "An Irishman must speak to the Almighty if he's to converse with his betters."
If it wouldn't have meant taking his eyes from his screen, Pavel would have rolled them. "And vhy must you conwerse at all?"
"A bit o' blarney and banter makes any engagement go smoother - technique used by all your better hero types," Kevin chuckled. "But then I don't suppose you brooding Russians read comics like Spiderman."
"Bah," Chekov retorted. "Spiderman vas inwented in Russia."
Riley laughed so loud three people around them missed their shots.
For some inexplicable reason, they all glared at Pavel.
Chekov was known by all as a mathematical child prodigy. Riley was genius level too, but his childhood had taught him to hide it. With a wink, a smile and touch of brogue, Kevin could smoothly cover the fact that even half-wasted he could reroute and hack enough systems to take over most of a ship all by himself. Therefore it surprised (nearly) everyone when he actually did just that.
"I'll take you Ho-o-m-e Again Kath-LEEN!" Riley warbled even more off-key this time than in the last three renditions.
Pavel was about ready to grab the laser cutter from Scotty's hands and fire it through his own eardrums just so he could stop listening. "I svear if you don't stop singing Irish ballads," he screamed through the small hole appearing in the bulkhead, "I vill shove a balalaika down your throat!"
"A bit o' variety is what yer wantin'?" Kevin laughed and loudly announced into the shipwide comm, "Ladies and gentlemen, our Russian prodigy has made a request! So in the interests of diversity and to show I'm not entirely prejudiced toward the Irish nation - no matter how justified such opinion might be! - I'll next be singin' something with a Russian flavor..."
There followed a blessed six seconds of silence as Riley tied to think of a Russian tune. "...well, I may have to improvise on that a bit. Here goes. O-oh, when RUS-SIAN eyes aer SMI-lin'..."
"NOoooo!" Chekov clamped his hands to his ears and ran screaming down the hall. If the ship crashed into the planet below, it couldn't possibly be any worse than everyone on her looking at him and thinking of that song.
By some ancient standards Pavel Chekov would have been considered too young to drink, however none of those standards had ever really applied in Russia (well there was technically a legal age to buy, but in practice the age was 'I have 3 credits'). So by the time the rule that anyone old enough to serve in Starfleet was old to drink came to apply to him, Chekov had more experience with alcohol than some might suspect. Riley was only a few years older but, as he'd gladly tell anyone, he was Irish and since the good Lord had created whiskey just to keep the Irish from conquering the world, it would be sacreligious not to indulge.
Both of them were novices compared to Montgomery Scott.
"When aer ye going to get off tha' milk diet, lad?"
"This is wodka," Chekov objected indignantly.
"Where Ah come from laddie, tha's soda pop." Scotty lifted his glass with a smile. "Now this is a drink fer a man."
Chekov made a face. "Scotch?"
"Aye," he replied proudly.
Pavel scoffed. "It vas inwented by a little old lady from Leningrad."
Scotty rolled his eyes, batting Riley's shoulder. "Back me up here Kev."
"Normally I'd be right on your side mate, what with scotch being the next best thing to Irish whiskey," Riley gave his own glass a small lift.
"But I'm afraid I'm going to have to side with Pavel on this, cause, ya see," he grinned broadly, "vodka was invented in Ireland."
But Chekov's objection could barely be heard over Scotty's barked laugh.
"Naught but the God's honest truth," Kevin insisted, raising his hand as though taking a pledge.
"You Are Insane," Pavel stated flatly, just in case it wasn't patently obvious to everyone else in the bar.
"Well now, it stands to reason," Kevin explained with a twinkle in his eye. "Vodka's made from potatoes after all."
Scotty guffawed and slapped the table. "Oi, tha' deserves a round! Waitress - Irish vodka for us all."
Hmphf. Good Russian vodka was made with wheat. Inferior Polish vodka was made with potatoes. However, since Scotty was buying, Chekov decided he could wait till later to educate them.
Some time later Scotty tossed Chekov onto his bed and then dropped Riley right beside him. He'd already had to carry both thoroughly soused lieutenants back from the bar and he'd be damned if he was going to carry either a step further, let alone muck about with over-riding another door code when he still had to make it to his own quarters.
Lightweights. They'd gone from completing for the best blarney about their superiority of their homelands (as if either had aught on Scotland!) to trading enough shots to start toasting each others homes. Scotty had had no objections of course, at least once they'd started buying. Still, he was thankful that by the time they'd wrapped arms about each other and started warbling 'When Russian eyes are smiling' they were both so far gone they'd passed out cold before they were halfway through the first chorus. Neither one could carry a tune in a bucket.
He paused a moment looking at them there together - rivals, friends, whatever they might be or might become. A puckish gleam lit his eye and Scotty lifted and positioned arms, leaving the two tangled in a loose embrace.
"Irish vodka indeed," he chuckled, staggering out the door toward his own quarters. There was a good chance he'd be able to hear a waking scream of disbelief all the way from there. However if there were any questions come the morning, he intended to claim he'd drunk too much to remember a thing.
AN: Second part references a reboot of The Naked Time and part of the scotch vs. vodka dialogue is taken from the bar scene in The Trouble with Tribbles.
Written for another bingo space. The last part is semi-based on a true story. Also, there really is an Irish vodka called Boru and it's quite good (of course, I'm part Irish and might be a wee bit prejudiced).
Lastly, please note that Chekov and Riley speak in a highly stereotyped style, not because I think anyone from Ireland or Russia speak this way, but because that's how TOS often protrayed them and I have exaggerated the effect a bit for the sake of humor.