"Are you sure you're all right?"

Spock was beginning to tire of the constant concern for his health. True, he'd been involved in a serious accident on their mission to Manjei IV . True, the brunt of the damage done had been the result of a telepathic attack. True, the Enterprise's medical department was ill-equipped to deal with psychic trauma. The Science Officer had to grant that all of these factors were more than sufficient cause for the captain to feel out of control and anxious. However, he did not need coddling.

The Vulcan forced himself to draw in an deep calming breath. His irritation was yet another symptom of the extent to which his emotional and telepathic control had been impaired.

"I am sufficiently recovered to complete this task."

"All right." Kirk still didn't seem satisfied. "See he doesn't work too hard, Chekov," he ordered the Science Officer's assistant as he headed towards the exit of the Navigation and Propulsion lab.

The ensign glanced back and forth between the captain and the first officer, looking for a moment like a child caught in the midst of an argument between his parents. "Sir," he acknowledged, tactfully leaving off the 'yes'.

As the doors closed behind the captain, Spock turned to give the navigator a warning look to discourage any displays of patronizing sentimentality. However, the young man had already returned to the computer display he was supposed to be monitoring. Satisfied, the Vulcan turned back to recalibrating the sensor array.

He hadn't chosen Chekov to assist him on this project primarily on the basis of the ensign's expertise in this area. Spock had passed over several more experienced candidates because after having directed the young officer's training for the past years, he believed that Chekov had grown to understand how Vulcans prefer to interact with Humans. It was gratifying to see the ensign demonstrating his respect for the necessary social barriers appropriate for this situation. Spock felt a surge of what felt suspiciously like pride in his pupil, but immediately dismissed the sensation as an anomalous manifestation of his lingering mental infirmity.

They worked in uneventful silence for nearly an hour. Finally, Chekov approached him with a pad in hand. "I've completed the preliminary diagnostic, sir." he said, handing the device to the Science Officer.

As had happened hundreds of times before, when the ensign passed the notepad to his superior their hands met briefly.

Suddenly, Spock's mind was flooded with a barrage of unfamiliar sensations and images. As overpowering as it was unexpected, the unwanted contact staggered the Vulcan momentarily.

Chekov must have felt it too, for he dropped back, letting the work pad clatter to the floor.

"Sir?" he asked after a moment.

Spock was slower in recovering. Lingering resonance from Chekov's mind still rang out within his thoughts.

"Sir..." The ensign reached out to support him.

"Don't touch me," he ordered, quickly drawing back. "My telepathic barriers are not properly in place."

"I'm very sorry, sir."

"You are not at fault, ensign," Spock assured him, putting one hand on the computer's keypad to steady himself.

"That was very odd," Chekov said, retrieving the clipboard. "Like suddenly hearing too much music played too loud..."

The Vulcan blinked rapidly in an illogical attempt to clear a view of the scene from Chekov's perspective from his mind's eye. "Yes."

"Like someone spraying perfume in your face," the ensign continued thoughtfully, "with a fire hose."

Spock had recuperated sufficiently to lift an eyebrow. "You have a gift for visceral imagery, Ensign."

The navigator dutifully placed the clipboard on the workstation. "I going to begin an auxiliary systems check."

"A commendable idea," Spock dismissed him.

As the ensign turned to go, a visible shiver ran through him. "Very odd," he commented once more, shaking off whatever image had caused his reaction.

"If we take proper precautions, it will not happen again," Spock said, vowing to himself that he wouldn't be so careless in the future.

Chekov smiled and shrugged as he turned back to his workstation. "It was almost... pleasant."

Spock hated dreaming. He avoided it when he could. It was always so wrenching. So emotional. Like this one. He was standing waist-deep in a pool of warm water. Red and green rock formed a sheltered grotto from the burning golden sun. He closed his eyes and let his hands trail in the swirling water around him. Try as he might to control them, sexual dreams like this one....

"Sex?" a familiar voice said. "This is about sex?"

Chekov was sitting on an overhanging ledge with his ankles crossed. He seemed more puzzled by the officer's analysis of the situation than by the fact he was clothed and his superior was not.

Spock noted his presence with a small thrill of trepidation, but not surprise. "Ensign, if you knew anything about Jungian analysis..." He paused as the young man crossed his arms and leaned against a very obviously phallic stalagmite. "Or Freudian, for that matter..."

The Russian shrugged. "It seems very ...lonely."

As if in response to this comment, the landscape began to undergo a subtle shift. Small twisting trees replaced green rock. Neat platforms made of polished pine now surrounded the pool. In the distance, voices murmured quietly. An attendant, who could have been Asian or Vulcan, entered carrying a tray of cool drinks.

"Thank you." Chekov stood to accept the drink.

Spock noticed for the first time that the ensign was wearing the dark colored uniform of a Japanese schoolboy or an apprentice to a Vulcan healer. "Do you strongly associate Vulcan with the Asian cultures of Earth, Ensign?"

"I think so." The young man paused to consider as other Vulcan/Japanese attendants in blue and gray patterned robes passed noiselessly through the scene. "It's something about the architecture."

On Spock's signal, attendants stepped forward with towels.

"The lines are so...." Chekov's voice drifted off as the Science Officer stepped out of the pool.

As the attendants patted his body dry, Spock waited for the young man to complete his sentence. "Are you attempting to draw a parallel between Vulcan and Japanese minimalism?"

Chekov cleared his throat and looked down at his feet as the attendants wrapped a long towel around his superior's waist and tied it in place with a cord. "I suppose so."

"You must strive for greater clarity and precision in your verbal formulations, Mr. Chekov," Spock scolded lightly as he sat down on a beautiful, but somewhat unlikely bamboo and k'ratshi stone bench. Another almond-eyed, pointed-eared attendant stood behind him, readying Vulcan/Japanese aids for massage.

"Yes, sir," the ensign replied dutifully. He stood for several moments with his hands clasped behind his back watching the attendant spread oil across the Vulcan's shoulders. He watched with interest as the masseur began to lightly slap palm fronds against Spock's back and shoulders. "Doesn't that hurt?" he asked, drawing closer.

Spock reasoned that the negligible impacts must have looked severe by Human standards. He shook his head as he inclined his neck to receive the masseur's ministrations. "It stimulates circulation."

"Oh." The ensign stepped closer as the masseur applied warm oil to the Vulcan's back. The round-tipped instrument the attendant used was unfamiliar, but the technique was in the Vulcan manner, avoiding unnecessary skin-to-skin contact. "I didn't realize Vulcans enjoyed massage."

Spock stretched his neck under masseur's steady circular motions. "Your knowledge of the culture is obviously incomplete."

"Whatever culture this is," the ensign commented wryly as he stepped behind the bench to better observe the masseur's technique.

"Allow me, " Spock heard the Russian say. Before he could object, he felt the young man's fingers against his flesh. The ensign had placed one steadying hand on his shoulder and began to rub oil into the skin of his shoulders in small careful circles. The Vulcan braced himself for an unpleasant assault of ensign's unbridled thoughts and emotions....

...And waited.

Somehow the dreadful smothering intensity he dreaded didn't materialize. Instead they had effortlessly established a light link of the sort that was possible only between two telepaths... Not precisely that, though. This link was clearly not mutual. Chekov's mind showed no signs that it was aware of the presence of another.

Spock was surprised. Either his mental defences were once more strong and in place, or....

'.. Or this is just a dream,' he decided.

He could sense Chekov's mind, but in a vague, pleasant sort of manner. The young man's thoughts and feelings were close, but removed from his own. Unlike the sudden link he'd accidentally made earlier, he now had sufficient mental distance to observe without feeling entrapped. The sensation appealed to his xenophilic nature. He had always found it stimulating to experience thought processes markedly different from his own. In this dream simulation of a mind touch, he could sustain the excitement of contact without the dreadful self-exposure that a real link demanded.

Chekov's thoughts, Spock reflected, as the young man continued to smooth the tightness from his shoulders, were quite alien. He was a mass of conflicts and contradictions masking as certainties and convictions. Simultaneously logical and emotional, disciplined and wild. Very Human. It was not an unpleasant mind, merely alien. At that moment, Spock found with some surprize that the young man's thoughts were full of affectionate concern... for him.

"Try to relax, sir," the Russian said, his strong fingers kneading patient circles.

It was impossible for the Vulcan to relax while staring at the fun-house mirror reflection of himself in the ensign's thoughts. Spock found the image of himself in Chekov's mind to be recognizable, but astonishingly distorted. His virtues were meticulously catalogued and magnified. His flaws were ignored, dismissed, or fondly explained away. Chekov's image of him was more perfect, and strangely enough, more vulnerable than he believed himself to be.

"That's good, sir," the ensign was saying as he smoothed the bunched muscles of the Vulcan's neck. "Let me take care of it."

It surprised Spock that Chekov considered him someone who needed to be taken care of. It was not unusual for a junior officer to have an over-exalted picture of a superior, but the Russian's protectiveness was unexpected. Probing the feelings further, Spock found they were the product of an idiosyncratic combination of pride and affection. Chekov considered him as a role model of almost heroic stature, nearly flawless -- and yet he was a hero who required an able assistant to clear a path before him. Looking at the Russian's thoughts, Spock reconsidered. Perhaps Chekov's estimation was not so much that he "required" but rather that he "deserved." Yes, that was it. Chekov thought of him as a person who deserved assistance... his assistance -- which was, in the young man's less than modest self-appraisal, no mean gift. More than that, the ensign found Spock fully worthy of his admiration, his devotion, his ...love.

If the Vulcan had been capable of such feelings, he would have been both touched and amused. Since he believed himself not to be, he was concerned by the intensity of the young man's feelings. On a physical level, he became aware the ensign was now touching him in a different way. The young man's lips were softly brushing against the back of his neck. Without turning, the Vulcan put a restraining right hand over the navigator's left as it caressed his shoulder.

"Chekov," he began carefully. "I am flattered by your fascination with me...."

The ensign moved around to face him. "Am I disturbing you, sir?"

Looking at the young man's somewhat awkward position, Spock belatedly realized that he was still holding the ensign's hand on his shoulder. "No," he said, releasing him.

Chekov smiled and knelt down to rub his feet.

The gentle pressure against his insoles was incredibly soothing.

"It feels good, yes?" Chekov worked his way up the tops of his feet and began to concentrate on his ankles. "All the major nerves end in the feet."

"That's...." Spock paused as the ensign hit a sensitive spot in his calf. "...imprecise."

The young man sighed as he massaged the backs of the Vulcan's knees. "I'm sorry, sir. I must strive for greater clarity in the future."

Although the young man's tone was politely submissive, his thoughts were not. Chekov was taking pleasure in controlling him. The ensign liked the fact that he was succeeding in making the Vulcan unwind -- as the Russian believed he frequently needed to and did not. He was also savoring the physical contact. It made him feel somewhat superior. He believed he was a more sensual person than the Science Officer and therefore in this instance could teach his master. He was enjoying manipulating Spock -- on several levels.

"Ensign." Spock put his hands down to stop the ensign's progress up his thighs and under the towel. "This is.... not within regulations."

"Please, sir." Chekov patiently removed the blocking hands, then looked up and smiled at him compassionately. "This is not real. Regulations do not apply. This is only a dream. Try to relax. You have been through a terrible ordeal. Let me help you recuperate."

Spock considered as the ensign continued to work his way slowly and methodically up his thighs. Chekov -- or this dream-version of Chekov -- was right. None of this was real. It was all a product of a random firing of his synapses. This dream-encounter was nothing more than a chance combining in his brain of his own strong desires to recover from the incident on Manjei IV and his accidental link with the ensign in Navigation Control. It was harmless.

It didn't feel harmless, however, when the ensign began to massage a sensitive area between his thighs.

The Vulcan sighed and closed his eyes. He wondered why this dream was taking on such a pronouncedly sexual air. Then again, he had avoided anything other than minimal dreaming for several weeks now. Often the dreams that came after such a period were exceptionally vivid and irrational.

"You see, sir," Chekov was saying in his sweet, light voice. "There's no harm in indulging yourself occasionally."

'Indulgence,' Spock thought scornfully. 'This boy doesn't know what true indulgence is.'

He looked down at the ensign who was still manipulating what he believed to be his sexually naive superior with air of contentment that verged on smuggness.

'Perhaps,' the Vulcan thought, rising to his feet. 'It's time that he learn.'

Chekov's brown eyes were round with surprise when he felt himself being grasped under his arms and pulled to standing. They went even wider when his feet lost contact with the ground.

Spock let him dangle in his arms for a moment, then sat the ensign on a flattened ledge in the volcanic rock near the masseur's tray. The ledge was high enough so that the young man's feet didn't touch the ground. Standing between the ensign's legs, Spock reached out and unfastened the top button of Chekov's jacket. "Have I frightened you, Ensign?"

The Vulcan could see the young man's throat move as he swallowed. "No, sir."

"That is untrue," he reproved, pushing the next button through the loop holding it in place. "An officer should always endeavor to be truthful."

"Yes, sir." Chekov's eyes strayed down to watch the Vulcan unbutton the last two fasteners. "You are very strong. That surprised me."

"Vulcans are five point zero three five percent stronger than humans." He pushed the jacket open revealing the ensign's finely muscled chest. Spock pushed the coat down, baring Chekov's arms to the elbows. "Surely you are aware of that fact."

"Yes." The Russian's breath was coming quickly. "I've simply never witnessed an empirical demonstration of that statistic before."

"Of course..." The Science Officer let his fingers explore the smooth surface of the ensign's shoulders. "...since this is a dream, my potency may be somewhat exaggerated."

Spock let his hands run down Chekov's back. He let them linger on the young man's hips for a moment, then grasping the ensign's buttocks firmly, he pulled the navigator close.

Chekov didn't struggle. His neck and chest arched backwards against the pull, but his legs were spread widely to accommodate the Vulcan's hips. The Science Officer could feel the stirrings from the ensign's groin where it pressed against his abdomen. "Yes, sir," he replied in a choked voice. "That is certainly a possibility."

Spock's fingers caressed the bare chest and shoulders. He could feel an abnormally strong pulse in the young man's throat. Chekov's eyes had grown enormous with trepidation.

'What am I doing?' he thought, as he ran his fingers lightly over the ensign's generous mouth. 'This degree of aggression is unnecessary. I don't intend to rape him... Do I?'

He stroked the young man's soft lower lip with his thumb. When Chekov's jaw dropped slightly in response, he pushed that digit past the ensign's teeth. After a moment, the navigator began to lick his thumb tentatively. As Spock's fingers coaxed his lips shut, the ensign closed his eyes and obediently began to suck in earnest.

When Chekov opened his eyes and looked to the Vulcan for approval or further instructions, Spock removed his thumb. He wiped the ensign's lips tenderly, then released him. Without further comment, the Science Officer crossed back to the masseur's bench.

Chekov remained where he was, blinking at the Vulcan blankly.

"I apologize if I have gone beyond the bounds of propriety, Ensign." Spock signalled the masseur. "However, I am not so innocent as you seemed to assume."

"Oh." The navigator took a moment to process. "Yes," he said, his voice recapturing its normal confident tone as he pulled the jacket back over his shoulders. "I, myself, have often been the object of such assumptions."

The Science Officer lifted an eyebrow at him as the masseur resumed his ministrations. "Equally erroneous, I see."

"Yes, sir," he replied, unabashed. "In Russia, we have saying -- don't judge a house by its appearance."

The Science Officer relaxed under the masseur's expert application of his exotic collection of tools of that trade. Cooly, he made quick estimate of how long it was probable that the ensign would be able to stay outside a one meter radius of his current location.

As if sensing an imaginary clock had been set on him, the navigator began to fidget after only a few seconds. He straightened the jacket, although he did not rebutton it.

'What draws him to me?' The Vulcan wondered, watching him passively. 'I've just behaved in a most unprofessional manner towards him. The logical reaction would be to withdraw.'

The ensign hopped off the ledge Spock had placed him on and seemed to do just that. Chekov turned his back on the Vulcan, peering instead at some structure in the distance.

'His fascination with authority figures borders on the obsessive,' Spock thought, letting his eyes rest on the calm waters of the pool. 'Is it a manifestation of his ambition? An attraction to danger? An indication of abnormalities in his relationship to his parents? A simple need for attention?'

"What sort of structure is that, sir?" the ensign asked, as if he couldn't bear to be silent a moment longer. "A temple?"

Spock squinted into the distance. "It's similar in structure to a Vulcan g'loxk -- literally a bathhouse, but the term 'spa' might be a more accurate equivalent."

"Ah, yes." The Russian used this excuse to come sit next to the Science Officer. "I remember now. I have seen pictures of them in my studies."

Spock noted that his estimate had been accurate to within .356 of a second.

Chekov gestured towards the grotto. "That makes me think of another Russian saying -- Devils may lurk in quiet pools."

The Vulcan blinked at him. "Are you attempting to be metaphorical, Ensign?"

"Merely conversational, sir," the Russian assured him quickly and apologetically. From this range, his eyes had a magnetic quality. His attention, when it was focused as it was now, had a compelling intensity. "You should try to relax, Mr. Spock."

The pressure of the masseur's instrument against his back ceased gradually. The attendant seemed to melt away as if realizing he'd become superfluous.

To be the object of such an open and adoring gaze made one feel invulnerable... and reckless. And why not? In reality, to touch this tempting young mind and body was unthinkable, forbidden, an ultimate abuse and betrayal of the power relationship between them. But what would it hurt to give into temptation in a dream?

"Do you want to be seduced, Ensign?" he asked, voicing these forbidden words softly.

Chekov's mouth dropped open as if he were shocked, but from the light link between them, Spock could sense nothing but tingling of anticipation. He didn't make a sound, but his lips silently formed the word 'yes'.

With all his ideals of professionalism and propriety perversely spurring him forward rather than holding him back, the Vulcan put a hand beneath the ensign's chin and pulled him forward. The kiss began gently, almost chastely. When Spock opened his lips, Chekov followed, ever obedient.

Pressing hard now, he tasted the ensign deeply, exploring the expanse of his mouth. The young man's tongue swirled against his, yielding and caressing. Spock pulled the loose jacket from the ensign's shoulders once more. Chekov shrugged out of it willingly.

The Vulcan held the navigator by his upper arms, not allowing him to touch him... yet. He broke the kiss, pulling away just out of reach.

Chekov's cheeks were flushed. His lips were already slightly swollen. He swallowed hard. "Sir..."

Spock recognized that rather than utlize the extensive vocabulary at his command, the ensign tended to use the same words to mean many different things. Here the word he used was "sir", but the thought he was clearly trying to communicate was "more".

The Vulcan decided to oblige his subordinate's inarticulately conveyed desire. He pulled the ensign close and bent to his lips once more. As their tongues met for the second time, Spock lifted the ensign to standing. He put his arms around the Russian, freeing the ensign to do the same.

Chekov melted into him in a most obliging manner.

He could feel hardness of the young man's erection pressing against his leg, and realised with detached surprise that his own was surely as discernible against the ensign's body. Without releasing the navigator's lips, he reached down and unfastened the buttons holding the navigator's pants in place. Before the garment hit the floor, Chekov was untying the length of soft rope that held the towel around his waist.

Naked, they explored the intriguing planes and angles of each other's bodies. Placing his hands on the ensign's hips, he lifted the young man and carried him to the pool. As he lowered Chekov slowly into the warm water, the ensign traced a trail downwards with his tongue -- first the Vulcan's throat, then his chest, then his abdomen, and finally his groin.

Chekov's mouth settled hotly on his erection and began to suck. Spock was pulled forward by the pleasurable sensation down the rock steps that lay just under the waters of the pool. Soon his groin was level with the surface of the water. Chekov's lips pulled at him greedily. The Vulcan let his head fall backwards against his shoulders. He felt he could remain like this forever.

Chekov released him. "Feeling more relaxed now, sir?" he asked with a smile that glinted of mischief.

"Malchee pagromchee," the Vulcan growled, reaching for him.

The ensign padded away, evading him easily. "I didn't know you spoke Russian, sir."

"Inaccurate," Spock countered, wading in after him. "We've discussed comparative linguistics on several occasions, Ensign. You should remember my admonitions against imprecise language and hastily speaking outright untruths."

"Oh, yes," Chekov said, grinning and dodging him. "Just as you should remember what I said about devils and deep pools..."

The Vulcan caught the ensign by the foot. He pulled him under the surface and joined him there. They wrestled underneath the warm water, caressing each other with their tongues and hands, nibbling gently, each making the other's body thrash with need.

Having the lesser lung capacity, Chekov had to break the surface first. Spock was able to linger at ensign's hips for a few delightful moments more, confirming and insuring that the young man's passion was as fully enflamed as his own.

"Sir..." the ensign gasped, as the Vulcan emerged from the warm depths and took him into his arms. Once more, the implicit request was clear despite the young man's highly ambiguous word choice.

Spock kissed the navigator once more before gently turning him so that he could steady himself against the edge of the pool. Fire mounted in the Vulcan's spine as the ensign spread his legs wide. Hesitating only to take in a deep breath, Spock parted the firm buttocks presented to him and entered his subordinate smoothly.

Touch telepathy gave him an odd dual perspective. He simultaneously experienced both taking and being taken. He was engulfing and being engulfed, exploring and being explored, dominating and submitting. Such binary oppositions began to melt and blur as his thrusts increased in speed and urgency.

Rational thought fled. Giving and receiving were meaningless markers in this sensual feast. It was as if they had become one body, locked together in pleasure. Every nerve of this new body thrilled with erotic delight as they drew ever closer to a burning pinnacle of desire.

'This,' he thought as they were jointly claimed by the blissful obliteration of climax. 'This is delight.'

"Feeling any better today, Spock?" the captain asked solicitously when they met for breakfast the next morning in the Officer's Lounge on Deck Five.

"Somewhat," the Vulcan replied parsimoniously. His attention was actually on Ensign Chekov, who was breakfasting with friends a few tables away.

"Sleep well?"

"Adequately." Spock wondered what had caused him to have such a vivid erotic dream about the navigator. It was highly out of the ordinary.

His attention was suddenly caught by the sound of Ensign Chekov speaking Russian.

"Malchee pagromchee," he responded to an unheard jest.

"That sounds nasty," his companion replied, laughing. "What does it mean?"

"It's a way of saying shut up," the ensign said. "A mild way."

"I've never heard you use that one before."

The navigator's eyes wandered over to the table where the captain and first officer were breakfasting. "I heard it last night."

"Last night?"

Chekov smiled a smile that might have seemed wistful from a closer range. "In a dream."

***end***