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Scotty licked and nibbled at the dimple decorating Chekov's chin.
Chekov grinned, eyes still closed, and curled around Scotty like a cat. Scotty just watched, afraid now to spoil the moment with movement.
It was the end of four long cycles of mismatched shifts, an alien plague, failed diplomacy with small orange slugs and a particularly spectacular fire in a Jeffries tube. Four long cycles of administrative Starfleet meetings and emergency Starfleet meetings. Fleeting meetings as they passed in the corridor at a run in opposite directions, trusting quick glances to carry coded messages.
The orange slugs decided they'd like to learn how to drive, and took out Sulu's nervous system. Chekov had sounded the alarm, summoning Bones and Security in one long high-pitched string of Russian. Later, leaning on Scotty's shoulder in Sick Bay, Chekov had blamed himself in gasping, awkward, angry breaths for not noticing sooner. He'd fretted over his unconscious friend and squeezed Scotty's hand so hard the tips of his fingers turned blue. Eventually Bones had ordered them both out.
Sulu was fine now, and covered in eager ensigns and yeomans all asking after his health and vying to feed him food-slot pudding.
Scotty had taken Chekov back to his quarters. Had tried to distract him with fresh new articles in Plasma Beam Monthly and Dilithium Digest until realizing what the lad really wanted.
Slow, leisurely movements first. Kisses that lasted four more cycles. Arms that never ended. Long-lashed desperate glances, a need for Scotty to... just be Scotty, it turned out. Flexed toes and spread thighs, and wide eyes, blinking rapidly then closing as Chekov arched into Scotty, needing and getting. Giving himself over to this care.
Chekov opened his eyes.
Hazel, Scotty decided. Definitely hazel. Four days ago green, before that a dark ocean blue. But today Chekov's eyes were hazel.
Chekov grinned, expression daring.
Scotty loved that look. It was a look that challenged him, a look that let him know Chekov was asking for more. And Scotty, well versed now in shagging a lad 67.347821% of his age (useful things, star charts) was eager to provide. Fingers, lips, tongue. If it came to it, knees. And a wondrously strange object with two knobs and a kind of bud-shaped bit on a forked branch Chekov had picked up during shore leave on Tlatl Four.
It was glittery, and lit up.
Right now, however, Scotty concentrated on that wee dimple in the lad’s chin. The soft hint of a cleft, enough of an excuse to mouth and chew, while Chekov hummed a satisfied, lazy approval. Bits of Scotty managed to recover from earlier activities and signaled a sweaty, wary readiness. It was enough.
Chekov smiled, way too wicked for his years.
Scotty leaned up and stole another kiss, Chekov’s mouth having been made for kissing, but moreover having been made for celebrating this fifth cycle off together in a warm soft bed, in private, slug-free chambers, aboard the best and most exciting starship in the galaxy.
Cycle six would just have to wait.