by Laura Jacquez Valentine

Disclaimer: Paramount owns The Star Trek Universe. This story is set in my slash-filled Overloaded Spock Operator Universe, but the characters therein belong to Paramount.

This I should not have done. Ensign Chekov is still a child. He will not understand the warm comfort of friendship combined with the lack of desire. I will have to burn out that desire soon. I did not the first time, nor the second. I did not want to frighten him, and so I barely touched his mind. He is sweet against me now, in the darkness and warmth of my quarters. His body is cool, human-cool, and his skin is faintly bruised where I lost control of myself and gripped him too tightly. He breathes softly in his sleep.

I remember when he came on board, awkward and eager to please, like a young sehlat. He was already a talented navigator and he had a flair for science--and not only the areas related to space navigation. He was interested in almost everything, and he learned so quickly. His history was flawed and his Standard occasionally uncertain, but he was young and he lit up rooms when he walked into them.

I took great pleasure in teaching him. Teasing the tendrils of thought from his mind--a healthy mind, questioning, alert, not scarred with trauma like Jim's (though Jim's mind is excellent, there are shadows in him that are not in Pavel). Once I could get him to remember that not everything comes from Mother Russia, it was well between us.

The second month he was with us, I found him in the officer's mess, playing idly with one of the chess pieces. He reminded me of the way my brother had looked, the last time I saw him. The same sort of sadness. I sat down across from him and touched his shoulder. He raised his head and was shocked when he saw that it was me.

"Sair, I thought...I thought Vulcans didn't..."

"Did not touch?"

He nodded.

"Vulcans are a telepathic race, Ensign. Unplanned touches can cause unplanned mental contact. Unplanned mental contact can cause damage. But we do...touch. In many ways. For many reasons."

He blinked, and I not-smiled at him. "Ask...Lieutenants DeSalle or Leslie. They will tell you." I leaned forward, my hand still on his shoulder. "What is troubling you, Ensign?"

He looked away. "I..."

And I knew. He'd fallen in love, and been burned. "Who is it?"

He was shocked again, shocked that I had read him so easily. "No one."

"Male or female?"

He hadn't expected the question. Or, more accurately, he hadn't expected it of me. Of the Vulcan First Officer. Still, he answered.

"Male." He was half-afraid I would damn him for it, I think. He, like so many other humans, firmly believed that Vulcans were not only sexless, but rather cruelly homophobic. (Incidentally, that is an interesting viewpoint. I am not certain where humans acquired it. Some Vulcan parents bond their children in homosexual pairs if they perceive that this is how the children will be happiest. Bonding is for individual survival, not for ensuring reproduction. Surak's oldest son was bonded to another male; I am a descendent. Vulcans, as a whole, are a discreetly promiscuous race--and distinctly bisexual.)

I not-smiled at him again. He sighed and said "Sulu, sair."

This was a trifle upsetting. It could affect how they worked together, the safety of the ship, Jim--

"Have you told him?"

"No. He does not like men. And he is getting married on his next leave."

"I am aware of that. Perhaps--"

"No--I mean, Commander Spock, thank you, but I must...cope with this by myself. Please, sair."

I left him there, his fingers rolling the pawn up and down the table.

Now he shifts against me, and I remember kissing him for the first time, three weeks ago. He had been chewing on a fingernail while working on a a problem I had set him, and I took his finger out of his mouth. Somehow, I forgot to let go of his hand. He had not protested; rather, he had stepped closer to me. How had I failed to notice his growing preoccupation with me? I was usually so careful, planned things so well--and this boy caught me unaware.

He smelled of youth and cleanliness then, as his body swayed into mine, as his hand tangled in my hair and his lips parted. The memory is arousing. I don't love him, I know that. I treasure his company, the smell and feel of him, the way he feels under me, and now, his head on my shoulder, the ripple of his breath on my skin. I know what I must do. I turn my head and inhale. Pavel smells of youth and fresh musk now, and my body reacts to him. I reach out for his mind, and decide: *not just yet, Spock. One more time before you end it.*

If Jim knew how much tampering I've done with the minds of vital personnel he would never forgive me. If he suspected that my close "friends" were modified lovers, changed in the ancient Vulcan tradition of the little-bonding--but he doesn't, and he won't, not until I finally take him to my bed, give in to my love for him and my need.

I rouse Pavel and make love to him one last time. He trembles against me afterwards, aftershocks flowing through him. I soothe them with a mindtouch so gentle he never even notices. We fall asleep in each other's arms.

Shortly before ship's dawn, I wake. Pavel--Ensign Chekov, now, since soon we will no longer share a bed--is still asleep. He looks younger than ever. I fit my body around his and reach into his mind. I am more gentle than I have ever been, and he does not stir as I burn his desire for me out of his mind, out of his body.

There will be a warmth between us now, a friendship deep and unshakable. He and I were not meant for each other. He did not love me, nor I him--there was trust and respect and pleasure there, but no love, and it is better this way. He will be confused, but not frightened, by his lack of desire, and he will end it himself. There will be no bitterness, no heartbreak--just the warmth of the little-bonding.

Why then, am I crying?