Sometimes Kirk woke in the middle of the night and looked at Chekov sleeping next to him.

Kirk was in bed reading when the ensign had come in very late that evening.

"You work hellish hours, Pavel," Kirk commented when Chekov finished his shower and was toweling his hair dry.

"Yes, well…" Chekov said vaguely, climbing over Kirk and into their bed.

"Yes, well, what?" Kirk drew the younger man into his arms.

"The navigation project failed." Chekov looked up at Kirk with very depressed eyes. "There will be a meeting tomorrow morning," Chekov glanced at the bedside chrono. "Or rather this morning, to tell Admiral Calhoun we failed."

Kirk held him close and told him to get some sleep. He watched Chekov drop off into the sleep of the exhausted and fell asleep himself.

But now Kirk was awake and thinking about Chekov. Kirk had been a navigator himself in his younger days and thought he knew something about it until he tried to follow a conversation between Dr. Maldonado, the head of theoretical navigation and Chekov's boss, and Chekov one evening. The captain was lost after five minutes. It had confirmed for him what Spock had always said about the Russian, that, in addition to being a fine officer and excellent navigator, Chekov was a brilliant mathematician. Kirk had allowed his awe to linger as far as bedtime, when he let awe recede and reestablished lust-tinged affection supreme.

But now he was wondering how serious the project failure was for Chekov. No doubt the ensign would, as usual, take it as a personal failing on his part. That was Chekov; diligent, sensitive, thorough, precise, proactive, and anxious when he didn't feel completely in control of all the details. Thinking back, Kirk recalled several other nights when Chekov had worked late and come home complaining that he was nervous about some part of the project outside of his area. Kirk had made sympathetic noises but basically told him not to worry over what was not in his control. In view of the project's failure, Kirk now wondered if that had been good advice.

Chekov rolled onto his back and out of Kirk's arm. This was not unusual; Chekov normally went to sleep in Kirk's arms but seldom woke up there, as if some need for somnambulistic autonomy were asserting itself in the younger man.

Kirk didn't ponder his relationship with Chekov overly much. They'd been together for several months. Long enough for the gaga-stage to be over and the day-to-day contentment, with the frequent flash of pure bliss, to have set in. They were both busy men; Kirk in the Fleet diplomatic section and Chekov in theoretical navigation. Theirs was a peaceful love affair that was mostly passionate, always considerate and usually mellow. Kirk seldom wasted time thinking about it except when he woke in the middle of the night and found himself watching Chekov sleeping next to him.

When he did think about Chekov, Kirk felt guilty. If he was honest, the captain had to admit that the main reason he was with Chekov was convenience and comfort. Chekov was easy to live with and didn't make any demands Kirk wasn't happy to meet. He was good in bed and pleasant, usually, out of it. Kirk found that comforting. He also found it comforting to live with two of his former bridge crew.

Speculating on what Spock and Chekov were doing in Spock's bed on Tuesday nights was futile, especially since, when questioned about it, Chekov merely said they talked for a few moments and then they slept. Kirk could never see himself asking Spock about this and he suspected if he had, he would have gotten the exact same answer. The question Kirk should have asked was what did they get out of it. The person who knew and understood the Spock-Chekov attraction from the beginning was in Breman, building Courier class starships. However, it did not occur to Kirk to ask Scotty about it so the captain continued to wonder.

Perhaps sensing he was observed or perhaps feeling the dawn on the window, Chekov stretched and woke. He looked up at his lover and smiled sleepily.

"Go back to sleep, love," Kirk suggested half heatedly, knowing Chekov liked to make love in the morning.

"Why?" the navigator asked, reaching for the older man.

"You've had so little sleep…"

"Fuck sleep. Let's make love," he whispered against Kirk's lips.

Kirk could not but see the wisdom in this fine idea and kissed him back. 'The young,' he thought wryly as he rolled on top of Chekov, 'don't need much sleep.'

The End