Montgomery Scott had not died, but he was somehow in heaven nonetheless. Lying in his bed, his body warm and comfortable with good Scotch whiskey and the lingering tingle of his teenage lover’s wet mouth and eager hands, he felt, not for the first time, the absolute perfection of his life. He was the Chief Engineer of the finest Starship in the universe, and he had the sweetest, smartest, most deliciously fuckable officer aboard in his bed.
Right now that officer was sleeping beside him, his changeable blue-green eyes squeezed shut, his pretty mouth curved in a subtle smile as if his dreams were good. They should be, Scotty reflected, smiling to himself as he recalled how many times the lad had come, on top of and underneath him, screaming unintelligible things in Russian. Scotty still didn’t know the precise meanings of those words, but he knew they were good. Sweet, sweet Pasha, he thought, stroking with one finger across the elegant cheekbone. He bent and kissed that smiling mouth, drawing a sleepy, contented sigh from Pavel. Scotty kissed him again and lay down, feeling sigh-fully content himself.
Scotty slept well that night, and though no one was there to see it, his dreaming smile was every bit as pretty as Pavel’s.