A./N.- . I typed this entire thing using my Dragon NaturallySpeaking headset. It's such an easy experience I would recommend it to any of you. Granted, I couldn't type the accents in, but it's totally worth it, just having to type the accents.

I've always thought Scotty and Chekov were adorable together! Although I have no idea why. Maybe just the fact that they both are foreign? Or that they both drink extensive amounts of alcohol in fanfics? Almost like drunken sex.

Read and review?

I do not own Star Trek, and I never will. D=

/end rant

The rec room lights down to only twenty-percent, no one would notice a lone Pavel Chekov contemplating a half-empty (or half-full) bottle of vodka.

He'd been drinking vodka all his life; he was almost entirely tolerant of the alcohol. Almost. A seventeen-year-old could hardly withstand the effects.

His cheeks were streaked with tears. He'd been thinking about it again; of losing Spock's mother in transport. It was his fault that she is gone and that Spock had resigned command. He could have done more.

"Lights, fifty-percent." Chekov almost jumped out of his skin.

Scotty stood at the door, holding liquor of his own choice. At seeing Pavel he came to sit beside him.

Taking Pavel's unmarked bottle, he gave it a good sniff, "Vodka? Ye t'ain't ta' be drinkin' yet, laddie. Yer goin' ta' rot that pretty brain 'o yers."

Chekov whimpered softly, looking up to try to retrieve his vodka. Scotty slapped his hand away, placing the bottle further down the table.

"What's goy ye cryin', laddie?" He reached forward, wiping away a few stray tears.

Chekov sniffled for a minute before replying, "It is my fault zhat Spock's mozher is gone."

The little Russian took Scotty's hand, nuzzling into it.

Scotty shifted his hand to rest it on Pavel's cheek, "T'ain't yer fault, lad. Ev'ryone makes mistakes. I cannae say that I hav'n't."

Before the engineer could register what happened, Chekov was in his lap, face pressed into the older man's chest. For once in his life, Montgomery Scott didn't know what to do. A well respected child prodigy navigator was clinging to him, sobbing and probably half drunk.

"I don't know vhat to do *hic*, Meester Spock has newer *hic* said anyzhing about it! It is my fault…"

To Scotty, this was entirely awkward. Summing up some courage, he rubbed Chekov's back with his free hand, "Nah, laddie. Ye did all ye could. I cannae have done better. Nothin' like that is e'er a man's fault."

"Nyet!"

Tears gathered in Scotty's own eyes, "Pavel, don't say that! I don't know what Mister Sulu would do wit'out his top navigator."

"You mean zat?" Pavel tear red eyes looked up at the Scotsman, who only nodded, "Zhank you." Pavel whispered, blushing. Then, perhaps influenced by alcohol, Chekov nuzzled into the crook of Scotty's neck, clutching the other's hand over his heart.

"Come on, laddie. Ye need yer sleep afore the shift changes."

Hauling Chekov up, Scotty let the ensign continued to grasp his hand like a lifeline. Thank God no one was wandering the halls during beta shift.

The walk to Pavel's quarters was in an almost comfortable silence, although it seemed like the Russian was only there when they came to his room. He snapped out of his stupor to punch in his key.

Guiding Chekov to his bed, Scotty watched as he snuggled into the covers, still attached to his hand.

"Sleep well, laddie." He tried to leave, but Pavel held fast to him.

Chekov tugged on his hand, and Scotty complied, kneeling down next to him. Leaning forward, Pavel's lips touched Scotty's in a chaste kiss.

"Zhank you, Meester Scott."