Disclaimer: The recognizable character in this story is copyright. This story is written for entertainment purposes only, and no profit is being made by the author for this work. No challenge to the copyright holders is intended, nor should any be inferred.

A/N: Just a fun, short, fluffy little one-shot that I wrote up for my own amusement, hope it gets a smile from you! Contains referenced to some random OCs that do not actually exist in Trek...and my favorite Russian Star Trek character...Enjoy!

In Dreams

Cadet Chekov stood in the deserted corridor, trying to calm his breathing. His mouth felt dry as cotton, yet his hands were sweating profusely. He rubbed them on his uniform pants and glanced around. Nowhere to go, really. Like a rabbit in a cage with a python, he thought. Now there was a pleasant mental image...Think positive Pavel! he mentally berated himself. Perhaps there was a way around this whole inequitable situation...

A crackle of static from around the corner made him jump. "Cadet Chekov is on his way to the administration office. See to it he arrives." The tinny voice had come out of a communicator, obviously. A communicator held by one of the many security personnel, no doubt.

Desperate, and without waiting to have his suspicions confirmed, Chekov turned back the way he had come and ducked around a corner. Had all of security gotten that little communique? He didn't doubt it. Mayson had really seemed ticked this time. And all because of a little... "Govno!" Chekov swore softly under his breath. Footfalls. Someone was coming. An emergency access ladder up to the next deck provided an out just in time. Chekov climbed quickly and silently. His military training hadn't been for nothing, but this was getting too close. He slipped into a Jefferies tube, putting as much ground between himself and whoever had just entered the corridor as possible. What exactly was he doing? While he considered his options, the resourceful cadet was quickly activating a dampening field on his modified communicator – call him paranoid, but he'd just had this feeling that some day he'd want to be able to mask not only his communicator signal, but his lifesigns as well. He could just picture it now – some freckle-faced lieutenant in security saying, "Scanning for his bio-signs, sir..." Then, "Got him!" two seconds later, followed by Mayson's wicked grin. Well, that wasn't gonna happen.

Chekov continued to move through the Jeffries tubes, and shifted his position by several decks – down seemed more prudent than up, in this case – lots more room to move and hide, wouldn't want to head up and up, and suddenly have no where to go but the bridge! That would be embarrasing. This was a perfect starship replica, or, more accurately, a dry-docked ship, past its days of usefulness and no longer space-worthy. As it had been permanently parked on the Academy grounds as a training vessel, several shuttle bays and cargo bays had been modified into academy classrooms and offices. Although Chekov's class was in the midst of three months "aboard ship", there weren't really enough "duties" to go 'round, and so they still attended several classes, not the least of which was taught by that idiot, Mayson. And Chekov had definitelygotten on the wrong side of that particular fourth-year cadet-turned-instructor.

Chekov paused behind a protruding relay assembly and thought for a moment. He couldgo to the administration office, as ordered – more like "ordered" in quotation marks, he thought, or, he could continue this little game of cat-and-mouse evasion. But for how long? All night? Days? What would Mayson do? Let him go? Mobilize all of security and hunt him down? That would make a lot more "music" for him to face, he knew. Or perhaps Mayson would live and let live – even congratulate him on his resourcefulness tomorrow? Somehow Chekov didn't think that was going to happen. If he could evade them, then slip into his desk in class tomorrow like nothing had happened, imagine the look on Mayson's face! Maybe Mayson would call some guards in; they would take him by force, a hulking red- shirt on either side of him, each grasping him by an arm, and march him away to the office.

Oh, Tallia Svenson would just die if that happened! Imagine! Her chocolatey brown eyes would open wide in fear and disbelief, her luscious rosey lips would part in a perfect "O" of surprise, and Chekov, cool-headed Chekov, with utter poise and equanimity, would march away between them, his face set in a perfect poker mask, then, his eyes would flicker once briefly to meet hers, before he would look away and be escorted out, like a man marched off to the gallows. Oh the drama! The deliciousness of that scene playing out would making any additional "music" well worth facing. And perhaps later, he could slip a communique out to Tallia from his confinement-to-quarters which was sure to follow any little "chat" in admin. That would fire up the devious rebellious streak that only Chekov knew she had. Maybe she could sneak in to see him – he imagined her ninja-sliding down a rope from his ceiling vent, all in black leather. They would talk quickly, in hushed tones, ever mindful of the guards outside his door, even though the rooms were soundproof. She would cling to him and rage against the unfairness of it all, then produce some small token she had made for him, to lift his spirits. An origami bird, perhaps. Some small unassuming symbol of camaraderie. She would turn to go, but hesitate, and then he would kiss her slowly, tenderly, passionately. She would melt into his arms, and they would end the night in erotic love-making, before she would slip away into the shadows of the ventilation systems and return to her own quarters undetected.

Well, one could dream.

The End. [Or maybe "In Progress".]

All reviews appreciated...