Chekov opened the door and leaned his shoulder against the bathroom doorjamb. He eyed the shower stall with a not so subtle irritation at the steam fogging it. "Tiana?" he asked. "Are you planning to stay in there all night?"

He saw her stretch luxuriously under the stream of water. "I just don't feel like I'll ever be clean again." She let out a delicious sigh. Wiping a clear spot in the stall enclosure, she peered out at him through it. "I thought I'd wait for the hot water to run out."

His smile was charming. "Tiana, the ship's water is continuously recycled: you'll never run out of hot water. In fact, you're showering in the very same water you were showering in an hour ago."

"Oh."

"Come to bed already," the Security Chief insisted. "Turn off the water and finish with an ion shower: you'll be clean and dry."

Barefoot, he padded back into the bedroom, pausing to check the cabin's environmental controls again. He shifted uncomfortably, his skin crawling from the temperate setting, but he left it as it was set anyway. Chekov's eyes fell on the grooming set lying on the dresser as he turned to move away.

Tentatively, he reached out and touched the birch brush: letting his fingers trace over the intricate pattern carved into it. There really hadn't been much left from the crash for her to add to his quarters. In even these littlest of reminders of her actual presence, however, he found a soothing sense of...correctness.

A smile tugged gently at the corner of his mouth and he grasped the brush, eyes sparkling as he brought it over to the bed with him. He quickly propped the pillows against the shelf and stepped up onto the bed. Chekov walked about, jostling until he found the right spot. Crossing his ankles then, he let himself settle neatly down on top of his crossed legs and feet. He pushed the brush in between his legs and casually rested his hands on top of it, waiting patiently for her.

Tatiana came in with bare feet and wearing her now-clean coverall. She paused at the dresser, taking the time to sweep her long tresses back over her head and shake them out luxuriously.

The action distracted Chekov from his task. He watched, transfixed, as she finger-combed her thick hair, his chest swelling with an intense, unexpected heat. It was clean now and shone even in the cabin's artificial light. At least two shades lighter brown than his, it had a golden amber glow to it that defied definition: the color of fresh clover honey, the color of Baltic cognac amber.

"Pasha!"

He blinked, startled. "Yes?"

"Have you seen my brush?"

"Brush?" he repeated innocently. Chekov watched her carefully. It was always this way when they first met again: always the question of which would remember first. The question of which would be prepared...

"Yes, my brush. It was here."

The innocence washed over his face as his eyes widened. "Which brush?"

"Malyenki!" she exclaimed as she turned to him with exasperation. "I only had one..." She froze, her eyes riveting on his sedately seated form and folded hands. She growled out loud.

Chekov waved the brush at her and grinned in happy triumph. She had forgotten--and he had won.

Running over to the bed, she lurched for the brush, but he jerked it away and stretched to hold it out of reach. Tatiana scrambled over the top of him and growled fiercely as she strained to grab it. As soon as her grasping fingertips touched it's base, Chekov tossed it over his head and caught it in the other hand, however. She scrambled over again to retrieve it but he pulled it out of her reach again, laughing as she repeatedly lunged for it and he jostled it back and forth between his hands.

She knelt up on top of his folded legs and snatched at the brush but he quickly passed it behind his back, then held out both his hands to illustrate that he no longer held it. Snarling at him, she locked both her hands around his neck firmly and yanked him forward. She crawled up over the top of him, suspending herself from his shoulder as her hands searched downward, finally pushing their way into the waistband of his pants.

The wicked, devilish laughter shook Chekov's body so hard, it was painful. She pushed him upright again: mute fury glaring at the tears streaming out of his eyes. He shrugged in elaborate ignorance of the brush's location.

She sat back on her feet then, and her bright eyes narrowed as she studied him. She suddenly thrust her hands into his lap, digging between his folded legs.

"Hey!" he roared. "That's NOT the brush!"

"I know!" she retorted. "WAY too small!"

"Oh, very funny!" he snarled, squirming as her hands pushed about under him. Tatiana gave up, pulling her hands free and digging them, instead, into his sides.

He gasped, roaring in pinched laughter. "Tickling humans qualifies as torture!"

"Luckily, you're not human!" she declared.

"Stop it!" he gasped. "Stop it!" He was writhing by this time, his body twisting in spasms as he tried to get away from her persistent hands. It was truly unfair as her ballet training had long since made her immune to tickling.

Tatiana grabbed the brush as it came out from under him, but he snatched at it immediately and wrested it out of her hand. They scrambled in a twisting, tangled mess until she flattened him on the bed and pounced on top of him like a cat. She squirmed on top of him, jamming her weight into his stomach through her knee caps. He groaned in agony and tried to push her up by grasping her at her arms.

"Let me have it!" Tatiana demanded in outrage. "Let me have it!"

"Absolutely!" he declared in return, rapping the brush soundly into the top of her head.

She screamed, sitting bolt upright and swatting at the attacking brush with her hands. He groaned in return as her movement ground her entire weight into his abdomen. Chekov quickly spun her over, pinning her on the bed beneath him. He grinned wildly as she snarled and began kicking and squirming beneath him with an unparalleled ferociousness.

Tatiana stopped suddenly, eyes shining brilliantly with impotent outrage. He laughed devilishly in triumph, chest heaving and heart pounding as she glared up at him. She smiled softly then, reaching up to smooth her hands lovingly over his pectoral muscles. Her hands clenched his uniform shirt with a sudden fierceness, gripping a great wad of the material in her fingers. Except it wasn't only fabric that she grabbed.

Chekov roared in agony, reeling as the pain sucked the breath into his chest and held it there. Hot tears sprang into his eyes. She knew exactly the most sensitive, most useful, place to grab. He tried to gasp a measure of much-needed air into his chest: but even that caused more pain. He grabbed her hands and jammed them down as hard as he could with his own hands. It was the most useful thing his security courses had taught him: a person couldn't yank out hair if their knuckles were pushed as flat as possible. He was continuing to gasp in short, painful and useless breaths. "You're cheating."

"Cheating is all you know," she declared. "God modeled you after a gorilla for a reason. Give me the brush," she demanded in a childishly triumphant voice. "Or you lose more than your dignity."

Tentatively, he moved one hand away from protecting his chest hair. He held out the brush.

She grabbed it and released her hold on Chekov. He climbed off her onto the side of the bed and Tatiana scooted her way up into a sitting position. His hand shot out and grabbed her hair tight against the back of her skull and twisted his fingers into a tangled mess. She screamed.

This was the one manner of pulling hair that had no recourse. Humans couldn't reach the back of their skull to fight off the attacker and she had plenty of hair for him to anchor his fingers in. She found this out quickly as she tried to move several times only to freeze each time, gasping in pain. She finally growled low in her throat in frustrated defeat.

He held out his hand in front of her. "Tiana, I tangled it: I'll brush it."

"You want to brush my hair?" she asked, eyeing him strangely, her chest still heaving from the battle.

"I'm not useless," he insisted as he disentangled his fingers from her hair. "I can make a braid."

She glared at him suspiciously before relinquishing the brush.

Shifting, he spread his legs open and she climbed between them, settling with her back to him. He edged forward and tentatively touched his inner thighs to her slender hips. He was rewarded with a surging, downright sinful heat clutching at him. He swallowed hard and pressed tighter.

"Do you think I'm going to try to escape?" she asked in response to his movement.

"With you, I take nothing for granted," he replied as he set to methodically brushing her long, thick hair with the soft bristles.

Tatiana bent up her knees and began to examine her feet.

"Is something wrong?"

"Broken toe," she replied casually. "Clean break: it's not causing problems."

Chekov swept her hair over her left shoulder and leaned forward, pressing his chest against her back. He brushed his face past her warm, soft cheek as he peered down at her feet.

She covered her bare feet with her hands. "Stop it."

"Don't hide them," he urged. "Your feet are..."

"Hideous. My feet are hideous, Malyenki."

"Your feet are beautiful," he corrected warmly and kissed her shoulder.

Tatiana jerked her shoulder backward and jammed it into his chest. "Stop it."

He poked the brush into her side in retaliation. "Your feet are your most honest feature," he asserted as he put the brush down. Chekov pulled her hands away from them and let his own fingers brush over them gently in admiration.

The human foot had always held a strange fascination for the Security Chief. He knew their structure in the same intimate way that Scotty knew his engines. It was not a fetish as Sulu often teased him it was. It was the science involved in the foot's body mechanics that fascinated Chekov. He knew, because of the design of the human foot, that there had to be a God. The complex, intricate and compact design was perfect to achieve what should have seemingly been impossible. Dozens of bones, ligaments, tendons and muscles made possible walking, running, jumping, hopping, dancing...such a creation could not have been an accidental development of nature.

Chekov knew that it was strange that he noticed people's feet. He couldn't help it. He found it intriguing that what a person's feet looked like had absolutely no connection to how attractive they were. Some of the gentlest, attractive humans had the ugliest feet he'd ever seen. Yet, miraculously, they all accomplished their purpose–and they often bore a silent, hidden testament to a person's life.

The woman's feet he caressed now were, in fact, a hideous deformation of what the human foot should look like. Chekov loved them. They were a visible reminder of what he admired most about her.

Ballet, even at its purest, wrecked havoc on the human body–especially women's. Dancing en pointe damaged ankle, knee and hip joints; splintered shin bones and shortened calf muscles. It destroyed the human foot. He took her feet in both hands now and massaged them gently. Broken and rebroken bones were evident in the gnarled, twisted appendages. Callouses and raw areas were peppered with scars soft enough to tell him that she'd been on her toes on the planetoid. They would have been given a chance to harden if she hadn't been dancing.

The guilt washed up in him, unbidden as he continued to massage her feet. Chekov had met Tatiana at a rehab clinic where she had been sent to recover from an injury that should have ended a dancer's career. They had taken a risk in trying to get her back on the stage because of her abounding natural talent and fiery soul. She had only been twelve.

The guilt drew his lips into a fine line as he continued to massage her feet. It was illegal to put a dancer in toe shoes before the age of fourteen and a physical confirmed adequate growth levels. If only he hadn't been so self-absorbed and selfish when he had met her, if only he'd paid attention, if only he'd taken the time to notice...he could have spared her two years of abysmal torture at the hands of blind ambition. If only he'd taken the time to notice when she stopped sending computer vids and began writing letters instead,erhaps she wouldn't have been so close to death when they'd next met. She was only a little girl and he was her only friend in the world outside of dance. If he had only done something.

She suffered bravely and silently, enduring the torture and working harder than humanly possible to give everything she'd had in return. The company had seen: they had known and said nothing. Their only concession was to spare her the cutthroat competition and jealousies that were necessarily rampant in a professional ballet company. At least that had allowed her to develop her magical ballerina's presence on stage into a public relations persona off-stage.

She had become Russia's number one cultural treasure: a princess that represented all that was good and noble about their arts and people. A kind woman with a perfect face, shining eyes, and rock-hard athletes body, she exuded poise, graciousness and dignity in all her dealings with people. A perfect ambassador; a royal that everyone loved and fought to meet.

Tatiana was a damn fine actress. The person the public knew was no more real than the fairytales she brought to life on stage. The fiery, iron-willed, pig-headed. spoiled, pain-in-the-ass Chekov knew remained all but invisible to her adoring fans. Her gnarled feet betrayed reality to him and that's why he loved them so. She still danced cheerfully without complaint through more pain than most dancers ever endured. Tatiana struggled to show the world the pampered princess they wanted to see and she did so with an unfailing graciousness they'd come to expect. They had no hint what misery in her life had brought her to this point. He worshiped her for it.

Chekov pressed his chest harder against her back and slipped his hands onto the top of her shoulders and squeezed. He kissed her cheek softly. "I will never let anyone ever hurt you again," he whispered. "Never."

She smiled sadly. Tatiana hadn't bothered to argue this point with him for years. He simply knew–knew in his very soul–that he'd been put in this universe to protect her. She brushed her cheek against his in a caress. "I know, Pavel Andrieivich," she said softly. "I know."

The touch of her cheek sent a renewed rush of warmth into his chest and the guilt overwhelmed him. He shifted backward quickly.

"My hair," she reminded him.

Still guilt-ridden, he reluctantly picked up the brush and began to sweep it over her thick hair. Every sweep of the brush filled the air with the scent of cherry blossoms: letting his mind reel with the idea that he was home in Russia.

"You're bed seems comfortable," she commented.

"It's not my bed," he rasped irritably. "Someone put a double bed in here when they found out about you. I had the mattress just as I like it. They'll probably give me a new one when you leave," Chekov complained.

"Marriage can be damned inconvenient," she commented.

"Yes, it can," he agreed. "The Captain is bent out of shape because I've had a wife at home while I've been romancing my way across the galaxy."

Tatiana chuckled. "Is that what you've been doing out here?"

"Okay," he scowled. "Kirk has been romancing his way across the galaxy, but I have had girlfriends."

"You haven't mentioned anyone since Sara. Who have you been dating?"

He drew her hair out, brushing it the entire length and holding it up to the light. It's amber shine transfixed him. "No one really."

"No one?"

"Well, I've had dates," Chekov said indignantly. "Lt. Donovan took me to a horror movie."

Tatiana chuckled knowingly again. "What you'll sacrifice for romance."

"I suggested we try an old MGM musical the next time," he replied dryly. "I think she transferred off the ship."

"You haven't had any repeat dates since Sara?" she persisted curiously.

"Riley arranged for seven days of Hornblower movies for my birthday. Does that count?"

She smirked. "You tell me."

Chekov pinched her and she slapped him. He set about working on her hair with energy then, his fingers separating her thick tresses as the brush set them neatly in order. In traditional Russia, the only male allowed to touch a woman's hair was her husband. The silky feeling of her hair against his skin made his fingers tremble deliciously.

"Is my hair falling out from radiation?" she asked tentatively, sensing his trembling.

He froze, surprised. "No. The Doctor said you're fine," he assured her.

She twisted her head around to cast him a dubious look.

"Really," Chekov insisted and held up the still-clean brush as proof.

Tatiana scowled at him now, her eyes fixing pointedly at his fingers which were entangled in her tresses.

He cleared his throat and shifted again, pulling his fingers free as she turned back around. He hurriedly twisted her hair into the single braid unmarried women in rural Russia traditionally wore. She hadn't changed her hairstyle after their wedding.

"Your friends are here," she commented as voices could be heard in the living area.

Chekov quickly shoved his hands into the bed on either side of him as Sulu appeared at the room divider.

The man hesitated, his eyes falling immediately on the Security Chief's attempt to hide the brush in his hand. "Did you still want to play here?" he asked. "We can go to my cabin if you want."

"No, I don't want to leave her alone. Set up the board so I can sit with my back to the wall and I can keep an eye on her."

"Are you going to play, Tatiana?" Uhura asked with a smile as she appeared next to the Helmsman.

"No," Chekov replied as he climbed off the bed. "She's going to sleep."

The Communications Officer raised an indignant eyebrow. "I asked her."

"Yes," Chekov said darkly as he replaced the brush on the dresser. "And I gave you her answer.

"Tiana, get under the covers," he continued. "I'm going to get another quilt. That one's only a large single and I don't want you getting a chill."

She winked at Uhura as she twisted around to push her feet under the bed linens. "You just don't want me hogging the blankets, Pavel."

"Like an extra quilt is going to stop you," he muttered irritably.

Reluctantly, Uhura disappeared into the other room after receiving a reassuring smile from the dancer.

Chekov hesitated at the bathroom door, eyeing Tatiana suspiciously. "You're going to stay there?"

The woman pulled up her knees under the blankets and wrapped her arms around them. "I give my word, I'll be right here when you get back."

His eyes narrowed and he stared at her another long moment distrustfully. "You're a horrid child."

"Am I?" she asked as if she were actually pondering the question.

"Yes," he insisted before disappearing into the bathroom.

"Hikaru!" Tatiana urged the moment the door closed. She scrambled off the bed and started tearing off the linens in a mad rush. "Get me towels!"

The Helmsman balked, horror shining in his dark eyes. "You've got to be kidding! He only went next door to steal my quilt! He'll be right back!"

"Hurry!" she demanded. "Towels!"

He shook his head enthusiastically. "You're not dragging me into the middle of this already!"

She glared at him. "Koshka," she drew out evenly, using his Russian nickname. "If you are not with me, than you are against me."

Sulu retrieved the towels instantly.

"Finally, a man with sense." She quickly spread the three thick towels down the legnth of the bare mattress' right side.

"No," he insisted in a hoarse whisper as he watched her upend a vase above the towels, soaking them with water. "There'll be retribution no matter what I do: and I'm not afraid of him!"

"Smart man. Quickly, help me remake the bed!"

Sulu did as ordered. "You know I grew those yellow roses especially for you."

"Thank-you, they're beautiful," she said sincerely as she climbed back onto the dry left side of the bed and pushed her feet under the covers. "He always keeps me surrounded by yellow roses: friendship roses."

"I know," the Helmsman acknowledged as he straightened the quilt. "You know he's just going to kick you off the bed and take the dry side."

"Let him try," she rasped with an evil tone. She cast a glance at the still closed bathroom door. "Koska," she confessed in a whisper. "Pavel kissed me when we met on the planet."

Sulu shrugged. "You're Russian, Tatenka. Russians always kiss and hug their family and friends when they meet."

"No," she insisted. "I mean he kissed me."

Sulu stared at her silently.

"Why don't you say something?"

"Because," the Helmsman explained. "'You're out of your mind' seems as rude as 'you're lying.'

"Listen, you've been traumatized by the crash," he continued. "I'll bet a week's salary it just seemed like something it wasn't."

"I'll take that bet," she pronounced, quickly pulling up her knees as Chekov reappeared.

The Security Chief glanced oddly from one to the other, but said nothing as he spread the second quilt on top of her.

"See?" Tatiana reminded him. "I'm right where I promised to be."

"Congratulations," he quipped. "Here, drink this concoction Dr. McCoy sent. It'll help you sleep with your bumps and brusies." Taking the cup back from her after she obediently emptied it, Chekov kissed both her cheeks and then gave her a third kiss of devotion. "Good night, Tiana."

"Good night, Malyenki," she repeated as she settled back against the pillow. "Good night, Koshka."

"Good night," Sulu repeated dismally before following Chekov into the other room.

The younger man folded himself down Indian style on the floor on the open side of the board nearest the wall. He began to arrange his money.

"Pavel, I'm thoroughly impressed," Riley assured him. "You're cabin's actually warm tonight."

"It's stifling, Kevin," Chekov complained. "Spock might be comfortable, but I'm from Russia. Who's turn is it?"

"Yours."

The Security Chief threw the dice. "Am I the sailing ship?"

"Of course."

"You landed on a railroad," Uhura advised him.

"Buy it!" Riley proclaimed hurriedly. "Before Sulu gets them all again!"

"Hikaru likes choo-choos," Chekov insisted with a thick accent. "Even has whole sets of them hidden under his bed."

"Chekov!"

The younger man shrugged. "You do. I'll never put you on the Trans-Siberian Railroad again," he continued bitterly. "That was a waste of a shoreleave."

"Pavel, I got to drive it," Sulu reminded him. "You didn't complain at the time."

"I was being polite," Chekov said sourly. "Do you want to buy the railroad from me or not?"

"Yes, of course I do."

"Hikaru, do you really have train sets?"

"Drop it, Nytoya."

Chekov leaned his head back against the wall, letting the conversation and game play drift around him as he shifted his eyes to the bed. Wide blue eyes met his immediately. She was still awake and she was staring at him: watching him sedately and somberly.

His body reacted instantly and he jerked his legs up against his chest so quickly he that upset the board.

"Pavel, watch your feet!" Uhura scolded with irritation.

"Sorry," he muttered, pushing his face in between his elevated knees in an attempt to hide his shocked horror at his own body's apparent independent revolt against sense.

"It's your turn, Pavel," Riley said.

"Kevin, I just went," he muttered into his knees.

"And then everyone else went again. Roll already."

"There. Move me." He glanced back toward Tatiana tentatively. McCoy's potion had finally taken effect but the warmth of the cabin was apparently uncomfortable to his fellow Russian as well. She had kicked the blankets almost entirely off herself and opened the top of her coverall. She was stretched out luxuriously in a classic pin-up pose, the pale flesh of her breasts swelling tantalizingly out from beneath the dark fabric that covered her body.

Chekov tightened his arms around his knees as his situation became downright painful.

"Pavel!"

"What!" he demanded angrily, jerking his head up at Sulu in response.

"You landed on Nytoya's property," the Helmsman explained–apparently again–as he eyed his friend curiously.

"You owe me rent," she said.

"Capitalist Pig," Chekov snarled thickly.

The group laughed, but Uhura persisted, her eyes shining with humor. "Cough up your soul to the landowners, Pavel."

He growled dramatically. "You should get a soul of your own," he protested sourly, accent even thicker.

They laughed again. While Chekov understood the game, having grown up in a communal farm community he could never quite put his fiercely competitive heart into acquiring real estate to degrade his opponents. He always managed to stay in the game until they neared the end, however, and was willingly entertaining while they played.

"Money. Now." Uhura ordered.

"Go ahead and take it," he succumbed with an obliging pout, glancing back toward Tatiana. He averted his eyes quickly, tightening his arms around his knees.

Sulu followed his glance and bit his lip knowingly as he laid his money down. "I'll take care of her," he offered, climbing to his feet. "Make sure Nytoya doesn't rob you blind."

She punched his leg as he passed. "We all know you cheat," the Helmsman maintained broadly, hopping quickly past her to avoid further attack. He was smiling as he gently rolled Tatiana onto her other side and reached for the scattered bed linens.

As soon as she was facing away from the others, a happy smile spread across her features and she chuckled devilishly. He jerked the quilts up over her, knowing perfectly well that she was both wide awake and well aware of the Security Chief's predicament.

"You're evil!" Sulu hissed quietly.

"Just how much do you make in a week?" she purred.

"Don't get cocky," he hissed again. "It happens in our sleep."

"Sulu! Don't wake her up!"

The Helmsman turned, gesturing with both hands in apology as Chekov glared at him. Sulu tapped four fingers horizontally across his abdomen, waist-high–the Russian gesture asking to split a bottle of vodka between four people.

"Da!" the Security Chief agreed urgently.

Retrieving a cold bottle from the cabin's chiller, Sulu wrapped it with a towel and grabbed four metal vodka cups. He peeled the metal top off the bottle as he entered the other room. It reminded him again that Russians believed a bottle of vodka had to be emptied once opened merely because no one in the country had ever had the brainstorm of inventing a Russian vodka bottle that could be resealed.

He handed Chekov a full vodka cup, which the man downed neatly and immediately held out for a refill. Sulu tipped the bottle to oblige him as he reached for another of the cups.

"Hey!" Chekov roared.

The Helmsman instantly righted the bottle as he realized the ice cold liquid was sloshing into the younger man's lap, not his cup. "Oh, God," he said flatly without any attempt to mask his bad acting. "I'm sorry.

"Here," he continued, dropping the towel he conveniently held into Chekov's lap. "You'd better go to the bathroom and change," he added.

Chekov scrambled to his feet, clutching the towel against himself. "Thanks," he growled sarcastically at Sulu as he passed him, but the gratitude and relief were abundantly evident in his deep brown eyes.

"What are friends for?" the Helmsman quipped, grinning.

"I'm glad your aim is better with the ship's weapons," Uhura commented as she accepted her own full cup.

Sulu smiled cryptically. "You have no idea."