Rating: NC-17: those under 18 and Walter Koenig stay away.

Acknowledgment: This story is a take-off on one written by Britta originally, then reworked by P.B. Wrapper as "All Revved Up," by Skazitelnitsky as "The Captain's Gig," and by Karmen Ghia as "A Few More Things in the Galileo." See those those stories at http://www.fortunecity.com/tatooine/heinlein/80/title.html, part of the Little Russian Bedtime Stories page. With the permission of Karmen and Jane I've borrowed the situation and the principle (Chekov as the main event) and fooled around with the rest. Don't hold the others responsible, eh?

Summary: The _Enterprise_ is in drydock and some of the crew amuse themselves in new and different ways.

Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. This is an original, nonprofit work of fanfic; all characters and the _Enterprise_ belong to Paramount. The dramatic situation belongs to Britta and her colleagues, and the plot belongs to me.

Archiving: ASC/EM ok with Acknowledgement section attached, others please ask. Archived also on my home page, http://members.aol.com/raku2u

Thanks to Jane for the Russian, and to Jane and Karmen for feedback. jonk too.

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Two Heads Are Better Than One

copyright 1999 by raku

Ensign Chekov was dejected. It was bad enough the _Enterprise_ had been sent to drydock in this boring, blank part of the quadrant. But why did the Fleet have to pick the drydock on Mnr? Beautiful silver Mnr--famous for its light gravitational field. A favorite of engineers and ship captains for easy repairs, a favorite of crews for the things you could do--*special* things--in .66 gravity... And Chekov had nothing but work in front of him.

Just last week Sulu had decided to move out, move on. He'd walked unannounced into their shared quarters and found Chekov deeply engaged--deeply--with the ship's First Officer. It wasn't so much that the Vulcan was buried in Chekov up to the hilt--Sulu knew very well that Chekov had always had a wandering eye where the sexy Vulcan was concerned. He did too, for that matter--any sane person would, even if Spock was just interested in a short fling. What got to him was that Chekov had let Spock bend him over a desk and enter him--something he'd always refused to let Sulu do, no matter how comfy Sulu claimed his nav console was.

So--he liked that posture *after* all. Damn. The Navigator was irked.

Sulu declined Spock's throaty suggestion that he join them, to the regret of at least two men present and probably all three. Sulu had retreated to the living area while Spock and Chekov groaned their way to a loud, messy climax. Later, when Chekov had showered and cleaned up, and reracked the handcuffs, Sulu told him he was moving out.

* * *

Ensign Chekov sighed at the recollection. Deeply. After Hikaru's announcement they had had a major fight, ending in truly volcanic sex, but Sulu had moved out all the same. Double dumb ass on you, as the captain sometimes said. So life on the home front left much to be desired. So to say.

And work was no better. Since the ship wasn't going anywhere at the moment, bridge personnel had been reassigned to various work parties, and he unluckily had pulled Mr. Scott's personal detail. The one where they all worked hard. Very hard. Too damn hard, with no break for a little vodka or socializing or... Why call it a "work party," if there was only work and no party?

Pavel wrenched his attention back to the _Galileo's_ navigation panel, in front of him. Mr. Scott had told off a list of checks and rechecks he was responsible for, and he gloomily concluded he'd better get to them. Hard concentration might help him forget all the things he'd planned to do with and to the Navigator's slender body, in light gravity. Head down, sideways, with furniture, without... No teacher like a Vulcan. Yum.

* * *

Chekov yelped as the vise-grip closed around the steel pin and his thumb at the same time. In irritation he hurled the vise-grip across the shuttlecraft and shook his hand hard. The metal tool skittered across the thin carpeting and dropped into the hole where he had taken off an access panel. It rang as it hit machinery below and dropped to the floor of the little compartment.

Muttering under his breath, he examined his thumb and decided the slashed skin over the knuckle needed medical attention.

He swore again to himself. He climbed to his feet and went after the tool. Kneeling at the edge of the hole, he looked around the twin cores that were glowing under pressure. He stretched as best he could but his fingers couldn't quite touch the handles. Edging forward, he braced his knees in the corners of the open square, and he sank head downward into the opening. He reached down, and down, and down, trying to grab Mr. Scott's own personal god-damned specially built no-Starfleet-issue...

Suddenly strong hands seized his hips, nearly causing him to fall headfirst onto the power cores. He grabbed for the edges of the hole, and a soft voice in his ear said Shhhh.

The hands wrapping tightly around his hips were making their own argument--he could feel the long fingers sliding against the light clothes the work crew had been issued against Mnr's warmer temperatures.

Holy Mother of Russia--

Now that he was safely sitting on the floor, the fingers left his hips and were drawn quickly up his back. As he turned to look at his visitor a blindfold whipped around his eyes, but not before he caught a flash of blue sleeve. Aha, Mr. Spock, back for more. Chekov smiled to himself. Could that Vulcan ever fuck... Everyone had assumed he was impotent, emotionally or physically, but bozhe moi! were they wrong.

Chekov felt himself led over to the control board, and he heard some flicking of switches. He hoped and prayed that the Vulcan had killed the comm controls, as well as the video and about six other risky functions. He shuddered at the memory of the time Sulu had accidentally linked their quarters with Sickbay, the bridge, and Recreation Room B. Heaven knew who had seen *that* little conference call.

Lean fingers slid his trousers downward, and long arms reached around to caress him. No need to help him get hard--since he'd first felt those hands on his hips he had been hoping with body and mind for Vulcan Lessons, Part II. Gladly he leaned forward, trying to avoid the most dangerous of the switches.

He felt soft velour against his lower back, and delicate fingers made him groan and hiss under the lightning caresses.

Oh, god... Spock knew how to push his buttons, all right. Chekov half-wondered how Spock knew so much about pleasing him. Could it be that Spock and Sulu... But he lost the thought in the ion storm of arousal.

A hard male presence now pressed against his ass, and he spread his legs as much as his puddled clothing allowed. He felt the head press, and the lubricant slide into place--he gasped--and Spock was in. Yorlki zelnoryeeye!! Little green fir trees, what a prick. So many longed to say that about the Vulcan, but not quite like *this.*

Ah... The Vulcan double ridge was doing its duty, to say nothing of those sensitive hands. No one expected scientists to have fingers like that ... he'd found it was usually surgeons, musicians, Janice Rand's hair stylist... Chekov had found Spock the most exciting ride in his life, and that was saying a lot, considering what Sulu's exotic experiences had brought to their lovemaking. The feeling of those two ridges, sliding back and forth, back and forth... Somehow their placement helped the ring of muscle expand, or something--he wasn't quite sure how it worked. But work it did... Yor-kar-le- me-ne! He could do this all afternoon.

Alas, after all too brief a time he came, very hard, muffling his scream against the forearm that clamped itself against his mouth. He bit hard and felt his companion jump, but it was that or let the whole shuttle team know *precisely* what kind of calibrations he was up to. Besides, Spock was no stranger to pain, Chekov knew from landing parties.

The Vulcan pulled out, still oddly hard Chekov fleetingly thought. The younger man rested against the panel, breathing like a freight train, and he heard the First Officer pulling himself together. Chekov felt his own pants drawn up and tied again around his waist. He felt a last hot kiss at the point of his jaw. A voice murmured in his ear, "Keep the blindfold on."

Chekov grinned to himself--he remembered the other time Spock had demanded he use a blindfold--and stayed put. But surprise surprise--this time Spock left. He heard the shuttlecraft doors slide open and shut, and his lover was gone.

//Oh well, better a short break than no break at all...//

In a much-improved frame of mind Chekov finished his shift. He retrieved the vise-grip and gave it back to Mr. Scott, who was a little puzzled by the ensign's amazingly cheerful mood. Perhaps the Russian should have been an engineer after all, Mr. Scott concluded, as he noted how happy the young man was after just a few hours working on shuttlecraft components. Obviously his mentoring plan with the younger staff was paying off.

Back on the _Enterprise_, Chekov hopped into a turbolift. He halted it at Sickbay so he could get his thumb repaired. As he stepped into the corridor he saw Chris Chapel coming from the other direction, carrying her medbag. Apparently she'd been off in the drydock also. He felt a little guilty whenever he saw her these days, since he knew that she had pined for Spock quite a long time before giving up, and since he was pretty sure she knew why Sulu had moved out. How well he knew Spock was worth pining for. Could that stallion ever...

Unknowingly, Chris interrupted his train of thought by smiling at him, and she waved him ahead of her into the bay. No other patients were around--two weeks of no battles had had good consequences for the crew's overall health.

She casually tossed her medbag on the floor and pointed him toward a biobed in the closest examining room. As the doors closed behind them he hopped up, explaining about his thumb as he went. She grabbed a hypospray from a tray and moved over to take a closer look at the hand he was cradling.

"You look tired, Pavel," she said, smiling at him.

"It is nothing," he replied, thinking she was a very fine person. He smiled back.

Tall and willowy. That short tunic did her legs justice. Nice high heels on her boots. Strong, powerful fingers, for a woman. A shame their jobs overlapped so little. Perhaps he should get to know her better.

Suddenly he noticed her outstretched arm, covered in blue. There, on her sleeve...the perfect imprint of teeth. Teeth. Teeth?

He felt light-headed. He thought fast.

"Mr. Scott wanted, ah, during my shift I, ah, I was assigned to work on the _Galileo's_ navigational systems, on its main panel. Perhaps..." he slid forward a bit "you ... know them yourself?"

She looked at him with an innocent face. "I'm not sure what you're getting at. I don't normally work with..."

He hopped down and flipped open her bag--to reveal an artistic representation of the most famous part of their Vulcan colleague. Green of course, nicely ridged, and rather damp after its recent washing. With velveted straps and a heatable core. He grabbed it and fingered the head. Yes, this was the model with the motion-sensing microprocessor. He'd been meaning to ask Spock to autograph the version Sulu had given him for Christmas last year, after he had been a *very* good boy.

Holding it with a loving grip he thumped it solidly against his palm, and he moved closer to his friend. "I think this is not standard-issue medical equipment, yes?"

"You know how Mr. Scott likes to talk about 'the right tool for the right job'," Nurse Chapel replied, blandly, as though he were waving merely a tricorder at her. "Medical personnel follow the same philosophy."

"Just what medical condition do you use *this* for?" Chekov grinned hopefully.

"It depends what I find when I make my ... diagnosis. It's a versatile instrument." She edged closer to him, until her breasts were barely touching his chest. He noticed she was breathing hard, too.

"I recently observed a crewmember in a depressed mood," she continued, and grinned back at him. "He seemed a little ... lonely." She put a hand on his arm and squeezed the muscle in a calculating kind of way.

Chekov brought the artistic representation to his lips, and gave it a long lick from end to end. He ran his tongue around the head and saw her bite her lip as she watched him. Apprehension? Appreciation? One way to find out.

He snaked a hand up the back of her leg, then the inside. She started, then leaned against him gracefully. He traced a curve, felt her heat. She clamped her legs shut, imprisoning his delighted hand. His fingers struggled against the notoriously inconvenient uniform panties the Fleet women wore, and he momentarily cursed. Senior crew members knew that Uhura had quietly modified hers, to "improve communications," she claimed. With glee Chekov found Chris had followed Uhura's sartorial lead. Nimbly he fingered open the hidden slit in the cloth, and slid his fingers home. Chris sighed in pleasure.

"Computer, secure doors," stated the nurse in a surprisingly controlled voice.

"And you?" he whispered against her neck. "Is your mood improved by this equipment?"

"It would be the duty of ... all medical personnel to be ... *familiar* with the ship's medical equipment ... and ... its effects, don't you think?" She moved into kissing range, but just brushed his lips with hers. She seemed to be having a little trouble concentrating on anything but his busy fingers; he was having a lot of trouble. The room had shrunk down to a dark, inviting core.

"Yes, certainly... Maybe we could undertake a, ah, scientific compare-and-contrast... It would be our...duty to ... explore." He ran down the zipper on her uniform like a phaser shot, and scooped the shoulders of the dress away and down. Chekov dropped his head forward the better to nibble and suck, and Chris closed her eyes in delight. The ensign cupped a breast in his free hand, gently admired its weight and silky texture. *Much* better than shuttlecraft troubleshooting...

After a moment, Pavel stopped and said, "This time, let's use nonmedical equipment also, yes? It's ... harder. And warmer. And more grateful." He flicked a thumb over the already hard tip of her breast. She kissed him lingeringly, running her tongue across his teeth.

"You didn't seem to mind the alternate equipment, my friend!" She was teasingly indignant. Her hands slid down his back and around his ribs to his stomach. She poised one hand over his groin and felt the heat rising. She purred happily.

"Indeed I did not. It was a *verrrrry* satisfying work-shift." He expertly fingered open the tie on his trousers, and smiled at her as he dropped his pants. "But two heads are better than one. You'll see. Bend over."

She did, and they were.

THE END