It was a mess of dark curls and tousled auburn, tan flesh mingling with freckled pale, and tiny delicate features nestled against rough hewn points. Their chests were rising in sync, the sweet breath expulsed from their lips sending askew strands of hair whisking upwards only to drift dreamily back downwards before being caught up in the whole process again. The chair was leaning back, and feet were propped up on the desk, the longer arms wrapped tightly around the smaller frame, which rested comfortably in the protective nest.
A snore, husky and strained lingered in the air, matched seconds later by a softer, sweeter grunt—nearly a whimper, but Klingons never whimper. The near-silence was interrupted by pattering footfalls and the creaking of the floor that only occurs when one tries to be silent. A bright flash ricocheted off the glassy windows, backed by infinite blackness, and a soft snicker was staunched before the perpetrator hastily tore from the room.
The eldest of Voyager and the youngest, claimed by mid-afternoon sleepiness.
They'd never live this one down.