Paramount owns Star Trek.


Several light-years beyond the Alpha Quadrant, in a place no man has gone before, there lies a planet of infinite juxtaposition; hot sun and cool breezes, hard work and hard play, burning passions and deep-rooted affections. It is a beautiful, simple place, convivial, accepting, willing to welcome without judgment or suspicion. The people called it Nav. A Scotsman would call it heaven.

Imagine for a moment that you have sunk down through the atmosphere and have skimmed across the crystal surface of an azure sea to stand in the gentle crashing surf of a long, white beach. The breeze is gentle but does little to dispel the heady heat of a sun at midday. If you turn to the right, the beach is deserted; to the left the white sand is bare, too. The air itself carries a somnolent quality. The Navains call it langui: the lazy hours.

It would be warm but pleasant to stand in the surf and wile away the day but there is much to be seen and understood. Perhaps your eyes would scan the lush foliage of the tree line, happening upon three weathered, slat wood buildings that nestle at its rim. Curiosity would win out over warm water and you would traverse the sandy expanse in search of answers.

Upon closer inspection, the three buildings would begin to reveal their secrets. Not houses, exactly, as originally suspected. With its large cargo bay doors and breachable construction, the first most strongly resembles a terran garage! This discovery might peak interest, causing you to step inside and scan the dim interior, your eyes alighting on several large pieces of machinery in various stages of construction and repair.

As your eyes adjust, maybe you would notice a man reclining recklessly back on two chair legs, his head hanging over the back, a low, even snore emanating from his throat. Perhaps on any other day you might find him with a member of the Navain's fairer sex, who they say, have a healthy appetite for men who know how to work and play. But today it is just this man, alone among his engines and the look on his face is one of satisfaction.

Retreat would be prudent, as any nap partaken in a chair tipped so precariously had better be lightly taken indeed and it wouldn't do to be caught staring. In your haste, you might tip toe up the rickety staircase that skirts the outside of the building and stumble into the small abode that graces the second floor. It has a look of occupation but appears empty at the moment and your eyes dance around the interior; comfortable, homey, safe. A melodious echo of laughter pricks your ears and you might follow the notes like breadcrumbs to a small veranda overlooking the wild jungles beyond. A step, two more, and you would peak carefully around a door jamb to observe the exchange of affection between two young lovers in a foreign tongue. You would not linger long, for these kisses and words are not meant for any but the two who share them, but a gentle, endearing моя любовь*would echo in the wake of your retreat.

The insistent swelter of high noon would swath you as you exited the protective shelter of the home but continued curiosity would conquer the heat and you would step lightly back onto the sand. Your feet would carry you towards the second building in the mysterious row, its clapboard lines oddly authoritative. A graceless squeak would capture your attention and your eyes would settle upon a small wooden sign bearing a red cross; universally recognized, the shingle of a healer.

It is possible that your first instinct would be to sweep up the wide stones of the walkway, to gain insight through entrance but the tableau unfolding on the sagging front porch would serve to give you pause. Your stride would moderate, take on an artificial calm as you ambled past the building in pseudo-repose. Your eyes would glance inconspicuously upon the somewhat querulous visage of the chestnut haired man who reclines on a porch swing reminiscent of the old, Deep South. Perhaps you would quell suspicion with an innocuous wave but you would quickly realize the innecessity of such concerns, as the man's attention is absorbed with the PADD in his hand and the woman sleeping in a languid sprawl beside him, cheek pillowed on his thigh amidst her long, black hair. His eyes are distracted but one hand rubs a light circle over her gently rounded belly.

Your casual stroll would quickly carry you to the third building and its obvious purpose would make a smile quirk across your lips. To situate a pub directly next to a doctor's office would convey a certain ironic honesty. It would, in fact, be quite logical.

You would feel no trepidation as you wander up the walk to the dilapidated front steps because this is, after all, a public establishment and you may enter freely. The inside is bright, numerous open windows allowing light and gentle breezes to waft freely through the room. The ambiance is rugged and rough-hewn but the atmosphere carries the subtle residuals of love, friendship, and good cheer.

Turning down a back corridor, your eyes might chance upon a staircase leading to a door in the establishment's second floor. But your instincts are strong and they lead you down the hallway, past kitchens and storage closets to a rear door that expels you onto a wide stone veranda. Lush greenery cocoons the patio from outside eyes and you feel a sudden sense of invasive reticence, for this place is a haven, special, and not for you.

You turn to go in respect to the privacy of unknown persons, but are stopped by the sight of a large raised pallet covered by thick blue cushioning. Your honorable intentions battle and lose to an irrepressible need to know and you step quietly over to the platform's edge to peruse the two figures lying intertwined in unconscious repose.

One is golden, in hair, in skin. He lies in a loose-limbed sprawl on his stomach. His face is relaxed and innocent in sleep and his cheek nestles into the neck of the man beside him, as his arm rests easily over his partner's waist.

The other is dark, his arms, face, and bare torso burnished with a coppery hue. His ebony hair is mussed haphazardly and you visualize the damage to careful coiffure accomplished by the carding of golden hands through long, black locks. The man's olive fingers are linked intimately with those of his sleeping bedmate and his chin rests gently in the golden hair.

It would be so easy to stay there, to stare forever, to drink in the intimacy of this stolen moment. But we are encroaching here, in these hard won instants of victorious amour and we will not intrude any further. We will retreat, back through the door, across the white sand, over the azure water and back to our own pursuits of love.

*my love

A/N: Phew!!!! Well, thats it folks. This was my first fanfiction and I just want to say thank you so much for all the responses and feedback I received. It was very helpful and inspiring.