Lullaby
By: akire


Rating: PG

Dedication: to Linsey and Xandri, for indulging me

Notes: Lullaby is by WH Auden. The full poem is used here.

He found the first one taped to his door in such a way that when he left his quarters it fluttered to the floor at his feet. He picked it up, curious. Touch told him it was real paper, soft and textured. He looked up and down the corridor, but as expected, he saw no one.

Paused on the threshold, he cautiously opened the folded scrap. Green ink etched in graceful, careful, loops and arcs. For a moment, he just stared. Paper was rare enough, and he could not recall the last time he saw handwriting, let alone calligraphy.

Then the words that were written seeped into his mind. He read them once, then read them again, his lips silently moving as he spoke the ancient, familiar, words to himself.

Lay your sleeping head, my love,
Human on my faithless arm;
Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
Thoughtful children, and the grave
Proves the child ephemeral:
But in my arms till break of day
Let the living creature lie,
Mortal, guilty, but to me
The entirely beautiful.


He closed the fold carefully, not wanting to add any more creases to the page. Gently, he slid it into his chest pocket, and, with a thoughtful expression, continued on his way to the mess hall.

~#~


The second one was waiting in his armoury. He knew he was a creature of habit, knew that his routine had him within his domain a good half an hour before anyone else appeared. He preferred this time alone, and made his preference known to his teams. He liked having this time to make sure all was right with his ship before beginning the work of the day.

His poetic ghost obviously knew his routine as well. The carefully folded piece of cream-coloured paper was sitting on his station, instantly noticeable amid all the grey steel and black paneling.

He paused only a second before picking up the page. It was the same green ink, the same graceful writing. He smiled to himself as he read the verse it contained.

Soul and body have no bounds:
To lovers as they lie upon
Her tolerant enchanted slope
In their ordinary swoon,
Grave the vision Venus sends
Of supernatural sympathy,
Universal love and hope;
While an abstract insight wakes
Among the glaciers and the rocks
The hermit's carnal ecstasy.


He raised an eyebrow as he refolded the piece.

“Morning, sir!”

He slid the page into his pocket as he turned around. “Good morning, Mister Tanner.” He couldn’t help himself. “Bearding the hermit’s den early, I see.”

“Sir?”

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the silly, giddy feeling that had been building up inside of him. “Nothing, crewman. Let’s get started on that aft cannon assembly.”

~#~


Despite keeping his eyes peeled for more tell-tale pieces of paper, he received no more poetry that day. He firmly straightened himself out as he rode the lift to the mess hall, and tried not to feel put out by lack of any more mysterious gifts.

“Malcolm!” a familiar voice hailed him as he walked into the busy mess hall. Waving a greeting, he fetched himself a tray before moving over to join Travis.

“Evening,” he greeted him as he settled himself down at the table. “Just us tonight?”

Travis nodded. “Commander Tucker was in here a little while ago, but he had to go back to the engine room. Said something about a difficult repair he was working on.” He grinned. “Poor guys gonna be there until tomorrow, by the sound of it. But hey, have you heard the rumour…”

Nodding briefly, he applied himself to his meal as Travis caught him up on the latest shipboard gossip. But his thoughts were far away, lines of poetry echoing around his mind. A female voice cut through his musings. “Lieutenant?”

Blinking, cursing himself for drifting so far, he looked up and smiled at Hoshi. “Sorry, miles away. How are you, Hoshi?”

“Intrigued,” she replied with a playful grin. “I’ve never had to physically deliver intra-ship mail before.”

With a mounting sense of dread, he accepted the now-familiar creamy fold of paper. He looked at it for a long moment, the texture warm and soothing under his touch. “If you would excuse me?” he murmured as he rose to his feet.

Hoshi groaned. “Spoilsport. Its been burning a hole in my pocket all day.”

Malcolm frowned. “All day?”

She nodded as she stole a carrot stick off his tray. “It was on my console when I went on duty this morning, in an envelope which had strict delivery instructions written on it.” She shrugged. “I didn’t even know we had that kind of paper on board.” She nibbled on the edge of the stick as she looked at him. “So, who’s it from?”

He slipped the unread note into his pocket and picked up his tray. “Good evening, ensigns.” Ignoring their theatrical groans of disappointment, he beat a hasty retreat from the mess hall crowds. He forced himself not to open it until he was safely back in his quarters.

Certainty, fidelity
On the stroke of midnight pass
Like vibrations of a bell
And fashionable madmen raise
Their pedantic boring cry:
Every farthing of the cost,
All the dreaded cards foretell,
Shall be paid, but from this night
Not a whisper, not a thought,
Not a kiss nor look be lost.


Sighing, he retrieved the other two notes from his chest pocket. The paper was warm from his body heat as he opened them and arranged them on his desk. Frowning, he noticed that the edges matched, as did the ink and the handwriting. One large sheet, written all at once and then cut up into four pieces.

He sat back at his desk and frowned. Who on this ship had access to the paper and ink, knew how to write like this, knew his schedule and knew his preferences in poetry.

He frowned and re-read the verses again. The lower right quadrant was still missing, and he traced a finger along the sliced edge of the page. The final piece of the puzzle.

Sighing, he left the papers on his desk and walked into shower. As steam filled the small room, he recited the verses to himself, his speculating wildly as to their possible source. Toweling his hair dry, he walked back into the dimly lit main section of his quarters, still murmuring the words. Automatically, his eyes traveled his book shelf and skipped across the volumes there. He froze, then crossed the room in two long strides.

The book wasn’t there. Frantically, he flipped through the other volumes, then pushed around the few padds and items on the desk below, knowing it to be futile. Large leatherbound folio books did not just vanish.

He straightened, then stiffened as someone cleared their throat behind him. Spinning, he dropped into combat posture.

The silhouetted figure on the bunk didn’t move. Head bent, legs crossed, he cleared his throat again and began to read.

“Beauty, midnight, vision dies.” Malcolm straightened slowly as the warm, familiar voice continued.

“Let the winds of dawn that blow
Softly round your dreaming head
Such a day of welcome show
Eye and knocking heart may bless,
Find our mortal world enough…”

The voice cracked slightly, but recovered quickly as Malcolm moved slowly across the room to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Noons of dryness find you fed
By the involuntary powers,
Nights of insult let you pass.”

The face looked up from the open book to meet Malcolm’s eye as he recited the final line.

“Watched by every human love.” Careful hands closed the book. “I think I like that line the best.”

Malcolm laid his hand over the other man’s. “Trip…why?”

The blonde head ducked for a moment before lifting to look at him again. “I know it’s ya favourite.”

“I didn’t know you could write so beautifully, Trip.”

He ducked his head again, his blush visible even in the low light. “I was gonna just send it to ya terminal, but…” he shrugged. “I had the paper, and it seemed appropriate.” He looked up and grinned. “Took me about five goes to write it all out correctly, without messing it up.”

Malcolm edged a little closer. “I appreciate the effort. But why did you do this for me?”

Trip stiffened slightly. “Ya don’t like it?”

He bit his lip. “It’s…the most beautiful thing anyone has ever done for me, to be perfectly honest.” He smiled shakily. “Trip?”

The other man flipped the book back open. The spine, broken from being turned so often to the same place, opened on the poem. “What’s your favourite bit, Malcolm?”

Malcolm recited from memory. “But from this night/Not a whisper, not a thought,/Not a kiss nor look be lost.”

Trip’s voice quavered slightly. “Is that an invitation?”

In reply, Malcolm leant over and kissed him.

Trip smiled as he leaned into the kiss. “Malcolm?”

“Yes?”

“May I stay?”

In reply, Malcolm slid up and under Trip’s arm, moulding his body to rest against Trip’s. “Read to me.” Beneath him, he felt Trip’s chest move in a silent chuckle. Pressing a kiss onto Malcolm’s hair, he wrapped one arm around Malcolm’s shoulders as he retrieved the book with the other.

“Rest your sleeping head, my love, Human on my faithless arm…”

FIN

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