Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Unexpected
N.B.: This is the product of a random plot bunny bite, which insisted that I had to work in a character who was some conglomeration of Elven and Cheiri. That’s what happens when one reads Enterprise slash fic, Celtic myths, and Darkover novels, I guess. Oh, and the rainstorm came from a perfectly delightful one I stood out in the other day. ~RB
Rain, drenching, skin-soaking rain could have one of two effects on a person’s mood. It either made one feel clean and somehow connected to nature, or completely, utterly miserable. Right now, hair plastered to his skull, uniform sticking to his body with every move, Malcolm Reed was leaning decidedly toward being completely, utterly miserable.
Flicking a drenched strand of hair from his eyes, Malcolm peered into the downpour. Inhaling deeply, pulling together the dregs of his energy as he pulled in oxygen, he called into the storm once more.
“Trip!” The name wrenched from his raw throat and was greeted by nothing more than another clash of thunder and an increase in the amount of water pouring from the sky. Malcolm staggered a few steps forward before tripping on a gnarled root and landing in a muddy puddle.
Dirty, or at any rate dirtier now, he struggled into a sitting position. Exhaustion took over, and he stayed where he’d fallen. Tears mingled with the rain drops coursing down his face. A small sob escaped him, and he whispered into the blackness, “Trip.”
Trip had wanted to go deeper into the forest. Malcolm had told Trip exactly what he thought of that idea. Unfortunately, he’d also added a few points on the engineer himself and why his brain seemed so woefully empty. Trip had, rather predictably, exploded. After several choice comments on Malcolm’s intelligence and dubious breeding, the irate Southerner had stormed off into the forest.
When, after an hour or more, Trip hadn’t come slinking back to the pod, Malcolm had become worried and gone looking for him. He was enjoying a great deal of success in tracking Enterprise’s Chief Engineer when the planet had, once again, turned against him. The heavens opened, and the deluge began, wiping all trace of Trip’s passage from the forest.
Malcolm had trudged on, sticking to the direction Trip had been travelling in up until that point, calling out for his friend. Trip had not responded once, and he was either not in hearing range or was deliberately ignoring the Englishman. That Trip was cruelly ignoring him was an option Malcolm found far preferable to the possibility that the man was not in a position to respond.
Lying back down in the mud and admitting defeat was looking terribly appealing to Malcolm at the moment. Trip was probably holed up somewhere safe and dry, having a good laugh at his stubbornness and thinking hateful things about him. Wallowing in the mud only seemed the appropriate thing to do as he wallowed in self-pity.
Just on the verge of succumbing, Malcolm spotted a light through the trees. At first, he feared that a lightning strike had set some trees ablaze, but there had been no nearby thunderclaps, and the light was too steady and too pure white for flame.
He pushed himself upright, swaying slightly from the effort, and made his halting way toward the light source. What he found made his knees grow weak, made him question his sanity.
There, amidst the trees, was a woman, the most beautiful woman Malcolm had ever seen. She was lit by a lamp resting at her bare feet, and her skin glowed with the luminosity of flawless alabaster. Head thrown back, water ran down her neck to soak into the thin, dark fabric of her dress, which stuck to the swell of her breasts. She held her hands at shoulder level, palms turned upward, as if in supplication, and the rain pooled there, dribbling down her forearms to drip from her elbows as it overflowed. Her hair was unbound. Wet as it was, Malcolm could not be sure of the colour, but he suspected the spiralling curls would be a coppery red when dry.
Never in his life had he seen anyone who came so near to fitting the description of the Fair Folk who lived in the stories his grandmother had told him as a child. It shocked him, it awed him, and it was entirely too much for him to handle in his current state.
Kneeling in the muck before him, Malcolm’s fairie woman grasped his shoulders, supporting him so that he would not collapse entirely. He noted absently that her delicate hands bore six fingers each and, with an effort, raised his head to meet her gaze. Her eyes, though an intense green, had a doe-like quality to them, large and liquid, and he stared into them wordlessly.
Something of his emotional pain must have been visible in his own eyes, because hers softened in pity, a crystalline tear escaping each to roll down her cheeks, glittering amongst the rain drops. Six fingers brushed gently across the left side of his face, and Malcolm instinctively leaned into the soothing contact.
A voice sounded in his head, softly, like the rustling of a breeze through the forest, I have been searching for you, my heart-sore friend. Your companion is most concerned about you, but he is safe.
Safe. Trip’s safe. The thought echoed in Malcolm’s mind for a moment, followed closely by, Thank you. It was the last thing he thought for some time, as his body finally gave in. His eyes rolled back in his head, and the woman caught him in her arms before he could fall into the mud again.
She stood, carefully lifting him in her arms like an over-large child. A pause to gather up her lantern, and the woman moved off into the forest.
Stranded on this gods forsaken planet, their shuttlepod twisted and broken beyond repair, Malcolm and Trip had a spectacular argument over what they should do until Enterprise came looking for them. Malcolm had advocated the sensible plan of staying put near the wrecked pod. The ship would be able to locate the wreckage and then her crewmen in short order. Trip didn’t agree. The pod was too damaged to provide shelter, and there was a storm coming.
One hand stretched out to the woman, Malcolm took one step toward her before collapsing into the mud with a sob. Her eyes flew open, head snapping up and around to look his way. She was poised for motion, and for an agonising moment, Malcolm thought that she would flee him. In another heartbeat, he was proved wrong as she darted over to him.
She had found him just after the rain began. Somehow, even though his UT was broken into a million bits along with the shuttlepod, the fey woman had spoken flawless English, a light Southern accent colouring her soothing alto. Showing him to her home, she had given him dry clothing and was handing him a bowl of soup when an overhead clap of thunder reminded him that Malcolm was still out in the storm and was probably looking for him.
He had nearly dropped the bowl in his lap, leaping up from his seat at the kitchen table and heading for the door.
“Oh Gawd, Malcolm!” A six fingered hand, laid firmly on his shoulder, had stopped him from charging out into the rain. Trip had looked at the woman with pleading eyes, saying, “My friend ... he’s still out there. He’s got a delicate constitution. He could get sick if he stays out in the wet, nevermind if he gets hit by flyin’ debris ... or lightnin’.”
“I’ll find ‘im,” she’d said firmly. “You stay here and eat your dinner. Or you’ll get sick as well.”
It was only after she’d left, stepping out into the flood with nothing more than a lantern, that he’d realised they hadn’t bothered to exchange names yet.
Out of the corner of his eye, Trip caught the bobbing of a light outside the house. A few long strides, and he was pulling the door open. The woman was there, soaking wet, but apparently unconcerned by it. In her arms was cradled a limp Malcolm Reed.
Trip’s shock at seeing her carrying Reed was short lived. His hostess and saviour began issuing orders a soon as she crossed the threshold.
“Come. Help me get him clean and warm. He’ll become quite ill if we don’t raise his body temperature.”
Her accent had shifted from slightly Southern to definitely British, but Trip was focused on his unconscious friend and didn’t dwell on it. He followed her upstairs to the bathing room, managing to avoid stepping in most of the muddy puddles she was leaving, and flipped on the hot water as he was bid. She lowered Malcolm to the floor and peeled off the grimy outer later of his uniform, throwing it into a corner along with his filthy boots. Trip helped her strip the lieutenant, and together they lifted him into the bathtub.
The woman handed Trip a soft washcloth and some soap. Carefully supporting his friend so that the unconscious man wouldn’t slip underwater and drown in the tub, Trip began to wash the mud from Malcolm’s face and hair. The clammy feel to the Englishman’s skin worried Trip, and he rubbed it lightly, hoping to help the water warm him.
The fey woman disappeared briefly, returning with a dry dress on and an oversized terrycloth towel in her hands. She watched Trip’s gentle cleaning of his friend for a moment and then began issuing orders again.
“Let the water out of the tub and lift him out.”
Trip did as he was told, and she handed him the towel. He dried Malcolm as best he could, then wrapped the smaller man in the terrycloth, hoisting him into his arms again at his hostess’ behest.
“His bedroom’s this way. I’ve left nightshirts in there for the both of you. I suggest that you sleep with him tonight. His body will need the warmth from yours to recover from the chill properly.”
“Sure, that’s fine,” said Trip, walking through the designated door, mindful not to bang his precious cargo on the frame. “Flip back the covers, will you?”
“Of course.” She grasped one corner of the bedding, exposing the pillows and mattress with a sharp flick of her thin wrist.
Trip sat down on the edge and unwrapped Malcolm from the towel, giving the woman a grateful smile as she handed him a soft nightshirt. He slipped the garment on over Malcolm’s head, then settled the Armoury Officer into the bed, pulling the blankets up to his chin.
His hostess offered him another shirt like the first and said, “You may put your dirty clothing in the hamper by the closet. I’ll have fresh outfits for the both of you in the morning. Sleep well.” A small smile, and she left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
Borrowed clothing now quite damp, Trip stripped for the second time that evening, drawing on the nightshirt and tossing the old garments into the hamper. From there, he crawled into the bed, snuggling up next to Malcolm. He pressed his body to the other man’s, tucking the dark head under his chin and wrapping his arms around him in an attempt to lend Malcolm some of his body heat.
Sleep came quickly. It had been a stressful day, from their shuttlepod crash that afternoon to his worry over Malcolm in the evening, and Trip was exhausted. The soft warmth of the bed and the steady patter of the rain on the room’s windows combined to create a soothing atmosphere for him to relax in, giving way to his body’s need to rest.
He pried one sleep crusted eye open and found himself nose to nose with one Trip Tucker.
“Mornin’. How’re you feelin’?”
Malcolm found himself staring into a pair of sleepy blue eyes and was momentarily at a loss for how to respond. “I’m fine.” An almost habitual protestation, the phrase was the first thing to come to mind. “Hungry, though, and a little chilly.”
“Our hostess left us some clothes. What say we get dressed and see about gettin’ some breakfast?”
The clothing that had been laid out for them fit Trip better than it did Malcolm, but it was dry and warm so he didn’t complain. He was feeling a little unsteady, and Trip helped him down the stairs without being asked. Trip steered him toward the house’s kitchen after that, solicitously pulling out a chair for him. Sitting obediently, Malcolm looked around curiously.
His fairie woman was puttering about the kitchen, piling food on plates and bringing them to the table. Seeing her standing next to Trip, Malcolm realised that she was extremely tall. Like as not, she would have been able to look Captain Archer straight in the eye had the man been here. He was also pleased to note that her hair was, indeed, the colour of burnished copper.
She motioned for Trip to seat himself at the table as well, setting steaming mugs of tea in front of each man. A plate of eggs and potato-like vegetable was set in front of each as well, and with a mumbled thanks, Malcolm dove into the food like a starved wolf.
Trip watched Malcolm eat with a bemused expression. He’d never seen the Englishman so ravenous. It reminded him of himself when he had been pregnant with the Xyrillian child. He must have been staring longer than he realised because a tap on his shoulder brought him out of his reverie.
“Eat. Before it gets cold.” The woman gave him a soft smile with her admonishment, and he couldn’t help but grin back sheepishly.
“Yes, Ma’am. Thank you, Ma’am.”
“My name is Rh’aal!gnan’.” The name, with its guttural stops and clicks, was startling after the woman’s perfect Queen’s English. Malcolm even left off eating to stare in astonishment.
“I hate to say it, Ma’am, but I don’t think either of us are gonna be able to pronounce that,” said Trip with and apologetic expression.
“No, I suppose not.” The woman smiled back at him. “Is there a name in your language that is similar which you could call me?”
“Rhiannon.” It was the first thing Malcolm had said clearly since coming downstairs, and the other two looked at him curiously. “It’s Welsh. She was a moon goddess, and was married to Pwyll, King of Dyfed. She left her home under the sidhe, giving up her immortality, to be with the man she loved.” Malcolm blushed at the amused expression on the woman’s face and the surprised one on Trip’s. “It was a story my grandmother told me when I was little. I... I always liked it.”
“I am neither goddess nor queen, but Rhiannon will do fine.”
“Pleased t’ meetcha, Rhiannon. I’m Trip, and that there’s Malcolm.”
“I know.”
“Beg yer pardon?”
“I know who you are, the same way I know your language. My people are telepaths. I brushed your mind when I first found you, Trip, to be able to communicate with you.” She paused and looked at Malcolm. “Malcolm I went a little deeper with. I searched for him with my mind. It was easy enough at first, but ... as I got closer, his mind-voice was ... overwhelming. I couldn’t pinpoint his location. It seemed he was all around. Grounding became necessary, and while I regrouped he found me.”
Malcolm was staring into her green eyes intently. Trip looked on silently as his friend seemed to struggle with himself, then blurted out, “I really did hear your voice in my head.”
“Yes, you did. Thanks to that momentary bonding, I know a great deal about you.” Rhiannon turned back to Trip. “That is why my accent changed, if you were wondering, Commander.”
Trip was pleased that he managed to keep his voice steady for an even, “I was, thanks,” though the tentacles of some emotion perilously close to jealousy were working their way around his mind and heart. Bonding. Bewitched him is more like. He’s completely twitterpated. J’st look at the expression on his face!
That he’d once had a woman in his head mattered very little to Trip. His exchange of favourite foods with Ah’len was obviously nowhere near as intimate as what Malcolm and Rhiannon had shared.
The circle Trip’s thoughts were running in came to an abrupt halt. Malcolm, mostly clean breakfast plate shoved away from himself, was shivering. Concerned, as he thought it was plenty warm in the small kitchen, Trip vacated his own chair to kneel next to the Englishman’s. One hand unerringly reached out for the man’s forehead.
“Malcolm, you’re burnin’ up. You better get back to bed.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. You’ve got a fever. No wonder considerin’ how cold an’ wet you were last night. Unless you wanna get really sick, you’ll do as I say.” Reed just set his lips in a thin line and glared back at him. “Malcolm. Can you not argue with me for once?”
“Would I were you,” Rhiannon added, moving to stand behind Trip, “I would do as he says.”
Trip’s irritation with the woman was squelched by an internal reminder that she was only trying to help him keep Malcolm from killing himself with this stubborn routine. Malcolm’s health was, after all, the important thing here.
The Englishman looked from one to the other, away to the stairwell, and back to Trip again. “Oh, alright. If you’re going to gang up on me...” A heavy sigh and he stood, shuffling over to the stairs. Trip’s helping hand was batted away and a glare shot at Rhiannon before she could offer.
Trip turned away, busying himself with clearing Malcolm’s dishes from the table so that he wouldn’t have to watch the other man struggle up the steps.
“You are not going to help him?”
Trip met Rhiannon’s inquisitive gaze and shook his head. “Naw, he doesn’t want my help. If I try it’ll just make ‘im ornery. Malcolm... he’s alw’s out tryin’ to protect ev’rybody. He hates admitting weakness. Well, I suppose most men are like that, but he’s worse. I’ve found that the surest way of gettin’ my head bit off is to try to force help on ‘im. Only reason he gave in so quick when we told ‘im to go to bed is that he really is cold and tired, and there’s nothin’ for ‘im to do ‘round here anyway. J’st waitin’, and Mal hates waitin’.
“I’ll give it a bit, then go up and check on ‘im. Make sure he actually goes to bed and all.”
“You are a good friend, Trip Tucker.”
Trip blushed and ducked his head. “I doubt he’d agree.”
“No?”
“No. I believe the top epithets on his list would be interferin’ and busybody. I ... irritate him.”
“Perhaps.” Rhiannon’s mouth quirked in an impish grin. “Just remember, Commander, he yells because he cares.” She turned and left, then, leaving Trip to puzzle out her words.
“What the hell’s that s’pposed to mean?”
“Trip, don’t fuss. Trip, be useful and bring me a glass of water. Trip, can’t you move any quieter than that?” the engineer whined at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. A quick finger combing of his newly washed hair and he straightened up, tightening the belt on his bathrobe. “Definitely sleepin’ in my own bed tonight. I don’t care how cold he gets.”
Despite his displeasure with the lieutenant, Trip chose to check in on him one last time before retiring. He nearly ran into Rhiannon in the doorway to Malcolm’s bedroom. An expression of anger was barely quelled as he looked up at the woman. Trip forced himself to swallow and breathe while he took in her appearance.
A thin nightgown of seafoam green silk cascaded down her body, clinging to her rounded breasts, to the swell of her belly. The matching shawl had fallen from her shoulders, exposing her creamy skin. Softly curled hair fell down her back, unbound, and copper wisps stuck to high cheekbones. Her wide green eyes assessed Trip, but without any inclination to judge. She looked like the fairie queen Malcolm had named her for. She looked beautiful.
“Commander.” The one word was all she spoke, inflection perfectly neutral, and she moved past him to return to her own room.
Trip could only stand there, eyes glued to her in shock, and hope desperately that the only thing that had brought her to Malcolm’s room was the solicitousness of a good hostess. When he finally managed to gather his scattered wits to him and enter the room himself, Malcolm was sitting in a chair by the window.
Bundled in a blanket pulled from his bed, he stared into the dark forest beyond the house. Trip nearly jumped out of his skin when, after several long moments, Malcolm spoke to him without turning from the window. He hadn’t realised that the Englishman was even aware of his presence.
“I’m sorry. I’ve really been a complete ass today, haven’t I?” Malcolm pulled the blanket in around himself tighter. “Yesterday, too, actually. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologise, Mal. You’re sick. Sick people get leeway.” He tried to grin at his friend, but Malcolm wasn’t even watching his reflection in the window pane, and the effort was wasted.
“I wasn’t sick yesterday. I was just being stupid. If you’d taken my advice we’d be wet, hungry, I’d be much more ill, and you might be sick as well.”
“Or we’d have made a little shelter, found some nuts and berries to eat, and be perfectly fine. I’m the idiot who ran off into the forest alone. If it hadn’t been for Rhiannon, we’d both be in pretty poor shape right now. Lost and alone, as well as all the rest, like as not. Plenty of blame to go around, Mal. Don’t sweat it.”
Trip crossed the room, reaching around the back of the chair to press a hand to Malcolm’s forehead and then his cheek. “Fever’s gone down. Be back to your old self tomorrow, I bet.”
“That’s what Rhiannon said.”
Trip stiffened. “She say anythin’ else I should know about?”
Malcolm twisted in his chair to look at Trip. “No. Everything else is private.”
“Private?”
“Yes, private. As in none of your bloody business, Commander.” Sparks were starting to fly again, but Malcolm didn’t care. Trip had no right to pry.
“What could be so private about a conversation with a woman you j’st met? What could you possibly have to say to her that you can’t say to me?!”
The tone and volume of Trip’s voice stopped the retort Malcolm had been about to make in his throat. His mouth opened and closed silently, and he cocked his head. “Are you jealous?”
Jealous? God help me, I am. “No, o’course not. Don’t be silly, Malcolm. Why would I be jealous of you?”
“Yes you are. And it’s not of me, it’s of her. Why?”
Shit. Time to pay the piper. Maybe I c’n still hedge a bit, though. “I guess ‘cause you seemed more ... I dunno, connected to her, I s’ppose.”
“She was in my head, Trip. How am I supposed to remain aloof after that?”
“Dunno. Guess I didn’t expect you to be so okay with it. I know it’s kinda selfish of me, but I liked bein’ your best friend, bein’ the person who knew you best.
“But, hey, what am I compared to her? She c’n j’st connect with you. No silly male posturing, no words to get in the way. And she’s beautiful, in a fey, alien kinda way. Gotta like that.” Trip laughed weakly and stared at the floor, toying with the end of his bathrobe tie. He wondered if it wouldn’t be best for him to leave now. They could both chew on what he’d said, or forget it by morning, with any luck.
“Best friend or not, you can be such a wanker sometimes, Trip.”
The blond head snapped up, his brow furrowed in confusion. “A what?”
“A clot, a ... a dickhead.”
Anger flashed like lightning in blue eyes. “You wanna rephrase that, Lieutenant?”
“I’m not interested in her that way. Yes, she’s beautiful. Yes, I find her attractive. But she’s so ... out of my league that it’s ridiculous to even suggest such a thing. Her loving me would be like Diana loving a goatherd, a great queen loving a petty thief.”
“You’re not exactly a goatherd, Mal, and the only thing you’ve ever stolen is my heart.”
The silence in the room was a palpable, deafening thing.
Oh, shit. I did not j’st say that. Did I?
“Y-your heart?” Malcolm whispered.
Guess I did. Sonovabitch. So much for hedgin’. “Yeah, Mal. My heart. Do with it what you will, it’s yours.”
Malcolm just sat there, staring at him. Trip suspected that he was going to end up with a sore back from twisting around in the chair like that, but still the Englishman did not move. The wait for Malcolm to do something, to say something, was unbearable. With downcast eyes, Trip turned to leave.
And another one bites the dust.
Thoughts and snippets of memory chased one another through Malcolm’s head. Trip and he arguing. They always argued. It seemed inevitable, they were such disparate personalities. Trip slapping him on the back in a gesture of friendship. Friends, they were friends. He was closer to Trip than anybody. Trip stalking off into the forest, leaving him. Anguish. Wet and miserable. Panic. Trip turning to leave the room. Leave him.
Leave him.
Real time interposed itself on Malcolm’s scattered thoughts. Trip was leaving. Trip, looking dejected and heartbroken, was leaving him. No. Can’t loose him. Love him.
“Oh God, Trip, no! Don’t go! Please... Fuck!” Malcolm, desperate to keep Trip from leaving, had launched himself from his chair. Unfortunately, swaddled in a blanket and weak from his fever, he lacked control over his limbs. He caught a knee on the chair and then a foot on the edge of the blanket, crashing down in an undignified sprawl.
It did, at least, achieve his aim of keeping Trip in the room. His exclamation and the clatter of his fall brought the blond engineer back to his side in an instant.
“Malcolm! Shit. Are you alright?” Trip kneeled next to Malcolm, hands hovering above the Brit as if suddenly afraid to touch him. Malcolm was engaged in an angry battle with the blanket, trying to untangle himself from the restricting fabric, exposing muscled legs. As his eyes followed the shapely limbs up to where the lieutenant’s nightshirt had rucked-up around his waist while struggling to free himself from the blanket, Trip became uncomfortably aware of the fact that he was only wearing a bathrobe himself. A bathrobe that was no-longer tied as tightly as it once was.
“I’m fine,” Malcolm finally answered, throwing off the offending blanket. “My knee is throbbing, but I’m pretty sure it’s only a bruise.” He looked up at Trip, who was sitting on his haunches, robe falling slightly open, with a vaguely panicked expression on his face. The feel of the cold wood floor on his ass brought his attention back to himself. The hem of his nightshirt was quite firmly wrapped around his waist, revealing everything below.
A faint blush crept over his features, and he decided that now was as good a time as any to make the leap and see if he’d sink or swim. All told, swimming seemed the most probable outcome, given Trip’s earlier revelation ... and the growing hardness that was beginning to peak out through the part in his robe.
Throbbing kneecap was lifted into the air and presented to Trip. “I don’t suppose you’d like to kiss it better?”
Trip was sure his hearing was faulty. Still, there was no mistaking the knee that was being presented to him, or the burgeoning erection visible just beyond it. Malcolm wanted him. Him, Trip Tucker.
Drawing in a deep breath, he leaned forward and planted a gentle kiss on Malcolm’s knee. When he looked back up at Malcolm, he found that the other man had apparently licked his lips, and his tongue was stuck, peeking out slightly from between parted lips. Trip thought he was damn cute like that.
“That better now?” he asked, voice husky.
“Oh yes, much.” Malcolm smiled, teeth flashing in the low light. He slid closer to Trip, reaching for the other man’s robe belt, untying it deftly. “Do you have any ... swellings you’d like me to kiss better, Trip?”
Trip didn’t get a chance to answer. Almost immediately, Malcolm’s lips were hot on his hard shaft, kissing up and down the length. He found his ability to think stripped with each burning kiss, his own body heating up with the contact.
Burning. Heat. Malcolm, hot. Hot. Fever. No. “No. Mal, we can’t.” He pulled at the smaller man, bringing his head up, meeting his confused gaze.
“Can’t? Why not?”
“You’re sick. You’ve got a fever.”
“I feel fine. You yourself said the fever had gone down.” He gave Trip an intense look, brushing his fingers over the blond’s swollen manhood. “I want you.”
“You still have a fever, and I ain’t riskin’ it. Fevers call for bedrest not bedplay. The answer is no, Malcolm.”
“Trriiip...” Malcolm pressed himself to the engineer, rubbing his own aching phallus against Trip. “Please. I ... I love you.”
“I love you, too, but m’ answer’s still no. Not until you’re well.”
“But you’ve gone and got me all excited. Can’t you see your way to a little mutual friction?” He thrust up against Trip, a wicked grin on his face.
“Demanding, ain’t ya? How about an icy sponge bath?”
Malcolm grimaced and then nipped at the end of Trip’s nose when the man laughed at him. “That does not sound at all appealing. Stay the night at least?” He stroked Trip’s face and the nape of his neck, winning a small sigh from the man.
“Only if you c’n behave yourself.”
“I promise to be a model of good behaviour.” At Trip’s dubious expression he added earnestly, “Scout’s honour.”
“Okay, then. Why don’t you go take a warm bath, get cleaned up and wind down a bit. I’ll change the bed sheets while you’re gone.”
The bath was more taxing than Malcolm had anticipated. By the time he was finished, he had come down from his high and was barely able to make it back to his room without visibly shaking. After the heat of the water and his prior arousal, the air temperature seemed far too cold, and his robe not nearly thick enough. He was quite glad to find his bed piled with fresh blankets, a drowsy engineer keeping it warm.
Trip pulled back a corner of the blankets for him, and Malcolm slid into the bed. He only removed his bathrobe when he was safely covered, dumping the cloth onto the floor. Spooned up with his already nude love, Malcolm slowly began to feel warm again. At about the time he stopped shivering, the Brit was sound asleep, Trip joining him moments later.
She was glad that they had, however unintentionally, admitted their love for one another. Trip’s jealousy had been distracting, and Malcolm’s self-torture painful. Judging by the manner in which the two had been curled up together that morning when she had silently entered Malcolm’s room to leave the men’s clean uniforms for them, it seemed likely that such things would no-longer be a major problem.
Wreaked... No sign... Trip?
The agitated thoughts of a new mind intruded on her contemplation. Her guests’ crewmates had obviously come looking for them. Rh’aal!gnan’ dusted her hands off on the hem of her dress, rising and unerringly making her way toward the crash site. It would be best if she found the new Humans and brought them to their crewmates rather than waiting for them to find her abode. Loud as the newcomers were now, they would only become louder as time went on and they could not find the two men currently sleeping in her house.
“I’m calm.”
T’Pol raised one eyebrow at her commanding officer’s reply. “I disagree. You have been agitated ever since we found the shuttlepod wreckage. It has been getting more pronounced the longer we go without finding any trace of either Commander Tucker or Lieutenant Reed.”
Archer smirked a bit, the first expression other than worry to cross his face since they had discovered the broken remains of Shuttlepod One on the planet’s surface. “Am I ... annoying you?”
“No,” the Vulcan replied a little too patiently. “It is simply that there is nothing to be accomplished by allowing yourself to be ... blinded by your concern.” When Archer did not respond, simply giving her an irritated look, T’Pol continued with her recommendation for their next course of action. “It would be best, I believe, if we were to return to Enterprise and scan for their biosigns. Our hand scanners do not have a sufficient range to be useful on the ground.”
“I’m not just leaving them here.”
“What would you do, Captain? Beat the bushes for kilometres all around in the hope of finding them?”
Archer opened his mouth to share a few choice words with his Science Officer and closed it just as quickly as motion at the forest’s edge caught his attention. A tall, red haired woman stepped from the forest, making her way to him with no sign of hesitation.
“Captain Archer, Sub-Commander T’Pol, if you would come with me, I will bring you to your men.”
“You know who we are? You know where Trip and Malcolm are??”
“They are at my home.”
“Are they alright?”
“They are fine, Captain. They were sleeping when I ... detected your presence and left to meet you, but they are fine. Please, come with me.”
Rhiannon was nowhere in sight, so he found a tray and began rummaging around for things to load it with. By the time he had what he considered a decent breakfast piled on the tray, Malcolm had donned his own robe and come downstairs looking for him. A brief argument over where they would eat their breakfast ensued.
Malcolm had stubbornly stood his ground, insisting that he was sick of being stuck inside and needed fresh air, and they were now sitting at the base of a shade tree in Rhiannon’s yard. Trip leaned back against the tree, and Malcolm, sitting between the engineer’s legs, leaned back against him. The bulk of their meal had been consumed, and Malcolm was lazily allowing Trip to feed him chunks of fruit.
Trip’s robe was coming open, but he and Malcolm were the only ones around, so he wasn’t particularly concerned. Pulling the dark haired man tighter against his chest, Trip started nuzzling his neck. With a contented sigh, Malcolm let his head fall back on Trip’s shoulder, exposing his throat to more kisses.
The snap of a twig on the path leading out of the forest to the house brought both men’s heads up sharply. Their hostess stood on the path, and just behind her were Captain Archer and Sub-Commander T’Pol. Trip and Malcolm were frozen in mingled horror and indecision, unsure of how to react to their superior officers finding them in such an intimate embrace.
For their parts, Archer and T’Pol were just as flummoxed as the Chief Engineer and Armoury Officer. Archer’s mouth hung open and his face was turning a bright crimson, so that he looked like some exotic beached fish. T’Pol’s eyebrow was threatening to crawl right up into her hairline.
Rhiannon was the only one unsurprised, smiling slightly at the pastoral scene presented by Trip and Malcolm. Shielding herself carefully against the turmoil of the three Humans’ minds, thankful for the Vulcan’s mental discipline, she spoke in an attempt to ease the situation.
“Malcolm, Trip, your crewmates have come for you,” she stated the obvious in a soothing tone of voice. “If you two wish to go get dressed, I will take care of the remains of your breakfast.”
The two men nodded in silent acquiescence, though Trip was desperately trying to figure out how he was going to stand with his robe as it was and not give Archer and T’Pol more of an eyeful than they either needed or wanted. He decided on boldly rearranging it while Malcolm lurched to his feet, further raised eyebrows be damned.
Following on Malcolm’s heels, Trip breathed a sigh of relief once they were in the house and shielded from the other’s eyes. Once in their room, Malcolm gave up his dignified facade, sitting heavily on the bed while his body shook violently.
“Oh Lord, Trip, what are we going to do?”
“Do? About what?”
“The captain and T’Pol ... knowing about us.”
Trip sat next to his love, taking one hand in his. “Granted, this wasn’t how I’d planned on lettin’ my best friend and cap’n know about the change in my ... availability, never mind T’Pol, but don’t see it’s that big a problem.”
“You don’t think they’ll ... take issue?”
“With what? We’re all adults here. S’ long as we don’t get caught neckin’ on duty, Cap’n doesn’t care what we do on our off hours. I love you, you thick Brit, and I ain’t lettin’ anybody’s potential disapproval stand in the way of that. You hear me?”
“Yes,” said Malcolm, leaning against him, “I hear you.” His mouth quirked in a half grin. “I’m even listening to you.”
“Well glory, glory, hallelujah! First time and everything. It’s a gall-darned miracle.”
“Quiet, Yank, or I’ll never listen to you again.”
“Haven’t even slept together an’ he’s already bringin’ out the heavy artillery,” Trip playfully groused to the empty room.
“Oh, we’ve slept together alright,” said Malcolm, leaning back on the bed and pulling Trip with him. “We just haven’t slept together.”
An intense kiss followed, and Trip broke it reluctantly. “As much as I’d like to continue this to it’s natural conclusion, I think we oughtta get dressed. Cap’n’s waitin’.”
“So he is. So he is.”
“Yeah, Jon?” Trip sipped his own bourbon and waited patiently for his friend to continue.
“You ... you and Malcolm ... ah, how long..?”
“We’d been a couple for about twelve hours before you found us, if that’s what you’re askin’.”
“Um, partially.” Jon was finding his quarters uncomfortably small at the moment and he contemplated his drink for a few more moments before speaking again. “I guess I never realised that you um ... liked men.”
“If it makes ya feel better, Jon, neither did I.”
Jon’s head shot up, green eyes going wide. “What??”
Trip grinned at his old friend’s reaction, the skin around his eyes crinkling with amusement. “C’mon, Jon, you know me. I’ve alw’s been a ladies man, if not alw’s successful at it. Never really cared much for men that way.”
“But Malcolm..? He’s not exactly feminine, Trip.”
“Nope, he’s ‘bout as masculine as they come.” The memory of Malcolm aroused and demanding made Trip smile a little wider. The Brit was masculine alright, very much so, indeed.
“Then why..?” Now Jon was really confused.
“Can’t explain it, Jon. I j’st ... love him.”
“And Malcolm?”
“He loves me.”
“His ‘eyes only’ file says heterosexual, Trip.”
“So,” said Trip belligerently, “mine does too.”
“You both suddenly decided you liked men?”
“Yes. Well ... j’st certain men, and ... Mal’s got a little, um, experience.” Jon gave him a questioning look, and he clarified. “I have it on good authority that the rumours about homosocial tendencies at English public schools are true.”
“’Homosocial tendencies?’ That’s a Malcolm phrase if I ever heard one.”
Trip grinned, somewhere between proudly and sheepishly. “Yup.”
“Something tells me that trying to figure this out is just going to give me a headache.”
“Love’s like that, I hear.”
“Still, it surprises me how calm you are about all of this.”
“Done got all of my angst about it outta my system back when I first pinned down what my feelin’s for Mal were. Nothin’ to get excited about anymore. J’st enjoyin’ ‘em being requited and all, now.”
Jon downed the last of his drink. He was more comfortable now, but also far more bewildered.
“Guess so,” said Trip, leaning back into Malcolm’s arms.
“How is he?”
“Pretty well confuzzled, but basically okay, I think. Glad Rhiannon did the chat with T’Pol about it, telepath to telepath an’ all. Makes me all tense j’st thinkin’ about tryin’ to explain it all to her.” A kiss below his ear made Trip shiver with pleasure. “Do that again.”
Malcolm chuckled, making Trip shiver again, and said, “Now who’s demanding?” A second kiss was bestowed on the blonde, and Malcolm could feel his blood begin to heat up from the feel of the man squirming against him.
“Wanna work on edjumacatin’ me on some o’ them ‘ho-mo-sociaal ten-danc-ies’ you were tellin’ me about the other day?”
“I suppose I could.” Malcolm worked his hand inside Trip’s uniform. “You are obviously in dire need of a proper ... edjumacation,” he drawled out the last word in an imitation of Trip’s earlier exaggeration of his accent.
“All yours, Teach.”
“You’d better be.”
Trip reached up, drawing Malcolm down for a kiss, and the Englishman knew that, thanks to a crash, a storm, and a fairie queen, Trip really was his. He absolutely was.
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