NB: Part Four of the cleaning anthology. Sequel to ReginaBellatrix's Soap Scum.

Also, thanks to RB for helping me to get certain bits just right.

Rating: NC-17

God,Trip didn’t think his head had ever hurt as badly as it hurt right now. He’d been fine through the scotch, the Kentucky Bourbon, the Jack Daniel's, even the moonshine his dad had sent him. It was the Pineapple rum that had done him in. Wouldn't Malcolm find that amusing? Then again, since it had been Mal’s rum, maybe not.

It had all started innocently enough. He and his engineering crew had finally managed to figure out a problem that had been bothering them for months in their attempts to create a Warp 6 engine. Naturally they had felt the need to celebrate. Trip, being the superior officer and the sociable type decided to invite his staff over for drinks after work. He hadn’t figured that Malcolm would mind, considering he was away at Jupiter Station giving a lecture on the new weapons systems he’d developed.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only person who had gotten plastered last night. His staff could drink with the best of them. He had a pretty good feeling that he really didn’t want to go downstairs to inspect the damage. When was Mal getting back, anyway? As long as he had it clean by then it shouldn’t be a problem. But first he was going to bury his head beneath his pillow and pray his head didn’t explode.

Malcolm let out a sigh as he gazed up at the home he shared with his husband. It was great to be back. Especially considering Trip would probably still be asleep. Malcolm could climb into bed and slowly help his lover wake up. Malcolm’s mind was whirring with possibilities.

He opened the front door . . . and almost collapsed. What the hell had happened?! Malcolm slowly walked into the house, eyes widening as he inspected the damage. There were three empty bottles of scotch, four bottles of the bourbon Trip loved so much, two bottles of Jack Daniel’s and that jug of moonshine Trip’s father had sent Trip was definitely empty. Malcolm hadn’t even known they had that much liquor in the house.

Oh, shit. Was that a stain on the floor? They’d just bought that rug. Someone was going to die, and Malcolm had a good feeling he knew who it was going to be.

He walked into the kitchen to inspect the damage there. The floor was sticky from where some drunken idiot -- yes, idiot as far as Malcolm was concerned -- had spilled his or her drink. There were two glasses that were definitely broken in the trash.

Malcolm needed a drink. He so needed a drink. Otherwise he was going to kill that man. Slowly. Painfully. He normally didn’t drink this early in the day, but in this instance he felt it was entirely justified. Malcolm opened the fridge to grab his pineapple juice and then lowered his head and stared. That bastard had finished off the rest of his pineapple juice! The death would definitely be painful. Annihilation. Annihilation sounded good.

Fine. He didn’t need pineapple juice with his rum. He’d drink it straight. He could use it. He went out the kitchen door and straight to the liquor cabinet. And then he saw it. His. Rum. Was. Empty. Malcolm’s jaw clenched. Torture. Why kill the man when he could torture him? It would be far greater revenge to torture his lover and not give him the pleasure of death. A wicked twinkle appeared in Malcolm’s eye. He wasn’t the most dangerous man in Starfleet for nothing.

“Hello, darling.”

Trip slowly lifted the pillow and peered at his mate. “You’re back early,” he said in a raspy voice.

“Yes. I felt the need to spend my Saturday, my day off, with my lover,” Malcolm said sweetly.

“Sounds nice.”

“I thought we could start the day with a nice breakfast. Eggs. Sausages. Liver and kidney pie. Maybe some kippers. Definitely have to have pancakes with peanut butter --”

That did it. Trip was racing for the bathroom.

“No? Pity.” Malcolm opened the windows, letting in the bright morning sunshine and left the room to begin phase two of his revenge.

He was gonna die. That was all there was to it. Throwing up hadn’t helped much. Just jostled his head around in his race to the bathroom. He was never going to have a drink again. He was also never going to eat again. At the thought of food Trip emptied his stomach a second time.

He cleaned out his mouth and shuffled back into the bedroom. Oh, bloody, everlasting hell. The sunlight poured over him. His head was pounding and he slumped to the floor clutching it. He crawled over to the window and weakly pulled the blinds, plunging the room into darkness.

Then he heard it. That slow thump he knew so well. The rise of the violins. No. Anything but that. Malcolm wouldn’t be so cruel. He wouldn’t play that. Not today. Not with the base cranked up full blast. Then the canons started. Not the 1812!

Malcolm hummed along to his favorite piece of music. The 1812 Overture definitely had a certain oomph to it. Of course, any piece with canons had to be good, as far as Malcolm was concerned. He sat in the middle of the family room, surrounded by the chaos of the previous night’s excess, tapping his fingers to the beat.

Trip slowly trudged down the stairs. “Mal,” he groaned. “Mal! MAL!”

Malcolm slowly turned around to look at his partner. “Yes?”

“Would you mind turning that down?”

“Why?”

“I’m kind of hung over and my head’s pounding.”

“Really?” Malcolm looked around the room. “I never would have guessed.”

Trip saw the room for the first time. The stain on the carpet, the bottles lying around, spilled drinks, and the empty bottle of pineapple rum prominently displayed on the mantle. He was in such deep shit.

“Listen Mal, I can explain.”

“This needs an explanation?” Malcolm replied calmly, his gaze encompassing the room. “I thought it was rather self-explanatory.”

Trip knew he was in a helluva a lot of trouble. He could tell from the steadiness of his husband’s voice. Malcolm’s voice always sounded like that before he killed someone. “Uh . . . well . . . not entirely. I . . . um, that is we, my staff that is, figured out that problem that’s been bothering us for months.”

“Congratulations.” Malcolm didn’t sound particularly impressed.

“And well, I invited them over for drinks.” There. That should explain things.

“Is that what happened? I never would have figured that out, what with the empty bottles and the state of the house.”

Okay, maybe that didn’t explain things.

“Right. Very perceptive of ya.” Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. Trip gulped. Perhaps not the right thing to say. But how was he expected to explain the state of things to the most dangerous man in the fleet while hung over? “Anyway, things got kind of out of hand and well, by that point I was too drunk to do anything about it.”

“So you were too drunk to prevent the absolute disaster that is now our house?”

Phrased like that it didn’t seem like nearly as good an excuse. “Uh, I was gonna clean it up,” Trip said meekly.

“Were you? Then why does it look like this?”

“I wasn’t expecting you back so soon. But I’ll clean it all up. Promise.”

“Good. Then do it.”

“Now?” Malcolm glared. “ ‘Kay. Now.” Trip bent down to pick up one of the empty bottles and gasped. “Don’t suppose you know where that hangover medicine Phlox gave us is?”

“I think you used it up last time you had Andorian Ale.” He’d gotten in trouble then, too, Trip remembered.

Trip really didn’t want to face this mess with his head pounding the way it was. He’d take a chance. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to let me clean this up after my head's calmed down a bit?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Trip knew he was taking his life in his hands.

Malcolm looked pointedly at his empty bottle of Rum. Trip knew then he would receive no mercy. Best to suffer through it. He knew that as much as his head pained him, his husband could inflict far worse.

“ ’Kay. Do you want me to start here, the kitchen, or your office?”

“My office?”

He hadn’t seen his office. If Mal was acting like this before he’d seen the office, Trip wasn’t likely to live to see tomorrow.

“You start here.” With that Malcolm stalked out of the room to inspect his office.

Trip bent down again to pick up the bottle nearest to him. The squawk that came from his partner’s office caused him to drop it. “Great.” Trip muttered.

Malcolm stalked back into the room and sat in a chair, nostrils flaring, face clenched and bright red.

“Mal--”

“Don’t say a blasted word.”

Trip quickly got back to work. He picked up all the bottles, wincing as they clanked together in the recycling bin. He carried them out to the garage and picked up a dust pan. He quickly bent over and swept up the shards of glass from the bottle he’d dropped. He glanced over at his mate. Malcolm was staring at him. Whether he was staring at his ass with interest or with the express desire to kick it, Trip couldn’t tell. He quickly got back to work. He vacuumed the floor, and cleaned the new carpet. It wasn’t perfect but it was the best he could do.

“Finished.”

“Kitchen.”

Trip walked quickly to the kitchen, his husband stalking behind him. Malcolm sat in one of the chairs at the table while Trip got to work. Trip did the dishes, and then got out a mop for the sticky floor.”

“Scrub it.”

“What?”

“Put the mop away, get down on your knees, and scrub it.”

“It’s fine . . .” Trip’s voice trailed off. “Right. Scrub it.”

Ten minutes later Trip got off his knees and looked at the freshly polished floor. He looked at his husband. “Office.”

The march repeated again, Trip walking quickly to Malcolm’s office, while Mal stalked behind him.

If the kitchen and living room had been bad, the office looked as if a tornado gone through it . . . twice. The PADDs that were usually lined so neatly on Malcolm’s shelf were spread haphazardly throughout the office. The array of swords and daggers and pistols that were normally mounted so neatly on the wall were stuck in furniture, marking the smooth leather of Malcolm’s desk chair and marring the surface of his once pristine desk.

“What, precisely, happened here?”

“I think someone decided to have duel.”

“It’s amazing no one was killed.” Trip thought it best not to comment. He began to pick up the PADDs. Malcolm walked over to a broadsword that was stuck in the middle of his couch. The sword was his favorite, with a nice, strong hilt. He began to finger it. Trip placed the PADDs on the desk and glanced over at his mate. He wasn’t sure he liked the way Mal was stroking that hilt.

Suddenly Malcolm picked up the sword and swung it around, stopping mere inches from Trip’s neck. “You’re not going to get any bright ideas like this again, are you?”

“No.”

“On your honor, sir.”

Trip glanced at the sword. “Promise.”

“Good. ”

Then Malcolm suddenly pushed him onto the desk. “Do you see what your bright ideas have gotten you?”

“Yes.”

“And you understand you deserve to be punished?”

“Punished?” He glanced at the sword. “I didn’t think you were into S&M.”

“I’m not. However, I have nothing against good old-fashioned kinkiness.”

He quickly pulled Trip’s boxer’s down. He then pulled out the oil he normally used to clean the sword and rubbed it into the hilt. “Uh, Mal, do you really think this is going to work?”

Mal simply raised an eyebrow wickedly. He leaned into Trip, kissing him roughly, pushing him back so he was fully reclined and open to his partner. Malcolm spread the oil around his lover’s anus, loosening him up. Trip hadn’t been overly keen on the idea of being punished, but his erect phallus was proving him wrong in this respect. Then he felt something cold and slick entering him. It was such a decided contrast to the warm length he was accustomed to that he gasped. Then moaned. He tried to reach for his lover but Malcolm swatted his hands away, as one would a pesky child, forcing him to clutch onto the edges of the desk. He threw his head back and moaned again.

Malcolm thrust the hilt into his more than willing partner, taking long measured strokes. Sensing when Trip was ready to come, he stopped.

“God, you said you weren’t a sadist!”

Malcolm chuckled. “Glad you think so highly of me. You’ve never called me God before. Perhaps I’ve changed my mind about the whole sadist thing. Highly entertaining.”

“Bastard.”

“God to bastard in less than a minute. I seem to be going down in your esteem. I’ll have to do something about that.” And then thrust the hilt into Trip’s warmth again, this time with short strokes, gradually lengthening them until Trip was near the edge, holding onto his sanity by a thread.

“Do you understand the error of your ways?”

“Yes!” Trip screamed. And then the sword was gone, replaced by Malcolm. Malcolm thrust into Trip deeply, hitting and pressing into Trip’s prostate. Trip spun over the edge, clutching onto the desk until his fingers grew white. Malcolm continued to pump into him until he shuddered with release. Malcolm rested his head on Trip’s shoulder, trying to catch his breath. When he had finally regained his strength, he looked up into his lover’s eyes.

“Remind me never to piss you off again.” Malcolm raised an eyebrow, this time with mirth.

“No? I thought you liked swords.”

Trip turned red.

“You know. If you really want to be forgiven . . .”

“What?” Trip said warily.

“You could buy me some more of my rum.”

“Oh.” Trip said with relief.

“What did you think I was going to say?”

“I thought you were going to suggest we do that with the empty bottle of rum.”

“Now there’s an idea.”

Trip groaned.

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Read Part 5 of theCleaning Anthology.