Title: Held Tenderly
Author: Pretzelduck
Author's e-mail: [email protected]
Author's Website: http://www.geocities.com/pretzelduck
Length: 10,336 words
Fandom: Star Trek:
Pairing: Archer/Reed
Type: Slash M/M
Rating: PG-13
Status: Complete
Summary: Stuck in a cave until they can be rescued, Archer
and Reed have nowhere to run.
Feedback: Yes
Series/sequel: Nope. This stands all by its lonesome.
Archive: Yes to EntSTSlash Archive, Tim Ruben, and WWOMB
Spoilers: References to "Terra Nova," "Silent Enemy," "Rogue Planet," "Desert Crossing," and "Singularity". Minor spoilers for "Minefield"
Disclaimer: Guess what? I don't own the Star Trek franchise. If I did, I wouldn't be worrying about paying my university's new tuition surcharge. Doesn't the administration realize they're cutting into my pizza and movie fund?
Author's Note: The title is taken from the following quote: "Hold tenderly that which you cherish, for it is precious and a tight grip may crush it. Do not let the fear of dropping it cause you to hold it too tightly; the chances are, it's holding you too." -- Bob Alberti
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Perhaps I should listen to him more often. This isn't the first time I've been struck by the notion. But right now, I don't really have anything else to focus on. Unless you count him.
He's experimentally rubbing his left shoulder, perhaps trying to work out a kink that developed when he slammed into the ground. A maneuver right out of an action movie. A maneuver that probably saved my life.
I can tell it's bothering him more than he's letting on. A slight grimace crosses his face as his multi-talented fingers reach a particularly sore spot. I have to look away. But my mind is already creating fantasies. Of walking over there and offering to work out that kink personally. Of letting my fingers drift along his jaw. And not having to say it was an accident. Of him actually letting me touch him.
Yeah, I don't have anything else to focus on besides my growing belief that my armory officer is clairvoyant.
"Sir, I feel I need to point out that at the location
proposed by the Sarafinans, it would be relatively simple for them to cause a
cave-in that would not only trap the away team but would be at a deep enough
level to inhibit the use of the transporter."
I wonder if he would be irritated if I pointed out that the entire away team wasn't trapped, just the aforementioned armory officer and his reckless captain. Never mind, I already know the answer. He would give me that textbook officer look of his and respond with something proper, caustic, and that ended with 'sir'. And then, I would have to bite back my always-imagined response of ordering him to call me 'Jon.'
But I won't. If it's an order, it's not real. And I don't think I could stand it if he did it because he felt he had to. I want him to want to. And there goes my mind again. Wandering around the land of lust among the other things I want him to want to do.
This really isn't the time or the place to be visiting
there. However, right now, there is
nothing to do but think and wait.
I would attempt conversation but sometimes my curiosity fails me. He's so distant and it's so much the opposite of what I want between us that it physically hurts.
A barely-audible groan reverberates softly in our prison. Speaking of physically hurting…
"Malcolm?" I have to look at him now and my eyes catch a glimmer of something. There's only the weak florescent light of the Sarafinan emergency lighting system in the cave network. I remember it being pointed out on our tour. This dead end tunnel was the last stop. But that glimmer is easy enough to discern, even in the poor light. Blood. Malcolm is bleeding.
I draw the line of my self-control at a bleeding Malcolm. Instantly, I'm at his side, as close as I dare get. There's a jagged rip in his uniform on the right side of his lower back. I can't quite see the wound itself. Blood is oozing from the tear, slowly staining more of the fabric. He must have kept it hidden from me on purpose. My mind proceeds to divide itself into three camps. The first wants to yell at him, try to force into his stubborn mind that when he's hurt he has to say something, and while it's at it, try and get him to stop getting hurt in the first place. The second wants to hold him…touch him…take care of him. And the third…well, that particular part of my brain is usually guided by my other 'brain' and takes all of its cues appropriately.
"It's nothing serious, Captain. I must have been grazed by a sharp rock during the collapse."
Nothing serious. You're bleeding, Malcolm. Blood is serious. As for a sharp rock, the rocks that fell on you were because you shoved me out of the way. That should be my blood. So you'll just have to excuse me…
I've managed to relocate my hand to his non-injured shoulder. To my infinite delight, he doesn't stiffen at my touch. For once. The part of my mind that creates my Malcolm fantasies just got more fuel. Focus. I have to focus. Malcolm's hurt. I have no idea how badly and I have no idea how long we'll be here but I know just how many first-aid supplies we have. None.
"Any other injuries?" Our eyes meet and my self-control slips a little bit more. I've seen him look at me with anger, gratitude, frustration, confidence, and even nothing flashing in those one-of-a-kind eyes of his. But never pain. I can see the physical pain reflected in his eyes for a moment before he composes himself. He's hurt and it's showing. For an instant, he showed me. Before my mind can wrap itself around that brand new development, he answers my question. Good thing, too, the damn thing has a tendency to wander.
"You know about the shoulder…" He caught me looking? Sometimes I wonder about just how much Malcolm observes. There have been a couple of times I think I might have given myself away. "Nothing else, sir."
Now is that "nothing else that I deem serious" or "nothing else that could hamper my ability to blow things up"? I decide to take a closer look at him. His eyes are scrunched up a bit and he's keeping his left arm cradled in his right hand. His pale face, neck, and hands are lightly covered with a fine layer of powdery dirt; the result of tumbling rocky debris. He's injured but I don't think any more seriously than I already know.
"All right, then." A smile that is a little more like a grin than his usual half-smile materializes on his face at my words. Why though? Because I accepted his self-health examination? Or because I didn't press him for answers? Or for some other reason? I doubt I'll ever know. So I indulge myself and take a mental photograph. I really like that smile.
"I suppose I should get a better look at the gash on your back…" The smile disappears like a piece of cheese within Porthos' reach, his whole body straightens up as he tries to stand at attention while still sitting on the ground, and he repositions himself just out of my reach. The quick movement causes another grimace to momentarily pass across his features. My hand, now deprived, listlessly falls away from his shoulder.
"I don't think that is necessary, sir. Like I said before, it doesn't seem to be too serious."
We're both Starfleet officers and at one point, we were both Eagle Scouts. We both know that the wound needs to be cleaned and the bleeding needs to be stopped. And we both know that doing so requires Malcolm to lose a bit of clothing. I'll admit that the image of a shirtless Malcolm is appealing but the captain in me stops any errant thoughts in that certain direction. For once. He's an officer under my command. One who was once again injured protecting me. But I'm still a little hurt at how much he doesn't want me to touch him. I'm also a little saddened. Is his no-fraternization, proper protocol way of thinking so deeply ingrained that he won't even let me perform first-aid?
"Malcolm…" His head cocks to one side slightly and his pursed lips turn up a little on one side.
"Do you realize you're bleeding as well, sir?"
What?! I'm bleeding? What in the world? Malcolm gestures at my head with his chin and only now am I aware of a warm wetness on the side of my face. How did I not notice this? I look at Malcolm only to catch the reappearance of the new and improved Malcolm smile.
"It appears that I'm not the only one in need of
first-aid, Captain." He's
smirking. Malcolm is actually smirking
at me. I've seen it before; the time during
that incident with the black hole when I reminded him that
The dreams I'm going to have about this little adventure are going to be something.
He moves again, this time back towards me. Within reach again. I'm struck by the symbolism of it. His movements are like our relationship. One moment, I can almost touch him. I can almost see not the lieutenant but the man. The moment passes and once more all I get is distance.
"I don't think our injuries compare, Malcolm. You've got me beat hands down. So that supposedly-insignificant wound of yours comes first."
I'm tempted to add the phrase, "and that's an order," simply because I know he'll agree to an order. Something else pops into my brain. I've just left myself open to Malcolm's classic argument regarding my importance as the captain and his role as the ship's designated sacrificial lamb. I open my mouth to tell him that it is an order, when my predictable armory officer surprises me.
"I would comply, sir, but I'm afraid I'm going to need a bit of a hand with…"
My confused mind is trying valiantly to keep up with him. No argument, acceptance of his medical priority, and asking for help with…oh god. No wonder his cheeks are turning red. I'm sure mine have taken on a rosy pallor, as well. His shoulder. He won't be able to get the uniform off without help. My help. If the powers that be are listening, please let me be able to do this without making it painfully obvious how badly I want him.
It's first aid. I have to examine his back. I must be professional. We're wasting time. He's probably still bleeding. Hell, apparently, I'm bleeding. All I have to do is slowly peel his uniform off, pull the undershirts up over his head, and place my bare hands on his bare back. Simple, right?
Wrong. There are reasons I avoid being alone with him in decon. This is numero uno. If there is a third or fourth person, I have something else to focus on. I don't have to touch him. Believe me, I want to. I want to touch him everywhere. His chest, his lips, his heart. But now, I have to touch him. Without being suggestive, groaning, or otherwise physically appear to be enjoying it too much.
Oh god…the dreams I'm going to have when this is all over.
"It's perfectly understandable, Malcolm. I've banged my shoulder like that before. It's damn painful." That was actually coherent and didn't contain one bit of innuendo. A pat on the back for me.
All I get in reply is a clipped "yes, sir." His face is impassively blank and I'm fairly certain he's looking at a point somewhere to the right of my head.
Slowly, I move just a hair closer to him and as I do, I notice that his right hand is pulling the zipper down on his uniform just far enough to allow me to get the rest of the upper part of it off. More fuel for my Malcolm fantasies. I tentatively reach out to grab part of his jumpsuit; I can feel my fingers start to graze fabric when Malcolm's voice startles me and my hand jerks away, like it was shocked.
"When?" His voice is what I can only describe as soft. There isn't even an undertone of his typical terseness in the single word. Unfortunately, I have no idea what he's talking about.
"Excuse me?"
"You said that you had injured your shoulder like this. I was just wondering when, sir."
A thousand different reasons for the question race through my mind and are summarily dismissed. It's a personal question. Malcolm is asking me a personal question. Never mind the 'sir' at the end.
"I thought you said you weren't trained to fraternize with superior officers. Questions like that could be considered fraternizing, Malcolm." The wonder of his question clouded my thinking. That's the only excuse I have for saying the one thing that will inevitably cause Malcolm to clam up. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
"I believe you told me it was never too late to learn, sir."
Ummm…uhhhh… A little help here, please? What in the world am I supposed to say to that? The part of my mind that I have to restrain from causing me to grab Malcolm's ass whenever we're in the turbolift together immediately suggests: 'That's right. How about we arrange for a few private lessons in my quarters?' Um, no. I don't think that's a good response.
"It was actually on a scout hiking trip. I was about fourteen or fifteen at the time. My troop and I were hiking on this narrow trail along a mountainside that was literally about a foot wide." While I'm talking, I've brought my hands back up and helped Malcolm pull his right arm out of the sleeve. Now it's time for his other shoulder. Gingerly, I start to peel the other side of the uniform off.
"There were these two scouts. They were new to my troop. Anyway, they were arguing. Our troop told them to knock it off but they didn't listen. I was hiking right behind them. One boy stopped hiking, turned around and shoved the other one. He tripped and fell backwards…"
A hiss escapes Malcolm's lips as I guide the uniform over his shoulder. "You hanging in there?"
"What happened next, sir?" I wonder if anyone has ever called Malcolm obstinate to his face. The hint of honest interest in Malcolm's voice, though, surprises me. For some reason, most likely my enthrallment with the man, I doubt he's pretending to act interested. Perhaps he actually is.
"He fell backwards right into me." Now it's time for the black undershirt. With my help, Malcolm wiggles his arm out of the right sleeve and I pull the garment up over his head so all that needs to be done is slide it down and over his left shoulder and arm. "I lost my balance and stumbled backwards right off the edge of the trail."
I can feel Malcolm's bare skin underneath my fingertips as I start to guide the shirt over his injured shoulder. He stiffens, almost unnoticeably, as I touch his shoulder. When I finally get the rest of the shirt off him, I can see why.
"Shit, Malcolm. That's more than just a kink." His shoulder is an ugly mix of purple and red bruising, with a bit of swelling thrown in for good measure.
"A kink, sir?"
Whoops. What is that saying about assumptions? "Forget it."
"Forget what, sir?"
I think Malcolm is actually joking with me. Somewhere in the deepest parts of my heart, a
flicker of hope begins to burn again.
I'd almost forgotten it was there.
It first made its presence known the instant I met Malcolm Reed for the
first time. Its flames slowly grew
brighter the more time I spent around him.
Then,
But that damn flame is burning again anyway. So I can't stop myself from giving him a goofy grin. That grin gets just a bit wider when I realize that, from the waist up, Malcolm is only in his regulation bright blue tank top. Hopefully, he doesn't notice the bigger smile. Okay, so maybe shirtless Malcolm wasn't the greatest idea in the world. Today, I'll take an almost-shirtless, smiling, joking Malcolm. This might be as good as it gets, sports fans.
"How's the shoulder feel?" And if he says fine, I'm going to smack him.
"It's a bit sore, sir…" Okay, Malcolm. What kind of sore? He must have read my look because he quickly continues. "No sharp pains, only a dull ache, Captain." In other words, it's annoyingly painful, it restricts his movement, but it's not going to kill him.
"Let me know if it starts to bother you any worse." Fat chance of that happening but I had to say it anyway.
"Understood, sir." Damn it, Malcolm. There he goes again. Formal, informal...for him, anyway, and now he's back to short, clipped sentence fragments that end in 'sir.' I prefer 'captain' over 'sir' when it's coming from him. I know that's as about as informal as he gets. Except when he uses no form of address at all.
First aid. Bleeding Malcolm. These are the important things. Not my musings on my preference of how my armory officer refers to me. My fingers are still gently resting on the back of his hand where I finished pulling the shirt off. A little reluctantly…okay, a lot reluctantly, I drag my fingers away from his hand and start to move around behind Malcolm.
I've got a better look at the wound now and frankly, I think Malcolm was right. It actually doesn't look all that serious. But appearances can be deceiving. Plus, who knows how much it bled while I was off in Malcolm-induced la-la land. The electric-blue shirt is now marred by a dark red stain surrounding the jagged slice in the fabric. On the positive side, I don't see any oozing blood. Just dried blood.
Slowly, I reach out to lift the fabric up and over the wound so I can be sure that the bleeding has stopped. It is not just an excuse to touch his bare skin. I swear.
"Did you hurt your shoulder in the fall?"
Damn. That's twice now that Malcolm's said something out of nowhere just as I'm about to touch him. The logical part of my mind, the part that occasionally agrees with Malcolm's semi-paranoid security measures, jumps to the conclusion that the interruption is a stalling tactic to prevent me from touching him. The amorous part of my mind, the part that causes my heart to skip a beat when Malcolm's in a ten-meter radius, comes to a different conclusion.
What if he's afraid of his reaction to my touch? Afraid of a pleasurable reaction?
Not now. I can't start to wonder right now. No hoping. He's just stalling. What did he ask me?
"Kinda. When I hit the ground, I didn't realize what had happened. I didn't have time to think because my body just started rolling down the hill. Luckily for me, a large tree stump turned out to be in my path. My shoulder struck the stump and stopped my graceful tumble. That's how I injured my shoulder."
There you go, Malcolm. A good thirty second reprieve. I lift the shirt up over the gash so I can get a better look at it. The bleeding has indeed stopped but the area around it looks somewhat bruised. Carefully, my fingers ghost across the yellowish-purple skin. It's as soft as I've dreamt it is. I start to lift my fingers away, unwilling to press my luck, when something unexpected happens.
He trembles. I feel it underneath my fingers. I feel it pass through his skin and into mine as a tremble runs through my body as well. I wait for his back to go ramrod straight. He has to know I could feel that. The Reed protocol calls for a wide personal space boundary. I gathered that during my first meeting with the man. Touching Malcolm is my own favorite indulgence. My only way to break that barrier of his. I fully expect him to back away. But nothing happens. Actually, I think that his posture has relaxed a little. It's almost imperceptible and a part of me thinks that my heart is seeing what isn't there.
Is it a reaction to a sensitive injury? Or is it a reaction to me? I thought I told myself that I wasn't going to wonder any more right now about Malcolm's response to me touching him. So much for that. What kind of reaction was that? Good or bad? Why did he tremble? It has to be because I touched the area around his injury. That's the reason he trembled. It has to be.
But what if it isn't?
"I think you were right, Malcolm." No more pondering. For the moment, anyway. We're stuck in a cave that could be unstable and we're both apparently injured. Why do I keep having such a difficult time focusing?
"Sir?" All right, I need to remember to look up another word for stubborn because I'm running out of ways to describe the man's behavior. What else would I be talking about besides his injury? I'll admit, though, that I find his stubborn nature attractive. Sometimes it rankles me but mostly it's just alluring.
"Your back. It's not bleeding at the moment but I wouldn't push it."
"Yes, sir."
My hand is still hovering inches from his back so I have to move quickly as Malcolm gingerly turns around so he's facing me. Whoa. Facing me is an understatement. He's so close; I can see his nostrils flare slightly with each breath. If I leaned forward only a bit, I would be able to kiss him. But there's a difference between physical closeness and emotional closeness. I know that. The impulse…the desire still materializes, with a zeal I hope never dies out.
He's not moving away. Still close so there must be a purpose behind it. A necessity. Malcolm's right hand comes up from its position at his side and I watch it, utterly spellbound, as his fingers uncurl and he reaches out…
My head wound. All he's doing is examining it like I did with his back. Everything seems to moving in slow motion. I want to close my eyes, to treasure the sensation of his fingers on my skin. Gently, in deference to the wound. I want to watch his eyes, to see his reaction. If there is any. I can imagine it…those gray eyes, cold and determined, turning soft like melting silver. Enough to drown in.
His fingers are closer now. Brushing my hair out of the way. My mind will forever twist this moment. Make it a caressing, loving gesture. How did this happen? How did I end up wanting him so badly? It seems like every moment around him, I'm either altering the events in my imagination or dreaming that he's doing the same.
I can feel his fingers right above my skin and time slows even more. My gaze starts to shift. I can't resist the temptation. I have to see his eyes. Please let there be…
Something. Time, at last, stops completely. They're not cold nor are they soft. It can't be denied, though. The look in his eyes isn't one of professional distance. That flame of mine has quickly grown into a bonfire. And something deep inside tells me that Malcolm's wall is missing a few bricks. Holes that I, perhaps, created.
The sound of my communicator chirping destroys my glimpse. It's his turn to hastily yank his hand away. A wince is visible on his face for a moment. The wound on his back didn't care for the quick motion. He doesn't back away, though. His eyes are focused on the ground away from us, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. For some reason, I doubt Malcolm was ever caught stealing a cookie. A part of me thinks that, even as a child, he would never try or maybe that he was too sneaky to get caught in the first place.
I pull the communicator out of my pocket. Let's hope that Trip and T'Pol got this mess straightened out.
"Archer, here."
"Heya, Cap'n. How are you and Malcolm holdin' up?"
"Fine." I swear I can hear Trip snicker through the static-filled connection. The sheer distance to our location makes communications spotty at best.
"Well, we got good news and bad news for ya." Malcolm looks up now; his curiosity regarding our situation obviously overriding his emotions about his actions earlier. Whatever they may be. "Good news is that the Sarafinans have apologized. Apparently, the cave-in was the work of a radical faction within the government. They're willin' to help get you two out of there…"
"Let me guess. This is where the bad news comes in." I don't bother trying to hide the sarcasm in my voice. Just once, I would like a first contact to go smoothly.
"Yep. There's some sort of a religious observance goin' on tonight and it's against their rules to work during it."
There's a pause as our resident Vulcan takes over the explanation. "I believe what Commander Tucker is attempting to say is that we will be unable to carry out a rescue until tomorrow morning."
One room, so to speak. Overnight. With Malcolm. Frankly, I'm not sure if this is a good thing or bad thing. He'll probably be too on edge to sleep. Hell, I'll be too tense to sleep. There was something in his eyes. I don't know what it was but it was there.
"Well, it looks like Malcolm and I are here for the night, then."
"That would be the logical assumption, Captain."
Trip once again takes over their end of the transmission. "We'll contact ya in the morning with the details."
"Talk to you later then, Trip."
"See ya in the morning, Cap'n.
The only sound in the cave is the rustling of fabric as I put the communicator back in my pocket. Malcolm is still close but I can't even tell if he's breathing. He isn't making a single sound.
"Looks like this is home for the night, Malcolm."
"Yes, sir." Ugh. This is going to be a long night. It wasn't that we would run out of air or heat over the course of our imposed stay. The Sarafinans are a society that lived underground so the cave despite being little used was ventilated and slightly heated. The night was only going to be uncomfortable. In every physical and emotional sense of the word.
"At least there isn't any digger meat." I look back at Malcolm. Digger meat? He must read the confusion on my face because his mouth turns up in his usual half-smile. "The Terra Nova colony, sir. The only thing I was given to eat was digger meat, which, in my opinion, was too under-cooked to be called raw."
Terra Nova. The incident when I realized that Malcolm had started to mean something more to me. I left him behind. And at the time I don't think I had ever fought harder to get something back in my life.
"This time there isn't anything to eat. I'm not sure which is better."
"Nothing, sir. You didn't have to swallow the digger meat. It really was quite unappetizing, Captain."
If I block out our surroundings and ignore the 'sirs' and 'captains,' Malcolm and I could be having an actual conversation. Just a simple chat between two people. It's…nice.
"Ah…but you missed the blood soup. I don't think that was any more edible than digger meat." Blood soup, Zobral and the desert. One of the events of this mission I wish I could erase from memory.
Malcolm's little smile grows a bit as he chuckles softly. "Well, they were both bloody, I suppose."
My laughter quickly joins his. I wonder if it might be possible for me to get used to this. A light conversation. His head tilts to one side like it does when he's considering something.
"While we're on the topic of blood, sir…"
Reaching behind him slightly, Malcolm grabs his discarded black undershirt and brings it up toward me. With a corner of it, he starts to wipe and scrape dried blood off my face. He avoids the area directly around the wound, though. I can't see his face; the damn shirt is in my way. After an impossibly long moment, he drops both the shirt and his hand. There's this vibrating pulse in the air like an electrical charge is flying between us. Creating a connection. The closeness is causing it; I know that without a doubt. What I don't know is if he feels it too.
"I seriously doubt you have a concussion, sir. And your injury appears to be minor, as well."
There's something about the way he speaks. It's as if his speech is just another weapon in his arsenal that he uses to keep people away. Another example of propriety and reserve. In my case, however, it doesn't work. It draws me to him even more. I can't explain it. It just does.
Something else I can't explain at the moment is his continued nearness. It isn't like him. I can't come up with an excuse for him to use as for why he's still within arms length of me. Our wounds are both insignificant; we've determined that. There's plenty of light so he doesn't need to be this close in order to see me. I wonder if I would be pondering this if I hadn't seen that look in Malcolm's eyes earlier. I just wish I knew what it was. But it was something personal and unguarded. I know it.
Perhaps my heart is grasping at straws. But I've never felt like this before. So completely and totally enamored with
someone. When I took command of
"Now that we've taken care of that, what do you think we should do for the rest of the night?"
"One of us should probably remain awake at all times, in case of another attack, sir."
Why does his answer not surprise me? Like at our aborted breakfast, his one-track mind appears again. Work. Duty.
"According to Trip, the cave-in was the work of radicals. I doubt they're going to dig through all that debris just to kill us." And there is a lot of debris. Normally, I would consider having Malcolm and I try to dig our way out but the sheer volume of material would make the task impossible. Or as T'Pol would say, 'It would be an illogical option to pursue.'
"Of course, sir." Once again, ugh. Damn it, Malcolm. Why won't you bend? Just a little. That's all I ask.
"Since sentry duty is out, you got any other ideas?" And if he says…
"No, sir."
I'm going to hurt him. Please, Malcolm. Don't make me do all the work here. We're going to be down here for hours. I just want to have a conversation with you. I really don't want to resort to talking about the weapons systems. All of a sudden, I'm not sure if I can do this all night. If I can handle his distance again. Perhaps I'll be able to sleep, after all.
My body reacts to this revelation before I realize what exactly I'm doing. I've stood up and started walking away from Malcolm until I've sat back down so I'm leaning against a cave wall. Malcolm doesn't look like he's even noticed my movement. He hasn't moved at all and his eyes are still focused in the general direction of where I was sitting next to him. That electricity is faint now, barely noticeable. I can feel the fatigue starting to overcome my body. Perhaps I'll just close my eyes for a moment.
"What is your favorite food?"
I don't think I've awakened so fast in my life. Did he just ask me…I think he did. I look up and quickly realize that I was deader to the world than I thought. He's sitting close to me again. Not quite arms-length away. How can he move so quietly? I can think about that later. Malcolm just asked me what my favorite food was. With a note of interest in his voice. I think it was interest, anyway.
"As odd as it sounds, I've actually always liked vegetables. Broccoli, asparagus, and the like." I'm about to ask why he wanted to know when I notice the little smile that materializes on Malcolm's face. It looks like he wants to say something in response or like he's remembering something. The question, however, is whether or not he'll share the reason behind the smile. Doubtful at best, but he did ask me about my favorite food.
"When I was a boy…" A childhood memory? And he's going to tell me...maybe I wasn't imagining those missing bricks. "I referred to broccoli as 'trees'. My mother tried to break me of the habit but I looked at them and thought it, anyway. I still do, on occasion."
I can't stop the snort-like laugh. The unspoken little rebellion gives me a bit of insight into the man. And a mental image of a pint-size Malcolm calmly informing his mother that the broccoli on his plate wasn't broccoli but 'trees.'
"With me, it was lima beans. I've liked every vegetable I've ever tried. Except that one. I remember telling my dad that they weren't actually a food but a poison." The sound of Malcolm laughing is enough to make me grin widely again. I love that sound. It's more inviting. "As you can imagine, he didn't believe me."
"Perhaps we should add lima beans to our list of inedible foods along with the digger meat and blood soup."
I quickly realize that no matter the context, I like hearing Malcolm say the word 'our' referring to the two of us. I also realize that we now have our own private little joke. Frankly, I'm not sure which one I like better.
A part of me is trying to analyze what's going on here. Trying to develop reasons for Malcolm's actions. For the minute yet incredible relaxation of his guard, for the friendly conversation, for the sudden willingness to be close. And probably mostly still trying to figure what that look was and if it has anything to do with everything that's been happening.
On the other hand, I don't really want to overanalyze what's
going on. I know better than to think
that it will continue when Malcolm and I return to
"I'd have to agree with that. It's your turn to add something, though." Will he continue the game or quit? I watch him carefully, trying to anticipate. His head tilts to the side again and I immediately know that he's thinking about the indirect question.
"Butterscotch."
"I'll need an explanation for that one, Malcolm. Butterscotch is a dessert food. You can't put a dessert food on our list without a good reason."
I can hardly believe it. He's glaring at me. Not sternly but what I can only call playfully. Malcolm's being playful? I'm about a handful of non-work related exchanges away from thanking the Sarafinans. Not to mention the fact that this entire time I haven't heard 'sir' or 'captain' come out of Malcolm's mouth once. It's like silent music to my ears.
"I believe it can only be marginally referred to as a dessert food. Something that tastes that sour doesn't qualify as a dessert, in my opinion."
"I suppose I'll have to defer to your opinion on this."
He nods slightly at me, almost regally. Our conversation seems to stall out as neither of us says anything else. The silence surrounds us and while it isn't as uncomfortable as other times I've experienced with him, I'm definitely not content.
"Why did you ask me about my favorite food?" I truly want to know the answer to my question. I wonder, though, if I'll get the honest truth.
"I presumed that asking you about the weather would be rather irrelevant considering our surroundings. Simply put, it was the first topic that occurred to me."
To be honest, I'm not sure if the part about the weather is supposed to be joke or not. I think it might be. I have no idea if he's telling the truth, though. If so, it certainly puts a dent in my newfound hope regarding Malcolm. I'm not sure how to answer back so the first thing that comes out of my mouth is pretty inarticulate.
"Oh."
As soon as the single syllable is spoken, a weird looks appears on Malcolm's face. He looks kind of troubled. Bothered by something. Perhaps his injuries are starting to bug him.
"That's not entirely accurate…sir."
What is he talking about now? And why isn't he looking at me anymore? The 'sir' at the end sounded tacked on; a deliberate addition rather than an automatic response. Before I can even start thinking about that, something else catches my attention. Wait a minute…he's blushing. There's the barest hint of pink spreading across his well-defined cheekbones. And I thought that look Malcolm gets when he's completely absorbed in something was sexy. Blushing Malcolm simply defies description. And I will do anything in my power to see it. Preferably again and again. But what is he holding back?
"It wasn't?" I do my best to make my voice sound friendly; although, friendship is the last thing on my mind right now. Malcolm is blushing over something that's he's thinking about and he's still just in his blue tank top with the top part of his jumpsuit having fallen down to his waist. Definitely the last thing on my mind.
"No." The solitary word is shaky and drawn out, like he wants to say more but can't quite bring himself to do it. Come on, Malcolm. Let me in just a little bit more. I won't hurt you, I swear. Please…
"Since you took it upon yourself to discover one of my food preferences, I felt that I should…"
Obligation. He felt obligated to ask. Almost like a veiled order from superior to subordinate. His voice trailed off at the end but I don't really care why. The statement puts a heart retching spin on our interactions. He felt obligated to interact with me on a more personal level. Once again, I'm exhausted and tired. This little adventure with him has managed to both raise and dash my hopes. My heart, though, can't resist one last remark.
"You felt obligated to ask me…" I can't finish the sentence because Malcolm stops me. Stops my heart, to be exact.
"No!" The negation comes violently out of his mouth and his eyes go wide in surprise. But I'm the one who's surprised when Malcolm leans forward and his hand reaches out to touch me on the thigh. His eyes glance down to where his hand is. It was just a knee-jerk reaction. That's all. So why isn't his hand moving? He scoots forward slightly so he isn't quite as stretched out. The position probably bothered the wound on his back. But he still doesn't move his hand.
I watch, completely fascinated as his gaze travels up my body toward my face. He's still blushing, even more now. My stopped heart starts to beat crazily. A thousand different thoughts are running through my head; I don't even bother try to comprehend them all. It hits me that just a handful of seconds ago I was doubting that I could ever have a chance and now I'm wondering if he'd moan if I stroked his reddening cheek.
I try to stifle the desires rushing through me but I can't. I want him so badly that it aches. Our eyes finally meet and everything just stops. This isn't Lieutenant Reed or the armory officer that I see in his eyes. It's the man. Just Malcolm. The look in his eyes is like the one from before but only so much more intense. His mouth opens and it looks like he's trying to form words but it's beyond him for the moment.
"Malcolm?" Please let him hear the need in my voice. The wanting. I want you, Malcolm. Please don't misunderstand me…
"I'm sorry. That didn't come out quite right. I…" His voice fails him again. He looks so adorable right now. Incredibly uncertain. But I can't help him because I don't know what he's uncertain about. I know what I wish was bothering him, though. Me. The evidence is mounting in my favor. Exhibit A: his hand. It's still on my thigh. I can feel the weight of it through my jumpsuit. I can't remember him ever initiating contact with me before. Something else I want to be able to get used to.
"You what?" I'm pushing him. I know I'm doing it. I just hope I'm not pushing him too much. I don't think I could handle him clamming up again. Ever again.
"I was…touched that you would go to such lengths…for me."
"It was Hoshi that…"
"But it was your idea…" I'm waiting for the 'sir.' This is about where he would normally use it. Instead, a smug little smile makes an appearance. "She let it slip a while back." Still no 'sir'? Another piece of evidence.
"It wasn't that big of a deal, Malcolm." In all honesty, it wasn't. Just a simple piece of information that if the birthday had been anybody else's, all that would have been needed was to ask the person the party was for.
"It was to me."
Malcolm's words hang in the air between us for a long moment. The undercurrent of pain in his voice makes me what to reach out and pull him close. I'd suspected, after talking to his parents, that parties like that were rare in Malcolm's life. From what I'd gathered, he'd had a strict upbringing. Duty and discipline above all else, even his own happiness. Rules and regulations are everything to him. Or at least, they seem to be.
We're both still silent. I'm not sure what to say and I'm fairly certain that pulling him into my arms and kissing him senseless is not the course of action to take. I still have no idea if he's just being melancholy, being usually open, attempting some semblance of friendship, or having some allergic reaction to cave dirt. There always the possibility that he's attracted to me, too. It's possible, isn't it? I've already noted a few things that show he could be. Even if he is, kissing him probably isn't the best action to take. We've made so much progress tonight that I don't want to press my luck. We might be friends after this. Do I want to take what could be offered or risk it all and take a chance?
"We make quite a pair, don't we?" There is some serious innuendo in that question. I'm not sure if I want him to read into that or not.
"Captain?" Crash and burn time. My rank. Before I preferred it, now I think I despise the very sound of the word.
"Our favorite foods. Fruits and vegetables."
This time it's Malcolm who utters an inarticulate phrase. "Oh…I see, sir."
I swear I hear disappointment in his voice. Or is it confusion? I have this amazing ability to say things that don't make any sense when I'm nervous. Like now. I wish he would stop doing this to me. Making me think that there could be something between us. That he could see past the bars on my uniform one day. But that mentality of his viciously destroys my hopes with a single word: 'sir.' There wasn't disappointment in his voice. If I ignore my heart, perhaps it will simply give up. I knew I couldn't handle the 'salute first, ask no questions later' Malcolm again.
"I think we should get some sleep, Malcolm. Who knows how long the rescue effort will take tomorrow."
His hand drifts away from my thigh and returns to his side. But I can still feel the pressure of his hand on my leg. He fidgets slightly before looking back up at me. The blush is fading from his face. I swear I don't miss it.
"I'd prefer to remain awake, if you don't mind."
Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn. This would be one of the times when that particular personality characteristic bothers the hell out of me.
"Actually, I do mind. You need to rest as much as I do." I've been yanked around too much tonight to put a lot of gentleness in that statement but I can hear it my voice anyway. How do I tell my heart to stop caring?
The blush returns in full force as his eyes quickly dart to the cave wall a good meter or two from me. Stop doing this, Malcolm. I can't hold you off for long. Do you know how many times I've tried what I'm trying now? How many times I've tried to force myself to think of you only professionally? But now you're blushing again and it truly does make you even more desirable.
"My injuries…I'll aggravate the wound on my back if I lay on my right side or my back and the shoulder wound if I lay on my left side."
All right…I understand what he's talking about. It makes sense but it doesn't exactly seem like a reason to blush.
"Any suggestions?" He opens his mouth to reply but a thought suddenly manifests in my mind so I cut him off. "And you not sleeping isn't an option."
Malcolm's blush just deepens even more. What is he thinking? I'm starting to get pretty curious about what he could make him so embarrassed or uncertain.
My mind quickly settles on 'uncertain' as he answers tentatively, "I have one idea…"
This one idea of Malcolm's must be one hell of an idea. He's as red as can be and so far from looking at me that it's almost insulting.
"Let's hear it, then."
His gaze slides along the wall slowly until his eyes meet mine. The look. It's back, just as intense as before. Now I really want to know what this idea is. I've dropped any pretense of trying to keep him out of my heart. He's in there. Probably forever.
"It might work if I…um…it wouldn't be as painful if…" He's trying valiantly to not look away from me. This would be an example of his stubbornness being alluring. It looks like he's shaking a bit too.
"Malcolm?"
"I'm sorry." I can barely hear him. I sit up so I'm not leaning against the wall and move slightly closer to him. I don't want to frighten him. I'm just trying to understand what he's saying.
"What do you have to be sorry about?" The amount of concern in that one question worries me. I always try to disguise my interest in him with overtures of friendship but tonight…tonight I'm going too far.
Or maybe not. Malcolm is smiling at me again. The shaking is gone. Nervousness is flickering in his eyes. Along with that look I can't identify. But then, he finally tells me what his idea is.
"I thought it would be easier on my injuries if I…" There's a catch in his voice and it crosses my mind for an instant that he's going to stop there. "If I used you as a pillow…" Once again, his voice trails off at the end. And while my mind is trying to understand what exactly he just said by removing all of the intimate possibilities from his idea, Malcolm quickly adds, "If you don't mind, of course."
Like I would mind. Malcolm is asking to permission to curl up in my arms. Only a fool would turn him down. Or someone with greater personal restraint than is really healthy. And then there's that look. I'm becoming obsessed with figuring out what it is. I think I'll call it the unguarded Malcolm look. But now I have to answer him without sounding like…well, without sounding like I would really like to have him use me as a pillow, especially if we were both naked.
"Only if you think it's absolutely necessary." Where in the world did that smirk come from? I can feel it pull one side of my lips upward.
"I believe it is. After all, you said that it wasn't an option for me to not sleep and I don't want to risk further injury and have to spend more time under the doctor's care."
I don't think that the smirk bothered him. In fact, I think he's smirking back. But he does look truly bothered at the prospect of being in Sickbay. No wonder. He's there so much as it is. Too much for my liking.
"All right then, Malcolm." I move back to my old position against the wall and adjust it slightly so I'm at a more comfortable angle with my legs pointed slightly in the opposite direction; away from him. This way Malcolm can lean back against me. It has nothing to do with the fact that it'll be most comfortable if I wrap my arms around him and sleep that way. Absolutely nothing…I really need to stop kidding myself. This is all about maximum contact. Getting an opportunity to hold him. That is, if he'll let me.
Malcolm moves over so he's sitting right next to me. I look at him, watching his eyes that aren't quite looking at mine, and the world just doesn't stop this time. It freezes. Everything is crystallized into my memory. Everything encompasses only one thing. Wanting. Not mine. His. He wants this. He wants the closeness…the contact. With me. Malcolm wants me. Even though I know it isn't possible, my heart feels like it's stopped and I don't think I'm breathing. Oh, god…
The crystal shatters as his eyes shift enough to catch me looking at me and the desire I saw slips away until it is replaced by that damn professional distance. Not again. Not this time. It's too late for that, Malcolm. I saw it. You tried to hide it but I saw it anyway. There's isn't any reason to be afraid of yourself. Or of me. The memory of that look in Malcolm's eyes floats in front of my eyes. The one that's puzzled me this entire time. I haven't known what it is until now. My mind overlays it with that sliver of wanting and I instantly recognize the look.
"Interest."
I'm surprised that a malicious echo doesn't repeat the word so I can hear my mistake again and again. It seems that my ability to say things that don't make sense when I'm nervous has expanded to include saying things out loud that are enormously stupid.
"Captain?" His voice is trembling a bit, like his body did earlier. It sounds like he's trying to bring himself under control. Do I spring my theory on him? I could push him away for good. Every instinct I possess tells me that Malcolm is attracted to me. What if I'm wrong, though? Regulations on harassment, not to mention pure awkwardness, are the first things that come to mind. What if I'm right? If I am, the man I would give anything to have in my life as my lover wants me too.
I'm back to the issue of risk. Just how much of a chance am I willing to
take? I didn't become the commander of
"I was just identifying something I saw earlier."
He looks completely baffled and a little unsettled with my answer. Come on, Malcolm. Let me know if I'm reading you right. I'm back to begging. Now I want his control to slip just enough so I know…right or wrong.
"Oh."
That's not an answer. I'm starting to get more than a little frustrated. That monosyllabic response is worse than a negative one. It's…uncertain. I have no idea where I stand with him. Speaking of ideas, though…
"Ready to hit the hay?" Malcolm isn't the only strategist on board. If I can't get something out of him vocally, then his reaction to touching me in order to sleep might give him away.
"Quite ready, actually." I'd chalk that reply up in the positive column.
He turns around so he's facing away from me and slowly leans backwards. I find myself biting my lip to keep a contented sigh from escaping me. It feels so good to have him this close. My hopeful half reminds me that he just might be thinking the same thing. I bite down even harder on my lip when we finally touch and he slides down my side until his head is resting against my shoulder. I'm supporting his weight and he's curved himself so he's not lying directly on his back wound and his bruised shoulder is ever so barely touching my chest. I want nothing more than to wrap my arms around him right now. My right arm, which he's leaning against, is almost twitching in anticipation. But I don't dare.
Looking down at his dark-haired head, I appreciate just how much things between us have changed this night. I still have no idea how he really feels and thinks of me. But for one night, I have him against me…trusting me.
"Good night, Malcolm."
"Good night." No form of address at all. Very nice.
With no reason to fight it off now, I let the exhaustion wash over me. Our surroundings fade into a sleepy haze and I look down at the top of the dark-haired head. One last look before I sleep, for the sweetest dreams. I feel my eyelids getting heavy and I'm about to let sleep take me when I hear Malcolm whisper.
"It was."
"Hmmm…"
"You were right." I try to focus and clear the drowsiness from my mind.
"What?" I'm still looking down at Malcolm so I watch, through blurry eyes, as his head turns slightly so his cheek is resting against my shoulder. Even nicer.
He doesn't answer, though. Kind of difficult to do when he's asleep. I can tell by his even breathing. If I wasn't so sleepy, I probably wouldn't do this but I'm too tired to think very well and besides he's asleep. I give in to the temptation and my right arm lifts up and drapes gently around him until my hand is resting on his chest. At least I'm just awake enough to avoid the wound on his back. But not awake enough to stop the sigh that flees from my mouth.
I'm definitely awake enough to hear the matching sigh from the man beside me. I'm wide awake now. Malcolm just sighed because I put my arm around him?
Whatever he was talking about a little bit ago must have been really important. A clue. It was what? I was right about what? What had I said?
"Oh my god."
Interest. That's what I'd been talking about earlier. It was interest in his eyes. I was right about him wanting me.
I can't resist another urge so I lightly stroke his hair with my free fingers. At my touch, I hear a little sound of pleasure from Malcolm. It's either subconscious or…
He shifts next to me and his head tips up so our faces are just mere centimeters from each other. There's a peaceful smile gracing his lips and his eyes are twinkling at me. I didn't know that his eyes could do that. It's simply beautiful. I smile back at him and he reacts by pressing closer to me.
"You're not getting rid of me now." I hope I haven't scared the hell out of him. But it's the truth. There's no way I'm going anywhere now. He will never be able to do a damn thing to push me away after this.
But Malcolm just nods and smiles a little bigger. "I know."
He changes position again, turning around so he's facing me just a bit more. My arm is still around him only resting on his back now. I can feel him place his left hand on my side and slight tug there as he uses it pull himself up. He's coming closer and closer and before I realize what he's doing, Malcolm is brushing his lips against mine.
This whole time I've been trying to be cautious so I don't push him away. And he kisses me first. His lips feel like sweet silk against mine. I wrap my other arm around him when he starts to break away. As tenderly as I can, I kiss him back. Just a little pressure, increase it slowly…tentatively. I swear I can hear a soft moan as our mouths move against each other. I'm not sure whose it was, though.
Malcolm pulls away and this time I let him. He's not hiding the wanting in his eyes and neither am I.
"Regulations strictly…" A lecture how this goes against the fraternization policy already? "…state that the subordinate officer must initiate any romantic liaison. I hope you don't mind the forwardness of my actions."
Mind? I minded his actions like I minded his idea to use me as his personal pillow. "Not at all. Does that mean that this is a romantic liaison, Malcolm?"
His right hand reaches out and softly runs a thumb along my jaw line. He's trembling, again. But he's not moving. I think this tops my list of favorite incidents with Malcolm's stubborn streak. I lean into the caress. It feels so good to know that my feelings aren't unrequited. I really could stay in this cave with Malcolm forever, if it meant I got to have him.
"If you'll have me." There's that nuance of pain again. I'll do anything to make it go away. Anything I can. I start to answer him but he speaks first. "I'm not sure if I can do this."
I don't even have to think about it. I know exactly what he's referring to. He was raised to follow the rules so completely that there is to be no room for compromise. But somehow, he let me in a little. His superior officer. I can't imagine the struggle that he's been through. I've seen the results of it. The formality. His reliance on work at our aborted breakfast.
"Like I said, I'm not going anywhere. I'll be right here. No matter what. We've got all the time in the universe. And I will always have you."
He blushes again. It is even more appealing this close up. Breakfast gives me an idea, though. I don't think that it's moving too fast. "When we get back tomorrow, would you like to have breakfast with me? We never did finish our first one."
"I promise not to bring my homework to the table this time."
We both laugh a little. I'm actually quite touched that he remembered what I told him. "Sounds like a plan to me."
I'm not tired anymore. For some reason, I doubt I'll be able to sleep tonight. Part of it is probably the fear that when I wake up, Malcolm will have been replaced by Lieutenant Reed.
"I hope you can convince Chef to make Eggs Benedict again. I was too nervous to taste it last time."
I tilt my head forward and give him a light peck on the lips. I wasn't sure if he was nervous or just really uncomfortable at that breakfast. Another question answered.
"Me, too."
A comfortable quiet envelops us. He changes position so he's back to leaning against me, like he was when he first laid down. I'm still relinquishing my hold on him so my hands have, once again, shifted to his chest. This time, though, he's closer. In more ways than one.
"It's a date then, Jon."
I'm the one trembling this time. My name. Not 'sir' or 'captain' but my name. It sounds so wonderful coming from him.
"Oh, Malcolm…" I nuzzle the side of his face with mine. I want to tell him just how amazing it is to hear him call me 'Jon.' I want him to know how much it affects me. That I know how hard that had to be.
"I'm not going anywhere, either."
I place a gentle kiss on his temple and rest my head against his. Malcolm is in my arms. He wants me. I don't care if I sleep tonight. He truly is everything to me. And I think he's learning how to fraternize really well.