Title: Painful Dreaming
Author: Pretzelduck
Author's e-mail: [email protected]
Author's URL: http://www.geocities.com/pretzelduck
Date: Posted to EntSTSlash 04/02/2003
Archive: Permission to archive granted to EntSTCommunity, Tim Ruben, and WWOMB
Fandom: Star Trek:
Category: Slash
Rating: PG
Status: Complete
Pairing: Archer/Reed
Main character(s): Archer, Reed
Summary: A ride in the turbolift and a slip of the tongue force Malcolm to evaluate his interest in Captain Archer.
Warnings: none
Series: n/a
Sequel to: n/a
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Guess what?
I don't own the Star Trek franchise.
Author's Notes: I just want to take a moment to thank everyone who has supported my writing. You guys and gals are the greatest.
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How did I get to this point? As I stand next to him in the turbolift, I can't help but wonder about him. What would he do if I touched him? If I reached out and put my hand on his shoulder like he has a tendency to do to me. Would his eyes grow dark with hunger if I caressed his cheek? How would he react if I told him that at night, I belong to him? In my dreams, he is always there. And in them, he finds me irresistible as I find him and every time I say his name, he smiles at me like I am everything to him. Would he push me away with disgust and revulsion if I pulled him into my embrace?
Of course, he would.
It's rather simple really. He is the captain of this ship. A man that any member of this crew would gladly die for. He exudes confidence, not only in himself but in his mission, the ship and those who serve aboard her. Like me. I have been, at various times, referred to as cold, aloof, anal, difficult, obsessive, and my personal favorite, enigmatic. How on Earth would a man like Jonathan Archer ever become attracted to me?
He wouldn't. And that is what is rather simple. There would be no reason or cause for it to happen. This still leaves my question. How did I get to this point? My heart seems to have steadfastly ignored the impossibility of it and allowed my affection for the man to grow. I can feel it in the oppressive air of this tiny lift. It surrounds me...consumes me and I cannot help but wonder if he notices. And now my imagination takes over once more. It plays out romantic scenarios that I can see with perfect clarity in my head.
That's something I never experienced before. I've never wanted to woo someone before. I'm sure it would seem humorous to others if I told them about my occasional odd urge to serenade him while he sat in the captain's chair. Or of the impulse to sneak into his quarters and leave a rose on his desk.
I suppose it's more than my attraction to him that consumes me. It's Jon himself. I can sense when he's looking at me. Every time we touch, the imprint of him remains for days. Until the next time, anyway.
I'm actually a little surprised he's not trying to carry on a conversation with me right now. Perhaps it's because it's the end of the day. I can feel the need for sleep creeping up on me. Or perhaps I've rebuffed him too many times. Like an invitation that is always rejected, it eventually stops being given. I've often contemplated a friendship with him. But I don't think I could bear it. Always wanting more, despite the fact that it would never be offered. Jon kept pushing me anyway but now, it appears that he has backed off that approach.
A part of me is glad. With each question and each smile, it becomes harder and harder to keep him at a distance. I want him so much. Badly enough to want to snatch at the little I could have and damn the consequences to my heart.
I feel a light pressure on my shoulder and I turn my head toward him at the sound of his voice.
"Are you all right, Malcolm? You looked like you were in another world."
Another world? How fitting. I was, in a way. For a moment, I was in my world that revolves around him. A dream world. Reality, on the other hand, is much different.
"Yes, sir."
He gives me that look I've seen numerous times before. It's a look of irritation crossed with one of disappointment. I've never understood the disappointment on his face. Irritation makes sense to me; irritating is something else I've been called, most notably by Commander Tucker. But why would he always look a bit disheartened?
I'm still thinking about possible reasons, of which I've found none, when the lift stops and the door opens to let him out. My quarters are on a different deck, something for which I'm grateful. If he was just down the corridor from me at night, I doubt I'd sleep much at all.
"Good night, Malcolm."
His voice derails my train of thought. I suppose I had better say something in reply, though.
"Good night, Jon."
The lift door closes and it continues upward. A little voice in the back of my head is nagging me. Something isn't quite right. But for the life of me, I don't know what. I suppose I just need some sleep. At least sleep will be peaceful. I'll dream of Jon and everything will be right again.
Jon. I called him Jon, didn't I? The last few moments replay themselves in my mind. I can hear my own disembodied voice telling him good night and using his name. How did I let that slip through my lips? Why did I pay so little attention to what I was saying?
Once again, the lift stops and I exit, barely aware of my surroundings as I make my way toward my cabin door. I can breathe better once I'm inside in my quarters. In this room, there is no one to see me. Pain surges through my body. It burns where his hand touched my shoulders. A throbbing ache starts to pound inside my head.
I called him Jon. To his face, when he could hear me. Undoubtedly heard me. Now he'll think that he's broken me somewhat, that I'm starting to relax. Doesn't he know that I've already broken? With one tender word, I'd fall into his arms and never leave.
God damn him and his persistence. If he was on the verge of giving up before, now he'll return to his tactics, twice as strong and with a renewed vigor. He'll keep coming until I relent, accepting the offer of friendship and nothing more.
Any piece of energy I might have had seems to have been stripped away from me. My bed suddenly looks rather inviting. I don't bother to change out my uniform or get underneath the covers. Rolling to my side, I yank the pillow beside me and wrap my arms around it, as I always do. In my dreams, it's not the pillow I'm holding but Jon. I'm tucked against his side, my head resting not against the pillow but on his chest; his heartbeat lulling me to sleep.
But tonight, I don't want to dream. I leave the lights on, hoping to keep the sandman away. I can't afford to dream of a Jon who cares for me. In reality, he wants to be my friend. I've settled before, I can do so again. I will be his friend.
And perhaps later, when I've adjusted to that, I'll sleep
with the lights off again. Perhaps I'll
dream again.
fin