Title: Sorrow's Imagination
Author: Pretzelduck
Author's e-mail: [email protected]
Author's URL: http://www.geocities.com/pretzelduck
Date: Posted to EntSTSlash 04/04/2003
Archive: Permission to archive granted to EntSTCommunity, Tim Ruben, and WWOMB
Fandom: Star Trek:
Category: Slash
Rating: PG-13
Status: Complete
Pairing: Archer/Reed
Main character(s): Archer, Reed
Summary: A companion piece to "Painful Dreaming." Jon's thoughts and reactions regarding the late night lift occurrence with Malcolm.
Warnings: None
Series: n/a
Sequel to: "Painful Dreaming"
Spoilers: Minefield, The Communicator
Disclaimer: Guess what?
I don't own the Star Trek franchise.
Author's Notes: A
shout goes out to my roommate who insisted on the ending and to Mareel for
actually coming up with the idea for it.
Thanks for the inspiration. And
Kim, I promise to get right on the third part.
Pronto.
-------
I want to kiss him. A relatively simple statement of fact. I want to feel his lips on mine. That would be a statement of desire. I can almost taste him. My imagination fills in the details of my fantasy quite nicely. There would be a hint of spice, a remnant of the tea I've seen him drink. The kiss would be tentative; he would be afraid to let go and I would be scared I'd push him away.
That's what it all comes down to, isn't it? I don't want to push him away. Every clipped reply and every rejected conversation shatter my heart into a thousand pieces. But I can't stop. It's like I have selective amnesia where he's concerned. I ask a question, he keeps his distance but the next day, I do it over again. He's under my skin; he's everywhere I go. I see him passing me in the corridor, giving me a little nod and if I'm lucky, a smile. He's in the dining room; no matter if he really is or not. Whenever I eat, he's in the chair beside me, looking adorably puzzled at my mention of the World Cup.
And now Malcolm is next to me in the turbolift. He's really there. I'm not imagining him this time. We're alone. A situation that I usually crave and strive for but my thoughts are wandering tonight.
Their destination? The man next to me, of course. I want to know what he's thinking about. No matter how trivial or mundane he feels his thoughts are, each one shared is like a treasure to me. Probably comes from their rarity. But somehow I doubt that. Even if there was a snowball in Hell and we became close, I think that Malcolm's thoughts would still be precious to me.
Like whatever he's thinking about right now. His eyes are unfocused; they're just staring at the wall of the lift. It's almost like he's daydreaming. The expression on his face doesn't give a single hint about what his imaginings might be until the corner of his mouth starts to curve in a little smile. Why can't it be me who makes him smile like that?
Never mind. I know the answer. He's Malcolm. And I'm the captain. That's seems to be how he defines me, anyway, as a rank and position rather than a man. He couldn't possibly ever want me if he doesn't even see me as...me. Jon instead captain or even worse, sir.
Sir. If there is a more agonizing word in the English language, I don't want to hear it. It's the very epitome of what crushes every impossible dream I have about Malcolm. It represents his upbringing, raised with propriety at the forefront of his mind. It represents our difference in rank. I'm his superior. The regulations regarding a relationship between a superior and a subordinate are hazy, at best. And perhaps the most difficult to deal with, it represents Malcolm's defenses. He keeps everyone at a distance; maybe me most of all.
I've done everything I can think of to breach those walls of his. I've tried breakfast with him but he refused to relax. I've begged an alien general to spare his life but he admonished me. I've taken into serious account his thoughts on improving security no matter how overly cautious I think they might be. But nothing has worked. I'm still sir.
God damn him and his persistence. Why can't he see how much it hurts every time he pushes me away? If he would just bend...all it would take was a little...I'd have a chance at convincing him to see me differently. A little different view and maybe, just maybe, he might want me too.
I steal a glance only to notice the lost look on his face. He looks so vulnerable; it's like he's just realized that something important to him is missing. I want more than anything to pull him into my arms. Hoping that he might find whatever is lost in our closeness.
But I can't. So I settle for touching him on his shoulder.
"Are you all right, Malcolm? You looked like you were in another
world."
I love the pulse of electricity that flies through me when we touch but I hate the coldness that follows when I pull my hand away. My fingers become frozen, only the warmth of Malcolm could possibly heat them again. A warmth, I doubt I will ever have the pleasure of knowing.
"Yes, sir."
There it is. Why won't it just go away? Sir. Is it such an evil thing to tell me something...or even anything about why he looked like that?
The lift comes to a stop at my deck. I turn toward him and give him the most inoffensive smile I can. I don't think it matters, though. He still looks he's spacing out.
"Good night, Malcolm."
I'm almost entirely out in the corridor when I catch his reply.
"Good night, Jon."
The door closes and I place my hands against it, to steady myself. Jon. He called me Jon. It seems like I'm dreaming. That's the only place I've heard Malcolm say my name.
Until now. My mind repeats the short sentence over and over again. 'Good night, Jon.' My imagination twists it and suddenly, I'm the one who's daydreaming. We're spooned together in my bed; our bodies molding to each other perfectly. My hands are caressing every part of that gorgeously lean and muscular body. His hair tickles my nose but I like the feeling of having him so close. He whispers 'Good night, Jon' as we drift off to sleep together.
But it's just a dream. A daydream I'm having out in the hallway. I pull myself away from the support of the door and walk down toward my quarters, doing my best to look captain-like rather than like a man whose life has been given a new purpose. One of hope...with hope. The possibility of hearing Malcolm say my name again and again is almost overwhelming. The possibilities are endless, really. What if he could be mine?
When I finally get inside my own cabin, I set free the huge grin I've been trying to keep hide. I have to share my news and who else better to share with than the one who already hears all about my attraction to Malcolm anyway...
"Guess what, Porthos?" Unsurprisingly, he doesn't even bother getting up from his bed. He does look up, though. It's probably the childish excitement in my voice.
"Malcolm called me Jon. Isn't that amazing?" Porthos just looks at me. I guess if I'm not saying something about cheese, he doesn't care.
But I do. If he called me Jon, then that means he just doesn't think about me as a rank. Doesn't it? It has to. I have this sudden insane itch to go running up and down the halls of Enterprise telling anyone I pass about what happened. Okay, so maybe it wouldn't be as big of a deal to anyone but me...
What about him? I'm forgetting about Malcolm. Did he even realize what he said? Usually he is very alert but tonight he wasn't. Maybe it was just a subconscious thing. But why would Malcolm's subconscious be calling me Jon?
There has to be a reason. I have to be able to explain it somehow. It could be his way of getting me to leave him alone. That makes sense. If he calls me Jon, then maybe he thinks I'll stop asking him questions or trying to socializing with him. That if I think I've achieved my goal, I'll back off. He seems to think in strategy and tactics, so it is a possibility. One that tests my ability to keep my stomach down.
Does he really want to maintain distance between us that much? Enough to do something like that. Something that raises my hopes so much. The very thought hurts; it makes my whole body shake slightly with repressed anger and frustration.
"What do you think, boy?"
Porthos actually decides to get up and trots over to my feet. Bending down, I run my hand along his fur. The simple motion calms my raging emotions a little. Sometimes I wonder what I would do without him.
"What do you think Malcolm wants?"
All of a sudden, Porthos jumps up and gives me a slobbery dog kiss right on the mouth. I push him away gently and stand up, wiping the drool off my face with my sleeve.
"That doesn't help, Porthos. I doubt what Malcolm wants is a kiss."
A kiss. Not a dog kiss but a human kiss. A kiss from me. Another dream invades my mind and I close my eyes to fight the fierceness of it. We're facing each other; he's in my arms, pressed tightly against my body. One of his hands is entangled in my hair while the other is resting softly on my back. The fire burning in those gray eyes of his is tempered by the loving smile on his lips. He leans toward me and that smile disappears as his lips touch mine. The kiss isn't tentative nor is it desperate. The tenderness I feel is nothing compared to that I feel from him. It's a feeling borne of trust and intimacy. He pulls away and that smile returns. Malcolm's hand stops running through my hair and begins to lightly trace the outline of my lips with its fingertips. I reach out to touch him in return and there's nothing there.
I open my eyes. Nothing. A dream. Just a dream. I've got to get some sleep. That's when a person is supposed to dream. That's when these fantasies about Malcolm are supposed to come out. Of course, I can't touch him. He can touch me, though. Deeply. But I can't touch him. He won't let me.
Exhaustion strikes me without warning. I can't seem to keep my eyes open. Malcolm's managed to wear me out. Lying down on my bed, I quickly realize that I still have my uniform on but I don't have the energy to get back up and take it off. I grab a pillow and pull it close to me so I'm hugging it.
The lights. I reach up and my quarters become dark. It's easier this way. In the dark, I let my imagination take over. The pillow is transformed into Malcolm. This way it's him I'm holding tight, just like in my daydreams. I run my hand along his side, feeling not the fabric but his smooth and sensitive skin. I can feel myself smiling as it quivers at my touch.
In the dark, I don't feel the difference between my pillow and my Malcolm. But my heart does. Oh, how it does.
-fin-