Reed's Armory -- A Malcolm Reed Fanfiction Archive ..

Title: Sleep

Author: Lexx

Author's e-mail: [email protected]

Fandom: Enterprise

Pairing: Reed/Mayweather

Rating: PG

Category: Slash

Summary: "He squeezed his eyes impossibly tighter, willing his mind to quiet, his thoughts to cease their reckless dance, and he implored his body to relax."

Comments: Author's notes: May cause spontaneous hate for synonyms, or indeed the lack thereof.

Beta reader(s): I am opposed to causing severe mental harm on others.

Archived to Reed's Armory on 10/17/2003.

Malcolm Reed lay back on his bunk in the relative darkness, his eyes staring at the ceiling above him. As his sharp gaze travelled across the dull surface, picking out the sealing bolts and joins in the metal, his fingers wound further into the soft blue bedcovers beneath them. He blinked slowly, revelling in the momentary respite for his eyes, clinging to the thin hope that consciousness would escape him. His eyes slid open again, and the dreary roof of his cabin grinned down at him once more.

His breath escaped as a low, apathetic sigh; he was so tired he couldn't even muster the energy to be annoyed. He shook his head at himself; he wanted to laugh. The want was there, but unfortunately the action was not. He knew that the sound was ready, desperate to burst forth from his throat to fill the silent room with mirth. He also knew, however, that such a thing would not occur that night; he was too tired.

Malcolm heaved himself onto his side and flopped over onto his stomach; his arm dangled listlessly over the edge of the bed. Even with his face pressed into his pillow with the calming scent of soap and shampoo filling his head, his mind refused to rest. He squeezed his eyes impossibly tighter, willing his mind to quiet, his thoughts to cease their reckless dance, and he implored his body to relax. His head began to feel fuzzy, and a flicker of hope rose inside him; perhaps Sleep would finally claim him as his own. The hope was extinguished as quickly as it arrived, like a newly lit candle snuffed out by a draft. He rolled over onto his side as he realized it was not Sleep who had tried to claim him. Death had tired to wrap her long talons around him.

A thought fluttered through his mind with the disposition of a butterfly. What would the crew think if they found their armoury officer dead by asphyxiation? The corners of his lips twitched as they tried to form a smile; the muscles were too tired to complete the action, though. The logical part of his brain told him it was unlikely he would have died, but his physical instincts seemed stronger. He caught his hand as it tried to reach for the PADD on the bedside table. He had been accused of 'writing his own obituary' on more than more occasion; why not really do it now? Why not just bury his face in his pillow and wait for Death to sweep him away to eternal rest? Tell them you're tired Malcolm.

A tiny voice chuckled at him from somewhere in the depths of his mind; he squashed it like an unwanted insect as he brought his hand back to the bed. It landed heavily on the quilt, and he shook his head at himself once more. Insanity increased at night, he assumed; it was let out from its tight reigns and allowed to frolic amongst the nettles and thorns of the after-midnight hours. Waltzing through the darkened corridors, Insanity could wind itself around someone in silence; like a snake.

He twisted restlessly in the bed. The sheet beneath the quilt had wound its way around his torso, pinning his arms to his chest like a straight jacket. With another sigh, he kicked the quilt to the floor and untangled himself from the sheets. His hand rested against the cool metal bulkhead as he steadied himself; he was dizzy for some reason he couldn't place. His feet beat a steady rhythm in the darkness as he crossed the small cabin. He pulled a t-shirt from one of his drawers, which rolled closed again with a quiet rumble, finally shutting with a dulled snap. He shivered as he pulled the cotton garment over his arms; he hadn't noticed the cold nipping at his exposed skin until then. He pulled the t-shirt on the rest of the way and found a pair of sweatpants in the dark of the room. He pulled them on, and managed a half-grin as found they were several inches too long for him.

It didn't matter, he knew as he hitched them up a little; he was going to visit their owner now anyway. The soft material pooled over his bare feet, sliding along the deck plating as he walked, but he didn't care. With a slight shake of his head, he tapped the door release and stepped out of his quarters. As he had expected, the corridor was deserted; an eerie silence engulfed the air, broken only by the steady thrum of the warp engines and the muted sounds of his feet on the cold deck. He glanced upwards, and shook his head; the light strips were dimmer during the 'night' than they were during the 'day' on Enterprise. Personally, Malcolm didn't see the point. What about the people on the night shift? Weren't they entitled to as much light? Ah, but then, it wouldn't be called the night shift, would it? He groaned as he realized he was having an argument with himself; he really needed some sleep.

There were rarely any crewmembers on the corridors that late at night--no, this early in the morning, he corrected himself. Save for the occasional insomniac stalking the ship, begging for fatigue to take over their bodies, they were empty. The faint scent of aftershave mixed with perfume floated almost undetected in the air, and he guessed a couple had passed by recently. He had seen it before; one pulling the other along to their quarters for a night of sultry passion; hot kisses in the pale starlight, sweat-slicked bodies moving against each other in a steady rhythm, soft moans rippling through the soundless night...

He shook himself from his thoughts as he reached his destination; he wondered absently how he had managed to find his way, for he knew he had not been paying rapt attention to the direction his feet had been taking him. Evidently, his mind had been taking more notice than he had thought. His fingers hovered over the door's chime for a few seconds as he wondered whether he should proceed. Resigning himself to the fact that he would get no sleep that night if he didn't complete this excursion, his fingers drove the small button into its dent in the wall. He was suddenly angry at his own uncertainty; he had no time for hesitation in his job. Why should he not be as self-assured off duty?

He waited for several moments as his mind waged a battle with itself. Should he have come? Should he have just gone back to his quarters? Why was he so uncertain? The maelstrom of thought continued until the door slid open, and Travis squinted against the light of the corridor, still sore on his eyes even though it was dim. He looked mildly angry for the most fleeting of moments, but as his eyes travelled from the armoury officer's bare feet, up past his clenched fists to his wan features, Travis stepped aside, allowing Malcolm entry.

The helmsman was lucky enough to have his own quarters, he knew; though he was part of the senior staff after all. Unfortunately, the room was the smallest quarters on the ship. Malcolm had once termed it 'the broom cupboard of Enterprise'. They didn't have broom cupboards on cargo ships, so Travis opted to take Malcolm's word for it.

Malcolm stood in the middle of the room, his gaze having trailed up from the floor to helmsman's face. Travis's expression was beautiful; his eyes were so expressive, so understanding... Malcolm found himself wrapped in a warm embrace. He settled his head on Travis's shoulder as the other man's strong arms encircled his waist, and he brought his hands up to rest on Travis's back.

It wasn't the first time the two had found themselves in such a position. Both men had ventured to each other's cabin when they found they were so tightly wound they feared they would snap. For Malcolm, it was usually when his thoughts battled each other violently, as they had that night, tumbling around each other, fighting to the death, preventing Sleep from singing his soothing melody. Malcolm felt gentle fingers tilting his head, and his eyes smiled at Travis.

Travis pressed soft kisses to his face, starting with his forehead and moving all around, finally coming to rest on Malcolm's lips; it was a long, lingering touch. Travis smiled as he saw the expected droop in the other man's eyelids. He grasped Malcolm's pale hand in his own dark one and gently pulled the other man to the bed. He lay down on the small bunk with Malcolm pressed close to his chest. He wrapped his arms around Malcolm's waist once more, and pressed a final kiss to his forehead.

Malcolm draped a leg over Travis's; he sighed contentedly, and let his lips ghost over the helmsman's. He spared the cabin's ceiling a glance as he felt Travis's breathing even out, and pulled the duvet cover over the top of them as best he could. His eyes slipped closed, and he buried his face in Travis's shoulder.

Sleep reached a hand out to Malcolm, and he took it gratefully. For Sleep had the face of Travis Mayweather, and his soothing melody was called love.

~the end~