Chapter Text
The Constitution class starships were the Federation's frontline vessels, their flagships. They weren’t warships, they were symbols of the Federation’s power and grace-- symbols of diplomacy. But diplomacy could pack a punch with twelve phaser banks and six torpedo tubes mounted fore and aft. Michael had seen the ones mounted to the underside of the saucer as the USS Roswell waited, almost serenely, for Michael’s shuttle to arrive. He’d been like the nerdiest first year engineering student, staring at the Roswell from his window, taking in every single little detail, giddy with excitement. Of course, Michael had known the specs of this ship backwards and forwards even before he had been reassigned, memorized them while languishing at Starbase 88 under the hateful eye of Captain Jesse Manes. But knowing specs and seeing the real thing were a world apart.
Standing in the corridor of the starship, Michael felt like he could finally breathe again. His engineer’s ear picked up every whoosh and whistle and hum of the machinery and it all sounded good, in harmony. Even the chattering crew as they walked calmly from one station to the next sort of synced right in with the general ship noises. It felt healthy in a way Starbase 88 had not, which, unlike Roswell, had specialized in war.
The inside of the ship was just so colorful, clean white walls, broken up by yellow doors or red wall comms. For some insane reason, the ceiling was orange and Michael loved it. And it wasn’t just the ship that was colorful. So were the crew members. Michael took a moment to appreciate Starfleet's new colorful line of uniforms, especially miniskirts. The miniskirts were definitely a plus.
The other plus was his family -- his siblings and his adoptive father, Lt. Commander Sanders, had been stationed on the Roswell for one year and five years now respectively. And it’s likely why he was too, now.
See, the issue was that Starfleet sort of saw Michael as a problem child. Which was patently untrue.
Sure, he had a slight history of creative problem solving. But Michael felt like that was a plus. Honestly the Dynamic’s Captain should have been happy that he added that experimental tech into the warp drive, that poor old girl was creaking at warp fucking two before he got his hands on her. And hey, maybe he did introduce a new spore-based scrubbing system to life support on the Adamant, violating an invasive species protocol or two, but it wasn’t like that had done any real damage. And okay so maybe there was a shade of insubordination. But insubordination was in the eye of the beholder, and when the beholder was Jesse fucking Manes, a little rebellion was a good thing, in Michael’s book.
Speaking of which, he was a little nervous about the captain of the Roswell being Manes’ son, Alex. But he had decided to keep his head down, try to skate by unnoticed, if only for the sake of his family. Starfleet had put him here on purpose, an absolute last ditch effort to get Michael to fly straight under the watchful eye of the family he missed terribly. Smart, manipulative bastards. Though he supposed he prefered it to them shoving a professorship in his hands and sending him to the academy where he couldn’t slip experimental tech into warp drives or life support. Where he would absolutely die of boredom.
He wouldn’t be bored here. One simply couldn’t die of boredom on a cutting-edge Constitution Class Starship right? Especially not one whose five year mission was so deep in the unexplored parts of the quadrant that it made Michael’s head spin just a little. And the mechanics on this thing were fascinating.
“Lieutenant Guerin?” An amused voice broke into his musing. Which was probably for the best, because Michael already had a tool in his hand and was contemplating popping open a control panel.
“Ah. Yeah,” he said, taking her in. Humanoid, but the big black eyes, gave her away -- a Betazoid. The knee-high boots and gold miniskirt just highlighting her muscle, but Michael also noted the solid gold stripes braided into the cuffs of her sleeves so he kept his demeanor professional. He was going to keep his head down, damnit. This was a cool ship and he was close to his family and he wasn’t going to screw it up.
“Commander DeLuca, right?” When Isobel told him about her, she neglected to mention how unfairly attractive she was. Honestly Isobel, a little warning and a lot less mean girl-esque grumbling with no bite.
She smiled, nodding. “The captain was wondering if you got lost.”
Oh lord, Manes was going to be an asshole wasn’t he? “I wasn’t aware of a meeting with Captain Manes…” He frowned, confused.
“Just something he likes to do with the newbies. Quick meet and greet. Nothing to be nervous over.”
“Do I look nervous?” He asked, pocketing his tool. “Lead the way.”
She gestured down the hall, towards the turbolift. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she started, and at his raised eyebrow, she shook her head. “Mostly good from your family. Lt. Commander Sanders particularly. We’re glad to have you aboard.”
As they stepped into the lift, Michael carefully kept the suspicion off his face but he got the impression Commander DeLuca could sense it. He shored up his psychic defenses on instinct, on the likely chance she was using her abilities to get a read on her new crewman. Noticing, she shifted her attention back to her PADD and even though he felt kind of bad, he didn’t make any attempts to explain. They arrived at Deck 9 in silence.
The doors opened with a soft swoosh and Michael stepped out, running right into a Vulcan. And to his knowledge there was only one on board Roswell.
His first coherent thought was that he was hot. Unfairly hot.
He took a moment just to take Manes in. That typically neutral Vulcan expression did nothing to change the fact that Manes had delicate model-like features. His hair was a little long for standard regulations but who was Michael to talk? And anyway, it looked silky and smooth. Michael’s hand itched to sweep it out of his eyes, tuck a few strands behind those cute pointy ears.
Manes’ command golds fit him like a damn glove, showing off an impressively chiseled chest, and from what Michael could see from this angle, an unfairly sweet ass clad in snug black pants. Did they not have uniforms that actually fit on this ship?
No, no. Michael was going to find the horny admiral who approved this new line of uniform and personally send him a thank you note.
“Ah, Mr. Guerin, welcome aboard the Roswell,” Manes said and his voice was… wow ok.
Michael, for the first time in his life, felt like his brain just short circuited.
Crap. This might be the first time Michael got kicked off a posting for flirting with a captain.
Alex could honestly say that he hadn’t been sure what to expect, given his father’s reports on Lt. Guerin, but this was not it.
The first thing that stuck out was the cowboy hat, entirely incongruous with the rest of Guerin’s red engineering uniform. Definitely not dress code, but Alex never particularly cared about the odd dress code violation as long as people were doing their jobs. And honestly, he kind of liked the individuality, it gave the ship color. Well more color.
The second was that Guerin was gorgeous. That was to be expected, he supposed. He had never met an Antaran who wasn’t (not that he'd met that many, given their near extinction), but there was something particularly striking about him. Maybe it was the curls that Guerin revealed whenever he pulled the hat off to rake his fingers through his hair, something that seemed to be a nervous habit. Perhaps it was the light-honey brown of his eyes. Maybe it had to do with the slight crookedness of his nose, a welcome imperfection.
No matter. Alex’s third impression was that his father, predictably, had undersold Guerin’s genius. Which he had known already, considering the reports from the Adamant and the Dynamic and Lt. Commander Sanders’ gruff, monosyllabic approval (which amounted to a glowing testimonial from essentially anyone else). However, it was thrown into stark relief during their brief conversation.
Guerin had talked his ear off about power nacelles, about the improvements to the lithium and dilithium reactor and all the other parts of the ship that Alex’s understanding was best encapsulated as enough. Though Alex had only intended to have a brief meeting with the lieutenant (suss out just how “intractably insubordinate'' he really was), he’d found himself listening in bemusement as Guerin somehow both gushed over and criticized his ship.
It was obvious from the start that Guerin had immediately fallen in love with the Roswell. And how could he not? Alex was of the firm belief that his ship was by leaps and bounds the best in Starfleet. Any engineer worth their salt, and certainly one as intelligent and inquisitive as Guerin would immediately see what Alex saw in her. But Guerin also saw room for improvement in even the most minor things, and Alex would have been perfectly happy to stand there and listen to him ramble -- smile as bright as sunshine due to excitement -- about things he barely understood for hours.
“Ah, Captain,” Commander DeLuca broke in, her voice tinged subtly with amusement. He didn’t look at her. He was not taking the bait. “We’ll be late for our meeting with Dr. Valenti, for the final briefing on the aid mission to Cygni Alpha 10.”
“Right. Thank you, Number One,” he said, stiffly.
“I’ll just uh... Make my way to Engineering. Check in with Sanders,” Michael said, taking the hint. “Deck 5, right?” He didn’t wait for an answer, and there was no need to correct him. Guerin had done his homework.
“I honestly don’t know if I should be vaguely offended, mildly frightened, or simply impressed,” Alex admitted to Maria as they walked away, looking over at her. She typically helped provide some clarity in these sorts of situations.
“I think you should be worried about how long this ship will stay structurally sound,” Maria said dryly.
Alex inclined his head; it was a fair point. “Where we’re going, it’s not the worst idea to have someone around to think innovatively.” Maria hummed her agreement but he could tell she was unsure, and honestly Alex felt the same way. The creative thinking, after all, wasn’t the real problem here. “Sanders has also promised me that, and I quote, ‘he’ll make sure the stupid kid doesn’t blow up the damn ship and us in it’.”
"And when we're not in it?" Maria asked, archly.
“Guess we’re shit out of luck,” Alex said dryly.
Oria was a deserted planet in the Epilson Indi star system. There had once been a thriving civilization here, older than the Federation. Possibly older even than Antar, which had been one of the first warp capable civilizations in the Milky Way. Oh how the mighty had fallen, Michael thought and even after all this time Michael wasn’t sure how he felt about the end of the Antaran Empire. Maybe it had been deserved. But there was always a part of him that longed for home, and Oria was reminding him of Antar, the lush and green beauty of it.
But taking in the beauty wasn’t the reason for their mission.
There was a facility built deep inside of a mountain, an enormous structure that was still in perfectly working order according to preliminary reconnaissance. Starfleet, of course, had been eager to learn what it could possibly have been used for, possibly hoping for something they could use to gain the advantage in the cold war against the Klingons.
Of course, the enormity of the structure meant that sooner or later the inevitable would happen. The captain ordered the team to split up. And Michael saw an opportunity too good to let go.
“I think you should let Rogers and Todd take the rest of security, sir,” Michael suggested as politely as he could manage. At Alex’s raised eyebrow, Michael grinned and tugged on his shirt, which honestly should be blue because hello engineering was a science but in this case it was working for him. “I’m a red shirt too, remember? I’ll watch your back, captain.”
“You’re an engineer. Not security,” Captain Manes replied, plain and matter of fact in that way Vulcans always were so known for.
He nodded. “Fair. But neither of those two guys can move a couple thousand kilos with their brain so…”
The captain had to concede to Michael’s point, which was how he found himself wandering a gorgeous, ancient facility alone with Alex Manes.
“Is this place amazing or what?” Michael asked, taking readings as they walked, approaching a door at the end of a long hallway.
“Quite,” Manes agreed. “I confess, I had thought it might be,” he hesitated, looking for a word. Probably trying to be tactful.
“Difficult, exploring a post-apocalyptic planet?” Michael filled in, and Manes winced, just a bit. “It’s fine. It happened when I was a kid.”
“The things we experience as children often leave the deepest scars,” he pointed out, the door opening with a silent rush of air as they approached it, leading into what looked to be a central engineering hub. Score.
Michael let out a breath. Manes wasn’t wrong. “Yeah, I guess I’ve made peace with it,” Michael said, slowly, shaking his head. “And anyway, I’d rather think about how beautiful this place is than...”
The door closed behind them with a mechanical click. The lights flickered before going off, plunging the room into near-darkness, illuminated only by the glow of yellow emergency lights.
Manes bit back a soft curse, looking back at the automatic door they’d just come through. “Lt. Guerin?”
Michael did a sweep of the room with his tricorder. “Not registering any primary system activity.” Huh. That was weird.
“So you’re saying we’re trapped?” Manes was pulling out his communicator, flipping it open.
“I’m saying...” Michael slipped the tricorder away, going to one of the consoles near the door. He had a pretty good guess about what it might be. “If I can get us out within the hour, you owe me dinner. And a drink,” he said lightly, winking at him.
Manes arched an eyebrow; but he didn’t say no. In fact, he looked intrigued, and Michael had to resist the ridiculous urge to punch the air.
“You’re very sure of yourself,” Manes said dryly, but he was replacing his communicator.
Michael laughed, finding the fastenings for the console and popping it open, revealing a mess of mechanics that no one could have set eyes on for millennia. And he had to just take a moment to catch his breath, look at it, appreciate the beauty of it. “Hold my hat,” he said in lieu of an answer, pulling it off and tossing it to him. Manes caught it, awkwardly turning it over in his hands for a moment before finding a low wall to sit on and setting it aside.
Michael was rather acutely aware of the Captain’s eyes on him. Intent, serious. He sneaked a few glances over at him, but Manes really had perfected the Vulcan resting neutral-face and he couldn’t tell if the man was waiting for him to fuck up, checking out his ass, or trying not to fall asleep.
Actually, no, most of Manes’ attention seemed to be on Michael’s hands, so he was probably just interested in what he was doing. Pushing aside the disappointment that he wasn’t checking out his ass, Michael tried to focus -- fortunately, the complex genius of the system helped with that. He could spend months detailing this, and he almost regretted that they wouldn’t have time.
It was barely half an hour before he found the fault -- a relay that had gotten interrupted when the door had opened for them. As soon as he bypassed it, the consoles started humming and the lights flickered back to life.
“Ha! Got it!” He cheered, grinning at Manes unabashedly, shaking his curls out of his eyes.
“Good job,” Manes said, rising, handing him back his hat. Their hands brushed briefly. Manes seemed strangely flustered.
“Definitely earned that dinner,” Michael grinned, dropping his hat back on his head.
“You make a lot of assumptions, Mr. Guerin,” Manes said, looking at Michael with that perfectly neutral expression. Michael felt a flush quickly spread across his neck and face. He started to splutter. Shit he really fucked it up.
“I-ah…”
“How do you know that Vulcans even eat?” Manes asked, like that was a legitimate fucking question. Michael was too flabbergasted to respond. Manes looked at him for a moment longer, lips quirked upward in a slight smirk, before he moved away, restarting his exploration of the facility.
Apparently Captain Manes had a sense of humor. It wasn’t very good, truth be told. But Michael was delighted anyway.
Alex could definitely see why Guerin would annoy his father, and the rest of the admiralty. But he’d rapidly come to like him -- even trust him quite a bit. His brain moved remarkably quickly, often faster than even the most skilled Vulcan science officers, and even if his choices weren’t typically logical, Alex could admit that they were usually the right ones.
It soon was the fact that any time Alex led an away mission that required an engineer, he chose Lt. Guerin unless there was some pressing reason to leave him on the ship. Much to the amusement of his chief medical officer and first officer.
“Don’t worry,” Commander DeLuca said as they left the briefing room, smoothing her hands over the short skirt of her gold command uniform. “The Rigel 10 mission requires an engineer. So you can bring your favorite along.”
Alex snorted. “I do not play favorites, Number One.”
“Right,” Kyle said, incredulously. “So you’ve just forgotten that you have thirty other qualified engineers?”
Alex shot him a cool look, with an arched eyebrow. Normally it would be considered withering, but his command team was made of sterner stuff. Kyle not-so-subtly bit a laugh.
Alex sighed, just a little. “He is the quickest thinker of the entire engineering team. He’s the logical pick.”
“Oh yes. This is all about logic,” Maria said, dryly, giving Kyle a look that was loaded with significance.
Alex pretended not to see it. They could both suck it. He hadn’t lied. Guerin was both lightning-fast and the most creative of the engineering team. By any metric, he was the right guy to take.
He was also really funny. Alex wasn’t accustomed to laughing. He tended to lean pretty hard into his Vulcan side, preferring it to his father’s heritage, and Vulcans didn’t do humor, really (well not in the way most species did anyway). But Michael was invariably able to crack that self-control, get a smile, even a chuckle.
And he particularly loved to employ it during tense moments.
“Not gonna kill ya right? Doing that?” Guerin asked, poking his head from underneath the console of their shuttle. A malfunction had forced them to crash land on a rather inhospitable planet, the atmosphere of which would burn their skin if it seeped through their shields -- but of course said shields were also keeping them from transporting out.
It was a tense moment, but by this point, Alex had kind of become comfortable with just waiting for Guerin to figure it out. It was much more logical to waste his own time, rather than waste the ship’s time on a pointless rescue mission or change it’s orders when he had a perfectly capable and charming engineer with him.
Besides, watching Guerin work wasn’t a hardship.
Alex rolled his eyes. “I’m only half Vulcan.”
Guerin shrugged. “Good. Wasn’t sure if you’re like Selenicereus grandiflorus.” At Alex’s frown, Guerin continued. “Night blooming flower. Blooms once and dies. It’s gorgeous. Like your smile.”
“An interest in botany, Lieutenant?” Alex asked, and he knew it was a little stiff. But no matter how often it happened, Guerin always took him aback with the flirtation.
Michael laughed softly. “Ah. Antaran biology shares a few similarities with Earth plants and fungi. Helps to have a rudimentary knowledge.”
Alex had a feeling his knowledge and interest was more than just passing. “Fascinating.”
“Sure,” Guerin said. “I could tell you more about it over dinner. If I recall you still owe me one.”
Alex let himself smile, slowly. Not unrestrained, but calmly. “Yes, I do owe you one dinner.”
One dinner turned to two, turned to three. Turned to taking a walk through the atrium. To listening to the ship’s quartet together. To looking the other way when Michael somehow managed to get a bottle of whisky on board. To spending the night in Michael’s quarters, sharing said bottle and by turns arguing about the philosophy of invention.
Or at least that was the plan. At first.
“Wait, sorry,” Michael said, moving a box of parts from his couch, while Alex stood back watching with a bemused smile on his face. They were both out of uniform. This was the first time Alex had seen Michael in anything but his engineering reds. He wasn’t sure what he actually expected, but the jeans worn to velvety-softness and a white tshirt with more than one or two frayed edges wasn’t it. Even so, it immediately was obvious that it suited him. And suddenly, Alex understood the near-ubiquitous cowboy hat that Michael insisted on wearing.
What had actually been more surprising to see was the disarray in the Lieutenant’s quarters. He’d had the impression that Michael tended to be neat. After all, as the adopted child of Lt. Commander Sanders, he would have had to spend an appreciable amount of his childhood shipside, and there was typically no place for disarray on a starship. “Is that oil staining your couch?” Alex asked, one eyebrow arched.
“Ah yeah,” Michael flushed, using his powers (which Alex was only starting to get used to seeing, though apparently he used frequently while on the job) to flip the seat cushion to the cleaner side. “I like to tinker with old tech. For fun. But the oil has a tendency to get everywhere.” He shrugged a little, sheepish, and it was strange to see Michael shy about his interests.
Alex shook his head, obviously giving the couch a slightly suspicious once-over before he deemed it clean enough and sat. “Ancient earth technology is messy, I suppose. But I thought it would be too simple for you?”
“I mean,” Michael began, grabbing a pair of low ball glasses and pouring out the whiskey. He nodded towards the pieces in the box. “That’s just one part of an old truck engine. One day I’d like to build the whole thing. But right now, I only have those parts. And not all of them work properly.”
“You could just replicate what you need,” Alex pointed out, frowning a little. It seemed unnecessarily sentimental. He never really understood those who had a love affair with old earth artifacts.
Michael rolled his eyes. “Not the same, Captain.”
“Alex,” he corrected, before he could really think that through. But he was sitting on Michael’s couch, drinking his whisky. He could afford a little relaxation of protocol, he supposed.
Michael’s smile was a little too broad, a little too warm. “Alex.”
And he liked it. Liked the way Michael smiled, the way Alex’s name sounded in his mouth.
Alex swallowed, took a small sip of his drink. “Tell me about your truck?” He prodded, just to see Michael’s eyes light up.
Michael shifted, plopping down next to Alex. Close. His knee against Alex’s thigh, all grins and animated hands as he spoke. Antarans apparently had a very different sense of personal space, closer to humans, he supposed. Michael had been raised by one so it made sense that he behaved more like them.
Not that he minded. This close he could smell the petrichor, which Alex knew Antarans all smelled like. He’d grown accustomed to it. After all, the scent lingered in the bridge whenever Isobel Evans was at the helm, and filled the security office where Max Evans spent most of his time. However, neither could compare to the way Michael smelled. It was like rain in the Vulcan desert. Cool and comforting. Fragrant like the blossoms Michael liked to talk about.
Alex leaned a little against the back of the couch, feeling himself relax further as Michael spoke excitedly about his projects and his siblings. He watched as Michael’s hand reached for Alex’s leg, the one pressed against his (and it was redundant to compare him again to the desert but the warmth of him reminded Alex of the comfort of Vulcan, the safety). He watched as Michael’s eyes drifted up to meet Alex’s, fingers hovering carefully over his knee, before settling his hand back onto the couch again, a little unsure frown on his face. A moment later his hands started to toy awkwardly with the glass of whiskey, as if seeking something to do.
Alex was mesmerized by those hands -- the strength in the shape of his palms and the grace and dexterity in his long, slender fingers. He'd been distracted by them the entire time Michael had been talking, but especially now. Alex liked to watch them work, putting together or breaking apart bits of machinery Alex would never know the names of or idly twirling a hyperspanner as he worked out complex problems in his head. Alex couldn’t even make himself feel vaguely guilty over the interest.
Especially not now as Michael’s fingers circled the rim of his glass, pressed along the sides. It might not have been, but it felt as if it were a deliberate seduction.
“You said you played right?” Michael was saying, and Alex started. He’d almost missed the topic change.
“Mmm.” Alex had to pull his eyes back up to Michael’s face.
“You never did tell me what,” he said, chewing on his lip in uncertainty and Alex frowned. It wasn’t a terribly personal question. But Michael’s whole demeanor had changed and Alex wondered what exactly caused the change.
“Guitar, well,” Alex replied. “Still learning the Vulcan lyre. I only started learning it when I was 11, when I moved to Vulcan. So please don’t ask me to play that one yet.”
Alex tracked Michael’s hand as it raked through his gorgeous mess of curls. He caught Alex’s eyes before he spoke, smile a little tentative. “Would you? If I asked?”
“I would. Should you ask.” Alex swallowed and set his glass down carefully on Michael’s over-cluttered coffee table. Michael's eyes were bright and there was nothing tentative in his smile now. He was back to toying with the rim of his glass and his scent and warmth were deliciously overwhelming.
The urge to touch was growing, as it ever was when in close proximity to Michael. Breaking down all his carefully constructed walls. Making him want to do, to act... Alex needed to touch him, Vulcan primness be damned.
Holding Michael’s eyes, Alex raised his hand, spreading apart his ring and middle finger.
“Oh…” Michael looked a little perplexed, surprised. But he lifted the hand that had been teasing the rim of his glass and copied him, with only a moment of struggle to get his fingers to cooperate. And Alex felt impossibly warmer. It was already almost too much, in that way it always felt when he shucked ritual and propriety and just allowed himself to feel.
He pressed their hands together, palm to palm, holding Michael’s eyes, his breath catching a little.
Michael’s hand was rough. Expectedly so -- an engineer’s hands were destined to be callused. But warm and soft, at the same time. Alex breathed out slowly and tried not to shiver. Tried not to let his mind run away with him.
Michael smiled back, slowly. Their hands held together for several breaths, before Michael’s hand slid, rough fingers starting to wrap around Alex’s, in a gentle, warm grip.
Alex inhaled sharply, causing Michael to stop momentarily before brushing his thumb against Alex’s knuckles. Alex didn’t see it so much as feel the rough pad of Michael’s thumb as if it were stroking along every nerve in his body. His eyes were anchored on Michael, who was looking back soft and curious, that generous mouth curled into a bemused smile. Alex pulled their hands apart gently, just enough so he could slowly trace his index and middle finger across Michael’s palm, up the junction where thumb and index finger met. Alex’s touch was a gentle caress, a soft press of his fingers. Slow and careful, but deliberate in its intention, in his attraction. Unlike the blazing fire Alex felt for Michael.
That fire could easily escape control, if Alex was not careful. And as much as he embraced the mantra that unbridled emotion and passion was dangerous, for the first time in a long time he wanted to let go. Wanted to burn.
But Michael did not respond in kind, nor did he even attempt a clumsy grab of his hand again. Confusion played on his face. And perhaps that was for the best, Alex thought.
Alex let out a heavy breath. His palm and fingertips still tingled from Michael’s touch. Alex pressed his hands together, an echo of the warm pressure of Michael’s hand. “It’s getting late,” he murmured.
Michael still looked bewildered, dragging his hand through his hair. But he didn’t protest.
For perhaps the first time, Alex honestly regretted not coming of age on Earth. Although Michael wasn’t human, he had been raised by them, and human mating rituals were so very different from Vulcan.