Chapter Text
The strobe lights that pulse through the nightclub's gloomy interior are making my stomach churn, and just for once I'm pretty sure this dull thump in my temples isn't some kind of drunken warning of a God-awful hangover. I mean, the booze they serve in this poky, humid, overcrowded joint Johnny's dragged us into is, in my informed opinion, alligator piss mixed with stale vinegar.
None of the others seem to agree with me. That must be the eighth jug of the night that's empty on the table, and I'm stone-cold sober. Travis? Fraternising with the locals last time he came into scanner range, which leaves Johnny, Hosh and Malcolm - who I last saw heading off for a refill five minutes ago - responsible for running up the biggest bar tab of the mission so far.
And here comes my favourite armoury officer, weaving his way through the crowd with another big jug clutched to his chest like it's his best phase pistol. Funny how I just have to think of him and he appears. Kind of a good habit, since I find myself thinking of him a lot.
"Tarkelian vodka!" he announces as he slaps his trophy onto the table, lips pupping up in disapproval at a few drops that splash out over the rim. Well, if he hadn't filled it right up over the spout, he might not have wasted them.
He might not have all the same, because the way Johnny's ogling the table I figure he's going to start licking up the residue any minute. Last time I saw him this drunk was the night of that infamous poker game on Jupiter Station. To spare him any blushes in the morning, I stretch over and refill the glasses, senior officer present's first.
Usually Mal would approve of that, but he's scared of missing out. I'm getting the drowned puppy look, and oh shit, if it don't just melt my foolish heart. He's the cutest drunk ever, and who'd have thought that about Lieutenant Uptight?
It's okay, Malcolm, I haven't forgotten you. As an apology, I deliberately drop the stupid little red paper umbrella into his glass when I brim it. I'm rewarded with a great big dopey grin that reduces my belly to the same state of mush as my heart.
"Aaah, thanks Commander!"
I don't even have to say it; I just give him a look, and he actually giggles. "Sorry, Commander Trip, sir," he announces, lurching toward his seat at the kind of crazy angle I last saw on a picture of that weirdo bell tower someplace in Italy. Honestly, I'd put out an arm to guide anyone in that state down safe. It's got nothing to do with wrapping my fingers around that exposed, beautifully firm bicep.
Maybe I'd let go of Travis or Jon quicker, but hey: you can't blame a guy for taking his rare chances, and he looks so good tonight. It's a damn shame he's so attached to his uniform, because nobody in Starfleet wears his civvies better than Malcolm.
I'm not sure if those black jeans are just the tightest I've ever seen, or if he's actually spray-painted his legs; the black t-shirt, damp with sweat, clings to every line of his gorgeously sculpted chest, and his hair's as mussed as if he'd just crawled out of bed, spikes standing up from his crown and a few soft strands dripping forward into his eyes. He keeps trying to push them away, but he's a little too drunk to aim right. Did I pack Phlox's patented hangover tablets? I'm okay, but my room-mate's going to need them in the morning.
Did I mention I'm going to have to murder Hoshi?
Okay, she wasn't to know the Tessians automatically assumed the female making room reservations must be the chief spouse of the dominant male and reserved one suite less than we asked for. I could've kept my big mouth shut and waited for Mal to volunteer to share with Travis, but no: I had to jump in and say, all loud and happy, that I'd share with Lt Reed and spare the Captain's dignity.
Ulterior motive? You bet your ass!
Damn, he's adorable like this!
Jon's complaining; apparently the animal piss he's knocking back like the best Kentucky bourbon don't taste like vodka at all. Malcolm snorts.
"Take it up with the UT, Captain," he pouts, stretching over us to tuck the stupid yellow cocktail umbrella that's hanging over the empty jug spout in behind Hoshi's ear. She'd be unhappy, if she was conscious.
After all, she's responsible for the damn machine. If it don't know what vodka tastes like, it's her fault.
Jon snickers. If he slides any further down in that chair he'll wind up on the floor but I don't think he cares. There's a red ribbon 'round the base of the new jug and he's unwinding it with clumsy fingers, waving it vaguely in Malcolm's direction. My room-mate's eyes cross, but he's gotten the message.
Whoa, boy! He's swaying before he's even upright and hell, Johnny moves faster drunk than sober, both big hands splaying themselves out on that lovely rounded ass. Sonofabitch! If his fingers aren't actually massaging those gorgeous cheeks. Malcolm's alert enough to feel it; he glances over his shoulder, his hands gently cupping Hoshi's drooping head.
Maybe he's not as far gone as I thought; he's still winding the ribbon dextrously through Hoshi's loose hair as he turns a sultry smile Johnny's way. "Thank you, Captain," he purrs, and damn if he's not looking right through me, pushing that cute tush back into Jon's hands. "I feel quite safe now. Trip sir, will you pass me that little brolly thingie please?"
The captain's grinning, shifting around so his hands keep moving, checking out every millimetre of Malcolm's sexy ass. Dammit Jon! That's mine!
Aw, hell!
My hand's shaking worse than his as I push a second useless piece of gaudy wet paper on a stick his way, and if he's seeing three of me, minimum, I'm having trouble seeing the single Malcolm Reed in the room clearly through the creepy red haze that's pushing in from the corners of my eyes.
He's mine, whether he knows it or not. I can't stand seeing him flirt with anyone else, even if I'm kind of thinking for the first time that maybe he's not as straight as I always imagined. If he'd been flirting with Hoshi (before she passed out, obviously) it'd have got me maudlin and sorry for myself; but no, he's making eyes at Johnny Archer, and he sure as hell don't need a scanner to confirm he's a guy. Maybe, just maybe...
"There! Got your camera, Commander sir?" He leans back against Jons hands but yeah, he's looking right at me, as straight and challenging as only a drunk can, and the corner of his mouth just turns up as I guide him back out of his temporary seat back to the low stool at my side. You know, it's almost like he can feel the heat rolling off of me; like there's steam coming out my ears and only he can see it.
Jon's laughing now, waving a hand Hoshi's way, encouraging half the club to admire the pretty red bow with umbrellas Malcolm's dandled over her ear. "You've got good hands, Mister Reed," he mumbles, lunging over the table to grab at one of those mighty fine limbs. Dammit Malcolm, where's your sense of propriety now? Simpering for your captain in the middle of a seedy alien club, what would your daddy say?
What's the punishment for assaulting your commanding officer in a bar? I may be on the verge of finding out.
And it'll be worth it!
Jon's mouth is hanging open. I can't take this anymore.
"Cap'n you're gonna see your chief wife home, right?" I drawl, and Malcolm sniggers like a schoolboy with a porn magazine, withdrawing his hand from Jon's and dropping it - easy, boy - down into my lap. He's slipped against my side, his dark head falling onto my shoulder and hell, I hope he's not about to pass out like Hoshi: he'll be embarrassed enough in the morning, because I know he never blanks out completely. Not however much he's drunk.
"I'll be the perfect gennleman," my friend slurs. Funny how Malcolm's still so perfectly precise. I know he slurs too; heard him in the shuttlepod the day it tried to kill us. Maybe it's only bourbon makes him do that.
And Andorian Ale, but let's not go there. Stand up, unhook his jacket from the back of my chair (the perks of rank, Jon and I got the proper chairs.) and hold it out as he clambers upright, arms flailing. Aw, it's like dressing my nephew as I manipulate his arms into the right holes. Course, Jack was only two last time I saw him.
"Thank you, Commander." His eyes gleam silvery in the dark, and I can't be mad that he's using my rank to torment me: I'm just glad to have all his inebriated attention turned my way.
He doesn't seem to notice Jon patting his ass as we ease past into the undulating crowd filling the dance floor. But I do, and that unfamiliar urge to deck the boss sweeps up out of my toes again. Got to get out of here. Now.
"Bye, Travis!" he sings out, waving madly at our boomer. Not that Mayweather's looking our way; wedged between a couple of dark-haired local women, eyes closed and a look of transcendent bliss on his face (lucky bastard, my cock announces with a little twitch), he probably wouldn't notice the roof falling down on him. I give his arm a small tug and, obedient as Porthos, Malcolm tumbles along in my wake.
Outside, the streets are quiet: guess most people are either tucked in their beds or still partying, yet Malcolm still manages to bounce off one man and back against my hip, trilling an unapologetic "Sor-ee!" to one of us. Probably the alien, since he don't bounce away from me.
Nope, he snuggles in with a gusty sigh. "Bloody cold," he announces, and that was almost a whine.
He's so sweet when he gets petulant.
And I am a hopeless case. I know.
Still, it seems okay to me and he snorts when I tell him so, nuzzling himself right up to my side. My arm wraps around his shoulders as we weave between another couple and a streetlight: least this way I can keep us moving in something like a straight line. "It's probably the booze talking," I suggest, sticking to the Tucker principle of saying it like we see it, even if it's the dumbest thing we can do. "Remember that lecture from Phlox about how alcohol lowers the blood temperature?"
Malcolm wiggles away. And stumbles off the sidewalk. "Are you implying I'm pissed, Commander Tripper?"
Even staggering and fouling up his words he's so beautifully serious, with all the offended dignity of the completely (in his phrase) rat-arsed. "I think I am, Lieutenant," I say, offering my hand to drag him out of the gutter. He chortles.
"Spoilsport !" he yells, falling right back into the crook of my arm. "At least I'll be sober in the morning."
Now I can see that's a trap, but I'm so besotted I just walk right into it. "Whatcha mean, Malcolm?"
He's peeking up at me from under lowered lashes, all smug and superior. "You'll still be jealous. Didn't like me flirting with ol' Johnny, did you?"
Uh-oh. Busted.
"Don't be stupid." Okay, I'm a lousy liar. I'm a Tucker, it goes with the territory. Malcolm sniffs, haughty as if he's Lieutenant Proper again: sober, in uniform and on duty.
"I only did it to pique your interest, you know," he announces, and is that his hand slipping inside my jacket and climbing up my back, tugging my shirt clean out of my waistband? Why in God's name did I wear white silk tonight?
Yeah, right. In the vain hope of catching Malcolm's eye. Malcolm, who wrote to a hundred ex girlfriends at death's door. When he wasn't drooling over T'Pol's bum.
"And it worked." He does smug bastard better than anyone else in the galaxy. I'm supposed to hate smug bastards, but it's kind of hard - bad choice of word - when he's moved that talented hand down to fondle my butt.
"You're crazy. And drunk."
"And you're getting boring. Never thought I'd say that to you." Eyes bright as the stars gleaming in a clear black sky twinkle up at me. One of those shiny dots up there might be Enterprise, hanging in orbit under T'Pol's command. If I hollered for an emergency beam-out, would she respond? Facing her goddamn condescending questions has got to be less embarrassing than sharing a bedroom (with one very large bed) with an inebriated and amorous Malcolm Reed.
I mean sure, it sounds like every wet dream made flesh, but in those, he's sober. Dammit, how did he get a finger up that far?
Giving a little wriggle rescues my ass at the expense of Malcolm's dignity. He's pouting, that cute little furrow creasing up between his eyebrows. "You want me. Caught y' lookin' C'mander."
Now that was slurry, exaggerating my drawl, but I'm too embarrassed to pull him up. Because I've been caught - metaphorically - with my pants down. Or my eyes out on stalks. Of course I've been looking. Name me anyone with eyes who wouldn't!
"A man's allowed to look now and again." That's the exact tone I've heard Momma use to Dad when he's been at the moonshine; never gets her anywhere either. "And take your hand off my dick!"
Ouch. That may have been a little loud.
"It's alright," my companion calls gaily to the civil guard in his gold uniform patrolling the central plaza. "He likes it really."
Guess the happy bounce of my penis against his palm makes that difficult to deny. God knows, it's making it tough even to think. Our hotel's on the west side of the square and I angle us toward it on instinct, all my concentration required to stop my delighted cock pushing its way back into that capable hand. "Lieutenant Reed! Behave yourself!"
"Oh, very funny." The fresh air's got to him: he's enunciating less clearly now, and as we stagger into the brightly lit lobby he's definitely disorientated. That allows me a moment to back off; but not too far. He's leaning against me, batting those pretty long eyelashes, and I just know if I slide out of his grasp he's going to wind up in a giggly little puddle on the cold tiled floor. "Call me Trip, Loo-tenant!"
This could not get more embarrassing. Unless Ambassador Soval and the whole Vulcan High Command happens to be staying at the swankiest hotel on Tessia Three.
The night porter, a great big woolly thing with a rhinoceros's tusk above a shark's set of teeth, shuffles out from the office to greet us. "'salright, we don't need anything thanks," my companion informs him, beaming. "We're going to bed now. Night-night!"
I bundle us both to the elevator before he can humiliate either of us any further. Our suite's right opposite on the third floor, and I'm suddenly grateful these buildings are shaped like Malcolm himself: slender, graceful and not very tall. I'm bigger than him and he's in no condition to make a fight of it, but manhandling him up the Empire State would not be funny right now.
Especially since I need both hands to fend off his!
"Malcolm, listen to me." His mouth latches onto the side of my neck, and oh shit, that feels wonderful. He's gone straight for one of my hottest spots: now he's nibbling, huffing little sounds of pleasure against my skin, and if I don't stop this right now, I never will.
Pushing him away's the toughest thing I've ever done; and it gets worse when I see the hurt flash over his face and realise I've caused it. "You're right, Malcolm," I say, proud of how calm I sound while my guts are churning and the few brain cells I've got left are popping like that exploding candy Lizzie loves. "God knows I want you, but not like this. You don't know what you're saying."
"Just because I've never had the guts to say it before." Arms folded, head cocked, he stares me down and I'm blushing, looking away, because I want so badly to believe him; want him to want this - us - the way I do, and I can't. Not like this. Not with him slithering against the wall, too drunk to stay upright and starting, at last, to extend every damn syllable longer than Grandpa Johnson did with his face in a whole barrel of his own moonshine. "'m a coward, but I want you. Might even love you, ac'shlly."
Time freezes. His forehead creases. "Boggery bullocks - no - buggery bollocks. I am tiddly, aren't I?"
"Yeah." And the fancy carved ceiling's just crashed in on my head. Saying that word's cooled him off faster than a tray of ice cubes down the pants. He totters to the bed and just... lets himself fall.
"Must be," he grouses, and my poor dick bounces again at the sight of him squirming, hips rising and falling as he burrows down into that soft mattress. "Never get soppy when I'm sober. 's all true though."
There's a jug of sparkling water on the bedside chest: pouring myself a glass buys some thinking time. The husky thread of his voice is hypnotic. I want to stick my fingers in my ears to block it, but I can't.
"Are you going to play scared now, Charles Tucker?" I can't look at him, so instead I go to the window and pull the drape aside. It's tranquil out there; a few couples strolling around the square, low lights glinting from long, slim windows in the elegant buildings around us. "I've seen you boggling - no, ogling my arse, but I'm subtle, see. You never saw me watching yours, eh? Lovely arse it is, much nicer than T'Pol's, or the captain's. Mmmm, I dream of getting my hands on your bum at the worst times - 'specially when you're leaning over woggli - waggling it in front of me. Such a lovely, sexy little bum...mmmmm."
I daren't look around until the sigh mutates into a snore, followed by another. Even then I keep it slow and steady as I turn, drawn by a tractor beam to gaze at him.
Beautiful.
His mouth's half open, pink lips puckered into a sexy little smirk even with him passed out cold. One arm hangs over the edge of the bed, and I'd better focus on that one, 'cause the other hand's cupped at his groin, cradling that lovely weight, and just looking at it makes my fingers burn with envy.
Oh, shit. Do I have to undress him?
His cock's flaccid: mine's as much awake as my hyperactive mind, which is spinning with images of my shaking hands lifting that tight-fitting top, fingertips brushing down beneath the waistband of those insanely snug pants. The air's gotten thick. My mouth's dry as that damn desert I almost died in.
I can't do it.
I settle for tugging off his smart black brogues and tossing a blanket over him. The bed's enormous, so I fetch another, strip down to my blues and wrap it around me, stretching out as far away from temptation as I can manage. This is going to be one helluva long night.