Chapter Text
Author's notes: Written for Louise, from an idea she gave me over a year ago and has probably forgotten all about by now!
PART 1
The scratching of claws at the door of his workshop brought a smile to Trip Tucker's tired face. "C'mon in, Porthos. How'd ya know ah had cheese sandwiches for lunch today?"
A beagle pup careened into the room and began snuffling around the bottom drawer of Tucker's desk. He laughed at its single-mindedness then scooped it up and ruffled its ears. "Now ya know the rules. Jon would have mah hide if ah fed ya cheddar."
From the doorway, a tall, well-built man grinned across at him. "Damn right he would. Have you any idea what veterinarians charge these days?"
Smiling back at him, Tucker put the wriggling pup back on the floor and it lolloped over to its master. "Maybe we're in the wrong job, Jon."
Jonathan Archer flopped into the nearest chair and rubbed his eyes. "Don't I know it!"
Something about his tone of voice bothered Trip. He seemed tired and tense, a state that, the engineer reflected, could equally apply to himself. It had been a hard year—and life wasn't likely to get any easier.
"What's up, Jon? Ya've got yer face on."
Archer peered up at him through thick eyebrows. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
Tucker shrugged. "Can't explain it. Ya just look this way when somethin's botherin' ya bigtime."
Hauling himself to his feet, the older man began to pace. "Trip, you're my best friend and we've been through a lot together, getting the Lightspeed Project up and running. I can't stand by and watch you get hurt because of the work you're doing for me, developing Dad's engine design.
Since the Shuttle programme's problems, all those greedy bastards who thought they'd make a few bucks out of commercial space travel have been trying—and failing—to come up with a safe, reusable, spacecraft. Our design would give them all that and more, but neither you, me nor Dad would want that. The Lightspeed Project's about science and exploration—getting mankind further out, faster than ever before, to study our solar system—not goddamn space tourism! There are plenty of companies who'd risk a lot to learn what you know, and stop you taking it to the Space Agency, but, so far, anytime someone's tried to get at you we've been lucky and you've escaped. I can't trust luck forever though, Trip."
Tucker caught his friend by the shoulders to arrest his movement. "Hey! Hold up! Yer gonna tell me something ah don' wanna hear, ain't ya? Ah know when yer hidin' somethin'."
Looking as apologetic as Tucker had ever seen him, Archer took a deep breath: "I've hired you a bodyguard."
All of a sudden, there was nothing Trip could do but splutter: "Ya WHAT?"
Jon turned away and resumed his pacing. "You heard me. As long as you're working for me, you're my responsibility and I don't intend to be negligent in that—especially when you go up to the University in Maine to do your presentation for the Space Agency. We're best friends, Trip. You mean a lot to me and I don't want to see you in danger."
Tucker sat down, rather heavily, at his desk. Although well aware of the dangers inherent in his current job, and of his friend's good intentions, the thought of being looked after by a hired "minder" was significantly wounding his masculine pride.
"Ah don' need a babysitter, Jon. Ah can take care of myself."
Archer narrowed his eyes "Yeah, in a bar-room brawl maybe—but these guys hire professionals, and I intend to fight fire with fire.
"I spoke to an old pal in the military who knows all the Special Forces guys who've gone self-employed in retirement. He recommended an ex-Navy man who's recognised as being the best of the best. I contacted him yesterday and he'll be here to meet you in..." he glanced at his watch "...any minute now."
Trying hard to remember Jon was doing all this because he cared, Tucker scowled and went back to his calculations "Yeah, well, whatever."
He could lump it—but he didn't have to do any liking.
When his new bodyguard was shown into his workshop, it was all Trip Tucker could do not to laugh out loud. Framed in the doorway stood what very much resembled an overgrown teenager, dressed in a baggy white tee-shirt, equally baggy beige pants and a denim jacket that was way too long in the arms. From under a fringe of shaggy dark hair, two long-lashed grey eyes blinked up at him, and he noticed they were red-rimmed and watering: "I'm Malcolm Reed. Any chance we could lose the dog? He's playing hell with my allergies."
His voice was soft, English-accented, very peeved—and it sounded like he currently couldn't breathe through his nose. Archer smothered a grin. "Sure, Malcolm. Its Trip you're here to see anyway, so I'll just take Porthos back to my office and you can yell if you need me."
Tucker watched him go then turned back to his new acquaintance. "Ain't ya a little short fer a bodyguard? An' there ain't much of ya to stop a bullet gettin' to me."
Pulling a huge wad of paper tissues out of his pocket, Reed delicately blew his nose and shrugged. "Hopefully, it won't come to that. Unlike yourself, going by the way I was able to just wander in here, I believe in prevention rather than cure." He stalked around the workshop, studying the layout of the room and peering out of the windows, periodically sighing or making tutting sounds.
At length, realising he was being watched, he pointed down the back of Tucker's desk "Get yourself a cleaner: there's life evolving back there."
Tucker's hackles rose: "An' jus' how much is Jon payin' ya fer that insight?"
Reed smirked: "Oh, I threw that one in for free. Now, let's get down to brass tacks. First of all, I'm going to insist on some changes to your work environment—nothing costly, just common sense precautions—then you can take me home with you and I'll have a look around there. Since I'm going to be with you 24/7, it'll give you a chance to figure out where to put me."
Tucker almost choked: "24/7? Dammit! That's worse than bein' in jail! What about my private life?"
Reed glared at him. "The way I see it, until your engine plans are safely with the Space Agency, you don't HAVE a private life. If you've any problems with that, talk them over with Mr Archer."
Fighting his simmering anger before it built up to boiling point, Tucker stormed out of the workshop with Reed scurrying after him. Throwing open Archer's office door, he tossed his workshop keys at him. "Lock up for me, will ya? Ah'm takin' Mary Poppins here ta see his new home. Then ah'm comin' back ta kill ya!"
Neatly catching the keys in one hand, Archer grinned "One day you'll thank me for this, Trip."
The engineer slammed the door behind him.
Around ten minutes later, Tucker made to glance at his wristwatch then decided it didn't really matter what time it was—Reed had already outstayed his welcome. At the moment, he was lying on his back, shining a flashlight under Trip's car. Exasperated, Tucker lost his cool. "Okay, tough guy. I've had it."
Reed rolled to his feet and handed the engineer a small, oily, black box "No, but you could have. Somebody wants to make sure you can't get away from them. These gadgets are designed to trigger a charge hidden in one of your wheels and blow out a tyre and stop you dead—which is just what you would be if they activated it when you were reaching top speed on the motorway—uh, freeway? What d'you call the bloody things over here? Anyway, it'd look like an accident but you'd still be dead."
Tucker paled. "Oh God! And I'd take a few others with me, more 'n likely."
Reed nodded. "Dunno when they planned to use this but, from now on, you're a pedestrian, Mr Tucker, and we'll stay at my place."
After taking a convoluted route which involved jumping on and off several trams, they arrived at "My place", which was one semi-derelict room and a bathroom in a run-down apartment block in the least salubrious part of town. Reed looked a little embarrassed as he led his new charge up a crumbling stairway to his battered front door. "Its not much, but its home."
Absurdly pleased at the man's discomfort, Tucker grinned: "Guess business ain't too good then?"
Ducking his head, Reed coloured slightly. "I...You're my first client."
He opened the door and showed Trip into the living room, which contained a lumpy single divan, a sagging three-seater couch, a walk-in cupboard and a curtained-off corner claiming to be a kitchen. The bathroom had no door on it and, to Tucker's horror, as he glanced in he saw something small, black and multi-legged scuttle across the cracked tiles of the floor.
Despite the squalor surrounding him, Reed was obviously a man of neat habits: the rooms were spotlessly clean—passing cockroaches notwithstanding—and he fetched fresh bedding from the cupboard and re-made the divan for his guest. "You take the bed. I can fit on the couch easier than you would. Give me your keys and I'll go over to your flat and bring you some clothes and stuff. What do you need?"
Two hours later—staggering under the weight of a large suitcase and a bag of groceries—Reed returned. "Okay, nobody saw me. Now, let's have lunch while we make some plans. When are you due to make your presentation to the Space Agency?"
Trip bit into the BLT on oatmeal bread, which Reed had presented to him. "On the 18th of this month. My flight's booked for noon—coming back the following day."
"Plenty of time then. We'll set off tomorrow and go by road instead. With a bit of luck, your...um, "friends" will be waiting for you to turn up at the airport. It's a hell of a drive from San Francisco, so they're not going to expect you to be crazy enough to do it. We'll take my car. I rarely use it and getting a long run'll do it good.."
The rest of the day was spent planning their route and confirming times and arrangements with the Space Agency, located at a university in Maine. Finally, bedtime rolled around and Tucker found himself suddenly awkward at the thought of sharing a room with a virtual stranger.
Stripping down to his underwear while Reed was in the bathroom, he switched off the lights then slid between the sheets and pretended to be asleep.
After a while, uncomfortable on the lumpy mattress and unable to quell his racing thoughts, Trip squirmed onto his side and opened his eyes to check the time. His attention was immediately caught by the wall mirror, which was reflecting the light from the bathroom and giving him an unobstructed view of a naked Malcolm Reed!
Feeling a rush of heat to his groin, Trip gulped. Men weren't normally his thing—just an occasional diversion until something better came along—but freshly bathed and drying himself off, there was something sensual about the way Reed moved, muscles clearly visible under his creamy skin as he stretched and twisted to reach every part of himself.
Without his shapeless clothing, his body could be seen to be in perfect proportion and conditioned like that of an athlete. Trip scolded himself for the inappropriateness of his current train of thought—but he just couldn't look away.
Finishing his ablutions, Reed turned to put the used towel in the laundry hamper by the door. Trip muffled a moan with his fist as his eyes were immediately drawn to Reed's crotch or, more exactly, what nestled there.
Trip was shocked to discover that he wanted to touch him: wanted to feel that warm, heaviness in his hand; wanted to run his fingers through the shock of fluffy dark curls from which sprouted an impudently impressive phallus; wanted to weigh it in his palm, squeeze it and feel it come to life, growing and changing at his touch.
Suddenly, the bathroom light was put off and Reed was in the room with him, sliding under the blanket he'd spread for himself on the couch and trailing the clean scent of shower soap behind him. Tucker squeezed his eyes shut again and willed the pulsing disturbance between his own thighs to calm down.
He was going to have one hell of a problem looking his roommate in the eye tomorrow.
As it happened, when Tucker woke the following morning, Reed was nowhere to be found. A note, in neat, clear handwriting, was propped against the kettle: "Last minute preparations—car and suchlike. Back at 08.30. Be ready to leave."
Tucker sighed and headed for the bathroom. At least the man would be fully clothed next time he saw him.
Reed's car, like his home and his clothing, had seen better days. Although clean as a new pin, the elderly VW Beetle sported enough scrapes and dents to make Tucker seriously doubt Reed's ability as a driver—and the occasional spring peeping through the threadbare upholstery did not bode well for a comfortable journey.
When Tucker made to open the passenger door, he realised the handle was missing: "Ah suppose yer gonna tell me ah need ta climb in the sunroof?"
Conveying a sense of martyrdom with his sigh, Reed opened the driver's door. "Of course not! Now get in my side and scoot over. We're running behind schedule already."
Settled at last, Tucker winced as his companion made his fourth attempt to get his own door to close and shook his head "This is a fucking death trap! Just what makes ya think its gonna get us where we're goin'?"
Finally Reed put the keys into the ignition. "This."
The engine roared to life and Tucker felt a shiver run down his spine. "Ooh baby!"
Reed looked smug: "Built her myself. Couldn't bear to part with her, so I had her shipped over from England."
Tucker closed his eyes and listened, entranced, as Reed pulled out into the traffic. "Mmm, sweet music. Lord, give me this engine an' the girl of mah dreams beside me, an' a promise ah'll never bother ya for anything again."
The day's journey was long and rather tedious, Reed not being very talkative, and they arrived at their first overnight stop just after 6pm. Tucker was suitably unimpressed by their accommodation—a tawdry guesthouse on the outskirts of an even tawdrier town. Reed checked their room for anything he considered suspect then, to Tucker's mortification, called the proprietor and insisted she send someone up to vacuum more thoroughly.
Aghast, Tucker watched him hang up the 'phone: "An just what was all that about? If ya wanted the Hilton, ya shoulda made reservations there."
Reed grunted and opened his suitcase, unpacking his clothes, and, despite their well-worn condition, hanging them neatly in the wardrobe. "Hilton or hovel, there's no excuse for sloppiness. Besides, as you already know, I have allergies. Would you rather I kept you awake by sneezing all night?"
As if reinforcing his point, he proceeded to unpack an array of pills, sprays, drops and ointments that made Tucker wonder if he was single-handedly keeping the American pharmaceutical industry in business. Last of all, he produced from his pocket a clear plastic case, containing what appeared to be a ready-loaded syringe. "If I suddenly keel over, gasping for breath, spike me with this—leg, arm, anywhere you like—and call an ambulance. There are a number of insect bites and stings that'll send me into anaphylactic shock, and a few plant enzymes too. Oh, and please don't use aerosols in here without checking with me first: I once ended up in hospital when I used a new type of anti-perspirant spray."
Tucker flopped on the nearest bed and burst out laughing "Gawd, ah can't believe this! Did Jon get ya in the half-price bodyguard shop, 'cause yer so itty-bitty an' delicate?"
Reed shot him a sour look, and opened his mouth to reply, when there was a sharp rap on the door. Tucker sobered and sat up, watching as his companion admitted the proprietor—and her mountainous husband. The woman smiled pleasantly, then glanced up at the hulk towering over her. "That's him, Ira. Tell 'im."
Ira stepped forward and grinned menacingly down at Reed. "Mabel don't keep a dirty house. If things ain't the way ya like 'em, ya can pay for extra cleanin'."
In Tucker's estimation, the man was about 10 inches taller than Reed and seemed like he was, at least, double his width. He reached for his suitcase in anticipation of a quick departure but stopped abruptly, wincing, as he heard Reed politely say: "Actually, if this room isn't cleaned to my satisfaction within the next 15 minutes, I'll have my deposit back and we won't be paying anything at all."
The man frowned and slapped a meaty paw on the shoulder of the pipsqueak who was daring to criticise his establishment—and immediately found himself flat on his back, staring up at the cracked ceiling, with said pipsqueak kneeling on his barrel-like chest and exerting steady pressure on his Adam's apple. Reed smiled down pleasantly: "15 minutes. And if the work's done properly we'll forget this ever happened.
Within ten minutes, the room was vacuumed, the couple had wished them a pleasant evening and Reed was locking the door behind them. Stunned, Tucker watched, as the smaller man continued unpacking his personal pharmacopoeia, then grabbed his towel and sponge bag before heading to the bathroom. "Ah'm sorry 'bout what a said earlier. Ah'm kinda glad yer on mah side."
Reed didn't look round: "Not yet, Mr Tucker, but I'm getting there."
A week later, as they neared their destination, Trip called Jonathan Archer from a payphone, keen to update him on their progress. "Yeah! Y'shoulda seen 'im, Jon. The Mighty Atom! Kinda makes up fer havin' ta live with 'im."
Jon chuckled: "C'mon Trip. He can't be THAT bad!"
Trip snorted. "Smug little bastard! Ah can't tell ya how often ah've wanted ta wipe that damned smirk off 'is face. There ain't nothin' he don' know or hasn't anticipated. Oh, an' they always do it better in England—no matter what "it" is!"
Archer was laughing now: "Fortunately, you have no annoying habits whatsoever..."
Making a rude noise into the receiver, Tucker noticed his change was running out. "Gotta go, Jon. We'll pick this up another time. Take care."
Wandering back to the diner in which they'd just had their midday meal, Tucker pondered Reed's gift for irritating him. When it came right down to it, on the rare occasions when he relaxed, the guy was actually good company: an intelligent, well-read man who, it transpired, had graduated in engineering from a top British university. He was qualified in a number of martial arts and, it seemed, was a certified marksman with almost any gun you could name. And that, Trip suspected, was only the half of it.
The BIG problem, thought Tucker, as he slid in opposite Reed at their table, was that he was also finding the Englishman incredibly attractive.
Reed looked up from playing with the froth on his coffee. "Well? Get him OK?"
Tucker nodded and shifted to get comfortable in the cramped booth. "Yeah. Sends 'is regards an' hopes ah ain't drivin' ya crazy."
Reed smiled, instantly looking around ten years younger, and Tucker found himself lost in the even whiteness of his teeth and the curve of his full, pink lips. Realising he was staring, he glanced up and found himself gazing directly into a pair of clear, grey eyes.
His bodyguard blushed and both men looked away quickly, as an uncomfortable tension rose between them. Embarrassed, Reed fell back on his familiar briskness. "Erm, yes, well, if you're quite finished eating junk, and making pointless social calls, its time we were getting on the road again."