Star Trek and all its intellectual property is owned by Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no profit made.
Author's Notes:
1: The OC in this story belongs to 'Delighted', who kindly lent her to me. She is a cousin of Major Hayes, and works to treat psychologically damaged Covert Ops agents. Two stories which refer to her and to her relationship with Reed and Hayes can be found at Archive of our Own, entitled 'A Single White Rose' and 'Home for the Holidays'. It's not necessary to have read those stories for this to make sense, but they provide a background.
2: Eagle-eyed readers may notice that I give Major Hayes the first name 'Jay' rather than 'Matt' as in my other stories. This is because if I'm setting a story in someone else's background, it's only polite to adopt their preference for a character's first name - so as there seems to be no definitive ruling in canon, for the duration of this story, 'Jay' it is!
Jay laid down his napkin with a sigh. "That was one fabulous meal."
Across from him, Malcolm nodded, finishing the last of his wine. "They do decent food here."
Amused as always by his lover's wry British understatement, Jay chuckled, and led the way to the vacant armchairs by the hearth, where they sat back to enjoy the comfort of well-made seating, cosy atmosphere and a roaring log fire.
He hadn't really understood why the hell Malcolm had wanted to drive almost fifty miles in the raw, bitter cold of a British January to this pub in the middle of Welsh Nowhere. OK, the flitter took no account of icy roads and the heater had kept both of them snug as bugs on the way here, but still it was a long trip at the end of a couple of hard days. The Englishman had been in talks with the people at a specialized metal producing plant over some changes he thought might benefit Starfleet's new range of phase pistols (the plant was already internationally famous for the quality of its materials), and when Jay pulled into the parking lot to pick him up his face had been printed with tiredness. At a guess, the people he'd been dealing with the last couple days would have looked twice as bad; Jay was familiar with Malcolm's fanatic attention to detail.
Now, however, he was getting the idea. Here, they were just two anonymous guys who'd driven in out of the night and ordered a meal. The room – of course; Mal would never, ever leave such a thing as accommodation to chance – was already booked.
"You're supposed to be relaxing, not working yourself to death," he chided gently, hearing the faintest of low groans as Mal too subsided back into the cushions. "These two weeks were supposed to be shore leave."
"I'm on shore, aren't I?"
"But hardly relaxing."
"I am now." The coffees were set down in front of them.
Jay rested his head against the high wing back of the chair and stared into the fire. It reminded him so much of the one in Holly's place. He thought, a little wistfully, of the house up in Yorkshire, and wondered what his cousin was doing now. Hopefully well wrapped up; the forecast up there had said heavy snow.
He was aware, with the corner of his attention, of Malcolm eating the mint that had rested on the saucer and doing something with the wrapper, turning it in his restless, nimble fingers. It was no surprise when after a moment he set down on the coffee table a miniature silver-foil goblet.
"It's crooked," Jay pointed out.
"It's tinfoil. Of course it's going to be a little bit wonky!" Irked, he tried to straighten it up, and it fell over.
Jay tried (if not very hard) to hide his snort of laughter, and received a glare for his trouble. "So of course you could make a better one!"
In all honesty, the laughter had been more for the adjective than for the result of Malcolm's labors with the silver-foil. Even after all this time, the MACO just loved hearing the Brit-isms his lover came out with occasionally. Aboard Enterprise he spoke with such rigid correctness – you'd never, ever hear the term 'wonky' uttered in the Armory. Not – to use another of his crazy Brit-isms – 'in the reign of pig's puddin'.' Still, even though their relationship had become an intimate one they were still intensely competitive. A challenge like that could never be turned down.
No, siree. 'Not in the reign of pig's puddin'.'
He ate his mint and smoothed out the square of silver-foil meticulously. From the other side of the table a pair of gray eyes watched maliciously, daring him to tear it by rough handling.
Perfect.
He removed his keys from his jacket pocket. Dangling from them was a tiny emergency flashlight. With great care he wrapped the top third of the square around it, smoothing and pressing the foil into position. When he was satisfied, he gently started twisting the free material, and as soon as he was satisfied he had a strong enough 'stem' he straightened it out and used his free thumb to press out the remaining foil. A couple of stray corners were folded over and used as reinforcement, and then he spent a couple of moments viewing and tweaking before upending the flashlight over the coffee table, depositing thereon a perfectly stable miniature champagne flute.
Malcolm immediately placed his coffee cup on it with perfect precision, squashing it flat.
Jay let out a peal of laughter. "Did anyone ever tell you, you're a really sore loser?"
"The few people who ever beat me – yes." The Brit retrieved his cup and sipped from it, his eyes twinkling.
"I've managed that a few times." He grinned slyly across his own coffee. "And I have to say I never heard you complain."
"There are occasions, Major, when losing carries its own rewards."
Hell, he was hot, in the well-fitting gray pants and sky-blue sweater. Jay imagined peeling him out of them in that beautiful, old-fashioned room upstairs, and had to adjust his position slightly to avoid causing scandal to any observant passer-by.
He'd been prepared to be unselfish, because the last couple days must have been difficult and the drive here sure hadn't helped, with good food and wine on top. If needs be he'd certainly have settled for just snuggling down with Malcolm in his arms in the four-poster with its mounded duvet and tartan bedspread, to fall asleep listening to the wind outside whining spitefully in the casement. But it appeared that Mal had other ideas, and if his always astonishing reserves of energy still had enough to spare, then Jay was ready, willing and eager to oblige.
=/\=
It transpired that Malcolm had more than enough energy to spare. It was late that night when the two of them finally sank, utterly spent, into the all-enveloping embrace of the duvet. The bedspread had found its way onto the floor at some point during the proceedings, and it seemed that neither of them had the strength left to go pick it up and put it back on the bed.
The room was warm enough anyway. Though outside the winter night held the land in a grip like death and the reeds at the edge of the river were frozen stiff, the Reed in Jay's arms was warm and relaxed, his rapid pulse slowing along with the quick rise and fall of his ribs.
"I love you, Mal."
He hadn't meant to say it. It must have been the wine, or the warmth, or the sex, or a combination of everything. Even as the words left his lips he tensed at what could be a phenomenal mistake; it was the truth (a truth he'd only recently admitted even to himself), but was Malcolm ready to hear it?
The pillows were as soft as clouds. The head next to his had sunk into it, so that only the upper half was visible. The one eye he could see had drifted shut, and it remained so for a few moments.
Then it opened slowly. He took what comfort he could from the fact that at least it wasn't glaring at him.
"I'm not asking for anything from you," he went on, a little uncomfortable under the steady gray stare. "If you think it's too early, that's fine. But I'm just being honest about what I feel."
There was still no reply. But after about half a minute Malcolm hoisted himself out of the pillow, leaned over and kissed him passionately.
He responded, of course, for all that his body was so sated now he couldn't feel so much as a flicker of need. But though he enjoyed the kiss as much as he always did, he couldn't help suspecting that it was a diversionary tactic his lover was using to avoid answering.
Well, it had probably come as a bit of a surprise. And like any good Tactical Officer, Mal didn't like surprises. Quite probably he'd retreat with the information into his cave, examine it from all angles, consider his response for a week, and then produce it at the least convenient moment.
Still – at least he hadn't thrown a hissy fit. With the lean, naked body pressed up against his and the skilful tongue exploring his mouth, Jay was prepared to take the hopeful view.
The long day and longer evening were combining to take their toll. He could feel sleep beckoning irresistibly. When at last Malcolm drew back, he was too tired to do more than snuggle up and settle down. At least for the first half of the night, Mal was happy to cuddle, though by morning the bedclothes were often in an absolute tangle from his restlessness. Fortunately, Jay was a sound sleeper and was seldom disturbed by it.
"Feels great not to have to get up in the morning," the MACO yawned as he switched off the bedside lamp. "Can't remember the last time I didn't have to set an alarm clock. We'll have a late breakfast."
Malcolm was already settled, the duvet snuggled possessively around his shoulders. He mumbled something sleepily into the pillow.
The darkness of the Welsh countryside was absolute. There wasn't even the glow of a lamp from the flitter park to illuminate the window. But hell, thought Jay blissfully, burrowing in to spoon around his lover, it wasn't as though he'd need it to get a damn good night's sleep.
A second darkness, blacker than even the night outside, washed over him and swallowed him, and he sank into it, fathoms deep.
=/\=
The cold morning sunshine through the window woke him. The overnight cloud had cleared, and the level rays sparkled on a crusting of frost on the bare ivy stems around the window. Though the heating meant the room was warm enough, still the glitter warned that the world outside was even colder than it had been yesterday, and Jay for one was in no hurry to get up and go out into it before he had to.
The bed beside him was empty. He glanced at the clock: just past seven-thirty. Disgracefully late for a working day, but hardly anything like time to get up on vacation, and especially not when you were sharing a bed with a special person you saw all too rarely. Breakfast was available till ten, and although he didn't expect to leave it quite that late, still there was plenty of time yet for a little extra loving when Mal came back from the bathroom.
He yawned and stretched, and kicked the duvet to move it back into position. At some point in the night Malcolm must have gotten up, because the bedspread was back on top of it – fanatically neat, he'd never have tolerated it lying there untidily on the floor.
Still warm and comfortable, Jay turned over. Mal was taking a heck of a long time in the bathroom, he thought sleepily, and put an arm out into the space his lover had vacated.
It was completely cold.
The knowledge took a moment to register. Then his stomach congealed into a solid, icy knot.
He could have wasted time checking the wardrobe, but even as he sat up he knew the black holdall would be gone. There was no parka on the back of the door, no clothes laid tidily across the armchair, no shoes neatly side by side beside the chest of drawers.
What followed was just a rote that he followed as though living someone else's life.
The check in the bathroom – silent and empty.
The look out of the window, at the black running river and the frozen fields beyond it, and the bare woods beyond again. No sign of movement. Not that he expected it.
The glance into the lounge, deserted except for an employee scraping out the ashes preparatory to setting a new fire for the day.
The enquiries at Reception, where he was told that Mr Reed had summoned a taxi and left early in the morning after paying the bill. Too early for breakfast, too early even for daylight to have leaked into the sky as he fled the scene of the crime. Grimly, Jay ate breakfast; a soldier operated on full rations. While he ate, he reviewed his options.
The first, and most obvious, was to accept that Malcolm had never been in the relationship for emotional involvement. If that was the case, there wasn't much more he could do than to admit he'd made a mistake and walk away, leaving his heart to mend as best it could.
It was wholly possible that he'd misread the Brit from the start. He knew, of course, that the man was deeply reserved, which was one thing that had given him such a thrill when he'd finally opened up. Everything he'd managed to find out about Reed suggested he had relationship issues, but he'd managed to convince himself that this was just because he'd never been in the right relationship – till now.
Maybe that had been overweening arrogance that had now sprung back to smack him squarely in the face. Maybe he'd mistaken ordinary garden-variety lust for something it never could have been. Maybe he'd been just another notch on Reed's already well-incised bedpost.
Memories of the previous night roiled inside him, as unbearable as they were sweet. Fortunately he was used to keeping his thoughts well-hidden, and none of the guests at the other tables could have suspected that his mind was full of scenes that even in his pain were unbearably arousing. He'd thought them part of something real, something that mattered ... well, maybe he'd been wrong. They'd sure mattered to him, but maybe to the other participant in them they'd just been moves in a well-rehearsed routine – two bodies using one another for pleasure, but touching on no other level than skin...
Bullshit!
He'd been there and done that, he was older and wiser and he knew as well as he knew his own face in the mirror that it hadn't been just a fuck for Reed, no, for Malcolm, for Mal, because that was the name he gasped out at the apex of their pleasure.
So – why had he run?
He wasn't a coward. He'd chosen death by suffocation when he'd thought Captain Archer was endangering the ship by trying to save him, faced the dangers of the Expanse without flinching. God knew that even when the two of them had been in their perpetual dumbass faceoff aboard Enterprise life would have been so infinitely easier if he'd been willing to give back a single damned centimeter rather than hold his ground like the stubborn sonofabitch he was. Besides, a coward would never have ended up in Enterprise's Sickbay as often as he did, and by all accounts the guy practically had a season ticket for the place.
Was it emotional connection that scared him?
He was incompetent at relationships, by his own admission. Was that incompetence deliberate, an attempt to keep others at a distance? Was it something he actively cultivated, unwilling to risk the pain of committing to a situation he couldn't control?
That was more plausible. Jay paused in the act of drinking his second cup of coffee, and nodded to himself. That was very, very much more plausible.
But if that was the case ... what to do about it?
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