AN: Thanks to Romanse, T'eyla and Gabi for betaing! At this point I think I should mention that it was Romanse who pointed out to me that the epilogue left too many questions open, and suggested that I write a sequel. I was a little hesitant at first, but now I'm very glad I listened to her. Thank you big time for kicking my lazy butt ;)!

As to the story itself, it's Slash (nothing graphic, though), so if that's not your cup of tea... well, you know :).

As always, reviews are more than welcome!

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Chapter 1

The room was small, even by Denobulan standards. There were four cots, one on each side of the room, and four box-like lockers lined on the wall, in which the occupants of the room could store their belongings. The lockers were tiny, as if the designers had known that the people who would use them had little to no property to call their own, and enough distrust of the world to keep their few belongings under their pillows at night. Indeed, unlike everything else in the room the lockers looked shiny and new, as if they had never been opened at all. There was a sink next to the door, small but clean, and a large window looking out on the bay.

Romantic, Malcolm thought at the sight of a crimson sun going down and turning the ocean into a sea of blood. Then he smiled thinly at the thought. There was hardly any situation he could think of that was less romantic.

"Spare blankets are in a box under the bed, wash kits on the shelf, and if there's anything else you need, ask at the office downstairs, okay?"

Malcolm turned around to the young Denobulan who was standing at the door. "Yes. Thank you."

The man smiled at him, then at Trip, who had retreated to the window and was watching in silence. "You've got the room all to yourself for now, but you might get company tomorrow. Andorians," he added, although Malcolm hadn't asked. "Hope it's not a problem."

"It's not," Malcolm said quietly. The man smiled again and left, closing the door. Malcolm remained where he was for a moment. That last remark had been so typically Denobulan, a thing he was still getting used to. They'd take you in, give you clothes, food, medication and a place to stay the night, and then apologize for the modest accommodations. They had offered to get a visual communications aid for Trip when they learned that he couldn't hear the translator, and had been genuinely concerned when Malcolm said that his companion couldn't read. They had asked if either of them needed a counselor to talk to, a question that had almost startled a laugh out of Malcolm. He had caught himself just in time, however, and had passed the question on to Trip, who had quite obviously never heard the word "counselor" before.

"Someone to talk to you," Malcolm had tried to explain, mouthing the words so that they could be read from his lips. In the eight days they had spent in shuttle, it had become second nature to him to talk that way. Not that he and Trip had talked much, of course.

Trip had frowned. "'bout wh't?"

"Your feelings. How you feel about everything that has happened."

Trip had given him a blank look, and Malcolm had turned back to the asylum officer, an elderly lady with a sweet, motherly smile.

"Thank you, but I don't think we need a counselor," he had said. She had looked at Trip, then at him, but had said nothing and had ticked off the box on the electronic form that said "Counseling declined". Malcolm had been relieved. There was no counselor on Denobula that he would have wanted to burden with their story, and besides, he didn't really like the idea of telling it to one of those friendly, generous, civilized people. He felt ashamed enough as it was.

Malcolm turned around again and sighed when he saw that Trip was still standing stiffly next to one of the beds.

"Are you tired?" he asked, and briefly rested his cheek on his palm to elaborate.

Trip nodded. "Yes sir."

"Well, then lie down," Malcolm said. He knew that Trip would notice his impatience, but he couldn't really bring himself to care. It had been a long day, maybe the longest in Malcolm's entire life, and he just couldn't deal with this right now. "Lie down," he repeated, waving at the bed. "Get some sleep."

Trip did as he was told. He slipped out of his shoes, pulled back the thin coverlet and lay down with his clothes still on, covering himself with the blanket which he pulled all the way over his head. It was the way he had slept back on the shuttle; in his clothes, curled up and hidden away under a blanket like an animal retreating into its den for the night. Sometimes the blanket heap moved, and once Malcolm had heard a small whimper, but other than that, Trip literally slept like a log.

Slowly, Malcolm began to undress, folding up the Denobulan clothing and depositing it at the foot of the bed before he lay down. After eight days with no means of cleaning it, his uniform had been quite a sight to see, not to mention the smell, but no one had really noticed. The crew of the surveillance ship that had picked them up, the space port personnel, even the asylum officers – all of them had been far too busy staring at Trip, still dressed in his revealing, partly ripped slave pants. Malcolm had heard their thoughts as if they had spoken them aloud: How disgusting. The poor thing. I don't see why we're even keeping diplomatic relations with those barbarians.

Trip had been ashamed, Malcolm had wished for a hole to open under his feet and swallow him alive, and when they had finally received a set of new clothes each, they had shared a look of mutual relief. Despite the embarrassment, Malcolm knew he had been lucky; at least they had believed him when he had told them that he was not a slave owner. If they hadn't, he would be spending his first night in jail instead of a reception center for asylum seekers.

Now all I need to do is convince Trip.

Malcolm didn't even smile at the thought. It had been a long eight days in the shuttle, and not only because they were on the run, had little water, less food and only Phlox' assurance that his people would take them in. Malcolm hadn't expected that Trip would find it easy to cope. He himself had been sort of stunned at the idea that there was no one to give him orders, that he could eat when he wanted, speak when he wanted, sleep when he wanted. But it felt good. It felt right.

Trip, on the other hand, had only nodded when Malcolm told him that they were free, had responded with a quiet "yes sir" and then turned away to stare at the stars where Shenandoah had disappeared. After that, he had not spoken to Malcolm unless he was asked a question. The smiling man who had asked for Malcolm's name was gone as if he had never existed, replaced by a human automaton who only stirred to life when he was given an order.

Maybe that's just what they do, Malcolm thought as he recalled Trip sitting on the shuttle's rear bench, hour after hour, day after day, eating only when Malcolm suggested it, sleeping only when Malcolm lay down. At least he had used the bathroom without being told to. Maybe they can't deal with new things like we can..

Adaptability. It was one of the reasons why the genetically enhanced class was called superior. They could survive in the direst conditions, could deal with hunger and thirst far better than any humans before them, and, most importantly, they could accommodate to almost any scenario that presented itself. They made decisions, gave orders, were in control. And the slaves obeyed. From childhood on they were trained to shut up, don't think and do what they were told. Few of them could read or write, and some had reverted so far into their passive state that they had stopped talking at all.

It's not his fault. He can't help himself.

Still, Malcolm couldn't quite bring himself to leave it at that, and accept the man's silence as a natural thing. Trip had talked to him, back on the Shenandoah, and he had done it out of his own volition. He had even asked for Malcolm's name, and had understood very quickly when Malcolm had explained how to pronounce it correctly. And it wasn't helplessness or a mindless stupor Malcolm had seen, the few times Trip had actually looked at him back on the shuttle. It was...

Anger, Malcolm realized. Or rather, a silent accusation. And a fair amount of hurt, as well.

Malcolm glanced at the bed where Trip lay with his back turned to the room, buried under his blanket so that only a few tousled strands of hair were sticking out. Malcolm suddenly found himself wondering what that hair would feel like under his touch. Soft, he guessed; not silky, but soft to the touch and a little spiky. He imagined running his fingers through it, mussing it, playing with it. He smiled, and in his mind, Trip smiled back at him, reached out and caught Malcolm's hand, holding it between his own. His skin was warm and dry, and the gentle humor returned to his eyes as he reached out to touch and stroke in return.

Malcolm blinked. And blinked again. Then he shook his head at himself, turned over and pulled his own blanket up to his shoulders. Sleep, he needed to go to sleep instead of paying attention to the ramblings of his overtired mind. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the image that was still there, refusing to go away. Trip smiling, gently... tenderly.

Don't be a fool, Reed. If you're that desperate, go have yourself a wank and be done with it.

The rough mental shake didn't seem to help as it usually did, and Malcolm sighed in exasperation. He pulled the blanket up to his ears and over his head; maybe that would help. Trip always seemed to fall asleep in a matter of seconds, as far as Malcolm could tell.

Trip.

"I can't seem to get you out of my mind, can I?" Malcolm said quietly, half-turning his head although he knew perfectly well that his question wouldn't be heard. The back presented to him didn't move; of course not. And Malcolm knew that even if Trip had heard him, his reaction would be anything but the smile he had pictured in his mind.

He lay back down and closed his eyes again. Maybe, if he was patient, sleep would come to him after all.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!