Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any money.

AN: Finally got around to finishing this! Big thanks to Gabi, Sal and T'eyla for a great beta job.

Warning: Please note that this is SLASH (m/m relationship), so if that's not your cup of tea, please don't read any further. Rated PG13 for swearing and some violence.

Enjoy :)!

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In Time

There's a story we tell when people ask us how we met. Oh, not the obvious one – that I walked into Engineering and there was this infuriatingly attractive Yank telling me to keep my shirt on. It would make for a good one, I admit, but half-truths are still the best lies, even if they're not as entertaining. So what we tell them is a whitewashed version of the truth, a boring little tale of a bar and a spilled drink and a bill shared and a walk home and a first date at the same bar a few days later. We tend to leave out the trip to the emergency room. Even the Captain - Jon - doesn't know about that.

The true part of the story is that we did meet at that bar. Well, close to it. In a dark alley a few streets from it, to be exact, but that's a detail we see no need to mention.

I'm not sure why we never told anyone. After all these years, it shouldn't really matter, should it? We've got a house now, we have Jon and Erica coming over for dinner, we go hiking with Travis, or meet Hoshi and Ben to see one of those subtitled films that Trip and Ben always complain about afterwards. We're like any other boring, middle-aged couple, nine-to-fivers who at some distant point in their past bungled their way through a five-year mission in deep space. Now when we get together, we exchange gardening tips and look at photos of kids and pets. Our lives could do with a little excitement, really.

So why don't we tell the truth? I don't know, actually. I suppose it wouldn't be so terrible to tell them. It's not as if we were up to no good, back in that dark alley.

Not us, anyway.

I was walking back from the training center that night, wishing I'd caught the PubTrans after all. It was starting to drizzle, the kind of rain that can't seem to decide whether to peter out or turn into a full-blown downpour. I walked home on most evenings, as my flat was only a short walk away from the center. Training had been rough that day, and I didn't fancy getting home sopping wet. So I walked faster, glancing at the darkening sky from time to time, and I almost went past the alleyway. That's something I wouldn't mention even if we told the story to any of our friends. That I almost walked by without checking.

It was the voices that caught my attention. Not so much what they said – I couldn't really make out the words – but their tone. Not loud, brawly drunkenness, but a quiet aggression indicating that they were trying not to attract any attention from the street, that they knew exactly what they were doing. That alone might have been cause for concern, but there was one voice not quite so quiet, one that sounded tight with anger and fear.

"...alone."

I caught the final bit of what the man was saying, and could easily complete the sentence in my mind: Leave me alone.

Let me add at this point that I am not what people call a hero. I'm an aquaphobic, I'm awkward in most social situations, and I've never found it in me to use the word "gay" in front of my father, even though Trip and I spend every other Christmas at my parents' place. In many things, I'm actually a bit of a coward. But not when it comes to fighting. That's something I'm good at, quite good in fact, and I know it. Knew it back then, too. I'd spent most of my waking time during the past six months on a gym mat wrestling my sweaty classmates, most of whom were at least six feet tall and built like Vikings. I still remember the first lesson when Commander Burke spotted me among the crowd, and asked me to come forward to demonstrate the difficulties a person of "less than average" height faces when attacked by a taller opponent. He wiped the floor with me, of course. Later, he took me aside and told me that in ten months' time, he wanted to see me do the same thing to each and every one of my classmates. Gave me this icy glare and told me that I was going to be best of the class, or flunk it. When I asked why, all he said was that I could do it. So I did. I worked harder than ever before in my life, and discovered a confidence I'd never known I had. Much to my surprise, I found that the martial arts came naturally to me, that I could be good; better than good, even. I'd never really felt that way before.

So when I decided to go and check what was going on, I knew I'd be able to defend myself if necessary. I hoped it wouldn't be; I wasn't spoiling for a fight.

The three of them had a fourth guy backed up against the wall, cornered between them and a garbage container. It was dark, and all I could see was that they were huge, bulking figures – much like my classmates – and that they were punching the hell out of the guy. He was sagging to his knees, and they were getting ready to kick; hard, well-aimed kicks that would hit the guy's ribs and legs, and once they had him on the pavement, his head.

"Fucking faggot."

"Homo piece of shit."

One of them had a knife; I saw light reflecting off the blade. I couldn't take on the three of them if they used weapons. I wasn't even sure I could take them on if they only used their fists. Their reflexes weren't slowed down by alcohol, and unlike the sparring partners I knew, their intention was to hurt. Kill, perhaps. I was scared, I'll admit that. Scared enough to pause and think rather than jump right into the brawl. Thinking about it afterwards, the fact that I was afraid might have saved my life that day.

The guy was on his knees by now, and I saw that he was in no way a match for the three of them. He wasn't tall, on the skinny side, and had only his bare hands to defend himself. His left palm was bleeding, I noticed when he brought his hands up to shield off the blows; probably a cut from the knife the man with the ponytail was holding.

"How 'bout you suck my cock while you're down there. You'd like that, huh." Ponytail kicked him in the ribs, and the guy on the ground said something I didn't understand. I could guess what it had been, though, when Ponytail delivered another furious kick to his ribs.

"Shut the fuck up! Goddamn cocksucker!"

They hadn't noticed me so far, so I kicked a beer can. It hit the garbage container next to them, making them jump and turn.

"What the fuck?"

I stepped closer, hands loosely at my sides. "That faggot been coming on to you guys?"

Their stances became less aggressive, although I didn't miss the slight tightening of Ponytail's fingers around the knife.

"Yeah." The fat one next to Ponytail spat on the ground. "Fuckin' queer."

I nodded. "Think they get away with it these days."

The guy on the ground had gotten back to his feet. He couldn't bolt, beat up as he was, and I hoped that he wouldn't try; Ponytail seemed more than ready to use his knife. But the skinny guy didn't run. In fact, despite the blood on his face and his swollen left eye, he looked angry as hell.

"That's a fucking lie! I never said a word to any of you assholes!"

The words were blurred by the blood that was dripping from his mouth, but I noticed an accent somewhere in there. Southern, perhaps.

"You were comin' on to us, you fucking homo." Ponytail made to lunge at the guy, and I took a quick step forward.

"Wait, let me."

I went for the guy and grabbed him by the bloodstained front of his t-shirt. I couldn't say anything with the knife poised behind my back, but I looked at him, and he looked at me, and I saw a flash of surprise in his eyes.

Sky-blue eyes. I noticed even then.

"Let go of me, you fuckin' bastard!"

He yelled in my face, and I pushed him as hard as I could, away from the three men behind me. As I'd hoped – prayed -, it took them a moment to process what was going on, and in that moment I did what I'd done a hundred times before in training: I leapt up, whirled around in mid-air, and planted my boot into Ponytail's chest. Usually when I did this, my foot would hit a thick, soft layer of protection armor, so I wasn't prepared for the sudden pain that shot up my leg. I couldn't have delivered another kick like that. Thankfully, one was enough. Ponytail landed on his back, arms splayed like an oversized scarecrow, the knife still clutched in his hand. I jumped forward and stomped down hard on his wrist. There was a crack, Ponytail screamed, and then I was holding the knife, gripping it hard so they wouldn't see how badly my hand was shaking. Ponytail's buddies had taken a step back, unsure whether to fight or flight. The fat one threw a quick look over his shoulder, then narrowed his eyes at me.

"What the fuck are you doing? You one of them fucking queers?"

"As a matter of fact, I am." I glanced down at Ponytail, who was clutching his broken wrist and cursing a blue streak. "And I suggest that you get out of here, right now."

"Yeah," a voice said, and from the corner of my eye, I saw the skinny guy standing next to me, holding something that looked like an iron pipe. "Fuck off, or we're gonna bash your brains in."

For a moment I wasn't sure they would leave – the fat one seemed ready to go for us, weapons or no – but they did. Pulled Ponytail to his feet and cleared out, flipping us the finger as soon as they'd reached the street.

"Fuckin' faggots, we're gonna kill you for this."

I watched them go. For some reason, they didn't look quite as hulky and intimidating in the light of the streetlamps. Maybe the shadows back here had made them seem taller.

There had to be a metaphor somewhere in there, but my foot hurt, and I wasn't inclined to ponder the deeper truths of life just then. I could almost feel the adrenaline level in my blood dropping back to normal, and noticed absentmindedly that I was still clutching the damn knife like the lifeline it had proved to be.

It was the skinny guy who finally, gently took it out of my hand. He dropped it next to the thing I'd thought was an iron pipe – a piece of steel grating, actually – and put a hand on my shoulder, guiding me to sit on the ground next to the container.

"Man," he said. "You're shaking."

I realized that he was right. I was trembling all over.

"That kick was somethin' else." He sat down next to me. "You some kinda cop?"

I opened my mouth to speak, relieved when my voice came out fairly normal. "Starfleet," I said. "Security."

"Oh," he said, and then: "I'm in Starfleet, too. Engineering technician."

"Really?"

"Yeah." He smiled, then winced when his split lip began to bleed again. "Shit."

I dug through my pockets and found a paper tissue. "Here."

"Thanks." He pressed the tissue against his lip and looked at me, and I saw that he had a ski-slope nose and really nice eyes.

"We should leave," I said. "They might come back."

He nodded. "Let's get outta here."

He tried, and didn't quite succeed, to suppress a hiss of pain when I helped him to his feet.

"We should get you to a doctor."

He shook his head. "Naw, I'm okay."

"Your ribs might be cracked, and your lip looks like it needs dermo-treatment."

"Great," he muttered. "You don't have a derm restorer on you, by any chance?"

"I'm afraid I don't."

He lowered the tissue to look at the blood stains. "Oh well," he said, and suddenly the smile was back, lighting up his face as if the oozing lip and the blackened eye didn't even exist. "I'm Trip Tucker, by the way."

"Malcolm Reed," I said as I pulled his arm over my shoulder and we began our slow limp back to the street. "Nice to meet you."

"Yeah," he replied, and laughed a little. "Nice to meet you, too."

We took a cab to Starfleet Medical, and on the way there, he told me how he'd ended up in the alley with Ponytail and his buddies. He'd been talking to a friend outside Casey's, the local watering hole, when he'd noticed three men on the other side of the street pointing at them. He hadn't paid them much attention at the time, said goodbye to his friend and left, only to find himself surrounded a few blocks down from the bar. He'd tried to turn around and go back, but they'd pushed him into the alley where Ponytail had flicked open his knife and announced that they were going to teach him to come on to people in public.

"I didn't get them at first. I thought they were talking 'bout my friend, so I told them that I hadn't been comin' on to him, that we were just talking. I didn't realize they thought I'd been making a pass at them. That was when they started punching me."

It turned out that they'd done more damage than I had initially assumed (or more to the point, than he had led me to assume). He had two cracked ribs, a deep thigh bruise and a hairline fracture of the bone under his left eye, not to mention numerous bruises and small lacerations on his face, hands and arms. The doctor wanted to keep him overnight for observation, and I finally conspired with her, promising that I'd drop by to bring him breakfast if he agreed to stay.

When I arrived the next morning with bagels, muffins and two cups of coffee-to-go, I found him sitting up and smiling, despite the fact that he looked like he'd run face-first into a brick wall.

"Hey, you came!"

"Of course." I smiled and did my best to sound chipper. "I promised, didn't I?"

"That bad, huh?" He gave me a look and sighed. "They wouldn't let me take a shower earlier, so I haven't had a chance to do damage assessment yet."

"It's not that bad." At his look of disbelief, I added, "At least it won't be, once the swelling goes down."

"That's what the doctor said." He reached for the bag I'd brought. "Hey, are these peanut muffins?"

That's something else about him. He hardly ever loses his appetite, not even when he's sick. I tend to skip a meal or two when I'm not feeling well, but he, never. And he never gains a pound, although the strict training schedule aboard Enterprise filled out his arms and chest. He's no longer a "skinny guy", but no one believes the amount of food he can shovel in until they see it.

I watched him pluck the muffin into bits he could fit between his swollen lips. It had to hurt, but he didn't seem to mind.

"So how are you feeling?" I asked, sitting down on the chair next to his bed. I hoped he wouldn't feel the need to be macho about it. I sometimes did in training; ignoring a bleeding nose or a twisted ankle, that kind of thing, even though Burke gave us hell for neglecting injuries. But then, my classmates were Vikings and I was a short gay man with a funny accent. I had to be macho.

"Gettin' better," he said with a slight smile. "I could get used to you, you know. Breakfast in bed, savin' my life and all that."

I shook my head, although I couldn't help but laugh. "I didn't save your life."

"Yeah, you did," he said in a matter-of-fact tone, and I saw that he wasn't joking. He really believed it. "That guy with the knife... he would've done it. And a'course I couldn't keep my big mouth shut."

"What did you say to him?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"That I wouldn't touch him with a ten-foot pole and sterile gloves even if he and I were the last people on Earth and he was wearin' nothing but a black leather thong."

I stared at him over my cup of coffee. "You didn't."

He sighed. "Yeah, I did. Stupid, I know."

"More like suicidal." In spite of myself, I was impressed. He wasn't showing off, relating the incident in a tone that was rueful more than anything else, but I knew it had taken guts to come up with a line like that. Guts, and a sense of self-esteem that couldn't be beaten out of him that easily.

"Like you takin' on the three of them single-handed?" He grinned at me. "Watching you kick that guy was poetry in motion." He punched the air and sloshed some coffee on the bed. "This is Spartaaa!"

I blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"You know, Sparta? When he kicks that guy into the..." He noticed my blank expression and broke off. "That's a classic! Early twenty-first century? Worst movie of the decade?"

I shook my head. "Never heard of it."

"Then I guess we gotta work on your cultural education." He smiled and I noticed that his cheeks had reddened slightly. "We could start with that British movie they released last week. If you want to. Once I'm outta here, I mean."

He was asking me out, I realized, and took a quick sip of coffee just in case I was getting a bit flustered myself. And promptly began to cough. "I'd like that," I said when I could breathe again and he'd stopped patting my back.

"It's a date then," he said happily, and grabbed another muffin. "Hey, is that chocolate chips?"

It was the first of a long line of movie dates, and afterwards we went to the bar where he'd been on the evening Ponytail and his buddies had followed him. He said he wasn't going to stay away because of what had happened, and I agreed, although I did a surreptitious check of the surroundings when we left. But we never met Ponytail again, there or anywhere else. I don't think I'd even recognize him if I saw him on the street. It was quite dark, after all, back in the alley.

So when I walked into Engineering and an infuriatingly attractive Yank told me to keep my shirt on, I'd been his boyfriend for five years and living with him for two. No one aboard, including the Captain, ever gave us any trouble. People like Ponytail and his buddies may still skulk in dark backstreets, but they hardly ever make it into Starfleet.

So why don't we tell the truth about how we met? Even my father, who insisted on calling Trip "Mr Tucker" for the first five years, would agree that anyone has the right to walk home without being harassed and threatened. He'd probably congratulate me on standing up for myself.

The truth is, I don't know. It's just the kind of thing you keep quiet about, maybe because you don't like uncomfortable silences, or maybe because you don't like to be the one to cause them. I don't know. Maybe after so many years, it just doesn't matter that much anymore.

I don't think about all of this very often, but it's been occupying my mind ever since Trip took me out to dinner yesterday. He picked me up after work, took me to my favorite restaurant and when we were nursing our second drinks, asked me what I thought about having kids. "Kids", he said, not "kid". That scared me a little, and so I said nothing at first, hiding behind my glass like I'd hidden behind my coffee all those years ago. He was silent as well, waiting for my answer, and I was grateful for that. I'd known he wanted kids for several years now, and he could've easily pushed all my guilt buttons – if anyone knows how, it's him. But he didn't, just sat there and smoothed out creases in the table cloth. So I told him that I'd have to think about it for a while.

Which I am. I'm thinking about it, and I've come to the conclusion that I want kids, too. Or make that kid. "Kid" doesn't sound quite so intimidating, does it?

The thing is, I'm not sure I'm up to it. Worrying, I mean. Worrying about tummy aches and school grades and parties and staying out late and college funds and... yes, I know I'm ahead of myself, doing what I always do, fretting about things that are years and years away. But I know I'd also have to worry about bullies and idiots and dark alleys, and I'm not sure I can take that.

If we had a kid, I think I'd tell her about what happened. Or him. When they're old enough, I mean. And I'd teach them to do the Sparta kick, as Trip calls it. Well, why not? It'll come in handy if (and I do mean if) they decide to take up Security.

I think I'll drop by the store after work to buy a bottle of wine and maybe a few candles. Trip and I need to talk tonight.

*fin*

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