No work at two jobs on a long holiday weekend, so this is what happens. It really is true that idle hands are the Devil's tools! This is a new direction for me on two counts: First, I usually write about Shran, but save for a snarky reference, he's not in this story (must be a holiday on Andoria, too). This is strictly Tucker/Reed. Second, this is emphatically slash. I'm hoping it comes off more as art house erotic than Dirty Ralph's XXX porn, but I'll leave that up to you. The M rating is justified. Either way, I won't be reading this to my 70 something-year-old mom any time soon.
I need to acknowledge that my depiction of Malcolm's childhood comes from a harrowing but elegant story, Past of a Beginning, by Sita Z. Her conclusion is really much more hopeful than mine. I take a much darker view. If you haven't read her story and you're a Malcolm fan, then by all means do. It is wonderfully done and an interesting take on the basis for a great deal of his personality.
"Pictures are for entertainment, messages should be delivered by Western Union." -- Samuel Goldwyn (a founder of Paramount and the "G" in MGM)
Movie with a Message
Trip Tucker had an issue with Malcolm Reed, and no, it wasn't that Lieutenant Reed continually demanded more power for the weapons systems. He did, of course, but that was business, and Trip understood it and could deal with it. No, this issue was personal, he didn't understand it and it was making him crazy. He'd dropped subtle hints and then what he thought were not so subtle hints, but Malcolm seemed totally oblivious. Trip had started to wonder if it was a case of two people being divided by the same language, as in he says "torch" and I say "flashlight." Maybe there was an English-English phrase he didn't know to express his frustration, but since the issue was personal, it wasn't like he could go ask Hoshi. However, Malcolm's attitude tonight had been the last straw, not that it was any different from his usual attitude, but Trip had finally had enough. He needed to do something drastic to get Malcolm's attention or their relationship would be over which was something he really didn't want. The solution came to him as he lay silently fuming beside the sleeping Malcolm. There was a scene from a movie that would make his point perfectly clear, and lucky for him, Movie Night was tomorrow, and he hadn't posted the notice yet.
"You coming to the movie tonight, Mal?" Trip asked like he asked every week.
"I had planned to when I was under the impression you were showing The Man with the Golden Gun, but I see I was mistaken, so no, I rather doubt it," Malcolm answered quietly. He was certain he hadn't been mistaken, that Trip had indeed told him he was going to show his (Malcolm's) favorite James Bond film, but when he'd gone to the mess hall for a spot of tea on break, he had found that the notice advertised a romantic comedy, not a genre that either man liked but one that Captain Archer occasionally pressured Trip into showing at the behest of the ladies of the crew; however, Trip hadn't mentioned that the Captain had been "on his case" about this lately. He wondered why the sudden change and why Trip hadn't bothered to mention it to him, but deep down inside he knew. Trip had been displeased with him last night, had turned away from him after, although exactly why, Malcolm had no idea. He always willingly did as Trip asked and never made demands of his own, but despite his best efforts, it was clear that Trip was tiring of him and was about to discard him. This distancing was just the next step. Experience had taught him this shouldn't be a surprise, but it still hurt.
"You know the ladies get tired of the action/adventure films and horror movies we like." This, of course, was true. It wasn't the whole truth of the situation, not by a long shot, but it was enough that Trip could feel he hadn't lied to Malcolm.
"They didn't seem to voice any complaints about Pierce Brosnan and Sean Bean in GoldenEye. In fact, quite the opposite as I recall," Malcolm observed dryly.
"Yeah, well, after the pyrotechnics, you were looking the same place they were and you weren't complaining either, darlin'. If I didn't know you found my Southern charm irresistible, I might be just a teeny bit jealous," Trip said with a grin and an outrageously broadened Southern accent. Malcolm gave him a puzzled look but didn't dignify the comment with a response. "Come on, Mal, the movie's not that bad; in fact, Billy Crystal's a real hoot."
"I find I don't really understand American humor," Malcolm said with a pensive tone in his voice.
"You just need more practice, that's all. Hell, I'm still working on figuring out your Monty Python. Come on, Mal. Please?"
Malcolm wasn't sure who had the better sad-eyed begging routine, Porthos when he wanted the cheese off one's plate or Trip. Trip was right about one thing, though. Malcolm, much to his despair, did find him irresistible and gave up the battle. "Very well then, if you insist."
"You know I do! Pick you up about 1830?"
"Yes, please, that would be fine."
"Great! See you then." Trip gave Malcolm a playful swat on the rear and then headed down to his own quarters to change.
When Trip returned to Malcolm's quarters to collect him for the movie, he found that Malcolm had changed out of his regulation jumpsuit into a long-sleeved, black silk, turtleneck sweater and crisp black jeans. In Trip's eyes, the dark color highlighted Malcolm's pleasingly pale complexion, and the close-fitting nature of the garments accentuated the lithe body beneath. "Damn, but you look good, Mal!" Trip said appreciatively as he swooped in to give him a quick hug. He was pleased to see Malcolm's slight blush at the compliment.
"Thank you, Trip. It's most kind of you to notice." Malcolm was innately polite, but the refined behavior was also a defense, and it was one he was hiding behind now. Malcolm was quite skilled at mathematics, probably because math was all about rules, and Malcolm was very good with rules. He'd had to be. Human equations, however, were very hard for him, and this one in particular would not balance. One minute Trip was unhappy with him; the next he behaved as if everything were fine. Malcolm found the uncertainty frightening.
Trip set up the AV equipment, got the movie started and then joined Malcolm in the back row. For his part, Malcolm had procured a big bucket of popcorn which he now offered to share with Trip. To him, it was all part of their comfortable, reassuring routine. Their seating was inconspicuous and the size of the bucket made it easy to hide that fingers lightly brushing against fingers fed a hunger that had nothing to do with snack food. Trip would agree that this part was pleasant enough, but the clandestine nature of their relationship was just another thing that was getting on his nerves, even though, in theory, he understood why Malcolm preferred it that way. What they were doing was non-regulation, and Malcolm had a real thing about rules. It wasn't that Starfleet had a problem with same-sex couples; hell, they didn't care if you went out with girls, guys, a household appliance or all of the above, separately or together, just as long as your partner(s) was/were of equal rank and didn't serve on the same ship. The desk jockeys down in 'Frisco, who could get what they wanted any night of the week, although Trip wasn't sure some of them would know what to do with it when they got it, had decided, in their infinite wisdom, to send crews out on multi-year missions and for some reason seriously believed they'd all take a vow of chastity. It just ticked him off royally, and in practice, he was beginning to hold it against Malcolm since he was handy and the admirals in San Francisco were not. Besides, the captain was taking a definite interest in First Officer T'Pol, giving a whole new meaning to his threat to "knock her on her ass", and was in no position to enforce the rule anyway. So why couldn't Malcolm just lighten up a little?
Finally, the scene Trip was waiting for came up on the screen. Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan in a restaurant. Meg Ryan putting on one heck of a floor show. One of the other restaurant patrons, a more mature lady, telling the waiter, "I'll have what she's having."
Trip turned to Malcolm and whispered, "I wish you'd order some of that too, Mal." The room was dark enough that Trip didn't see the anguished look on Malcolm's face. Malcolm removed his hand from the popcorn bucket as if it had been scalded and deposited the bucket firmly on Trip's lap. He shied away from Trip and for the rest of the movie sat rigidly still with his arms folded across his chest in what anyone would recognize as a defensive posture. When the credits rolled, he was up and gone without a word.
Trip scoured the ship looking for Malcolm. He tried all of his usual haunts. He tried his quarters, even using the Engineering override code to gain admittance, but the place was deserted. He'd tried the Armory, Malcolm's domain (as Engineering was Trip's) where he was a person of power and had the full loyalty of his staff, but neither the incoming Gamma shift nor the outgoing Beta shift had seen their boss. He tried the gym and the observation lounges. He checked back in the mess hall. Hell, he was so desperate he even tried sickbay on the theory that Mal would hide out where you'd least expect to find him, but only Phlox and his menagerie were in residence. All the while, Trip was trying to figure out how things had gone so terribly wrong. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, a humorous but unmistakable way to get through to Mal that he found their intimate moments to be lacking one crucial ingredient. He, more than anyone else, should have realized that Mal was sensitive and reserved and would react badly. Mal had flat out told him he didn't understand American humor, but genius Trip hadn't listened. To top it off, he'd given Mal grief over the one request he had made, that their relationship be kept low key. He loved the man dearly and had never wanted to hurt him. So what the hell had he been thinkin'?
Commander Charles "Trip" Tucker, III, hadn't planned on falling in love with Lieutenant Malcolm Reed. When they first met, Trip had to admit that Reed was attractive. A small, slender man who moved with animal grace, with dark hair, a fair complexion, mesmerizing blue-gray eyes whose color seemed to change with his mood and a pleasantly accented voice except when that voice was demanding more power for the phase cannons which seemed to be most of the time. Unfortunately, Trip also found Reed to be cold, distant and aloof. He equated that with arrogance, as he did what he considered to be Reed's excessive politeness. Trip knew all about the game where polite, "correct" words could be uttered in such a way as to imply gross insubordination - knew about it because in certain situations he was master of it, as Captain Archer could attest. Nonetheless, Trip was, at heart, a fair man. He recognized that Reed was superbly talented in his job, and Trip valued competence, even in an SOB. It didn't take long, however, for Trip to notice that a goodly amount of the cold, distant, arrogant SOB's talent and competence were required to keep and/or get him (Trip) out of trouble, usually at some personal cost to said SOB. Trip re evaluated the situation. Reed was a hard man to get to know, but eventually Trip was surprised to find that much of what he thought he disliked about him were simply layers of defense he had erected, though against what and why, Trip wasn't sure. As an engineer, though, he knew one thing: If there had been a way to manufacture Reed's defensive shell and apply it to Enterprise, then not a ship in the universe could touch them, including the megafortress that smart-ass Andorian, Shran, commanded. Trip seemed to spend more and more of his time in sickbay worrying about Reed until one night, when Reed had been badly injured on another away mission gone awry, Trip had found himself tightly holding his hand and whispering again and again, "Come on, Mal, ya gotta wake up, ya just gotta!" It was then that he knew he had fallen in love with Malcolm.
One thing led to another and they had eventually ended up in bed where Malcolm had proved to be pliant and adept, but to Trip's mind, unusually quiet. It wasn't that Trip wanted Malcolm's expressions of delight to wake B deck, he'd settle for his lover simply stating his preferences, but Malcolm never told him what he would like or wouldn't like. Trip had told him, "You know, Mal, a guy could use some encouragement," but Malcolm hadn't taken the hint. Whenever Trip asked, everything was "fine." Well, it wasn't "fine" for Trip! He'd started to feel guilty, started to feel that he was taking advantage. He always got what he wanted, but he had next to no idea what Malcolm wanted and Malcolm wouldn't tell him. Maybe, he thought, all Malcolm wanted was the physical release with no emotional involvement. Then again, maybe all he really wanted was out but had no idea how to broach the subject to a superior officer without facing nasty repercussions. The thought both saddened and angered him, so in desperation he had tried his little stunt. All he'd really wanted was for Malcolm to talk to him. Yeah, he would have liked to have heard those three little words too, but "Sod off, sir!" were not the three he had in mind but were the three he was likely to get at this point, unless of course, Mal said nothing at all but just killed him. Mal being Mal, he thought darkly, that could happen.
On that happy note, he keyed the code for entrance to his quarters. When the door opened, he was startled to see Malcolm gathering up the few personal possessions he had brought with him to Trip's abode. "Mal, what the hell . . ." Not exactly the apologetic and loving words he had intended to say when he found his lover, but he hadn't expected to find him in his quarters either.
"I beg your pardon, Commander. I had intended to collect my things and be gone before you arrived, but I seem to have miscalculated. I shall leave directly." Malcolm's cold, precise formality would have made Andoria seem warm in comparison.
"That's not necessary, Mal," Trip began, still flustered by finding his lover in literally the last place he had expected.
Uncharacteristically, Malcolm interrupted him, "Begging the Commander's pardon, but I think it is." He turned his back to Trip and returned to folding the spare uniform he'd kept in Trip's closet.
Trip grabbed his arm in an effort to reclaim his attention and felt Malcolm flinch at his touch. Malcolm did turn to face Trip, though, and Trip was amazed to see a mixture of hurt and fear, but predominantly fear, in his now steel-gray eyes. My God, Trip thought, he thinks I'm going to hit him! Trip released his hold on Malcolm's arm. "Mal, please, we need to talk about this. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. I made a poor choice, a stupid choice. It's just that I wanted . . ."
"But you did and it was," Malcolm interrupted again. "So what was the point of the exercise, Commander? Do you want me to caterwaul while we have sex in the mess hall, lie to you while we have sex in the mess hall or lie to you while caterwauling while we have sex in the mess hall? All you've ever had to do was tell me what you wanted. I've never refused you. It wasn't necessary for you to be insulting."
"Don't be an idiot, Mal!" Trip's guilt and frustration over the situation and his fear of losing Malcolm had ignited his own anger. "I don't care about the caterwauling, I don't want you lying to me, and I don't want to do it with you in the mess hall, unless, of course, that's what you want! That's what this is about, Mal, what you want and your pigheaded unwillingness to tell me what that is. Don't you think I know you do everything I ask? Has it ever occurred to you that I might like to return the favor? But how can I do that when you won't tell me what you want? I've told you I could use some encouragement, but I get no cooperation. I'm not a damn mind reader, Mal! The most I ever get out of you is that whatever I'm doing is 'fine'. Well, considering that you say you're 'fine' when the Doc says you're half dead, just what the hell does 'fine' mean when you're talking about sex? It could mean great, the best you've ever had, but somehow I doubt it. So how about choice B? Not bad, considering the slim pickings on this ship. Or maybe it's C? Not great, but better than nothing. Then again, it might be D. Not good, but you don't think you deserve any better. Of course, there's always E. Terrible because you really wish I'd play rough."
Malcolm's usual pale coloration had gone totally white and his posture was rigid. He turned away from Trip without a word. The little voice in the back of Trip's head, the one he knew he should always heed, was screaming at him that he'd gone too far, especially with those last two comments, but he was on a roll now and he had to get it all out. "And another thing: Why is it I'm always the one standing at your door, my heart in my mouth, asking you if you want to go to the movie, asking you if you want to go to dinner, asking you if you want a roll in the hay and being scared to death that you'll say no? Why don't you ever do the asking? Are you figuring that if you don't put yourself on the line then what we got ain't a relationship but something that will be easy for you to walk away from when you're bored? Hell, maybe you just don't care period!"
With his back still toward Trip and in a quiet voice devoid of emotion, Malcolm said slowly, "Reeds don't beg."
Trip's face was a mixture of anger and anguish, and both emotions colored his words. "Malcolm, who the hell said anything about you 'begging'? Jeez, why can't I get through to you? I love you! The absolute last thing I'd want on Earth, or anywhere else for that matter, is for you to think you had to come crawling to me on your belly to get affection, comfort, pleasure or anything else you needed. I want to give you those things freely, but like I told you before, sometimes a guy needs a little encouragement. Why is that so hard for you to understand?" Trip savagely ran his fingers through his hair in sheer frustration.
Malcolm turned back to face Trip. He was clearly in great pain. "Trip, I'm not like you. I find personal relationships of any kind to be exceedingly difficult. Reeds don't beg. We don't burden others with our needs. We are grateful for what we are given. It's how I was raised. Won't you please accept that about me? I give you my word, if I tell you that anything personal between us is 'fine', then that is exactly what it is."
Trip sighed deeply. He thought he was finally getting the picture. "You know, Mal, I've only dealt with your Dad a couple times, so I'm probably in no position to judge and I certainly mean no disrespect, but he doesn't seem to be the world's happiest fella - about anything. Maybe its all those damn rules. It's got to be a major energy drain to try to remember them all. You ever consider just letting some go? I'm not saying go hog wild here; just ease up on yourself a bit."
"They're not as difficult to remember as you might think. I was carefully taught, and they were rigidly enforced." Malcolm's voice was little more than a whisper and his eyes were haunted.
It was in that moment that Trip realized that Malcolm had almost certainly been physically and emotionally abused as a child. If so, it would explain so much about his personality. At the same time, he felt both physically sick and heartsick. He didn't handle the adult chief of security Malcolm being hurt very well. The thought of a defenseless child Malcolm being hurt was monstrous. How in the hell could anyone, especially a parent, and Trip had little doubt it had been Stuart Reed, beat a child and deprive him of love? His mind just couldn't grasp it. And then he remembered some of the things he'd just said in anger to Malcolm. Now, all his anger had burned away, and he was left feeling simply tired, sad, empty and appalled. "Oh God, Mal, I am so sorry about all this. I've never, ever, wanted to hurt you, physically or emotionally. It's just . . ." He broke off. It didn't really matter what it was. He'd screwed up big time, and Malcolm, the best thing in his life that wasn't a piece of machinery, was about to walk out of it. He needed to face it like a man and show a little class. "I'll say it again. I love you, Malcolm Reed, but if this - if we - aren't working out for you, then I guess we can go back to being Commander Tucker and 'Leftenant' Reed. I give you my word, if that's worth anything to you, that I won't harass you. I'll ask Jon to do your performance review. You and I have had enough professional disagreements, he won't be surprised if I tell him we've had another and that's why I'm asking him to do it. He doesn't need to know the disagreement was personal."
Malcolm stood silently appraising Trip, a look in his eyes Trip could no longer read. It was clear to Malcolm that he had inadvertently allowed Trip to guess his shameful secret. Was it possible that Trip was disgusted by what had happened to him but not disgusted by Malcolm himself? Was he truly sorry for the hurtful things he's said and done tonight, or was the apology made merely out of pity? Did he want him to stay or go? Earlier, Trip had also said that all he really wanted was to know what he (Malcolm) wanted. Well, what did he want, and did he have the courage to ask for it? What it came down to, he supposed, was did he believe Trip loved him. Malcolm made his decision. In a quiet voice he said, "What I would fancy, Trip, is for you to take me to bed."
Trip gasped in surprise. "Beg pardon? I don't believe I caught that."
Malcolm reverted to the formality he knew so well. "If the Commander is not otherwise engaged this evening, then Lieutenant Reed would be honored if he would join him in bed." There was a mixture of anxiety, hope and perhaps a touch of amusement in his voice.
Trip didn't for a second consider making a crack about "checking his schedule." He couldn't have closed the distance between himself and Malcolm any faster if he had been powered by a warp 9 engine. He took Malcolm in his arms, hugged him close and gently rubbed his hands over his back. He felt the slight body tremble against him. Probably more in fear than in desire, he thought. No matter; if Malcolm would trust him, would allow him, he would do everything possible to allay the fear and satisfy the desire. They stayed like that silently for some time, and then Trip carefully pushed Malcolm back onto the bunk and tumbled in beside him. There followed a period of what can only be described as cuddling - languorous kisses, warm hugs, a slow divestment of clothing, and despite their having been together many times before, an almost tentative exploration of bodies, all accompanied by murmured endearments in accents both English and Southern.
At length, Trip raised his head from Malcolm's chest. His fingers still tracing light, idle patterns of no intent on the pale, warm skin of Malcolm's flank. "Mal, you asked me to take you to bed. Now that I've got you here, is there anything in particular you'd like me to do with you?" He said it lightly and with amusement. More seriously, he said, "There's no wrong answer, Mal."
Malcolm drew Trip's head down to him, kissed him fervently and gave him whispered instructions.
"Sure thing, Mal. I can do that. No problem," Trip responded with a smile. Trip's hand began a slow, meandering journey south on Malcolm's body, brushing lightly over the breastbone and across the taut, flat abdomen. When it reached its destination, Malcolm gasped. Trip's hand began a gentle, rhythmic caress of sensitive tissues. "Like this, Mal?"
Malcolm sighed and closed his eyes. "Yes, please." He then wondered how the bloody hell he had managed, both literally and figuratively, to get himself into this position.
Lieutenant Malcolm Reed hadn't planned on falling in love with Commander Charles "Trip" Tucker, III. When they first met, Malcolm had to admit that Trip was attractive. A tall, thin man with blond hair, astonishingly blue eyes, an easy, friendly smile and a pleasantly accented voice except when that voice was refusing to increase power to the weapons systems which seemed to be most of the time. Unfortunately, Malcolm also found that Tucker embodied everything he disliked about the Yanks. He had a brash self-confidence that Malcolm saw as nothing less than arrogance. Tucker was loud, intrusive, pushy, much too informal and, in short, just overwhelming. Nonetheless, Malcolm was, at heart, a fair man. He recognized that Tucker was superbly talented in his job, and Malcolm valued competence, even in a right bastard. It didn't take long, however, for Malcolm to notice that the right bastard was at least appreciative of the effort it took to keep or to get him out of trouble. Time after time he had awakened to pain and confusion in sickbay only to see Trip hovering about with a distinctly worried look on his face. Then there was the time he had awakened to Trip's grief-stricken voice whispering, "Come on, Mal, ya gotta wake up, ya just gotta!" Malcolm supposed that was when his defenses had started to crumble.
One thing led to another and they had eventually ended up in bed where Trip had proved to be enthusiastic, adept and caring. It was not a combination with which Malcolm had had much experience. Former lovers had considered his few requests to be "high maintenance" or had quickly tired of the studious, polite, quiet, young man. The experiences had been so painful that he had tried to avoid relationships, but sometimes the loneliness overwhelmed him, and he had sought release in meaningless one-night stands that only made him feel worse. And yes, to his shame, he had been on the receiving end of an abusive relationship. He hadn't thought he deserved better. Then he'd met Trip, a handsome, intelligent man who seemed quite smitten by him. It seemed all too good to be true. He didn't want to admit to himself how much he craved the affection much less allow Trip to become aware of his need for it, but it was something he wanted desperately, and he didn't know how to go about keeping it.
His childhood had been a most unhappy one. His father, Stuart Reed, a Royal Navy officer, felt he had been shunted off to a desk job he despised and took his frustrations out on his family, particularly his young son, Malcolm, because he was a soft target incapable of fighting back. He ran his household like it was said Captain Bligh ran the Bounty. There was a rule for everything, too many rules for a little boy to remember no matter how hard he tried. Punishment was swift and sure, not a flogging but a caning, and sometimes afterward his father would touch him. The touch was confusing. After the pain of the beating, it seemed pleasant, but it also seemed wrong in a way he couldn't define, not then anyway. He knew now, of course, but believed it had somehow been all his fault. Stuart had taught him well.
Malcolm realized that with his family, he'd never seen how people in love behaved. When Trip had asked the inevitable question, "So how was it, Mal?", the only "safe" answer Malcolm could think of was, "It was fine, thank you." The minute he said it, he realized the Yank was probably expecting something more enthusiastic, something more along the line of "best I've ever had." When he looked up at Trip, he had expected to see disappointment, anger or cold dismissal, but instead Trip had given him the strangest look and then said in a hushed voice, "Oh God, Mal, I'm sorry! Did I hurt you?" No one had ever cared enough about him to even ask that question before. It was then that he knew he had fallen in love with Trip.
Now, he had to face the fear that was, for him, part and parcel of love. He had no reason to believe this relationship would, in the end, be any different from the others, no reason to believe it would survive. Trip would lose interest in him; in fact, the rumor aboard ship was that Trip had a short attention span for anything that didn't come with an owner's manual. Malcolm knew he could survive break-ups, but it got harder each time, and this would be the hardest yet because, on a ship in space, there would be no place to which he could escape. He felt the small ripples of pleasure from Trip's touch course through him, ripples he knew would grow quickly in intensity. He didn't want this to be over yet. There was too much still to sort out, too much that he still wanted to feel, if only just this once. Malcolm pushed himself up on his elbows. Trip's hand immediately stopped its motion but didn't leave him. "Am I hurting you, Mal?" Trip's voice was full of concern.
"No, not at all. I'd just like you to do something else for a bit, if you wouldn't mind."
"Name it," Trip said immediately.
"A back rub would be nice," Malcolm replied softly as he turned on his side.
Trip rummaged about in the drawer of the nightstand where he kept small bottles of scented oil that warmed on contact. "What flavor you want, Mal?"
Malcolm remembered one that was a mixture of vanilla and brown sugar. Trip said it reminded him of the smell of Grandma Tucker's sugar cookies fresh from the oven. Malcolm had no such memories, but the scent was pleasing and Trip would enjoy it as well, so that was what he chose. He felt himself begin to relax as Trip's strong, capable, engineer's hands began to massage the muscles in his shoulders and at the base of his neck.
"Like this, Mal?" Trip asked.
"Mmm, yes, please," Malcolm answered in a slightly dreamy voice as he again closed his eyes. He would try his best, as he did in everything, to keep Trip's affection. He would try to be more open and less concerned (within reason, of course) about rules since that was what Trip wanted, although it would be difficult. Perhaps Trip would have patience with him, perhaps not, but no matter; he wanted this one night where he was being made to feel cherished. In the worst case scenario, when the break-up came and the pain subsided, he would at least have a memory of what love felt like. The small voice in the back of his mind told him, "Don't think. Feel!"
Trip's hands had worked down to the small of his back. Malcolm had lost all track of time. He didn't know how long he had had the pleasure of Trip's ministrations, but he guessed well past the point when Trip would, in his words, be "rarin' to go." He'd vowed to do his best to keep Trip's love, but had already been grossly selfish instead. In slight panic, he'd turned so he could see Trip. "Trip, I'm sorry. If you fancy . . ."
Trip placed a finger on Malcolm's lips to silence him. "I want what you want, Mal. No less and certainly no more. Is that what you want? You can think on it." Trip still had one hand on Malcolm's back, but higher, in part supporting him. His fingers continued to gently rub his skin.
Malcolm finished the turn onto his back. "No, I think I'd much prefer you to take up where you left off."
Trip grinned. "Mind if I refresh my memory a bit?"
"Not at all. Please do." Malcolm actually smiled. Trip noticed that his eyes now seemed more blue than gray and the pupils slightly dilated.
Trip's hand began to retrace its meandering journey south on Malcolm's body, this time making a detour to his left breast where his thumb made gentle circular motions on the nipple. He was rewarded with a small moan from Malcolm and another as his hand resumed its journey. His hand traced the well-sculpted outlines of Malcolm's abdominal muscles. Trip would say "six-pack", but since, in his limited experience, beer in English pubs seemed to come solely from kegs, he idly wondered what Mal would call this feature. Whatever it was called, Mal was gorgeous and needed to know it. "You know, Mal, you really do have a great body!"
"Thank you, Trip. It's most kind of you to say so." Malcolm's breath had quickened, his voice no longer quite so dreamy nor quite so precise despite the lingering formality." His skin tone was heightened by much more than a blush at the compliment.
Malcolm uttered a small, low cry as Trip's hand again reached its destination and resumed its gentle, rhythmic caress of sensitive tissues. "Was it like this, Mal?"
"Exactly so . . . Yes, yes, please!" The words were said in gasps.
Trip's hand continued as bidden, and Trip listened as Malcolm's low moans and small, hoarse cries grew more frequent and intense. He had wanted him to be more verbal, but he wondered if these were really expressions of pleasure. He felt Malcolm's body moving beneath him. Why did it seem like Malcolm had to fight everything? Mal, he thought, for once, just relax and enjoy whatever happens.
Malcolm's hoarse voice cut into Trip's thoughts. "Trip, help me! Please, help me!"
For a moment, Trip considered joining Malcolm's hand with his and telling him, "Show me what you want, Mal," but immediately thought better of it. That would be making him beg, and he'd promised he wouldn't do that. No, he needed to take the request as an order. They'd been together enough times for him to be able to figure out at least some things that pleased Malcolm. His hand changed position slightly to caress even more delicate tissues and to apply slightly more pressure. The tempo increased. His other hand slid back up over Malcolm's body to his breast and resumed swirling motions over the exquisitely sensitive nipple. "Like this, Mal?" he asked.
"Yes! Yes, there, please!" Malcolm's voice was rough, his breathing ragged. Trip marveled how even in the throes of passion Malcolm could remain polite.
One hand again slightly increased tempo and pressure. The other slid from one breast to the other. Malcolm cried out, "Don't stop! Please, don't stop! Don't . . . Don't . . . Trip!" Trip's hand had made contact with Malcolm's other nipple and had begun to massage it. Trip felt Malcolm's body arch into his touches, heard him call his name as if it had been torn from the depths of his soul. Weapons and tactical officer Malcolm Reed had finally surrendered to overpowering forces within himself.
For Malcolm, it was no longer necessary for the little voice in his mind to advise him, "Don't think. Feel!" Feeling was all he was capable of. The last thing he could remember thinking was that it had been a tactical error to decide against having Trip join with him physically, but it was too late to remedy that now. The ripples of pleasure that had coursed through him had grown to wavelets, and then waves that crashed against him more and more frequently, more and more forcefully. If he had been aware of the cries and moans, he wouldn't have associated them with himself. He wasn't aware that he had begged Trip's help or of any verbal exchange after that. He was aware only that a monstrous wave was bearing down on him, he couldn't escape and he was frightened. He had never experienced anything like this before. He vaguely remembered calling out for Trip - his friend, his lover, his lifeline - as the wave broke over him and engulfed him. He remembered desperately arching his body upward in an attempt to reach the crest of the wave and ride it safely to shore, but it was strong, rhythmic, muscular contractions deep within himself that seemed to last forever that had propelled him to the surface and safety. He'd expected the wave to be frigidly cold like the North Atlantic breakers he was used to, but the wave had been warm, like a wave of a southern sea. The waves of Tahiti and Captain Bligh? No. The waves of the Sandwich Islands (what the Yanks called Hawaii) and Captain Cook? No. The waves of Florida and Commander Trip Tucker? Yes. Like the Gulf Stream, the powerful current that brought its warmth to the icy North Atlantic, Trip's love had brought warmth to Malcolm's frozen heart.
Malcolm floated in the warmth. He knew he should thank Trip for the wondrous gift, but to speak would break the spell, and as selfish as it might be, he didn't want to do that yet. He felt Trip's continued gentle touches in tidying up and was grateful that his lover respected his fastidious nature. There was only one more thing he wanted, one more thing that would make the night complete. He was astonished when he didn't have to ask.
Trip got into bed beside Malcolm. He smoothed back the tangled, still damp strands of dark hair from his forehead and brushed away the few remaining drops of perspiration. Malcolm's eyes were closed, and his breathing was smooth and regular. Trip assumed he was already asleep as he lightly kissed his forehead. "Sweet dreams, darlin'."
Perhaps Malcolm was already asleep. Perhaps he only dreamed that Trip had nestled beside him, an arm about his waist, fingers again tracing light, idle patterns of no intent on the pale, warm skin of his flank. Perhaps it was only sweet imagining when he heard Trip whisper, "You're much more than 'fine', darlin'; you're the best I'll ever have."
Maybe the movie mogul didn't have it precisely right. Maybe it depends on the message. After all, wasn't the real point of When Harry Met Sally that, given time and patience, the best of friends could indeed become the best of lovers?