Sato
Dinner is a silent affair. Our main courses are, of course, taken from the emergency ration packs aboard the shuttlepod. In the very last of the daylight Trip spotted clusters of small fruits hanging on the trees and Malcolm was able to knock them down with a few accurately-aimed stones, but it's probably inevitable that when we sample them for dessert we find that even though they're not poisonous they're not ripe either. Maybe later they'll be more palatable, but right now they're woody and bitter. We'll take a few back with us to the ship for the exobiology department – we could take some for Chef as well. They may ripen, and fresh fruit is always a bonus on board.
Once the dishes are cleared away there's a rather uncomfortable silence. We've kindled a small fire from brushwood – more for the atmosphere than anything else, since there are no wild animals here and the night is warm and still. Sparks float upwards towards the tree canopy, which is gilded by the flames below. Trip's brought a flask from his rucksack and sips from it from time to time as he stares into the fire; Malcolm – restless as usual – has produced a small knife from somewhere about his person and started to whittle a piece of driftwood he found on the beach, bleached white with sunshine and salt. Goodness knows how it got there, in a place as isolated as this is.
Still, time's a-wasting, as Trip would say. And we only have a few hours here, in our island paradise. I for one am not anxious to waste any of them.
My heart beating suddenly faster, I get to my feet. I'm wearing my hot-climate uniform, and I take hold of the zip tag and pull it down slowly, slowly. Knowing the purpose of this little expedition, I didn't put on my standard Starfleet underwear when I was getting ready. Instead, the parting material reveals a lacy white bra, one I've kept for a special occasion. It makes the most of my assets, and although I'm not generously endowed, I'm not as self-conscious about it as I used to be; it was clear even to me how appreciative of them these two men were last time, and during our moments of intimacy since, Trip has amply reinforced that message. Across the fire his gaze is suddenly fixed. I know he's been waiting for me to make a move, and this is it.
Boys will be boys. When the top has slipped from my shoulders I turn my back to push down the other half of my uniform. This, of course, necessitates my bending over to help it past my calves, and I hear a moan of lust from behind me. After all, the matching lacy pants are close-fitting, and there's not much of them. They're more for decoration than modesty; modesty is the last thing on my mind tonight.
I straighten up and turn around. Trip has dropped backwards and is propped up on his elbows. The front of his pants shows that my little display has had the desired effect, and he's waiting for the second course.
Malcolm is still sitting silent, cross-legged, the knife stilled in his hands. His gaze is fixed on me, his expression unreadable. I walk around the fire, and past Trip, and come to a halt in front of him. My groin is now directly opposite his face. He only has to reach up, hook his thumbs into the lace and yank downward. My braced legs are almost trembling with the memory of last time and the yearning for it to happen again.
He moves suddenly; stands in one fluid movement. His eyes are icy darkness. "Ensign," he snaps out. Then he wheels and stalks away, down towards the shore.
Behind me, Trip snarls a curse. Passion momentarily forgotten, he scrambles to his feet. "Stay here, Hoshi. I want this sorted right now!"
As he passes me his hands slip in for a caress that promises more – much more. Then he's gone, and I sink to the soft sandy earth with a groan of frustration and anxiety.
I want to call him back; I want to settle for what I can get, and above all I want the friendship between us and Malcolm to survive this night. Because it seems to me that right now it's stretched to breaking point, and Trip's well-meant attempts to retrieve the situation may well be what snaps it altogether. But I know that the two of them are locked together like battling stags now, and unless they get to fight it out nothing will be settled. When the stags fight, the best thing a hind can do for either of them is stay out of the way. As difficult as it is for me to admit that, I can't argue with the hard truth of it. So I hunker down by the fire and help myself to a swig from Trip's discarded flask. It's bourbon, and the heat of it burns down my gullet and hits my stomach. He hasn't drunk nearly enough to make him stupid, but at a guess more than enough to make him reckless. And recklessness when dealing with a stone-cold-sober Malcolm in a rage is more dangerous than I even want to think about.
There's nothing I can do.
I settle down to the waiting.
If you've enjoyed this, please leave a review!
