Reed
Dawn's breaking, over this nameless ocean on this nameless planet; and I wake reluctantly and roll over onto my back, blinking. Above me, trees are swaying gently in a mild crepuscular breeze.
Hoshi is on my left side, Trip on my right. It's been the strangest and most wonderful of nights: the exhaustion in my body is testament to the times we woke and loved, coupling in sleepy desire before tumbling back into oblivion.
Trip is awake already. He's propped on one elbow, and it seems he's been watching us sleep – a slightly unnerving thought. No quips about snoring or Sleeping Beauties follow, however; he leans down and begins kissing me, and it's immediately apparent that we're both somewhat in need of a shave.
I haven't quite got used to kissing another man. In some way I'd be hard put to define, it feels different, even disregarding the stubble. My previous homosexual encounters seldom involved kissing, except occasionally as a brief preliminary to the darker things that followed, but I feel the affection and tenderness in this, and don't quite know how to react to them.
"Guess the three of us could do with a wash-up before we go back to the ship," he says – low-voiced, because Hoshi's still sleeping soundly.
The blanket has slipped partly off her. We both admire the view, but don't touch, though the temptation's there.
Such a perfect curve…
"Maybe if the two of us take a dip and get on with the repairs, she can take her turn while we're workin'," he suggests.
It's impossible to find fault with this idea: it will give her a few extra minutes of rest, and if Enterprise's scanners happen to glance in this direction to make sure we're all still present and correct, it will surprise no-one that Trip and I, like the officers and gentlemen we are, are affording her privacy.
The scene as we step out of the treeline is stunning. The breeze is dying; there's hardly enough of it now to ruffle the surface of the ocean, and the waves hardly whisper as they break on the flawless white sand. The growing light is painting the sky apricot and gold, cloudless and clear, and the whole world looks as though it had just slipped from the Creator's hands.
Without hesitation Trip takes my hand in his. The action startles me so much I actually look down at our entwined fingers. It's easier to think about that than about the way he's walking so easily towards the water, plainly thinking that the two of us can just wade in and swim the sweat and sex away.
This is just … strange. All my life I've kept other people at a distance. Sex has never been different to that rule. I don't go to bed with friends. Pard, maybe, was an exception, but then life as part of a Section 31 team was quite unique as regards relationships. We all knew that maybe the next mission would our last; we snatched at what pleasures were there for the taking, without putting labels on anything.
Now I don't know what the rules are, and I don't know where this is taking me. I feel naked and afraid in a way that has nothing to do with the fact that I haven't a stitch on and I'm walking towards a vast sheet of water.
I want to keep walking. I want to borrow some of Trip's strength, his unthinking confidence. But my feet begin to drag of their own accord, and somehow, barely a yard from those innocuous wavelets, I stumble to a stop altogether.
His blue eyes turn towards me. (He's impossibly good-looking.) I know he's remembered what happened down here last night, and though he won't ask, he's curious.
Aha, so even a Reed can come up with a convenient lie when it matters. Cramp. Trod on a hidden stone, stepped awkwardly, and there you go. It's actually happened to me, so I know it's entirely plausible.
Instead of which, I blurt out the truth. I'm too mortified to watch him while I speak; I don't want to see any part of his regard for me drain away at the discovery that I have such a ridiculous flaw. Nevertheless, when I've laid the whole miserable story out in front of him I can't help but glance back at him apprehensively as I await his judgement.
He listens without comment. After a moment he turns towards me. His expression is thoughtful while he mulls over what I've said. Finally, "Well, I've always thought you were one of the bravest men I know. That sure puts a different slant on things."
It could hardly do otherwise. I turn my eyes towards the horizon. I know my face is burning with shame.
He puts a finger on my jaw and turns me gently back to face him. "It means you're the bravest man I know."
I swallow. "How do you make that out?"
"Well. I know that Starfleet don't make exceptions in their physical exams. So that means you've gotten through a series of swimmin' tests that included total immersion, and done it well enough that the examiners didn't get a sniff of the fact you must've been scared stiff. Just as well none of the tests included bein' dumped in a tank full of bugs, because I'll tell you straight out, that'd have been the end of my career in Starfleet."
"It means I can act," I mutter.
"Actin' didn't get you into that tank," he says, putting his hands on my shoulders. "Courage did."
His hard blue stare forbids me to protest. And the honest truth is that I don't really want to, even though he has no idea how long I spent shuddering in the changing rooms before I walked out in front of the examiners, or of the fact that afterwards I went into the toilets and vomited my guts up till I wouldn't have been a bit surprised to see my intestines washing around in the bowl.
"I'm glad you've told me the truth, anyway," he continues. "'Cause now I can help you."
I open my mouth to say it's kind of him to offer, but I've had all the 'help' available. God knows, my father saw to that. I don't think there could be a psychiatrist in the Home Counties who hadn't had a peek inside my head in the effort to cure me of my 'weakness'.
But it seems he's not talking about that sort of help. Before I can get a hold of what he does mean, he's scooped me up like I'm about six years old and is wading into the sea.
I'm ashamed to admit that my arms go around his neck like steel clamps. I retain just about enough sense to allow him an air supply, but as for the rest of it, as soon as I feel the first splash of water on my bare arse I'm no longer a Starfleet officer in a position of great authority, I'm a terrified kid holding on for dear life to a grown-up who has all the power.
In actual fact it's probably just as well that I freeze. The alternative is fight, and if I gave in to the terror that's gripped me, I'd quite possibly kill him to get free if that was what it took.
He walks in till he's about chest-deep. Needless to say I'm fairly well immersed by now, and breathing in tiny, rapid little gasps that aren't getting me enough oxygen. I'm heading straight for a panic attack, and in the most hostile of environments, held by a bloke who I strongly doubt is trained to handle hysterical tactical officers.
I'd curse, but I'm not sure I could control my mouth enough to get words out. I'm already hyperventilating, but I can't stop. I just lie rigid in his arms, a petrified, sorry excuse for a man, and stare up at him, hoping the sight of my naked terror will convince him that this is really, really, the stupidest idea he ever had in all his life, and can we just turn around and walk back on to dry land now, please?
He doesn't. The prat just kisses me. All over my face. And slowly, almost reluctantly, I begin to respond.
No. It doesn't take away the terror. It doesn't even reduce it. I'm still lying there almost pissing with fear, but slowly it begins to dawn on me that something quite alien to me is happening.
I'm starting to trust him.
There is something in my world that exists at the same time as the fear.
The water is still slapping my body, but I believe that Trip not only will, but can, protect me; that he's not going to let me fall.
This is so unique an experience that I can't even begin to process it. Only in the team did I feel something akin to this – well, frankly, there it was chiefly based on the fact that if one of us died during an op, probably all the rest would too, and even there I'd never have let them get me near water.
It will take time for this to become something I can put into perspective. Right now I can only look up at him wonderingly. My mouth unlocks from its rigor sufficiently to return his kisses, though I'm in no danger of releasing my death-grip around his neck.
Very slowly he takes a couple of small steps deeper. My breathing speeds up a bit more and then slowly settles again; it's still too fast, but at least I'm getting more oxygen. And the water is quietly washing away the evidence of our busy night. Our hair will have to wait – I'm not sufficiently hypnotised to let him dunk me – but when he finally turns around and wades back on to the beach we're as clean as salt water will manage.
Trip lowers me to my feet, but we don't separate at once. The sense of closeness is something I want to hang on to, even though it puzzles me. Is it possible for a lover and a friend and a superior officer to be one and the same person? He watches me closely, seeming to sense my confusion, and until my hands slip from around his neck of their own volition his own rest motionless on my sides.
Our clothes are still on the sand where we discarded them last night. Fortunately the alien colours stand out well against the brilliant whiteness so we can retrieve them all readily.
Maybe if I hadn't lost my footing and panicked in the shallows last night, these would still be on me. I hope and believe I'd have found the strength from somewhere to resist temptation; I'm afraid that once I've made my mind up, I'm hard to shift. Nevertheless, even though I abandoned all my good resolutions, I can't find it in me to regret it. My own happiness wasn't the only thing that depended on my stepping down off my pedestal, and I feel infinitely richer in the warmth of this human companionship than I ever did in the deathly chill of my self-imposed isolation.
Love? I'm not sure it's love. I'm not even sure what I understand by that word, not really. But it's contact, and that's warmth in a world where I've been freezing for as long as I remember. Maybe things will become clearer along the way. Because we need to talk, as well as touch, however uncomfortable that may be for any of us; I'm sure I'm not the only one who needs to understand what this relationship really is, and where – if anywhere – it's going. And perhaps one day I'll be brave enough to let them see the scars that I've hidden so thoroughly, though just the thought of that terrifies me; but that's the only way that I'll ever be able to believe that they care about me, the real me, rather than about the construct I've made in my image.
They may not, once they know. But without honesty, everything else is meaningless. And that's the risk that, sooner or later, I'll have to take.
The shuttle's close by. Since both of us need waste packs from it, we make a pit stop.
"I'll be gettin' on with the repairs," Trip says quietly, letting go of my hand as the hatch opens. "Maybe you can wake Hoshi and make a start dismantlin' the tents. 'Fraid we don't have any breakfast, but I'm sure we can catch some when we're back on Enterprise."
"And you think you can do the repairs." I make no effort to disguise the sarcasm, though I shoot him a grin to soften it; I know damn well he can repair it, since it was he who arranged the breakdown in the first place.
"Won't take me five minutes, Loo-tenant," he replies airily. "Good thing I brought down a few spare parts, wasn't it?"
"And I'm sure they'll just happen to be exactly the ones you need."
"Good to see I'm not the only one around here who believes in coincidence."
I reward that statement with the snort it deserves, and when we've decorously used the packs we part company, he to get on with carrying out those miraculous repairs and I to wake our partner in crime, who's still fast asleep up at the campsite.
I've definitely got the better job of the two. In our absence Hoshi has turned over and the blankets have slipped off altogether, affording me an absolutely perfect view of her absolutely perfect bum.
If time wasn't slipping away I'd probably take the heaven-sent opportunity, but as it is I draw on the Reed self-discipline and regretfully keep my paws to myself. Though I concede to a slightly soppy impulse to break off a flower from the vine looping through the tree above us, and use it to tickle her nose. It's a pleasanter wake-up call than the shrill of the alarm clock on Enterprise, and she wakes up with a smile that turns my heart over.
Other parts of my body have already responded, but that's as may be. She won't see anything she hasn't seen before, though my upbringing drives me to make some effort to hide my inappropriate state. By the smile she knows perfectly well why I'm squatting in such an awkward fashion.
She takes the flower from me and puts it behind her ear before she rolls over onto her back and stretches, as unthinkingly elegant as a cat. Not one iota of blanket now spoils the view, which is even lovelier than it was in my imagination yesterday.
I try to push away the guilty thought that I'm sure it won't take nearly as long to dismantle the tents as I imagined, and surely Trip won't be able to replace all those parts in less than fifteen minutes, even if he is an engineering genius. Unfortunately, Hoshi's delving fingers quickly break down all these good resolutions, and I decide fairly quickly that it would not be the act of a gentleman to disappoint a lady.
Neither of us is up for subtlety. We haven't got time, for one thing. Fortunately I can oblige with vigour instead.
Hoshi appears to find the substitute entirely satisfactory. I certainly do.
After which I have to dismantle the tents, which is remarkably hard to accomplish when your knees seem to be made of cooked spaghetti. She does offer to help, but she needs a dip in the ocean too (more than ever now, I'm happy to say), so in the spirit of a true English gentleman I say I can manage on my own.
The true English gentleman just about has the strength to drag the re-packed tents out to the beach and down to the shuttle. Lifting the bench lid and putting them back into the storage space beneath it seems to require an enormous amount of physical effort, but I manage it.
Trip's beneath the console. One blue eye tilts in my direction. "You sure took your time," he remarks.
"These bloody things don't re-pack themselves, you know." Gratefully I fold to sit on the bench and take a bottle of water from a locker.
"Oh, I know that." A pause, while he returns his attention to the electronics above him. "Never knew packin' a tent made a woman squeal like that. Brings a whole new perspective to campin'."
I choke on the water, which is exactly what he intended of course. After what we did last night I suppose it's ridiculous to blush, but I can feel myself going a somewhat guilty shade of pink.
He's lying on his back. And it appears that whatever he's doing in the underside of the console appears to be have had a surprising effect on his physique. Apparently electronics can be as unexpectedly erotic as camping.
No wonder Starfleet's Engineering courses are over-subscribed.
I wouldn't want him to feel left out, of course. And I suppose I have just about enough energy left to take advantage of his vulnerable position. One of a tactical officer's prime objectives: take your opponent when he's at his weakest.
It's the work of a moment to push the top and bottom halves of his clothing in opposite directions.
In this clear, still air, sound carries perfectly. He must have heard me and Hoshi, and lain here visualising what was happening. God knows I did the same often enough back on Enterprise – the latter, anyway – and I understand all too well why he's aching for relief. Fortunately for him, I have the solution to his problems immediately available.
His skin is still slightly damp, and tastes of salt.
Hoshi returns to the shuttle just in time to see his body arch up to me, spasming.
She strokes both of us soothingly afterwards. She's wet, naked and unbelievably lovely, and I lie on the floor of the shuttle, my head on Trip's belly, and watch her dry off with one of the blankets and then pull on her clothes – like ours, these are the same as yesterday's, since it would occasion a bit of suspicion if we'd just happened to bring along a change.
It takes some minutes before Trip seems to have reassembled his senses enough to get on with the repairs. None of us say anything.
There's an elephant in the room, though – or perhaps 'in the shuttle' is more accurate – and Hoshi evidently decides to take it by the tusks. She turns her clear eyes to me. "Malcolm, I want to ask you something."
I want to say something along the lines of 'Give me another few minutes and I'll be up for it', but I know that my humour would be an evasion. So I say nothing, just sit up and wait for whatever it is she's going to say.
"I want to know if this is going to be something you walk away from again."
Bloody hell, she doesn't want much. And yet, I can see that it's a valid enough question, from her point of view. And perhaps only now do I fully realise how hurtful my apparent rejection must have been to both of them after what happened last time. Maybe I was right to take the course of action I did, but I was wrong to do so without explaining myself. Wrong, and cowardly. No wonder Trip was angry enough to force me to face both myself and them.
I'm not going to take the coward's way out again. The moment of truth has come earlier than I'd thought, but I've already decided that I owe them honesty.
"I was completely in the wrong," I say slowly (and oh, it's such a relief to admit it to myself). "I hid behind a lot of things because that was easier than facing up to what had happened. And because dealing with it would be just … too difficult."
Trip's still working on the repairs, but I know he's listening intently.
"I've never been successful with relationships." I pause. There's so much I could say about the reasons for this, but the details of how and why I was emotionally maimed are too private, too intense, even for this moment of honesty. Maybe someday I'll feel able to talk about it, but just at this present time this trust I feel in the two of them is too new, too strange and fragile, to take the strain. "And I didn't know whether … whether it was just a one-off. 'What happens on the planet stays on the planet', that sort of thing. Maybe I wanted to believe that was all it was. For me, anyway."
From beneath the console I catch the muttered words 'Dumb sonofabitch'. Hoshi is leaning forward, watching me as though trying to gauge whether I'm still holding anything back. Fortunately for me, the Section trained me extremely well.
"I don't want … if this is …" I know what I want to say, but suddenly I'm awkward, overcome by the same overwhelming crisis of confidence in my own judgement here in an element where I've never been comfortable. But maybe tomorrow a sudden hostile encounter out in space may see Enterprise lost with all hands, and the last thing I want to think as I face Eternity is 'If only I'd taken the chance they offered me.'
I sigh, swallow, and gather my nerve. "If this is for real, I want to be part of it."
Trip finishes something off under the console and slithers out. He sits up and looks carefully at me. "You know this'll cause a mess of trouble if it gets out."
That hardly needs saying. A lapse might be forgiven, maybe an illicit bit of romance overlooked, but this is a violation of the anti-fraternisation regulations down three ranks. Not to mention that I suspect there are those in the upper echelons of Starfleet who hold the same outdated – not to say bigoted – views on homosexuality as my father does. I can imagine all too easily that Trip's family, traditionalists to the bone, will label me as the 'Limey queer' who seduced their darling son from the straight and narrow. And no doubt there will be those who'll want to believe that the two of us preyed on an innocent young ensign who was too afraid to resist our lecherous advances. I'm not in the least afraid that she wouldn't tell them the truth, but few of those who'll hear the story know Hoshi well enough to believe it, and there are none so deaf to the truth as those who don't want to hear it.
My arms are resting on my crossed legs, my fingers lightly linked. I study them for a moment. "There's nobody in my family whose ill opinion matters a jot to me in something like this," I say at last. "As for Starfleet, yes, I know there'd be trouble if it came out. But as far as I'm concerned we're three consenting adults, who are all professional enough to keep our working lives and personal lives perfectly separate. If I make a mistake when we're on duty I'll still expect you to tear a strip off me, without any reference to the fact that we happen to share a bed; I'll still expect to give Hoshi an order as her superior officer and have it obeyed exactly as any other subordinate would. If you and she can adhere to that, as I think you can, then if it did happen to come out that we were in a relationship I'd be perfectly prepared to argue our case before a tribunal if necessary. And if we weren't successful – well, there are other careers than Starfleet." (I know that if our misconduct were discovered it would be Trip who would be held responsible, being the senior officer, but I'm damned if he'd shoulder the blame alone. I'd find a way to put myself in the dock beside him somehow.)
Trip stands up. So do I. Hoshi joins us, and we put our arms around each other. It's a moment of strange solemnity, as if we're committing to something. A part of me still wants to back out, to maintain my distance; for as long as I can remember, I've belonged to no-one and committed to nothing. Now all that will have to change; I will have to plunge into the flames. A line of an old song I heard once goes through my head: Life is not tried, it is merely survived, If you're standing outside the fire.
"It's not going to be easy," Hoshi says softly.
"Nothing worthwhile ever is," Trip answers.
I feel as if something is required of me, but at a moment so momentous I'm lost for words. Instead I kiss them both, infusing the gesture with as much as I can of acceptance, and trust, and belief in the future.
For us, there may be no future. We're travellers in a vast and unknown landscape, and who knows what we will encounter when we leave. But at this point in time I feel, for the first time that I can remember, that I'm not facing it alone. That if my worst forebodings come true, and fate decides that I meet my end out here among the stars, my last thoughts won't be, 'If only…'
The End.
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