Golden Slumbers

Help me.

I'm dying here. Someone please save me.

The Garde talk and talk and talk until the pleasant smile I've cemented on my face is in danger of cracking and plunging into my endless glasses of wine. Speech after speech about the wonderful bond of friendship our species have forged, another run down on the history of their planet's first contacts, a dissertation on the similarities we share, and then more speeches.

And of course, the damn wine doesn't help. It's like drinking warm milk all night long. Although I'm looking forward to enjoying the sleep it'll bring, uninterrupted by nightmares of this never-ending banquet.

T'Pol is sitting there stone faced and patient. I think she's meditating with her eyes open. Hoshi's been fiddling with her UT for the last three hours. I suspect she's got a game or something programmed in there, because she seems fascinated by it, and it sure as hell can't be all the linguistic nuances inherent in each speech. Trip's off in a corner with Twalana and they've been softly chattering away, oblivious to anything else going on.

But I'm the captain. I have to pay attention.

Fucking lucky me.

***

Enough with the singing already.

On autopilot I slap the table and stomp my feet along with the rest of the Garde to show our appreciation, and I'm using that word sarcastically, as members of the Cadre finish up yet another ditty. Which sounded just like the last six.

Since the singing started, Hoshi and T'Pol have been trading the UT back and forth. By now I'm certain it's a game. Hoshi breaks out in a grin and I know it's not because of the cries for an encore.

As the Cadre start another song, she gives T'Pol a triumphant smile and I think her lips form the words "top that."

My Garde neighbor turns to me and tells me that this is his favorite song. He exhorts me to listen closely to the lyrics so he can tell me all about the history of the piece. Somehow I just know he's going to give me a pop quiz on it later.

I hate being the captain.

***

I nod my head again, my face aching from the smile that's become fossilized. My new best friend's eyes are glazed in rapture as he expounds on the stylistic crooning of different Garde ballad masters who have recorded his favorite song over the eons. Which the members of the Cadre sang again. After their third encore.

I catch a glimpse of myself reflecting off the surface of an empty wine bottle. My eyes are glazed as well, but not in rapture, though I don't think my buddy's noticed. The smile on my face is a wooden rictus of a grimace which wouldn't be out of place on a corpse. I think I spot a couple of grey hairs that weren't there before this evening began, like, what, a millennium ago?

Oh, hurrah. He's asking me if I remember the name of the songwriter. I search for it and pull it out of my ass. Which, may I just add, I can no longer feel as I've been sitting here since before time began. My pal beams at me and starts asking me more questions about what he just told me.

Good thing I was paying attention all this time. I knew there was gonna be a quiz afterwards. That's why I'm the captain.

***

"Cap'n?"

"Yes. That's me. Captain 'Oh really, tell me more, I'm fascinated.'"

Trip looks at me kind of funny. Then he gives me a shit-eating grin.

Nobody likes me.

"So I take it you enjoyed this evening's entertainment? I saw that professor looking guy talkin' to you quite a bit."

"Would you like to hear the whole 400,000 year history of musicology and song writing of the Garde people, Trip? Legend has it that it all started when the first Garde, usually said to be Timnaboo, found the first hollow gourd. He made up a little tune. It went something like this." I pound a simple tattoo the table. "Then the first lyrics sounded a little like this," and I start grunting along to the beat.

Trip's looking at me like I'm insane. Serves him right. I saw him slip out with Twalana after the second song began. He got to sit outside in that beautiful warm air with a gorgeous woman who doesn't speak as if delivering a lecture to a class load of PhDs.

Or quizzes him on whatever she's been talking about. Which most likely isn't about her life's work in the field of poorly written songs and even worse sung ballads.

T'Pol and Hoshi enjoyed everything because they didn't have to pay attention and they were distracted by what I'm now positive was a game. Considering how Hoshi once pumped her fist in the air and yelled "Yes!" Not that any of the Garde minded. They just assumed she was swept away by all the singing.

I realize that my whole team abandoned me to my fate and I resent it.

I bet Malcolm would have suffered with me. Most likely as part of his duty, but maybe out of commiseration for his captain. He would have sat right by my side, and endured the entire evening with a stiff upper lip and innumerable snarky comments to amuse me, making it bearable.

I look at Trip's grinning face again.

Nobody loves me.

"I was wondering if you'd mind doin' me a little favor, Jon."

Oooh. He's bringing out the big guns, using the first name basis. Must be some favor. And after he ditched me all through dinner too. I'm all ready to say no when he says —

"Would you mind trading rooms with me tonight?"

My refusal dies on my lips and his grin widens. Trading room with him means —

"Unless you'd mind sharing a bed with Malcolm," he adds and then gives me a smirk.

I think he's been taking smug bastard lessons from Malcolm.

Trip knows I'm attracted to my armory officer. He's known since the second week of our launch. He saw it before I did. And now, after a decade of friendship, through good times and more than enough bad times, there aren't many secrets between us. I look at him and I see the compassion in his eyes which belies the impertinent smirk on his face.

I can't believe that some of my actions almost cost me the friendship of this man. I can't believe that my self-absorption on our current mission has led me to ignore and disregard so much of the personal connection with my crew. What I almost became.

"Sure. No problem, Trip." It's out of my mouth before I can think twice about it. Before I can get nervous about it. Sharing a bed with Malcolm. It's only been in my dreams so far.

I hope I can control myself.

***

I stand in front of the door to the room. Malcolm's mud encrusted boots and clothing are outside the door, against the wall, waiting to be picked up for laundry service. I see how he's neatly folded his uniform, despite it looking like it's been pulled through a swamp and then dumped in a ditch. I look down the hallway and see that Hoshi and T'Pol have their uniforms outside their door as well. I guess they're using the nightclothes provided by the Garde too, then. We hadn't planned on not being able to return to the ship each night.

I unlock the door and enter. I half expect it to be stifling hot in here, figuring Malcolm would have the windows locked up tight in some paranoid concern for security even though we're ten stories up and there's no way anyone could break in. But in the bright light of the twin moons, I can see that they're all open, drapes pulled back, and a pleasant breeze is drifting through the main room.

Trip's presence here for the last few days is evident. A couple of dishes stacked up in the sink in the small kitchenette, an empty bottle of wine on the table, a few glasses—a couple with what passes for Garde lipstick on them I notice.

Looks like he's been entertaining for the last few evenings. No wonder he seemed to be so relaxed. And eager to trade rooms.

I look around but it's pretty much the same as the room I was given. That door leads to the large bathroom, and there should be a chest of drawers in there stocked with several items of clothing, then another door that leads to the bedroom.

Which contains just one big comfortable bed.

And Malcolm.

***

I shower and take my time, procrastinating. The only proof that Malcolm's been in here is a rumpled towel on the rack. I dry off and rummage through the drawers, looking for something to sleep in. I can't tell if anything's been taken out and the thought that Malcolm might be sleeping in the next room naked gives me pause.

I don't think he's the type to do that, but it's certainly warm enough.

I settle on a pair of gauzy black bottoms that look remarkably like harem pants. I feel slightly silly and check my reflection. They're just a little short, obviously provided especially for Trip by our thoughtful but garrulous hosts, but I have to admit, I look pretty damn good and you can't see anything through them. Well, not unless you're really trying. But they're comfortable and cool, and I debate whether I should wear the matching shirt to bed. While deciding I take my uniform and place it out in the hallway next to Malcolm's. Just in time too, as one of the Garde is picking up Hoshi's and T'Pol's things. I nod to him and go back inside.

It's too perfect to wear anything else. I look out the big bay windows, the lights of the city, contemplate the moons and the amazing glow they cast over everything. It's beautiful and warm and peaceful. I'm tired and I can't stall any longer.

I head to the bedroom.

***

It's comfortably temperate in here and the windows are wide open, the moons shining brightly, the drapes gently moving as the breeze disturbs them.

As soon as I see him an old song runs through my mind. The innocence of children, dressed in white and slowly dreaming…

The sheets are on the floor and the pillows ignored. He's sprawled out, spread eagle diagonally across the bed, as if he just leapt into it then passed out on his stomach as soon as he hit the mattress. It's kind of a jarring sight, because I've been half convinced that he sleeps on his back, at attention. In uniform. But to see him like this, the light illuminating him, the bare skin of his torso gleaming in the silvery radiance from the moons —

My god, he's beautiful.

He's clad in immaculate white bottoms, the same material as mine, only on him they fit perfectly. They hug his slender waist and pert little butt, gradually becoming looser through the thighs and legs until they taper down again at the ankles.

I reach out, my hand superimposed over that ass. It looks like each delectable cheek would be one handful, and I can almost feel the heat from those curved half orbs cradled in my palm. I feel a stirring in my groin and I have to breath deeply to calm myself.

I look at his face instead. His hair is a mess; he obviously didn't comb it after showering and it's dried in a hedgehog wild mass of contradictory waves and spikes. The glow from the moons soften the fatigue induced lines of his face, his lips slightly parted, his features relaxed.

His usually restless body is so still that I can't even tell if he's breathing.

His skin looks soft and inviting, and I want to touch him because I like how he feels. Hard and wiry. Muscles underneath that deceptively slim frame. I sometimes wonder how his body would feel, naked and sweating, against my own. On top of me. Next to me. Under me.

I'd like to touch his lips. See if they're as soft as I imagine. I want to touch his face; I want to trace the path of those cheekbones. I want to stare into his eyes, watch them change from grey to deep blue. I want to see his pupils expand, knowing that they do so because he is looking at me.

I want to hear him say my name with that soft accent, his voice deepened by passion. I want him to touch me, those graceful fingers playing along my body, his hands holding me.

I watch him sleep instead.

I've done it before. Unfortunately it's usually when he's in sickbay. A captain's late night visit to check on his injured crewman.

I'll stay, a short vigil, and drink in his features, relieved he's alive, the guilty feeling of being able to stare as much as I want without him waking. Without him catching me being so blatantly obvious. At those times I'll memorize his face and every inch of his frame. To be replayed later in my fantasies.

But I can watch him now. Heathy and whole. Uninjured and innocent. Lying so still and vulnerable.

I don't know how much time passes, but it takes all I've got to force myself to walk toward the bed. I hover at his shoulder. Since he's stretched out completely, taking up the whole bed, there's no room for me to just slide in without moving him. I give his upper arm a little push and my traitorous hand stays there.

His bare skin is just as soft as I've imagined it with the unyielding firm tone of his musculature underneath it. He doesn't move, doesn't react, and I push a little harder. Nothing.

I whisper to him. "Move over, Malcolm." But I get no response. I lift his arm and drop it, and it bounces bonelessly back down onto the bed.

He's dead to the world and it just makes him that much more irresistible.

I try another tact. I walk around to the other side of the bed and awkwardly perch close to the edge, pushing his legs with my feet to straighten him out and over to the side.

That gets a reaction - a low grunt and a mumbled curse as I maneuver him into a vertical position. I grab the unused pillows above his head and ease in next to him. As my head sinks into the pillows I'm unprepared for what he does next.

He turns and gloms onto me, face butting into my chest. A few incoherent mutters and then he lets out a soft contented sound, a short satisfied little noise, slightly high pitched and kind of growly. He wraps an arm around my waist and his leg comes up and lands across my thighs. He relaxes completely with a sigh and he's suddenly a dead weight again, half way on top of me—cozy.

My arm has a mind of its own and automatically holds him. He's warm and smooth, and I can feel his breath on my skin, mingling with the breeze coming in through the window, his body solid and substantial against me. He fits perfectly, tucked in under my chin, and I can't resist stroking his shoulder. He smells wonderful; the shampoo and body wash clean and delicate, the undercurrent of his natural scent tantalizing. My other hand gives into temptation and I run my fingers through his hair. It's as soft and silky as I've always imagined.

I feel sleep coming on, the wine catching up to me, the bed welcoming me, Malcolm snug against me and his body conforming to mine like a natural extension of my own.

I should let go. I should release him and move over.

Just another minute.

I should scoot over now.

One more minute.

I should…