Machination

He ran through the water, hearing the vicious dog-like creatures baying in the distance. He ran downstream, trying to mask his scent—his sweat soaked, fear drenched, bloody scent. He ran, heedless of his labored breathing, his aching legs and lungs, the welts and oozing cuts streaking his body. He ran, wishing he could slow, rest, fall face down into the stream and lie forever in its cold embrace. Or at least stop to take a damn drink from it…

He'd been running, hiding, fighting, for the past three days. At least he thought it'd been three days. They tended to blend into each other on this planet of perpetual twilight. If he was right, that meant he had one more day left before he could stop. If they didn't kill him first.

He was beginning to actively hate his life…

***

He sat in frozen horror, watching his beloved run from the ever-closing hounds. He'd been forced to watch the hunt for the past three days, ankle chained to the chair, a screen playing the live feed from the satellite cameras, which encircled this world. His "hosts", the Katheki, supplied him with the finest food, the best wines, and the fairest men and women from which to choose for his pleasure.

They would then join him to watch the merriment. He was allowed to make their regular contact with the ship, his words carefully supervise, under the threat of killing his beloved instantly to ensure that his shipmates would not suspect.

He had been escorted to the grandest box seat for the opening ceremony. The perfect location to watch his lover sprint away when the hunt officially began; a ninety-minute head start in accordance with the tradition.

He watched as his beloved was led to the start place, furious that they had been betrayed. He should have known. It was his job to know.

His fear and concern grew as his lover was dragged to the starting area, a leather collar around his neck, a leash attached and in the hands of a burly clansman. His wrists were bound tightly by a thin leather strap. He wore only a tight pair of rough leather pants the color of dried blood, with a small knife encased in a sheath and loosely belted around his waist.

He was ashamed to admit it, but he thought his lover never looked more appealing. Straight out of a private fantasy to which he knew the man would never submit. He watched the play of muscles in his arms and back as he struggled, the taut stomach, the strong thighs enveloped in the coarse leather.

He wondered what those rough hide-cloaked legs would feel like against his own naked body and he was humiliated that he was thinking with his cock.

He tried talking, persuading, seducing, promising, threatening, swearing, and finally begging that they let his beloved go. To take him instead. Or just let them both go. He didn't care what Starfleet wanted at this point, this planet's rich mineral deposits and the mining rights to it weren't worth his lover's safety and certainly not his life. He didn't care if he was busted down in rank, or court marshaled, or even discharged. As long as his cherished one was safe.

They removed the leash, the collar still in place, and cut the strap binding his wrists. The pieces hung down, still tightly tied to each wrist, but his hands were free. The hunt began and his beloved looked at him, his expressive eyes full of concern and love. "Not your fault," he mouthed. He gave him a small smile and ran. He moved fast, legs churning, arms pumping, bare feet flashing. The leather bindings flew behind him like black mourning ribbons on a hearse…

***

He could run no further. His legs trembled with exhaustion. The pack was closer, the hunters not far behind them. He stood in the middle of the stream, bent over and panting, listening. A few minutes at most. He could hear the roar of water further ahead and around a bend, but unable to see what it was. He placed his hands into the cold water and drank. A few sips. He couldn't afford to shock his system, no matter how thirsty he was.

At least the pack had been diminished. Five had started. Two were left. He had killed the other three, their fangs leaving gashes on his chest and arms. He unsheathed his knife, and picked off a piece of dried flesh from the last canine he had killed. He ate it. Better than nothing. Tasted better dried, he thought wryly. Could use a touch of oregano.

Better than the lump of raw flesh he had managed to sever from the second beast after killing it, eating it on the run. Trying to keep it down and not fall to his knees vomiting. He was thankful that the pack hunted strung out and kilometers behind each other. Easier to fight then. He didn't think he could handle two at a time. Then again, that made them tireless, one falling back, another taking its place.

They had release the pack late yesterday, the hunters unable to catch him on foot. He had narrowly avoided being shot as one of the Katheki had taken aim and nearly blew his head off. Thank God he had ducked to avoid a low hanging tree limb at that moment.

His breathing had calmed somewhat and he walked slowly, trying to cool down, to quell the shaking of his legs.

He waited.

***

He bellowed curses at his captors as he watched the dog-like monstrosity slam into his lover.

The Katheki cheered as the creature grabbed the man around the neck, the prey kicking and twisting. He raked the knife down the belly of the beast, and it let go, shrieking in pain.

He watched his lover scramble to his feet and launch himself at the animal, knife held in both hands. He vaulted over the hound's back and plunged the knife between its shoulder blades. The creature screamed and twisted its head around, jaws snapping, foam and blood dripping from its mouth. It slashed a razor sharp claw at its antagonist, sending its quarry flying back a few meters and down hard.

He watched his beloved rise, turn and run, his hands empty, the knife deeply embedded in the animal. The hound tried to follow, but it was mortally wounded and collapsed. He could see his lover clutching his ribs, a grimace marring his handsome features. Minutes later the last beast arrived, along with the Katheki hunters. They followed their prey.

***

The roar of water grew louder and he ran toward it. He looked down at the hand tightly holding his ribs and saw blood leaking from between his fingers. He wiped his bloody hand on his pants and ran as fast as he could, arms pumping, side aching. He stopped in time to avoid the sheer drop off. He looked down and actually laughed.

***

He couldn't watch, yet he couldn't look away.

***

They were close now. He could hear the baying of the last beast, the shouts of the hunters. He was so tired. He wiped the sweat off his brow and ran his hand through his hair, leaving a bloody trail in it. He had no choice. He saw the hound come into view, attached to a leash, one similar to the one that had been fastened to his collar days ago. The irony amused him. He waited until they were almost in range and then he sprinted and flew over the edge, his arms flung out wide, a smile on his face.

***

"Malcolm!" Jon yelled as he watched his lover dive over the edge. "NO!" he raged. He lunged at the nearest Katheki who had wandered too close to his shackled reach and grabbed his neck, choking him, unmindful the blows raining down upon him. He heard a sudden sound of phase pistol fire and threw the alien into three others. He turned and saw Trip with a security detail, picking off the last of the Katheki.

"Jon!" Trip shouted and ran to him. "Malcolm! He's…God, Trip…we've got to get to him!" Jon grabbed Trip by the shoulders. "Get T'Pol to search for biosigns, or triangulate his position from this broadcast, we've got to move, Trip!"

Trip nodded and signaled T'Pol. One of the security men released Jon, severing the chain with a well aim burst of fire.

They ran for the shuttlepod, fighting their way through the few Katheki who opposed them. They lifted off. T'Pol reported her findings and Trip headed toward where she had estimated his position would be from the broadcast.

"I'm sorry it took so long, Jon," Trip blurted. "We figured out about an hour ago that the tapping sound we heard every time you'd check in was Morse Code. We thought it was interference from the atmosphere. T'Pol finally discovered that there was a pattern to it, and Hoshi figured it out…it's such an archaic code, that we didn't recognize it…"

"It's okay…just hurry…"

***

They saw him lying on the shore and Jon's heart clenched. Malcolm was sprawled out, face down, absolutely still. Jon raced to him, dropping to his knees and turned him over.

"Malcolm? Come on, wake up…" He felt for a pulse and Malcolm stirred.

"Oh God, Malcolm!" Jon smiled, relief flooding through him. He hugged his beloved to him.

Malcolm opened his eyes a crack. "Jon?"

"Yes! Are you okay?"

"Fine."

Jon snorted, shaking his head and hugged him to his chest.

Malcolm thought about sitting up and decided against it. He was very cozy. Then he thought that Jon might try to carry him, and that embarrassing vision made him pull back.

Trip came up and knelt down. "How ya doing?"

"Tired."

Jon helped Malcolm carefully to his feet and Trip flanked him on the other side. They got him into the shuttle and they eased him down on the bench seat. Jon got the first aid kit and started to inspect his side, wincing at the claw marks. He cleaned them, all the time talking to Malcolm.

"I thought you died. My God…Malcolm…"

"It wasn't that far. About 25 meters. I just hoped it wasn't shallow, I would have broken my bloody neck…" he said absently, his mind murky with fatigue. He ran a leaden hand down Jon's face, trying to keep his eyes open, trying to drink in the sight of his lover.

Jon bent over and kissed him gently. Malcolm opened his mouth and sucked on Jon's lower lip, running his tongue over it. A smothered laugh escaped him and Jon drew back.

"I'm sorry…I'm really tired…" he smiled at Jon and closed his eyes.

Jon stroked his lover's hair as he slept and waited for them to dock with the ship.

***

Malcolm woke slowly, luxuriating in the warmth, not wanting to open his eyes. He rubbed his head against his pillow and nuzzled in closer. A hair tickled his nose. He opened his eyes lazily and noticed the well-defined muscles and soft skin lying beneath his head. He was home.

He tightened his grasp around his lover and Jon woke.

"Malcolm…you're awake."

"Apparently."

"It's four in the morning. You've been sleeping for over a day."

"A good run will do that to you."

"I love you."

"Love you too. Thanks for not dumping me in sickbay. This is so much nicer to wake up to…"

"Phlox said the cuts looked worse than they were…that you were mainly suffering from exhaustion."

"I think I've caught up with my beauty sleep now." He propped himself up and kissed Jon hard, a soft growl escaping from Malcolm's throat.

"Malcolm!"

Malcolm straddled him and licked his nipple, flicking his tongue over it, teasing the other one lightly with his fingers. "I think first I want something to eat, then I'm going to make love to you, and then you'll serve me breakfast in bed…" He trailed his tongue down Jon's chest, and grabbed Jon's crotch, squeezing gently.

"Jesus, Malcolm!" Jon moaned out. He tried to protest but Malcolm's talented hands made him inarticulate.

"I plan on sleeping in all day today as well."

Jon gently drew Malcolm closer and kissed him.

"I'm sorry…Malcolm, I thought…I saw you jump, I thought you were dead—"

"What?" Malcolm looked at him with confusion and dismay. "But, you weren't there…"

Jon told him of being forced to watch, from start to finish, the entire hunt. Malcolm could see the haunted look in his lover's eye, the pain and despair as he related his story. Malcolm wrapped his arms around Jon and murmured soothingly to him, kissing him gently, telling him it was okay, it wasn't his fault, that he was fine.

Jon closed his eyes and listened to Malcolm's soft accented tones. He was so relieved that his lover was back, alive. Awake. He had worried while Malcolm slept, watching the slow rise and fall of the younger man's chest, drinking in the details of his lover's slender body. Angry at himself for fantasizing about Malcolm in the collar, hands bound and helpless in his bed.

Jon saw that vision again beneath his lids as he listen to Malcolm reassure him. Jon pictured the tight leather pants, now unable to hide the straining erection that Jon had caused. He imagined Malcolm's look of desire, his restraint swept away as Jon stood over him, teasing him, making him beg. He could almost hear his lover moan, that low drawn out purr of ecstasy that Malcolm rarely permitted to escape from his throat. It drove Jon wild, knowing that he could make Malcolm come with such passion. He wanted to hear it every time they made love. But Malcolm seldom unleashed his raging intensity, always trying to be gentle, not wanting to hurt Jon. Jon wanted Malcolm to let go and slam into him, filling him and pounding at him until Jon thought he would burst with elation. Jon wanted to see Malcolm's beautiful eyes as his came, his expressive eyes that showed his love and devotion, his uncontrollable want. He wanted to see them cloud with exquisite pleasure as he came, wanted to see those changeable eyes glaze and hear that low sound issue from Malcolm's throat. He wanted Malcolm to collapse upon him, sweaty and spent, dazed and panting. He wanted to feel the younger man's hard muscled body lying atop him, his soft warm skin slick against Jon's own.

Jon continued to enjoy the sensation of Malcolm's lips as he worked his way down his neck, planting gentle kisses and nips. He thought about those rare times Malcolm had truly let go, had driven into Jon with a wild abandon and animalistic frenzy. The times they had returned safe and unharmed from a dangerous mission, where they had to fight to get out alive. The times where Malcolm's pent up anxiety and adrenaline would combine with his anger and frustration, when he could find no release during combat, having to carefully keep his emotions locked down so he could act with a cool head.

Jon loved to see him that way, like a fine thoroughbred nervously pawing at the starting gate, only to settle down into a calm even stride, powerfully racing all out toward the goal. He loved to watch his lover move, phase pistol ready, muscles tense, nerves stretched. Jon would try to glimpse Malcolm's face to see the intensity on it, his stormy eyes wide and alert. And he loved to see Malcolm in action, running, shooting, or blowing something up. The small smile on his face as something exploded always went straight to Jon's heart.

And then they'd return to the ship, secure and uninjured, and Malcolm would take Jon with a rabid furor, releasing his too long contained stress and reducing Jon to a quivering mass of pleasure. And Jon would hear that sound issue from his lover's throat as he came. Jon loved it when Malcolm was wild, and disappointed that it so rarely happened.

So Jon found himself taking calculated risks, winding Malcolm up, waiting for the explosive ardor of their lovemaking. And each time Malcolm got hurt, Jon would condemn himself, telling himself that he'd be more careful next time, he'd never put Malcolm at risk again. His lover was too precious to him.

But he couldn't help himself.

Jon opened his eyes and looked into Malcolm's concerned ones. Jon kissed him, wondering again how he had gotten so lucky.

"Still hungry?" Jon asked.

"Starving," Malcolm replied with a grin. He kissed him and with a quick yank pulled Jon's skivvies down, freeing the hardness he had felt pressing against him.

"Hello…that'll give me a run for my money…"

Jon snorted. "Malcolm…"

"You never were much good early in the morning, I think I'll run rings around you, Jon…"

"Malcolm—"

"Or should I just run along now and take a cold shower?"

"Malcolm!"

"Just running my mouth…"

Jon pulled him into an embrace and kissed him hard. "Remember Malcolm, you can run, but you can't hide."