Mad Love, Abandoned Love

Trip woke, snug and content, and slowly opened his eyes. Slightly disorientated, he took in the vaguely familiar surroundings. Then the memory of their mission here on Strolof, drinking in the bar last night, the sweet release of sex with the woman from the front desk, and finally finding Malcolm sick and severely intoxicated this morning asserted itself as he recognized that he was in the room given to Jon for the duration of their stay.

It dawned on Trip that he was cradling Malcolm, holding him close.

It felt natural.

It felt good.

It was torture.

Malcolm was lying on him, dark head nestled against Trip's throat, one bare muscular arm embracing his neck, a leg draped over his thighs, and Malcolm's foot lodged between his calves. He could feel the heat coming off Malcolm's body, not as hot as before, but still fevered. Malcolm's hand was curved around Trip's shoulder, fingers splayed against it, and he could feel their warmth through his shirt.

Trip extricated himself with careful movements, sliding out from under his sleeping friend, trying not to wake him. He sat on the edge of the bed, intending to rise. Instead he perched there, watching as Malcolm moved fitfully before calming.

Trip studied the handsome features he found so enticing. Although Malcolm was a bit scruffy, unshaven and hair disheveled, his face looked innocent in repose; tranquil, those black lashes appearing impossibly long against his still pale skin. It made the five- o'clock shadow he sported look darker than usual and Trip refrained from reaching out to run a hand over that jaw, from letting his fingers skim over those extraordinary cheekbones.

He closed his eyes and felt a wave of longing. Envy. Anger.

Jon had gone too far this time. Trip didn't know what was in the vial, but he damn well was going to confront his former lover about it.

Trip knew Jon's inclinations. When they had been together, Trip had no problem with agreeing to all of Jon's requests; he could take them or leave them and didn't have any issues with what they did. And although he had enjoyed the rough lovemaking, as well as some of Jon's more unusual but admittedly deliciously exciting practices, it wasn't what Trip wanted all the time.

Trip liked to experiment and it was nice to have a partner with no qualms whatsoever. But it soon became more about the act, the mechanics of sex, and Trip slowly allowed himself to drift from Jon, wanting the emotional connection, not just the physical. Then Jon had found someone else and Trip had found Natalie and they were both happy.

They had parted with no hard feelings and had remained the best of friends. And Trip still loved Jon in a way, once in a while having a vague regret about their separation, but not grieving it. They were still close. They knew each other better than most married couples and they worked well together.

And they could forgive each other anything.

Almost anything, Trip thought as he opened his eyes and looked at Malcolm again.

Malcolm breathed out a low moan and rolled to his back, one arm covering his eyes, the other flung out. Trip studied the bruises again on the man's wrists; he'd seen the ones on his back and hips. But this time the engineer noticed the ones encircling his neck, extending up and under his jawline.

Without conscious thought Trip tilted Malcolm's head to get a better look. Malcolm shifted uneasily once more, muttering something unintelligible, then quieted again.

The bite marks and scratches, the minor bruises on Malcolm's body didn't disturb him. They were superficial and a natural part of more intense love making. Trip had inflicted worse and had worse visited upon him, fully consenting, fully enjoying it.

Pain and pleasure were sometimes interchangeable, one heightening the other. And he'd seen love marks on both his friends before. He had discreetly asked Malcolm about it once and his friend had been quick to assure Trip that Jon had never hurt nor forced him. And Trip had checked with Jon, to make sure that Malcolm wasn't injuring him.

But, as he traced the bruises on Malcolm's neck, as he lifted one slack arm and inspected the contusions and abrasions on his friend's wrist, a trickle of concern twisted in his gut and he asked himself the same questions over again.

What was in the vial? Why did Jon put it in Malcolm's drink? Why were these bruises here?

If it was a bondage game, then Jon knew better. He knew how to cushion the cuffs, the ropes, or whatever paraphernalia used so as not to damage his partner. Plus Jon knew erotic asphyxiation was too dangerous a game to play, especially while intoxicated.

And Trip knew for a fact that Malcolm didn't like bondage or extreme S&M. A casual conversation once with a surprisingly candid Malcolm had ascertained that.

He gently replaced Malcolm's arm on the bed, not letting his hand linger. He covered Malcolm with the sheet, trying to eliminate the temptation to loiter, to just savor the display of his best friend's lover's naked torso, those arms and that well defined chest. To torment himself with the memory of touching that smooth skin and feeling the wiry strength beneath it. Of holding that slender frame close. The feel of Malcolm's lips and the taste of the man…

Trip rose quickly, careful not to jostle the bed and resolutely walked to the bathroom. He tidied up, rinsing his face and using Jon's comb to smooth his hair. For a long while he contemplated himself in the mirror, deep in thought.

He sighed and opened the bathroom door to find Jon sitting on the bed, fingers lightly stroking Malcolm.

Jon looked up from his lover. "How is he?" he asked in a low voice. Trip could see the concern and worry on his face.

"He was mighty sick all mornin'," Trip replied in the same quiet tone. He looked away as Jon continued to caress Malcolm, feeling a slight shiver as Jon petted Malcolm in manner reminiscent of the way he'd stroke Porthos.

"I've got the shuttlepod ready and Phlox is back on board. A ground vehicle's waiting downstairs. Would you help me?" Without waiting for an answer Jon began to gather Malcolm in his arms, and Malcolm finally stirred.

"Jon?" he mumbled, groggy and barely conscious.

"Yeah. Come on, let's get you home."

Trip helped Jon get him to his feet and Malcolm sagged between them.

"Fuck," he uttered, scarcely audible. The pain in his head was unbearable, making him sick to his stomach. He closed his eyes against the room pirouetting about him and tried not to vomit.

Not much of the journey registered for Malcolm, just an occasional painful burst of noise or bright light, dry heaves shuddering through his body, a sporadic awareness of hands supporting him, and feeling as if someone was trying to push molten knives through his skull. The only thing that was clear, the only thing he would later remember of that day, was Jon's voice, low and soothing. Words of love. Of concern and care. Warmth and tenderness.

His sole lucid thought was of how much Jon loved him and always took care of him, no matter how badly he screwed up.

***

Three days later

"What's in the vial?" Trip asked quietly as he walked with Jon back from the shuttlebay. Trip spoke calmly, not allowing his former lover see his fury.

"What?" Jon asked, taken by surprise.

"The vial. The vial with the black liquid in it. The vial with the black liquid you put in Malcolm's drink the other night." Trip maintained his placid demeanor, trying to keep his voice from rising as he gritted out the words. It was difficult.

"I didn't put anything in his drink," Jon answered with complete sincerity. And he hadn't. The bartender had.

Trip stopped, grabbing Jon's arm, fingers digging in tight. "Goddamn it, Jon. You know what I mean. Don't give me your innocent act, glossin' over the truth because of semantics. I found that vial in your drawer and it smelled just like the drink. And while you've been staying on that planet playin' diplomat all this time, the man you claim to love was sick as a dog. Didja know he hadn't been able to keep anything down for close to two fuckin' days? And even Phlox's strongest painkillers didn't do jack for his head?"

And he doesn't remember a goddamn thing except making love to you, Trip added silently, angry. Bitter.

Miserable.

Jon stared at the white knuckled hand clutching his arm. "Let's discuss this somewhere private. Your quarters are closest."

Trip released him and nodded, too infuriated to speak. He tried to calm down as they walked to his room. When the door slid shut, he sat on his bed and waited for Jon's explanation.

Jon looked at the desk chair and then walked over and sat next to Trip. "I wanted Malcolm to relax. You know how quiet he'd been lately, trying to put killing those aliens behind him. I just wanted him to have a good time."

"By drugging his drink?" Trip asked coolly, masking his burning outrage.

"That wasn't my intention. It just happened. The bartender accidently used too much." Jon stood and began to pace. "It was just suppose to let him unwind. I wanted him to feel good, Trip. I wanted to do something special for him. To give him pleasure, to let him know how much I love him. I just wanted him to relax and enjoy himself—"

"By doping him and making him sick? By tyin' him up and chokin' him?" Trip interrupted scornfully. "Christ, Jon, I saw the bruises! What the hell's wrong with you?"

Jon spun around. "It wasn't like that! Trip, you know me…I love him. I wanted to make him feel good, to treat him special and he liked it, Trip. He really got into it and it was incredible!"

"Incredible for him, or for you, Jon?" Trip rose and stood in front of Jon, furious but curbing his impulse to shake him. Or worse.

"I did it for him, Trip." Jon met his eyes, forthright and earnest. "You know how he is. Hell, even off duty he never really relaxes." Jon shook his head, a sad expression crossing his face. "He won't even have more than a beer or two when he's off shift. 'Just in case' he tells me. Just in case we're attacked, or if we run into something unknown."

Jon looked away, but not before Trip caught his slightly self-conscious look. "And I just wanted to have him with me all night for a change, I just wanted to hold him—he's usually up and out before I wake up, always busy, tinkering with the phase canons, trying to squeeze more power out of them or adjusting the targeting alignment by a few microns." Jon sighed, and sat down on the bunk again. "Or he's in the gym, or target practice, or reading up on tactics and defensive designs, or dreaming up some new refinement to the weapons system…" Jon looked at Trip again, and Trip felt his rage deflate a bit as he saw the utter concern on Jon's face, heard it in his voice.

"He worries a lot, Trip. It's a big responsibility. And he takes it so seriously." Jon bowed his head. "Our mission is to find new races and talk to people. And his is to keep us all safe while doing it. It's a pretty big burden on a person. I mean, I have to make the decisions, balancing our mission against the good of the crew. And I know I take calculated risks, because the goals are worth it. But I depend on Malcolm to pull our asses out of the fire once I place them in there, and it weighs on him."

Jon looked up at Trip, his eyes begging his friend to understand. "And that's why I wanted him to relax for once, Trip. Not just for me to get my rocks off. I wanted him to enjoy himself. We were on a planet with zero possibility of trouble, completely safe and he could unwind, just once. He could let down his guard and be carefree for just one night. And he's not used to that, so I just wanted to help him along, that's all, Trip."

Then Jon smiled, that sweet and open look, and Trip felt his anger receding. "You should of seen him. We made love and he was…he just…he was just so alive…and I made him feel that, Trip. I made him happy."

Jon's smile faded and he bowed his head. "He worries too much, always trying to be gentle, and I know he wants to make love to me hard, but he feels bad afterwards…and I don't want him to feel guilty for loving me the way I like it, Trip. Or hating himself for giving in and letting go. But he needs it just as much as I want it. And I've tried so hard not to push him, not to endanger anyone…and this time, I just wanted him to unwind and have a good time, that's all. I was a little drunk myself, and all I was going to do was buy a bottle off the bartender and have a few drinks with Malcolm in our room. And when the bartender told me that he could help Malcolm relax, well…I didn't think. I just wanted him to have a good time," Jon repeated helplessly.

He looked up and Trip gazed into the eyes of the man he once loved. Still loved, as a friend.

Trip put his hand on Jon's shoulder. "Jon, you say you love him, but what you did was stupid. Stupid, selfish, and dangerous."

Jon nodded, and looked at the floor. He looked truly remorseful.

"I talked to him, you know. The last thing he remembers is the toast at the table. Besides making love to you." Trip smiled slightly, recalling how embarrassed Malcolm had been after he had blurted that out, a big dopey grin on his face and an almost awestruck tone in his voice. But Trip sobered quickly and continued, "But he can't remember anything else. He thought he got hammered and blacked out." He sighed, his anger beginning to dissolve at how despondent Jon looked.

Trip reflected that Jon had been making an effort not to manipulate situations. And Jon had been kind of drunk. A man's judgment would naturally be poor. He felt himself weakening. However…

"But the bruises, Jon —"

"He liked it, Trip. You said you talked to him. Did he seem to be in pain? Upset? Unhappy?" Jon looked at him, honestly wanting to know.

"Well…no, but he felt really bad for a while there, figuring he musta done something stupid, asking if you were okay, kept saying that he hurt ya…" Trip shook his head ruefully. "I finally got a word in edgewise, and told him you were fine, that he only had one drink and what happened —"

"What did you tell him?" Jon asked sharply.

Trip met Jon's eyes. "I told him that one of the ingredients in that drink made him sick. I didn't want to say anything else until I had a chance to talk to you."

Jon exhaled loudly and nodded, grasping Trip's hand.

"Thank you. I made a mistake. An idiotic one. I love him, Trip. I really do. I just wanted him to cut loose for a change, you know? I just wanted him to be able to put things behind him and feel good. And if the bartender hadn't miscalculated, then Malcolm would have been just fine." Jon released Trip's hand.

"I appreciate you taking care of him. And talking to me first. I don't know what I'd do without you, Trip. Sometimes…sometimes I just love him so much, that I get carried away," Jon said with a sad little smile and Trip could see the vulnerability in his former lover's eyes.

The anger left Trip completely and he felt compassion for Jon. And Trip forgave him.

As he always did.

But he insisted that Jon give him the vial so he could dispose of it. Trip could forgive Jon, but he couldn't quite trust his ex-lover yet.

Jon agreed, and told Trip to meet him in his quarters in an hour. Jon wanted to see Malcolm first.

***

The information they had received as a result of Jon's extremely successful first contact mission kept everyone busy. Trip worked late each night, pouring over the alien warp engine configurations and power systems. T'Pol and her science team studied everything from botany to the planet's history while Phlox happily cataloged samples and medical data. Malcolm immersed himself in reams of information and specifications on the superior armament of the Strolfian fleet, surprised that they had been freely given to him. He was fascinated by an experimental Strolofian energy weapon to be outfitted for their ships, as well as the planet's defensive shielding that he hoped could eventually be modified for the Enterprise's use.

But throughout, Trip kept an eye on Jon and he couldn't quite negate the feeling that Malcolm was watching Jon as well. Something subtle had changed in his friends' relationship, but Trip couldn't put his finger on it precisely. There seemed to be an anxiety in Jon, a neediness that hadn't been there before, a hungry waiting. And Trip could detect a brooding and uneasy wariness about Malcolm, as if expecting an unpleasant surprise.

Trip didn't know what, if anything, Malcolm knew. He didn't discuss it with his friend. Trip had grappled with his decision not to tell Malcolm about the vial, about what Jon had done. Trip's own feelings had tangled his motives.

He couldn't forget the feel of the man's body lying next to his, the sensation of Malcolm's solid and lithe form straddling his lap in the bar, the gentle touch of Malcolm's hands, the pure enchantment of that shy first kiss which had rapidly turned into an ardent coalescence of spicy warmth, lips and tongues sweetly clashing.

Even if Malcolm couldn't remember, Trip did. And re-lived it over and over again each night as he closed his eyes to sleep.

In the end, Trip had decided to remain silent. Decided that he didn't want to drive a wedge between the two people he felt closest to on the ship, not sure if he wanted to tell Malcolm out of concern for a friend or because he wanted the man. He suspected it was both, and that made him hold his tongue.

He told himself that Jon has been truly remorseful, and didn't his best friend deserve a second chance? Hadn't Jon forgiven him a number of times after Trip had done something thoroughly stupid?

So Trip watched Jon, as he had every day since Trip had come to Jon's quarters to dispose of the vial. Jon had been waiting for him, handing it over. He had the grace to look embarrassed when Trip opened it and sniffed it, checking. Jon had observed, expressionless, as Trip dumped it in the sink, letting it trickle down the drain, then rinsing the vial out thoroughly.

There was no doubt in Trip's mind that Jon was devoted to Malcolm, displaying his affection off duty and encouraging the younger man to spend the downtime with him and Trip. But Malcolm seemed subdued, introspective and quieter than usual. He would decline, his excuses legitimate and perfectly reasonable, but Trip couldn't help feeling that they were just that—excuses.

And late each night Trip would find Phlox and Malcolm in the messhall, both drinking the inky, tangy Denobulan tea the doctor had programmed into the dispenser, talking softly. Malcolm always welcomed Trip with a genuine smile, but Trip couldn't help but sense a disconsolate undercurrent in Malcolm, even though the armory officer's demeanor toward him remained unchanged. Then again, Trip had been watching him as well as Jon, and Trip supposed that his feelings for Malcolm made him a little more sensitive to the man's moods. Eventually, Trip realized with a stab of shame that he was searching and hoping for any indication that Malcolm remembered that night, remembered touching Trip so gently, kissing Trip so passionately, remember his provocative comment about it definitely being his pleasure.

And Trip would feel guilty and ashamed that he desired his best friend's lover. And he maintained his silence because of that ignoble yearning.

Trip could tell Malcolm's withdrawal was taking a toll on Jon. His friend had never looked so dispirited.

But he watched Jon, and let Jon know it.

***

Trip was so engrossed in the alien engine specs Hoshi had just translated for him that he hadn't noticed the lateness of the hour. He rubbed his tired eyes and left engineering, stopping in at the deserted mess hall for a glass of ice tea and light snack before heading for bed. He brought his meal to the observation lounge, dimly lit and empty at this time of night, and ate, sitting on the couch and watching the stars fly by. When he finished, he turned down the lighting to a bare minimum and stretched out in the dark, staring out the window, intermix formulas and alien engine systems tumbling through his fatigued mind.

He hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep until the door opened and he heard Malcolm's voice.

"Jon, please. This isn't an appropriate place to have this discussion."

"We haven't seen each other in over a week. You won't come to my quarters and you're pulling unnecessary double shifts. I only see you when you're on the bridge and that sure as hell isn't the appropriate place for this discussion. What's eating you?" Jon's voice was plaintive and Trip caught a hint of anger in it as well.

There was a long silence and then he heard Malcolm speak again, his voice low and very soft.

"If you try to manipulate me one more time, I'll call it quits, Jon." Jon started to protest but Malcolm cut him off, his voice still quiet but firm. "No. You know exactly what I mean. God help me, I love you, but I can't be what you want."

Trip remained frozen, cocooned in the darkness, and shifted his eyes to the window. He could just make out the reflection of Jon and Malcolm in it. He watched as Malcolm bowed his head, his posture rigid and he heard the slight husk of emotion in Malcolm's voice as he continued.

"You push me, Jon. Trying to play on…on my lack of self control…until I don't care if I hurt you or not. My job gets violent enough without me having to carry it over into my private life. I don't want to be like that. Bad enough to know I can kill without hesitation, but to not give a damn if I physically hurt someone I love during—" Malcolm swallowed, and shook his head. "Or worse, enjoy it."

"I admit, I've pushed you a couple of times in the past, but I haven't in months. Haven't you seen that?" Jon argued softly. "When I realized what I'd been doing I was horrified. I love you, Malcolm. Don't you know that?"

Malcolm raised his head and looked at Jon. "Phlox finally got around to processing the toxicology test. Apparently there was something in that drink that wasn't just an alien alcohol, but he can't identify it…" He left his statement hanging there, staring at his lover.

"What does he think it was?" Jon asked, his voice level. Calm.

"Hasn't a clue. But I think someone deliberately spiked that drink, Jon." Malcolm studied Jon's face and Trip held his breath.

A long pause. "What are you suggesting, Malcolm?" Jon asked, his tone slightly surprised and a little offended.

Malcolm continued to search his lover's eyes.

Maybe it had been a fluke, something innocuous, something he was allergic to, Malcolm thought. But on the other hand, considering what they did that night, it could have been Jon's doing.

He wanted to know, but he desperately didn't want to ask.

Because if he was wrong, then his accusation would shatter Jon. Jon loved him, more than anyone else ever had. And Jon was always there for him, as a friend, a lover, patient and encouraging. Jon showed his love openly, consistently, with acceptance and warmth; and he knew Jon loved him, despite Malcolm's flaws.

And Malcolm tried to show Jon that he loved him in return. Tried to be gentle, tried to protect him, tried to please him. And each time Malcolm bollocked things up, Jon would always forgive him.

Besides, Malcolm wasn't completely certain that Jon had been responsible, although he couldn't help but suspect it. He cursed his wary nature as he saw the distress slowly breaking on Jon's face.

Malcolm dropped his gaze and stared at the floor.

But if he was right, then it meant another empty relationship, another failure. He'd opened himself up to it, against his better judgment. Fraternization rules are there for a reason. And he had ignored them because he thought he could change, thought he could make it work with Jon.

And if Jon did have something to do with it, then what does that say about me? A pathetic dolt who thought he finally had something substantial…

"I'm just telling you what I think," he murmured.

Jon uttered a low chuckle and pulled Malcolm into an embrace. "God, Malcolm, you're so paranoid." Jon kissed Malcolm, rubbing his back soothingly. "Half the time it annoys the hell out of me, but on the other hand it's part of what makes me love you even more."

Jon cut off any protest by kissing Malcolm again and Trip saw the younger man eventually relax and wrap his arms around his lover, leaning into him and resting his head against Jon's shoulder.

"Don't fuck with me anymore, Jon. Please. You know I'll do anything for you, but just…just accept that I don't like certain things—I don't want to hurt you."

"I like it, Malcolm, you know that —"

"I think I remember blood last time," Malcolm whispered.

Jon chuckled again, tightening his embrace. "A minor tear. It didn't hurt, Malcolm—I was too busy enjoying myself." He laughed again and gently tipped Malcolm's head up to look at him. "You worry too much. I might be getting old, but I'm not fragile…"

"You're not old," Malcolm said with a hint of exasperation, as if they'd had this discussion before.

"Come to bed with me, Malcolm. Please. I want you." Jon's voice deepened as he brought Malcolm's hand to his lips, kissing his inner wrist. "Just relax. You don't know how excited I was, seeing you in those restraints. God, Malcolm," he ghosted his fingers across Malcolm's now unmarked neck. "I'd like to do it again. I'll make it good for you, I promise—"

Malcolm drew back. "No." He looked away. "Why can't we just make love without getting rough? I don't like it, Jon." There was a hint of pleading in Malcolm's voice, but Jon ignored it.

"Could have fooled me—you enjoyed it, Malcolm. I know you did, and you know it too." Jon's voice had grown a little harsher, that bit of temper starting to peek out.

Malcolm's voice held a bit of heat as he replied, and a touch of shame as well. "Yes, damn it, I loved it, but I was completely rat-arsed; I wanted to say no, but I didn't; I couldn't refuse you anything—but I'm saying it now—no. I'll make love to you. Love, Jon, not games. I don't want to hurt you; you don't hurt people you love. If you want hardcore S&M, go chat up Marcuson in Stellar Cartography, because he'll be happy to accommodate you—"

Jon stepped back, releasing Malcolm's wrist, a hard look in his eyes. "That just might be a good idea, Malcolm. Someone who doesn't have such goddamn stupid ideas about what love is—"

Trip started when he heard Jon slam against the bulkhead, Malcolm pressed against him, preventing him from moving with an arm against Jon's throat.

"As dismally inept with relationships as I am Jon, I know what love is." Malcolm's voice was laced with anger and hurt. "Love is about trust and honesty. Caring about the other person, their welfare, their happiness. Not about fucking them til they bleed, not about manipulating them, not about domination and power. Love is about wanting to be with that person, not just sex. I love you, Jon. But I swear to God, I'll walk away from it without a second thought if you endanger this ship and its crew again just to get me wound up."

Trip saw Malcolm release Jon, quickly stepping back out of reach, and he turned on his heel, walking out of the lounge without looking back. Trip watched as Jon slowly rubbed his throat, then shut the light out and leave, doors hissing quietly shut behind him.

And Trip stayed in the dark, lying there, mind churning, emotions conflicted.

***

Two days later Trip wandered into the messhall after another shift that had turned into a long evening of overtime. He stopped in the doorway when he saw Jon, back to him and at the dispenser. After a few long moments Jon turned, a mug in each hand. He walked back and handed one to Malcolm, taking a taste of his own. "Boy, that's pretty strong," Jon commented with a charming smile as he settled across from Malcolm.

Malcolm sipped his, eyes on his cup. "Phlox coaxed me into trying it one night. I've grown to like it," he replied neutrally.

Jon leaned forward, and placed his hand on Malcolm's arm. "We need to talk."

"Jon—"

"I'm sorry, Malcolm. I was wrong. I didn't mean what I said. I was angry. Please, just hear me out, okay? We'll drink our tea first and then we'll talk. I know we can work this out. I really do love you, Malcolm."

The closed look on Malcolm's face sent a guilty stab of hope through Trip. He left as silently as he came, feeling certain that no amount of Jon's persuasion would sway Malcolm.

***

He stroked the dark damp hair with a loving hand, rubbing behind his cherished one's ears with a gentle caress. He smiled when his lover didn't stir, his hard earned sleep making him oblivious to the benevolent petting.

Before joining him in slumber, Jon removed the collar from around Malcolm's neck, kissing the abrasions that would be hidden by his uniform in the morning.

He rose and opened the square metal box, placing the collar next to the glass vial he had taken from sickbay. He touched it, the black liquid it held rippling slightly. His mouth curved into a smile, pleased that he had managed to salvage almost half of it by transferring it to this small tube, diluting the remainder with water and relinquishing the original vial to Trip.

He closed the lid and locked the box, replacing it in his drawer. He returned to his beloved and slipped under the covers, holding him tight, placing another kiss on his cherished one.

Jon could still taste the rich black Denobulan tea on his stubborn lover's lips, once again thankful for its strong spicy flavor.