Trip stands in front of Malcolm's door listening to the friendly chirp that passes for a doorbell on this ship and thinks about what he's about to do. He asks himself again if it's the right thing and yet again feels positive that it is. The warm feeling in his chest that tells him so almost calms down the butterflies in his stomach. Not only is it the right thing to do, it's got to be now. If not now, when? The door swooshes open, and there he is.

"Come in." Malcolm says over his shoulder. "I'm just gathering a few things. I promised to lend the captain a book of poetry, John Masefield."

"I don't know his work." Trip says taking a few steps into the room. He looks around and sees not Spartan gray standard issue officers quarters but all of the things that make it Malcolm's room and therefore dear. The books, a lithograph of an ancient sea vessel, a teapot and assortment of teas. For a moment he lets himself imagine Malcolm making a pot of a favorite brew for him. Them sitting on the couch sipping, and talking. How warm and soft and wet Malcolm's lips would be when they kissed.

"Don't think too hard, you'll hurt yourself." Malcolm says snapping Trip out of his reverie. He's flushed, but not from embarrassment.

"Masefield isn't much read anymore, but several hundred years ago, when England ruled the waves, what my father refers to as the good old days, he was poet laureate of England. 'When men were men.'" He says quoting the old man.

"And women were lonely." Trip continues.

"Quite probably. But we never talked about that. He gave me this book after I told him I was joining Starfleet. Wanted me to always remember what I was missing. Never did to make him understand that going to sea and going into space are much the same thing."

"Well, from what I've heard about him that's not too surprising, but your dad reading poetry?" Trip asks, stunned. "No offense, but that just doesn't scan."

"None taken. Usually he wouldn't have had time for such frivolities, but Masefield was a poet of the sea and therefore worthy of his attention. He'd read from this book." Malcolm says, holding the tome in his hands, thumbing through the pages.

"Actually not read so much as recite. He knew the poems by heart, and when he'd recite—I have to give it to the man, he could break yours. 'I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide/ Is a wild call and a clear call that cannot be denied;/ And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,/ And the flung spray, and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.' I've seen him tear up reading those lines. Get a little misty myself. Shall we?" He asks, closing the book and turning around to find himself face to face and eye to eye with Trip.

"Your eyes are quite beautiful when they're misty." He says, slowly leaning forward to gently offer one sweet, hopeful, hopefully perfect kiss. And perfectly sweet is exactly how Malcolm's mouth feels as he kisses one lip, then the other, then both—as soft and wet and warm as he'd imagined.

Malcolm accepts the kiss, bashful and shy at first, then eager with need, opening his mouth to let Trip in, reaching forward to pull Trip closer. Then his thoughts begin to stir, and from their depths arise questions, doubts, fears, memories, and his mind starts to race to rein in his body.

"This is a disaster waiting to happen—a painful, embarrassing, inappropriateŠlovely, delicious…Stop it at once. Disengage immediately.'

He allows himself a last indulgence, drawing his hands along Trip's back, over his shoulders, and onto his chest—savoring the feel of the man's body in his hands—before politely, but firmly, pushing him away.

"What was that for?" He asks. "I mean why'd you do that?"

Trip shrugs. "Kiss a angel good morning? 'How did something so simple become so damn complicated. Oh, yeah. It's Malcolm.' Truth is I've been wanting to do that for a long time."

"Why?" Malcolm asks, looking around the room as if a piece of furniture would provide an answer.

"Well," Trip rubs the back of his neck, silently asking himself if this was the right thing to do and again receiving a warm affirmation, only this time from a place somewhat lower than his chest. "the usual reasons."

"The usual reasons you kiss a man?" He replies, ardently questioning the desk for an answer.

"No, Malcolm. " He says, finding strength and resolve in those aforementioned nether regions.

"The usual reasons I kiss someone I'm attracted to. Someone I find myself thinking about all the time, watching all the time and it's not an unpleasant distraction, it's a pleasure, pure and simple." His drawl becoming a melody that makes lyric the words he's said, spoken from the heart.

"Malcolm, look at me. Please, darlin'."

Malcolm jumps, as startled at that sweet term of affection as how deeply it touches him, and where. His first impulse is to wrap his arms around the man and demonstrate that response. God knows he's wanted to demonstrate his response to the man for long enough. He knows every inch of his body that the uniform allows him to see, imagined every inch that it doesn't, and pondered far too long on the rest. While pleased at finding that the attraction apparently isn't one-sided, he's less sure of the man's grasp of the situation. Unsure grasp.

'Are you going to pull me up, or let me fall?' He thinks to himself. 'As for falling in love, it can leave bruises.'

"Trip, we should be going. This isn't the time."

"When is the time? When's the right time to tell someone that youŠ"

"That you what? That you want to kiss me? That you want a relationship? That you want to fuck me? What do you want, Trip?" He demands, needing to know the truth, needing to have the dream.

"You, Malcolm. And all of the above." Trip replies, grinning at thought of all of the possible combinations they offered.

"I'm so glad that you're amused, but this isn't funny." Malcolm says, smiling despite himself and his better instincts that advise strategic retreat in the face of a worthy opponent.

"Then why are you smiling?" Said while reaching out to gather the man he wants and his own thoughts.

'Malcolm needs to think. He always needs to think. He was right there with me when we were kissing, then he started to think, and he was gone. But that little smirk thing he does, oh yeah, he likes this, he's just not used to just letting himself feel. He'll be okay. Just let him go and take it slow.'

"We can go, but tell me one thing. How does this make you feel? Do you think we could at least try to make a go of it?" "That's two things."

"Indulge me."

"As I said, this isn't the time. We don't have time to fully discuss the possible ramifications ofŠ engagement." "Spoken like a true tactical officer."

"Well, that's what I am, and a damned good one. I am what I am, Trip."

"You are, and that's a fact. But this isn't an enemy invasion, or least I didn't mean it to be." He says, taking a couple of steps back, hands raised, palms forward.

"Will you at least answer the first question. How does this make you feel?"

He stands and thinks; if he doesn't tell the truth Trip would know and wouldn't let them out of this room until lunch. That his only chance at getting what he wants is to tell the truth. How does this make him feel? For lack of anything else he lets out with the first words that come into his head and out of his heart.

"Confused. Discombobulated. Surprised."

"Maybe just a little bit happy?" Trip asks smiling, himself happy to see the smile returned.

"A bit. Now can we go?"

"And you're not. Well, put off?" Trip asks anxiously.

"What? No."

'Perish the thought.' Malcolm thinks. 'Turned on, ready to get off. Fuck me, you fool.' He silently adds to the heart's wish list.

"Well, okay then. One for the road?"

"Excuse me?"

"Darlin', how 'bout another kiss."

There are better uses for mouths than the speaking of words. The expression of desire being but one. One on one, two lips on two, and tongues play drums, moans provide the bassline. They're quite the combo standing there in the middle of the room until Malcolm stops the song. They've far to go before they sleep.

"Trip, we really should go NOW. Can we go now?"

"Yeah, Malcolm. I think we can."

And Malcolm remembers another part of a poem, recited to himself by heart, spoken to himself from the heart.

'I have heard the song of the blossoms and the old chant of the sea,/ And seen strange lands from under the arched white sail of ships;/ But the loveliest thing of beauty God ever has shown to me,/ Are his voice, and his hair, and eyes, and the dear red curve of his lips.'

He knows that he's exchanged pronouns, but thinks that Masefield would approve.

Over the next few days Trip is relieved to notice that Malcolm has made no obvious effort to avoid him. Nor have their encounters been at all uncomfortable. While he doesn't want to crowd the man, he does want to let him know that what happened between them has not been dismissed or regretted, and certainly not forgotten. Quite the contrary, it's been replayed in his mind a thousand times and then again.

'I think it went relatively well.' He thinks to himself when given a rare moments peace at his workstation in engineering. 'Confused—well that's to be expected. Discombobulated—that's such a Malcolm word. One of the reasons I like him so much. Surprised—probably because it was coming from me. No reason for him to think I'd be interested. That I could be. Happy—had to drag that one out. But he wasn't upset. Or angry. Or offended. That would've been bad. No, on the whole I think it went well. I think there is definitely more to come.' He thinks to himself, stopping the smile that's spreading across his face lest anyone think it an indication of his happiness with the progress made revamping those damn plasma conduits that keep going offline.

"Everybody please take your time, ya know we got all day until the next Suliban ship drops out of warp and onto our doorstep."

For his part, Malcolm is relieved that Trip hasn't pressed the issue or himself.

'Really quite the Southern gentleman.' He thinks to himself while doing the monthly weapons inventory. Mindless counting leaves room for thought.

'He's giving me space and time. That rather describes this entire mission. Who knew I'd findŠwhat? I like Trip. I've always liked Trip, though he hasn't always made it easy. He can be infuriating. Stubborn. Impetuous. Tactless. Absolutely endearing. How did he know that I liked him THAT way. I'm almost positive that I never let on. It wouldn't do at all. Never mind. Doesn't matter. He figured it out, God bless him. He figured something out and acted on it. God knows I wouldn't have. Rather suffer in darkness than light a candle. I want him. I've wanted him for so long know I don't remember when I didn't. And he wants me. Dammit, this pistol was supposed to have been repaired last week. I'll do it myself.'

Between them they've managed to maintain a professional, collegial relationship while allowing themselves moments of a little bit more. Contextually appropriate touches, pats on the back, hands on an arm, meaningless gestures that end in touches whose meaning only they know.

"Cap'n Archer." Trip says entering the captain's mess. "Come here often?"

"Oh, Trip. Ya know, we're going to be out here for a long time. I'm thinking that if you want that line to last you'd better short the rations."

Trip laughs. If friends can't tell each other when to shut up, who can?

"Point taken, sir."

"Sit down so we can eat. Just us tonight. T'Pol has pressing issues having to do with some experiment whose purpose I kinda stopped listening to. I'm sure it's worthwhile though."

"It always is, Jon. It always is."

They share a laugh of appreciation with each other but not at their favorite Vulcan's expense.

"So, what's going on? Preferably something having nothing to do with engineering. At least for the next hour I'd like to relax and talk about something other thanŠ"

"I talked to Malcolm." Trip interrupts.

"Finally." Archer sighs, all too familiar with the strum and dang and general anxiety surrounding his friends new—found attraction. Truth be told if Trip hadn't done something about it he himself would have. It might not exactly be protocol but if he had to sit through another night of woulda, coulda, shouldas, he'd shit his pants and go running through the halls swinging them over his head, screaming like a banshee.

"Tucker to Archer. Could I get a clarification, sir?" Trip asks, pulling his best friend in from whatever region of space he'd lost himself.

"Oh, sorry. Well, was he cool, I mean was he all right?"

"Yeah, I think so. He wasn't upset or anything."

"You've seen him since?"

"Around and about. We seem to be okay."

"So, now what?"

"Well, I was thinking we'd just let it settle in for awhile."

"Oh no. 'Letting it settle in' is just an excuse for doing nothing and I've already heard them all. Move forward or move out." He says in his best officer voice and his best friend tone.

"Because there's no reason to hurry. The hard part's done."

"So you're content to just swap googoo eyes and paw each other through your uniforms."

"We're notŠwe haven'tŠwait a goddamned minute. Googoo eyes?"

"Trip, I'm thinking that part of your reluctance to go forward is based on concern over what other people on this ship will think."

"I don't care what they think about what I do in my private life. If they don't like itŠand if they give Malcolm any shitŠ"

"I know, Trip. To say the least, you wouldn't put up with it. I know that about the good man who is my best friend. I also know that good man to be an exemplary officer whose first responsibility is to this ship and its' mission. Best friend or not, you wouldn't be here otherwise." He says looking into the eyes of his friend and subordinate.

"Everyone on this ship was hand-picked by me, and I wasn't looking to spend years in space with highly qualified technicians whose idea of intimacy is re-configuring a motherboard."

They share a deep shudder at the very thought.

"I wanted a crew of well-rounded, mature adults who'd seen some life, had some life outside of the lab. Frankly, Trip, I didn't anticipate my male chief engineer wanting more than a professional relationship with my male armory officer—but I did expect that well-rounded, mature crew of adults to be able to handle first contact, in whatever form. Have I made myself clear?"

"Clear as sunshine, Cap'n." Trip says, basking in the glow of true friendship.

"Having said that, I don't think that anyone knows how you two feel about each other, but I'd venture a guess that quite a few suspect."

"Quite a few?"

'Like, anyone who's seen you two together.' His friend thinks.

"You haven't been indiscreet." His captain reassures. "This is a small ship, a small community of adults who all know what it looks like when two people are hot for each other."

"So, now what?"

"Trip, I've got your back, but I can't run point."

"So, you think I should go in."

"Yes. And now. Malcolm Reed is the bravest officer I've had the honor to serve with. He's also one of the most issue-laden people I ever met. Listen, Trip," he says leaning down low onto the table for the down low part of the discussion, "believe it or not, brave, strong Malcolm needs and wants you to step up and take him. Take him where he desperately wants to go but won't let himself unless he's driven there with you behind the wheel."

"You make it sound like he's some weak-willedŠ"

"Oh, he's got a will, but he isn't weak. He just wants to be loved, Trip. He wants to be swept off his feet. Can you do it or not?"

"How do you know so much about what's happening between me and Malcolm?"

"I said that I wanted a well-round, mature crew."

"Yeah."

"People who'd been around the block a few times, experienced some things."

"Yeah."

"Takes one to know one, Trip." He says as their dinner arrives.

"You want your man, don't wait for him to come to you. Not this one." He says digging into the roast "chicken" on his plate.

"Go get him, Tiger."

Having had dinner with his captain, and a heart to heart with his friend—or vice versa—Trips wanders the corridors of the ship taking the long way home. He needs time to think, by himself. For the first time in a long time, he hopes that he won't run into Malcolm. This really isn't the time. He knows that he's got to do something, but what?

'Sweep him off his feet. Malcolm Reed.' He laughs at the possible outcome of a literal interpretation of that advice.

'I'd be flat on my back, and not in a good way.' He greets several members of the crew hoping they won't think him round the bend, walking along, laughing to himself.

'Drive him. Well, I sure opened the car door—like the gentleman I am—and I think he got in. Now what? Take him out for dinner and a movie? Maybe find some moonlit, starry—skied kissing corner. I'd like a lot more kissing, and a lot more than that.'

He grows a bit breathless—and a bit hard—anticipating what "more" might include, not unaware that some of it will be unfamiliar.

'What the hell, I'll figure it out, it's just mechanics, and I'm damn fine engineer. Good with my hands, been told more than once that I've got quite a mouth on me too—and not just because I was shooting it off. Anything else, Malcolm's a good teacher.

'Bottom line, we're both men. That's common ground. I know what I like and he probably likes the same. We already know each other so all we're really doing is kind of introducing friends who haven't met yet. Mr. Dick meet Mr. Peter. Been wanting to get you two together for a long time now. And if Butt McFuck wants to come along? I'm thinking that might be Malcolm's friend, and I'm not opposed to an introduction. I've heard he can be a lot of fun. Stimulating company.' By the time he gets to his quarters he's hot around the collar, tight around the loins, and sure of one thing above the rest.

"I'm tired of looking forward to this. The bar's stocked, the food's ready, and the guests have arrived. It's time to get this party started." He says loud, proud, and out loud to no one but himself.

"The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step."

Or in this case one comm.

"Tucker to Reed. Come in, please."

And so they made a date. After their shifts, 2100 hours, Malcolm's quarters. They'd both have the next day off to either savor or regret the night before.

"I brought cookies." Trip says, entering the room.

"I made tea." Malcolm says, showing him in.

"You know, it's rude to watch people eat." Malcolm says munching on a cookie.

"Can't help it."

"Being rude?"

"Yeah, that's hard sometimes. But I was talking about watching you eat. You've got nice lips, Malcolm." Said as the man of the moment stops chewing to turn and look at him.

"Why don't you swallow that cookie so I can kiss you."

"Trip, I think that there are a few things we really need to talk about." He says, dutifully following the previous order to swallow.

"Okay, darlin'. What do you want to talk about?"

There it is again. That word. That endearment that startles, disturbs, enamors, shuttles his cock and brings him to his knees. Not literally, not yet. He gathers himself for what he knows is a necessary conversation. The big talk.

"Trip, we know each other well, but not like you want us to know each other."

"Like I want? Don't you want this too?"

"I think. I do. But I also know that there are things we should talk about first. I've been here before, Trip. You haven't. Maybe you think you know what you want, but maybe you don't know what having them really means. It can be shattering, Trip, and I don't want to be left picking up the pieces, again, especially on a ship traveling through space on an open—ended mission."

Trip reaches over to cup Malcolm's face in his hand. A lovely face momentarily drawn, drawn back to sorrowful memories. He runs a thumb along those cheekbones that he's decided are surely God's gift.

"I can't make what happened to you go away. But I do hope to make you know that those others aren't me. I want you, Malcolm. I want more. I want us."

"Pretty words, Trip." He says, conceding a hopeful caress of the other man's arm. "But there really are someŠissues." Said while releasing the caress and lying back onto the only comfort he can find, the pillows of the couch.

"Have you ever been with a man before?"

"No." Trip says settling in for what will be a long, and meaningful, and, he realizes, important conversation. If not for himself, for the man who would be his lover.

"This is the first time it's ever happened that the person I'm nuts about has the same equipment." Said in a last ditch effort to lighten the moment. "Not for me. I've had quite a few—quite a many, really—affairs with men. I like men. My sexual preference is prone. I'm gay, Trip. I'm as gay as Liberace in a pair of pumps, sipping a Mimosa while singing a medley of show tunes. Well, maybe not quite that gay, but you see my point?" Malcolm's worked himself into quite a lather with this litany of proof. One that has him flushed in the face in a way so attractive that Trip has almost failed to notice the point he was trying to make.

"Who's Liberace?"

"Ancient gay icon. I'll explain it to you later. The point is do you get my point?"

"I look forward to it, and yes, I get your point. You're gay."

"And I won't lie about it. And if you really want that "us" you talk about, I won't lie about that either. I'm not saying that we walk around wearing rainbow flag t-shirts or make out on the bridge, but I won't be ashamed." He stops, distracted by the disturbingly tantalizing image of them making out on the bridge.

"Firstly, I don't give flying fuck what the crew or anybody else thinks of me, and if they've got a problem with "us" they can stand in line to kiss my ass. Now, is that one settled?" He asks a calmed and settled Malcolm.

"Secondly, I've always known that one day I'd find love. Really and truly- head over heels with all the bells and whistles. Did I think it would be with a man? No. But now that it's finally happened I'm not about to second-guess God or Cupid over the casting." Trip says looking into Malcolm's eyes—true blue sky on becalmed gray-blue seas.

"I guess there are a lot of reasons that this should be more difficult for me. But every time I find one it just gets pushed aside by the feeling that this is right. You, us are right. I know it, Malcolm, more surely than anything that's ever happened in my entire life."

Trip's gaze goes from Malcolm's eyes to his face, visibly softened, lovelier than ever, but not enough to dissuade him from an "issue" of his own.

"Lastly, I'm not saying that you're ashamed, but you haven't exactly been upfront either. Who were those women you wrote to on the shuttlepod that time?"

"Women I was never able to really be with because I really couldn't stand to be with myself. There were a few men I wanted to write to, but there's a time to come out and a time to keep it to yourself."

"Men who still mean something to you?" Trip asks, a touch of jealousy piquing out.

"Men who are still friends. But even with them there were issues. Nothing to do with being gay, issues having to do with me. I'm not an easy person to get on with, Trip. I can beŠ"

Before Malcolm can finish Trip offers his own observations.

"Distant, cold, downright glacial, arrogant, and you my friend have some serious intimacy issues. I mean I understand the need for a certain amount of formality butŠ" He stops when he glances over and sees Malcolm looking less than amused, much less grateful at his offering of enlightenment.

"I was going to say reserved, but thanks for sharing." He says slightly miffed.

"Darlin', none of that is anything I didn't already know and don't already love."

"And please stop calling me that. 'Darlin'.' It's unsettling."

"Okay," He says kicking off his shoes. "Baby."

"No, I don't think so."

"Honey, sweetie, snuggles, munchkin?" Said as he walks over to the bed. He lays down and, patting the space next to him says, "How 'bout c'mere?"

"What are you doing?" Malcolm asks, walking over to look down at him on the bed.

"I think it's time we started addressing some of your intimacy issues. Dr. Trip prescribes a regimen of getting closer."

"And what would this line of treatment include?"

"Nothing you can't handle." Trips says, reaching out and pulling Malcolm onto the bed.

"Can we go slow?" Malcolm asks holding him back while pulling him closer.

"Oh, I like it slow." Trip moves his body closer.

"I'm serious, Trip."

"So am I."

Malcolm tilts his face up and as quickly removes it, feinting the promise of a kiss.

"Just kissing." He says, smiling and laying back onto the bed, finally allowing himself the full measure of pleasure brought by this thought.

Trip enfolds Malcolm's chin in his lips in a taste of skin. That the skin is wrapped in a dusting of stubble comes as a gratifying reminder. Malcolm is a man, after all. His man, after all.

Malcolm lowers his head, stretching his neck, quietly—though not silently—directing their passion's play. His moans provide all the motivation Trip requires. He kisses his way down stopping at the hollow pool at the base, swirling up a whirlpool of longing with his tongue.

Longing. Malcolm knows that feeling. It's familiar because he's wanted it so long—to have and to hold, but always out of reach, or if not, pushed away. Familiarity breeds contempt. And fear. What fear? Loss, weakness, surrender, exposure, failure. All of the above.

He looks down and yet again finds himself facing Trip, and none of the above.

"What are you thinking?" Trips asks, deliberately refraining from further unsettling the obviously unsettled man by calling him 'darlin''.

"That you, this is what I've always wanted and never let myself have and having it feels so good." He says smiling, laughing at the realization.

"What took so long?" Trip asks, grateful and delighted at being the recipient of the gift.

"Because I always assumed that once someone got to know me they'd leave. I'd fail. So I never let anyone get to know me. I was never really honest. Not that I lied, I just never let the truth of my self come out. I've been polarizing my hull against invasion my entire life." He says lying back onto a pillow. The calm and relief on his face and body almost like that following an orgasm. An orgasm of self-revelation.

"Maybe that's why you hate cloaking devices. A bit too close to home?" Trips jokes.

"Malcolm, you talk like you're the worst idea God ever came up with. Ya really need to get over yourself. The worst thing about you is having peanut butter with pancakes, and even that's kinda endearing." He says reaching up to cup the drained face of his lover.

"Sweetheart," Trip says after mining and finding the word that would most/best express what he's feeling. The word, the term of endearment that he remembered his own father using with his mother when things between them were most bad.

"I know the worst and the best of you, and I want more."

"I'm not sweet." Malcolm warns.

"That's a matter of opinion. You're sweet as honey to me, and you have my heart."

He moves his hand down Malcolm's body, taking the hard pass past longing, and along the way, chest, rapidly beating heart, belly.

"I thought you said that we'd go slow."

"We are. You first." He says reaching for and receiving another kiss.

"Let me love you, Malcolm. Let me."

His lips feel right. His lips feel perfect. A connection like a circuit finally freed of obstruction and alive at last. Want replaced by need. They share honor and trust and breath.

And when he thought it couldn't get better their tongues meet—wet and firm and demanding. Deep penetration, and you can't hide. And you don't want to.

"You taste good."

Hands explore—holding for a moment, reveling in the find and moving on for more. Shoulders firm and strong, backs supple and pliant. Skin like electric velvet burning hot and sweet and soft.

"Get on top of me. I want to feel you."

And Mr. Dick finally has the pleasure of Mr. Peter's acquaintance.

"Wait." Malcolm says bouncing up like a jack in the box. "We should stop now."

Trip rises, shaking his head as if coming out of a dream.

"Why?"

"Because if we go further, we'll go too far. This time, love, slow. For both of us."

"Do you know how hard you got me?"

Malcolm reaches over to lightly, so as not to push him over the edge, brush his hand over Trip's hard dick. Taking Trip's hand, he puts it over his own raging hard need.

"Nevertheless, we should stop—for tonight. You kissed me good morning the other day. Now kiss me goodnight."

"How 'bout I kiss you "fuck me now"?" He says trying to pull Malcolm down onto the bed.

"You said we could go slow. Please. For both of us."

Trip sighs and rolls out of the bed, walks over and collects his shoes.

"I just want you to know I'll be thinking of you tonight. And we won't be stopping now."

"I wouldn't dream otherwise."