Muse

This shift is never-ending. The bridge is quiet; we're all just marking time—especially me. Can't complain, we're engaged in peaceful exploration for a change. We're out here in the middle of a spectacular nebula, and all I can think of are his eyes. Another kind of shift, the way his eyes change—from sea-blue to grey-dark with love and need. For me. Damn…I make his eyes do that.

Actually, I do think of more than his eyes. What about his mouth? Tart. Sensual. Hot. Gentle. Eloquent. All at once, as it moves on me. On my mouth, on my chest. Lower. God, isn't this shift over yet?

Think of something else. Okay, his hands. Long slender fingers moving over the console, or delicately disarming a weapon. Disarming me. And arming me at the same time. Loaded and ready, Malcolm. 'Awaiting your signal to fire, sir.' Fire away, Malcolm. This isn't working. Think of something else.

His ass. No, we're not going there, not on the bridge. No matter how gorgeous an ass it is, or how he bends over the console to check a circuit and his uniform molds itself to his cheeks. Come on, Jon, find some calming images, redirect your mind. Now.

Blue sky. Skye? A deserted beach. Ocean waves at evening, breaking on a rocky strand. Watching his love sleep in his arms for the first time. A boat rolling at anchor in a storm. Malcolm in his arms, their bodies joined, rocking with the boat. Shared ecstasy. Does every thought bring me back to Malcolm? Yeah. pretty much.

What about the stars? Think about the stars, the journey…the journey we've taken together since Skye, since Uist, since that night on Eala Bhan. Out here among the stars, we watch star-streams instead of ocean waves after we make love.

Making love to Malcolm—it just gets better and better. The man fits so perfectly into my arms, my heart. He's shown me parts of himself that I know absolutely no one has ever seen, or ever knew existed in his soul.

The soul of a poet, lyric and precise by turns, somehow undamaged by years filled only with isolation and duty, unwarmed by shared love. But he loved nonetheless; I know that now. Loved and waited, ever watchful. Watched me love him silently, waiting for our time.

I don't deserve him. I can't live without him. He completes me, fills the voids in my soul.

Finally—the end of the shift. Shouldn't rush off the bridge though. Need to make small talk. 'Goodnight Travis, Hoshi. Catch you later, Trip. You have the bridge, T'Pol.' Okay, now I can leave.

There's no hurry now. I know he'll be there, awaiting. What we have is more compelling than the call of his armoury. Amazing.

The turbolift opens. I pause outside my quarters, bidding the Captain goodnight. Only Jon remains. All that's dear to me awaits behind one door. It opens, beckoning.

Hold me, Malcolm. You're my life.

***

The song "Just A Boy" (by Alan Reid) provides ongoing inspiration.

"All that's dear to me awaits behind one door, to welcome home the one that's still a boy."