Title: Privileges of Rank

Author: Kylie Lee

E-mail: kylielee1000@hotmail.com

Author's URL: http://www.geocities.com/kylielee1000/

Date: 06/05/03

Length: 9700 words

Fandom: Star Trek: Enterprise

Pairing: Archer/Mayweather

Category: M/M slash

Rating: NC-17

Status: Complete

Summary: During "Stigma," Archer and Mayweather take the next step in their relationship.

Feedback: Heck, yeah—on list at EntST, privately otherwise

Series: Wanting

Previous story: Eight Days

Next story: Say My Name

Archive: Yes to EntSTSlash, Archer's Enterprise, Tim Ruben, Allslash, Complete Kingdom of Slash, Luminosity, and ASCEML. Anyone else, obtain permission.

Disclaimer: Original material copyright 2003 Kylie Lee. This is not an attempt to infringe on Paramount's copyright. No money was made.

Spoilers: A Night in Sickbay, The Catwalk, Stigma

Warnings: None

Beta: The Grrrl, Kageygirl, Sarah

Comments: Although this is set during "Stigma," it doesn't have a ton of spoilers. Some pals of mine said that all the sex in the Acceptable Risk series was too dang angsty, so I decided to remedy that with this series. More sex! Less angst! More sex! Less angst! Now, I didn't say NO angst. I said LESS angst.

*** 1

"Ensign Mayweather," Jonathan Archer greeted his helmsman as Archer entered the lift.

"Captain." Travis Mayweather stepped politely to the side and watched as Archer set his destination.

"I'm on my way to greet our guest," Archer said. He tugged at his collar with a finger, loosening it. He looked buttoned down and captainly.

"Doctor Phlox's wife, sir?"

"Well, one of them. This one is also a Doctor Phlox. She's supervising the installation of a new kind of microscope in Sickbay—a neutron microscope." Archer shifted position, closer to Mayweather. "Commander Tucker will be working with her. I'm on the welcoming committee, along with Trip and the doctor." Archer's fingers, as if by chance, brushed Mayweather's. Mayweather lifted his hand, and Archer's hand was somehow in his. Mayweather interlaced his fingers with Archer's, a deliberate allusion to the first time they'd touched like this. There was a pause. "I'm really looking forward to meeting her," Archer said, his eyes meeting Mayweather's.

"I'm sure she's something, sir," Mayweather said.

"The doctor seems to think so." Archer squeezed his fingers.

It was only a matter of time. Mayweather knew it. He and Archer were dancing slowly around each other, testing, teasing, making sure there was interest. When he'd made his move, the last day in the catwalk, he'd felt such joy inside that he couldn't stop grinning. The feeling hadn't gone away. He'd had a thing for Jonathan Archer for a while. And to his delight, it looked like Archer reciprocated. Now, Archer, hand still in Mayweather's, stepped closer. "Ensign," he whispered.

"Captain," Mayweather managed, dropping all pretense of holding an innocent conversation during the short lift ride. His heart accelerated. Archer's free hand touched his waist. He felt the touch like a shock through his stomach.

"Travis," Archer whispered, breath warm against Mayweather's ear. "Tell me what you want, Travis."

"You, Captain," Mayweather said. Archer pulled back slightly, and Mayweather gazed into those impossibly green eyes. "You, sir. Please." He was growing hard. All it took was a look, a touch.

"Sir?" Archer whispered, his lips brushing Mayweather's cheek as he said the word.

Mayweather shut his eyes briefly as he fought for control. "Yes, sir."

The lift stopped moving, and in the instant before the doors slid open, Archer and Mayweather stepped apart. Mayweather clasped his hands in front of him. It was his floor.

"Ensign," Archer said politely as Mayweather exited.

"Captain," Mayweather responded. He turned and watched the doors slide shut, cutting off his view of a cool, professional, untouchable Archer.

Mayweather smiled as he turned and headed down the corridor. It looked like all his hard work was paying off. During their stay on the catwalk, he had been incredibly obvious. He was sure Malcolm Reed had noticed. He'd made comments about Archer's green eyes and about his own availability. He'd managed to be underfoot. Through a stroke of incredible luck, he'd even gotten to sleep in the captain's bed for a few hours, although the captain hadn't been in it. The pillow and blankets had been permeated with Archer's scent, but he'd been too tired to enjoy it properly.

But during their time sealed in the catwalk, something had happened to Archer—Mayweather didn't know what. He'd seen Archer, obviously in some kind of emotional pain, heading for his quarters. Mayweather had helped him to bed, even undone his shoes and tucked him in. During that little domestic incident, he'd been very aware of the presence of Subcommander T'Pol on the pallet next to Archer. Archer didn't known that each move was a disguised caress, that the care Mayweather took in helping Archer into bed was care for the man himself. He'd longed to stroke back Archer's hair, take one of Archer's hands, lean over and kiss him. Instead, he'd been dry efficiency, and it wasn't only T'Pol's presence. He didn't have any right to help Archer to bed, or kiss him good night, or ask him what was wrong. It bothered him that he didn't have that right.

So when Archer had touched him—casually, the way he often touched Mayweather, the way he touched other crew members—Mayweather had touched him back. When Archer didn't pull away, Mayweather had taken the next step and kissed him. He'd actually made the first move. He still couldn't believe he'd had the guts to do it. Archer was his commanding officer, after all. Now, striding down a corridor, thinking about Archer, Mayweather wondered: if a simple touch of hands, a brush of lips against cheek, could affect him like this, what would it be like when they actually made love?

He couldn't wait to find out.

*** 2

"What did you say it was called again?" Hoshi Sato asked, voice disbelieving. The mess was nearly empty; most of the off-duty crew had headed down to the surface of Dekendi Three for some R&R. *Enterprise* planned to be in orbit during the duration of the medical conference being held on the surface. Doctor Phlox was attending the conference, and everyone else was treating it like shore leave. Mayweather had already been down twice, and he'd made friends.

"I'm not so clear on that," Mayweather confessed.

"Is it safe?" Reed asked. He was trying not to laugh. "These fargans—how big are they?"

"Pretty big," Mayweather said. "As big as cows. But they don't have, you know, teeth or anything like that. I don't think they do, anyway."

Sato shook her head. "You've got to do more research. Your new friend could be sending you on a snipe hunt. Are you sure this is a real sport? Four men getting into a pit and tossing melons around?"

Reed leaned forward as he lost control and laughed helplessly into his tea. "Stop," he begged, raising a hand. "Please. Stop."

Mayweather patted Reed on the shoulder. "I figure it's just like monkey in the middle," he said.

Reed, who had just started to recover, went into gales of laughter. "Monkey in the middle? That is not a game," he gasped. "You're pulling my leg."

"I am not. Hoshi? Tell him."

Sato spread her hands. "Don't ask me. I think monkey in the middle is a guy thing."

"Apparently, so is tossing melons around to keep them from fargans," Reed said. "Why can't they have the melons? What kind of cruel joke is it to withhold the melons?"

"It's not a cruel joke, it's a *sport*," Mayweather said, but he had to laugh. It did sound stupid. "The guy I met on the surface said it was really challenging." He tapped the table in front of him for emphasis. "New worlds. New cultures. New games."

Reed tapped back. "Melons, Travis. Melons. Cows."



"What about you, Hoshi?" Mayweather said.

"I'm not tossing any melons, Travis."

"No, are you going down to the surface?"

Sato shrugged but looked uneasy. "I think so. When I get off duty. But I was wondering—"


"Who was that guy who called you earlier today?"

"This would be the fargan guy, no doubt," Reed whispered loudly to Mayweather, as if Sato couldn't hear a word they said.

"Do you mean the fargan guy?" Mayweather asked.

"Yes, I mean the fargan guy."

"His name is Randall."

"I was wondering if you could…if you could introduce me to Randall. Randall the fargan guy."

"Sure," Mayweather said, surprised. Randall was young and good-looking, but he was rough-edged. He hadn't thought him to be Sato's type.

"Unless he's not single."

"I don't know if he's single or not. You can ask him. A shuttle is doing the run every four hours, so just tell me when you're going and I'll join you." Mayweather prudently failed to invite Sato to the fargan-melon game.

Sato looked relieved. "Okay, thanks." She intercepted a look from Reed. "What?" she said, defensive.

"Nothing," Reed said. "I didn't say a word."

"You didn't need to," Sato said.

"It's like seeing a train wreck in slow motion," Mayweather said. "Hoshi Sato and Randall the fargan guy. True love? Good times? Or…a quick drink before Hoshi realizes her mistake and throws him over for the bartender?"

"You have to put yourself out there to get results," Sato said. "I can take care of myself. What, you never dated anyone inappropriate?"

"Sure I did," Mayweather said promptly. "I dated somebody for an entire year just for the sex."

"Sounds awful," Sato said dryly.

"Oh, it was," Mayweather said. He stared at the bottom of his glass of iced tea. "Actually, it was," he said, smile gone. "I kept hoping—I don't know what I thought. I knew it wasn't right and I didn't let it go. I always swore I'd never do that to myself again." His voice sounded bleak.

There was an awkward pause. "I'm sorry, Travis," Reed said.

Mayweather took a sip of tea. "It's not your fault, Malcolm." He wouldn't meet Reed's eyes.

Sato stood up. "Well, I'm sure I won't get into a similar situation with Randall the fargan guy, because we're only here for a few short days. Gentlemen." She picked up her tray and strode off.

"Look, I'm sorry," Reed said again after a long silence.

Mayweather hadn't realized he was still upset about it all. He had thought he was over it—over the pain of waiting for someone to love him back, then the hideous realization that it wasn't going to work, that he couldn't make someone love him through sheer force of will. He couldn't make it so just because he wanted it. He'd stayed in the relationship for the sex long after he'd realized. The sex had been great. He'd finally broken it off, much to the relief of both of them, and he'd sworn never to remain in an inequitable relationship again.

He was thinking about it because of Archer, he realized. He really, really liked Archer, but a possibility for disparity existed. He'd been longing for Archer for a year, but they were only just now beginning to explore each other. Archer hadn't had time to really consider a relationship with Mayweather the way Mayweather had thought over everything having to do with Archer. If Archer didn't like him back, or if Archer strung him along, Mayweather would have to go through it all again.

Mayweather looked at Reed, who was staring into his mug as he turned it around and around. Mayweather felt much older and wiser now. He just *wanted*. He wanted Archer. He wanted everything to go well. He wanted friendship. He wanted sex. That wasn't wrong. It was too early to worry.

"It was a long time ago, Malcolm," Mayweather said gently. "I've got to be on the bridge. See you later."

*** 3

Mayweather tossed a few components into a small box, whistling. He and Michael Rostov were preparing to replace some components for routine maintenance on Shuttlepod One, and Mayweather was pulling what he needed out of store in one of the cargo bays. Mayweather had been in a ridiculously good mood ever since they'd cleared the wave front that had forced the crew into the catwalk. Now, he saw Archer every day, but in a totally new light. He relived that kiss about a hundred times an hour. Of course, he reminded himself, if it didn't work out, he'd be forced to see the captain every day anyway, with much different connotations. But he'd gotten through that before, whenever he'd broken up with someone he'd dated on the *Horizon*, his family's cargo ship.

Mayweather turned when he heard the cargo bay doors open and close, and he grinned widely. "Captain," he said as the object of his thoughts strode in. The single word completely failed to adequately indicate how happy he was to see him—alone, in an empty cargo bay.

"Travis!" Archer said, sounding pleased. He smiled at Mayweather, and Mayweather smiled back. Archer looked professional: crisp uniform, neat hair. He had that freshly scrubbed Starfleet look. "I'm looking for a crate of those circuit things that go in padds. Trip and Doctor Phlox need a bunch to interface Sickbay's equipment with the new microscope, and I said I'd get them. I wanted to stretch my legs. Do you know where they are?"

"Do you have a crate designation?"

"Um, no. I think Trip said green lid, right-hand side, near the wall."

"Well, let's go look, sir."

"I don't want to take you away from whatever you're doing."

Mayweather pointed to the box full of equipment. "I'm just about done," he said.

They found the crate easily, but Mayweather was far more aware of the man next to him. He'd made the first move. He thought he should let Archer make the next one, but Archer was taking his own sweet time. He'd never been so aware of how often Captain Archer stood just behind him while they were on duty on the bridge—or of how often Archer touched him. The brief encounter in the lift had just been one of many, but unusual in that they had been alone. For the last few days, Archer would stroke, touch, and pat. Mayweather was actually a little surprised about how bold Archer was about it, but then he realized that Archer touched almost everybody. With Mayweather, though, the touch lingered. Archer would brush the skin at the nape of Mayweather's neck when removing his hand, or his thumb would make little circles as his hand rested on Mayweather's shoulder. It wasn't comradely. It was a definite caress. But to an observer, it wouldn't look different. The hard part for Mayweather was that he couldn't touch back. It was driving him crazy.

Now, he admired Archer's ass as Archer opened the lid and leaned in, then blinked as Archer's upper body practically disappeared into the cargo container. Archer's butt twisted as he rummaged. He swore Archer was doing it on purpose. He wanted to run his hand along the curve and trail his hand down. He wanted to press himself against Archer, his chest against Archer's back, his groin against Archer's ass.

"How's the installation going?" he asked, crossing his hands in front of his crotch to conceal his growing erection. His cock twitched as Archer's ass wiggled when Archer looked over his shoulder.

"Very well," Archer said. "Phlox's wife is delightful." His eyes looked particularly green. He shifted his weight, and his ass rotated. Mayweather felt hot.

"I'm sure—" Mayweather had to stop and clear his throat. "I'm sure Doctor Phlox is happy to see her, sir."

Archer turned back to the cargo container and rummaged some more. "You'd think so," he said. "There was that sweet introductory sniff thing they did when they first saw each other after four years apart. I mean, four years! You'd never know it. They seem very—restrained."

"Restrained, sir?" Mayweather said. Was that his voice? Forget pressing against Archer. Maybe he could give Archer a blow job instead. Archer could lean up against the cargo container, uniform around his ankles. He imagined taking Archer's cock in his mouth, sucking it, feeling the ridged flesh against his tongue. He imagined the sensation as Archer came in his mouth, the texture and taste of Archer's seed. Mayweather swallowed.

Archer made a sound of triumph and grabbed a few plastic-wrapped blocks of chips out of the cargo container. He closed it, set the blocks on top of the lid, and leaned his butt on it, an unknowing mirror of Mayweather's fantasy. "I don't know about you, but if I hadn't seen my wife in four years, I might be inclined to spend a little quality time with her."

"No quality time?" Mayweather asked. "Sir," he added belatedly.



"I know. That's what I said." Archer gestured to the chips. "Can you help me with these, Travis?"

"Of course," Mayweather said, stepping forward. Suddenly, they were face to face. He couldn't breathe. Faced with Archer wonderfully near, all the scenarios he'd been running suddenly seemed crude. "Sir," he whispered.

"Ensign," Archer said, moving closer. "Travis." The puff of air brushed his cheek. Mayweather closed his eyes as Archer kissed him on the lips. His hands went out, and he touched Archer's waist lightly. Archer tasted just like Mayweather remembered. It took all his self-control to stand quietly while Archer kissed him. Archer held Mayweather's head tenderly in his hands, his body brushing against Mayweather's, close enough for Mayweather to feel Archer's body heat. Archer would kiss, pull back and survey Mayweather, and lean in again. It ignited a slow burn in Mayweather's stomach that spread out to the rest of his body. He was floating in a haze of scent and touch. He'd never been so aware of a man's scent. Archer was deliberately keeping it slow and sensual, but Mayweather could tell that just underneath was fire. Archer was keeping it damped for now. If he'd had any doubt, any doubt at all, that something would ignite between them, that doubt was put to rest.

Archer broke a particularly lingering kiss. "I kissed you," he said hoarsely. "You can say my name now. Please, Travis. Please say my name."

Mayweather said, "Jon," and it was a plea for Archer to never, ever stop.

"Oh, god," Archer said, as if Mayweather, by saying his name, could make him come. His hands pressed against Mayweather's face, and his mouth descended again. Mayweather tasted desperation as Archer's control slipped. The banked fire flared. Mayweather's hands, still on Archer's waist, grabbed at the fabric of Archer's uniform, and he pulled Archer close. He could feel a heart thudding, but he couldn't tell if it was his or Archer's.

"Jon, please," he said, voice hoarse, and Archer's arms went around him. Archer took a step closer, and they both ignited. "You can't stop," he said when Archer released his mouth again. Their mouths devoured. "Jon," Mayweather said every time Archer came up for air, because Archer responded to his name and because he was Jon right now, and he was so damn hot that Mayweather wanted him, right then and there, in the cargo bay, behind a stack of crates. He wanted him any way he could get him. He wanted him now.

"Jesus," Archer gasped. "This is the part where somebody comes in."

Mayweather groaned. He managed, "How about—this is the part where we throw caution to the wind?"

Archer stepped away, and Mayweather quivered. "Well, this is actually the part where I talk about dignity as captain and setting a good example. And the part where I admit that I don't really want to—to do—well, to do what we want to do in a place where somebody could come in at any time."

"I'm voting for caution and wind."

Archer laughed. "I think—I think I'd better get back to Sickbay with these chips before the Doctors Phlox send out a search party." He brushed the side of Mayweather's face with the backs of his fingers. He pulled back, and suddenly he was Starfleet again, all cool professionalism, except his eyes were hot. "I'll see you on the bridge, Ensign."

"Aye, sir."

Mayweather watched Archer gather up the blocks of chips and leave. The contrast between the captain and Jon Archer was astounding. Mayweather knew he was going to enjoy this—watching his captain turn into Jon, suddenly touchable and available. He was going to enjoy this a lot. The dull, professional Starfleet uniform was, after all, designed to be removed and put back on.

Mayweather had wondered how they were going to handle the rank thing, and now he knew. "I kissed you. You can say my name now," Archer had said. Well, it was as good a rule as any. Kisses had transformed people before—frogs into men, sleeping beauties into princesses.

"God, I love a man in uniform," Mayweather said to the empty cargo bay. He was smiling.

*** 4

"I think I'll call it a night, gentlemen," Reed said, stacking up his poker chips. The mess was full of chattering people playing games and gossiping.

"Oh, not you too," Tucker sighed. Cutler and Hess had left the game about a half hour before. Sato had begged off—she had hit it off with Randall the fargan guy's best friend and was on the surface. Hess had taken most of Tucker's chips. She said she liked to quit while she was ahead. "We won't have enough people to keep playing."

"It's getting late," Reed pointed out. "Travis, may I have the box?" Mayweather handed over the box for the chips, and Reed carefully recorded all their totals before they began sorting the chips and putting them away. "Commander, isn't that the padd with the engine specs?" Reed indicated the device sitting next to the cards.

Tucker swore. "Yes," he said. "I'll run it up to the captain on my way to my quarters. Dang it. I was supposed to bring it by his ready room hours ago. I can't believe I forgot."

Mayweather blinked when Reed kicked him in the shin. He opened his mouth to say, "Ow," but Reed's gray-blue eyes were on his, bland. Reed had done it on purpose. He turned his "ow" into, "I can run it by for you, Commander." He was about to add some spurious reason that would make him the logical choice to deliver the padd, but he couldn't think of one, so he shut up.

Tucker looked relieved. "That's real nice of you, Travis. I'd appreciate that."

Mayweather nudged Reed's leg with his, and Reed nudged back an acknowledgment. During the stay on the catwalk, Mayweather had shared a little area with other crew members, including Tucker and Reed. More than once, he'd woken up in the middle of the night, only to see them lying spooned together, Tucker's arm around the smaller Reed, each decorously in his own sleeping bag. He wasn't sure how far things had progressed.

Mayweather set the box of chips in the middle of the table, next to the empty bowls that had been full of munchy snacks a few hours before. "Commander, can you get the dishes?" he asked as he gathered the cards.

"Sure," Tucker said agreeably. He gathered everything up, put the items on a stack of two or three trays, and headed off.

"You owe me," Mayweather said to Reed.

"Yes, of course."

"How far have you gotten?"

Reed cocked his head. "I assure you, when that in any way becomes your business, you'll be the first to know."

Mayweather grinned, unrepressed. He turned as the door slid open behind him, and Doctor Phlox entered, along with a Denobulan woman Mayweather assumed was his wife.

"Let's go," Tucker said briskly, rushing back. He handed Mayweather the padd. "Thanks again for taking this to the captain." He headed for the door.

"Any time, sir," Mayweather said, trailing behind Tucker and Reed. Tucker certainly seemed to be in a hurry all of a sudden. There was a brief pause as Tucker, just at the door, waved at the two Denobulans; Phlox's wife had caught Tucker's eye. She had a very sweet smile, he thought. She clearly wanted to talk to Tucker, but Tucker hustled out. Reed seemed amused about something. Mayweather wasn't in on the joke.

In the hallway, Mayweather waved goodbye, and as he headed down the corridor in the opposite direction from Tucker and Reed, he heard Reed say, "I'll walk you to your quarters." He suppressed a smile. He approved of Tucker for his friend. Certainly Reed had been in a much better mood lately.

He whistled to himself through his teeth as he got in the lift and set it to the deck with Archer's quarters. He'd try Archer's quarters first, then his ready room, and if he couldn't find him, he'd leave a note and bring it to him when he went on duty. He fully expected Archer to be busy—working out, maybe, or just working. He rang the chime to Archer's quarters and waited. Nothing. He'd been right. He was probably in his ready room. He was about to leave when, to his horror, he heard Archer's sleepy voice say, "Yes?"

It had not occurred to him that Archer had gone to bed. It was too late to just leave a message. "Um, Captain, it's Travis Mayweather," he said. "Sorry to disturb you. I have your engine specs here. Commander Tucker told me to run it by."

"Oh," Archer's voice said. "Thanks. Hold on."

There was a brief pause, and the door slid open. Mayweather took in the sight of a sleep-rumpled, bare-chested Archer. Archer ran a hand through his hair, messing it up instead of smoothing it, and Mayweather watched the play of muscles in Archer's arm and chest, the biceps flexing. Hair furred his chest, and under his belly button, Mayweather could see the hair shadowing down, darker, leading toward his pubic hair. Archer wore gray drawstring pajama bottoms that set low on his body. His feet were bare.

He was the most beautiful thing Mayweather had ever seen.

There was a pause while Mayweather gathered himself. He extended the padd and said, "Here you go, sir."

Archer took the padd automatically. "Thanks, Travis. I forgot all about this." He leaned against the doorjamb. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Ensign, now that I'm awake?"

"Sorry about that, Captain," Mayweather said. His eyes met Archer's, and he smiled at his captain.

"It's really too early for me to be in bed," Archer mused. "It's not even 10 o'clock."

"I didn't think I'd find you here," Mayweather confessed. "I thought you'd be working out, or in your ready room, or something."

"Oh, really?" Archer said. "No, I was sleepy, so I thought I'd go to bed." His eyes looked dark. Mayweather couldn't look away. Archer's voice was low and incredibly sexy. "So—there's nothing else I can do for you? While I'm awake."

Mayweather said, "I hate to bug you. It can wait."

"No, no, I insist."

"Well, if you insist—"

"I do."

"There might be—just one or two things that you could do for me. While you're awake. If you have time. Sir."

Archer stood up straight. "You'd better come in, then, Ensign," he said, stepping back, and Mayweather entered the room. He barely heard the door as it slid shut behind him. Archer tossed the padd onto his desk. "Trip wanted me to look over some engine modifications he wants to do," he told Mayweather. "We have a meeting about it tomorrow, but I'm afraid I won't have time to go over the specs in any detail. I should probably just cancel the meeting."

"Busy schedule, sir?" Mayweather suggested.

"Very." Archer stepped close. "Well, I got the specs too late and didn't have time to review them, because I had a long, long meeting with the helmsman."

"There's a lot to talk about," Mayweather agreed. "You know. Course vectors."

"Speed." Archer's face almost, but not quite, brushed his.

"Attitude control."


"Yeah. Thrust." Mayweather's breath ruffled Archer's hair. He was already hard. His heart was pounding. Archer was teasing him. It was working. "It could take hours, getting through all that technical stuff."

"Hours?" Archer asked. He was incredibly near. "I think it might take all night." "You may be right, sir," Mayweather said, and he touched Archer's face, and then Archer kissed him.

Deep, hot, and sweet. Mayweather brushed Archer's chest, that magnificent chest hair, a little nub of nipple. Archer pulled Mayweather close, and Mayweather's arms went around Archer. He could feel the play of muscles under his hands as Archer's back moved, and the sheer beauty of it, the sheer physicality of the sensation, made Mayweather gasp. He leaned into the sensation of kissing Archer. He knew that this time, they wouldn't stop. Neither would draw back. Instead, they'd explore each other. The anticipation, the knowledge of what they were going to do, fluttered in the pit of his stomach. He had wanted Archer so badly, for so long. He knew that it would be worth the wait.

He felt bereft when Archer pushed him away. "No, Jon," he whispered. "Don't stop." He remembered his trembling need in the cargo bay. It had just been an appetizer.

"I don't think I can," Archer said hoarsely, and he unzipped Mayweather's uniform. Archer's hard-on tented out the front of his pajama bottoms. A little spot, moisture from his precome, darkened the thin fabric by the tip of his cock.

Mayweather stripped off his T-shirt and undershirt as Archer pulled the coverall down. A second or two later, a nude Mayweather was underneath Archer on Archer's big bed. He spread his legs and pulled Archer between them. Archer settled on top of him, and as their mouths caressed, Mayweather ran his hands up and down Archer's back, then inched lower. He slid a hand under the waistband of Archer's pajama bottoms and kneaded Archer's tight ass. His other hand wound in Archer's hair. Its texture was faintly coarse. He ground his erection into Archer's. The bed smelled like Archer. He was surrounded by Archer's scent, by Archer's touch.

The kisses had become frantic. Mayweather ran a hand from Archer's head to his ass and tugged Archer's pajama bottoms down, pulling at the waistband so he could get the bottoms around Archer's straining erection. Archer pulled back and gasped when his bare cock stroked Mayweather's stomach, pajamas puddling at his knees. The sight of an incredibly aroused Archer, panting with desire, virtually ready to come on the spot—he couldn't bear not touching him. Mayweather knocked Archer to the bed and pressed down on him, reversing their positions. He grabbed one of Archer's hands and pulled it up over Archer's head, throwing Archer's musculature into relief. He leaned on Archer's hand, holding him down, and bent his mouth to Archer's body, licking and gently biting. Devouring—that was what he was doing, he realized. Archer moaned and arched his back when Mayweather swirled a tongue over his nipple. Mayweather's teeth sank a little too hard into the soft flesh of Archer's arm, and Archer made a little noise. As his mouth explored, Mayweather's free hand roamed up and down Archer's lean body, learning the curve of his ribs, the jut of his hipbone. Archer had kicked the pajama bottoms off. He was breathing harshly.

When Mayweather released his pinning hold on Archer and began licking downward, Archer shuddered. "No, stop," he said before Mayweather could take Archer's straining length into his mouth. "I'm too close."

Mayweather pushed himself over to one side of Archer and pulled open the nightstand drawer. He rummaged through it recklessly, jumbling Archer's things together, until he found lube. He squirted a generous amount into his hands and tossed the container onto the floor. He put his hands on Archer's, spreading slickness, while he kissed Archer. Then he put his hands on Archer's cock, greasing it. Archer was large and literally hot to the touch, his penis twitching a little as Mayweather stroked. Archer, lying on his back, gasped as his own hands found Mayweather's cock.

"I've wanted you so long, Jon," Mayweather panted, staring into Archer's green eyes. When Archer's thumb caressed the slit at the tip of his cock, his breath caught as a bolt of sensation shot through his groin. "There. Oh, Jon. There."

Archer's thumb stroked there a few more times, then circled around the cap as Mayweather panted. Mayweather leaned against Archer again and urged Archer's hip up. Archer half-rolled toward him, bending his top knee. Mayweather's penis rubbed against Archer's, and Archer's hand curled around both hot cocks, pressing them together, as Mayweather squeezed Archer's ass, then slid his fingers up and down the crack.

"Ah," Archer said, and he brought his leg up more, opening himself, granting Mayweather access.

Mayweather's fingers found Archer's asshole, and he gently circled it with his fingertips, then deliberately pressed his middle finger part way in. Archer gasped, and his hand squeezed their cocks. Mayweather's eyes met Archer's, and he saw how close Archer was. He slid his finger in all the way and pulled Archer's ass toward him. Archer began thrusting in earnest, and Mayweather matched him, working his finger in and out in time to the thrusts. He added a second finger. Archer pushed hard against his body, his lubed hands pulling at their throbbing dicks. Archer was close, incredibly hot and excited, nearly out of control.

Archer's breath quickened and his thrusts grew harder. He moaned his pleasure as he worked their cocks together, and Mayweather gasped at the sensation of Archer's dick against his. Archer's asshole was ridged and hard against Mayweather's fingers as he stroked, and Archer encouraged him with incoherent words. Then Archer said, "Fuck. I'm coming," threw his head back, and stiffened. Mayweather felt hot splashes against his stomach as Archer climaxed.

The sight of Archer coming drove him over the edge. He rode Archer's sweaty body, Archer's hand stroking his cock, his hand pushing deep into the slick warmth of Archer's ass. His body trembled. He bit Archer's shoulder, the warm skin filling his mouth, and he came, surrounded by Archer. He dissolved into Archer's body. His orgasm opened him and turned him inside out as it joined him to Archer. They were one being, linked by throbbing ecstasy.

When he opened his eyes, gasping, he was still pulsing. He felt the hot seed on his chest and stomach. His mouth was still on Archer's shoulder. He licked the reddened flesh and relaxed, pulling back. His eyes met Archer's, and Archer kissed him, open-mouthed, his tongue demanding. Mayweather's body felt heavy, and his cock was twitchy and tender. He leaned into the kiss, overwhelmed by the force of his orgasm, his connection to Archer, and the depth of his response.

"Jesus, Travis," Archer said, pulling Mayweather close. He buried his face in the crook of Mayweather's neck, and his arms tightened around Mayweather.

"Jesus," Mayweather agreed, heart constricting: Archer was as overwhelmed as he was. Mayweather was having trouble catching his breath. His orgasm had been hard and strong; he needed time to recover. He withdrew his fingers and stroked up and down Archer's crack. When he stopped panting, he disengaged himself, leaned down, and grabbed his undershirt off the floor. He used it to clean off his fingers, cock, and stomach. After a moment, he wiped off Archer, who had rolled onto his back and was watching him. "Are you cold?" he asked, settling in beside Archer.

"No," Archer whispered. He brushed Mayweather's face with the backs of his fingers. "I'm not cold."

Mayweather propped himself on one arm. He clasped Archer's hand in his. He smiled down at Archer, then touched Archer's lips with his. The edge of desperation was gone. Now the kisses were sweet, infinitely tender. They kissed for a long time, until Mayweather felt the cold and pulled up the red sheet. He noticed stains of white come drying on the sheets. He guessed Archer would have to change the linen now. Too bad. It smelled like Archer. He liked that smell.

Archer enfolded him in his arms, and he put his head on Archer's shoulder and sighed in contentment. His hand stroked Archer's broad chest. He admired the way Archer's body tapered to his waist. His thumb found Archer's collarbone and traced it. Archer was warm, alive, interesting. He couldn't stop stroking. "I didn't mean to hurt you," he said after a while, touching a red mark on Archer's neck, then another on Archer's upper arm. The spot he'd bitten when he came was turning into a bruise.

Archer looked down, surprised. "I didn't notice. They don't hurt," he said.

"I couldn't help it," Mayweather said. He remembered putting his mouth on Archer's body and being unable to stop: he had to bite, to feel the flesh on his tongue, filling his mouth. "I wanted you inside me, outside me. I wanted you everywhere."

"Are you always so…aggressive?" Archer asked, eyes glinting.

Mayweather considered. "No," he said. "Sometimes I like to be tied up."

"Really." Archer sounded speculative. "I like to experiment. Try new things."

"Sounds fun."

"It is."

"Am I—am I a new thing?"

Mayweather stroked Archer's lower lip with his thumb, then leaned down and took it into his mouth, sucking and tonguing it gently. He released it, then kissed Archer. "You're the only thing," he responded. "Jon, you have no idea. I've wanted you for a long time. I've dreamed about you. It just took you a while to notice me back." He kissed Archer again. "Just when I thought I'd convinced myself that it was a lost cause, that you'd never even consider me, that I should move on, something would happen. Like, the Kreetasans made you wear that little outfit and do that performance-art bit."

Archer sounded amazed. "You liked that outfit?"

"Oh, yes," Mayweather said fervently. It had displayed Archer's chest to advantage. And his legs. And his ass. "When I saw you wearing that, I knew there was a god. I'd had my doubts before." Archer chuckled, and Mayweather smiled at him. "I wasn't sure you liked men," he said.

Archer pulled him closer. "I like men very much."

"I got that now. I'm relieved. And I wasn't sure you liked younger men. Or ensigns."

"It's hard to keep up with younger men, and ensigns are always pushing to get promoted."

"You keep up fine. And I'm not worried about promotions. I'll get promoted someday." His hand stroked, and his mouth followed his hand, kissing Archer's chest and side to punctuate his words. "And not because I'm fucking the captain." He straddled Archer. "It's not just sex. You know that it's not just sex."

"So tell me what it is."

Mayweather twined his fingers with Archer's and leaned his down, pinning Archer to the mattress. "It's respect." His eyes held Archer's. "It's having stuff in common. It's liking you, as a person. It's just—it's just you. And if you're just fucking me because you want to get laid, if this is just a one-time thing, you'd better tell me right now."

Archer's eyes were steady. "It's not like that," he said at last.

"Jon, I dated somebody for a year and it wasn't right," Mayweather said. "It was just sex. I won't do that again—waiting and hoping for it to get better, or for him to love me back. I won't do it. Not even for you. And I really like you."

Archer looked at him, intent, and nodded slowly. "I'm not interested in a one-night stand. I have to work it through, though."

"That's okay."

"How long can you stay?"

Mayweather put his hands on Archer's cock. Archer was at half-mast but rising fast. "As long as you want," he said. "You tell me."

"Stay the night," Archer whispered. "Stay the night and make love with me."

Mayweather leaned down and stroked Archer's cock with his cheek. "I thought you'd never ask, Jon," he said, and he took Archer into his mouth.

*** 5 Mayweather woke up slowly. As always, he had to drag himself up through unconsciousness. He lay with his eyes closed, listening to the faint hum of *Enterprise* as it moved through space. His body felt heavy and sated, and his lips curved into a smile as he remembered why. Jonathan Archer. He and Jonathan Archer were now lovers. He inhaled deeply, in case it was a dream, but he smelled Archer, along with the scent of sex and come. Eyes still closed, he shifted his attention to the bed itself. He couldn't sense Archer next to him. He was alone in the bed. He opened his eyes immediately, and the first thing he saw was Archer, wearing only a short belted robe, sitting on a chair, feet up on the bed, watching him.

"Good morning. What time is it?" Mayweather asked automatically, rolling onto his side to face Archer.

"Six. So don't worry. You're not late."

"Oh, good." Mayweather rubbed his face. "And oh, good—it wasn't a dream."

Archer laughed. "No," he said. "It wasn't a dream."

"How long have you been awake?"

"A while." Archer smiled. "When we were on the catwalk, I watched you sleep. When you were in my bed."

Mayweather stretched, displacing the sheet. He watched Archer watch him. "Did you watch T'Pol sleep too?" he teased.

"As a matter of fact, I did." Archer slid in beside Mayweather when Mayweather patted the bed, inviting him in. A bit to Mayweather's surprise, Archer was a cuddler. He liked to touch and stroke, and he liked to be touched and stroked. He liked to kiss after coming, sealing the connection. Mayweather was more than happy to oblige. "You sleep very soundly," Archer said, settling in.

"I've been told that," Mayweather said. His mother had often commented on this tendency—vocally and unfavorably. "Do I snore?"

"Sometimes." Archer practically purred as Mayweather slid his hands under the robe. "You definitely talk."

"I talk?" Mayweather hitched down and kissed Archer's chest. "What do I say?"

"Well, in the catwalk, when you were sleeping in my bed, you told me I smelled good."

Mayweather, horrified, lifted his mouth from Archer's body and looked up into Archer's face. Archer was serious. Mayweather remembered thinking that the pillow smelled like Archer, but he couldn't remember actually saying anything like that out loud.

Archer continued. "You reached up and touched my face—" He demonstrated, cupping Mayweather's neck. He stroked Mayweather's jaw with his thumb. "You called me Jon. And you said I smelled good."

"Oh, god," Mayweather said. "I thought I was being so discreet."


"You know. Worshipping from afar."

"Well, I'm glad you said something. Because I was able to prepare myself for when you kissed me."

"So it wasn't a shock after all?" Mayweather's voice was rueful.

"Maybe less of one." Archer stroked Mayweather's hairless chest. "But when you said my name—" He stopped and shook his head. "I've been the captain for a long time," he said. "Sometimes I miss being Jon."

"We have to work together," Mayweather said. He untied the soft belt of Archer's robe and slid a hand around to cup Archer's buttock. "You're the captain until we kiss. Then you're Jon. Right?"


"Well, I don't want to know stuff," Mayweather said. "When we're Travis and Jon, I don't want to hear about ship's business. I know there's stuff you can't tell me, or that you want to tell me but you shouldn't. It's okay. I don't want to know."

"I have a great story about how I hired my helmsman," Archer teased.

"Don't want to hear it," Mayweather said firmly. "When you're the captain, you can tell me, captain to ensign. Rank has its privileges, right?" He tugged at Archer's robe. "One of my privileges is not having to hear about that stuff."

"You got it," Archer said.

"Of course, speaking of rank—I'm having a lot of power fantasies right now."


Mayweather stared dreamily into the distance. "The captain wants me to come to his ready room. And yeah, he's ready. He's really ready. If you know what I mean. Sir."

"What an imagination you have, Ensign."

"That's nothing, sir." Mayweather smoothed his palm over Archer's skin, enjoying the faint prickle of hair. "Want to hear the one about the blow job in the captain's chair?"

"Ensign, I've always wanted someone to go down on me while I was in that chair. It's too damned uncomfortable to just sit in."

"No, you've got it wrong, sir. I'm the one in the chair. The captain's on his knees, blowing me." He touched Archer's chest. "You're in your uniform. I'm nude."

"Ensign Mayweather," Archer chided, but his eyes were dancing.

"Captain Archer."

"Well, I am the captain, it's true," Archer said thoughtfully. "And ensigns do have to obey orders. Am I right?"

"Yes, sir." Mayweather smiled. "To the letter."

"Oh, the possibilities," Archer breathed. "Rank does indeed have its privileges. The ready room is just the beginning, Ensign." He leaned over and kissed Mayweather deliberately on the lips.

"I think rank in the bedroom is going to be really interesting with you, Jon," Mayweather said.

He couldn't wait.

*** 6

"How did it go, sir?" Mayweather asked as Archer closed the shuttlepod door behind him. They were on the surface of Dekendi Three; Archer had asked to be run down so he could have a quick meeting with the Vulcan medical delegation. All Mayweather knew was that it had to do with T'Pol.

"Pretty well," Archer said. He looked pleased. "They agreed to a hearing. Thank god for Hoshi's research in the Vulcan database. She found the regulation that forced them into it."

Mayweather wondered what the hearing was about. Was T'Pol in trouble? "And that's good?"

"Yes, that's good. That's very good." Archer sat down next to Mayweather. "I'm sorry I can't tell you more about it, Travis."

"That's okay, sir," Mayweather said. He was curious—in addition to T'Pol, Doctor Phlox was involved. Mayweather had deduced this because the Vulcans had banned Phlox from the medical conference. Whatever was going on, Archer was deeply worried, and that worried Mayweather. Archer was in a much better mood now. "You ready to go?"

"Yes," Archer said, distracted.

Mayweather busied himself with the routine of taking off. The trip to *Enterprise* would only take about a half hour—if he took it as slow as he could without arousing suspicion. He had a certain fantasy about this shuttlepod, Archer, and the pilot's chair. It was time, he thought, to make it a reality—if he could convince Archer, that is. He had programmed the autopilot while waiting for Archer to return. Now he activated it and turned his seat to face Archer's.

"We've got about twenty, twenty-five minutes," he announced. He was leaving a scant five minutes for cuddling and clean-up.

"Okay," Archer said, not getting it.

Mayweather sighed. He would have to take the direct approach. He stood up, kicked off his boots, and unzipped his uniform. Archer looked up at the sound. His eyes widened as Mayweather shrugged out of his coverall, then began removing his T-shirt and underwear.

"Um, Travis, what are you doing?" Archer said.

"What does it look like, sir?"

"It looks like you're going to get cold, Ensign."

"Nope." Mayweather stroked his penis. It began swelling in his hand. "You're going to keep me warm, Captain."


"We're not in a public place, sir," Mayweather pointed out. "And I forgot to turn on the internal sensors."

"That's against regulations."

"So's this." Mayweather reached down, grabbed the front of Archer's uniform, and hauled Archer up out of his chair. "Sir." He pushed Archer against the control panel. Archer opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Mayweather kissed him. Archer made a "mmmf" sound of protest. "Shut up, Jon," Mayweather said. "Shut up and fuck me." He gave Archer another burning kiss, then fully unzipped Archer's uniform in one movement. He cupped his hand over Archer's soft cock and balls. Archer's penis stirred and began to lengthen. "You're going to fuck me in that chair." He inclined his head to indicate the pilot's seat. "And you're going to do it in twenty minutes or less."

This time, Archer kissed him. Mayweather tugged Archer's uniform off his shoulders. Their tongues fought as they stripped Archer to the waist. Mayweather was fully hard and throbbing now. He rubbed his cock against Archer's stomach as he slid Archer's uniform and briefs down. He had to grab Archer's penis to untangle it, and Archer moaned. He gave the heavy rod a few strokes, then gathered Archer's balls in his hands. He sucked on Archer's tongue as he played with them. They were large too, just like Archer's cock, and faintly furred. Archer's body hair made him hot—his chest, his arms and legs, his pubic hair.

"Now, Jon," he growled. He shoved Archer into the pilot's chair. Archer still had his shoes and socks on, and his uniform was around his ankles.

"Shit, Travis," Archer said, not taking his eyes from him.

"Here." Mayweather knelt by the chair and handed up the lube he'd placed there earlier. "You'll need this. Judging by the size of this—" He took Archer in his mouth and sucked him for a long few seconds. "You'll need a lot." He could smell the sharp, acrid scent of Archer's genitals. He inhaled deeply and ran his mouth along Archer's length again. Archer made a small noise and put his hand on the back of Mayweather's neck.

"Travis, I wanted to take my time when I fucked you for the first time," Archer said, voice a little labored. The pressure on the back of Mayweather's neck lifted, and he heard Archer squeeze lube into his hand. "I wanted to make it last all night. I wanted to be inside you for hours." When Mayweather brought his head up, swirling his tongue around the cap of Archer's cock, Archer's hand followed Mayweather's mouth up, slicking on the lube. Archer's voice grew ragged. "I wanted—I wanted to do it right." Mayweather clambered up, hands on Archer's shoulders. Archer moaned as Mayweather grabbed Archer's cock and slid it up and down his crack. He put his hands on Mayweather's hips and steadied him.

Mayweather said, "Save sweet and slow, Jon. You have fifteen minutes to make me come." The position was awkward, with him straddling Archer in the small chair. He pressed a slick finger inside himself. It went in smoothly. He spread lube around, grabbed Archer's cock again, and centered it. He settled his body weight down. "Oh, fuck, yes," he said as he sank onto Archer's penis until he was fully embedded. He was sitting on Archer's lap. He paused for a second, feeling Archer's length inside him as rigid pressure. The girth of Archer's cock pulled his sphincter wide, and there was an edge of pain to accompany the pleasurable feeling of stretching and filling. The chair tipped back a little from the combined weight of their bodies, which made things easier. He arranged his legs so they draped over the chair's armrests. He discovered that if he put his hands on the armrests, he could raise and lower himself.

"Hard and fast, Jon," he said. He deliberately relaxed his asshole. When he got really excited, he clenched up inside, but if he didn't relax, Archer would hurt him as he thrust. His arm muscles bunched as he raised himself up until only the tip of Archer's cock was inside him. Then he lowered himself, exquisitely slowly, feeling every centimeter of Archer's rod as it sank inside him. He kept himself relaxed and loose, but he could feel his sphincter tug against Archer's cock. He continued his movements, keeping the pace slow. He wanted Archer to snap.

"Oh, god, that feels good," Archer said, voice breathless. "You're so tight."

Mayweather sat on Archer's lap again and leaned forward, hands clasping the handles set on either side of the head of the chair. Their weight shifted, and the chair tilted back abruptly. There was a moment of panic before it locked into position, and they both laughed. Once the chair was stable, Mayweather put a hand on his own cock and worked it while Archer squeezed Mayweather's ass cheeks. Mayweather felt stretched. He leaned forward and kissed Archer, and Archer kissed him back desperately. Archer made small circles with his hips, pushing up hard inside Mayweather, and Mayweather's masturbating hand matched the pace Archer set.

"Come on, lover," Mayweather whispered. His cock was huge and straining. He massaged it until he was right on the edge. His balls felt tight. "I'm ready. I'm ready for you to fuck me." He pulled back a little and balanced himself on the armrests again. Mayweather resumed sliding, caressing Archer's cock with his asshole. Archer really gave him something to work against. He was solid and unyielding. He felt a jolt of unadulterated pleasure deep inside whenever Archer's cock stroked his prostate. Mayweather's ass twitched, and he moaned at the sensation. "It's okay, Jon," he told Archer. "I want you to lose it." Archer was panting, his magnificent body sheened with sweat as he fought for control. "I want you to come hard inside me. Come on, lover." He liked seeing Jonathan Archer out of control.

"God, you feel good," Archer said. "I can't believe how good you feel. Tight. Hot." He thrust harder. "Shit. You're all around me."

"Now, Jon," Mayweather said. He panted as he lowered himself, his cock huge between their bodies. "Come inside me now."

Archer clenched Mayweather's ass and thrust up desperately, meeting Mayweather's downward movements. Mayweather watched as Archer's eyes unfocused. "Shit. Yes. Yes." Archer's face grimaced, a rictus of pleasure, and Mayweather felt him stabbing deep inside with short, hard jerks as he peaked. Then Mayweather's climax hit him. He grabbed his cock, and his voice joined Archer's. His orgasm started with his prostate, moved to his stretched asshole, arrowed through his balls, and shot out his dick with each load of come. One-armed, he awkwardly raised and lowered himself on Archer, other hand frantically working his cock, slamming into Archer hard, both of them out of control.

Archer was just starting to soften when Mayweather finished coming. He realized he'd been saying, "Fuck, Jon," over and over. Archer swore when he came too.

"Come here," Archer said breathlessly. He touched Mayweather's face. "You're incredible," he said. "Oh, god." The edge in his voice was intensely erotic. "Kiss me."

Mayweather obliged. Archer's mouth was hungry and desperate. Mayweather tangled a hand in Archer's hair and tugged as he kissed. Archer's hand stroked up and down Mayweather's back. The intensity of the kisses didn't come down. "We need more time, Jon," he whispered. "I want to see you come again." He pushed his ass against Archer's lap. "I want to feel you get hard inside of me."

"Oh, Jesus," Archer moaned. "I want to see you lose control again, riding my dick like that."

Mayweather shifted his weight, and Archer made a noise that sounded like pain to Mayweather. He lifted himself up and freed Archer's cock. He felt a warm trickle of Archer's seed seep out of his asshole. He sat back down. The chair trembled but held. His arms were sore from holding up his body weight on the armrests. Mayweather's cock felt tender. He clasped it gently, and a bolt of sensation hit him, almost as if he were coming again.

"God damn it," Mayweather moaned, closing his eyes. He couldn't tell if he felt agony or ecstasy. "Shit. Fuck. Christ. Hell." He squeezed himself hard, and the moment passed. He could feel his asshole burning. "Did I forget any?"

"Oh, Jesus."

"Yeah, I forgot that one." Mayweather felt Archer's chest move as he laughed breathlessly. "Jon. I forgot that one too."

"'Jon' isn't a swear word."

"They're not swear words. They're what I say when I come." Mayweather nibbled at Archer's lower lip. He didn't feel sated. He felt like spending the next few hours in Archer's arms. The man was incredible. Mayweather had been attracted to Archer's body and personality, but he had never suspected what he'd find once he breached the professional exterior. Archer was hot, exciting, and playful. "Can you come over tonight?" he invited. "Spend the night with me?"

"I can't tonight," Archer said regretfully. "I have to talk to T'Pol and arrange the hearing. I'll be up late."

"Late is okay," Mayweather said.

"Are you sure?"

"You can wake me up. I don't mind. Stay a few hours—as long as you can."

"I'll be there."

Mayweather smiled down at Archer. Archer may be the captain, but he needed to learn immediately, if not sooner, that Mayweather was not afraid of captains. After all, his father was one. If they were going to bring rank into the bedroom—and Mayweather had every intention of doing so—Archer needed to know that he wouldn't automatically get the upper hand. Sometimes, taking the captain down a peg was what was needed. And making sure Archer came to him, instead of just him going to Archer, was a good way to start things off on the right foot.

The com chose that moment to beep. Sato's voice said, "Shuttlepod One, this is *Enterprise*. Prepare to dock."

Archer and Mayweather froze. After a long second, Mayweather reached over and nudged the control—audio only. "This is Shuttlepod One," he said in his smoothest pilot voice. "Acknowledged. Mayweather out." He disengaged the autopilot, then cut speed to buy them some time. He slid off Archer and steadied himself on the console. "Damn, I needed that," he said. He leaned down and picked up his briefs.

"Let me get something to clean us up," Archer offered. Mayweather watched, mesmerized, as Archer stroked his semierect penis and touched the tip. A string of stickiness followed his finger when he removed it. "God, I can't believe how good that felt," he said. He rubbed Mayweather's come into the hair on his stomach before standing up. Archer pulled the lower half of his uniform up so he could walk and headed for the lavatory. He returned with wet toweling, and they cleaned up hastily. Archer, still stripped to the waist, piloted the shuttle as Mayweather disposed of the towels and struggled into the rest of his clothes.

"I'm never going to be able to take a shuttle ride without thinking of this," Archer said, bringing the shuttle about as the launch bay doors opened automatically.

"You ready to go back to being the captain, Jon?" Mayweather asked, pulling his uniform up over his shoulders.

"Oh, yes," Archer said. "I have good news for T'Pol."

Mayweather watched as Archer docked and activated the launch bay doors. As the shuttle bay repressurized, both men stood up. Archer pulled on his undershirt and tugged his uniform up. Mayweather, hand on his zipper pull, leaned over and kissed his lover.

"Thanks, Jon," he said. "I've always wanted to do that." He zipped up ostentatiously.

Archer followed suit. Suddenly, the captain was in the shuttle with him, neat and aloof. Mayweather loved the contrast. The best thing about a man in uniform was getting him out of it.

"After you, Ensign," Archer said, gesturing to the door.

"Yes, sir," Mayweather said.


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