"You don't know what you're doing." It wasn't a question.

"Excuse me." Trip Tucker swept past Malcolm Reed and opened a cabinet. He didn't deign to respond to Malcolm's comment. "Layton," Trip said. "It calls for layton. What the hell is layton?" He moved little containers of spices around, glancing at the labels.

Malcolm, giving up on returning to his book—and giving up on peace and quiet—sidled over to the counter and peered at the cookbook. "I don't think it's a spice," he said. "It calls for half a cup. Maybe it's a vegetable." He flipped to the book's index and searched for "layton." He kept an eye on Trip, suppressing a smile. Trip was determined to have a nice dinner, and apparently, nothing was going to stop him. "Ah, yes. This is layton." He had found a picture in the cookbook, and he showed it to Trip. "Do we have that?"

Trip pulled the refrigerator open. "Yes," he said triumphantly. He brandished what looked like a moldy potato. "Am I supposed to chop it or what?"

"I don't know." Malcolm leaned against the kitchen counter and flipped through the cookbook's screens. "Um, no. You don't chop it. You cut it in large pieces and put it in the cooking water. Apparently one doesn't actually eat it."

"This reminds me of cooking lobster," Trip said. "Except harder." He used a large knife to cut the layton, revealing a creamy white interior. A sharp, astringent smell assailed them, and both of them sneezed. "Damn," Trip said, wiping his eyes with his arm. "Worse than onions."

Malcolm repressed the urge to take the knife from the overexcited, watery-eyed engineer's hands to show him how it was done. He'd tried, god knew he'd tried, to keep away from the kitchen while Trip cooked, but the combination of alarming bangs and swearing had drawn him out of the cottage's study and into the kitchen. He supposed it was a difficult task, making a local dish on an alien planet, working from a translated cookbook, not knowing what half the ingredients were. They only had four days of shore leave, and Malcolm could think of much better things to do than prepare a time-consuming dinner. Trip, however, was sick of eating out. Their rented cottage had a fully stocked kitchen, and Trip, conspiring with the woman who had rented the cottage to them, had decided on a tasty local dish. The cottage's owner had provided the cookbook and ingredients. Now, Malcolm wondered if she didn't have one of these really evil senses of humor.

"Malcolm!"

Malcolm jumped. "Yes?"

Trip gestured wildly, knife in hand, and Malcolm edged away. "Stop it! It's getting away!"

"Can't we let it?" Malcolm asked wistfully. "There's that very fine restaurant just off the wharf—the place where you order food and they bring it to you. You remember."

"Just—get it!"

Malcolm looked around for something to grab their scuttling dinner with and settled for the green oven mitts. He slid one on each hand and stalked the—well, crustacean was as good a word as any. Trip was right: it was rather like a lobster, with lots of legs, but unlike a lobster, it had a large, bulbous body instead of a meaty tail. It had quite a few eyes, like a spider, ranged along its back, and a shiny black exoskeleton. It had an unsettling tendency to jump sideways. Its many eyes and Malcolm's clumsy hands permitted it to elude Malcolm, and it took several minutes before he cornered it and was able to grab it.

"Is the water ready?" he demanded, holding the creature at arm's length. It made alarming noises by thrashing its mandibles together, and it squirmed.

"Yes."

Trip moved to the other side of the room, keeping a safe distance away, and watched as Malcolm approached the stove. Two large pots with boiling water in the bottom awaited him. He held the creature above one of the pots, and it promptly extended all its legs and began clacking.

"I'm convinced it's intelligent," Malcolm gasped, when it became clear that he couldn't fit it in the pot as long as its legs remained outthrust. "It's wrong to kill a sentient being. Very wrong."

"It's not sentient," Trip said. "You've eaten them before and you didn't say a word."

"Yes, I ate one in one of those places where they bring you the food and you don't have to watch it die horribly." Malcolm twisted and managed to plop the creature in upside-down. "You know. A restaurant."

"Malcolm."

"Trip."

"Do the other one while you have the oven mitts on."

Malcolm sighed and fetched the other animal from its bag. This one hadn't escaped, and now he had the trick of it. He immediately upended it into the other pot. "There," he said. "What now?" He had to speak loudly above the sound of the desperate animals attempting to escape their fate. They banged heavily against the pots, scooting them across the surface of the stove.

Trip tossed a handful of layton into each pot and put the lids on. "We let them cook for twenty minutes. And then we eat them." He centered the pots back over the burners, then did it again when the creatures continued to struggle. The lids clattered off, one by one, and Trip and Malcolm had to improvise. They used twine to tie the lids to the pot's handles. Trip then tried to wave Malcolm out. "Shoo," he ordered, as though Malcolm had just stopped by for a second. "I have to finish making the sauce. We're also having salad, and there's bread and wine."

"It does sound lovely," Malcolm said, stopping in the doorway. "May I have some wine now?" He needed it to calm his nerves.

"If you open it." Trip found the corkscrew and handed it to Malcolm.

Malcolm opened the bottle and poured himself and Trip a glass, taking his time so he could watch Trip cook. It involved puzzling over the cookbook, digging through the spices, carefully measuring small amounts of a number of items into a bowl, and stirring with vigor. The result, a greenish paste, seemed right, if Malcolm remembered correctly from the time he'd had this dish in a restaurant. Trip could cook, but the stress of creating an unfamiliar dish made out of live, alien creatures, on top of trying to time everything so it was ready at once, had apparently flustered him.

"That's better," Malcolm said, sipping wine, when the creatures stopped banging. "Much quieter. I suppose they've died now."

"I hope so." Trip looked up from his stirring. "I thought you wanted to finish that book."

"It's more fun to watch you."

Trip pointed. "Make yourself useful. Cut the bread."

Malcolm obeyed. He was getting hungry. He set the table next, and then he helped Trip cut the lids off the pots. They upended the pots over colanders set in the sink, sending fragrant steam into their faces, and let the cooked animals drain and cool for a few minutes as Trip finished setting out the salad. Malcolm checked the cookbook and used a pair of sturdy kitchen shears to cut an X in the creatures' exoskeletons, along their abdomens. He had to suck his fingers to keep them from burning. Trip pulled out the steaming white meat and placed it on plates.

"All right, let's eat," Trip said. Malcolm followed him into the dining room, a plate in each hand. The meat would definitely have to cool before they could tuck in. "Do you want salad?"

"Lovely. Thanks." Malcolm sat at Trip's right, and they portioned out food.

"I haven't gotten tired of that view," Trip said. The dining room had a spectacular view of the ocean. He took a bite of salad and sighed. "I've had a great time. Thanks."

"I haven't thought about ship's business for days now," Malcolm said. "It's been a wonderful relief."

Trip laughed. "So reading up on all cannon specs and drawing up plans for a maintenance schedule means not thinking about ship's business?"

"Oh, that." Malcolm waved it away. "It only took a few minutes. Besides, you talk to Lieutenant Hess every day."

"Just to get a status report," Trip said defensively, but his eyes were sparkling.

"What time is Travis coming for us tomorrow?"

"Midmorning."

"Did you want to go out dancing again tonight?"

Trip shook his head. "Nope." He took a sip of wine. "I want a night in. That's why I made dinner. A night in, just you and me, nowhere to go, nowhere to be."

"Nowhere to go?"

"Nope. Why? Where did you want to go?"

"Oh, nowhere in particular." Malcolm set his napkin next to his plate and rose. "I thought perhaps the bedroom."

"Ah."

Malcolm scooted Trip's chair away from the table. Trip sat back and looked up as Malcolm straddled him, then sat on his lap, so they were face to face. Trip's hands settled on Malcolm's ass.

"But then I thought, the bedroom. So predictable."

"You had somewhere else in mind?"

"How about right here?"

"But I'm hungry. We're eating."

"Yes. That's true."

Malcolm turned and picked up Trip's meat. It had cooled enough to touch. He ripped off a piece, dipped it in the green sauce, and held it at Trip's lips. Trip's eyes held his as Trip opened his mouth. Malcolm carefully fed him the morsel, and another, and another. He was hungry himself, so he ate one. He liked the way Trip watched his mouth as he chewed. He fed them each a bite and kissed Trip, long and lingering, before he sat back so they could chew.

They finished Trip's meat and began Malcolm's, exchanging kisses between and before bites. Trip tasted like the sweet meat and the sharp sauce and himself, all mixed together. Occasionally, Malcolm held the wineglass to Trip's lips and Trip sipped. When the kissing became more interesting than the food, Malcolm put his fingers in Trip's mouth and let Trip suck them clean, his face close to Trip's so he could smell Trip's skin. He breathed deeply as Trip's warm tongue played with his fingers. Malcolm brushed his lips against Trip's cheek and felt the faint scratch of stubble. He pulled Trip's tender earlobe into his mouth and tongued it gently. They'd given up all pretense of eating. Malcolm's erection pressed uncomfortably into his jeans, but he had no intention of moving—not when Trip was doing what he was doing to Malcolm's fingers. He felt the answering warmth in Trip's groin.

Trip's hands circled around and unbuttoned Malcolm's jeans. "Bedroom?" he suggested, working on the zipper.

"I think not." Malcolm slid his arms around Trip's neck. The air felt cold on his wet fingers.

"Right here?"

"Yes."

"Okay." Trip pushed him off his lap. "Take your pants off. I can't get at you."

Malcolm obliged, but he stripped off all his clothes, not just his pants. Before he sat on Trip's lap again, he undid Trip's jeans and tugged them down but not off. He curled his hand around Trip's erection as he reseated himself on Trip's thighs.

"So that's the way it is," Trip said. He unbuttoned his loud Hawaiian shirt. "You like me dressed?"

"Partly dressed." Malcolm ran a hand greedily along the exposed skin. "Messy." He whispered the word before licking Trip's earlobe again. "Hard." Trip touched Malcolm's cock, and Malcolm felt the warmth to his toes. "Mine." He loved it—the sight of Trip hot for him, rumpled, open, the clothing serving to enhance, not detract from, his desire and arousal.

"Yours." Trip began sliding his hand along Malcolm's shaft. "You liked me nude yesterday. And this morning."

"That was ages ago. Oh, don't stop. That feels wonderful."

Trip resumed. "You're already sticky."

"Mmm." Malcolm closed his eyes briefly as Trip slid his palm over the sensitive tip of his cock. He felt the touch through his entire body. Malcolm's foreskin slid under Trip's touch. "Weeping."

"Oh, is that the word?" Trip's fingers tightened, and Malcolm thrust into his hand, gasping. "Honey, slow down. You've got a weeping cock here. You keep that up, it's going to be a spurting cock."

"Trip, please. I want it fast." He did. He'd been watching Trip all day. Being on vacation was wonderful, because he could watch his lover without worrying that anyone was noticing, and he could kiss his lover whenever he wanted, and he could smile and touch and caress, and—and—"Oh, god." He put his hand over Trip's and leaned down. He bit Trip's collarbone as he guided Trip's touch, showing him the pace he needed. Trip's taste, touch, and smell surrounded him and cascaded over him. He came in long, wet arcs, hips thrusting, cock sluicing through their interlaced hands, gasping for air.

He slumped against Trip, panting and boneless. Trip put his hands back on Malcolm's ass. "Hey, honey," Trip murmured. "Malcolm." Trip kissed the side of Malcolm's face and caressed Malcolm's ass. Malcolm could feel the warm stickiness of his own semen as Trip spread it around. Malcolm felt completely content in his lover's arms, a kind of visceral happiness that went beyond his warm, satisfied body. He liked that he could still surprise Trip, after their year together. He was continually amazed at Trip—how Malcolm's desire for his lover didn't seem to wane, how interesting he found Trip as a man.

"My legs are going to sleep," Trip hinted.

Malcolm smiled dazzlingly down at Trip before kissing him again. That was another thing he loved: Trip's directness. That, and Trip had cooked for him. Malcolm had been dubious—more than dubious—but Trip had pulled it off, successfully cooking a local delicacy just for the two of them, because he wanted a night in, with Malcolm. It was—domestic; that seemed like the right word.

"Legs," Trip reminded him when Malcolm came up for air.

"Right. Sorry." Trip's hands left his ass, and he awkwardly slid off. "Would you like to go to the bedroom?" Trip's penis had dropped to half-mast.

"Nope. Right here." Trip spread his legs and inched his butt forward, so he was sitting on the very edge of the chair. He put his hands behind his head, elbows flung out. "Right now. If you're up to it."

Malcolm took in the sight of Trip, semen spattered over his stomach, his ridiculous shirt open, his pants pulled down over his hips, his cock lolling in its nest of brown hair. "I'll see what I can manage," he said.

"I'm positive you can come up with something." Trip sighed as Malcolm, kneeling between his legs, took Trip in his mouth. "Like that."

"Is this all right?" Malcolm asked, voice full of concern. He slid his mouth up and down again. "Is this what you had in mind?" Trip's penis had returned to full hardness, filling Malcolm's mouth.

"It's just right," Trip assured him as Malcolm bent back down. "Oh. There. There."

Malcolm pulled his mouth along Trip's cock and used his tongue to push hard against Trip's length. Trip wove his fingers into Malcolm's hair, but he didn't apply any pressure. His hands simply rested lightly on his head in a warm cap as Malcolm sucked him. He tasted the faint tang of Trip's precome as he tongued the slit at the tip of Trip's cock. He imagined what they must look like: Malcolm, nude, kneeling; Trip's head thrown back as Malcolm pleasured him, Trip's chest rising and falling rapidly as he panted. Malcolm closed his eyes and focused on the slippery, slightly salty flesh in his mouth, drawing his mouth tight around Trip's penis as his hand grasped its base. He could sense Trip's excitement, pulsing in warm waves through his groin as his heartbeat accelerated, pulsing through his penis. The tenderness Malcolm had felt just after he came was still present in his chest, and as Trip's fingers tightened in his hair, Malcolm used his mouth to tell Trip of the depth of his feelings. When the fingers tugged hard at his hair, he lifted his mouth off Trip.

"Malcolm," Trip said, unbearably excited. It was clear he was about to come.

Malcolm, panting slightly, one hand on each of Trip's knees, sat back as Trip closed his own hand around his cock. Trip's eyes met his as Trip began stroking himself, his motions purposeful. Malcolm watched as his lover grimaced and fell into orgasm, his breathing harsh and erratic. The beauty of Trip's body as Trip gave himself up stunned Malcolm.

Trip released his cock and put his hand on his stomach. He slid his palm through the semen there, mixing together Malcolm's and his own. "I wanted to see your face when I came," he said in explanation. "I want to see you. I want to see you every morning, when I wake up. And at night—all nude, next to me, before I go to bed."

"I want that too," Malcolm said. He put his arms around Trip, and Trip leaned into him, panting, as he recovered.

Trip mumbled, "And in the shower. I want to see you in the shower. Soapy. Nude."

"Right."

"I guess I pretty much just want you around."

"Nude."

Trip chuckled. "Well, yeah."

"I want you around too," Malcolm whispered. He stroked Trip's shoulder as Trip's breathing grew less labored. When Trip stirred, Malcolm stood up and wet a hand towel in the kitchen. He knelt at Trip's side and dabbed at his chest, stomach, and penis, cleaning him off. "Delicious dinner. Shall we clean up?"

"We?"

"What do you mean, 'we'?"

Trip pointed at himself. "I cooked." Now he pointed at Malcolm. "You have to clean up."

"I cooked too," Malcolm said. He wiped himself off. "Who stalked that creature and captured it, at great personal risk? Who figured out how to get the damn thing in the pot?"

Trip huffed. "You," he admitted grudgingly.

"Yes, me."

"I made the salad." "I found out about the layton."

"I chopped."

"I opened the wine."

"Fine."

"Fine what?"

Trip stood up and fastened his pants. "Okay, Malcolm. You win. Neither of us will clean up." He pointed. "Bedroom," he ordered. "You can't just wander around nude like that and expect there to be no consequences."

"What?" Malcolm asked, outraged. "I am not wandering. I moved with purpose." He hesitated. "What kind of consequences?"

"You'll need that little towel. And some of that twine." Trip turned. "Maybe some cooking oil," he called back.

"Oh, good," Malcolm said, and followed.