PART 1

Hoshi sits at her usual spot in what has become her regular hang-out—center of the couch in Malcolm's quarters.

It began after those two days in Risa, her two nights with Ravis—the man she'd loved and left. Malcolm had found her sitting by herself in the mess, crying her heart out behind a rising mound of used napkins. Taking in the situation at a glance, and her firmly in hand, he'd steered her to his quarters and offered a shoulder to cry on, a stiff drink, and—when she was ready to listen—his own hard-won knowledge in matters of the heart.

In the ensuing three months the bruises from falling in love had slowly faded, the pain of lost love somewhat salved by the gain of a good friend. They'd gotten together regularly enough to make and sustain a friendship, but not often enough to start rumors of something more.

She watches him from across the room, taking in the view. Staring at his hands as they putter through a cabinet, noticing veins that take less away from their sleek contour than they add by suggestive possibilities. Firm belly, strong, straight back, rounded, pliable, backside, bent over as if being offered.

'God, if that tush could talk,' she thinks to herself, 'it would be begging to be touched.' She stops herself—full of ideas, and short of breath.

'But, I always knew he was gay.' She thinks, checking her composure and their reality. 'Maybe I've just got good gaydar, or maybe I'm a good linguist, trained to hear what's said, listen for what isn't.' She thinks, recalling the time since their first conversation, and the many times they've spoken since.

'He didn't talk about his past, he talked around it. So, when he told me about his feelings for Trip, it wasn't as much a surprise as a confirmation that Malcolm is…'

Standing in front of her. Back firm, face firmer, tush unseen, hands holding a bottle and two glasses.

"Have you heard a single word I've said?"

"I was paying attention," she says, 'just not to what you were saying.' She thinks, recalling with a start the words that she'd listened to, but not heard. "Trip did what?"

"Yesterday morning Trip came by to walk me to work." He says, taking a seat next to her.

"Pour me a drink, and tell all." She says, snuggling into the couch. "He's here to walk you to work. Did he offer to carry your PADD?" She asks, giggling.

"I don't know why I bother bringing out the good stuff," he says, stopping mid-pour, "or telling you anything if you're just going to tease."

"Oh, Malcolm. It's just so sweet. But, I promise, no more teasing." She says, crossing her heart.

"Thank you."

"Unless I just can't help it." She says, crossing her fingers.

He looks at her and slowly smiles. He needs to talk, wants to talk—to her—and decides to accept the possible consequences of engagement with the teasing, but kind, ensign.

"Come on. He gets here, then what?"

"He was on time, but I was running a little late. I still hadn't found this book I'd promised the captain."

"You were late?" She asks, looking at him skeptically. "Malcolm, I doubt that you've ever been late for anything in your life. You were probably born exactly on time." She says, scanning his perfectly ordered shelves, wondering if the books were arranged alphabetically or chronologically. "Because you couldn't find a book?" She asks, shaking her head, suspicious of his story until jarring loose a possible cause.

"Oh." She says, grinning, "Had you been jacking off?"

"No! Hoshi!" He replies, as startled by the accuracy of her guess as its' wording.

'Yes, Hoshi.' He thinks to himself. 'But how in the world did you know? Naughty girl. Trip's coming over to walk me to work. Of course I'd been jacking off. Shaking hands with my best friend, having a one-handed conversation on an off hand topic.'

He remembers the fantasy he'd had, the pre-game show to yesterday's main event. 'He'd watch me as I lean over my desk to retrieve something or other, walk over and reach across my chest to retrieve me. God, I love the sound of a zipper going down.'

"Sato hailing Lieutenant Reed, from half a meter away." She says, waving her hand in front of his face, trying to get the attention of the suddenly distracted man.

"Oh, sorry. Got a little lost in thought." He says, leaning forward to pour himself a drink, adjusting his trousers on the way. "What were you saying?"

"I was asking why you seemed so shocked to hear me use the term "jacking off"."

"Hoshi, please." He says, a blush rising to his cheeks. "That's a rather blunt way of putting it, and coming from you it's embarrassing. I think of you as being a bit more…refined."

"Yeah, everyone does." She says, rolling her eyes. "But, that's what you were doing, right?" She asks, disregarding his embarrassment in her demand for unrefined answers.

"Hoshi, the fact that we talk about everything doesn't mean that I tell you all. Some things are private."

"Point taken, Sir." She says, conceding the point, and with it a pout.

"Don't sulk. And don't call me "Sir". This whole thing is odd enough, don't make it more so by invoking protocol."

"Okay. Whatever. How 'bout I invoke my empty glass? Top me off?"

"So, he's here." He says, reaching for the bottle and a change of topic. "Waiting for me to find this book; Masefield."

"You let me borrow that one. Beautiful language."

"I quoted from 'Sea Fever'. Do you remember it?" He asks, questioning her memory of the poem as well as her appreciation of its' particular significance in that particularly significant moment with Trip.

"Yeah, all those double entendres for the "other" joys of a sailor's life. I wouldn't have thought twice until you'd pointed them out. But now—'flung spray' and 'blown spume' and…Oh my God," she says, rising in her seat. 'the wild call that cannot be denied'? Malcolm, you did not."

"Oh, yes I did." He says, smiling shyly, swirling his glass and looking into the small whirlpool he's created.

"Why not just club him over the head and drag him by the hair to your bed?"

"Hoshi, being horny is never an excuse for being rude. Besides, you yourself said that you hadn't noticed any other interpretations."

"But I'm not Trip." She counters. "Did he get it?" She asks, grinning and clutching herself, delighted by the image of "Malcolm Reed. Literary Cocktease"."

"Not sure what he got," he replies, smiling devilishly, "but he did seem to be quite taken. That's when he kissed me."

"No. Are you serious? Really?"

"The first time."

She squeals, laughs, and kicks up her heels.

"So, what did you do?" She asks, returning to her place on the couch, and the place where they'd left off.

"I was appreciative. Grateful. Polite."

"Polite?" She asks, incredulously, "So, what did you do, shake his hand?"

"No, I think that I steadied him with a hand on his elbow. We were both a bit wobbly."

"Did you like it?" She purrs, warming to the subject and its' possibilities. In answer, his heart flutters, breath quickens, loins stir. With that last response he crosses his legs. Sensory recall kicks in and he can practically feel Trip's so soft lips on his. Mouth and heart open, cupping that sweet face in his hand. Did he like it?

"Yes."

"Just, 'Yes'?"

"Yes, quite?"

"And then?" She asks, accepting that no matter how open-hearted a friend, he'd always have—on certain topics—a closed mouth.

"We talked a bit, then left."

"You just left?"

"I insisted. What was I supposed to do? Blow off duty and blow him instead"

"No. That would have been all wrong."

"So you don't think that I put him off, discouraged him?" He asks, sure of what he wants, but needing reassurance as to his tactical maneuvers toward the goal.

"Trip is one of those guys who doesn't want it to be too easy. He wants to win you." She says, resigned to never getting all the juicy details while confident that they exist and will get even better with time.

"Crikey, do you even know how much I wanted to be won?"

"Yeah, I've heard. But just wait. He'll be back—stronger than ever. So that was yesterday morning. Have you seen him since?"

"Last night."

"Then what are you doing here talking to me? Was it disappointing?" She asks, reluctant to have a promising moment become just another in a series of Malcolm's relationship woes, more woes than relationships.

"No, no, not at all. It was quite magical, really. Like pulling a rabbit out of a hat. Unexpected. Delightful. Unexpectedly delightful." He says, smiling fondly with the recollection.

"We kissed. Quite a bit. And touched. Quite a bit."

"Did you, I mean did he…" she begins, faltering in her search for the words to ask a question in a way that won't leave him in a state of embarrassment, and her several states away from an answer.

"No, Hoshi. In answer to the unasked question, I didn't…"feel the earth move." We didn't 'quite a bit' quite that far. Though I do admit to seeing some stars."

"Yeah?" She asks, relieved of her worries.

"Oh yes." He says, beginning to need some relief of his own. "And then we talked some more."

"Oh, God. More talk?"

"Necessary and needful discussion. I had concerns which needed to be addressed, for both our sakes."

"Like?"

"Like that Trip is straight. Hoshi, the one thing we have in common in our romantic lives is straight men. We both know how they can be."

They nod and shake their heads in deep agreement and mild disgust.

"Though you've never been in the position of being someone's "experiment"."

"Uhhh, Asian woman speaking." She says, raising her hand to claim the floor.

"I've had more than one guy look to me for "ancient Chinese secret"."

"You're Japanese."

"Exactly." She says, cringing, "I know what it is to be someone's experiment, their walk on the wild side. I know what that crap looks like, and it isn't Trip." She says, remembering people she'd rather forget, wiping away tears being shed for dead ghosts, and living memories. "Oh, Hoshi. I'm sorry."

"No worries, Malcolm." she says, shrugging both aside. "Hey, remember when you said that relationships are like matter."

"That was after Risa."

"After Ravis." She says, speaking through the tears.

"You told me that all the stuff we experience in a relationship—the good, and the bad—is as real as matter, and like matter can never be lost or destroyed, as much as we may prefer otherwise. It all just gets re-formed into something else that we either meet again, or use for another purpose," she says, cupping his face in her hand, "like helping a good friend."

"Trip's an honorable man," she says, looking into his eyes, "an officer with whom I'm proud to serve, a great guy, and he doesn't start anything unless he plans to be there to the end and do right by them while he's there. He's straight, but not narrow."

"Point taken, Sir."

"I'm an ensign. Even Chef doesn't call me 'sir'"

"Oh, you'll get there, Hoshi. Believe me. I know officer material."

She beams at this unexpected approval from an unforetold source at an unlikely moment.

"The question remains, what's next?" She asks, returning to tonight's main topic of conversation.

"I'm still not sure what to do."

"You're not sure what to do?" She asks, incredulously.

"Malcolm, you've got books, reading materials, instruction sheets…"

"Yes, but…"

"Toys, accessories, Malcolm, you own a butt plug and know how to use it. What do you mean 'you don't know what to do'?" She asks, thus concluding this night's round of merciless teasing.

"You know that's not what I meant. I meant that I don't know how to proceed, not that I don't know what to do once we get there." He replies, flustered as much by her teasing as at the inventory of his goodie drawer. "And how do you know about my butt plug?"

"Remember show and tell night?"

"Barely." He says, hiding his face behind a hand. "God. I was so drunk."

"Hammered. I brought the upgraded Universal Translator, and you pulled out, I mean showed me your favorite butt plug. Then it was all I could do to keep you from going over to Trip's and throwing yourself at him."

"I remember that part."

" 'I want you, you want me. Please, let's stop this charade'." She quotes, imitating his accent. "Pacing around the room, all passionate and intent. Really, there's nothing quite like the sight of an uptight Brit, you in particular, losing it completely." She giggles at the recollection.

"Thank God you were here to stop me." He says, peeking out between his fingers.

"Yeah, I guess three sheets to the wind isn't the time to ask someone to lay you down on them." She says, smiling at her own joke.

He lowers his hand and looks at her with narrowed eyes and narrower mouth.

"So sorry. Was that meant to be a joke? Please, next time you're trying to be funny tell me first so that I can laugh too."

"Sorry, dear." She says, raising both hands in surrender.

"It wasn't funny. Could've been a total disaster."

"But it didn't happen, remember? Though it was funny—and really cute. You should have seen yourself."

"I believe I mentioned a memory of that part of the evening." He replies, huffily.

"Do you remember saying that you wanted Trip to…"

"…fuck his name into my ass. Yes." He finishes, happily recalling the moment and the image it brings.

"Enough about the past. What should I do now?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Malcolm. We've established that he wants you, right?"

"Yes." He smiles.

"And we both know that you want him."

"Oh, yes." He smiles wider.

"Then get on with it. Make a date, make out, make love, but for God's sake, make up your mind to do something. Malcolm," She says, leaning forward to take his hand in hers,

"You've been imagining this for months now, you know who you want, you know what you want, and Trip's ready to give you both. What's the problem?"

"Well, I think that's the problem. I have been imagining this for months, and months before we started talking about it. I'm afraid that I've built up such hopes that the reality can't possibly equal them."

"Malcolm, have you never met a worry you didn't like?" She asks, shaking her head.

"Oh, sorry. I was supposed to warn you when I'm trying to be funny. I'm trying to be funny." She says, putting her hand on his.

"I know." He says, taking her hand in his.

"Kind of." She says, looking at him as they exchange indulgent smiles.

"It's just…"

"Oh, God." She says, pulling her hand free.

"Wait. This isn't 'Malcolm ripping himself another new one'. It's not a worry or a concern even. It's just…"

He looks off into uninhabited space, making first contact—the first in his romantic life—with hope.

"Getting what I want, who I want, is unfamiliar. I'm not used to things going so well, much less the reasonable expectation that things could get even better." He says, leaning back into his chair, turning toward, but not quite yet able to face Hoshi.

"The truth is…" He says, leaning forward, placing his elbows on his knees, resting his face between his hands, releasing the words through their small gap. "God, this is embarrassing."

"More than the butt plug?"

"Hoshi, I was drunk." He says, lowering his hands and turning to face her.

"I'm just not used to being happy." He admits, falling back into his chair, crossing arms over his chest, looking away from Hoshi and friendship, middle space and hope.

"I don't know how to do it. I don't know the proper response. How sad is that?"

"Sad, but true?" Hoshi looks off into her own middle space and feels a real and true desire to help her friend, help him feel better about himself, Trip, everything.

"I heard a politician say something really interesting."

"Oh, do tell."

"Malcolm, I'm trying to help." She says, fully aware of the not very deeply imbedded note of sarcasm in the tone of his voice. "But if you'd rather put on a pair of hip waders for a deeper wallow in that pool of self-pity you've made…"

"No, Hoshi. Sorry, sweet." He lowers his hands to the sides of his chair.

"I've adjusted myself to the upright position, ready to hear emergency instructions." He says, "A communications officer, a love-struck armory chief, and a politician walk into a bar. And the politician says…?"

"Something worth listening to. He'd been asked about his campaign for some seat, whatever. He said that he would give it his best shot, but furthermore he'd assume that he would win—because if he lost, he'd have plenty of time afterward to feel bad for himself. What he meant was that the midst of a campaign is not the time for doubts." She says, reaching for and finding words to express this thing in a way that the armory officer will understand.

In response she receives from Malcolm, laughter—unfettered, unguarded, on her part un-understood.

"Sorry, but it's funny." He says, calming into a chuckle as he composes himself. "Funny—ha-ha, weird, and amazing. I don't know if you know, but you just referenced a quote by a personal hero of mine. Clausewitz." He says, laughing anew, barely able to contain himself. "And accurately pointed at that."

"Great." She says, happy that she's made her point, but unsure as to exactly how, or how to take the sight of an uncontrollably laughing Malcolm.

"Who's Clausewitz?"

"Ancient military strategist. I'll explain later. The point is, I got your point"

"Finally." She asks, with relief. "Then, by the rights and privileges extant in the Exalted Order of the Open Mind and Ear, I make the motion," she says, raising, extending her glass in the air and toward a greater purpose, "for LAMO."

"Excuse me?" Malcolm asks, shaken, stirred, and completely at a loss.

"Back at the academy my friends and I would get together like this. Sit around our table at the local pub, solving the problems of life, the universe, love, all the usual suspects. Only instead of sipping fine scotch, we'd down pitchers of cheap beer."

"Ah, student life." He says, looking at his glass of the "other" amber. "Don't miss it at all."

"Speak for yourself. Those were great days—and better nights. But, eventually, even students got tired of hearing each other talk. So, the rule was that if anyone thought a subject—either that night or in general—was done, over, thoroughly covered and sucked dry," she says, looking at him pointedly, "they could propose LAMO."

"Which means?"

"It's an acronym—Let's All Move On. 'Cuz, ya know, Malcolm," she says, slurring her words, leaning forward to tipsily follow their impulsive flight, "even we knew that there were always more fertile fields just dying for attention. As soon as we were ready to move on." She says, placing the appropriate hand on each of his knees for what she knows to be an inappropriate suggestion—protocol, regulation, and friendship be damned.

"Malcolm, I'm so tired of hearing all the angst around your wannabe relationship with Trip, I'm ready to sleep with you myself, just to shut you up." She says, she replies, she hopes. She knows better. But still…

He's still, looking at her with eyes open wide, mouth open wider. A deer in the headlights, a defense specialist taken by surprise, a man caught unaware. Then, as eyes and mouth soften and relax, a friend to the rescue. It's Hoshi's turn to get drunk and sad, lonely and saved from herself—from saying and doing things sincerely meant in the moment, and even more so regretted the next morning.

He gently removes her hands from his knees, holds them in his own, and even more gently says,

"Hoshi. You know."

"I know."

"I'm flattered. Tremendously flattered that a wonderful woman—that's you, if there's any doubt—would even consider me possible, but…" he says moving over to sit next to her.

"I know, Malcolm. I know that you know that I know, I know." She says, going in for a friendly cuddle on his chest. Not eyes, but souls, connecting.

"So, it is "love" then. You and Trip."

"If it isn't, then I don't know what "love" is. Oh, wait a minute," he says, laying his head back against the cushions, "that's not very reassuring, is it?"

"No." She says, as they share a soft laugh, "But, you're ready to move on, I mean move forward."

"Yes." He says, nodding his head—free and sure at last. "I think that the subject has been covered to even my satisfaction. I second your motion for LAMO."

"Malcolm."

"Yes, sweet." He says, kissing her forehead in a sweet, loving, friendly, and completely understood gesture.

"I really need to get laid."

"I know, my love. So do I."

PART 2

Meanwhile, in another part of the ship, in quarters nearby by not nearly enough—for either Malcolm's, or his own, satisfaction—Trip is alone, but for his thoughts. 'How is it that Malcolm, "Mr. first in line to kick some ass" when it comes to battle, is such a scaredy-cat about a little one on one between the sheets?' He thinks to himself, pacing around the room, his only outlet for pent up energy, desire, and frustration.

'No, that's not fair. He's not a scaredy-cat. Though he is cat-like—quick, agile, and not afraid to use his claws. But if you stroke him right,' he recalls the previous night, and the result of that tactic, 'he'll purr real nice.' He smiles to himself, taking a seat behind his desk.

'He's like the cat in that expression—how's it go?' He asks himself, jogging his memory, and his chair. 'Oh, yeah—a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs.' He smiles at the humor of the image until recognizing how it's been made all too real in Malcolm's life.

'From what he's told me about his past, the bastards sitting in those chairs were all intent on his tail with no regard for the rest of him. He's not scared, he's scarred, and he's not going to let it happen again.'

"Neither am I, Malcolm. You've got to believe that." He says, addressing the doors of his quarters, wishing his words through the corridors of the ship, to a place in Malcolm's thoughts, a home in his heart.

'I know what I mean. I know what I want. Now, how do "we" get there?'

Once again it's up to him to find solutions to problems for which no amount of training could prepare. Answers to questions his life up to then hadn't asked—his only choice in the matter between fast and now.

'I've pretty much initiated every step along the way, and Malcolm's gone along as far as he's ready to. That's cool. But, now we're heading into places that I've only heard about.'

Behind the eight ball and his desk—feet up, head back, hands fiddling around with the buttons of his shirt, mind toying with the specifics of his desire.

"Man, I just wanna fuck that sweet limey ass into the mattress." Trip says. Warm and content at the thought, hot and bothered by the desire, a little dazed and confused at the thought of the desire made real by being spoken out loud.

'Oh, who am I kidding?" He scolds himself, 'I've never even touched a man's naked dick. Malcolm barely let me touch his through his uniform. But, damn, I wanted to.' He thinks, frustrated as much at what Malcolm hadn't allowed as by what he hadn't demanded.

'Kissing, talking, touching, talking, groping, talking. Then some more talk before a kiss goodnight. Way too much talking for my taste, but still, a first-rate make-out session. Got a lot even though I didn't get any. It was hot though.' He thinks, smiling at the memory.

'He wants to go slow. I'll go slow,' he thinks, trailing a hand down his bared chest, 'but next time I want to come hard.'

Fingers run through the bloom of soft hairs lining the pleasure trail along his belly, leading the way to wiry pubes and his hot, hard cock peaking out through the top of his shorts like an actor behind a curtain searching for a special someone in the audience.

'Sorry, pal. Malcolm's got other plans. No doubt something involving a lot of talking.' He thinks, rolling his eyes, his cock offering an equally frustrated, yet sympathetic pat against his belly.

'Just you and me tonight—that okay?' He asks, looking down at his slightly withered pal giving his stomach a somewhat conciliatory peck.

'Hey, I'm disappointed too.'

He gets up from the chair, deliberately kicking off his pants on the way to his bedside table. After a brief search he pulls out a brand new bottle of lube.

'I was hoping to break this in with Malcolm, but I guess you're good enough.' He says, looking down at his suddenly interested associate member in the club of fucking Malcolm into the mattress.

'I spoil you rotten. Now, I've thought about…' he begins, until receiving a self-interested tug from his penis.

'Sorry. We've, thought about a lot of things that we—and I'm thinking Malcolm too—might want to do that'll involve a lot more than what Grannie would've called canoodling.' He says to his dick, now fully alert and ready to receive instruction as to the tactics of the mission at hand.

'We've had handjobs, blowjobs, intercourse, of course. But now we're about to embark on a journey where this man has never gone before. May I speak freely?'

In response he receives a nod from his cock.

'What we have ahead is unknown territory, deep space exploration, if you will. Bluntly stated, butt fucking. Just us old friends, so I can be a little crude, right?' A pat against his stomach serves as an affirmative.

He squirts a shot of lube into his hand and holds it away from his body, out of reach even as his cock reaches forward. 'Now that I've got you're your attention, let's both think this through.'

He gives himself a long, slow, tightly held, and well- lubricated stroke. The response is a massive burst of movement against both his hand and any stops along the way.

'Whoa, cowboy. Guess that means you're good to go, but Malcolm's not the only one with things to talk about. Calm down. We've got all night. Are we on the same page here?'

He receives a couple of gentled hugs on his hand.

'I'll take that as a yes. They say that fantasy is where you figure out what you want while watching what you like. What say we take this one to the mattress and find out what all the hubbub is about.' He says, looking down at his crotch.

"Young Charles, wake up the twins. We're goin' in."

He steps over to his bed, removing the shirt that is his last bit of clothing, last vestige of shame, and lies down, making himself as comfortable as possible for a fantasy that is anything but.

'So, here's the scene. Malcolm's finally ready to stop talkin' and start fuckin'' A sharp yank at his hand acts as a reminder of their partner in crime, life, lust, and conversation.

'Jeez, thought you liked it down and dirty. But you're right. This is Malcolm.' He concedes. 'So, what? He comes to me finally able to express his love?' He asks, looking into the one eyed monster now become the last best hope of chivalry for Malcolm's sake, if not his own.

In response, a gentle nod of encouragement.

'Prob'ly real quiet, cuz he'd know we'd already talked everything out. Intense. Lookin' me deep in the eye. Lookin' for something, not sure he'd like what he'd find, but open-eyed, and open-armed all the same. But still holdin' back.' He thinks, realizing that the source of his frustration is as much his own newness to the situation as it is Malcolm's familiarity.

'Jesus, how bad could his life have been that he can't even let himself hope for the best?' He asks, looking down at his dick as it releases a liquid crystal ball balanced on the tip of two halves. To halve, and halve not.

'How many times has Malcolm looked into this?' He demands, reaching down to shake his dick, reaching in to shake himself, reaching out to steady Malcolm.

'I'm not worried about how many lovers he's had. The real question is how many times has he been had, but not loved? How much shit has shit all left him to deal with?' Releasing his dick, his thoughts, himself, he lies back onto his pillow.

'I told him that I couldn't make whatever he'd been through go away, but I sure as sin won't be another chapter in a never -ending story of failure. And the thing is that he doesn't even realize that the failure wasn't his, but theirs. Mama didn't raise me for this, but she raised me better than that.'

He stares down his erection, firm in stature, affirmed in purpose.

'Yeah. We'd be there for him. Minute by minute. Stroke for stroke. Every step along the way.'

He rubs his thumb along his wet—slick slit, down the length of his ready for engagement member, inspects the battlements of his tightened balls.

'Time to go to work.'

'Now, if this is goin' to play out to the best of my own and Malcolm's desires, about now he be rubbin' his hands all along my chest.' He thinks, relaxing into the fantasy.

'Getting' happy with the hair cuz he really digs that about me. Turns him on. He likes the man in me.'

His dick agrees, pulsing against his belly, urging for more.

'He'd lean down, and I'd feel his weight through his hands and onto my shoulders. His chest on mine, his stomach, his dick.' He thinks, tossing his head back and forth between his shoulders, lost in passion's play between his ears.

'He'd catch me then. Stop me. Cuz I'd be runnin' miles ahead, not stoppin' to notice the scenery along the way, even though I know that's the best part. And I know that this is all a bit of role reversal because Malcolm's the one who wants to know how it all works out, and I'm the one who just lets it play out in good time. I'm pushing forward because I'm not sure what will be there at the end, he's slowin' it down because he finally realizes that something will be there—at the end. And we meet each other half way there.' He thinks, taking his dick in his hand, half way there.

'He'd lay his face against mine, ever so slowly, gentle and soft to my touch, and give his mouth, and his lips, and his tongue, and all.'

He strokes himself a little harder, a little faster, a little more.

'Malcolm tastes pure. Untouched because I'm the first one he's ever let touch him like this. It's his gift to me, and it won't go unappreciated. I want this to be good for him. I want it to be the best. I want to it be what he's always hoped for, because that's what it is for me.'

He strokes his dick, lovingly fondles, and imagines.

'Oh, baby. Kiss me just like that.'

He strokes himself, as close to coming as he would be if what he's imagining were really happening.

'Not yet. I'd grab his ass, not grab it, but take it in my hand, let him know that I'm serious, ready. Seriously ready to come and take him with me. Run a finger through the crack of his ass. Find his hole, play with a bit. My turn to be bashful and shy. Fuck, I don't know what I'm doin'.

His dick responds to its' masters' uncertainty with a slight weakening of its' resolve.

'He'd see. He'd know. He'd reach over for the lube—that I'd have within easy reach, being the gentleman that I am—take my hand in his, squirt some on my fingers. I'd close my hand to warm it up and…' He thinks, looking down onto his aware, but uncertain cock.

'Well, here's where Malcolm pretty much has to take over. I ain't got a clue.'

'What's that?' He asks of his dick as it raises an objection. 'Don't give a gift you wouldn't want to receive. Well, there's truth in that. Where do I get off asking him to get off from something I haven't had myself. About now I think that I'm supposed to get him ready.' He says, lubing up, warming up, and inserting into his own ass…

One finger.

Every part of his body tells me that he wants this as he takes my hand in his and leads it to his ass—shows me the way.

'Owww.' He says, applying action to fantasy. 'I'm supposed to tell him and myself that this doesn't hurt. This hurts. And I'm doing it to my own self. I expected some discomfort, but this…Is feeling like you need to take a dump supposed to translate to feel good? Maybe if I stroke myself a little. That feels good. Now maybe move my finger a bit. Jeez, that feels better. Fuck, that feels fuckin' fine.'

Alliterative statement gives way to sibilant proposition.

'Sssupose I add…'

Two fingers.

He really lets me see him then. Lets me watch as he shows himself, totally lost in passion, needing more, grinding himself onto my hand.

'I'm startin' to get the picture. Just dig a little deeper and it'll all be clear. Ah, yeah.' He sighs, between moans, between thrusts, between silent pleas for more, please. His response comes from the need to come. Not experience, but instinct telling him to raise his legs, lay his knees on either side of his chest, open his body to…

Three fingers.

"Fuck." He says, rising against, while at the same time welcoming the intrusion into this so personal space.

'What is that? Prostate. Thank God for porn. It's served me well for informational purposes if nothing else. If I'm not careful I'll come.' He rises up again—ready to empty himself and me—and reach for the lube. We could use a little more ourselves, eh, buddy?'

Trip applies another dose—doses himself with another hit of fantasy.

'He'd warm it in his hand—Malcolm is nothing if not courteous, then rub it on. He wants to feel my dick slide easy inside of him. Fuckin' shouldn't hurt. Now, I know that too.' He thinks, pulling his fingers out, missing them as he continues on his way.

'Those strong thighs on either side of mine, gettin' themselves as ready as his ass. He'd take my dick in his hand,'

Just like Trip's doing now.

'And he'd…position himself for interface. Ask me to re-confirm the co-ordinates, something like that, because that's Malcolm. Prob'ly ask me if I'm good with this, if I'm okay, maybe even if I know what this means. Like I haven't thought about this a million times and considered every possible consequence. Like, at this moment, my world includes anything more than him sinking his ass onto my dick. And there's nothing I can say that won't have to be talked about later, so I just say what I feel. And I'd say 'Baby, just fuck me good.'

As he strokes his dick harder, getting closer to that end.

'He'd place my dick at his hole and sink down onto it. Just a little at first. I've let him go slow, and I won't stop now. Never quite known the true meaning of cock tease as I do right now. How could anything be so firm, and warm, and soft, and snatch itself away, until…

He shares the realization with his dick, pressing fingers hard around its' tip.

"And then he'd take me in, accept everything, and ride me to the end. All passion and desire. Down and back. Taking all that I have to give, giving all he has to offer, and feeling great about everything.

He strokes his dick, hard and fast, reaches around to finger his own hole to again share what Malcolm is experiencing.

They come, more or less together, but definitely together, at last.

When he's able to catch his breath, find his thoughts, breathe through lungs and thoughts, fulfilled desire, and find something worthwhile to say, he looks down at his dick and thinks,

'Nice. We could live with that.'

"Reed to Tucker. Come in please." Says a disembodied voice to a body that's just given its' all and barely manages to find its' way to the bathroom for a towel to wipe away the results.

"Malcolm?" He asks, slurring, slightly hung over from the drunk of pure pleasure he's just had, as well as the pleasure he's receiving from the sound of Malcolm's voice.

"I want…you want…" Malcolm says, slurring slightly himself, anticipating the hangover from a night of drinking, but finally ready to stop anticipating the worst, start hoping for the best, and do something in either case.

"What are you doing tomorrow night?" Malcolm asks.

"You?"

As the good ship Enterprise makes its' self-contained voyage through the vacuum of space, there are no breezes. Yet for two of its' crew a change in the wind is felt, caused by the turning of a page.