I stare up at the towering rock face before us. The bland gray surface is shot through with sparkling veins of quartz, or something like it, and small purple tributaries, which might be some sort of plant-life or an unknown geological formation. Travis has offered to take samples for the geologists, more specifically: the enchanting Crewman Jones, who’s going to meet us at the top along with the rest of the senior staff and Liz Cutler. Travis swears his volunteering has to do with his utter love of rock climbing and not the fact that Crewman Jones happens to be a curvaceous fiery red-head. For some reason I don’t believe him.

We’re currently enjoying shore leave on Gelantna, a beautiful planet with a small population and plenty of natural wonders and wide open spaces for the crew to explore. We have scientists scattered to each of the twelve continents doing ‘casual’ surveys. The rest of the crew is spending time in one of the three major cities, where Chef is ‘sacrificing’ his time to earn our leave by appearing as a guest star on the planetary equivalent of the cooking channel.

As for the senior staff and a few of our chosen companions, we’re trying to relax as far away from the political circus as possible. Since the events in the Expanse nearly a year ago, Starfleet has decided that the diplomatic road is the high road and has had us in meet-and-greet wine-and-dine overdrive. And I thought I’d never see the day when I was sick of Andorian Ale!

Though I’m beginning to wonder if Andorian Ale and dress uniforms might not be preferable to this. From down here that rock face looks more than a kilometre high; I’m getting a crick in my neck just trying to spot the top. Then again, I’d probably be willing to climb it in my dress uniform drunk with Andorian Ale, if it meant I could spend time with him.

I turn to my companion, taking in the toned biceps extending from the tight sleeveless grey top, the already sweat-dewed dark hair and the smiling green eyes just touched with tender sorrow. “Why do I let you convince me into these things, Major?” I sigh.

“You mean other than my boyish good-looks and all-American charm?” He replies with a wink and a slight smile. More like the opportunity to stare up at his sculpted bum and watch beads of sweat drip down his strong chin, but I’m not going to argue. I just stare into those boundless green eyes like a lovesick teenager, wondering if he knows how right he is. The funny thing is: he doesn’t look away, even as I’m making a complete fool of myself with my utter inability to come up with a witty rejoinder. I have no idea how long we just stare at each other, a grin creeping millimetre by millimetre onto my face.

Then an overzealous hand comes slapping down on my back, and Travis is right up in our personal space, exuding exuberance like a giant grinning puppy-dog. I wonder how us two combat trained paranoiacs failed to notice the approach of Mr. Unsubtle himself. “I’m psyched. Are you guys psyched?” Bugger, he’s been watching old movies with Trip again.

“I’m psyched,” I reply with an eye roll. My American companions share a brief look before they break out into uncontrollable laughter. Apparently ‘psyched’ doesn’t go well with my accent.

When he’s finally got himself under control, Travis puts down the crate he’s just retrieved from the transport and pulls out our climbing gear. “I’m glad, Malcolm. I seriously thought that caving experience had put you off climbing for life. Did you know that when I asked Trip if he wanted to climb with us he told me ‘I’d rather waltz with a Klingon warrior with the Verillian flu?’” I wonder how Travis can even bring himself to believe anyone could hold a grudge against the sport when every time he does it he seems to break something, only to come back more gung ho than before. And people call me a masochist.

“You didn’t tell me what happened the last time you went climbing, Lieutenant.” Matt says expectantly. Oh bloody hell, when did I start referring to him as ‘Matt’ in my inner monologue? I’ve never actually called him by his first name out loud. I stick to calling him ‘Major’ even though it’s officially ‘Crewman’ now.

I still stay up late at night pondering my luck. When Matt –no, Major Hayes- and the rest of the MACOs were ordered to ship out in order to ‘maintain the spirit of exploration,’ I never expected I’d see him again. Maybe he was actually convinced when I told him that I valued his expertise and that I wished Starfleet would at least let him stay on as a security consultant. Then again, stranger things have happened, like . . . er . . . the captain and T’Pol going back in time and actually blending in (so they claim).

But even when I thought we might be seeing the last of each other, I couldn’t bring myself to tell Matt how much he’d grown to mean to me. The tactician in me told me it would be a waste of resources to admit that our relationship might truly progress to the next level, or hope that we might make something work long-distance. I decided it was definitely better that we part on good terms, professionally and with the beginnings of a friendship, than have him disgusted with me for ever feeling that way about him. I don’t really think Matt’s the type to shun homosexuality, especially when I’ve caught his gaze lazily drifting to my bum on more than one occasion, but the American military that trained him has had a rich history of anti-homosexual sentiment - to put it mildly.

I had resigned myself to the fact that I would probably never know if my attraction -oh, sod it all, my feelings- were reciprocated, when he stepped into my newly refitted armoury, the blue of the Starfleet coverall bringing out the deepening the beautiful green of his eyes. He saluted me with a humble smile, but still one that dared me to deny that this was an occasion to rejoice,

At the beginning of our mission I would have taken great satisfaction in the fact that the proud Major would one day serve directly under my command, as a crewman with absolutely no chance of usurping my role on this ship. I’m not saying that I don’t love the fact that I can order him around, because I do (especially when it’s ordering him to do things that involve inordinate amounts of bending over), but I no longer see it as payback, as something I need to rub in his face with a gloating sneer.

I still call him ‘Major,’ even though he’s technically been discharged, and treat him with the respect deserving of his rank. In fact, I treat him with far more respect now than I did when he had it. He’s made a great sacrifice to stay with us. He definitely had a great career ahead of him if he had stayed in the armed forces, but he played it off as nothing, saying, ‘Even if Starfleet won’t admit that you all could benefit from the expertise of a purely military contingent, I would hate to see you putting your necks on the line for this so-called ‘spirit of exploration’ without me watching your sixes.’

Sometimes I imagine that he meant those words for me alone, that he came to my quarters to tell me and caught me coming out of the shower and told me that he couldn’t stand sending me out into space with anyone but him watching my six. In my fantasies he follows his salute with a probing kiss and proceeds to take orders from me all night long. Then I wake up with my sticky sheets and an empty bed, ready to face a new day of vehement denial. I can’t admit that somewhere along the way I’ve fallen for the guy who’s kidney I bruised in what I can easily refer too as the low point of my career - if far from the low point of my personal life. (After all, I haven’t gotten that physical with the major since).

Since then, we’ve actually been able to call each other friends. We regularly take meals together in the mess and sometimes he’ll indulge in a game of racketball against the captain and Trip. I’ve even gotten him to attend a couple of movie nights with me, despite his initial disdain for them. For some reason, I’m still afraid to be caught alone with him while we’re off duty. I don’t know if I trust myself to be alone with him without doing something stupid - like snogging him senseless, for example. So I include him in group activities - even begging either Trip or Travis to come work out with us under the guise that I don’t want us to have a repeat performance of out previous brawl.

One of these days they’re going to start getting suspicious, if they haven’t already. Trip keeps giving me these knowingly smug looks whenever we talk about Matt, but I could just be paranoid. Trip does have quite a lot of smug looks - sometimes it’s hard to keep track. But the way he insists on saying ‘Matt’ as though daring me indulge just once makes me want to arrange a little ‘accident’ next time he’s purging the waste filtration system.

Despite the fact that we’re spending more and more time together, I can’t seem to get beyond ‘Major.’ He’s told me to call him ‘Matt’ on more than one occasion, usually accompanied by that smile that’s somewhere between sly and shy. Trip says Matt sometimes reminds him of me, but there’s a subtle difference to be found in the smile. Matt’s smiles are few and far between, but never tentative or derogatory, the way mine sometimes are. Whenever Matt graces you with a smile, it’s like a bomb: you better bow down and accept its power or risk getting obliterated.

He’s smiling at me now, a wide sunny grin. I fight off the urge to grin right back, because I’m pretty sure he’s laughing at Travis’ tale of my spelunking misadventures and, unlike certain chief engineers who insist on relating the story to everyone from drunken slave traders to alien princesses, I have a sense of dignity.

“So the last time you went climbing you ended up dangling off a cliff, and you still want to do it again?!” Matt asks incredulously. Still, I’m not about to admit that I agree with Trip - even if feverish Klingons are starting to look more and more attractive the closer Travis gets to actually clipping me onto that rope.

“That was underground,” I answer pathetically.

“Whatever you say, Lieutenant,” he response with one of his slight smiles, clipping his military issue climbing harness onto the rope without a second thought. Apparently rock climbing was the major’s favourite past time at West Point. And I still have nightmares about the rock wall at the academy! Though, in all fairness. that probably has more to do with the rumour about naked hazing on the climbing wall than fear of actually climbing.

Matt is already a few stories up, placing the first anchor in a sturdy looking purple fissure, before I realize I need to stop staring at the agile and graceful flexing of the muscles beneath his dusk grey trousers and pay attention. Travis gives my harness the once-over. Though climbing might not exactly be my forte, I can tie almost any type of knot in my sleep (being raised a sailor and an Eagle Scout does have its benefits) so I’m not particularly worried. No, no matter what happens, the part of the safety system attached to me will hold. It’s the part attached to the rock I’m worried about; I don’t care what Crewman Jones says about the stability of the rock formations, even if she is gorgeous. Knowing my luck, I’ll manage to find the only unstable point on this whole bloody cliff.

“Belay on,” Travis reminds me with a nudge. Oh right, I’m supposed to be climbing. I dip my hands into the chalk pouch and grip the cool grey of the rock face. It seems stable enough and I definitely trust Matt to do his best anchoring the line and Travis to belay me. Security of the situation well-assessed, I have nothing left to do but climb.

The higher up we get, the more daunting the drop seems, and the more I find myself wishing I had taken Trip up on his offer to ride with the gear to the top, as far away from any shear cliff faces as possible. He’s got T’Pol with him instead. I still have no idea how he convinced her to ride one of those –what were they called?- umlaouses, the chameleonesque local equivalent of horses. I wouldn’t touch one of those things, and I learned to ride in the proper English style - not ad hoc while trying to play Billy the Kid - on a Western saddle no less!

And he doesn’t seem even the slightest bit disturbed by the fact that his ‘horse’ can blend into the scenery so well that it might actually look as though he’s riding nothing. Never trust anything or anyone whose main defense is deception, that’s one of the rules I like to say I live by (I was going with “Trust no one” for a while, but it seemed a tad extreme). Trip claims he and T’Pol rather enjoyed their attempt to ride a horse on the North Star colony, though I remember him complaining that his bum was sore for a week afterwards. But she’ll barely even pet the captain’s dog! Oh well, I don’t think I’ll ever understand Trip and T’Pol’s friendship. I’ll just file it up there with the other universal quandaries, like why Americans can’t spell colour properly, my family, and women.

I could have even walked with the captain, Hoshi, Phlox, and the scientists, but no, I had to climb. I had to be hopelessly infatuated with Hayes, the wanker! Of course, technically you’re the one doing all the wanking, a voice in my head reminds me, but I pointedly choose to ignore it.

We’ve been climbing for more than an hour, but I still haven’t stopped to look around at what Matt and Travis keep exclaiming is beautiful scenery. All my attention is focused on the rocks . . . and . . . well . . . on the major attached to those rocks. I’m sweating like a dog and the sun hasn’t even reached its apex yet. I’m glad we decided to get a relatively early start. My muscles are ready to give from exertion and pent up tensions – I don’t care what Travis says, this is not relaxing. In fact, I don’t see how someone who has trouble sleeping without steel deck plating under his feet and the hum of the warp engines in the background, can feel safe plastered to a bloody rock face.

Just when I think I’m at the end of my rope -so to speak- Matt reaches down and grips my hand in his, pulling me up onto a nice rock ledge, composed almost entirely of those purple stones. I love the rough texture of his hands, covered in chalk and dust: they’re worn and strong, but gentle too.

“Time for a break, Lieutenant?” Matt asks, reaching over to pull a rock fragment out of my hair as we lean back against the cliff-side. His words aren’t accusing, in fact they almost sound as though he’s asking my permission.

Normally I wouldn’t admit this, but I smile and say, “I think I could use one.”

“Me too. I’m hungry.” Travis plops down loudly on Matt’s other side. The ledge is just wide enough for the three of us to sit side by side with our packs beside us and our feet stretched out in front.

After Travis has practically inhaled three protein bars and a ham sandwich, and I’ve finally had a chance to get a good look at the view and catch my breath, Matt stands and stretches luxuriously, careful not to tangle our ropes. “I didn’t realize how much I’d miss just being out in the great outdoors until I signed on to work in space.”

“It’s a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live here.” Travis says, in between bites of a chocolate chip cookie. How in hell does he eat so much?

“I certainly wouldn’t mind it,” Matt replies. “I come from fresh air and wild open spaces. If I could fulfil the same mission in life that staying on Enterprise allows and live here at the same time, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

“There’s no wide open spaces like space itself.”

“Yes, but it’s more than a little lacking in the fresh air department, right, Malcolm?”

“I definitely like it, but after a lifetime in space I think I’d like to get back to something a bit more like home.”

“You mean something with more fog and rain?”

“No. Something that’s a bit more Earth.”

“So you guys don’t believe that home is where the heart is?” Travis asks punctuating his sentence by finishing off his cookie.

Matt and I roll our eyes simultaneously: how clichéd. “Home is where your heart is, but Earth is still Earth.” Matt says simply. It may not be a logical proof, but I definitely agree.

“I’ll have to take your word for it, guys. I think I’m going to take those samples Marta wanted now.” He pulls out his scanner. “There looks like there’s a good deposit around that protrusion. I’ll be back in twenty. Unless you guys are up for joining me?”

“Not that we wouldn’t love to . . . but no.” Matt says with a voice that says that Travis better not dare comment on our age and/or stamina. Besides, we all know that Matt and I will not take part in Travis’ seduction of Crewman Jones. He can sweat blood for her if he so desires – on his own time.

Travis just shrugs and hefts his backpack on before heading off.

The second he’s out of sight, Matt turns to me with a very strange look on his face. I would swear it was almost timid, if there wasn’t that slightly predatory gleam in his eyes. “All alone,” muses, turning to gaze out into the horizon and pulling out a bandana to wipe his face. So he knows that I’ve been hiding from him. But then again, how could he fail to miss it? I feel so ashamed - trapped.

I don’t know if he’s noticed how I’ve tensed –almost cringed- out of the corner of his eye, but he speaks as though trying to calm a spooked animal, almost a whisper, “Are you scared?” It isn’t a joke or an accusation; it’s almost a confession or, a plea - though for what I couldn’t say.

The truth is: I’m terrified. Not of him - I’ve never been scared of him, even if I did decide that I needed to keep an eye out in case he tried to circumvent my authority. No, I’m scared of myself – what I would do if left alone. And now we’re all alone in the great outdoors, a slight wind brushing our hair, the sun on our faces, a romantic vista before us. But even in all this open space, I almost feel confined, trapped by his steady presence beside me. I’ve been avoiding this for months now, and he’s finally got me completely cornered and in a place that’s already pushing my will to its very limits.

I don’t know what to say, but I don’t think he really expects me to answer. We sit like this for another moment, Matt watching the clouds for in the distance as though he could find all the answers there, and me tracking every wrinkle and scar of his profile, trying to gauge the man behind the stoic mask he wears. I want to reach out and touch him: feel the slick balm of his sweat, the coarse texture of his hair. I feel as though I’m on the brink of understanding – if I can just stare long enough, I’ll finally be able to understand him.

“Malcolm,” he uses my first name, and even tentative and quickly dissipating to the breeze, it sounds better than it could possibly sound on any other tongue. He sighs, giving me a pat on the leg, but leaving his hand there when he’s done. It’s as though all time is suspended, waiting for him to speak. Even the breeze seems to hold its breath, building on the surreal quality of life up here in the clouds.

The pressure of his hand on my leg is steady, but not urgent. Like Matt, it simultaneously demands everything and nothing. The simple intimacy of it has me reeling; even when I held a silent vigil by his bedside I never allowed myself these innocent kinds of touches. I wanted them given and accepted freely and honestly or not at all.

I guess that was when all this started, when I thought Matt’s last words to me were going to be something about letting Corporal McKenzie lead the team. It was then that I realized that I didn’t want the only thing he could say to me on his deathbed to be about duty. I wanted, desperately wanted, his last words to be of love, or friendship, or at least something clever or personal. I didn’t want him to leave this world discussing personnel like a bloody staff-meeting! I wanted to be able to remember him, not just as the officer who detached my retina and fought against me in a mutiny and by my side against the Xindi, but as the man about whom I knew nothing other than what was outlined in his file. And I wanted more – just to know him.

No, I must correct myself: I knew some important things about Matt, even then. I knew that he was compassionate and honourable and dedicated. I knew of his desire for order and discipline and I saw through to the wounded spirit so like my own. Matt’s a wonderful soldier, but the price has always been a bit of his spirit, the part that wants to question authority – the part that would’ve stopped to consider the captain’s odd behaviour regarding the insectoid hatchlings. Even back in the days when he was just ‘Major Hayes’ to me, filed under ‘suspicious character, possible adversary,’ I recognized a bit of a kindred spirit in him - a man torn between the harsh necessities of duty and the inner desire to make lasting connections with people and be more than just a rank and a trigger finger.

The difference between Matt and I is that he submitted to his so-called ‘destiny’ when I did not. He came from a long line of military officers. His great grandfather was even in charge of the entire Asiatic theatre during the Eugenics wars. The strange thing is that I’m not sure if he’s not a better man because of it. Matt’s learned a lot about honour and doing your best no matter what life throws at you from his decision to carry out the family tradition. I would have thought that would end up resenting him for it, as much as I disdain my own doomed-future playing by my father’s rules, but I never have.

But in the end, he did rebel. He put what he believed to be the right thing before his career ambitions and what the military told him. Sometimes I’d like to think he put me before all those things, but I know that he cares about the rest of the crew and the success of the mission just as much. Oddly, I’m not jealous. That deep and unbiased caring is one of the things that I’ve grown to love about him.

Back then it was only an inkling, a deep desire to know more about this man who had already stirred such irrational passion in me. I generally chose to live on the plane of the mediocre, nestled comfortably in the lovely grey space between love and hate. But Matt transformed my world into colours and contrasts. Somehow, from the moment I met him, he made me feel. At first it was all jealousy and revulsion. Every smug smile, every swift movement, made my insides turn. At the time I thought it was out of disgust, but now I realize that it must have been the first nervous flutters of a crush. I had gone without love for so long that I couldn’t interpret those first inklings as positive.

And I was afraid too. In fact, I still am. What would the captain say if he knew his chief of security doesn’t even have the courage to be alone with the man he fancies? It’s so pathetic it’s almost absurd! I was so threatened by Matt’s ability to disrupt my well-won calm that I lashed out at him. I wanted to push him as far away as my hate would allow, because I knew even then that his power to usurp my command was a mere shadow of his power to usurp my heart. And that was the last thing I wanted to lose control of.

Now, I’m barely hanging on to that control. Somehow this has gone beyond attraction and volatile passion. I hesitate to call it love, because love is supposed to be a two way street, right? I don’t know if this careless trust and tranquil but ever-compelling need goes both ways or not. But I know that it could be love, and that’s enough to send the battalions of my much-abused heart into full tactical alert.

After looking out into the distance for what seems like an eternity, the taunt muscles of his jaw clench and his eyes seem to darken. He’s come to some sort of decision, though about what I couldn’t tell you. The hand that has been gripping my leg loosens, and I look down, missing the pressure that had almost become a part of me. When I look back up, he’s staring at me.

There’s an uncertain vulnerability in his eyes, but his jaw is set. I know that Matt knows how to hide his doubts, that’s part of being a good military leader. He’s deliberately showing me his weakness, and it’s utterly touching.

“Malcolm . . .” My name fades into his sigh, as though every sound he could ever make would call be saying it. “Feel free to tell me if I’m wrong, but I’ve been watching for a long time, and I don’t think I am.” Great, he’s been watching me, probably wondering when I’m going to snap and kill our friendship. “You’ve been avoiding me. I know we spend most of our free time together, but you have been. I know this has something to do with the sexual tension between us.” Well, Matt has never been one to waste his time on eloquence if the situation is important. Only the soft unspoken questions in his eyes keep me from thinking that he’s saying this the same way he gives a tactical briefing. “I’d like to think that you’re avoiding me because you’re afraid I won’t reciprocate your feelings, rather than because you don’t want me to act on mine, but . . .”

He has feelings for me? Matt, the guy who was trying to beat me to a pulp only a year ago, has feelings for me?

You are such a bloody fool! You have feelings for him and a year ago you were thinking how he would make a nice hood ornament for Enterprise. If that’s possible, certainly he could go through the same thing! Sometimes I hate my inner voice.

“I . . .” Somehow a reckless streak rises in me: instead of continuing our conversation, as I probably should, I lean forward to kiss him. Our noses bump together, and I only really get half my mouth on the target, but it doesn’t matter, because before I know it, his arms are around me, fighting off the mass of ropes that have us anchored to this cliff. He tastes salty and sweet at the same time, his grip tight, as though he’s trying to restrain a prisoner. He doesn’t need to keep me in his arms by force, however. I would willingly stay for . . . I suppose I shouldn’t be thinking about commitment at a time like this.

I can feel him hardening against me, his feral moans putting me in a similar state. The rough canvass of my trousers is too confining, painful. I need release – to feel those rough hands on my desperate flesh. I can’t get to the zipper through all these bloody ropes though! Lord, this is torture. Luckily I find that my knot-tying skills work both ways: I’ve got my harness unbuckled within seconds. I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but God bless the Sea Cadets (the Boy Scouts don’t stress the untying bit nearly as much).

The second I remove my hands, Matt’s have replaced them. He strokes me with quick, almost-frantic grasps, rolling me over with a deep guttural growl and deepening the kiss, almost breaking the skin on my lower lip. My hands find their way down his rippling back to give his toned arse a good squeeze before tracing the contours of his climbing harness. He pushes his hips back from their frantic grinding so I can get at the buckles on the front.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he heaves, pushing himself up so he can look deep into my eyes. For a second there’s just the sound of our panting breaths as we stare at each other, both anticipating the moment before us and wondering if it could possibly be real. Then I hear it: a crumbling crack.

Dust and stones are cascading around me, getting into my eyes and blurring my vision. In a split second I’ve lost track of which way’s up. Isn’t it right about now that I’m supposed to be seeing my life flash before my eyes? Then again, I’ve been in so many near-death situations, that this particular show has outworn its welcome. Despite the fact that there’s nothing on this earth supporting me, I feel oddly secure. Somehow I know, beyond all rationality that I’m safe as long as Matt is here.

Then my world is narrowed to the strong arms clinging to my waist and the dust covered but soft hair pressing up against my chin. The grip is so tight it’s almost choking. Then suddenly gravity seems to snap back on and my sudden fall is arrested with the crack of a rope snapping tight and a sharp pain on my right arm and leg. I cough and splutter, looking up to seen the distant ground, as surreal as one of those neo-modernist paintings my parents taught me to detest. Beside me there is a sharp and oddly familiar rock face, crumbling and stained with the blood. I must have knocked into it.

Matt and I are dangling upside-down, suspended by his harness alone. I’ve got glimmering purple rock fragments all over my nice silver hot-weather gear, a bloodied rip right through the right sleeve and a rather nasty gash on my shin, but otherwise I seem fine, if a bit light-headed. My heartbeat is still flying - whether due to the adrenaline of nearly dying or Matt’s proximity, I do not know.

“Are you alright, Malcolm?” He asks breathlessly. Despite our present predicament, I find my heart fluttering; he called me ‘Malcolm.’

“I’m fine.” Strangely, I mean it.

If Matt were a cheesy ham like quite a few of my friends (or maybe just Captain and Commander Sappy), he would make some hackneyed comment about really ‘falling’ for him. But he’s a man of few words, and his subtle silences speak volumes. His eyes study mine, concerned but smiling slightly. Then he leans forward to kiss me. It’s sweet and fervent at the same time, telling me exactly how relieved he is that nothing happened to me. In fact, that bulge against my thigh is telling me exactly how relieved he is. He’s obviously the type to be invigorated by dangerous situations. I share his feelings . . . all of them.

Of course, as romantic as this is, the forces of gravity seem to be working against us. Despite all the extra blood flowing to my head, I can’t seem to think clearly - apparently my body’s attempts to pump that blood back up to my groin are interfering with my mental processes. I’m starting to see stars. And for a second I think the world is spinning, before I realize we actually are slowly twirling around in the light wind that seems to have picked up out of nowhere, blowing more dust into a shimmering cloud around us.

Perhaps this dizziness has something to do with the blood flowing from a gash in my right arm. But it doesn’t hurt. I’m too enraptured by Matt’s tight embrace to feel something as insignificant as pain. I want him to hold me like this forever. Even hundreds of meters and a couple of seconds away from the big splat, I feel completely and utterly safe in his arms. All of the threat assessing paranoid parts of me that haven’t shut down (even in sleep) for as long as I can remember have decided that their energy would be better spent trying to feel ever inch of his hard body and memorize how it presses into me. “Don’t let go,” I breathe.

Matt scoffs at this, “Of course I’m not going to let go, you crazy Brit!” Oh yeah, if he let’s go I’ll go tumbling to my death. That is surly a good motive to maintain a healthy relationship.

He looks as though he’s about to lean in for another kiss when we hear a scuffling above us. “Holy shit, guys!” Travis exclaims breathlessly, “What happened?”

“This ledge wasn’t as stable as Crewman Jones lead us to believe,” Matt says, barely hiding his frustration. “Would you mind helping us up?”

“Oh, right. Hold on just a second. Wait . . . why don’t you just right yourselves and climb up?”

“Because Malcolm’s not connected to the rope, Travis. And I don’t think he’d appreciate it if I let go of him to climb back up.” Matt explains patiently. Of course he’s yelling right in my ear, but I’ll forgive him that for now. I’m still a little too overwhelmed, not to mention dizzy, to respond for myself.

“How the hell did he manage to do that?” Travis asks, with more scuffling. Before I know it I’m staring into wide brown eyes. How can that boy smile at a time like this? Then again, I think I’m smiling too. But Travis doesn’t have Matt’s arms around him. He has absolutely no excuse. “Grab onto me, Malcolm.”

I release my arms from where I’ve been holding onto Matt and reach for Travis. Once Matt’s been able to right himself I get my harness rebuckled and strap myself back onto the rope. Then it’s just a matter of minutes before we’ve made it to the next ledge up. We all sit panting, sipping water and letting the adrenaline run down, when Travis says, “Well, Malcolm, maybe climbing really isn’t your thing.”

“Maybe it’s just climbing with you, Travis,” I grumble with a wince.

“How you managed to get your climbing harness undone is beyond me. It’s supposed to be impossible.” At that, Matt nudges me and looks down. I try to rezip my trousers as subtly as possible, while Travis is busy pondering questions of physics, “Maybe I should ask the commander to take a look at these harnesses.”



Hopefully I can pass off the blush that must be on my face as sunburn, but, judging by Matt’s reddish hue, I doubt it. Luckily, Travis remains oblivious as he gives his own harness a couple of speculative tugs.

Matt is quick to grab the medkit out of his pack, “You’ve got yourself a couple of nasty cuts, Malcolm.” He pulls out some antiseptic and some bandages and makes fast work of the wounds. He doesn’t bother with pain medication: he knows the game it plays with the wits, and how much people like us hate that. Matt is gentle but efficient. I barely have time to feel pain as he ties a bandage tight around my arm – though that might also have to do with the fact that I’m easily distracted by the skin rippling on the back of his strong hands. Before I know it the first aid supplies are packed away and he’s smiling that slight quirky smile of his: happiness tinged with regret.

Travis has been prattling on about something this entire time, but I’m not really listening. Matt apparently is because he nods in affirmative and stands, reaching down to give me a hand. The cuts and bruises hurt a little, but it’s nothing that should affect my performance. He doesn’t bother to ask me if I’m up for it; he just gives my shoulder a small squeeze, not unlike the squeezes he used to give members of his team who seemed apprehensive about a mission. Somehow I can differentiate his meaning, however: he just wants to touch me, to show me that he’s there to lean on if I need it, to remind me that things have changed between us.

I’m glad he has confidence in me, but I can’t help but notice that he’s letting Travis go first this time so he can be the one watching my six. I’d like to think it’s a purely sexual thing, but I know that no one’s ever going to take those deeply rooted protector instincts out of either of us, even if it will never be a one-way deal with us. I don’t resent it. In fact, it feels good to have someone looking after me, waiting to catch me if a fall, without having to feel like a burden.

It’s another gruelling hour before we make it to the top. I get the feeling that Matt is taking a few extra breaks on my account, but he went through an ordeal too, so I can’t quite be sure. The sun is fully up and the sweat is now pouring off me, sending tiny purple rivulets into my eyes. Still, it feels good to be exerting myself. The repetitive motion allows me the time to really think about what transpired on that rock face. Matt and I are going to sleep together – there’s not longer any doubt about that. When and how is another story, however.

This obviously goes beyond the straight-up military stress-relief solution, though I’m sure it will relieve quite a lot of stress. Still, the frantic and almost efficient nature of our first attempt speaks rather a lot to both of our experiences in that department. I don’t know if this is a ‘dating’ type of thing. I’ve never been one for the handholding and flower-giving romance - not that I wouldn’t have a go at it if that’s what he wants. I doubt it is, however. I can’t help but wonder: we’ve been cold military officers for so long -isolated by rank and propriety- is it too much to hope that we’ll be ever be able to get beyond the friends-that-care-deeply-about-each-other-and-just-happen-to-fuck stage?

Then I look into Matt’s eyes as he pulls me up over the lip and onto solid ground. I can see clearly that he’s just as uncertain. Still, if I’m going to be able to truly be in love with someone -all cares and reservations thrown to the wind- it’s going to be this man standing before me ineffectively trying to brush purple streaks out of his fine black hair.

“That lake’s starting to sound real good right about now, eh Matt?” Travis asks with a grin, starting to walk down a path he’s spied in the network of green and yellow trees growing along the cliff face.

As we make our way through the foliage toward the lake I can hear a distinct baritone moaning. Matt and I look at each other, recognizing the sound we were making together before gravity decided to intervene.

“Maybe we should . . .” Matt begins uncertainly, only to have Travis cut him off.

“I don’t hear a thing,” he says with a rather pathetic attempt to appear innocent. I’m reminded of the look my nephews get on their faces every time I catch them trying to look for the secret stash of human skulls Maddy told them was hidden in my apartment in hopes that they would be scared into behaving.

“Did I ever tell you how much I love you?” a distinctly southern voice says in-between moans.

But that doesn’t stop Travis from charging around the corner in a few exaggerated leaps, a devilish grin on his lips. Matt just gives me a playfully long-suffering shrug and follows. I guess I have no choice, despite the fact that I really really don’t need to see my captain and best friend doing the horizontal polka. I wonder how Archer got to the top so fast and how he and Trip ever worked up the guts to do something anywhere near T’Pol’s sensitive Vulcan ears. I certainly don’t have that kind of courage.

Then I round the bend to find the answer: Archer’s not here yet. Trip’s lying sprawled shirtless on a picnic blanket and T’Pol is kneeling between his legs with her hands on his arse. I would think this was a pretty compromising position, if I didn’t know that Trip was so devoted to Archer.

Obviously they both know how compromising it looks, however, because T’Pol removes her hands as quickly as though Trip had just sprouted poisonous spikes from his rear, and he gets out a hasty, “This isn’t what it looks like!”

“So, T’Pol’s not giving you a bum massage?” I reply coyly.

Trip starts to mumble something about Vulcan neuropressure, but T’Pol interrupts him with a clear, “Indeed.”

“I pulled a muscle,” Trip amends, with an exaggerated wince.

T’Pol is a too quick to correct him to convince us that she is doing anything other than teasing, “You pulled a muscle falling off your tall umlaouse.”

“You mean his high horse?” Matt asks with a wink. God, I love his dry wit. In fact, I love most everything about him . . . wait, where did that come from? I’ll deal with it later when I’m not too busy laughing at Trip.

“Hey, if it was a horse it wouldn’t have come screeching to a halt when I gave it a nudge with my heels!”

“Perhaps if you had been paying attention when our guide was explaining how to ride an umlaouse instead of ‘making eyes at’ his assistant . . .”

“Hey, I was not interested in her.” T’Pol just raises an eyebrow as she moves to sit cross-legged in front of him. “And even if I was ‘making eyes,’ who could blame me? How often do you meet a girl with three breasts and no nose?”

“Everyday, if you’re a Galantnian.”

“T’Pol, that’s not funny.”

“I did not intend for my comment to be humorous. It was merely an observation.”

“Jesus, they’re like an old married couple,” Matt whispers to me out of the corner of his mouth.

“On a good day,” I reply with a smirk.

Matt chuckles then raises his voice to interrupt them mid-banter, “So, Trip, what exactly happened to your noble steed?”

“Um . . . well that’s sort of a tricky question, Matt.”

Even T’Pol looks a tad bit embarrassed at that one. “We are unable to locate it at this time, Major.”

“It kind of darted off into the bushes after it threw me,” He admits sheepishly. I’m not really all that surprised. When it rains it pours if Trip is involved.

“There goes our deposit,” Travis chuckles. “But you won’t be able to guess what happened to us!”

“Did Lieutenant Reed fall off a cliff?” T’Pol asks stoically.

“Okay, so maybe you can guess. But the funny thing is . . .”

Matt interrupts him smoothly, “I think I’m going to start setting up camp.”

“I’ll help you,” I volunteer, and we can’t get out of there fast enough.

“I didn’t think any of those rumours about Tucker and T’Pol were true,” Matt says pensively. Like me, he likes to know as much of the situation as possible; it helps in threat assessment.

“Oh, they’re not,” I assure him, picking up a tent pole and laughing. Trip and T’Pol? They’d strangle each other within a week. If they ever got together I’d have to file it under ‘major risk to health of key personnel.’ “They’re just good friends. Besides, why have the first officer when you can have the captain?”

His jaw drops open in dismay, “You mean Archer and Tucker?”

“For over nine years.”

He whistles in dismay. “I never would’ve guessed.”

“They work hard to keep it that way.” There’s no way I’m telling him that the only reason I found out was because I propositioned Trip not long after our misadventure on the homicidal space station. He told me that he was flattered and definitely would have considered it if he hadn’t been with the captain for years. And that if I ever told anyone he’d feel a little betrayed, but definitely could not be held accountable for the captain’s actions. It took me an entire night of silent contemplation to just wrap my mind around the idea of them together.

And I’ve been stuck with the new cuddlier versions ever since. Trip insists it’s just a baby step, practicing showing affection in front of me before he finally convinces the captain to tell the rest of the crew. Yeah right, they have absolutely no problems showing affection as long as the cat’s already out of the bag. Trip’s just doing it because he knows it makes me uncomfortable, and the captain can’t really say anything to stop it when he’s got a tongue rammed down his throat. Or perhaps I’m giving our fearless leader too much credit. The fact of the matter is: they can’t keep their hands off each other. Not that I blame them; they have to release the pressure of keeping it under wraps somehow.

“The only reason I’m even telling you is that Trip hasn’t been too happy with the secrecy lately. They’ve been planning to tell the crew for a while now: the captain’s just fretting about finding the ‘perfect’ way to do it. Trips says that if the captain doesn’t do something about it by the end of this weekend, there’s going to be a ‘major shakedown.’” And frankly, Trip and ‘shakedown’ in the same sentence is a pretty scary thought. I hope the captain knows what he’s in for.

“And here I thought it was just because you liked me so much!’

“I . . . um . . . like you rather a lot, Major,” that’s the understatement of the century, “but I wouldn’t betray my best friend’s confidence.”

“Don’t sweat it, Malcolm. I like a man with a large sense of honour,” he says with a wink. “But I really wouldn’t mind if you called me ‘Matt.’”

“Alright, Matt, would you mind handing me that tent stake?”

“Not at all, Malcolm.”

We finish setting up the tents in comfortable silence, stealing glances and lingering touches but nothing more. I, for one, am not ready to talk about ‘us.’ We’re going to have to talk about it eventually. But neither of us is the type for touchy-feely relationship talks. We’re actions-speak-louder type guys, but we know that when things need to get done, we’ll get them done. We’ll just wait until we’re both ready.

I gaze out over the tranquil aquamarine waters of the lake plateau. It almost looks more like a river from here. To the left there’s a bend in the shore and I can hear the rush of a waterfall from there. Directly across from us, the yellow and green foliage runs into another grey and purple rock face, where you can just see a crack where the water has eroded a the bottom. That’s probably where the subterranean caverns Archer and Trip intend to dive in are located. All-in-all it’s a gorgeous place, and I’m able to let down my guard just a little more than usual. Undoubtedly aided by the fact that Matt is here enjoying it with me. I barely even notice when we’ve succeeded in completely setting up camp.

We make our way back to the picnic blanket to find Travis and Trip talking about some sort of racing flitter they want to convince the captain to invest in for away missions. While T’Pol has resumed her massage, she looks utterly sceptical if not a bit disgusted. Matt and I make ourselves comfortable, being sure not to sit too far away from each other, even though we naturally take up defensive positions along the perimeter.

It’s not long before we hear voices and some rather undignified giggling coming from the path approaching the lake.

“You just said, ‘You fight with the honour of my blood covered big toe,’” a voice that can only belong to Hoshi says with a loud snort. You would think such crude noises couldn’t come from such a delicate and eloquent young woman.

“Hoshi, perhaps we should stop this language lesson now, before you hear some language that a captain should not utter in front of a junior officer.”

“I could teach you how to swear in Klingon,” Hoshi replies helpfully, obviously having way too much fun with this.

“So I can insult a race of warriors that could crush my skull in with their two little fingers?!”

“No! That way you’d know which words not to say on accident. Besides, there’s no swearing like Klingon swearing.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” With that the captain and his communications officer emerge from the foliage, smiles on their faces. Archer takes his baseball cap off and wipes the sweat from his brow, “What a nice day for a hike.”

He doesn’t even flinch when he finds his lover with a Vulcan attached to his rear. Then again, Trip is such a big flirt that he has to be used to it by now. He just raises his eyebrows and addresses the rest of us, “Hey, everyone. As you probably already heard, Hoshi’s been trying to teach me to speak a few new languages. I figure if I’m going to be as instrumental in this new ‘United Federation of Planets’ as Daniels says I’m going to be, I might need to hone my diplomatic skills to include key languages.”

“Good luck, Hoshi,” Trip says into the ground. “I obviously never told you about the time I tried to teach the cap’n Spanish. The two of us are no longer welcome at the Mexican restaurant around the corner from Headquarters.”

“You mean, ‘Los Amigos?’ They’ve always been nice to me,” Hoshi replies with a frown. Of course she probably spoke correctly, with a flawless Mexican accent to boot.

“You didn’t order a little mother with whore sauce. He’s hopeless, Hosh.”

“He’s not that bad, Trip,” Hoshi says, diplomatically if not enthusiastically. “Go ahead, Captain, greet T’Pol in Vulcan, just like I taught you.”

“Okay,” Archer says nervously, clearing his throat and speaking a few tentative words to the sub-commander.

“I hope your left arm is as calm as a sea of fruit salad, as well, Captain,” T’Pol responds stoically, only a slight hint of amusement in her words.

We all have a good laugh - even Archer, despite his blush. If my father could see my commanding officer now, he’d probably disown me. Again. It was never written in the command regulations that a CO should allow his people good laugh at his own expense, but I’m glad Archer doesn’t stick to the book very closely –or perhaps chucked it out the airlock- in this case.



Our laughing is interrupted when Hoshi gets a good look at my bandaged shin and arm, “Malcolm! What happened?” she asks plaintively.

“Oh, a little rock climbing incident,” I try to brush aside her concern. I really don’t feel like explaining how I managed to fall off a cliff without my harness on and how Matt happened to be close enough to save me. The two most brilliant scientific minds I know happen to be sitting on the blanket in front of me, and I don’t feel like testing either T’Pol’s logical reasoning capacity or Trip’s natural ability to keep his mind in the gutter.

I should know better than to believe I’m going to get away with it, however, considering present company. “He fell of a cliff!” Travis volunteers.

“Again?” The captain asks incredulously.

“Yep. And somehow his harness got undone. Can you believe that?”

“I told you to quit while you’re ahead, Malcolm,” Trip says smugly.

“Nice words for a man who still managed to fall and injure himself despite the fact that there wasn’t a cliff in sight.”

“But I wasn’t strapped in. Speaking of which . . . I’ve been wondering . . . how did you even manage . . .”

I seem to be saved by the bell –or the dog, in this instance- because the captain has let Porthos off his leash (a new rule the he’s had to enforce since the incident with the sacred tree). Porthos chooses to use his newfound freedom to jump on top of Trip and start licking his face, seeing how it’s finally down at his level.

“Ow! Damn it! Bad dog, Porthos! Off!” he yells, causing Porthos to whimper and retreat back to where T’Pol is now kneeling calmly.

Instead of shooing him away, she defies all of our expectations by petting him and saying, “Do not worry. Commander Tucker does not intend to hurt your feelings. He is behaving irrationally.”

“Due to injury!” he protests.

“That is not an adequate excuse,” T’Pol responds calmly, but her voice is drowned out by the captain’s exclamation.

“What happened, to you, Trip?!” He asks, brows furrowing in concern as he rushes to his lover’s side. I’m probably the only one that notices how his hand strokes down Trip’s shoulder under the guise of patting him on the back.

He mirrors my earlier words, giving the captain an I’m-fine-so-you-don’t-have-to-patronize-me look, but not moving away from the thinly veiled caress. “I had a slight horse incident.”

“He fell off,” T’Pol is quick to add.

Archer just chuckles and gives Trip another pat, reminding us all how well he knows his partner by asking, “Didn’t read the instruction manual?”

Trip ignores him and groans, “Where’s Phlox?”

“Oh, we lost him and the scientists back at the first interesting rock along the way. Apparently it had an interesting crystalline structure for Jones, a thriving beetle population beneath it for Cutler, and some analgesic lichen for Phlox. Hoshi and I decided we’d rather get up here with you guys than stop to examine every rock on the path.”

“Not examine, ogle,” Hoshi corrects with an exaggerated groan.

“When do you think he’ll be back?” Trip whines, batting his eyes at Archer like a child asking ‘are we there yet?’

“Considering the number of rocks between here and there, it might be a couple of hours at least.”

“I don’t know, Sir,” Hoshi chimes in, “there were an awful lot of bushes too - and even a fair number of trees!”

Archer puts on his biggest shit-eating grin and turns to Hoshi, “You’re right, Hoshi; it could be days.”

Trip just groans and buries face in the picnic blanket, “Very funny guys.”

T’Pol has moved out of what she must perceive to be previously claimed territory and is now attempting to organize some of Phlox’s scientific equipment that seems to have been cluttered by a flight off a horse. Archer is still fussing over his lover, who refuses to look up at him, and Hoshi and Travis are pulling out a second picnic blanket and setting up lunch. Matt and I really should be helping, but we can’t seem to stop staring at each other long enough to get to it.

“Don’t worry, Trip,” Hoshi says conciliatorily, “I don’t think they’ve got any food with them, so their stomachs will get them here, even if there are a thousand interesting rocks along the way.

Sure enough, it’s not long before we can hear the good doctor’s incredible whistling range coming around the bend. Somehow he’s whistling Bach’s Sonata in C Major for Flute and Bass, only he’s doing both the flute and the bass. When he appears with Cutler and Jones in tow, he completely misses the elaborate banquet that Hoshi and Travis have laid out and focuses in on the bandages on my arm, and the odd way in which Trip is sprawled flat on his face.

“Mr. Tucker, Mr. Reed, why does it seem that every time I let you out of my sight you somehow manage to endanger your health?!” Phlox exclaims, a scolding expression lurking just beneath that wide smile. “I’ll never get a reprieve as long as the two of you are around, I suppose.”

“Sorry, Doc.”

Phlox is trying to look stern, but we all know he doesn’t mind putting his doctor’s hat back on, especially when he can tease us about it. He pulls a bag from his pack, and I realize that he was probably expecting this sort of thing. “At least Mr. Mayweather escaped this climbing experience without a broken leg, hm?” He says cheerfully, causing Travis to glower at him. Trust the good doctor to embarrass three of us in under three minutes.

“Commander, this is hardly going to help your back problems!” The doctor is busy tsking at Trip as he injects him with a muscle relaxant. “I thought this vacation would be a reprieve from torturing your spine in those crawlspaces!”

“Next time I’ll try to fall on my face, instead.” He grimaces sarcastically, only to melt into a look of utter relief when the hypo kicks in, “You’re my hero, Doc.”

“I’ll make sure I remember that next time you try one of your sickbay ‘jail breaks.’” I would make fun of the guilty frown on Trip’s face, if I didn’t know that it was my turn next.

Sure, enough, Phlox turns to me, “As for you, Mr. Reed,” he says, indicating that I should pull of my shirt and untying the bandage on my arm so he can start cleaning the wounds, “please try to be more careful with your climbing experiences. There’s only so much modern medicine can do. With my help this should heal by tomorrow. If you could try not to aggravate it, that is. And no swimming; we don’t want you to get an infection, hm?”

So I guess skinny-dipping is out. Bugger. I try not to think of Matt naked and wet in the moonlight, especially when I’ve got a medical tricorder fixed on me. Quick, think about Doctor Phlox feeding his animals in the buff, that infinitely helpful inner-voice tells me. At least those security tapes are good for something, despite the life-long mental scarring.

As soon as Phlox has finished with my wounds I head off to change out of my filthy clothes and wash my face in the river. The water’s only a few degrees above too cold, but very refreshing. My hair is still filled with purple dust, but I feel a lot better in jeans and a t-shirt than in my bloodied climbing gear.

But the time I’ve made it back to the picnic blanket, Liz and Phlox have decided to take Porthos and go try to hunt down this mysterious butterfly that can actually modulate the ‘eye spots’ on its wings so they look like blinking eyes. Trip and Archer have started to assemble their diving gear. Apparently the database promises a subterranean cavern the glows brilliant blue, and Trip has been complaining that he hasn’t been diving in ages.

That leaves Matt and I alone with Travis, his geology bunny, the ever-watchful Vulcan, and the commander and chief of the ship-wide gossip network; there’s not a chance in hell we’re going to even get as much as a quick peck on the lips, let alone what my body’s been dying for ever since we were so rudely interrupted by that pesky thing called gravity.

“So what now?” Hoshi asks, flopping back on the picnic blanket.

“I kind of feel like a nice dunk to get all this sparkly purple gunk off me,” Travis says.

“It’s sediment from the pressurized decay of the sap of the blabao tree combined with organic waste,” Jones corrects.

“That actually makes me want it to get it off me more, Marta,” Travis replies diplomatically, with a grimace, “What do you say, guys?”

“Sounds wonderful,” Hoshi replies.

“Vulcans do not enjoy water.” I share the sentiment.

“I can’t. Doctor’s orders.” Sometimes I hate that man. Normally I’d be glad for the excuse to avoid swimming, but if I’d fall of a cliff to be with him, swimming to stay close to Matt would be no big deal. Besides, there’s an awful lot that can be done under the cover of a murky lake.

“Too bad. What about you, Matt?”

He shoots me a questioning glance. I’m elated that he’s thinking about me, but I nod subtly in encouragement. Despite the fact I would rather have him by my side, I can’t really deny him a wash after Jones’ lovely description of the dust we’ve been climbing in for the past few hours. “Sounds like a plan, Travis. See you in a little while, Malcolm.” He bends slightly as though about to leave me with a kiss, but thinks the better of it trots off after Travis to change, smiling one of his special secretive smiles over his shoulder.

I barely suppress a contented sigh. Then I think of how this means I’m now going be all alone with my pent up desire and Big Brother, herself. This is going to be a long afternoon.

I look over at Trip resentfully; how come he gets to heft a 20 kilo oxygen tank onto his abused back, when I can’t go in the water after a few scrapes? Of course he’s busy laughing at something with the captain, who just happens to be taking his time zipping up his lover’s wetsuit. So the clever bastards have actually found a way to circumvent the Vulcan hearing issue: underwater caverns.

I watch their interaction, amazed that Matt and everyone else managed to miss the depth of their relationship. They’re both pretty tactile people, but when they’re together, there’s always a hand here a slight squeeze there, a fleeting caress - thinly guised tenderness. Even the way they lean into each other as they laugh or the way they seem to work together to put on their gear like a well-oil machine, betrays their relationship.

“They are, as Ensign Sato might say, a ‘cute couple,’” T’Pol comments carefully.

I turn to face her, dismayed, “You know about them?”

“I have suspected for quite some time. You have just confirmed my suspicions.” I was trained to give only my name, rank, and serial number under torture, but am easily duped by a Vulcan using nothing but the old pretend-you-already know routine! Matt is clouding my vision, the bastard.

“You’re not going to do anything about it, are you?”

“Why should I?” she asks, looking at me as though I’ve just grown a busy tail or something.

“I don’t know . . . because you’re Vulcan and . . . er . . . proper.” I flounder.

“Look who’s talking!” Trip says, stumbling over in his fins, holding two fishing poles and a tackle box in his hand. For someone who can realign plasma relays with a margin of error of a few microns while the ship is practically shaking apart around him, he sure is a klutz sometimes.

“I am not . . .” I silence myself upon seeing the look on his face. The more I protest the funnier he’ll think it is. What’s the point in arguing?

“I brought you guys some fishing equipment. If you’re not going in the water, maybe you can catch us some dinner.”

“You are well aware that I do not consume animal products, Commander.” T’Pol says testily.

“That’s okay. You can fish with no bait. Any fish stupid enough to bite an empty hook deserves what it gets. I think you’ll find the whole experience peaceful. It’s like meditation among humans. I came up with the schematics for Enterprise’s plasma injector assembly while fishing.” He says with a grin, handing me the poles and stumbling back to where the captain is already up to his waist in the water, conveniently falling right into his lover’s arms. So maybe he’s being klutzy on purpose.

“I do not believe the commander’s method of mediation will be as effective as the Vulcan technique,” T’Pol says indignantly, watching the dynamic duo disappear beneath the calm surface of the lake.

“You could always give it a try,” I offer with a shrug. “I suppose it’s a philosophical thing for humans: waiting for the reward that may never come and growing to enjoy the thoughtful silence of the wait.”

“An expression of existential angst?”

“Or perhaps an escape from it,” I reply easily, taking a piece of resequenced turkey Trip’s left in the tackle box and stabbing it onto the hook with practiced motions. One doesn’t grow up in a family of sailors without knowing a thing or two about fishing. I always detested the sport (I’m definitely a hunter if I have to make a sport of finding my food), so I can understand T’Pol’s reluctance, but I’ve nothing better to do. This way I at least have an excuse for sitting around fantasizing about Matt.

“I see.”

“Would you like to try at least casting the fishing pole?”

“What purpose would that serve?”

“I don’t know. Maybe just to prove you can.”

“That is illogical.”

“Yes it is. But if you do it, it will make Trip really annoyed, because I would have gotten you to something illogical and human when he couldn’t.”

“Frustrating the commander would be somewhat . . . satisfying.”

“Isn’t it always?” I give her a conspiratorial smile, not expecting her to return it, but knowing she shares the sentiment. I hand her a baitless pole and then cast my own. “Make sure you use a good flick of the wrist at the end and try not to catch the hook on anything – me, especially.”

T’Pol nods. We both know she doesn’t need more instruction than that. Trip would have been giving her a litany of technical details about things that are just instinctual, and they would be bickering by now. T’Pol casts her line smoothly and almost twice as far as mine. I’ve finally admitted that she’s a lot stronger than I am, so I’m not surprised.

“Good show.” I say with a curt nod, which she returns. Formal but friendly - just the way we like it. With that we lapse into a meditative silence. T’Pol and I have always gotten along. We know better than to belabour our relationship with small talk.

Before I know it, my thoughts have drifted to fantasy-land - a place that seems to be ruled by Hayes these days, even though he’s only a Major. Unlike most of my previous crushes, however, I don’t just think of his squeezable bum or his soft smile or his marvellously sculpted abs. There’s no gigantic bed or silken sheets or handcuffs even. Well, actually there are bindings . . .

I’m thinking back to a conversation we had while stuck tied back to back in a jail cell, waiting for T’Pol and the captain to finish negotiation with some race who’s name I forget. Apparently it was customary to show trust by abandoning all weaponry at the door. How were we supposed to know this included ‘biotic weaponry’ like us? Luckily we were both on duty and tied together - though loose enough that we could have escaped if we weren’t ordered to ‘stay put.’ If I was left alone in a room with Matt and nothing to do for seven hours under different circumstance, who knows what might have happened?

I remember this conversation as the first time we really opened up to each other. I was already painfully aware of how attracted I was to him but I brushed that aside easily. I have been attracted to every single member of the senior staff at one time or another (even Phlox, when he had me so doped up on pain meds that I was counting belly dancing purple elephants), and it has neither interfered with our working relationships or our friendships. That particular talk was the first time I was conscious that this attraction went much deeper.

[‘You were raised in a military family, right, Malcolm?’ Matt had asked casually.

‘Is it that obvious?’

‘Takes one to know one.’

‘I was groomed for the Royal Navy, but I rebelled and chose Starfleet instead.’

‘Brave man. I never really thought to rebel. I loved the military.’

‘I’m sorry, Major.’

‘Don’t be. I certainly don’t regret it. I just wonder sometimes, now that I’m in an institution that doesn’t discourage wondering, that is. My childhood heroes were the great generals: Patton, Marshall, Napoleon, Grant, Alexander the Great, McNamara (Jennifer not Robert, of course), Burton. And they never really did leave me, even after the time I didn’t spend in the Democratic Republic of Korea. It wasn’t the horrors of war that got me to start thinking outside the box; it was almost dying from a shot fired by a giant lizard. And even then, I was thinking about how the mission succeeded with an acceptable casualty rate, not the fact that I had a goddamn hole in my chest. If I had died then and there, would I have died a man and not a piece of government property? Even now, I’m not sure I’ve escaped it.’

‘I know what you mean. Even after I told my father that I’d prefer voluntary castration to service in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, I still use up most of my shelf space with my leather-bound family copy of An Illustrated History of the British Royal Navy.”

‘Childhood dreams can be hard to shake. That’s why our parents work so hard to program them into us. I sometimes wonder if I’m even living my life at all. It’s funny, I was actually insulted when they referred to us a ‘biotic weapons.’’

‘Well, it’s never nice to be referred to as an object.’

‘Why not? We’re both trained to think that way. Come on, don’t tell me that you’re thinking of the things your men told you at the last Christmas party when you order them into battle.’

‘I’m usually thinking about chess.’

‘So you see what I mean? We’re just interchangeable pieces in a puzzle, not people.’

‘I don’t know, Major. I feel like a person right now.’

‘Tied up in a little room labelled ‘weapon’s locker’ while the diplomats have a nice sit down luncheon?’

‘Because I’m having this conversation with you. Besides, if you were nothing more than a chess piece would you decide to stay on with us or get into a knock down drag out fight with a fellow officer in the middle of a war?’

‘And those are a few of the times when I’ve been doing what I want instead of what I was groomed to do. I mean, I wanted to join the service - don’t get me wrong. I was as eager to enlist as they come, but how much of that desire was programmed into me and how much of it was my own? Did I ever really have a choice?’

‘I sometimes think the same thing. I never really did escape the Navy, even though I tried. Starfleet’s the Navy of our time, and I still play the model officer I was raised to be – except when I’m introducing arrogant MACO commanders to my right boot, of course.’

‘I think we’re bad influences on each other, Lieutenant.’

‘Maybe what we need is a bad influence every once and a while. When I’m bickering with you over the idiocy of your battle plans . . . well, I doubt any of my rooks have ever been so angry.”

‘Lieutenant! Was that a compliment I heard?’

‘Don’t act so surprised. If you didn’t have something to offer occasionally I wouldn’t have allowed you back on my ship.’

‘So it’s your ship now, not Starfleet’s?’

‘Very funny, Major. You know what I mean.’

‘Well, thanks for the compliment, then.’

‘You’re welcome.’

Then I sat there for a long minute, trying to quell the sudden heat in my stomach and wondering if Matt had been flirting with me, if even just a little. I’ll have to ask him.

After I had determined that it was just wishful thinking, he asked, ‘So . . . does this mean we’re friends now?’

‘As much as it hurts my pride to admit it, I think it does.’

‘Good.’ ]

I still remember the confident finality in his voice when he said that word, as though he was daring me to deny that this was what we had been striving for all along. Perhaps that’s all he ever really wanted.

Well, if today’s little climbing adventure is any indication, he wanted a good deal more than that. my inner voice reminds me. More than that . . . hmmmm . . .

My thoughts are just starting to settle on what else we could have been doing locked a room together for seven hours with prison-quality bindings when I hear a slight shuffling from T’Pol’s place on the picnic blanket. “Lieutenant, my fishing pole appears to have been activated,” T’Pol says calmly, as though commenting on the weather.

I look down and sure enough, the spindle on her poll is spinning rapidly.

“Bloody hell!” I exclaim, lunging for the poll just as the line reaches an end and before the poll follows the fish into the water. The fish on the other end is a feisty one, but I’m able to reel it in, even though it seems to take ages after having the whole line dragged out. I’m sweating and panting by the time I’ve got the fish to the shore. T’Pol just looks on with her eyebrows slightly raised, too busy with her moral indignation to help me.

I dip the net down into the violent splashing in front of me to pull up what looks more like a meter-long puddle with boils than a fish. It’s coloured a violent orange with puke green stripes that seem to pulse just slightly. It is quite easily the most hideous thing I have ever seen, though I know it’s pointless to tell this to T’Pol.

Surprisingly, she’s the one to make comment, “I wonder what caused the fish to adapt this most curious form.” I catch a hint of disgust in her eyes.

I’m just standing there, gaping at the thing in my net when I hear some more splashing and notice Hoshi and Matt walking through the water at the lakeside. I should probably be ogling the barely-there red and white bikini Hoshi’s sporting, but I can’t take my eyes off Matt. I love the sparkling green eyes as much as the nicely defined abs and the dusting of dark chest hair. He’s wearing steel grey swim trunks slung low around his hips so I can see just a hint of his pelvic bone on either side. Still, I curse the American fashion of baggy swimwear.

I must be staring because he clears his throat rather loudly then comments, “So, Malcolm, you caught a fish.”

“Actually, Sub-commander T’Pol caught a fish,” I admit sheepishly.

“I did not take part in the capture of another sentient being.”

“You cast the line.”

“Under your tutelage. You reeled it in, as well.”

I sigh; there’s really no winning with her. I can see why she and Trip spend so much time arguing.

“Well, good job guys. You got us dinner.” Matt smiles, making me forget all about the credit/blame for our catch.

“I’m not sure if that’s a good thing, Matt,” Hoshi says with a grimace, pointing to the squirming blob in my net. “It looks like my grandmother’s paisley curtains after some sort of melt down.” She wrinkles her nose.

“That doesn’t mean it won’t taste good.” He says with a shrug.

Hoshi just shudders, “I think I’ll stick to whatever the captain is planning to grill.”

“More for us,” Matt grins, running over to grab their towels from the gear. I’m not sure I agree with him on that one. I give the fish and experimental poke. It seems fleshy enough, and those boil-like things are solid, so it might be okay. But I doubt it.

“Perhaps you should return it,” T’Pol says, almost hopefully.

“No!” Matt and I both exclaim. Even if it doesn’t look appetizing I did go to all of the work of reeling it in, after all. And it will be worth it just to see if anyone other than the fearless Matt Hayes is actually willing to try it.

Not wanting to explain my reasons to the vegenazi contingent I change the subject, “So, what happened to Travis and Jones?”

“Oh, we left them playing around in the waterfalls. Marta was supposedly giving us a geology lesson, but they were flirting up a storm and we . . .”

“Third wheel?”

“Third and fourth wheels,” Matt says, “on a shuttlepod.”

“That bad?” I ask incredulously. Travis is quite the lady killer, but normally he tunes it down around the rest of us. Then again, we are on shore leave.

“I almost feel bad for Marta,” Matt says, wrapping his towel around his slender waist and holding Hoshi’s open for her. I would be jealous of the way he gently towels her dry, but despite my deeply possessive streak, Matt has a way of making me feel completely secure - even when he’s rubbing down a bikini-clad beauty. Hoshi and Matt have shared a bond ever since he almost died on that mission to rescue her. When they were both interned in sickbay they seem to have developed their own insane set of inside jokes, probably partially do to drug induced hallucination. He’s very protective of her, in a platonic almost fatherly way, and she completely mothers him.

“Oh, don’t be!” Hoshi laughs dismissively, “She’s a complete man-eater. The two of them deserve each other.”

“I said almost.” He winks. I adore his playful winks. I happen to know that the carnivorous Miss Jones once tried to put the moves on Matt. He asked her the difference between stalactite and stalagmite and she hasn’t shown any interest since. Matt just shrugged and told me, ‘scientists can have the strangest quirks,’ as though that explained it.

“Matt, want to help me de-bone this . . . uh . . . fish?” For lack of a better word.

“Sure,” he says, plopping down beside me. “If it even has bones . . . ”

“I am going to meditate by the side of the cliff,” T’Pol says, standing.

“And I wouldn’t figure her for the squeamish type,” Matt comments.

Hoshi takes another look at the fish and says, “Well, I have no problem admitting that I am; I think I’m going to go with her.

Of course, with everyone else out of sight, there’s not going to be much fish de-boning going on. The second Hoshi’s back has disappeared down the path Matt’s lips are on mine. His mouth is warm and slightly tangy – I guess from the lake water. He’s pressing me down into the soft blanket-covered grass, letting water from his still-wet hair drip along my face and chest. His skin is cool from the swim, but I can feel the rising heat beneath it as I run my fingers over his bare chest. He shudders as I run my fingers along his slick chest to find a hardening nipple.

Things are about to change from tenderly urgent to wildly passionate when we hear a sick slapping sound, like a butcher tenderising meat. Matt is off me and in a defensive crouch before the tingling sensation of his kiss has left my lips. “What the hell?”

Then we look over to find the fish flapping around in the net. I don’t care about the bloody fish; I want his cool body back on mine – now. Matt looks like he’s going to pounce on the thing, but before he can, I’ve unholstered the phase pistol I’ve kept on me the entire time (old habits die hard) and fire.

Matt just looks at me and raises his eyebrows, “That was overkill, don’t you think?”

I shrug, “I didn’t feel like waiting for you to figure out where it’s neck was to snap it. Now get back over here.” That last sentence sounded an awful lot like a growl, but Matt doesn’t seem to mind, because he’s back in my arms before I can even blink. Suddenly, our kiss has gone from tender to competitive: tongues duelling for supremacy and hands scouting for sensual weaknesses. He’s got one right above his collarbone, and he moans in defeat as I break our kiss to attack it. That doesn’t mean he’s idle, however. His fingers have found that patch of hair on my lower back that sends shivers up my spine every time it’s touched.

Then I feel a sudden pinch on my right forearm and pull away from him. I look down to find what I guess is the Galantnan equivalent of a mosquito. To my surprise its colouring and shape are exactly that of a fishing hook. I pick up one of the empty bait boxes and slam it down over my arm.

“What the hell are you doing, Malcolm?” Matt asks sceptically, impatient for my touch.

“Have a look at this.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. That would explain how T’Pol out-fished you with no bait.”

I screw the lid on the bait box quickly, dumping it with the rest of the insect samples Liz has already collected. “Now, where were we?”

“I’m beginning to think good old Mother Nature doesn’t like us very much,” Matt says, opening his arms to me.

“Women,” I mutter, taking the invitation and kneeling between his legs. His hand cups my cheek in a gentle caress. I dive down to capture his lips, grinding myself against him, trying to crush all distance from between us. All of our cares are thrown to the wind. There are, after all, nine other people prowling around this lake, and we’re not in a very defensible position. The danger of getting caught makes it even more exhilarating, however.

Luckily, there’s no way we can possibly miss the girls’ return. In fact, I don’t think a single creature within a kilometer could possibly miss it. I’m quick to pull my shirt back down over the nipples Matt has been assiduous laving, and he pulls the towel back over himself to cover his bulging erection. I look around in panic for something to hide myself behind. Matt dumps the tackle box on my lap.

“Ewww, ewww, ewww!” Hoshi is screeching.

“If I thought you were going to be this disturbed, Ensign, I would have caught it myself.” T’Pol sounds irritated – irritated for T’Pol, that is.

“You ordered me!” Hoshi exclaims, half-running half-walking around the bend with her hands held clasped in front of her. “Quick, grab a sample container, Malcolm!”

I’m not one to argue with Hoshi when she’s in her frenzied distraught state so I reach for the stack of sample container’s Phlox has left out. I’m going to have to stand up. Bugger it! Luckily, both Hoshi and T’Pol seem too distraught to notice.

“I did not.” T’Pol replies as I meet Hoshi half way and struggle to open the container.

“You said, ‘Please capture this Lepidoptera, Ensign.’ And you used your bridge voice.”

“I do not have a bridge voice.”

Hoshi looks like she’s about to argue, when her face seems to go white, “Ewww! I think it just squirted something on me! Hurry up Malcolm!” She whines, dancing in between her feet.

When we’ve finally transferred the contents of Hoshi’s palms to the container and sealed it, we notice that it’s none other than the butterfly Liz and Phlox were so intent on finding. It looks like its winking at us, the arrogant little bastard!

Hoshi holds up green coloured palms to T’Pol, “Look what it did to me!”

T’Pol just pulls out her scanner and responds, “It appears to be a harmless organic compound: insect regurgitate.”

“I’ve got butterfly puke on me?” Hoshi growls with what can only be a Klingon swear word (I think she may be right about those), heading over to the lake to wash it off. “Would you mind grabbing me some soap, T’Pol?”

“Not at all, Ensign.” I don’t care what she says, I can tell T’Pol is glad she’s not the one with the hands covered in butterfly puke.

T’Pol is already busying herself with scans of the newest biological acquisition when Hoshi sits down between Matt and I. “I can’t believe her,” she grumbles. “She didn’t want to touch it anymore than I did.”

“It’s okay, Hoshi. You probably just made Liz’s day.”

With that, Hoshi brightens, even if she sounds a little sceptical “I don’t know about that. She and Phlox have probably caught a box of these guys by now - though I’m not sure taking Porthos with them was the best of ideas. He’ll probably scare everything off.”

“Phlox knows how to handle him,” I say dismissively. I’m still amazed at how well he seems to get along with the dog, considering he’s also the one who gives the shots. I guess dogs have really horrible memories. But then again, Porthos behaves better for the doctor than he does for the captain. “Porthos probably knows that he’s not going to get away with anything.”

“All of Phlox’s patients know they’re not going to get away with anything,” Matt reminds me. Phlox did keep Matt in bed and completely immobile for five days - a superhuman feat, as far as I’m concerned. Neither he nor Hoshi have ever revealed the secret behind that one, even if she teases him about it all the time.

We laugh as Travis and Jones come strolling around the bend in the river. Travis has his arm around her waist and she’s leaning her head against his shoulder.

“So it begins,” Hoshi sighs with an eye roll.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous.” Matt teases her.

Hoshi flushes. I’m sure she’s entertained the idea. Who wouldn’t? Travis is one good-looking man. As to whether or not she’s serious about it, it’s anybody’s guess. “I’m not jealous. Why, are you?”

“Not in the least. The last thing I need is to have to worry about the Energizer Bunny.”

“Don’t think you could keep up?” She pokes him in the ribs.

“Is that an insult on my honor, Hosh?”

“Not on your honor, Matt.”

“It doesn’t matter. I have what I need,” he says with a sly look in my direction.

“Who?!” Hoshi exclaims so loud that T’Pol looks up from her scans and almost winces – almost.

“Who are we gossiping about now?” Travis yells, recognizing the telltale shriek as he approaches.

“Matt . . .” Lucky for us she’s interrupted by some loud splashing as Trip splutters to the surface in the middle of the lake. The captain follows him shortly.

They’ve made it to the shore in a matter of minutes and are sitting in the shallows removing their fins.

“So how was it?” Hoshi asks eagerly.

“Amazing,” Archer says, shooting Trip a brief but tenderly lewd glance.

“Yeah, the caves really did glow in the dark. Phlox would love it, though I doubt he has enough diving experience to negotiate the entrance.”

“It was pretty tricky, but well worth it,” Archer agrees as he unfastens Trip’s air tanks for him. Then Trip heaves a slightly pained sigh. “Something wrong?”

“My back itches,” he replies, adding a significant look as he grabs his fins and tanks and trudges out of the water, immediately unzipping his wetsuit and pulling it down to his waist.

We all execute a collective gasp. Trip’s entire back is glowing bright blue.

“What happened?” Hoshi asks.

Trip looks over his shoulder and jumps in surprise, “Holy shit! It rubbed off!” Then he turns to Archer and glowers, “Why do I let you convince me into these things, Jon?”

“Because I’m your captain,” he replies unrepentantly, ignoring the fact that they were both definitely off-duty when they were doing whatever it was they were doing when Trip got covered with glowing blue stuff (while it could have been anything, I think I’ve got a pretty good idea what).

My suspicions are confirmed when the captain pulls his wetsuit down to his knees, revealing blue handprints plastered on both his shoulder blades and one disappearing suggestively beneath the waistband of his swim-shorts.

A glance over at Travis, who looks as though he’s about to go into cardiac arrest –if he doesn’t pop his eyeballs right out of their sockets first-, and smile smugly. Realizing that I actually know about all of this, his eyes widen even further. Hoshi starts giggling in that high pitch girlish way she has, a laugh that actually seems to tickle you until you’re laughing too.

Archer whirls around to look at her, “What’s so funny?”

Both Hoshi and Travis are incapacitated by this point and Matt and I are trying desperately to maintain a stoic exterior. The captain looks to T’Pol for help, but she only raises an eyebrow and remarks innocently, “I have not progressed far enough in my study of human humor to make a statement, Captain.”

That does it – toppled by a Vulcan. I lose all my resolve and break out into a peel of laughter. Matt has somehow managed to refrain from making fun of his captain, despite the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth – I admire that man more with every passing second.

The captain is still bewildered when Doctor Phlox makes his way around the bend, Porthos’ leash on one hand and the lead on the rippling patch of air that could only be Trip’s missing horse in the other. While Liz rushes to Hoshi’s side to ask what going on, Phlox just exclaims, “Ah, Captain, Commander, it seems you have managed to bring back a sample of that amazing luminescent mold I was hoping to find!” He smiles like a kid at Christmas. If he cares that his ‘samples’ are in the shapes of handprints, he doesn’t show it.

Archer whirls back to point an accusing gaze at Trip, who is trying his best to look innocent, though the snorting laughter doesn’t much help his cause. Then, as if in a rush to further condemn himself, Trip pulls off his gloves, looking at Archer with a mischievous glint in his eyes as he shows us palms painted completely blue.

The captain turns to face us again, saying weakly, “This is not what it looks like.” Then after a disbelieving pause, “Right, Trip?”

“Somehow, I don’t think they’re going to buy that, Jonny,” Trip says, not even trying to sound upset at this newest revelation.

Archer heaves a defeated sigh, looking down at the ground - face turning a distinct shade of red. “Well I had to try.” Then he takes in a deep breath, steeling himself to make another one of his speeches. I look over to meet Matt’s eyes - a look of mock-horror passing between us. I cross my fingers and hope there’s no mention of gazelles in this one. When the captain finally raises his face to us, he’s wearing a bemused smile. “While this isn’t how I would have liked all of you to find out . . . “ He shoots Trip a lighthearted glare, implying that he somehow planned this. I, for one, wouldn’t put it past him.

“. . . Well, now you all now know that Commander Tucker and I are in a relationship – a very serious relationship.” He’s referring to his lover as ‘Commander Tucker,’ a sure fire sign that this is going to be a speech, with all of the rather long winded bells and whistles. I stifle a groan. “While I understand that the fraternization regulations are in place to prevent abuse, Enterprise is one of the first deep space exploration vessels and thus we have the responsibility to act as guiding . . .” I shoot Trip a pleading gaze and he’s quick to step up beside his lover, taking the captain’s hand.

I hear Matt give a slightly overzealous exhalation of relief as Trip interrupts his better-half, tempering the rudeness with a loving gaze that seems to melt the words right out of the captain’s mouth, “What Jonny means to say is that we’re in love. We hope you’ll be happy for us. If you’re not, you can take it up with Starfleet, because we don’t give a rat’s ass what you think; we’re not separating for anything.”

“Trip, there’s no need . . .” Archer is interrupted yet again by a smoldering kiss, as Trip weaves a slime covered hand through his hair, winking. Well, even if he didn’t plan it exactly this way, he sure seems happy with the result. I was wondering when he would finally get fed up with the captain’s fretting and planning and take matters into his own hands. In fact, I’m surprised he’s shown even this much restraint. Unless you happen to be an interesting piece of technology, Trip has very little patience. Love makes people do out-of-character things, I suppose.

The moment is interrupted by a high pitch squeal, “Oh, you guys are so cute,” Hoshi exclaims, jumping up to give them both hugs, only to realize too late that they’re both stained blue and jumping away. Oddly, it hasn’t rubbed off.

Phlox immediately notices this fact and takes a scan, “Amazing. This particular variety of mold seems to be water-fixed.’”

“What do you mean, Doctor?” Archer asks in horror.

“That water sets it, so it won’t come off.”

“Won’t come off?!” He exclaims, trying to look down at his own bum and then back up at Trip.

“Your idea, Jonny.” He shrugs smugly.

“There’s nothing to be concerned about, Captain. Human skin goes through a rapid cycle of exfoliation. The stained cells on the surface should all be gone in a matter of days.”

“Days?”

“Having my handprint on your ass for a little while isn’t that bad, is it Jon?”

“It’s not my . . .” Archer begins, then, realizing how he’s implicating himself, flushes even a deeper shade of crimson.

“Oh.” Trip laughs, kissing him. I refuse to even imagine what he means. Though obviously the gaggle of giggling girls doesn’t have such compunctions.

Archer breaks off the kiss and turns to the rest of us, “How about we finish setting up camp?” He’s got a hint of command in his voice, despite the blush and the grinning engineer in his arms.

“Yes, Sir,” Hoshi manages through the aftershocks of laughter.

Trip somehow figures out how to de-bone T’Pol’s fish, teasing her about catching it. Hoshi thinks she can actually cook the thing, even if she won’t necessarily eat it. The scientists are busy sorting their samples and Phlox has returned the wayward umlaouse to the pack. Matt and I decide to resume the hunt for oddly shaped marine life: with no bait this time.

We’re sitting side by side enjoying just being together, when there’s a sudden eruption of noise from where the dynamic duo are trying to set up the grill. “You knew about the mold!” Archer exclaims.

“You’re the one that wanted to . . . you dug the hole for yourself!” He does have a point there.

“You’re still in trouble, Mister . . .” At that, Archer lunges for his lover and suddenly it’s a race. Trip runs like the quarterback he used to be, so there’s no chance in hell Archer’s going to catch him. But I’ve got a feeling Trip wants to be caught, because he makes a desperate dive into the water. He may have been diving his entire life, but Archer’s a water polo fanatic to his very core; Trip doesn’t stand a chance.

“They’re going to scare off all the fish.” Matt scowls.

“And that’s a bad thing?” Phlox says they’re edible, but I’m not exactly jumping to test the theory.

“Hell yes, it’s a bad thing,” he says emphatically. We’re here with Travis, the human garbage disposal; I’ll take any extra food I can get.”

“You’re welcome to it, Matt,” I reply, giving him a nudge. Lord, just sitting so close to him is making it difficult to concentrate. Not that I have to concentrate very hard on catching fish that have undoubtedly vacated the premises – scared off by the sugar content of the water around Archer, who has finally caught up and grabbed Trip around the waist and dunked him. Now they’re splashing each other and kissing. It didn’t think that was even physically possible.

I can’t believe I used to want Trip. He a great friend and definitely not bad looking, but seeing what a relationship with him would entail makes me wonder exactly what I was thinking. Matt and I are definitely much more compatible. We’re on the same page while Trip and I aren’t even in the same bloody book!

When he catches me staring, Matt uses his little-kiddy voice, “I wanna be just like them when I grow up,”

I give him an elbow to the ribs, “I take it you don’t favour the public displays of affection.”

“Nope. I’m not ashamed to give my man a kiss goodbye if he’s shipping out or put my arm around him if we’re out on a date, but that . . .” He trails off in disgust, knowing I’ll understand.

“I feel exactly the same way.”

“Glad to hear it.” Now that we’ve gotten that crystal clear, we resume our silence. Matt lets his hand fall delicately on my leg when everyone else is preoccupied. It’s not forced or skittish. We’ve both got everyone and the non-existent fish under close surveillance, so there’s not really a risk. I let my hand slip down to cover his, and give it a gentle squeeze. We stay comfortable like this until Hoshi yells that she thinks the fish is ready – as ready as it will ever be.

Archer still hasn’t finished grilling up the resequenced steaks we brought down with us, so it’s a waiting game to find out who’s brave enough to try the fish. Matt spoons some onto his plate and Trip and Phlox follow suit. The rest of us look at each other sceptically. T’Pol appears positively glad that she already has a good excuse.

Phlox interrupts the silence by announcing, “I collected these berries on our hike this morning. I’ve found them to be rather delicious. Would anyone like to share?” They look normal enough: like cherry-red blackberries. But the whole saying about never judging a book by its cover works both ways . . .

“I’ve had more of my fair share of unknown delicacies, thanks,” Archer says delicately, shifting uncomfortably in his camping chair.

“No thanks, Doctor.” I know better than to accept food from a man who routinely eats leeches. Even Trip, who’s eaten snake-meat and essence of the male, knows to stay away from the Doctor’s Denobulan delicacies.

“They look good to me,” Matt says with a shrug. Big mistake, love. Then again, he was practically raised on MREs, so he’ll probably think anything fresh is good. “You’re sure they’re not going to kill me?”

“On the contrary, Major, these berries possess a chemical compound that should help strengthen your immune system. I’m planning to beam a couple of bushes back to the ship with me. With you permission, of course, Captain.”

Apparently Archer has had previous experience with Phlox’s idea of a good meal, because he says, “Let’s hold off until we see how the major likes them.”

I lean over and whisper in Matt’s ear, “No pressure.”

He chuckles and grabs a handful of berries, “I like to live dangerously, Malcolm.”

Dangerously, indeed. The second the berries hit his tongue he seems to lose all colour. His features widen in shock and almost horror. I would laugh, but it looks too much like he’s going to go into shock. I’m about two seconds away from performing the Heimlich manoeuvre when Matt valiantly takes a great gulping swallow.

Travis pats him on the back, “Good job, Major. If I were you I would have spit them out all over everyone.”

Matt just looks like he’s about to throw up. “Thank you, Doctor.” He growls.

“I guess we can cancel that transport,” Archer comments.

“I’m sure there’s some way to make them more palatable to humans, Captain. I can talk to Chef. I assure you the good outweighs the bad.”

“Not in my book,” Matt coughs with a glare.

“Well, at least the Doc found my horse,” Trip says happily, taking a tentative bite of the fish. Despite it’s orange and pea-green colour, he seems to like it. “Yum, tastes like chicken,” he says through his mouthful.

“Actually, it was Porthos that found your horse, Mr. Tucker. He has a sense of smell that outstrips even the sub-commander’s.” “Porthos the great hunter!” Trip exclaims, ruffling the dog’s ears sloppily. “I’m going to reward you with a nice juicy chuck of grandmother’s-curtain fish.”

He’s about to toss a bite to the hungry canine when Archer’s hand darts in to intercept him. “Trip, what did we say about giving Porthos treats? Especially alien fish that might kill him?”

“Hey, it’s just as likely to kill me and you let me eat it!”

Archer scoffs. “If I had told you not to, you would have just been even more determined to try it.”

“Fortunately there’s nothing to worry about, Captain. I scanned the fish for both human and canine edibility before Ensign Sato started cooking it.”

“Ed glot ye zit malab.” The captain responds.

“I don’t see what my wife’s third husband’s mother’s stepsister and her exuberant doorknob have to do with it, Captain.”

“I think he was trying to say thank you,” Hoshi says, though a little sceptically.

“Well in that case, you’re welcome.”

The conversation fades as the sun settles over the horizon. We’ve been in space so long that the sight of a truly wild sunset takes the words right out of us. Archer is lying with his head in Trip’s lap and Travis has got his arm around Jones again. I can’t help but scoot closer to Matt, enthralled by the simple beauty of shades of red and orange dancing through the atmosphere. Even T’Pol seems quite taken by it, though I’ve heard that the sunsets on Vulcan are unrivalled. Perhaps she truly does miss them.

As the red darkens to royal purple and the stars start to peak through the haze, I help Archer build a fire. Matt makes a joke about me wanting to use my phase pistol instead of matches to start it. The captain tells us that he actually did that when he and Trip were stranded in the desert, though Trip claims he doesn’t remember it. The pained expression on Archer’s face as he reminds his lover that he was too out of it to remember anything almost breaks my heart.



It reminds me how dangerous our mission out here really is. I’m not sure deep space exploration is really a field meant for long-term relationships. I can’t help but think about Matt and I. It almost ripped my heart out when he nearly died after the mission to save Hoshi, and I barely knew him then. With our line of work it’s only a matter of time . . . that’s why I’ve kept my heart guarded for so long: the more I let someone in, the worse it will be when something happens to one of us. And something inevitably will – I almost died on bloody shore leave, after all.

But I lived through Trip slipping into a coma and the captain ‘dying’ twice – three times if you count the few hours in the shuttlepod when we thought Enterprise was destroyed. And the two of them seem to have been able to do it for nearly four years, despite the fact that I had one of them crying in my arms during each of the aforementioned occasions. Trip is currently comforting his lover with a gentle caress and I know that we’re all wondering how they managed for so long without the support of the crew.

Realizing that they’re being watched, Archer laughs nervously and stands, “So anybody up for s’mores?” So he does have a little proper shame in front of his entire command staff. Or perhaps it’s just because T’Pol’s giving him the evil eye.

Captain and commander are busy trying to cuddle unobtrusively away from the fire, with Trip sitting on Archer’s lap while the captain feeds him s’mores deliberately messily so he can lick off the mess himself. I think I’m going to go into a bloody hyperglycaemic coma just looking at them.

I know they think that no one can see them while the moon’s behind the clouds, but the fact that Trip’s hands are still glowing bright blue doesn’t help their attempts at discretion. I’m starting to feel hot just looking at them and, judging by the squeeze Matt just gave to my upper leg, I think he is too. If they don’t take this elsewhere soon, we might actually beat them too it.

Before I met Matt I would have scoffed at the idea that two people could still be all over each other like that after a year, let alone nine! But now I can easily imagine us in nine year’s time: back in San Francisco playing footsie under the table while toasting Chip and Dale’s eighteenth anniversary or on another starship making love in the captain’s bed like naughty teenagers (hey, just because Matt’s given up career ambitions it doesn’t mean I have to!)

I check to see that the firelight doesn’t extend to where we’re sitting before sending an exploratory hand down his inner thigh. He stiffens in response and I can feel a shudder running through his taunt muscles. I use a couple of well placed strokes, and I’ve got him exactly where I want him! (Hey, you can take the man away from the armoury but you can’t take the armoury officer out of the man.) I can just hear a slight whimper that escapes his lips as I ghost a hand over the growing bulge in his pants to put my Boy Scout skills to work on his belt buckle.

The get-a-room factor of this situation is rapidly escalating and I’m a hair’s breadth away from doing something about it when the sub-commander does her duty as the first officer and representative of the will of the crew by commenting, “Captain, Commander, perhaps your pre-mating rituals would be best conducted in the privacy or your own tent.”

I almost wish that it were light out so I could see the contrast between the blue and the red hue Trip’s face must be turning. But then everyone would be able to see that I’ve got a hand down Matt’s pants.

When the giggling and guffawing that can only be coming from Hoshi, Liz, and Travis’ corner of the campsite finally subsides slightly, the captain clears his throat, “I’m feeling a little tired,” if tired means frisky. “I think I’m going to turn in. What do you say, Trip?” So he’s playing the pretend-everyone-wasn’t-just-laughing-at-us-and-make-it-sound-like-your-own-idea game.

“Oh, I’m real in the mood for tired,” Trip says with a horrible imitation of a yawn. He really is a terrible actor. And the fact that he uses a conspicuously glow-in-the-dark hand to squeeze the captain’s bum as they hastily accept our goodbyes does little for his credibility.

I was planning to wait a reasonable amount of time after iridescent Robin Hood and Little Jon decided to make their exit to avoid suspicion by association, but apparently Matt is in a more dire state than I am, because he stands up.

Well, you did just have your hand down his pants, what do you expect? my sarcastic inner-voice reminds me.

“I’m feeling really beat too. Trying to save the lieutenant from himself is hard work, you know,” Matt says with a much more convincing yawn – though I know there’s a least one part of his anatomy that’s not beat - yet.

“Hey, Matt, I think I’m going to stay up a little later. That alright?” Travis asks, giving Jones a light squeeze. I almost forgot: Travis and Matt were going to share a tent, while I was supposed to be in with Trip so he could conveniently sneak off to spend the night with the captain (who’s supposed to get his own). Well, now that there’s no need for that, we’re a little stuck.

“That will be fine, Travis,” I say calmly, trying not to let my duplicity show, “I think I’m going to turn in too. Matt and I can share.”

“Really?!” Travis sounds as though his eyes are bugging again. I guess he really was convinced by my we-can’t-be-alone-without-killing-each-other routine.

“Try not to hurt each other,” Hoshi reminds us with a giggle.

“Don’t worry Hoshi, I won’t let anything happen to your precious armory officer.” Matt says sarcastically, squeezing my bum with a glow-free hand.

“Make sure he doesn’t fall out of his sleeping bag!” Liz calls as we beat a hasty retreat.

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Matt yells back, then continues so only I can hear, “because he’s going to be in mine.”

I unzip the tent and we step inside - rather professionally, all things considered. There’s no omniscient Vulcan or noisy communications officers or feisty fish or hook shaped mosquitoes or sheer cliffs in here. We’re finally . . . “All alone,” he whispers for the second time today, but now his tone is husky, near-predatory, sending both a chill down my spine and a rush of heat to my belly.

I barely have time to get the tent flap sealed before he’s on top of me, his remarkably soft lips finding mine easily in the moonlight streaming through the mesh skylight of the tent, hands roaming urgently.

I rip through his trousers and hastily fling off his underwear, eager to uncover what I’ve been waiting for all day. I’m so desperate for him that I ache, hands not seeming to be able to keep up with my brain as my fantasies bound ahead of me, building up the tidal wave of my passion.

But the second he’s naked before me, everything slows - passion crashing to an impenetrable wall of concern. I trace a finger delicately down livid bruises forming the shape of a climbing harness on his pelvis. “Oh, Matt,” I sigh, trailing feather light kisses across every centimetre of abused skin. He must have been in agony hanging there supporting all our weight like that.

“It’s only a flesh wound,” he says with a shrug in his voice. Only Matt can quote Monty Python even remotely seriously.

And suddenly, the reality of how close we came to losing this before it ever really began hits me full force. I almost died, because of our irresponsible passion. I truly did lose control and all concern for our safety. I’m just lucky the ledge decided to collapse before my reckless fingers could lay waste to his harness too. This is why I’ve kept my heart locked up for so long: my passion is too dangerous to let lose. I suddenly have a great sympathy for T’Pol.

I find myself stiffening, dragging in a loud inhalation. I can’t do this. I can’t afford to let anything cloud my judgment. More than just my own safety is at stake. I’m the bloody security officer, after all.

Then his fingers are carding through my hair. I don’t want this to end . . . but I do. It’s too frightening - the known unknown, a dangerous wilderness that can overwhelm you with its breathtaking beauty but disarm you as well. I cannot face this unprotected. I cannot put down that heavy weight of my protection from this wild.

But his touch is insistent, fingers as rough and precise as my own gliding over my shoulders, leaving little eddies of excitement in their wake. Strong hands slip unguarded beneath my arms and haul me up so that I’m looking into his eyes. He’s so gorgeous in the moonlight, shadows highlighting every curve of his chiselled features. His eyes are luminous and they study me with that same calculating precision that he uses to assess a battle scene. I feel my defences utterly breeched, as he looks deep into my soul. He knows my weakness, for it is his too.

And I see the understanding in his soft smile, because he knows my fears just as well. He is just as loathe to become unhinged as I, but he tells me with a kiss that he’s scouted out the territory and it’s worth the risk. I melt into the kiss, trying to probe deep and find what makes him so strong. In a way I am probing my own spirit as well, because I am trying to find what he has that makes me believe him. How can we two battle-hardened officers finally decide to let go? We’ve been controlling situations all our lives, going into the most heated of battles with calm precision. But now it is the world that is calm and we who are spiralling out of control.

But that calm is still there at the back of my mind. This blossoming love is one bomb I won’t try to diffuse. We stand there, safe in each other’s arms, watching the seconds tick down calmly, knowing that even though our carefully constructed walls will be decimated by the explosion, we won’t lose what really matters. In fact, this will clear the field so we can truly see. I want to see him naked, without any of the protections that make up so much of his character. And, strangely, I want him to see me too. For someone who’s spent his entire lifetime trying to be strong, there’s such an unexpected attraction in the defenceless. Perhaps because we have fought so hard to keep the shields from falling, it is all the more powerful when we lower them freely.

The soul-deep understanding of the kiss has dissolved into the feverish chaos of passion long-held-back. Our movements are no longer graceful or precise. This man whose lightning-fast reactions I used to admire, suddenly seems incapable of working the simple mechanism of my belt buckle. He lets out a frustrated growl, impatiently trying to pull me against him. I hate the mere seconds I must spend away from him as I shed the rest of my clothes.

Then we’re on each other again like wild beasts, grunting and howling in the moonlight. I’m tasting him, marking him, punctuating my desire with little nips and bites at his already battle-scarred skin. I want to find every mark and know the story behind it - every little quirk and blemish on skin and soul. Then I want to banish them all by inflicting a wound of my own, given and received gladly – a scar that will never heal. I don’t want him to ever be able to forget me.

His hands roam over every part of me, fingers digging deep into my skin, trying to burry themselves yet unable to settle. He wants to rip me apart and flay me open so he can climb inside. His touch is so insistent, his body humming with desire and radiating an almost unnatural heat. I still his restless hands with a steel grip, intertwining our fingers as I guide one down to my entrance. His touch is suddenly delicate and questioning like the calm before the storm. I bring the other questing hand up to my mouth, slicking it with my saliva.

We stand there on the edge of another precipice, ready to face beautiful annihilation, healing destruction, wrathless devastation. Then our lips meet in a bruising kiss as we take the plunge, safe in each other’s arms.

Instead of jerking roughly out of sleep, tension washing away all lingering dreams in an instant, I drift slowly into consciousness: something I only do when I’ve been drugged. Though, as the memories of last night drift back, I begin to wonder if that’s not far from the truth. That was easily the best sex I’ve ever had.

Matt’s got me gripped against him in a tight bear hug and is snoring lightly. He looks almost comic with his mouth half open, drooling on the camping mattress and pulling me closer to him when I try to pull away: so far from the stoic officer I’m used to. “Mine,” he growls as I try to extricate my legs from the tangle with his and the sleeping bags.

I stroke his back lightly, moving my fingers down his arms with a slight pressure to relax them. “Sorry, love, nature calls,” I whisper in his ear as I pull slowly away. He grumbles, but does not wake.

I pull on my fleece parka and make my way out into the fresh pre-dawn air, still marvelling at the way the stars seem so much more alive twinkling through the haze of an atmosphere. It’s beautiful sights like this that make me wonder about exploring the stars. I have never been one for the great uninhibited dream of exploration. There are costs, costs which we’ve all learned – and learned the hard way. There’s so much beauty to explore in the protective sheath of a planetary atmosphere. No, it’s never been the wonder that dives me - the way it seems to drive explorers like Archer. I’ve become too cynical to go chasing after dreams. I’m here because someone has to be. Someone has to protect brave explorers like my friends, often from themselves.

I was never out here to find comfort or home, but it seems as though they’ve somehow found me along the way. I’ve never felt as safe as I did slumbering in Matt’s arms but, now that I’m out of them, the fear and the paranoia have returned.

What if this is all and illusion? What if this crack in my armour is only going to widen? Will this make me unable to protect my crew? Will I be able to order Matt into situations we both know are dangerous? Well, it’s not as though he’ll ever let me bench him without a fight. But what if something happens? Will I ever be able to forgive myself? Or perhaps every moment after that terrifying second between when his heart stopped and Dr. Phlox shocked him back to life is a gift. How could I fail to make the best of that?

After taking care of business I start to walk down the path to the cliff-side. My mind is spinning far too fast to return to sleep. As I approach the grand vista, looking out into the field of stars toward the gathering light of dawn, I spy a solitary figure, sitting in the silence. I’m sure to make my approach loud enough as not to startle – though I truly need not worry with that hearing of hers.

T’Pol doesn’t appear her usual calm self. There’s something rough about her, despite the fact that he short hair is perfectly in place and she sits with her back ramrod-straight, as always. “Is something wrong, T’Pol?”

“Though I found our short fishing expedition to be quite peaceful, I was unable to conduct my evening mediation last night.”

“How come?”

“The nocturnal activities of some of the wildlife were rather disruptive.” Oops. I completely forgot the Vulcan-hearing factor. The heat of the moment and all . . .

“I’m sorry,” I say sincerely. While I resent the fact that she could hear us in our most intimate moments, I realize how it must be a curse - especially because T’Pol’s the last person who needs to hear that.

“There is no need to apologize, Lieutenant. Animal urges are not within your power to control.” Now I admit I’m a little confused. Are we talking about Matt and I or perhaps Trip and Archer, or does T’Pol really think those noises came from the local animal population? “There are some things that are in your power, however. And in those I trust you will be as competent and honest as you are at everything else I have had the opportunity to observe you practice.”

It’s so fast that I almost miss it, but it was definitely there: she winked at me – and without even looking away from the precipice! I was right about her being Big Brother. She not only knows what we were doing last night but exactly the thoughts I’m having the morning after. So now I’m taking romantic advice from a Vulcan! I suppose it could be worse: I could be getting it from Chip and Dale, the captain and commander of the bloody Love Boat.

But she doesn’t even try to advise me. She simply says, “Perhaps it would do you good to meditate with me.”

I nod.

“Do you require a fishing pole?” When I first met her I would have taken this seriously. But now I realize it’s T’Pol’s version of a joke. I laugh, but not too loudly. I don’t want to disturb her tenuous peace, considering that I had a part in the problem.

“No, thank you.”

“The sun will rise over there.” She points in the direction she’s facing and adjusts her already faultless posture to begin mediation, not bothering to instruct me because she knows that I just need a calm atmosphere in which to think.

I stare into the horizon for the longest time, allowing my chaotic thoughts to whirl unnoticed until they finally congeal. I don’t want to scare him off after out first night together, but I know that I’m ready to commit. In fact, I’ve been ready to commit for a long time. After last night so brilliantly surpassed even my number one fantasy, I know that there’s no one else for me - this is it.

Perhaps I should play it off as a night of fun, so he doesn’t think I’m loony. That way if he doesn’t feel as I do, I’ll escape with my dignity and a small bit of my heart. But that’s the cold strategist in me speaking, not the man that’s craved a love like this his entire life. I can already feel myself blossoming in his warm glow.

I need to trust him. I certainly love him enough to trust him, even against my fierce cynicism. Even if I’m not sure he loves me, I can be sure that he’ll tell the truth if I ask him. Matt has never been anything but honest -that’s probably what caused us to come to blows in the first place- and that honesty is one of the things I most love about him.

Besides, he’s violently possessive. This morning was only the tip of the iceberg as far as that goes. If I had a phase pistol for every time he said ‘my men’ in that alpha territorial way of his . . . Even if it’s not love, I doubt he’ll settle for anything less than exclusive. As to how much more . . . After last night, how could he not love me? Then again, I’ve gone through the motions pretty convincingly many a time, if the little black book of exes that I spent all my time on that frozen shuttlepod apologizing to is any indication. Matt and I are so much alike that I’m sure he has exactly the same skills.

I guess the only way to know for sure is to ask, even if I’m not the ‘we need to talk’ kind of guy.

I’m just about to head back to wake Matt when Travis comes bounding over to us, wearing a pair of rumpled sweats and a hundred watt grin. He stretches with a great yawn then jumps up and down a few times for no apparent reason. “Morning guys. Beautiful isn’t it? Still doesn’t beat sunrise from obit, though.”

“There’s nothing like the fresh morning air.”

“The major didn’t beat on you too bad, did he?” He says - concerned when notices my slight wince as I stand. Not in the way you think, Travis.

Then he starts doing jumping jacks. I have no idea how he could have so much energy after staying up so late, and probably shagging Crewman Jones in the process. “You’re up early.”

“Yeah. I figured the two lovebirds would be busy canoodling until God-knows-when and the rest of us stayed up pretty late so I thought I’d make it out here to get breakfast started.”

“Matt and I could have cooked.”

Travis tries to stifle his laughter and ends up making a noise I can only describe as a bullfrog undergoing torture by fire, before saying, “No offense, Malcolm, but both of you can screw up the heating of field rations; I’d hate to see what you’d come up with together.” Good Lord, he’s right! If Matt and I decide to make this serious, one of us is going to have to learn how to cook or we’ll starve.

Serious. Oh God, I hope this is serious, even if it means exploding every pot in the bloody kitchen before I get a decent meal. Travis notes my lack of a witty comeback and frowns. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, buddy.”


“Oh, no, Travis, that’s not it. I was just thinking about my near death experience yesterday,” I lie – pretty convincingly if I don’t say so myself.

“That was pretty scary, wasn’t it? I’m still amazed that Matt managed to get to you in time. And with your harness off . . . if he hadn’t been both fast and really close to you . . .” His voice trails off as I see realization dawn.

Phlox might have another patient on his hands because I really don’t think Travis’ eyes can take much more of the kind of widening-stress they’ve been subjected to these two days. “Malcolm,” he gulps hesitantly, “are you and the major . . .”

I interrupt him with a wink. I really need to find out how my lover feels about all this before I do anything. “I think I’ll just go check to see if Matt’s awake. Then maybe you can show us how to cook properly.”

As I make my way back to our tent I hear Travis accusing T’Pol, “You know something about this, don’t you?”

“I do not understand about what you are enquiring,” comes the calm response.

“Then will you tell me if Malcolm and Major Hayes are together?”

“I believe Lieutenant Reed is going to find the major now.”

“Oh, you know what I mean!”

“I do not.” Sometimes I really do like T’Pol - when it’s not performance review time, that is (then I really wish Trip were the first officer).

Travis’ pleading fades into the distance as I pass by the captain’s tent, hearing a flurry of quiet whispers and chuckles, punctuated by a few moans. They’re probably doing the old ‘I love you more! No, I love you more!’ routine. I roll my eyes as I pass.

By the time I’ve snuck back into our tent, Matt is sitting up, hair sticking out in all directions – so strange compared to his usually precise military exterior. Seeing him disgruntled and sleepy-eyed like this almost feels more intimate than seeing him naked. “Hey. Missed you,” he says quietly, eyes quickly coming alert as they look me over. He’s assessing the situation, obviously taking in the trepidation in my eyes.

After a moment’s contemplation he snaps into action, pushing himself back against our gear at the back of the tent in that graceful yet efficient way of his and opening his arms to me. I deliberately sit beside him, placing a hand on his knee to mirror our position on the now-disintegrated ledge.

He gives me a wan and tentative smile, the uncertainty in his eyes perfectly mirroring my own, “You’re about to say, ‘we need to talk.’”

“I wasn’t going to use those exact words. I was going to say, ‘Matt, I think it would be best if we had a talk.’”

He chuckles lightly at my joke, allowing a hand to fall across mine, even though the uncertainty has not left his eyes, “I think I’m ready, so shoot.”

“I would hate to doom this before it starts, but I need to know what this really is?” Okay, so I’m not really the most eloquent in my worried morning-after state.

“This,” Matt says, with a smile, wrapping his arms tight around me, “is exactly what it looks like.” With that he kisses me, and it is so caring, so deep, that I can feel the stirrings in my very soul.

No, I love you more, I think to myself.