Gigi Sinclair

"Jesus Malcolm. Malcolm, Jesus. Jesus! Malcolm!" With a final thrust and asthmatic, rather blasphemous, moan, Jonathan Archer came into his armoury officer. Who didn't mind in the least. In fact, Malcolm Reed was quite pleased by this development, and he showed his pleasure by reaching up to stick his tongue in his captain's mouth.

"God, Malcolm." Jon kissed him hard, then collapsed on top of him, twitching. Malcolm didn't mind that, either, although he knew he was on borrowed time when his lover gasped: "You're going to kill me."

"Well, at least you'll go happy." He reached down and put Jon's hand over his erection. "As for me…" Malcolm looked at Jon. There was a river of sweat over his body, dripping down his forehead, and his eyes were half closed. Still, the captain managed a lazy smile.

"Your turn now." He rolled off and the hand started to move slowly. Unfortunately, it was an empty promise. After a moment, the hand went from slow to stopped, and Malcolm opened his eyes to see Jon fast asleep beside him.

"Malcolm."

"Hm." Malcolm grunted and rolled over. He felt a hand on his shoulder, which he ignored.

"Malcolm." The hand shook him gently. He pulled his blanket tighter around him. The hand disappeared and the voice took on a sharper, more commanding tone. "Lieutenant Reed." Instantly, he was awake, sitting ramrod straight in the bed.

"Yes, sir!" Jon smiled.

"God, I love that." Malcolm scowled, which earned him a kiss on the nose. "Don't worry, I won't abuse it. I brought you something." Jon stood up and lay a tray over Malcolm's lap. There was a cup of tea next to a pile of peanut butter-laden pancakes, a knife and fork, and a rose in a glass vase.

"What's this?"

"Breakfast in bed." Malcolm immediately ran through his mental day planner. His birthday wasn't for months. The anniversary they celebrated, the day after the Trojanian visit to 'Enterprise' and the evening of their first night together, had just passed the six month mark a week and a half earlier. And that had been noted with a very memorable private movie night in the captain's quarters. Malcolm was amazed to learn just what you could slip by the Starfleet censors if you used the file name 'Stanford Water Polo.'

"Why?" Malcolm asked, once he was sure he wasn't going to offend Jon by admitting he didn't know.

"Because I love you," Jon replied, sitting on the bed beside him. "And because it's Valentine's Day."

"Shit!" Jon raised an eyebrow.

"Not quite the expletive I was hoping to hear, but…"

"I didn't get you anything." Valentine's Day had never been an issue for Malcolm, who usually managed to be "between relationships" when February rolled around. Also March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December, and much of January. Jon grinned.

"Then you'll just have to use what you've got at hand." The captain leaned in to nuzzle Malcolm's neck. Malcolm waited until Jon moved down to his shoulder before taking a bite of pancake.

"I did it again last night, didn't I?" Jon murmured, when he came up for air. Malcolm swallowed.

"Did what?"

"I'm really sorry, Malcolm."

"It's all right." After all, it only meant he had to finish himself off in the bathroom before coming back to snuggle with the snoring Jon. Which was fine. Until six months ago, he'd been finishing himself off regularly without the benefit of after-snuggling. "Actually…" Malcolm trailed off, blushing.

"What?" Jon prompted.

"I rather take it as a compliment." Jon laughed.

"You should. Although if we'd known each other twenty years ago…"

"I would have been a child."

"But I could have gone all night." Jon looked at the tray. "You finished?" Malcolm had eaten about three bites of pancake and drunk a quarter of the tea.

"Completely."

"Good." Jon moved the tray off to one side. "Because I'm wide awake now." He pulled the blanket off Malcolm's legs and replaced it with his body, using his tongue to trace a topographic map of Malcolm's chest. He had nearly reached the foothills of the ever-growing Mount Reed when the comm trilled.

"Damn." Jon sat up. Malcolm swallowed hard and attempted not to implode. "Archer here."

"Captain, we need you on the bridge." Hoshi replied. "We're being hailed." Jon glanced at Malcolm.

"If it's anyone but the Suliban, tell them I'll call them back."

"It's the Trojanians, sir."

Malcolm liked the Trojanians. Most alien species they encountered wanted to kill him, maim him, or at the very least give him a really rough time. The Trojanians, unwittingly, of course, had given him an excuse to finally shed his British reserve, overcome his rigid moral code and fuck his captain's brains out.

The last time they'd met had been when the 'Enterprise' entered the orbit of the Trojanian homeworld, Trojan XL. They were hundreds of light years away from there now, so when he arrived on the bridge—exactly five minutes after the captain—Malcolm was treated to his first sight of a Trojanian spaceship. It was a long, cylindrical shape, slightly bulbous at one end, which seemed to be powered by two large, rounded engines located at the wider end of the ship.

"Holy shit," was Commander Tucker's professional assessment, as he joined them a few moments later. "That looks like some guy's…"

"Johnson," the captain glanced at his helmsman. "Open a channel." Malcolm sniggered alone, then remembered that he'd gone with Mayweather when they'd had 'Austin Powers' for movie night.

A purple-skinned Trojanian appeared on the screen, and waved a twelve-fingered hand at the bridge crew.

"Captain Archer. How nice to see you again." Malcolm saw his lover's brow furrow as he tried to remember the being's name. He finally settled on:

"Co-commander. The pleasure is all mine." Yes, Malcolm thought, it usually is. "What brings you out here?"

"We are making a sacred pilgrimage to the expansive mudflats of Mosquitus Three. It is a journey that only the most fortunate Trojanians have the opportunity to undertake."

"Sounds…great," Jonathan smiled as sincerely, Malcolm noticed, as he did when Malcolm tried to interest him in 'Guns and Ammo Monthly.'

"Captain Archer, the last time we met, you were kind enough to show us your most interesting vessel. We would be honoured to repay the courtesy." The captain glanced back at his bridge crew.

"I see nothing wrong with the suggestion, Captain," T'Pol replied. "Since Dr. Phlox has developed an effective antidote to the symptoms our last visit with this species engendered in the crew."

"Sounds great, Commander." Jonathan turned back to the screen. "We'll be right over."

Malcolm didn't know why he expected the Trojanian ship to be, well, sexy. Logically, he knew the human reaction to the Trojanian allergens had about as much to do with the Trojanians themselves as cats, pollen and dust mites had to do with Malcolm's other allergies. But he had expected something more than the same chrome, catwalks and computers he'd seen on every spaceship they'd come across.

The Trojanian co-commanders were very happy to show them around. Malcolm tried not to yawn openly as the purple-skinned aliens explained their engines to Trip, their complex, three hundred and sixteen vowel language to Hoshi, and their chameleonic abilities to Travis, who himself was an expert in blending into the woodwork. When they came back to the hallway they had started from—distinguishable from every other hallway on the ship by the Rorschach-like icon on one of the wall panels—Jon coughed discreetly. Malcolm had noticed he'd been fidgeting uncomfortably throughout most of the tour, so he wasn't surprised to hear the captain ask:

"Are there any…you know…facilities around here?" He said it like he expected the question to launch a major interplanetary incident. Instead, the co-commanders immediately broke into apologies.

"Please, forgive us, Captain Archer. How rude. They should have been the first rooms we pointed out."

"It's OK."

"We were unaware your culture placed the same priority on such matters as we do." The Trojanians continued. "In our experience, most other species treat it largely as a form of recreation." Jon's eyebrows furrowed. Malcolm glanced at Trip, who shrugged and answered:

"No, it's pretty important to us, too."

"If we had known that, we would have given you our ritual greeting. Captain Archer," they chanted in unison, "How long has it been?" Jon looked at the three other men, carefully avoiding, Malcolm noticed, the gaze of Hoshi, who was desperately trying to stifle giggles. When it became apparent the Trojanians were expecting a ritual answer, Jon stammered:

"Um, I'm not sure. A few hours."

"The facilities are the third door on your left, captain."

"Thanks." He turned and headed down the hall as quickly as possible, while still remaining dignified.

"You are going alone, Captain Archer?" A Trojanian asked. Jon froze.

"Why? Do I need someone else?" The co-commanders glanced at each other, looking slightly perplexed.

"Of course, it is possible to accomplish it on one's own, but with so many available helpers, such harsh measures are hardly necessary." The Trojanians glanced pointedly at the rest of the away team. Jon did the same. Immediately, Trip held up his hands.

"Don't look at me, Captain. We ain't that close."

"I'll go with you, Captain." Malcolm stepped up. It would give him a moment alone with Jon. And besides, he didn't want to be the man who let his captain and lover get killed in an alien lavatory.

"I knew I should have gone before we left." Jon sighed. Malcolm agreed with him. While the Trojanians were a humanoid species, it was clear they had something vastly different under their silver and metallic blue tunics, because there was nothing even remotely resembling a toilet. There was a large sink and four stalls. Two of these had leather-covered benches in them, and the other two had a drain on the tile floor, close by another, lower and smaller leather bench that reminded Malcolm of a Church of England kneeler. "Think that's it?" He pointed at the drain. "I don't want to cause an incident."

"Can you wait till we get home?"

"No." Malcolm shrugged.

"Then go for it."

Malcolm waited by the sink as Jon, muttering, unzipped his uniform. "Just pretend you're in Greece," was Malcolm's suggestion as Jon shut the door and positioned himself near the hole in the floor. Malcolm was looking at himself in the oval mirror, wondering if he should go for the blond highlights like Travis was always suggesting, when two Trojanian officers joined them.

They smiled pleasantly at Malcolm who, not wanting to cause an incident any more than Jon did, smiled back. The smile became more of a smirk when both of the Trojanians disappeared into the same stall, one of those with a large padded bench. It went back to a grin again when another couple of officers entered, smiled, and stepped into the stall next to Jon. Now, this was more like it.

Although Malcolm could surmise what they were doing, he probably wouldn't have done anything about it himself if he hadn't heard the loud moans coming from both stalls. But lack of inhibition was contagious, as he'd found when the Trojanians visited 'Enterprise.' As Jon opened the door, brows still furrowed with concern, Malcolm pushed him back inside and latched the door behind them.

"Malcolm?" Malcolm kneeled on the leather bench. It was suddenly obvious what the drain was for, but Malcolm didn't think Jon's peeing in it would cause a major problem. After all, they were both fluids from the same part of the body. "Malcolm!" His voice was more shocked as Malcolm ran his hands down his captain's legs, then unzipped his jumpsuit. "What are you doing?" He sounded more amused than offended, which Malcolm understood. After all he, Malcolm, was the one who had 'Not while we're on duty' as a personal mantra. The captain, Malcolm knew, was more of a cuddle-in-the- Jeffries tube kind of guy.

"Just following local customs, sir." He looked up innocently.

"Customs…" Malcolm paused just long enough to allow Jon to listen to the ambient noises. Which had the same effect on Jon as they had on him.

"Jesus…"

"Wouldn't want to offend anyone. Right, Captain?" Malcolm decided to take the strangled groan as permission to continue.

It was over quickly, as it usually was with Jon. Which, under these particular circumstances, was fine with Malcolm. They didn't need the thoughtfully placed drain and, when Malcolm finished swallowing and Jon finished gasping for breath, Malcolm found himself being pulled to his feet, Jon taking his place on the leather kneeler.

"Jon, you don't have to…"

"Sure I do." Jon raised an eyebrow as he rubbed Malcolm through his uniform. "You know how much I appreciate…customs." Malcolm started a little as Jon reached for the zipper, changed his mind, and started to lower it with his teeth. He started even more when there was a loud knock on the outside door and a familiar, accented voice called:

"Captain? Malcolm? You fellas OK in there?" There was one final custom to honour before they left. In the shuttle bay, the members of the away team were served a traditional Trojanian wine, out of what Malcolm thought was a more-than-slightly phallic goblet. Then again, he thought, as he choked it back in one gulp, that could just have been the pent-up frustration talking. When he handed the goblet back to the Trojanian, he noticed the other four members of the 'Enterprise' crew staring at him intently.

"What?" Suddenly self-conscious, Malcolm looked down to make sure his fly was zipped and there wasn't any kind of obvious stain on his uniform. Travis was the first to snap out of it, shaking his head.

"Nothing, sir. Sorry." When nothing was forthcoming from anyone, Malcolm cleared his throat and put in:

"I think the Captain would like to offer our sincere thanks…"

"Yeah, thanks," Jon tore his eyes off Malcolm, but only just long enough to get the word out

"Our pleasure, Captain. May your bed always be filled and your appetites always satisfied," the two commanders answered in unison. Malcolm was the only one who started at that. The rest of them seemed too preoccupied with looking at him.

"Right," Jon answered absently. "Well, we'd better be off."

"Yes, sir," Hoshi agreed. When no one moved, Malcolm gestured towards the shuttle.

"Let's go, then."

"After you, Lieutenant," Trip put in graciously. Uncomfortable, but not knowing why or what he could do about it, Malcolm headed into the shuttle. And heard a distinct, communal growl from the four people behind him.

Dr. Phlox was waiting for them in 'Enterprise's' shuttle bay, probably, Malcolm thought, wanting to see if his antidote had worked, while secretly hoping it hadn't. The captain's first, urgent, words to the doctor were:

"Malcolm and I need to go to decon. Right away." Phlox looked concerned. He wasn't the only one.

"Why, sir?" Yes, why, Malcolm thought, worried. What if Jon knew something he didn't? What if they all did? What if he had contracted some strange alien parasite and was about to die? What if…

"We…" Jon hesitated. "We went to the bathroom. We're probably crawling with microbes." Phlox was unconvinced.

"We have had contact with this species before, Captain…"

"Exactly!" The Captain shouted. "We don't want to pass any allergens onto the rest of the crew. Decon it is, then." He grabbed Malcolm's arm.

"I'll go with you, Captain," Trip put in, speaking to Jon but staring at Malcolm. Hard. "I'm feeling pretty…anxious myself."

"Me too, sir. You know me and germs." Hoshi jumped on the bandwagon. Malcolm thought he saw her wink at him, but he put it down to poor lighting. It was the same excuse he gave for Mayweather, who appeared to be licking his lips in Malcolm's direction.

"No, I don't think it's necessary." Jon shook his head. Phlox shrugged.

"If it would make you feel better, Captain, then by all means we can head down there…"

"No need for you to come, doctor. I'm sure we all know how to work the machines by now. By the way," he leaned forward and whispered: "Hoshi, Trip and Travis were all complaining of headaches while we were on board. They'll deny it, because they're such troopers, but I really think you ought to check them out. Thoroughly. I want every possible test run on them. I don't care how long it takes. They're my crew, nothing but the best. Come on, Malcolm." They were halfway out of the shuttle bay before Jon finished speaking.

The instant the decon doors shut behind them, Jon was on his knees in front of Malcolm.

"Never saw the point in keeping your underwear on in this place," he said, before thoughtfully divesting Malcolm of his.

"Jon! What are you doing?" Malcolm put his hands on Jonathan's head. Jon continued, apparently unfazed by this token resistance.

"Come on, love. Tell me you haven't imagined this." Jon kissed his stomach. "Or this." He kissed again, low enough this time to cause that familiar, free- falling-turbolift sensation in Malcolm's stomach. Malcolm groaned.

"Only since I bloody met you." Jon grinned.

"Really? Tell me more." Malcolm froze.

"Jon, I…"

"Come on. I won't bite. Unless, of course…" The rest of the sentence was lost, but Malcolm didn't hold it against his lover. He knew it was hard to enunciate with a mouthful of someone else's penis.

"God, Jon…" He squeezed his eyes shut. "What if Phlox comes in?"

"Then we'll give him a hell of a show."

"Aren't you the least bit worried?"

"If you're that concerned, Malcolm," Jon stood up, and Malcolm forced himself to quash his disappointment. Neither the time nor the place, Lieutenant, he reminded himself sternly. And then immediately told himself to fuck off. "We'll be good boys and do what we're supposed to in here." There was a squirting noise, and when Jon's hands landed on Malcolm's shoulders, they were coated with cool decontamination gel. The hands started to massage him, and Malcolm's stomach tightened again. "This…official enough for you, Lieutenant?" Jon brushed his lips against Malcolm's ear as his hands slid over Malcolm's shoulder blades and caressed his sides.

"Jon." Jon tutted.

"That's no way to address your commanding officer, Mr. Reed." Malcolm worked hard not to have a command fetish. It would be just too predictable, he thought, and that was one thing he strove never to be. The repressed British weirdo who got off on rank. How dull. Most of the time, it was Jon and not Captain Archer he wanted. But sometimes…

"I'm sorry, Captain." He swallowed hard as the captain's hands stroked his backside.

"That's better. Sort of." Too soon, the hands disappeared, and Jon came around to face him. "You will come to attention in my presence, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir." He stood up straight, staring at the wall in front of him. It was always warm in the decontamination chamber, but this was the first time Malcolm could remember it being so oppressively hot. It only got worse as he felt Jon's eyes rake over his body.

"Now that's what I like to see, Lieutenant." Jon lay a hand, still cool from the gel, on Malcolm's rigid erection. "Entirely at attention." The hand started to move. Malcolm knew it wouldn't take long. Well, he thought, so much for being unpredictable. In his case, anyway. Jon, though, was surprising him with every turn. This was the man whose usual idea of kinky was to do it on the floor. "Lieutenant, I'm sure Dr. Phlox wouldn't want us to neglect any part of your body. Particularly one as…" He raised an eyebrow. "Important as this." He coated Malcolm's penis with the gel. Malcolm wasn't sure if he was planning on putting it to further use, but he didn't get the chance. The heat, the edge of being in a semi-public place, the feel of Jon's hand, and the sound of him saying, "I hope you're grateful to have a commanding officer like me, Lieutenant" was enough to finish it.

They lay slumped together on the bench until the cycle finished. Malcolm couldn't remember when he'd last been so satisfied. He didn't care if he spent the next six months jacking himself off next to Jon's sleeping body. This was enough to hold him for a good long while.

"We should get going," he finally said, as the doors opened.

"Do we have to?" Jon sighed. Malcolm had been fully prepared to return the favour for his captain, but it had been unnecessary. Jon's orgasm had come at the same time as Malcolm's, something else that never happened and which led Malcolm to believe that maybe they should get into this Captain/Lieutenant thing more often.

"Yes." Giving Jon one last kiss, Malcolm stood up. He was ready to get back to work. "I'll see you at supper."

"I don't think I can wait that long," Jon smiled. Malcolm smiled back, taking it as a joke.

Malcolm left the decontamination chamber with a spring in his step. He was even feeling good enough to give Commander Tucker a wide smile as he joined him in the turbolift.

"Someone sure looks happy," Trip grinned back. "My buddy treating you right?" Malcolm's smile disappeared to be replaced by a blush. Damn. He hadn't thought it was that obvious.

"I…We…" He stammered, but Trip didn't seem to notice. Instead, he lowered his voice and inched closer to Malcolm, until they were pressed up against each other.

"Cause if he's not…" Malcolm tried to move away, but Trip turned around and he ended up with his back against the wall and Trip's arms on either side of his head. "There are other guys around here who'd be glad to…lend a hand."

"What are you doing?" Trip pressed a leg between Malcolm's and reached out to hit the emergency stop button.

"Oops."

"Trip!" Malcolm tried to push him away, but Trip grabbed his wrists. Malcolm regretted putting so much effort into teaching the man how to defend himself. Still, he'd never beaten Malcolm before…

"Whoa. Take it easy, darlin'." Malcolm's attempted judo flip backfired and he ended up on the floor beneath Trip. "I ain't gonna hurt you." For a moment, Malcolm wondered if this was a joke. He didn't understand American humour and, despite Trip and Jon's repeated attempts to enlighten him as to the genius of John Belushi, he knew he never would. Then Trip put his mouth on Malcolm's and Malcolm knew that, whatever this was, it wasn't supposed to be funny. The most surprising part, to Malcolm anyway, was that he found himself kissing back.

Reflex, he told himself. That was all it was. As soon as he realized what he was doing he stopped, withdrew his tongue from Trip's mouth and punched him in the face, not hard enough to break anything but hard enough to hurt. He got off at the next stop, leaving Trip moaning on the floor. He briefly considered taking the man to sickbay, but abandoned that idea when he realized it would mean explaining what had happened. All Malcolm wanted to do was forget it had ever happened. And, in particular, to forget that for a few moments, he had really enjoyed it.

It was a lost cause. Malcolm spent the next hour staring at the computer in the armoury, not doing an awful lot of anything except thinking. He tried repeatedly to bring his concentration back to his work, but it was impossible. He didn't normally like to discuss his problems, but he felt that, if he didn't tell someone about this, he would probably go mad, likely before the end of the afternoon. Under normal circumstances, when something was bothering him, he spoke to Jon about it. If that was, for some reason, unfeasible, he would talk to Trip. Since neither option was open in this particular case, he sat, miserably trying to figure it out on his own, until Travis Mayweather came in.

"Travis." They were friends. Not particularly close ones, but friends none the less.

"Hey, Malcolm." After making sure they were alone, Malcolm leaned forward.

"If I tell you something that happened, will you promise not to tell the captain?" Travis smiled and reached out to put a hand on Malcolm's, rather startled, shoulder.

"Malcolm, I would never tell him about anything that happened between us." He moved the hand up until it was resting on the side of Malcolm's face, stroking his cheek. Malcolm gaped. Fortunately, before he had to incapacitate another member of the crew, the comm buzzed and Jon's somewhat strained voice requested Malcolm's presence.

As soon as he stepped onto the bridge, something whizzed past Malcolm's head. Reflexively, he ducked, then looked as a PADD clattered to the floor.

"Oh, hi, Lieutenant." Ensign Sato smiled innocently. "I seem to have dropped my PADD. Would you mind picking it up for me?"

"Where's the captain?" Unthinkingly, he bent over and picked it up. And, as he straightened, saw a look of pure, unadulterated lust in Hoshi's usually friendly eyes.

"He wants you in his ready room." Malcolm handed the PADD back to Hoshi, who—deliberately, it seemed—caressed Malcolm's hand as she took it.

"Thanks."

"You're always welcome. Sir." As he passed her chair, he felt a sudden, sharp pinch on his bottom. When he turned back around, she was sucking suggestively on a pen and giving him a wink that definitely had nothing to do with the lighting.

"There you are, Malcolm." Jon greeted him like they hadn't seen each other in months, slamming their mouths together and actually picking Malcolm up off the ground.

"Jon…" Malcolm squirmed in an attempt to get down, but it seemed only to encourage Jon.

"Told you I couldn't wait till dinner." He turned around, sitting Malcolm on top of his desk. Which, Malcolm wasn't too preoccupied to note, had thankfully been cleared of paperweights, PADDs, scale models of the 'Enterprise', and other potentially passion-killing objects. He spread Malcolm's legs and started to remove his uniform.

"Stop it, Jon." Malcolm tried to push his hands away, but they came back, again and again.

"No can do, Malcolm. I don't think I did a thorough enough job of…debriefing you after the mission."

"Jon, I don't want to…" But another part of his body had no such objections. Jon sucked him off, once again coming at the same time Malcolm did. That was Malcolm's clue that something had afflicted the officers who had been on the Trojanian ship. Forget the sudden come-ons from Travis and Hoshi, forget the turbolift assault from Trip, if Jon could do it three times in one day without collapsing, that meant there had to be something seriously wrong.

"Lieutenant, I cannot possibly help you if you don't tell me what the trouble is." Phlox informed Malcolm, quite reasonably.

"I know." Malcolm hesitated, clenching his fists, then stood up. "You know, maybe this was a bad idea. Sorry to waste your time, doctor."

"Lieutenant Reed, please sit down."

"Really, it's nothing serious." He was just afraid to run into Trip, Travis, Hoshi or even Jon again. "It's just…" Phlox gave him an encouraging smile. "People keep… touching me."

"And you dislike being touched?" Phlox considered this. "I wonder what the psychological basis for that is. Perhaps we should schedule some counselling sessions."

"It's not like that." Malcolm wondered if it was still possible to leave with some dignity, or if he should just hope for the floor to open beneath him. "They're touching me…inappropriately." Phlox looked at him. Malcolm waited for him to produce a doll and ask Malcolm to indicate just where he had been touched.

"Are you saying you are being sexually harassed by a member of the crew?"

"Several members."

"This is a very serious business, Lieutenant. Have you informed the captain?" Malcolm sighed.

"He's one of them."

***

"And it is only the crewmembers who were on the Trojanian ship?" Malcolm nodded. He hadn't noticed anyone else looking at him. Well, except for that one engineering ensign, but then she always stared at him. And at Captain Archer, and at Commander Tucker. "Fascinating. Perhaps the injections I developed were not effective after all."

"But I don't think they're going after everything they see." Hoshi, for example, had been ignoring everyone on the bridge except him. And Jon hadn't seemed interested in Trip or Travis. Fortunately for all of them.

"Then perhaps it is something to do with you specifically. Please, Lieutenant, tell me exactly what you did while on board that ship."

"Then, we drank the wine, and that was it." Malcolm finished his tale. Phlox pondered it carefully.

"You all ingested this ceremonial wine?" He repeated. Malcolm nodded. "And you're quite sure that's everything that happened?" Malcolm nodded again, vehemently, in the hopes that would distract Phlox from the blush that was creeping up his neck. It didn't. "I will remind you, Lieutenant, that if I am to have any hope of finding a cause of your sudden…attractiveness, I need all of the facts."

"All right." He clasped his hands together in his lap. "But you can't tell anyone."

"Naturally. I take doctor-patient confidentiality very seriously."

"The captain and I engaged in oral sex while on board the Trojanian ship." He said it quickly and efficiently, and almost succeeded in making it sound respectable. Until he added: "In the bathroom. But it wasn't really a bathroom."

"I see." Phlox nodded impassively, as if Malcolm had just admitted to wearing odd socks on the away mission, or going with a dirty undershirt. Malcolm found himself relaxing a little. Until Phlox continued: "Did you swallow Captain Archer's ejaculate?" And with that, the brief moment of delusion was gone, and Malcolm was back to being mortified. Phlox, though, seemed nothing but fascinated. "Lieutenant Reed?" Malcolm nodded, wondering, not for the first time in his life, whether it was possible to die from embarrassment. If it was, Malcolm wouldn't fight for his life. Death would be preferable to talking about sex with Phlox, who continued, conversationally: "And did he swallow yours?"

"We…we didn't get quite that far." Phlox sat silently for a moment, giving Malcolm the opportunity to bury his head in his hands and pretend he was an ostrich. Or even just a man who wasn't having this conversation.

"Lieutenant Reed, I have a theory," was Phlox's verdict, shortly after. "Of course, it is only a theory, but I believe there is merit to it." He stopped. Malcolm removed his hands and looked at him.

"Well?"

"I believe that the ceremonial wine you drank in the Trojanian shuttle bay underwent a chemical reaction with the semen in your stomach, resulting in the emission of a pheromone-like substance that causes sexual attraction within the people who have also ingested the wine." Which was exactly why, Malcolm thought, he was against away missions on general principle. "Of course, there is only one way to test the theory. Once the wine has been eliminated from your body, you should no longer be attractive. Except," Phlox added, kindly, "in a normal way, to Captain Archer, of course."

"How long will it take to eliminate the wine?"

"It varies, depending on your fluid intake. It could be several days." Malcolm imagined several days of pinches from Hoshi, caresses from Travis and full-on assaults from Trip. Not to mention Jon. Over, and over, and over. He'd never thought there could be such a thing as too much sex, but, once again, he'd been proven wrong.

"I need it out today."

"While it is possible, Lieutenant, I don't think…"

"Today," he repeated, firmly. He had work to do, after all. The phase cannons weren't going to realign themselves just because his own, personal phase cannon was getting hourly maintenance checks from just about everyone on the ship. Phlox nodded and went over to the cupboard.

"Very well, then. I could give you a pharmaceutical diuretic, but it is my experience that this," he handed a bottle to Malcolm, "is far more effective." Malcolm looked at the bottle.

"Andorian ale?" Phlox smiled.

"The most urine-producing substance I've come across. So, Lieutenant Reed," he passed Malcolm a bedpan and drew the curtain closed around him. "Start drinking."

"Twenty-four bottles of beer on the wall, thirty-six bottles of beer." Malcolm accompanied himself on bedpan, doing not a bad job of it, he thought. After all, he'd had two hours, five bottles of Andorian ale, and three full bedpans to practice. "If one of those bottles should happen to fall, there'll be forty-nine bottles of beer on the wall. Eleven bottles of beer on the wall…"

"Lieutenant Reed." Phlox shoved the curtain aside.

"Hello, Doctor." Malcolm, who only three bottles earlier had been paranoid about privacy, waved jauntily with one hand while the other continued to aim for the bedpan. As accurately as possible for a man with five bottles of ale inside him.

"Ensign Cutler has requested most strongly that you stop singing." Malcolm dimly remembered a high-pitched voice telling someone to shut the fuck up, but he'd assumed it had been speaking to Phlox's menagerie. He remembered launching into a startlingly good, in his opinion, rendition of 'Talk to the Animals' after that very comment. "I must insist that you honour her wishes."

"Righto." Malcolm finished and zipped himself back up, narrowly averting disaster. "Hey, I was thinking." He looked at the cage in front of him. "What if…" He stifled a giggle. "What if, you get bitten by your bat…" Another chortle, "Right when some of that weird shit goes down and you end up as Bat-Phlox?" This was the funniest thing Malcolm had ever considered. Far more humorous than Jim Belushi. "You'd…you'd have to get a costume and a utility belt. I bet Trip could make one for you. With a grappling hook and everything." He wiped tears of mirth from his face and shouted over to Cutler, who was working at a station on the other side of sickbay. "You could be Ensign Cat-ler. Get it? Get it?" Phlox exchanged a glance with his nurse.

"Lieutenant Reed, I think you are ready to leave."

"OK." He got up and weaved over to Cutler, the floor tilting in a most unsportsmanlike way. Damn space turbulence. "Thanks for the tea, Judith." He planted a kiss on her cheek and looked around. "Where's my coat?"

"I have requested that Captain Archer come and collect you. We will be able to ascertain if the Trojanian liquid has been eliminated from your system." Malcolm threw a matey arm around Cutler's shoulders and leaned forward to say, in a whisper that could be heard in all neighbouring galaxies:

"Better tell Hoshi the UT's down, because I didn't understand a word that guy just said."

"You got him drunk?" Was Jon's opening address to Phlox. Malcolm patted him on the shoulder, then, remembering why he liked those shoulders so much, decided to leave his hand there.

"No, Jon. No, no, no, no, no." Since he also liked the sound of that word, he said it a few more times. "No, no, no. I drank it myself." Jon smiled a little, and Malcolm liked that even more. So he reached up and kissed Jon chastely on the mouth.

"Not now, Malcolm." Jon pushed him away. Malcolm minded, but not as much as he should have, although he couldn't remember why.

"It was for a valid medical purpose, I can assure you, Captain. What I must ask you now, though, is do you feel an urgent need to copulate with the lieutenant?" Jon looked confused, so Malcolm helpfully translated for him.

"He means, do you want to fuck me, love?"

"What, here?" He sounded horrified. "Look, doctor, I know you're eager to observe a mating ritual, but as Malcolm and I have said, we really don't feel comfortable with that."

"So you feel no desire for Lieutenant Reed?" Jon blushed, which Malcolm thought was cute. To show he appreciated it, he slid his free hand down the captain's back until it rested on what Malcolm thought of as the loveliest bum in the universe, which he then proceeded to squeeze. Jon jumped a little and relocated Malcolm's hand to his waist.

"Of course he's desirable. But he's drunk." Phlox was satisfied with that. So was Malcolm, who suddenly felt tears pricking at his eyes.

"That is so sweet, Jon." He sniffed. "I really, really, really…" He forgot how he was going to end the sentence. Phlox said:

"I will need to speak with all of the members of the away team tomorrow morning," but Malcolm was pretty sure that wasn't what he'd had in mind.

"Can't you explain this now?"

"I think it would be best if you returned the lieutenant to his quarters, Captain. I will prepare a full report for tomorrow."

For some reason Malcolm couldn't fathom, Jon didn't want them to hold hands and skip down the hallway. He wouldn't even let Malcolm go all the way to his cabin. Instead, they stopped at Jon's, which was fine with Malcolm. He lay on Jon's bed, using all of his carefully cultivated strength and tactical abilities to pull Jon down on top of him.

"Malcolm…" Malcolm stopped him with his tongue.

"Jon, you're really hot," Malcolm murmured. He had Jon's zipper halfway down his chest and was revelling in the sight of black T-shirt when, all of a sudden, he was hit with an overwhelming feeling of exhaustion, and everything faded out.

Unlike their previous encounter with the Trojanians, which had resulted in indiscriminate sexual behaviour and amnesia (the first-contact equivalent, the Captain had later joked, of half a dozen tequila shots in the Starfleet Officers Club,) it was obvious that Trip, Travis, Hoshi and Jon remembered exactly how they had acted under the influence. At least, that was what Malcolm surmised, when he joined them in sickbay and was met with resounding, embarrassed silence. Not that he minded. At that particular moment, even the near-indistinguishable hum of the air circulation systems was enough to give him a splitting headache.

"Ah, good morning, Lieutenant," Phlox greeted him, far more loudly than Malcolm found necessary, or even reasonable. "And how are we this morning?"

"I don't know how you are," Malcolm snapped back, as the brass band continued its parade route through his head. "I feel like hell."

"About that, Malcolm…" Jon was the first to speak. The rest of them were absorbed by either the floor, the ceiling, or, in Hoshi's case, the sleeping bat. Malcolm could see how she would appreciate the animal. At least it was quiet.

"Forget it, Jon."

"I have explained the situation as I understand it, Lieutenant."

"Malcolm, I'm so sorry." Hoshi tore her eyes away from the bat.

"Yeah, man." Travis added, rubbing his neck awkwardly. "I mean, if there's one thing you learn growing up on a transport ship, it's that…"

"Fine," Malcolm cut him off, far too irritable to listen to another boring Boomer story. "Can I go now?" He wanted coffee and industrial-strength painkillers, not necessarily in that order. It said something about him, he thought, that he could get a big metal spike shot through his leg with nary a wince, but a few bottles of Andorian ale made him want to turn a phase pistol on himself.

"I think it would be best if we held a round-table discussion about this incident…" Phlox suggested, smiling genially. Malcolm looked at him.

"All the tables are rectangular." He left before he, or anyone else, could think better of it.

News always travelled fast on a ship, and the news that Malcolm was in about as good a mood as a Klingon at a garden club meeting spread very fast. Everyone wisely left him alone. It wasn't until later in the morning, when Malcolm was feeling almost human again, that he came across another living organism. It happened to be as he stepped into the turbolift, and it happened to be Commander Tucker.

"Oh, hi, Malcolm." Malcolm thought he saw Trip redden a little. He stared determinedly at the turbolift doors as they slid shut.

"Commander." He had a black eye. It made Malcolm feel uncomfortably guilty to know that he'd given it to him, however justified it had been. Malcolm chose not to examine this feeling further, and instead pushed it firmly aside. He never felt bad about hurting people in the line of duty, he wasn't about to start now.

"How's the hangover?"

"Slightly improved. Thank you."

"You know, Phlox has some stuff…"

"I said, I'm fine, Commander." Malcolm's heart was pounding, which was both ridiculous and embarrassing. He frowned, as if that would help him regain control.

"Look, Malcolm, I'm not…you know. Into guys."

"It never crossed my mind that you might be," Malcolm lied. When he'd first begun his relationship with the Captain, that thought had been the bane of his existence. And, if he was honest, it had been pretty disturbing for a few months before he and the Captain got together, as well.

"Well, I'm not."

"Duly noted, sir." Out of the corner of his eye, Malcolm saw Trip swallow hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. The lift stopped and the doors opened on Trip's floor. Instead of getting off, Trip turned to Malcolm and said, quickly, as if he was in a desperate rush to impart vital information:

"But if I was, I could do a hell of a lot worse than you." He was gone and the lift was back in operation before Malcolm could make sense of the statement.

"How was your day?" Malcolm smiled at Jon.

"Better than yours. How do you feel?" The bed dipped as Jon sat down. Malcolm put his PADD to one side.

"Sorry I was so rude to you and the doctor." Hoshi and Travis, though, deserved it. He wasn't thinking about Trip.

"You're entitled. I just can't believe…" Jon shook his head. "We've got to stop running into the Trojanians. Or maybe we should invite them to move in. I can't decide." Malcolm grinned and, because he knew Jon would like it, continued:

"It wasn't all bad." "Yeah. Must have made a change to have a guy who could actually get you off before…you know." He gave a small smile. "Dropping off."

"I don't mind, Jon."

"I do." He looked so chagrined that Malcolm just had to pull him in for a kiss. When he felt Jon pulling away, Malcolm released him, reluctantly, keeping his eyes closed. He only opened them when he felt the mattress shift. Jon was kneeling on the floor, rooting around under the bed.

"I didn't get chance to give you your Valentine's Day present yesterday."

"You already give me more than enough, Jon." All the time, every day, and Malcolm would always be grateful for that. It was part of the reason why he wasn't thinking about Trip.

"Just a little something." He stood up, presenting Malcolm with a red cardboard box. "Go on. Open it." Grinning like a maniac and not trying to hide it, Malcolm obeyed.

"What…" He held up a pair of red silk boxer shorts, covered in hearts and embroidered with the word 'Sexy'.

"It's your new nickname. You know, like the seven dwarves."

"I don't recall…"

"The X-rated version." Malcolm raised an eyebrow.

"I don't believe I've seen that one."

"I'll have to get it for you, then. We'll just call it 'Stanford vs. Harvard.'"

"So, if I'm Sexy, then you're…" Jon gave a self-deprecating smile.

"Sleepy." Malcolm shook his head and glanced down at Jon's sweats-clad crotch. Which was currently doing a good impression of a well-assembled, Scouting-approved tent.

"I was thinking more of…Horny?"

"When you're around, always." Jon leaned forward to plant a quick, light kiss on Malcolm's lips. "There's more." He reached into the box and presented Malcolm with a small, unlabelled bottle. "I asked Phlox for it. It's supposed to increase stamina. He says it works. I guess in a polygamous culture…" Malcolm stopped him with another, deeper and far more serious kiss.

Later, when Jon was sleeping soundly, Malcolm climbed out of bed, careful not to disturb his lover. He found his new boxer shorts draped over the desk lamp. Pulling them on, he crawled around the floor until he located Phlox's magic bottle. Upon closer inspection, he could see letters embossed onto the bottle, which was obviously something from Phlox's personal apothecary. He didn't recognize the word "Viagra", but it didn't make any difference. Using all the stealth his years of training and experience had given him, Malcolm slipped the bottle into the pocket of one of his uniforms. He'd make sure that he passed by sickbay the next day, simply to apologize of course, and if the bottle should happen to slip out of his possession and back into Phlox's at that time, it would be entirely coincidental. Just as it was coincidental that, as he climbed back into bed, Malcolm's lips happened to collide with Jon's forehead and stay there for a long moment.