Gigi Sinclair

Trip liked girls. He knew that like he knew two plus two equalled four, and that every new species they encountered would offer them something disgusting to eat. It was a fact: unquestionable, undeniable and absolute.

He wasn't picky, either. About girls. He was very picky about food, but girls were another matter. He'd tried all kinds: tall ones, short ones; pretty ones, not so pretty ones; doctors and engineers and buck-toothed sweethearts who were one step up from white trash (and in the case of one Elly May Hibbitt, the step had been more of a tiny shuffle than a giant leap.) Trip's desire for females was so overriding, he'd even, inadvertently, tried it with an alien, although he wasn't doing that again without an effective form of birth control.

Trip leaned back on his sofa, swigging bourbon straight from the bottle. He smiled as he remembered all the women who had, as he called it when he was half-drunk and alone, "taken a ride on the Trip-enator." He'd never had any complaints in that department, and it hadn't exactly been a nightmare for him, either. Girls were nice. They were soft and cuddly, and they liked to listen. Which was just as well, because three things Trip enjoyed very much were drinking, talking and having sex.

Not that it was just about that. He wasn't, he assured himself, some kind of cold-hearted sex machine. He'd cared about all the women he'd been with, and there were two or three he'd really loved. And, of course, there was Natalie. Trip sniffed a little and put the bottle to his lips before he got really choked up. Natalie, whom he'd adored more than anyone—well, almost anyone—he'd ever met. Natalie, whom he could gladly have married, but hadn't. Yes, Trip reiterated, quickly moving away from that dangerous yet well travelled road, all the evidence was there. He was girl-crazy. A gynophile. Some might even say a womanizer. Which left the question, why the hell had he kissed Jonathan Archer?

It hadn't exactly been an open-mouthed tonsil lashing, which comforted Trip a little. They had also been under great duress, which comforted a little more. Two days earlier, the 'Enterprise' had entered the orbit of Republikia Prime, a planet populated by a technologically advanced but xenophobic race. After two days of circling, the Captain had received permission to send a small away team to the planet's surface. Since it was a first contact, the Captain naturally wanted to lead the mission himself. Since the Republikians had already encountered Vulcans, it was decided T'Pol might be a reassuring presence, so she went as well, leaving Trip in command.

He had to admit, it had pissed him off. Culinary issues aside, he was dying to be part of a first contact away mission, but he wasn't about to start pestering the Captain about it like some little kid desperate for Daddy to take him to the zoo. So he saw the Captain, T'Pol and Lieutenant Reed off in the shuttle, and went to the bridge. Where he heard Jon get shot. In graphic aural detail, thanks to the open comm link.

It was, as T'Pol later explained, an accident. As well as being a nervous people, the Republikians were trigger-happy. The Republikian spokesbeing assured them that the low-ranking soldier who'd fired the weapon would be properly disciplined, but that didn't make Trip feel any better. He paced the bridge, swearing and using colourful regio-specific expressions Dr. Phlox would have, under any other circumstances, rushed to document, until Reed told him they were coming back to the ship. Whereupon he went to the shuttle bay and waited until they arrived.

It was the longest wait of his life. When the shuttle finally docked and Jon stepped off, a first aid kit bandage around his left knee and an arm slung casually over T'Pol and Malcolm's shoulders, Trip felt like bursting into tears. Instead, he did something even more embarrassing. He flung his arms around his Captain and kissed him on the lips.

Malcolm coughed. T'Pol and Dr. Phlox watched impassively, obviously fascinated by this chance to observe a new type of human interaction. When, after a moment, Trip realized what he was doing and stopped, Jon gave an embarrassed smile, clapped him on the shoulder and said:

"Relax, Hardy, I'm not dying yet." Which meant, of course, that instead of being able to immediately forget it had ever happened, Trip had to listen to Jon explain the story of Horatio Nelson's last words. Learning that the great hero's last gasp had, in fact, been "Kismet, Hardy" and not the kinkier popular misapprehension hadn't made Trip feel any better.

****

If he was honest—and after three-quarters of a bottle of bourbon, Trip was brutally honest—Jon had always been special. Different from his other friends. They told each other things Trip couldn't imagine discussing with anyone else. Early in their friendship, they'd even managed to break down the last taboo of male-male conversation, and they often talked about their feelings. Jon was the only person in the world who knew just how seriously Trip took his work, and how hard he pushed himself to succeed. Trip, as far as he could tell, was the only person who really knew what it meant to Jon to be given this assignment. And Jon had been the first to know how Trip felt about Natalie, even before Natalie herself.

It was easy to tell him all this stuff, because Jon listened, better than most women could, and he always knew just what to say. Trip had once heard a guy in a bar say that he preferred male lovers to female ones, because men knew what men liked. At the time, Trip had picked up his beer and moved to the other side of the room, but he could kind of see what the guy meant. Not from the sex angle, of course, Trip liked women and couldn't see why any guy would want to be with a—yuck—guy when there were women around. But, emotionally, it was the same with him and Jon. Jon knew what to say, because he knew how Trip felt. He'd felt the same way himself, so he understood him in a way no woman, even Natalie, ever could.

Not, of course, Trip thought, that Jon was unattractive. Trip liked women, but he wasn't blind. He noticed the way Jon looked, in the same way he noticed, say, a cute dog or a really well designed bridge. At least, that's what he'd told himself, until one summer afternoon in San Francisco when they'd decided to play football. Jon wanted to play touch football, but Trip laughed at him. Touch football was for wusses and Kennedys. There had been a picture of Enrique and Miguel Kennedy playing it on the cover of New Time just weeks earlier. Trip's insistence on playing a man's sport, tackle football, had led to good-natured insults from Jon, which he countered by casting aspersions on the masculinity of anyone who chose to play water polo. Aspersions which Trip immediately regretted when Jon jumped on him. They rolled around for a while, until Trip couldn't handle it any more and gave in to touch football just so he'd have an excuse to get out of Jon's grasp. Not because he had a hard-on or anything, but because he was wondering what it would be like to sleep with Jon. Literally. Lying on the ground with Jon on top of him, he'd imagined, to his extreme horror, what it might be like to spend a night in Jon's strong and very well developed arms.

Which was about as un-macho as you could get. Even now, years later, Trip blushed at the memory, and he took another swallow of bourbon to calm himself down. If he'd wanted to fuck Jon, that would have been one thing. With a few drinks inside him and a sympathetic audience, a guy could just about swing that into something at least a little bit manly. Too much testosterone to save it for one sex. Why deprive half the population of such a great thing, ha ha ha. But no, Trip had wanted to snuggle, for God's sake. With his best friend. Because Jon was big and strong and looked—Trip couldn't believe the words had entered his mind, but there they were—like he would protect him.

He'd dreamed about it almost every night after that. He tried to force himself to stop, but of course that just made it worse. Naturally—if there was anything natural about this—after a few months, sex started to insinuate itself into the dreams. It was subtle, at first. Dream Jon would move his hands in a way that Dream Trip didn't find at all objectionable. Real Trip, however, started to jump whenever he saw his friend, convinced that Jon knew exactly what he was thinking and was about to punch him in the face and leave forever. Then, when Real Jon was almost convinced Trip had cracked up, Dream Jon started to do things with his mouth that were even better than what he'd done with his hands. Or were they worse? Eventually, Dream Jon brought out that large and relatively attractive portion of his anatomy Trip had only ever seen in the Academy shower room, Real Trip started waking up with wet sheets, and Real Jon told him he was working too hard and should take it easier.

In the past, when something bothered him as much as these dreams, he'd talked to Jon about it. For obvious reasons, that was out of the question here, so Trip settled for the next best thing. He talked to Natalie. As nonchalantly as possible, he broached the subject when they were sitting at home one day, cuddled up on the sofa in exactly the way he and Jon cuddled in the dreams. Although he was trying not to think about that.

"Do you ever have dreams about your friends?" Trip thought he sounded conversational, if not suave, but Natalie looked at him like he'd gone crazy.

"What?"

"You know." He smiled, to reassure her this was just a typical, meaningless couple's conversation. "Do you ever dream about your friends?"

"I guess so."

"When?"

"I don't know, Trip." She considered it. "The other night, I dreamed Julie Barrett was frying eggs in the kitchen. How's that?" Trip stared at the wall.

"I meant more…erotic dreams."

"Oh, God." Natalie pushed his arm away and moved to the other end of the sofa. "Is this a jealousy thing? Because I've told you a million times, Chad and I were just talking."

"I'm not jealous," But he made a mental note to kick Chad's ass next time he saw him. "What I want to know is, do you ever have erotic dreams about your…" He could barely get the words out. "Women friends?" Natalie smirked a little, then scowled, as if she didn't know whether she should be turned on or furious. Trip could sympathize. He didn't know, either.

"So it's a kinky thing."

"Please, Natalie."

"Is this what you and your buddies talk about? How intellectual. I bet Jon's Sam is a full-fledged lesbian. I can just imagine the stories he regales you with."

"Natalie, I'm serious." His voice was a little louder and a little more irritable than he'd planned. Natalie looked at him for a long moment, then said:

"When I was about eighteen, I dreamed I was wrestling in a bowl of pudding with my best friend Amy. Satisfied?" If he'd been a normal guy, he knew he would have been. Hell, if he'd been a normal guy, that image could have kept him entertained for months. But Trip was convinced he'd left normal behind the day he'd rolled around the football field with Jonathan Archer.

"That's the only time?"

"As far as I remember. Why? What's all this about?" Natalie's smile was more convinced this time. "Are you having dreams about someone?"

"No, of course not." He stood up. "Are you hungry? Let's eat."

"Wait a second." Natalie grinned. "You are having dreams about someone. Who is it? If it's Brian, honey, trust me, you could do a lot better."

"It's not Brian," he said, before he realized this was tantamount to admitting it was someone. Which was exactly why he hadn't become a lawyer.

"So who is it? Rich? Jason?" She seemed to be enjoying this far too much.

"It's no one, OK? Let's just forget it."

"It's Jon, isn't it?" When Trip didn't immediately reply, Natalie laughed and clapped her hands gleefully. "It is Jon! I have to say, of all your friends, that's probably the best choice."

"Natalie…"

"He's cute. But you obviously know that."

"Natalie, please." But she didn't know when to quit. Neither did he. It was one of the things that had brought them together, but at this precise moment, Trip chose not to remember that.

"Trip and Johnny, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G."

"Natalie."

"First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Trippy with the baby carriage."

"For God's sake…" He frowned, since this was back in the days when he'd never heard of the Xyrillians. "Why does it have to be me with the baby carriage?" Natalie snickered in a way that, until just then, Trip had found endearing.

"Come on, honey. You're more domestic than I am. I swear, if the two of you got together, you'd be ironing his uniforms and changing little Johnny's diapers within a couple of months."

"That's bullshit, Natalie." But it came back to him anyway. That night, instead of opening in the bedroom, Trip's dream started with him standing in the kitchen, frying eggs on the stove while simultaneously trying to keep six babies, three in blue, three in pink and all with Jon's face, from crying the house down. As soon as he got one quiet, another two or three would start screaming and he ran from one end of the kitchen to the other, juggling babies and eggs. Finally, Jon came in, wearing an old-fashioned coat and hat that came straight from the "I Love Lucy" marathon Natalie had forced Trip to watch before they went to bed. Throwing off his fedora, Jon said,

"Hiya, babe," in the voice he only ever used in Trip's dreams, bent Trip backwards and kissed him hard, squishing two babies between them. Then he looked at the frying pan, made a face, and said: "Eggs again?" Trip woke up angry and sweating. Maybe it was true, he thought as he looked at Natalie snoring beside him. Men were pigs.

Natalie wasn't cruel enough to mention anything to Jon, but she did take to calling Trip 'Mrs. Archer', particularly when they were fighting. They fought a lot after Jon, barely able to contain his excitement, told Trip they'd both been assigned to the Enterprise. Natalie had been at her most sarcastic then, giving him lingerie catalogues (which Trip enjoyed more than she'd intended him to) with notes like "Jon would like the red one on page 17", and saying things like:

"Isn't that lovely, Mrs. Archer. Be sure to let me know when the blessed event takes place. I'll knit a pair of booties." Trip didn't care. He knew she'd get over it, although hopefully not before next season's Victoria's Secret came out, and he was too excited to pay much attention to her, anyway. Not only was he starting a great new job, he was going to be with Jon. Jon had made sure of that. He downplayed his role in getting Trip the job, of course, but Trip didn't believe him. The idea that Jon had specifically requested him for the mission, had actually fought Starfleet command to get him hired, filled Trip with a gooey sentimentality none of his hard-living buddies and few, if any, of his girlfriends would have suspected him capable of. He would, Trip discovered, with less shame than usual, have been happy in the engine room of an Earth-bound cargo ship if Jon was by his side. And he would be miserable as hell, even on the Enterprise, if Jon wasn't there.

****

In his 'Enterprise' quarters, Trip emptied the bourbon bottle and tried to put it on the table. He missed, and it fell to the floor, rolling against the sofa. He sighed. That, he remembered miserably, was what had been running through his mind when he was trapped on the bridge, listening, helpless, to the Republikian weapons and Jon's agony. Life without Jon wasn't worth living. Trip would have preferred to be down there himself, taking the shots for his captain. He would happily die in Jon's place, if he had to, but he'd much rather they both lived to spend many more years together. Trip closed his eyes and leaned back. It was at this point his snarky inner voice, the one that only came out when he was drunk but which gave him some idea of how annoying he could be for other people, made an appearance. Well, Trip, you old bastard, he told himself, you've gone and done it now, he berated himself. In love with your best friend. Who's also your boss. Did your mama raise you to be dumber than a box of hammers, or did you pick that up all by yourself?

"What should I do?" he asked out loud. Seems obvious to me, boy. Tell him. "What?" Listen, pal. You didn't exactly pick the easiest job in the world. Chances are, either one of you could die any given day. Hostile species, mechanical accidents, shuttle crashes… "Food poisoning," Trip put in, helpfully. Damn straight. If it's gonna happen, it's gonna happen, right? But do you want it to happen without him ever knowing? "No. I don't." Well, then, what you waiting for? An engraved invitation? "But he's not…I mean, he doesn't…" Jesus, boy, you ain't never been scared to put the moves on nobody before. "What if he says no?" What if he says yes? Life's about risk, you fucking coward. Unless you'd rather just climb back into that closet Natalie always said you had. "I'd forgotten about that." It was a generalized insult of hers, belonging to the "Mrs. Archer" era. "She could be a real bitch when she wanted to." I spent years trying to tell you that, buddy.

As soon as he left his cabin, Trip felt the ship start to roll and sway like they were at sea. Steadying himself against the wall, he headed for the captain's cabin, wondering if they were under attack or passing through an asteroid belt or something. The really amazing thing was, the few night-shift workers he ran into didn't seem to be having any trouble walking. It was that which made Trip decide to continue to Jon's instead of detouring to check on the engines. If the ensigns were still on their feet, he knew there was time to drop by Johnny's for a quick declaration of love and, hopefully, a bit more kissing before he went to see if the ship was falling apart. Also, for some reason, he couldn't quite remember where the engine room was.

It took him three tries to find Jon's cabin, but he eventually got it right. He banged on the door, then leaned back against the doorframe, suddenly fascinated by the whole idea of space travel. He'd never, he realized, really thought about it before, but here they were, in fucking space, for Christ's sake. Space, that big black thing in the sky he used to look at from his bedroom window when he was a kid. Australia was pretty far out there, but, Jesus, space. You didn't get much more out there than that. He smiled at the wall. Space, the final fucking frontier.

"Trip?" At the sound of Jon's voice, Trip whirled around fast enough to make himself dizzy. Not that it took much. Jon was standing in his shorts and T-shirt, a bandage around his knee, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Looking so goddamn sexy, Trip could have had him right there in the hall. Trip couldn't believe he'd spent so long in denial. He wanted to take Jon in his arms. He wanted to do everything he'd dreamed about, and some other stuff he hadn't thought of yet. He wanted to tell Jon how much he loved him, and, while Trip didn't really have a clear idea of what a sonnet was, he wanted to write one for him. At the moment, however, all he could manage was:

"Hi."

"Are you OK? Is something wrong?" Trip loved it when Jon looked all serious and concerned. It was, he decided, his favourite Jon expression.

"No, I'm real good." Jon smiled, and that one jumped to the top of the Jon expression hit parade.

"You're drunk." Trip shook his head, then remembered something Natalie the Bitch had once said about honesty in relationships.

"Just a little. Kentucky bourbon. But only one bottle."

"You drank an entire bottle of bourbon?" Concerned Jon was back. "How are you still standing?" By leaning against the door, as Trip discovered when he stepped out, tripped on a deceptively large carpet fluff, and landed in Jon's cabin, sprawled inelegantly over its occupant.

"You OK?" He giggled, looking down at the captain. Who seemed less than amused.

"If I could just remind you, Trip, I nearly had my leg severed this afternoon."

"Right. Sorry." Immediately contrite, Trip rolled off his friend and pulled him across the floor, until they were sitting with their backs against the bed. He kept his arms around Jon the whole time. He'd spent nine years not touching him. There was a lot of catching up to do.

"Why are you here, Trip?" Long-suffering, vaguely amused Jon asked. Trip smiled and tried to focus on the captain's eyes.

"Something to tell you."

"What?" Good question. Trip closed his eyes, trying to remember. His snarky drunken inner voice provided the answer. You love him, you asshole.

"Right." He opened his eyes and looked at Jon. "I love you." Vaguely amused Jon turned into seriously amused Jon, who put his arms around Trip. Just, Trip was ecstatic to notice, like in the dreams.

"I love you, too." They were the words he'd been waiting years to hear. For a second, Trip thought he was going to burst into tears. But, just like he'd done earlier in the day, he decided to do something more productive instead. He leaned forward and kissed Jon.

Jon stiffened as soon as his friend's lips touched him, but Trip didn't see that as a bad thing. Convinced Jon was enjoying this as much as he was, he opened his mouth just enough to push his tongue between Jon's lips. And immediately found himself sitting alone, while Jon jumped up and hobbled his way to the other side of the cabin.

"What the hell are you doing, Trip?" Trip blinked. It seemed obvious to him, and he was drunk, for God's sake.

"Kissing you," he explained, in case Jon wasn't familiar with the custom. "I love you," he repeated, just so Jon knew he wasn't looking for a one-night stand or anything like that. Jon shook his head, blushing slightly. Trip thought it was sweet.

"Look, Trip, you're very drunk." "I know what I'm doing," Trip snapped. If there was one thing he hated, it was people who thought he was incapacitated after a couple of drinks. "You said you loved me," he added, crossly. He hadn't imagined that. Unless…

"I do. Like a brother." Jon sighed heavily. "We'll talk about it tomorrow, OK?"

"Fine." Trip pulled himself to his feet, a difficult task since the asteroid belt or alien attack or whatever it was seemed to have worsened, and the ship was rolling more than ever. "I guess I'll go home." With as much dignity as he could muster, he stalked over to the front door and opened it to see someone had transported Jon's entire bathroom, including towels and bottles of aftershave, into the hallway.

"You can't go like that." Jon frowned. "People will see you."

"So what?" Trip opened another door to see the bathroom had disappeared, to be replaced by rows of neatly pressed Starfleet uniforms.

"You're the Chief Engineer. They're supposed to respect you." He stood for a moment, then said: "Come on. You'd better sleep here." "But will you respect me in the morning?" Trip joked, but it was a token protest. He knew Jon loved him. He'd said it, hadn't he? It was just like him to try and take back his true feelings by claiming he'd meant brotherly love. Brotherly love, my ass, Trip thought, then grinned.

"Come on." Jon smiled a little and put an arm around Trip's shoulders. Trip collapsed into him and let himself be dragged towards Jon's bed.

"Which side's yours, Johnny?" He asked, as Jon lay him down. "I usually like the left, myself, but if you prefer it, I can live with the right. What do you think?" Trip rolled from one side of the bed to the other, then thought the better of it as nausea rose in his throat.

"I'm sleeping on the floor. And here," Jon disappeared into the bathroom and reappeared with a bowl, which he placed next to the bed. "Lose the bourbon on my bed and I'll kill you, OK?"

"OK, honey." Trip smiled, suddenly very, very satisfied. "Night, darling."

"Good night, Trip." There was a chuckle in his voice as Jon retreated onto the sofa.

****

It had been, truth be told, a bit of a rough day for Jonathan Archer. First, there had been the incident with the trigger- happy Republikian soldier. Although he put on a brave face for the crew, it had been excruciatingly painful, not to mention frightening. If it hadn't been for T'Pol and Malcolm and their quick first aid, he was certain he would have lost his leg and his job. Because, while Starfleet claimed to be an equal- opportunity employer, they weren't enlightened enough to put a one-legged officer in charge of their flagship.

If that wasn't enough, he had no sooner stepped back on board his beloved ship than his best friend flung himself into his arms and kissed him. Which hadn't been the welcome Jon was expecting. Not that he minded finally getting to feel Trip's lips against his own. He'd been waiting nine years for just such an opportunity. He just wished Trip had chosen a more appropriate, private moment, instead of doing it in the shuttle bay, in front of Malcolm, T'Pol and Dr. Phlox. Overwhelmed by shock, embarrassment and hastily administered pain medication, the only thing Jon had thought to say was some flippant remark about Horatio Nelson's supposed last words. Kismet, and not kiss me, Hardy. Of course, he had then been forced to explain the allusion to Phlox and T'Pol, which was the last thing he felt like doing.

When he got out of surgery, he wanted to see Trip, but Phlox insisted he go straight to his quarters. Jon had rather hoped Trip might be waiting for him there, but of course he wasn't. Thanks to the drugs, he dropped off quickly, only to be awoken a few hours later by his best friend, who just happened to be excessively drunk.

Not tipsy, or sloshed, or even hammered, but flat out drunk. Which wasn't surprising, once Jon learned Trip had downed a bottle of bourbon. Muttering something unintelligible, he had fallen into the cabin, flattening Jon beneath him. Pleasurable as the feeling was, Jon's medication was beginning to wear off, and, wincing, Jon reminded Trip of his injury. The next thing he knew, Trip was declaring his everlasting love, and Jon finally got the chance to say the words he'd been waiting nine years to utter. I love you, Trip. Then, before he knew it, Trip was kissing him again. And Jon felt just as uncomfortable as he had when Trip had done it in the shuttle bay. Because Trip was too drunk to know what he was doing, and Jon wasn't too drugged up to know Trip couldn't want this. Trip liked girls. Jon knew that like he knew two plus two equalled four, and that every new species they encountered would offer them something disgusting to eat. It was a fact: unquestionable, undeniable and absolute. This was just a momentary aberration, a combination of liquor and shock.

So Jon chickened out. Muttering something about brotherly love, Jon watched Trip fumble around his quarters for a minute, before taking pity on his friend and offering him his bed. Tempting as it was to join him, Jon rolled out his sleeping bag and spent the rest of the night at Trip's side, on the floor. It was, he told himself, probably better for his leg, anyway.

Jon thought it would be best if he was gone when Trip woke up, to spare them both embarrassment. Trip the embarrassment of not knowing what he'd done, and Jon the embarrassment of knowing all too well. Unfortunately, the pain in his leg incapacitated him more than he'd expected, and he was still dragging himself around the bathroom when he heard a groaning from the bed.

Jon poked his head out the door to see Porthos sniffing at their guest, who had his head buried in his arms. Jon took a deep breath, reminded himself that this was, after all, Trip, his best friend of nearly a decade, and said:

"Morning." He got a grunt in return. "How's your head?"

"Do me a favour and kill me now," was the, almost unintelligible, grunted reply. Jon couldn't help but smile.

"But then I'd get in trouble."

"I think it'd be worth it." Trip removed his arms and winced at the light, which Jon had deliberately kept turned down. "Did I do anything stupid?" The question took Jon aback, so much so that he blurted:

"What would be stupid?" Before he could think better of it.

"I don't know." Trip turned bleary, bloodshot eyes on him. "Remember that time we ended up at a snake handlers' revival meeting?" Jon did remember it.

"You got right into that. They thought they had a convert." Until Trip got onto the stage and was actually presented with the snake to handle, at which point he looked at the minister, said, "Are you guys fucking nuts?" And, with great dignity, passed out.

"I guess I didn't do that. Unless Phlox has a medicinal cobra in one of his cages." Porthos jumped off the bed and came to lick his master.

"No," Jon admitted, petting his dog, because it was safer, and more permissible, than petting his friend. He wondered what the odds were that he could get away without ever mentioning what, exactly, Trip had done. Slim, at best. After all, three people had witnessed the first kiss, and two of them didn't exactly have tact amongst their arsenal of qualities. Jon could clearly picture he and Trip showing up at the captain's table only to have T'Pol ask, with polite curiosity, if they'd continued their oral exploration in private. "You did…" Jon trailed off, unsure how to phrase it. Finally, he decided that there was only one way. Trying, and failing, not to blush, he stared at the dog and continued: "Kiss me."

The silence was deafening. Jon had often heard the expression, but he had never actually witnessed it before. Before he suffered permanent hearing damage, Jon broke it with:

"But it was no big deal…"

"Jon…" He sat up and Jon tried not to notice that he wasn't wearing a shirt. Or underwear. And the sheet had bunched itself around his knees.

"Trip." Absently, Trip pulled the sheet up to his waist, and that was one less thing for Jon to worry about. Unfortunately. "Really." Trip sighed, and Jon took advantage of the moment to say: "I'd better get to the bridge."

"Wait a second, OK?" Trip squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Finally, his broad, well-muscled chest expanded as he took a deep breath and said: "Jon, you know I like girls, right?"

"Right." Jon wasn't upset, he told himself. After all, this wasn't anything he didn't already know. Hadn't already witnessed, countless times, to his never-ceasing disappointment. That didn't make it any easier to hear it now.

"Well," Jon saw Trip's Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he looked at him and said: "I'm in love with you. I have been for years."

Jon blinked. Then, slowly and entirely of their own volition, his legs moved him towards Trip, until he was sitting on the bed beside his friend. There, Jon hesitated, until Trip leaned forward and pressed a tentative, chaste kiss to his lips. Overcome, Jon wrapped his arms around Trip and kissed him back with all the pent-up emotion of nine years, one shuttle bay incident, and a drunken night where he'd been forced to claim his love was brotherly. When it was, in fact, anything but.

"What was that, Jon?" Trip gasped, when Jon was finally forced to pull back for air. But he was smiling and stroking Jon's shoulders as he said it. A quick glance down proved that, ill as he may be feeling in general, one part of Trip's body was very happy indeed. Kissing him again, this time gently on the forehead, Jon pulled Trip in for a hug and whispered:

"Kismet, Trip."