Gigi Sinclair

Duty. Malcolm knew a lot about it. It was frequently unpleasant, occasionally frightening and sometimes repulsive, but never, never to be shied from. "England," he quoted out loud to himself, staring at his reflection, "Expects that every man will do his duty."

He expected it, too.

Taking a deep breath, Malcolm arranged his disguise, trying to make it look at least somewhat natural. This was the most disturbing undercover assignment he'd ever had, including the times he'd been forced to dress as a Klingon and a Suliban, but, as always, the mission, if successful, would be worth any personal sacrifice.

"Malcolm? You about ready in there?" A sound from the other room. Time for action. Squaring his shoulders, Malcolm murmured a traditional Klingon pre-battle epithet, which, according to Hoshi, loosely translated as: "Today is a good day to die," and strode out.

Trip was lounging in Malcolm's chair, booted feet on Malcolm's desk. Malcolm winced as he imagined Trip's spurs digging into the surface. Trip, catching the expression, shook his head and said:

"Ah-ah. Stay in character, Sheriff."

Malcolm gritted his teeth, which he thought was very characteristic of the role he was playing, and said: "I sher hope you ain't doin' no damage to mah property." Trip blinked expectantly and, fighting a rising blush, Malcolm added: "You yellow-bellied snake."

A smirk passed over Trip's face before he stood up, the boots making a jingling sound as they hit the carpet. Trip's high heels accentuated their height difference even further and, despite himself, Malcolm felt a surge of arousal as Trip came close and towered over him.

He didn't want to think about what Horatio Nelson would make of a man who was turned on by a tall, ridiculous American in a Stetson, leather coat and jeans. He didn't think it would be very quote-worthy.

"Them's mighty big words comin' from you, Sheriff Reed." Trip reached out and traced the silver star-shaped badge on Malcolm's chest. "You got the balls to back 'em up?"

"You don't need to worry about my balls," he hesitated, reminded himself of his duty, and continued: "Butch." It took all of his considerable self-control to keep himself from snorting. It was worth it. Trip's eyes darkened and he grabbed Malcolm's crotch.

"I thought English saddles didn't have horns, Sheriff."

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. "And I thought western saddles did. Or did I miss it?"

Trip hesitated a moment, then laughed. "A size joke, Malcolm? From you?"

"It seemed in character," Malcolm defended himself, reverting to his own accent. Sliding his hands under Malcolm's bizarre poncho-like garment, Trip grabbed his belt and yanked him closer.

"Very in character," Trip agreed, bending down to kiss him.

By the time he regained the capacity for conscious thought, Malcolm was lying naked in bed, Trip's Stetson on his head and Trip himself sprawled at his side. Of course, Malcolm thought, sometimes, duty wasn't that painful at all.

Although Malcolm could have lived without the spurs in bed.

"That was amazing, Malcolm." Trip sighed happily.

Malcolm grinned. "You weren't so bad yourself."

"Oh yeah? You like a little role-play, huh?" Perhaps, Malcolm thought. Once in a while, anyway. "Cause you know," Trip's smile grew. "I heard Hoshi's got a saloon girl costume. It'd probably be a little small on you, but that just makes it sexier, right? And," he continued, falsely innocent, "I did save your life down there on that planet, so some folks might say you owe me kinda a lot…"

Malcolm fixed him with the glare that had cowed MACOs and Xindi alike, but never seemed to work on Trip. "My over-developed sense of duty only gets you so far, Trip."

"I know." Trip admitted, pulling Malcolm into his embrace. "That's why I'm countin' on my irresistible charms to do the rest."