Chapter Text
There was something to be said for alien planets, Malcolm thought, squinting up at a sky bluer than Earth’s. Especially the kind of missions where they were meeting an advanced culture eager to receive them – no subterfuge, no dressing up to disguise themselves, just talking for the captain, and looking out for non-existent threats for the security team.
There was less to be said about the whole thing when the most irritating man in the known universe was stood three feet to his left, commenting on things Malcolm had already clocked. But that, unfortunately, was just the price of space exploration.
“Room’s only got one exit.” Hayes murmured, just loud enough for him to hear.
Malcolm resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I noticed.”
Sure, the two of them had developed something akin to a professional working relationship since beating the shit out of each other, and sure, they sometimes felt comfortable enough to bat a joke at each other, occasionally. But that didn’t quite stop him from being incredibly irritating.
“If we need to leave in a hurry—”
“Major. These people are friendly, unarmed, and otherwise peaceful. It seems highly unlikely that we will need to do that, and the door is close enough that we could, even it became necessary.” He paused. “Also, we’re armed, and they are not.”
Hayes gave him a look – unreadable as always – but Malcolm swore he caught the faintest twitch of a smirk. And that was the other thing: no matter how much Malcolm channeled into remembering how irritating he was, Hayes remained, infuriatingly, attractive.
To be true, he was fucking beautiful, and it didn’t help Malcolm at all. Thankfully, on an away mission, he was fully clothed, but that didn’t stop him from remembering what was under those clothes. His arms, roped with sinewy, efficient muscle, attached to broad hands that could dismantle weapons perfectly, and his knuckles, always battered regardless of how long he went without a fistfight.
“Just being thorough.”
Malcolm offered a noncommittal noise in response and turned his attention back to the gathering crowd. Most of them were surrounding Hoshi and Archer, but one alien dignitary – tall silver-skinned and adorned in what looked suspiciously like embroidered curtains – was approaching the two of them, smiling broadly, speaking questions they couldn’t understand.
“Uh…”
“We’re too far from the Universal Translator,” Malcolm explained out the corner of his mouth, maintaining a professional smile as the alien looked at them both expectantly.
“Right.”
“Sorry!” Hoshi jogged up to them. “Didn’t realise you’d fallen behind. She wants to know why you’re dressed differently.”
They both glanced down at Hayes’ fatigues.
“He’s MACO.” Malcolm said, as if that could explain anything to an alien culture.
The dignitary’s expression didn’t change, but she spoke, and the translator in Hoshi’s hand crackled to life.
"Ah. The warrior caste."
Malcolm opened his mouth to object, clarify, or distance himself entirely, but Hoshi was already nodding.
"Yeah, that’s… that’s about right."
The alien smiled even wider, spreading her hands as she turned to Malcolm. “And you are the protector?”
He looked to Hoshi, blankly.
"Yeah," she said quickly. "That’s… warrior and protector. Sounds about right."
She glanced up at them both with a slightly pleading expression, and they nearly tripped over themselves agreeing.
"Beautiful," the alien continued. "You must come, sit. You are honoured guests."
“Oh,” Malcolm objected, looking around for the Captain, “no, I think—”
But the alien had already taken his wrist in one hand and Hayes’ in the other, gently propelling them towards a long table. Hoshi walked alongside them, frowning at the translator as the alien continued to speak, a little too fast for it to keep up.
"What is she saying?" Hayes asked through gritted teeth, his head turned back to watch their only exit grow smaller.
"Uh…" Hoshi ran a hand through her braid, unintentionally loosening it. "Something about a tradition? For warriors and protectors to be honoured with a Binding. As a gesture of peace. Unity, I think."
"Binding," Malcolm repeated warily.
They’d encountered enough telepathic species that the word alone raised red flags.
"They’re not telepathic, Mal," Hoshi said. "I think it’s symbolic."
They were deposited on either side of a smaller table at the head of the long one, Hoshi hovering by their side.
"As long as it doesn’t require any blood or anything."
They both looked at Hayes.
"Squeamish, Major?"
Hayes shrugged. "Just like to keep my fluids to myself."
Malcolm made a face. "Charming."
"Shh," Hoshi hissed, brow furrowed as she tapped buttons on her handheld translator. "Okay, the phrase she just used is… wow. It’s hard to translate directly, but it’s something like ‘joining in the sight of the stars to bring balance to the spheres.’"
"That’s not symbolic," Malcolm muttered. "That’s ominous."
Hayes tilted his head in agreement.
Their awkward little tableau was broken by Archer approaching, the secondary translator in hand.
"What’s going on here?"
Malcolm offered a tight, slightly queasy smile. "I’m not sure, sir."
"Hoshi?"
"It’s a ceremony of some kind. Some of it’s getting lost in translation, but…"
"Is it harmful?"
There was a pause. Hoshi repeated the question to the alien, who laughed with a warm, tinkling sound.
"Shouldn’t be."
“Shouldn’t be is not no.” Malcolm objected.
Archer sighed. "Look, just go along, OK? If it gets bad, we’ll pull the plug."
He looked to Hayes across the table. The other man shrugged. "Alright."
The alien woman reached for a tray presented by one of the attendants: a shallow bowl of shimmering sand, and a length of silken thread, dark and iridescent, like oil in water.
"Oh no," Malcolm said aloud this time.
Hayes leaned in. "How bad?"
"Ceremonial objects. Possibly religious."
"Could be worse."
"They just offered us rings and sacred string, Major."
"...Okay, yeah. Could definitely be worse."
"Focus," Archer muttered, keeping a polite smile for the aliens.
The alien gestured to the bowl, speaking with warm enthusiasm. She took Malcolm’s hand, sprinkling a small handful of the sparkling sand into it, then did the same to Hayes. And then the rope came into play.
Malcolm attempted to pull back, finding her grip incredibly strong for such a willowy looking creature.
"I think," Hoshi said slowly, "that part is a blessing. She just said something about ‘interwoven fates.’"
"She’s tying a cord around our hands, Hoshi," Malcolm hissed. "She literally just bound us. Physically."
Hayes hummed, watching the deft looping of the thread. "It’s not a complicated knot, I could—"
Archer cleared his throat pointedly. "Do not break the sacred knot of a species we’re trying to make peace with."
Hayes held up his free hand. "Was just offering, sir."
The alien clapped once, loudly, and the crowd echoed it, followed by a lilting chorus the translator rendered as: "Let the Binding of the Guardian and the Blade bring strength to our alliance."
Malcolm turned very slowly to look at Hoshi. She very firmly kept her eyes on the translator.
"Hoshi."
She pressed her lips into a thin line. "It’s fine. Whatever it is won’t matter once we get back on the ship."
"Just so we’re clear," Malcolm muttered, "that wasn’t a wedding, right?"
No one answered.
The alien dignitary leaned in again, beaming, and said a few more words that the translator finally rendered as: "You may now take your place as bonded protectors of our peace."
Malcolm’s stomach dropped.
"I’ve changed my mind," he said to Archer. "I’d like to pull the plug now."
"Nope," Archer replied, lips still smiling. "Too late. We’re bonded now. Whatever that means."
"Captain," Malcolm hissed.
"We’ll sort it out later," he said, in that cheerful, strained voice Malcolm had come to associate with diplomacy under duress. "Just... smile. And wave."
Malcolm did neither.
Hayes, on the other hand, gave the nearest alien a two-fingered salute and said, "Pleasure’s all ours."
Which, somehow, only made things worse.
They were escorted to the table with much fanfare; their hands still lightly bound by the iridescent thread. Malcolm noted grimly that the knot was growing tighter – not painfully so, but enough to be concerning.
"Why is it getting tighter?" he asked out of the corner of his mouth.
"It reacts to proximity," Hoshi offered. "They said it symbolizes... closeness of intent."
Hayes raised a brow. "So if we sit further apart…"
The cord gave a sharp little pulse, not painful but somehow disapproving.
“Nope.” Malcolm said, strained. “It doesn’t like that.”
Hoshi typed quickly into the translator. “Uh, just… sit closer. Closer.”
They shifted closer together – not that they had many options on the narrow bench they’d been directed to – and the knot only loosened slightly once they were practically on top of each other.
Malcolm sent a quick prayer to whatever gods might still be listening, thankful that at least Trip wasn’t present to see this. He would probably get a play-by-play later, from either Archer, Hoshi, or both, but Malcolm wasn’t having to stare down the table at his grinning face, so that was a minor blessing.
"Now what?"
"Feast," Hoshi said, returning. "We’re gonna eat, I guess."
"Our hands are bound together," Hayes pointed out.
"Work together. You’ll be fine."
Malcolm did not miss the bitten-off laugh from one of the security officers behind him.
The feast, as it turned out, was less of a communal meal and more of an increasingly concerning ritual in hospitality. The first course arrived in a flurry of platters, each more unidentifiable than the last.
Malcolm eyed a dish that looked like glowing kelp in syrup. "Absolutely not," he muttered.
"We could... not eat?" Hayes suggested, just as unenthusiastic.
Malcolm considered. "No. I think we should eat something. We don’t know what they’re going to want us to do next, and I don’t want to try an obstacle course on an empty stomach."
"An… obstacle course?"
"It was just an example, Major."
"Right. I was just wondering if that had happened before."
"This," Malcolm said, raising their bound hands, "has not happened before."
"Fair."
They looked at the plate again.
"You’re on the left. You cut," Hayes said, nudging the plate toward him.
"Oh, I see. Warrior and Protector is a team role now, is it?"
"Only way we’re getting fed. Unless you want to starve in protest."
Malcolm huffed, stabbed something gelatinous, and passed it back. Hayes took a bite, chewed slowly, then blinked.
"Spicy?" Malcolm guessed.
"You’ll love it," Hayes said, face blank.
Malcolm took a bite. Regretted it immediately. Reached for water.
They both reached with their joined hands. The glass tipped. Half of it splashed down Malcolm’s front.
"Brilliant," he muttered, blotting at his uniform.
"We make a good team," Hayes said deadpan, and Malcolm seriously considered stabbing him with a ceremonial toothpick.
Across the table, one of the aliens clapped delightedly.
"Fantastic," Malcolm said, smiling through gritted teeth. "We’re performance art."
They made it through two more courses in tense silence, occasionally interrupted by alien observers offering gifts: flowers, beads, a tiny carved statue of what Malcolm suspected was the two of them bound in thread.
"Weird gifts," Hayes muttered, tension around his eyes. "Kind of similar to a—"
"Don’t," Malcolm cut him off. "It’s an alien ceremony. We shouldn’t compare it to Earth things."
The word "wedding" hung unspoken between them. Malcolm reached for more of the fizzy pink drink that definitely contained alcohol.
Eventually, the food tapered off, and Malcolm found himself slightly drunk. Hayes, infuriatingly, looked unaffected.
They sat back for a moment, just breathing.
"You’re not the worst bonded partner I could’ve had," Hayes said quietly, tone almost sincere.
Malcolm glanced at him. "You’re certainly in the top ten of least irritating options. Possibly even top five."
A pause.
"Don’t let it go to your head."
Hayes smirked. "Wouldn’t dream of it."
A fresh wave of dignitaries approached, beaming and murmuring pleasantries.
"You think we passed their test?" Hayes asked.
"If it was a test."
Hoshi slid back into place beside them. "Sorry, we should have left you with one of the translators."
"Probably," Malcolm agreed, false cheer in his voice. "Can we leave yet?"
"Uh, let me just..." She turned to the same alien who had conducted the ceremony and began to speak in halting, guttural tones. After a moment, one of the dignitaries said something that made her freeze.
She turned, smiling a little too tightly. "They’re, um, ready to show you to your quarters. For rest and celebration."
"Celebration of what, exactly?"
"The Binding," Hoshi said. She didn’t meet his eyes.
Before he could ask more, two attendants appeared, bowing and smiling, and gestured toward a softly lit hallway. The crowd parted.
"Why can’t we stay with the rest of the crew?"
"Tradition," Hoshi said. "Bound parties... celebrate alone. For privacy and reflection."
"And no one else is coming with us?"
"The room is... uh. Reserved for bonded pairs only."
Hayes made a suspicious noise. "There aren’t candles in there, are there?"
Hoshi didn’t answer. Instead, she gave them a thumbs-up that felt more like an apology.
There was, of course, only one bed. A large bed, for sure, but only one, and it was the only thing in a room decorated with notably phallic objects.
"This is a honeymoon suite," Hayes said.
Malcolm raised his free hand to rub over his face. "Please don’t call it that."
They stood there for a beat too long, not moving, as if the bed might disappear if they ignored it hard enough.
"We can just... sleep on top of the covers," Hayes offered. "Separate sides. Like a demilitarized zone."
Malcolm gave him a look. "Don’t talk to me about military metaphors right now."
Hayes shrugged. "I had an ex who liked to use military terms in bed."
"How much of that alcohol did you have?" Malcolm asked, a little strangled.
There was a pause. They both knew that Hayes hadn’t drunk nearly enough to be dropping random tidbits from his sex life, but Malcolm was offering him an out.
"Probably too much."
"Great."
"Room's only got one exit." Hayes offered, a slightly flat attempt at humour.
“There’s a window. That makes two exits.”
Hayes dropped their joined hands to his side and looked at the bed like it might bite.
"You want the left or the right?"
"Is there a side furthest from this absurd fertility sculpture?"
Hayes looked. Blinked. "I think that’s a fruit bowl."
"I am not convinced."
What followed was less cooperation and more a one-handed tug-of-war with bedding. There was a brief skirmish over a pillow, which ended in mutual defeat and a lot of muttered swearing.
“Can I ask you something?” Hayes said, once they’d managed to get their boots off and situate themselves on the bed.
"Earlier, Sato said something about them not being telepathic and this—" he raised their joined hands, "being symbolic."
"Oh. Yeah. We’ve had a couple of run-ins with telepathic species that like to try and force telepathic bonds between people."
"Oh."
“I guess it makes sense,” Malcolm continued, desperate to focus on anything other than the situation they found themselves in, “it must be quite weird for a species that can read everyone’s minds to suddenly come across people where they can’t read our minds and we can’t read theirs… but, they never go about it particularly nicely.”
Hayes made a noise that suggested he could follow the implications that ‘not particularly nicely’ suggested.
“Anyway, it’s mainly T’Pol that has to deal with it, since humans don’t have any real telepathic capabilities."
"Makes sense."
The ceiling, thankfully, didn’t have a mirror on it, but it was made of some kind of glass-like material that meant Malcolm could just about see their reflections. He stared up at it and decided it was better than rolling over to be face-to-face or – God forbid – spooning.
"This is still better than that diplomatic retreat on Vega IX."
Hayes snorted. "That was a prison colony."
"I stand by my statement."
Hayes was quiet for a moment. “So this… this ceremony. It’s just a game to them?”
Malcolm exhaled. “Not a game. A tradition. Probably sacred, in a way we don’t understand.”
Hayes nodded slowly. “Feels like we’re impersonating something serious.”
Malcolm didn't answer immediately. “Yeah. Well. We’ll un-impersonate it as soon as we’re back on the ship.”
“Right,” Hayes said, but his tone had softened. “Of course.”
Outside, loud music started up.
“Oh, good. The others got invited to a party.”
“Disappointed? You’ve never really struck me as a party man, Lieutenant.”
“I think you can probably call me Malcolm while we’re tied together and sharing a bed.”
“Malcolm.”
He glanced over, surprised at how different his name sounded in that voice, in that tone.
“And no, I don’t really like parties. It’s more the principle of the matter.”
Hayes hummed. “Next time, we demand the translators and the party.”
Malcolm gave a quiet, almost reluctant laugh. “Next time?”
“Just in case we survive this one.”
Surprisingly, despite the music and the awkwardness, Malcolm had managed to fall asleep at some point.
He woke a few hours later to a solid warmth pressed along his side — and a large hand resting on his hip, in an almost possessive hold.
“Major?”
There was a mumbled grunt. “Think you can call me Jem while we’re… whatever you said.”
“Jem, sure. Why is your hand on my hip?”
Said hand snapped back like his hip had turned into a live wire. “Wasn’t… intentional.”
“Comforting.”
“You’re warm,” Hayes – Jem – mumbled. “Stop being warm.”
“Not my fault.”
Malcolm twisted his head up to find the other man looking down at him, eyes half-lidded and sleepy and full of something he couldn’t quite decipher. “Je–”
A series of sudden bangs shattered the quiet. They both jolted upright, hands going to weapons that they didn’t have, only to realise the origin a beat later: fireworks.
“Shit.” Malcolm said, dropping back down onto the bed.
His arm stayed awkwardly suspended mid-air as Jem remained upright, staring toward the window as though it might contain answers.
Malcolm tugged him back – for his own comfort, he told himself – “You can relax. It’s not an attack.”
“Reflex,” Jem said shortly. “Better safe than dead.”
“Yeah. I know.”
Silence, save for the muffled burst and crackle of more fireworks. Outside, the celebration was still going strong: alien voices cheering, music thudding in a beat Malcolm could almost feel through the walls.
Inside, it was too quiet. Close. Malcolm had the ridiculous urge to put distance between them, to try and pull the binding to its limit, no matter how tight it might pull.
“I’m not sleeping again after that,” he said, instead, clearing his throat when the words came out almost husky.
“Me neither.”
They sat there for a moment, both clearly waiting for the other to suggest something. Anything.
Finally, Jem shifted. “Want to… play cards or something?”
Malcolm looked at him.
“We don’t have cards.”
“Then I guess we’ll have to talk,” Jem said, dry.
Malcolm sighed. “God forbid.”
But he didn’t lie back down. Instead, he sat up too, their hands awkwardly finding a neutral position between them on the coverlet.
“You weren’t wrong earlier,” Jem said after a pause. “About it feeling like impersonating something serious.”
“I wasn’t trying to insult the culture,” Malcolm replied.
“I know. I didn’t take it that way.”
Another beat passed.
“Feels strange,” Jem went on, softer now. “Being this close to someone and not knowing what happens next.”
Malcolm glanced at him, surprised. “That’s most of diplomacy, isn’t it?”
“Diplomacy doesn’t usually come with a shared bed.”
“Well. It does now.”
They both looked at the ceiling again.
Another firework went off. It sounded like a cannon.
Malcolm winced. “If I make it through this night without throttling anyone, I’d like that noted on my record.”
“Same,” Jem muttered. “Though I might throttle you first, just for balance.”
“You’d have to fill out so much paperwork.”
“Worth it.”
They didn’t laugh, but the quiet shifted. Easier now. Less sharp around the edges.
Still not safe, exactly. But survivable.
They were just settling into what might, generously, be called companionable silence when the door chimed.
Both men looked at it. Then at each other.
“Please let that be breakfast,” Malcolm said quietly.
The door slid open with a serene chime, and a tall alien attendant glided in, smiling brightly and carrying a lacquered tray covered in silk cloth.
Malcolm blinked. “Oh, thank god. Food.”
Jem made a vaguely hopeful noise.
The alien placed the tray delicately on a low table at the foot of the bed. Then, with a flourish, pulled the cloth back.
Revealing: two small bowls of scented oil, a cluster of smooth polished stones, a string of beads, and something that was unmistakably — horrifyingly — a bottle of what looked like shimmering alien lube.
There was a silence so profound it felt like a third person entered the room just to experience it.
The alien beamed. Chattered something at them in its language, reminding them both that they still hadn’t been given one of the translators.
Jem made a noise like his soul was trying to escape through his teeth.
Malcolm’s brain refused to produce language. He managed something that might have been an approximation of a smile, and that was apparently enough to satisfy the alien, because it chattered at them again, bowed, clearly delighted, and swept out of the room.
“No.” Malcolm said into the silence. “This is not happening.”
He didn’t get a response.
“This… this did not come up at the academy.”
“What to do when your translator screws up and you end up getting alien married?” Jem asked. “Weird that they never covered that.”
“I’ll bring it up, ask them to add it to the course.”
Jem was staring at the tray like it might explode. “Do you…”
“Do I what?” Malcolm asked, panicked, when he didn’t finish.
“Uh, Hoshi. Do you think she knew?”
“She better not have.” Malcolm replied, running back her facial expressions through his memory. No. She’d been just as thrown as they had, although she’d probably got a pretty good idea of what they were expected to do in the room.
“I’m not using any of this,” Jem added quickly.
Malcolm looked at him, dry. “That’s very noble of you.”
“I’m just saying. In case you were worried.”
“Oh, I wasn’t worried,” Malcolm said with a tight smile. “I was terrified.”
They both stared at the tray again.
“We’re putting that in the closet,” Jem said.
“No, you’re putting it in the closet,” Malcolm replied. “I’m not touching any of it.”
Jem stood, grabbed the tray, and shoved it unceremoniously into the decorative wardrobe in the corner. The door stuck slightly, and he had to kick it closed with one foot.
When he sat back down, neither of them spoke for a long time.
Outside, another round of fireworks began.
Inside, the silence was now just a little more unhinged.
“Siblings?” Jem asked, eventually.
“What?”
“Do… you have any siblings?”
Malcolm stared at the side of his face. “What is this? Safe small talk 101?”
“Holy shit, you don’t have to answer the question.”
“I’m one of nine.”
Jem made a facial expression that could be generously described as surprised. “Nine?!”
“Uh huh. I don’t talk to most of them, just my twin.”
“You’re a twin?”
“That’s what I just said, yes.”
Jem let out a low whistle. “So there’s another one of you out there?”
“Fraternal,” Malcolm said quickly. “She’s much nicer than me.”
“That’s a relief.”
Malcolm turned his head slightly on the pillow. “You?”
“One younger sister,” Jem said, looking up at the not-mirror ceiling. “Very annoying. Very brilliant. Once tried to forge our parents’ signatures on her science fair permission slip and accidentally hacked a municipal power grid.”
Malcolm blinked. “That’s either impressive or terrifying.”
“She was twelve.”
“Terrifying, then.”
“The good news is she’s mostly focused on wildlife conservation, so she doesn’t do much hacking.”
A pause stretched between them again, this one marginally less brittle than the ones before.
Jem shifted slightly, then grimaced and reached down to scratch his knee. “I swear this binding thread is getting tighter.”
“I think it’s psychosomatic.”
“Yeah, well, my psyche is cutting off circulation.”
They stared at the ceiling some more.
“You ever think,” Jem said, after a while, “about quitting?”
Malcolm glanced sideways. “Starfleet?”
“No,” Jem said flatly. “Competitive alien wedding speedruns.”
Malcolm huffed a laugh. “Sorry. Yes. Starfleet. Sometimes. Usually after things like this.”
“Or the time with the ambassador who laid eggs?”
“Oh, that was a bad one.”
“Or when that AI tried to marry you to a recycling drone?”
“Do you have a list?”
“I’m building one.”
Malcolm scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Look, I stay because... I’m good at it. And I like space.”
Jem looked over at him. “That’s the nerdiest possible answer.”
“I am a twin,” Malcolm said, like that explained anything. “We’re born with double the nerd.”
Another long silence.
“I keep thinking about the fireworks,” Jem said eventually, voice softer now. “The way they sounded like gunfire.”
“Mm.”
“I know it’s stupid. I know it’s just fireworks. But the sound gets in anyway.”
“It’s not stupid.”
They didn’t look at each other, but something settled between them — not peace, exactly, but the absence of alarm. A shared calm carved out of absurdity and closeness and one aggressively suggestive alien honeymoon suite.
“I can’t sleep now,” Jem admitted.
“Me either.”
“Cards?”
“Still don’t have any.”
“A shame,” Jem said. “We could’ve played for who gets the side furthest from the fertility sculpture.”
“It’s a fruit bowl.”
“You’re lying to yourself.”
Malcolm huffed, didn’t bother pointing out that it was Jem who had claimed it was a fruit bowl in the first place, and let his eyes drift closed. “Wake me if they come back with a second tray of gifts.”
“If they come back with feathers, I’m calling for backup.”
Malcolm didn’t respond. Not because he disagreed, but because it was suddenly – just barely – safe to rest again.
After a moment, he cracked one eye open, squinting sideways at Jem, who looked a little too comfortable sprawled on his side.
“You mentioned an ex who liked military metaphors in bed,” Malcolm said, voice thick with sleep and suspicion.
Jem’s lips twitched. “Oh, yeah. He was... something else.”
“I– He?”
“Yeah,” Jem said with a lazy grin, eyes half-lidded. “We met during an academy training exercise. Sharp as a tack, real stickler for protocol.”
Malcolm blinked. “Sounds like a nightmare.”
It sounded exactly like him, a quiet, vicious part of his brain pointed out.
“More like a paradox. Tough guy, but somehow had this soft spot for me. Called me his ‘private security detail’ when we were alone.”
Malcolm snorted. “That sounds absurd.”
“Trust me, it was.” Jem shifted, his grin fading a little. “We broke up because he was chasing a career and I… wasn’t sure I wanted to play that game anymore.”
There was a beat.
Malcolm offered a small smile. “Fair.”
Jem nudged him gently with his shoulder. “So, what about you? Any exes with weird habits?”
He paused, considered the long line of girls he’d dated in an attempt to change himself. “No, not really.” Malcolm said finally, voice low. “I guess I was too busy trying to be someone else to notice.”
Jem’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t press. After a moment, he shrugged and said, “My sister once dated a guy who was really into horses but knew nothing about them. She took him to the ranch, and he had a full-on panic attack when she tried to get him up on one.”
Malcolm blinked, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Sounds like a catch.”
“Mm. Dad hated him. He lasted about two weeks.”
Malcolm shifted on the bed, the weight of Jem’s arm accidentally brushing against his. He froze for a heartbeat, then glanced sideways. Jem’s eyes flickered to his, a lazy smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
“Careful,” Jem teased softly. “You’re invading my territory.”
Malcolm rolled his eyes but didn’t pull away. Instead, he scooted a fraction closer, the space between them shrinking without either of them really noticing.
“So, what are their names? Your eight siblings?”
He hummed, grateful for the turn. “Most of us are twins, so there’s Michael and Miriam who are the eldest, then Meredith and Margaret, who are identical. Then it’s me and Maddy – Madeline – then Matthew and Melanie, and Matilda is the youngest.”
“She’s not a twin?”
“No.” He paused. “When she was first born people accused my mother of having an affair. All the Reed kids are twins, back though so many generations, and yet there was Matty.”
“Jesus.”
“What about you?”
Jem huffed out a laugh. “Well, I’m Jeremiah, right?”
“I have read your file.”
“Yeah, well that’s relatively normal, a little old fashioned. Um, but my sister is Aramintha.”
“Ara…”
“Yeah, we call her Minnie or Minty most of the time.”
“I guess I can’t really judge, since my mother named us all to begin with M.”
“That is way worse.”
“It is not.” He couldn’t quite stop the laughter escaping.
Jem laughed as well, a warm, comforting sound, one that reminded Malcolm of sitting in front of the fireplace after being out in the rain with Maddy, listening to Michael scold them.
He shifted again, and Jem’s arm brushed his side once more. This time neither pulled away. Instead, Malcolm let out a quiet, almost reluctant sigh, his gaze flicking up to Jem’s face.
“You know,” Malcolm said softly, “I never really thought about how weird family can be.”
Jem’s smirk softened, his eyes warm and steady. “Yeah. Everyone’s got a story like that.”
Malcolm swallowed, feeling the heat creep up his neck. The room suddenly felt smaller, quieter: just the two of them.
“Hey,” he said, before he could think better of it, “I am sorry about… the fight. It was unprofessional and childish of me.”
Hayes shrugged. “I went along with it. Probably as much to blame as you are.”
“Well, I’m not gonna disagree with you on that.”
“And it ended nicely.”
Malcolm stared at the ceiling and wondered why his life was like this. “Sure.”
“You know, we never talked about that.”
Malcolm – for what had to be the thousandth time that night – rubbed his hand over his face. “Yes. That was intentional.”
There was another long silence.
He sighed, “Wh… why did you want to talk about it?”
“Well, it is nice to know where you stand with someone after viciously making out with them.”
“Viciously.” Malcolm repeated under his breath. “We work together.”
“True. But you also work with Tucker, so.”
There was a pause. Malcolm ran the past few minutes of conversation back through his head to confirm that, yep, that had been the implication.
“Do you… do you think I’ve slept with Trip?”
There was another pause.
“Have you not?”
Hayes sounded genuinely surprised, and that, more than anything, made Malcolm turn his head on the pillow they were sharing to look at him. His gesture was mimicked, and suddenly they were far too close.
“What makes you think that I slept with Trip?”
“I don’t think you’re gonna like the answer to that question.”
“I haven’t liked anything you’ve said so far.”
“Fair enough. Everyone thinks that.”
“What?”
Hayes shrugged, jostling the bed slightly. “Everyone on the ship – well, everyone lower than, I guess, Sato and Mayweather – thinks that.”
“Holy Christ.” Malcolm turned back to look up at the ceiling and ignored the fact that the slight reflection was showing that Hayes hadn’t.
“Sorry. You are very close.”
“Oh, well, God forbid two men just be friends.”
Jem didn’t answer. Malcolm didn’t push. The silence that followed wasn’t hostile, just heavy. Unsaid things, curling up around the edges of the room. Without meaning to, his hand inched a little closer to Jem’s resting arm. Their fingers brushed, just the lightest touch, and Jem’s smile flickered into something almost shy.
“Hey,” Jem said, voice low, “you’re pretty good at this… accidental touching thing.”
Malcolm gave him a look. “You’re not complaining.”
“No, definitely not.” Jem’s eyes held his, unblinking.
For a long moment, they just looked at each other, the air thick with something neither was quite ready to name.
Malcolm’s breath caught. “Jem…”
Jem’s grin turned soft and slow. “Yeah?”
Before either could think better of it, Malcolm leaned in, closing the last of the distance.
Their lips met, tentative, searching, as if testing the truth of this new, fragile thing between them.
And when they pulled back, just a fraction, Jem whispered, “Told you I’m not good at taking advice.”
Malcolm smiled, a genuine, slow curve of lips. “Maybe you’re good at other things.”
There was a pause. “Things… to do with the… tray?”
He rolled back over, dragging Jem’s hand up to his face as he covered his laughter. “We are not touching that tray.”
Jem followed his movements. “I don’t know, seems a little rude not to.”
And with the position they were in, it was so easy for Malcolm to lean up and kiss him again.
“Or this is nice,” Jem mumbled against his mouth, “we could keep doing this.”
*
Morning light filtered softly through the window, casting pale shadows across the room. Malcolm stirred first, blinking against the unfamiliar brightness. His eyes drifted to Jem’s wrist: bare. The delicate, glowing band that had tied them together was gone.
Jem shifted beside him, eyes still heavy with sleep, and gave a small, sleepy smile. “Looks like the Binding’s done with us.”
Malcolm rubbed at his face, a mix of relief and awkwardness settling in. “Thank God.”
The strange intimacy of the past hours already felt like a dream slipping away, replaced by the steady, familiar weight of reality.
“Hey,” Hoshi stuck her head around the door, “they’ve said the ritual’s complete and you can leave now.”
“Thank God.”
She laughed, “Come on, it can’t have been that bad, you two got to rest in a nice room while the rest of us had to learn dances that expected you to have more joints than we actually do.”
Malcolm pulled his boots on. “Have you seen the decor in here?”
She squinted. “Is that a fruit bowl?”
There was a low huff of laughter from beside him, but when he turned to look, Hayes was stood, waiting, the poster image of perfection.
The man he was looking at was Major Hayes, not the Jem he had seen the night before, and a part of him stung, painfully, at the rejection. But, he was right. There was no need for them to be holding hands anymore, no need for them to stand so close together.
It shouldn’t have surprised him. It was easier this way. Cleaner. Still, it ached in a quiet, ridiculous place behind his ribs.
He kept his distance as they followed Hoshi back out into the main area.
“Gentlemen.” Archer said. “I’m glad to see you both uninjured.”
Malcolm couldn’t come up with a response to that, his lips still a little sore from kissing, and going off the silence at his side, neither could Hayes.
“Yessir.”
Archer nodded, turned, started directing them back to where they’d parked the shuttlepod, and Malcolm took the opportunity to speak to the security team.
“Everything was fine.” They reassure him, before he can even ask. “Nothing happened, no one needed medical attention, nothing.”
He breathed out, expecting to exhale the last bit of tension that he’d been carrying, and yet some of it remained.
“We should head back to the shuttlepod.” Hayes said, quietly beside him.
Malcolm turned, looked up into eyes that didn’t hold regret, but hope. “Yeah.”
“After you?”
“Together?”
Hayes smiled, and a little bit of the man he’d seen the night before slipped out. “Sure, together.”