Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For as long as Alfred can remember, he has carried with him a sense of adventure. As a child he dreamt of exploring the unknown, of satiating a curiosity he now knows will never be satiated, not really. 

That same longing prompted him to join Astrofleet the moment he had been old enough to do so, some ten years ago. It’s what got him through sleepless nights, excruciating programs and grueling exams. It’s what landed him a captaincy aboard the S.S. Pathfinder; the ship he’s admired ever since childhood.

And so when Command offered him the opportunity to undertake a five-year long exploration mission into unknown territory, Alfred had not needed to be asked twice. With the knowledge that his carefully picked crew would be equally excited, Alfred had accepted on the spot and within a month, they were off. 

It’s been amazing, so far, not counting the bouts of fatigue brought about by traveling through nothing but deep space for weeks on end. But Alfred is nothing if not enthusiastic, and it rubs off on his crew. Even when their only source of entertainment is the occasional cluster of asteroids or dust clouds, morale remains positive. 

Still, there had been a collective sigh of relief when they finally stumbled upon a small system of planets. Probes proved most of said planets to be unable of hosting humanoid lifeforms, unfortunately, but even the data garnered by the probes gives the crew something new to do. 

One of the planets had been different, though. Much like Earth, this planet seemed the only one capable of sustaining life in its stellar system, and as such, Alfred had wasted no time in putting together an away team for some good old fashioned exploring. 

It’s not shore leave, nor is it particularly comfortable to walk around in an extravehicular mobility unit (or spacesuit, as Alfred lovingly calls it), but it beats sitting on his ass and staring out of a viewscreen.

“Remind me again why my physical presence is necessary.” 

Alfred laughs at the sullen tone that coats Arthur’s complaint. He slows his pace and tosses his friend a look over his shoulder, making sure his smile is as insufferable as it is genuine - before realizing the breathing mask allowing him to live another day kind of negates the effect.

“Rules the rules.” Alfred teases instead, reminding Arthur of the same regulations that his CMO loves to quote whenever Alfred does something slightly out-of-the-box. 

Predictably, Arthur scowls in return, something Alfred sees even through the doctor’s own breathing mask. He figures it’s the eyes and the eyebrows. Fortunately for him, it does little to intimidate him. Years of exposure have desensitized Alfred, and by now he knows that a scowl from Arthur equals a sigh from his mother - it’s a sign of annoyance, but also of fondness. 

“I know the rules.” Arthur grumbles. “They say to bring a medical officer. A medical officer, Alfred. Not the medical officer.”

He is right, of course. The regulations cite that a ground team on an away mission must be accompanied by a medical officer at all times. But they do not specify which medical officer. That task is entirely up to the captain of the crew and fortunately so, that title wholly belongs to one Alfred F. Jones. 

“Come on, Artie. Where’s your sense of adventure?” Alfred says, deciding to switch tactics. “It’s been ages since you left Medbay.”

“I leave Medbay.” Arthur objected. 

“Only to eat and sleep!” Alfred accuses, without skipping a beat. “And even that you do in Medbay more often than you do anywhere else.”

“Perhaps if my captain were less accident-prone, I would be able to take more breaks.” 

“First of all, that’s not true.” Alfred says, turning around fully so that he could settle Arthur with a reprimanding wag of his finger. “And second of all, that’s exactly why I brought you along. Who better to keep me alive than my best friend?”

“You realize you just contradicted yourself, right?” Arthur deadpans. “It’s important to me that you realize that.”

Alfred laughs again and falls into step next to Arthur. The CMO sighs exaggeratedly, but this time, his scowl is less annoyed as more of aforementioned fondness shimmers through. Alfred’s eyes are trained enough by now to recognize the squint of Arthur’s eyes - the bastard is fighting a smile. 

Knowing he makes Arthur smile from time to time never fails to make his heart squeeze. Alfred lets it wash over him; has been doing so ever since he realized his heart did not squeeze like this whenever he made one of his other friends smile. 

He knows he can’t pursue it, not with both of them serving on the same ship and definitely not with them having been friends for years. Best friends, even, or so Arthur had exclaimed one drunken night. Like brothers, he had admitted in the same breath. 

Alfred doubts Arthur wants to kiss his brother, figurative or not.

“I suppose as far as ground missions go, this one is not too terrible.” Arthur relents, slowing his step and scanning a vegetational bush to his right with his tricorder and effectively pulling Alfred out of any lip-on-lip fantasy. “Remember Quasaris Prime?”

Alfred does remember Quasaris Prime; most distinctively, he remembers having been stuck on its surface for three days due to a sudden and unexpected electromagnetic storm. Combined with freezing temperatures, a hostile indigenous species not yet developed enough to initiate first contact with, and an earthquake… 

It had not been pretty. Arthur had gone with on Quasaris Prime, and it’s probably only due to his medical expertise that the away team had managed to return to the Pathfinder (physically) unscathed. 

Something the doctor had lorded over him for weeks after. 

“Quasaris Prime?” Alfred repeats, feigning confusion. He innocently kicks at a few rotting leaves on the ground. “Never heard of her.”

“Cute.” Arthur counters, closing his tricorder with an audible snap. Alfred fights the urge to preen at the praise, however sarcastically intended. “If you ever tire of space, you should consider comedy.”

“Impossible! What would you have left to do, if I no longer get myself into precarious situations?”

“I’d go on a vacation.” Arthur says, followed by a somewhat longing sigh. “I might even take up a hobby. I used to play the guitar, you know.”

Huh. Alfred did not know that, and he’s known Arthur for seven years, give or take. They met at the Academy, when Alfred ended up in his care after an unfortunate accident in one of his robotics classes. Alfred’s crush on him developed about as fast as their friendship did. He wonders if he can get the Pathfinder’s computer to replicate a guitar without it showing up as an anomaly on record.

“See? How boring.” Alfred swings an amicable arm around Arthur’s shoulders, relishing in how Arthur neither tensed nor protested. “I obviously cannot retire anytime soon. Someone’s gotta keep you spry, old man.”

At that, Arthur scoffs and he shrugs Alfred’s arm off. Alfred takes the loss of proximity in stride and instead looks out to where the rest of his away team is. They have come to a stop near a small clearing to do some work; both science officers are crouching down and taking samples, whilst both security officers scan their surroundings and chat amongst themselves. 

They should probably return to the ship soon. Considering the lack of sentient life on the planet, Alfred cannot justify his own presence on the ground. He could approve a few more days in orbit though, to give his crew a change of scenery and to give the geologists the chance to log as much data as possible. 

“Bloody hell.” Arthur curses as he jolts, appearing to have slipped on a combination of rotten leaves and mud. 

Reflexively, Alfred reaches out to steady him, but in turn he misjudges his own step. His foot loses traction on the loose ground underneath him and he quickly puts his weight on his other foot, which promptly sinks further into the mud and causes him to topple over and slide down the hillside, towards the clearing the rest of his team is at. 

Alfred is no stranger to falling, courtesy of his headstrong nature and his bravery. He knows how to protect his vital organs and he knows that the scolding he will receive later, will undoubtedly do more damage to his pride, than the actual fall will do to his health. 

Once at the bottom of the hill, Alfred flops face-first into the mud. Embarrassing, but not too painful. Apart from a pulled muscle in his leg, the only discomfort he experiences is the bitter taste of - 

Oh, crap. 

“Captain!” One of the security officers exclaims, appearing at his side and gingerly helping him up. “Are you okay?”

“Was your camera on?” One of the science officers asks his partner, amusement clear in his hushed voice. 

“I’ll live.” Alfred grunts, pushing himself up to his knees and wiping off the dirt now caked on his face. He’s lost his glasses somewhere along the way, but considers it the least of his concerns. “But I lost my breathing mask.”

Instinctively, he darts out his tongue to wet his lips, and when an unpleasant and bitter flavor hits his taste buds, he grimaces. In the back of his head, Alfred already hears his first officer accusing him of never double-checking if his gear is attached properly.

“Move.” Arthur barks as he skids to a halt in front of Alfred. The security officer hurries away to make place for the CMO and Arthur quickly kneels down in the muddy mess around Alfred. “Did you hurt anything other than your ego?”

Alfred resists sticking out his tongue - not only would it be improper for him to display such immaturity in front of his subordinates, but he should probably also not attempt to ingest more unknown toxins. The air itself might not be lethal, but they had not yet determined the same for any of the vegetation or fluids on the planet.

“Don’t think so.” He answers shortly, attempting to control his breathing so as to not accidentally ingest any more of the bacteria undoubtedly covering his entire face. He should also conserve his oxygen, considering the less-than-optimal quality of the atmosphere. “I think I swallowed some of the mud, though.”

“If you’re that hungry, you could have asked me for a nutritional shot.” Arthur says, though his attempt at humor is negated by the tightness of his voice.

Alfred attempts a soothing smile; he’s not dead, and Arthur is here, so he will not die, either. Then his face starts to tingle, which is probably not a good sign. Alfred waits for Arthur to scan him with a tricorder before telling him so. 

“My face feels funny.” He says, noticing that his words slur. He smacks his lips, and resists the urge to scratch at the sudden itch on his neck - and his arms and chest, too. He shivers as he suddenly breaks out into a sweat. “And it’s hot. Right? Are you hot?”

“Some might say so.” Arthur mutters, gently touching Alfred’s forehead with a hand - which is simply a show of comfort, Alfred realizes, because the CMO could not possibly hope to measure his temperature with a gloved hand. It feels nice regardless, to have his hair brushed from his sweaty forehead. 

He attempts to say so, but all that escapes him is a whistling wheeze. Alfred hurriedly tries to inhale a gulp of air, but his chest feels awfully tight and what he is able to inhale is minimal at best.

Immediately, Arthur’s hand drops to his throat. His fingers prod at Alfred’s rapidly swelling throat, as if attempting to find an obstruction. Alfred blinks, unsure if the rapid worsening of his sight has something to do with his lack of glasses or the allergic reaction he is obviously experiencing.

“Prepare for evac!” Arthur tells the rest of the team, and they jump into action to clean up their equipment. “And make sure to bring enough of this damned mud for analysis.”

Experience and determination allow Arthur to sound controlled and authoritative, but even in his current predicament, Alfred recognizes the worried furrow of his brow. He attempts to raise his hand and comfortingly squeeze Arthur’s bicep, but his arm feels unbearably heavy and he completely misses his target, softly slapping Arthur on his chest instead. 

Arthur ignores him and activates his earpiece, whilst his other hand rummages through his bag, presumably to find Alfred’s nemesis: a hypospray. It’s fished out without further ado and stabbed into Alfred’s neck, and it stings. Alfred wants to yelp and accuse Arthur of not giving him a warning, but all that escapes him is a choked wheeze.

“Kirkland to Pathfinder. We need immediate transport to Medbay. Prepare a biobed for the captain.”

Whatever had been in the hypospray starts to work, because slowly but surely, Alfred feels himself slipping away into a deep slumber. The last thing that crosses his mind before the medicinal cocktail knocks him out, is that he’s definitely going to replicate a guitar once this is over and done with.

When Alfred comes to, he feels as if his entire body has been put through the wringer. He feels clammy, his mouth is dry, his muscles ache as if he’s going through a growth spurt and his brains are rolling around in his skull like a bouncy ball. 

As such, when he opens his eyes, he immediately regrets his choices. The fluorescent light of what has to be Medbay assaults him, worsening the already pulsating whir that drills into the base of his skull. 

Nausea washes over him and he quickly clenches his eyes shut once more, hoping to find relief in the darkness behind his own eyelids. Unfortunately, the relentless pounding of his head does not let up and, unable to help himself, a pitiful groan escapes his throat.

“Computer, dim lights to forty percent.” 

A distinctive, British sounding voice. The knowledge of Arthur’s presence washes over Alfred like a waft of fresh air and he lets it soothe him, much like a mother’s caress would do with a petulant child. He’ll feel better soon if Arthur’s in charge of healing him, he knows. 

The computer acquiesces with a short, bell-like melody and Alfred carefully peeks through his eyelashes into what is now a much-darker version of Medbay. It still takes him a while to get used to, and another wave of drowsiness and nausea hits him. 

“Ugh.” He manages, feeling very sad and whiny. 

“Rise and shine, princess.” Arthur says, his voice quieter than usual. As Alfred comes to, he’s able to distinguish other sounds as well - the telltale beeping of medical equipment for example, and the shuffling that indicates the presence of other medical personnel. “Hypo incoming.”

Arthur does not count down, nor does he give Alfred a moment to process his warning. A needle is shoved into the skin of his bicep immediately after Arthur’s words and Alfred cannot help a jolt of surprise, which further jostles his already sore body. 

“Asshole.” Alfred manages to grumble, once injected with more indeterminable drugs.

“That’s Doctor Asshole to you, wanker.” Arthur replies easily. 

“Captain Wanker.” 

Whatever had been in the hypospray administered to him, covers Alfred’s throbbing skull with a cool blanket. Only then does Alfred feel brave enough to properly open his eyes. His vision is unclear, most likely due to his lack of glasses, but after some slow blinking he’s able to focus enough to see adequately. 

“I feel like I’ve been hit by a car.” He complains, looking over at Arthur, who is standing next to the biobed Alfred is lying on. 

The CMO is no longer wearing his spacesuit and has donned his usual get-up once more; a long, white lab coat with the letters Dr. A. Kirkland embroidered in dark blue above its breast pocket. He’s a little paler than usual, though, and his hair is messier than he would normally allow it to be whilst on duty. 

“As someone who has never been hit by a car, I will take your word for it.” Arthur replies, still looking down at the PADD in his hands.

Alfred grimaces, the memory of when he himself was hit by a car resurfacing automatically. Something about the thrill of a new, fast motorcycle and a drunk driver losing control of his vehicle. The scar on his side is practically non-existent, courtesy of one Dr. A. Kirkland, who’d been responsible for figuratively shoving Alfred’s organs back inside before sowing him shut.

Or at least, Alfred hopes he had meant it figuratively. 

“Lethargy and headache aside, how are you feeling?” Arthur asks next, putting the PADD down on the tray table to his right. “Any difficulty breathing? Any itchiness?” 

“Not right now, but I’ll let you know if that changes.” 

Arthur visibly relaxes at his answer, though he does toss another skeptic eye on the wall behind Alfred - where he imagines an electrical board displays his vital signs. Alfred knows he’s checking to see if perhaps Alfred is lying; if perhaps he is trying to be tough. 

“How long have I been out for?” He asks, pushing himself up in a sitting position. It costs him more effort than he likes to admit, but he gets there before Arthur is able to take pity on him and help him. 

“Eighteen hours, give or take.” Arthur answers shortly and Alfred curses under his breath. “It took a while to cook up a suitable antidote for the toxins you so elegantly inhaled. I had to keep you in an induced coma at first.”

Yikes. That explains the hard lines of Arthur’s face - most likely, the doctor has been up and at it from the moment they beamed back onboard, without taking a moment to sit down and recharge himself. 

“Toxins?” Alfred repeats once Arthur grabs a tricorder and runs it over Alfred’s physique. He has to, because if he does not, he will ask something stupid instead. Like when Arthur last took a break, or how close Alfred had been to dying. 

“They were made from a highly complex biochemical structure with unfamiliar molecular configurations and chemical bonds. Its properties attacked your nervous system and your cardiovascular system, and subsequently entered your bloodstream before crossing the blood-brain barrier.”

The doctor sums it up rather mechanically, as if reading it from a chart. Despite knowing that his summary had already been simplified for his benefit, Alfred does not bother with pretending he knows exactly what Arthur is saying. 

He knows what Arthur is implying however, and that’s enough. 

“Damn. That’s, eh, how many now?” Alfred says, attempting to smooth out the line between Arthur’s eyebrows with lightheartedness. He can only imagine the tizzy he must have put his CMO and the rest of his poor crew in. “Three times I almost died this year?”

“Five, actually.” Arthur responds briskly, closing the tricorder and settling him with an infamous glare. “Laugh all you want, but I will be reporting this to Command.”

“Hey now, hold up - ”

“Leave the room.” Arthur suddenly sneers. 

It takes Alfred a second before he realizes the order had not been barked at him. Several nurses, who had been lingering about behind Arthur with their ears pricked, hurried to obey their superior’s request.  

The Medbay is Arthur’s realm, he knows. It’s the one place where he is in complete control, even when Alfred is physically present. The one place where his meticulous habits and his blunt observations are not only welcomed, but actively encouraged. Arthur’s known as a grump, but a grump with about as much authority as Alfred has, and the crew damn well knows it. 

And so when Arthur settles his blazing green eyes on him next, Alfred resists the urge to hold up his hands in defeat, or to perhaps grab his blanket and raise it so that he may cower behind it. He knows better than to disrespect Arthur in his own domain.

“This isn’t funny, Alfred. Your vitals were all over the place and you went into cardiac arrest. You could’ve ended up paralyzed or dead.”

It’s a sneer, all right. The anger in it, however, is negated by the raise of Arthur’s voice, which betrays his relief and his concern. Alfred wisely keeps his mouth shut until Arthur’s done ranting about neurological damage and heart attacks and even then, he keeps quiet, allowing the words to sink in.

Hopefully, it reassures Arthur that Alfred has heard him and that Alfred knows he’s been knocking on death’s door - again. 

And he does feel bad. He thinks of the four-hundred odd crewmen he’s responsible for and of the many times he’s almost failed them, as well as the many times he has already failed them. 

“I know.” Alfred says, gently. “I’m sorry for scaring you, Arthur. It was an accident and I take full responsibility for it. You can say so in your debrief.”

He has no doubt that something mean is on the tip of Arthur’s tongue, but Arthur does not give voice to it. Instead he scoffs and abruptly looks down at the PADD, grabbing it from the tray table once more to punch something in it - perhaps Alfred’s earlier admission. Alfred can only imagine the dressing down Command will include in their next report.

The silence that follows is almost unbearable. Arthur pointedly keeps his eyes locked on the PADD, as if not wanting to look at Alfred and give in to him. Alfred, in turn, keeps his eyes on Arthur’s face, cataloging the concealed anger and exhaustion he sees there. 

The thing is; in situations like these, Alfred does not really know how to approach Arthur. 

Arthur is, in a sense, his weak link. The nature of his relationships with his other senior officers has always been professional and steady. Take Ludwig, for example. They are both aware of their rank and their influence on each other - Alfred is the captain and Ludwig is the first officer. As such they are duty-bound and dutiful friends. 

But it is different with Arthur - Arthur is different. 

Alfred has always toed the line of professionalism when it comes to Arthur. They have simply known each other for too long to stick to the boundaries set by regulations. They’ve celebrated each other’s best moments; helped each other through their worst moments. 

That changed once they took their respective roles on the S.S. Pathfinder, however. Their interactions are now carefully categorized. Sometimes, they are the captain and the chief medical officer. Other times, they are old friends. 

In these situations, however, Alfred knows that they need to be both. He knows that Arthur needs them to be both. Only Alfred does not know how to be both. And he thinks the same is true for Arthur, which is why he is acting out - why he feels comfortable enough to chew him out, but not comfortable enough to hug him, like he would have done back when they still attended the Academy. 

Alfred’s personal feelings do not really help, either. He wants nothing more than to reach out and grab Arthur, to hug him and squeeze him and to remind him that Alfred is alive and well. To remind him that Alfred is alive and well because Arthur is the best in his field - because Arthur would never let Alfred die, not on his watch. 

His heart squeezes much more terribly than it did all those hours ago. Childishly, Alfred hopes the feeling would one day show up on the electrical boards behind him; so that it would give him an opening to admit that which he does not know how to express. 

He wonders if Arthur would resign, if he knew of Alfred’s feelings. Probably not - his sense of responsibility is much too great for that. But he’d probably stop coming by for late-night drinks; he’d probably no longer invite him down for shared meals; and he'd probably no longer want to indulge him in games of kadis-kot and strategema.

“You’re on medical leave for the time being. Ludwig is in charge of the bridge.” Arthur says next, having decided to grasp onto the safety of formality whilst Alfred’s mood worsened. “The antidote I have given you nullifies the fatal qualities of the toxins, but your body will need to work them out of your system itself.”

Normally, Alfred hates being put on medical leave. Debriefs need to be written, assignments and requests pile up and on top of all that, Ludwig refuses to work with Alfred’s way of logging and filing, claiming it to be inefficient - but Alfred has a system, okay? 

Now, however, Alfred wants nothing more than to sleep. 

“Any side effects I should expect?” He asks as he fights a yawn. Something inexplicably fond passes through Arthur’s eyes and it loosens something tight inside of Alfred’s chest - his CMO is not truly pissed with him then. 

“You might experience a rise or drop in hormonal reactions until your body has ejected all the toxins.” Arthur answers, somewhat sympathetically. “Fatigue, migraine, nausea, perspiration. I cannot tell you what to expect exactly, but I’ll be on standby should you need any medicinal relief.”

“How about when I need a drink?”

Finally, a small smile tugs at Arthur’s lips. “We can drink to your health once you’re actually healthy again.”

“Fine.” Alfred says, taking the win. “Can I at least sit this one out in my quarters?”

“I don’t see why not, as long as you promise to alert me when you start feeling worse.”

Alfred’s already swung his legs out of the bed when Arthur walks over to the counter behind him, retrieving a set of carefully folded clothing for him to replace his medical gown with. Arthur politely turns his back towards him and fiddles with his PADD as Alfred changes, though he stays in the room, presumably in case Alfred needs help.

Once done, Alfred watches the hunch of his shoulders and the twitch of his hands and suggests; “You could use a break yourself, y’know. You look like shit, no offense. I’m sure Mattie will be able to assist if I need help.”

Arthur narrows his eyes at him, most likely wanting to comment on how he looks like shit, but he seems to reconsider when Alfred crosses his arms and gives him a stern look. Arthur might be allowed to put Alfred on medical leave and drug him to kingdom come, but Alfred is still the captain, and thus he’s still able to enforce nap-time on the grumpy Brit if he needs to. 

“Dr. Williams’ shift begins in one hour.” Arthur says, and Alfred supposes that’s the best answer he is going to get from the stubborn man in front of him. “He’s been made aware of your situation so he will be able to assist. I’ll be on standby.”

Alfred nods, satisfied with the outcome and with himself. He turns towards the biobed to retrieve the glasses he’s put there for safekeeping while he dressed, and as he puts them on, another needle punctures his bicep and he yelps, whirling around to glare at Arthur, who is innocently holding up an empty hypospray. 

“Fluids.” Arthur explains casually, but the mirth in his eyes tells Alfred that he did not necessarily need any more fluids. 

“Pray you never see the day where I get to stab you with one of those things, Artie.” Alfred threatens, shoving the medical gown he’s taken off in Arthur’s arms. 

“Why, I take no pleasure in having to hurt you, Alfred.” Arthur says innocently, though his smirk says otherwise. “Now scram, before I change my mind and have you stay here.”

“Insubordination.” Alfred grumbles, and he points at his own eyes with two fingers before pointing said fingers back at Arthur. Arthur, who is not even looking at him, responds with a middle-finger. 

Before he passes through the sliding doors of Medbay, however, Alfred stops and turns. Arthur has perched down on a stool at one of the counters and has pulled up what looks like a medical evaluation; most likely he is going to update Alfred’s file before calling it quits. 

“Uh. Arthur?” He calls, a little hesitantly. Arthur looks up expectantly, perhaps somewhat impatiently. “I just wanted to say sorry again. And thanks. Thank you for saving my life again.” 

“Who better to keep you alive than your best friend, right?” Arthur replies, parroting the words Alfred had said back on the planet back to him. “Get some rest, Alfred.”

Alfred dutifully salutes him before leaving, recording Arthur’s teasing voice and indulgent smile into his memory bank for later viewing as he returns to his own quarters. 

Chapter Text

Alfred wakes up feeling worse than he did before. 

He has no idea how long he has been out for, but it simultaneously feels like forever and only a handful of minutes. His mind lags and his entire body feels bruised and battered. A wave of dizziness washes over him and he shivers, realizing then that he’s lying in a figurative ocean of his own sweat. 

Through squinted eyes, he sees that they are traveling through the nebulae through the view offered by the windowed wall on his right. Most likely, Ludwig has given the order to continue their voyage then - Alfred supposes it’s a good thing they’re getting away from the planet that did this to him. 

Next he manages to find the offending red light of his chrono. It tells him that he’s been asleep for about seven hours, give or take. It also tells him that the temperature in his quarters is a solid eighteen centigrade - which is optimal for sleeping, or so he’d been told. 

And yet he feels as if he’s in a sauna. With a grunt, Alfred kicks away the sheets that had tangled around his legs. It does nothing to alleviate the warmth pouring from his skin, though. 

“Computer.” He rasps, while wriggling to get out of his shirt, made more difficult by his refusal to sit up and by the fact that it’s sticking to him like a second skin. “Is the climate control malfunctioning? It’s too hot in here.”

“Negative.” The robotic, female voice of the Pathfinder’s computer answers. “Do you wish to adjust the temperature?”

“Turn it down by three.” Alfred confirms once he finally manages to peel his shirt off. He tosses it away and it lands somewhere on his right with a sopping slap. Whatever - he’ll wash it later. 

“Affirmative.”

A melodic beep tells him that the temperature has been adjusted. Alfred throws himself back onto the bed, waiting for the air conditioning to do its job while attempting to take even breaths. Another shiver wrecks his body, reminding him that his feverish state could be a side-effect from the toxins still presiding in his body. 

Briefly, he allows himself to feel miserable. If he had just paid a little more attention to his feeting, he would not have slipped. If he had not bothered Arthur in an attempt to make him laugh, he would not have slipped. If he had not gone down to the uninhabited planet at all, he would not have slipped. 

Right, that’s done with. 

Alfred takes another deep breath and holds it for a few seconds, before releasing it slowly. The dizziness has subsided, fortunately, but he still feels as if his room is slowly turning into an oven. And that can’t be right, not when he hears the faint buzzing of the air conditioning.

“Computer.” He huffs, already annoyed with the idea of having to call up an engineer. “What is the current temperature in the room of my location?”

“It is currently sixteen centigrade in the captain’s quarters.”

“And you are sure the climate control is not malfunctioning? What about life support? Is there any damage to the hull or engines?”

“No damage or malfunctions detected. The ship is running optimally.”

Alfred swears he hears a little bit of sass. 

“Are you fucking with me?”

“Input unknown. Please repeat request.”

Alfred focuses on the ever-present and comforting hum of the Pathfinder’s engines. The continuous noise has always helped him fall asleep - even when on shore leave, he brings a recording of the faint hum so that he can fill whatever room he sleeps in. 

But the more he focuses and waits, the more Alfred realizes he is not simply feverish. He’s actually burning up - so much so that it feels as if he’s going to combust. His skin is starting to hurt, much like it would do with a serious sun-burn. It is as if his blood is boiling, sizzling against the fragile confines of his skin. 

Inadvertently, he curls in on himself. The drag of his body against the mattress is weirdly soothing and Alfred moans, before repeating the grinding motion of his lower body to chase more of aforementioned relief.

It is then that he discovers he’s not simply overheated - he’s hard. 

At first, Alfred stares down at the tent in his own jogging pants with confusion. He does not remember having any particularly exciting dream; and while he’s no stranger to randomly waking up with an erection, it seems odd for it to happen whilst he’s feeling like shit. 

Alfred lies back down on his back and takes a deep breath; it’ll pass. He’s feeling feverish enough as it is and it probably won’t do him any good if he works himself up. He just has to think unsexy thoughts for a bit. 

Kittens. His parents. Baseball. Hyposp- no, nothing medical. Uh, math. Porridge. 

Seconds tick by; followed by minutes. Alfred has no shortage of unsexy thoughts, and yet, his dick does not soften. In fact, now that he’s aware of the unfortunate situation happening in his nether regions, it grows only harder to ignore. 

Alfred shifts; the drag of his jogging pants against his dick is divine. 

He probably needs to deal with it, before calling Medbay. Most likely Dr. Williams is still on duty, and while he is fond of Mattie, Alfred does not want to confront him with… this. He’s the captain, damn it. It’s already bad enough that most, if not all, of the medical personnel on board have seen his bare ass during surgeries and whatnot. He’s not adding a boner to the list. 

“Fine.” He mutters, as if talking to some supernatural power that is toying with his sanity. 

He lets his fingers trail down his belly and spreads them over his clothed cock, testing the waters. A hiss escapes him as he starts to palm himself - his cock is throbbing, seemingly matching the pace of his heartbeat. Alfred can’t remember ever having been so turned on, and he’s not even there yet, mentally speaking. 

With a frustrated whine, Alfred shoves his own hand down the confines of his jogging pants. Fortunately he’s opted for no underwear, so there is little resistance once he’s past the waistband, and his fingers easily wrap around his own cock. The damned thing feels as hard as steel and as hot as lava and Alfred gives it an experimental tug to see what the mood is. 

His orgasm is almost immediate, hot and sharp and incredibly unsatisfying. Alfred guffaws and bucks his hips up against his own hand, trying to make it more pleasant than it is as he milks himself for all he’s worth. It doesn’t seem to help, though; the fire in his abdomen feels imperceptibly hotter now. And despite the cum decorating his fingers and lower belly, Alfred feels that he’s still hard. 

“What the fuck,” He mutters, and even in his addled state, Alfred hears the panic in his own voice. 

He’s not come this fast in a literal decade, but that’s not what is concerning him right now. Because, while he is by no means a one pump chump, even he has a refractory period of at least ten minutes. So why is his dick still throbbing and leaking in his hand? 

“Okay, calm down.” Alfred tells himself. “So you’re horny? No big deal. Rub it out. You’re a healthy young man.” 

He does not come after one tug, this time, but he finds that the rising panic in his chest is getting in the way, and it seems to act like a blockade. Alfred clenches his eyes shut - if he gets there mentally, then perhaps the next climax will do the trick. 

Experimentally, Alfred crafts a vision in the safety of his mind. Of blonde hair, green eyes, dark eyebrows. A decidedly unsexy lab coat on an entirely too sexy body. A teasing smile, a smug smirk, a scalding glare. Words like wanker, captain, Alfred - all said in an alluringly British accent. 

“Arthur.” It’s not the first time he’s jerked it to a fantasy of his best friend and it won’t be the last time, but he’s never really said his name out loud. It feels good though, and Alfred throws his head back against the pillow as his hold on himself tightens. “Shit, Arthur.”

Alfred has spent years imagining what Arthur would be like in bed. And he’s crafted a pretty neat image. Partly due to his own fantasizing of course, but also due to him being subjected to Arthur’s complaints concerning disastrous dates and messy break-ups. Because of this, he knows Arthur does not like anything overly pornographic; nor does he like to be reminded of his position as doctor. 

The rest, Alfred fills in himself. He doubts Arthur would be submissive - he is much too stubborn for that. No, Arthur strikes him as a man who knows what he wants and who is not afraid to ask - no, demand it. He would be in charge; whether as giver or as taker, Arthur would be the one pulling the strings. 

Let me see you play with yourself, he might say. Involuntarily, Alfred shivers and he resumes his ministrations, slowly jerking himself from base to tip. Just like that. Don’t stop now, that’s it. You like that? You’re doing so well. 

Oh - oh, yes, that’s good. Arthur does not give his praise freely or easily, but when it is given, it never fails to make Alfred feel like he is on top of the world. 

He dips his thumb against the tip of his cock, teasing its slit, before lathering down the precum that’s generously leaking out of it. You’re perfect, aren’t you? That’s it, darling. I have you. 

Alfred comes a second time with a drawn-out, choked moan on his tongue as he rubs and rubs and rubs. More cum paints his fingers and abdomen and for a second, Alfred feels as if he can breathe, before the heat seems to double down on him. In his hand, his cock is still hard, and by now, it’s starting to hurt and another bout of panic jumps up his throat.

“Shit, shit!” 

Alfred removes his hand from the abnormality that is his own dick and forces himself to a sitting position. He feels lethargic, and his limbs burn, but he manages to drag himself out of bed. It takes him a good few seconds longer than normal, and he leaves a trail of knocked-over furniture and objects in his wake, but eventually, he manages to stumble into his bathroom. 

Quickly, he punches the controls for the shower. The cold water that cascades down onto his burning skin feels like a parade of needles, and he hisses, but then he feels his body starting to cool off. Alfred groans and tips forward, leaning his forehead against the cool tiles of his shower wall. 

His dick, still standing at attention and impossible to ignore when bent over like this, mocks him. 

Maybe he should go to Medbay - or at least call for a doctor. This isn’t normal and by now, he’s assuming that it most likely has something to do with the side-effects of the toxins he gobbled down a day or so ago. As if his almost-dying had not been embarrassing enough.

He already imagines the gossip that will unfold. He adores his crew and he knows for a fact that most of them adore him in return… but there is nothing juicier than a superior getting themselves in a pickle. And something as ridiculous as this might even make its way back to Astrofleet Command. He’ll never be taken seriously again.

One more try, he decides. Third time’s a charm, right? 

Without further ado, Alfred conjures up a memory from a handful of years ago - from when Arthur and he had gone to the beach, the summer after graduation. Arthur had looked incredible in nothing but trunks, all pale skin and long legs. The sun had given him a healthy looking flush in no time and fuck, when he came out of the water… 

Alfred slams an arm against the shower wall and bends over once more as his free hand furiously works his cock. One would think he’d feel raw by now, but it’s as if his dick has spontaneously developed super powers; powers it refused to share with the rest of Alfred’s sore body. 

He imagines Arthur with him in the shower next, sitting on his knees and looking up at him through dark eyelashes, face inches away from his cock. The sharp-tongued doctor must be good with his mouth, he’s seen the way Arthur’s tongue darts over the rim of his glass after one drink too many.

His third orgasm is only a little less disappointing than his first and second had been. But it does not rid him of his rising body temperature, nor does it turn his dick flaccid. Whatever bit of cum it manages to spurt is washed away with the cold water and Alfred tosses his head against the wall, perhaps a bit too harshly, grateful for the brief distraction the pain brings him.

Medbay it is, then. Alfred refuses to go down in the history books as the clumsy captain who died of horniness. No, a greater destiny lies in wait for him. If he does not die of old age, he wants to die of something awesome. Like a phaser fight with an enemy alien species. Or an explosion. Perhaps he heroically stays behind on a dying ship whilst his crew flees to safety.

Something like that - as long as it does not involve unfortunate erections.

He gives himself ten more seconds to encourage himself before turning the shower off. He yanks the towel from the nearby rack and hastily dries himself off as he heads back into his bedroom. If he’s going to march into Medbay with a permaboner, he is at least going to do it whilst dressed to the nines. 

Then his door beeps. But it shouldn’t beep, because it’s locked, and no one should be able to enter his quarters without his permission. Or at least no one but himself and - 

“If you’re dead, I will personally revive and kill you again my- oh.” 

However feverish Alfred might feel; however anxious he might be of his untimely and uncool looming death; none of it can measure up to the sheer horror Alfred feels right then and there. 

Apart from Alfred, there is only one person on the ship who has the authority to open all doors, locked or otherwise. Of course, both said person and Alfred only ever employ such a privilege in emergencies. 

Arthur stands in front of him, and the mixture of concern and anger on his face tells Alfred that Arthur very much thought of this as an emergency. 

The doctor is standing in the open doorway, preventing the sliding door from closing (fortunately the corridor with the senior officer’s quarters is rarely crowded). He’s wearing his lab coat, either still or again, and carries one of Medbay’s signature first-aid bags in one hand. 

Logically, and horrendously, his eyes are casted not on Alfred’s face but on his - 

“My God, man, some privacy?!” Alfred shrieks, and he hurriedly lowers the towel he has been using to dry his hair with, so that it covers his family jewels. 

The disruption of Arthur’s line of sight seems to snap him out of it, and he blinks before turning red so fast that Alfred is momentarily worried he might pass out on the spot. 

To his credit, Arthur does not pass out - nor does the flail, flee or stutter. Doctor’s confidence, Alfred figures. Arthur must have seen plenty of dicks. Professionally, that is. 

Alfred jealously hopes Arthur has not seen many dicks leisurely. 

“Your vitals are skyrocketing.” Arthur exclaims, and Alfred mentally curses himself for not considering the fact that his health is still being monitored, despite his discharge from Medbay. “I’ve been trying to reach you for the past fifteen minutes, but you didn’t respond! How could I not assume the worst?”

Even in a situation such as this, the doctor manages to sound admonishing. Alfred would be laughing - were it not for the fact that his dick twitches with gusto, obviously very interested in the object of Alfred’s desire being right in front of it.

“Obviously I’ve been a little busy!” 

Why did he say that? Arthur falters and again looks down at where Alfred is holding his towel, and Alfred cannot help but shift on his feet. The rough texture of the towel rubs against his sensitive prick and he bites back a groan. 

He was wrong: Alfred would have gladly taken Matthew’s pity and the crew’s gossip over this.

“Stop looking already!”

Quickly, Arthur looks back up. His brow is furrowed and his mouth is set in a firm, unhappy line, but before Alfred can apologize for his outburst, Arthur takes another step further into his quarters and says; 

“Computer, lock the door. Emergency medical override Kirkland, one Alpha. Additionally, cut the audio feed and reroute the monitoring of Alfred F. Jones’ vitals towards my personal device.” 

“Affirmative.” 

The door behind Arthur slides shut and Alfred takes a step back, admittedly a little frightened by Arthur’s unreadable expression. If the fucker is thinking of putting him in another induced coma, he’s got another thing coming - 

“Am I correct in assuming your… situation is causing you physical distress?” Arthur asks, tone carefully neutral. Alfred sputters and Arthur adds, sternly; “Yes or no, Alfred.”

Oh, shit. Yeah, his dick is definitely interested now, and it throbs with so much intensity that Alfred feels another bout of dizziness wash over him. Arthur, albeit still a bit red-faced, wears a serious expression that’s making Alfred wonder exactly how all that attention would feel like when - 

“Y- Yes.” Alfred rasps. It’s taking everything in him not to drop the towel and beg Arthur to - to do something , anything. Thoughts of embarrassment are melting like snow for the sun, the longer he looks at Arthur. “It’s not going away.” 

Arthur nods, and then he worries his bottom lip between his teeth, as he always does when doing some mental gymnastics. Alfred wants nothing more than to dive in and do the worrying for him; to engage him in some physical gymnastics. 

“You’ve tried engaging in mast- ” 

Alfred cuts him off with a whine, unsure if it’s one born from embarrassment or desire. One thing he knows for sure; neither emotion is going to be able to handle Arthur saying masturbation right now. 

“Yes! Yes. Uh. Thrice. Didn’t help.”

Arthur’s face does something spectacularly funny when Alfred admits to how often he’s been jerking it, and once Alfred is no longer thinking with his nether regions, he will reminisce on it with humor, but now… 

“It might be a residual effect from the toxins.” Arthur explains, and then he steps forward. He does not approach Alfred, but instead ventures towards a table somewhere on Alfred’s left and Arthur’s right. 

Most likely out of politeness, he turns his back towards Alfred as he drops his bag down on top of it and starts to rummage in it. 

And while Alfred cannot see Arthur’s ass right now, he sure as hell can imagine it.

His eyes lower towards where he imagines it lies in waiting, covered by the white lab coat. Before he knows it, he’s on the prowl. Sheer force of will allows him to freeze inches behind Arthur - close enough to touch, yet far enough to not actually be doing so. 

But it burns, Alfred burns, he knows touching Arthur will alleviate his discomfort, he just knows -

“Sorry.” Alfred says, helplessly, alerting Arthur of their sudden proximity. The doctor regards him with caution, but Alfred can’t help it; everything around Arthur has become hazy, with the doctor as a razor sharp exception. “Arthur, please.”

Every cell of his being is screaming at him to grab Arthur; to touch him, to bury himself inside of him, body and soul. The heat will dissipate if he does, he knows that that’s what he needs. 

“It’s okay, Alfred. I’m here to help.” Arthur murmurs, and he must think Alfred pleaded with him to end his misery; something both true and false, because Alfred did want Arthur to end his misery, but not with a hypospray or tricorder. 

The towel Alfred had used to cover himself with before, is nowhere to be found. Alfred isn’t even very much aware of his renewed nudity and Arthur’s piercing green eyes are pointedly fixed on his face anyway, as he raises a hand to press against Alfred’s forehead. 

The minimal physical contact makes Alfred sigh with relief and he leans forward, seeking more, deaf to the rattle caused by Arthur politely stepping back and hitting the table. 

“Bloody hell, you’re burning up.” Arthur mutters under his breath; and he sounds concerned, but Alfred swears he also sounds hoarse, like he’s having trouble breathing. And well, Alfred can help with that! He can share some of his own oxygen, all he needs to do is learn forward. 

A slap across his face wakes him from whatever lust-addled idea ensnared him and Alfred rears back, almost tripping over his own feet. His cheek stings and the ache offers Alfred a moment of clarity - though he is unsure if he should be grateful for it, because now he knows he almost assaulted his best friend and CMO, and he’s probably going to have to resign, if he’s not going to be dishonorably discharged first -

“Calm down.” Arthur says, firmly, and Alfred immediately sucks in a large gulp of air. 

To his surprise, Arthur does not yell at him, nor does he regard him with disgust. Instead he holds out his tricorder and runs it over his upper half - and embarrassingly enough, his lower half, too. He never thought getting your dick scanned could be something sexy, but Alfred’s a goner now, anyway. 

“I’m going to die of blue balls, aren’t I?”

His attempt at alleviating the tension with a dose of good-old fashioned humor does little - the concern that niggles in the back of his mind only subsides because it is, yet again, slowly smothered under the persistent and renewed ringing between his ears. 

“You’re not going to die.” Arthur immediately says, and he sounds so incredibly sure of himself, that Alfred instantly feels soothed - so does his dick. “You just - you just need to… release.”

“Can’t you knock me out? Overdose me on whatever's in your bag?” 

“I think that’ll only delay your symptoms.”

A hand lands on the middle of his chest and Alfred startles, before realizing he’d unknowingly advanced on the doctor again. Arthur is as still as a statue, and he is still very much not looking anywhere below shoulder-level, though Alfred’s now close enough to see that Arthur is fidgeting - nibbling on his own lower lip, chewing on the inside of his cheek, shifting on his feet. 

“It seems the best way is to give in to it.” Arthur says, tight-lipped. “I suspect a partner will accelerate the process.”

The implication is not lost on Alfred, and he exhales harshly, the mere idea of what Arthur’s proposing sends him down another rabbit-hole of desire - but there is also the guilt, which tears right into his heart. Because he cannot allow this, no matter how much he wants to do so. 

He cares too much for Arthur to have him be used in such a way.

“No.” Alfred says through gritted teeth, because every cell of his body is screaming yes. “No, we can’t. I’m your commanding officer.”

“And I’m your doctor, Alfred.” Arthur says, stubbornly. “If anyone matches your rank, it’s me. There will be no penalties, you know this.”

Alfred does know. He knows of at least three Astrofleet captains that are fucking their CMO’s. It’s basically a given for those amongst them that go on exploration missions of several years. But this is not the same.

“I won’t have you feel obliged to - “

“What if I don’t feel obliged?”

The cacophony of thoughts raging war within the brittle confines of Alfred’s wanton mind abruptly screeches to a halt. Even the throbbing of his dick seems to pause at these new words; at what they might mean.

Alfred drags his eyes from Arthur’s lips, a place they had been stuck on for a solid minute prior, and he raises them to scan Arthur’s face. 

Despite the flush painting Arthur’s cheeks, despite the tight set of his jaw and despite the worried line between his eyebrows… Arthur looks serious. Abashed, even. 

“Wha - what do you mean?” Alfred manages, his voice pitched embarrassingly high. 

“My offer is as selfish as it is practical, Alfred.” Arthur blurts, appearing as nervous as he does impatient. “We’ve been dancing around this for years. I know of your feelings towards me and I am telling you they are reciprocated.”

Alfred is able to make sense of only a few of Arthur's words, but those words are enough, and the strained cooperation between his brains and his dick gives him the green light. 

Without further questioning or stalling, Alfred leans forward and pushes Arthur back against the table behind him. The contents on its surface rattle dangerously but he does not spare them any mind. Alfred kisses him hard, and deep, and thorough, finding reprieve in how Arthur’s lips part and how he welcomes him in. 

The slide of their tongues is languid, slow, firm, and everything Alfred did not know he wanted. Arthur’s hands find purchase on his arms, before they move up towards his shoulders. His skin feels like fire under every point of contact of Arthur’s fingers and Alfred all but rips the lab coat from Arthur’s person before yanking at his Astrofleet-issued shirt, in a desperate attempt to find skin. 

Once he succeeds, Arthur sighs into his mouth and then tenses when Alfred runs his fingers over the bare skin of his sides. He might be ticklish, and that’s definitely something Alfred wants to explore some other time, but right now, Alfred has about thirty seconds of coherent thinking left. 

So before those seconds run out, Alfred grabs hold of Arthur’s rear. He digs his fingers into the fabric of his slacks and squeezes - Arthur breaks their kiss and exhales harshly, his hips canting forward to grind against Alfred’s bare groin. The rough drag of his pants against his cock causes him to short-circuit and Alfred buries his face in Arthur’s neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses on the skin. 

“Arthur.” He says, reverently, shivering when Arthur’s hands run over his chest and shoulders and settle at the dip of his lower back. “Arthur. Arthur. Are you - sure? Please.”

“Trust me, darling.” Arthur says, before pressing another warm and slow kiss against Alfred’s mouth. Pleasure hits hot and pure in Alfred’s belly and he whines into the kiss, jerking his hips forward in an effort to find more friction. 

He wants to tell Arthur that he does; he trusts Arthur with his life, and has been doing so from the moment they met. But before he can gather the muscle-memory to do so, Arthur wraps his hand around Alfred’s cock. 

A strangled noise escapes Alfred, pushing past his lips and brushing against Arthur’s. He makes the mistake of looking down, unable to relish in the sweetness of Arthur’s lips against his forehead as he watches Arthur’s thumb teasing the underside of his dick’s head. Some of the precum that’s leaking out of it like a damn faucet is gathered and smoothed down his cock, and Arthur’s fingers tighten slightly around its base, before loosening on their way back up. 

Alfred’s fourth orgasm is only slightly more satisfying than the three that came before, and probably only because this time, it is Arthur helping him through it. Soft terms of endearment are whispered against his sweaty forehead as Alfred pants and whines and grunts and miraculously enough, Arthur does not seem disturbed when Alfred’s cock stays relentlessly hard. 

No, instead he pushes Alfred back a little so that he’s able to study his cum-covered fingers. When he next turns his upper body towards the table behind him, Alfred crowds against him, desperately humping his hip as he waits for Arthur’s next move.

Said move is unexpected, to say the least. Alfred watches Arthur pick up the tricorder and scan the spunk on his fingers. He wants to convey how fucking weird Arthur is for doing that, and he hopes he can remember thinking so when all is said but mostly done. 

Arthur seems satisfied with the results though, and before Alfred can gather enough braincells to ask him what he could’ve possibly been scanning for, Arthur raises his hand and sucks its fingers clean. 

The moment his fingers pop out with a wet schlurp, Alfred lurches forward for another, addictive taste. Arthur chuckles into the kiss, which only makes Alfred grow more and more mad for him, and he’s unaware of how Arthur is slowly but methodically maneuvering them through the room until the back of his knees hit the edge of his bed. 

“I got you.” Arthur murmurs against his lips. A thumb presses lightly against one of Alfred’s nipples and Alfred shudders. “Sit down.”

Alfred sits down immediately. Perhaps he should be embarrassed by how he’s behaving like a conditioned dog, but honestly? The way Arthur’s expression darkens as he realizes Alfred does exactly what he’s told, makes it worth it.

“Good boy.”

Fuck. 

“If there’s anything you don’t want to do, tell me.” Arthur sternly says, whilst efficiently ridding himself of his clothing. Alfred’s mouth waters at all the bare, flushed skin now on display and once Arthur tosses his underwear on the rest of the pile, his eyes are unable to look anywhere but at Arthur’s own cock, raised and red and ready for action. “Alfred. Yes or no.”

Alfred cannot possibly hope to say anything as mundane as yes or no when graced with the delicious view of Arthur’s dick, so he settles for a husked “please” instead. 

Arthur nods and climbs onto the bed with him, pushing him further back until they reach the headboard. By then, Alfred’s already latched himself onto the accessible skin of Arthur’s chest, teeth grazing over the other man’s collarbone, fingers trailing down his abdomen.

“Fuck!” Arthur grunts.

“‘s the plan.” Alfred manages in return. 

“You have lube here, don’t you?” 

Alfred merely jerks his head towards the nightstand on his right and Arthur immediately leans over to open its drawer and rummage through it. Unable to help himself, Alfred reacquaints his fingers with the soft flesh of Arthur’s rear and he pulls him forward, grinding their cocks together and Alfred swears he sees stars.

“Down, pet.” Arthur teases, pushing Alfred back with one hand and simultaneously pushing himself back up on his knees.

Alfred obeys, leaning back and using this opportunity to try and breathe, as he watches Arthur pop open the bottle of lube and pour a generous amount of it on his hand. Already, Alfred shifts and spreads his legs - but then Arthur reaches back behind himself and his eyes flutter closed when he slides a finger into himself.

“Holy shit.” Alfred moans, throwing his own head back against the headboard behind him, his arms straining to grab and pull and squeeze. 

Arthur is still heavily leaning on the hand he’s planted on Alfred’s shoulder as he works himself open, and when Alfred inevitably shifts in an attempt to grab himself, Arthur slips and slants forward. And oh, this, this is a good look - Arthur, naked and flushed, bottom lip between his teeth as he fingers himself open. 

His own cock pulses in Alfred’s hand, and he’s so hard it hurts. 

“Don’t.” Arthur suddenly says, and it sounds so much like a sneer that Alfred hastily freezes, terrified of doing something that will make Arthur want to leave. “Don’t touch yourself. Look at me.”

It’s sweet, sweet torture, and Alfred rips his own hand from his dick, settles it and its twin on Arthur’s waist instead. He presses his thumbs into the soft skin of Arthur’s belly and watches as Arthur squirms, his breath coming out harsh and through gritted teeth. 

Alfred watches, eyes wide and lips parted. Somewhere underneath the layers and layers of heat, lust and desire, Alfred burns with adoration, disbelief and love; and it hits him all at once when he looks back up to meet the glaring green of Arthur’s eyes. 

“Shit, Arthur, you’re so - fuck - I - I really - you - ” 

He’s not too disappointed with himself. Words as genuine as the ones he wants to speak do not come easy to him, even when not suffering from some kind of alien Viagra toxin. And the message gets across, he thinks, because Arthur falters and leans forward, seeking out a kiss that Alfred gladly gives to him. 

“I love you, too.” Arthur admits, in a whisper, as if the volume would negate the impact it would have on Alfred’s heart. 

“Please.” Alfred begs, and his fingers wander, trailing from Arthur’s hips to his ass. They brush against Arthur’s wrist, attached to the fingers still pumping in and out of himself. 

“Please wha - ah!” 

Whatever Arthur meant to say, is cut off when Alfred suddenly surges forward and switches their positions. He uses the surprise of the momentum to push Arthur down onto the mattress on his hands and knees while he mounts him from behind, his mouth pressed into Arthur’s shoulder. His dick slides hotly against the skin of Arthur’s inner thigh and for a moment, he is content with this, with rutting against Arthur’s thigh like an animal in heat.

Arthur collapses underneath him as he scrabbles to find the previously discarded bottle of lube and Alfred follows eagerly, moving along so that he can hump Arthur’s ass instead. Arthur simply squirts the lube out on the bed, most likely destroying his sheets. Alfred doesn’t care, though, he can replicate new sheets. He releases his bruising grip on Arthur’s hip and messily scoops up the puddle of lube, before hastily covering his cock in it. 

“Wait!” Arthur manages to bark, in between harsh pants. 

Alfred freezes, his hand already parting Arthur’s cheeks, his leaking cock already slicked and in position. Arthur pushes himself up to his elbows once more and grabs Alfred’s pillow, pulling it underneath him. 

“Arthur, please.” Alfred pleads, his words slurred and rough, his impatience building as Arthur gets comfortable. “I need to - I want - I can’t - ”

“Oka- hah!” 

Alfred plunges inside with one brutal thrust and buries himself to the hilt. Around him, Arthur’s walls flutter and clench in protest, and Arthur yelps, but Alfred’s long past the point of no return. 

Underneath him, Arthur claws at the sheets, perhaps trying to crawl away, but Alfred does not let him. He’s deaf to Arthur’s gasping, to the choked sounds tearing from Arthur’s throat as he retreats and spears back into him. All he can focus on is Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, and his hips move so frantically that it almost feels as if his cock never leaves Arthur’s ass. One particular thrust causes him to slip a little and his angle changes, and Arthur mewls as he squeezes around Alfred, locking his dick inside as Alfred suffers the most intense orgasm he’s had in his life. 

He grinds his hips in small circles as he climaxes, and gasps like it’s his first breath of air after a long swim. Something feels different this time, but Alfred’s still hard, and Arthur - Arthur has not yet come himself, he realizes, and worse still; his erection seemed to have flagged a little. 

“Sorry.” Alfred wheezes, realizing what he’s done, but unable to keep his hips from moving. “Sorry, shit, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Let me turn around.” Arthur rasps, his voice strained and rough.

Carefully, Alfred pulls out of Arthur and he helps him turn onto his back, so that they’re facing each other. Arthur’s face is flushed red, and his cheeks are wet, and Alfred is starting to hate himself, but then Arthur raises his legs and wraps them around his waist, pulling him back. 

“I’ve got you.” Arthur promises, his hands raising to cup Alfred’s face, palms covering his jaws, fingers curling towards the back of his neck. “It’s okay, darling, you have me.”

He guides Alfred down into a sloppy kiss, and Alfred slips back inside, slowly this time, allowing Arthur to suck him back into his heat. Arthur’s moans and trembles, a vibrating motion that seeps into Alfred’s body as he fully seats himself inside of his partner once more. His arousal, whilst still very much present, is lazier now. His cock still throbs as he drags it in and out of Arthur, still pulses whenever it slides against Arthur’s prostate and is hugged by squeezing muscles, but Alfred’s mind is clearing, and he’s able to see Arthur now, able to hear him. 

Alfred does not need to force himself to slow down. It comes naturally, and he relishes in kissing Arthur until he needs to part for breath. He’s able to watch Arthur come apart underneath him now, underneath wandering hands and slow and purposeful thrusts. The burning heat from before dissipates and is replaced by a diffent kind of overflowing sensation; something new yet familiar to his heart, an agitation that soothes him, a restlessness that calms him down. It climbs up his spine and pierces through his ribcage, soaks into his heart. 

“I’m sorry.” Alfred repeats, clearer now, and he lowers his head to mouth along the tempting curve of Arthur’s neck. He settles his lips on a patch of pale, flushed skin and kisses it, revering it. “Tell me what you need.”

“Touch me.” Arthur answers, soft and heady, as he simultaneously rolls his hips up to meet Alfred’s lazy thrusting. 

Alfred does, he reaches down in between them to grab hold of Arthur’s neglected cock. It’s wonderfully hard again, soothing Alfred’s frazzled nerves, and he jerks it slowly, timing the drag of his hand with the drag of his hips, until Arthur’s nothing but a quivering, trembling mess under him. 

Arthur comes suddenly, arching up into his hold beautifully and silently, his eyes clenching shut and his lips parting as only a gasp escapes him. The sight and feel of him intoxicates Alfred, causing his heart to skip a beat. A smoldering heat envelops him anew, but this time, it does not feel terrifying or all-consuming or primal. 

“Fuck,” Alfred whines, and he keeps tugging at Arthur’s spent cock, keeps matching his tugs with his thrusts, despite them increasing in tempo and despite Arthur breathless keens. “You’re - Arthur, look at you. You’re so fucking pretty. Wanted to do this for so long. Fuuuuck,”

Arthur squirms and paws at Alfred’s lower arm, most likely wanting him to stop manhandling his over-sensitive prick, but Alfred can tell his heart is not in it, not with how Arthur’s legs around him tighten, not with how Arthur clenches around him. 

“You’re doing so good.” Arthur all but slurs against Alfred’s lips. “One more, Alfred. Come inside of me again.”

Alfred practically sobs before burying himself to the hilt, allowing his sixth orgasm to wash over him like a tidal wave. All of his senses overstimulate and he grinds in uneven circles as what little semen his cock is able to still produce spurts out. Finally, finally, Alfred feels himself soften, and as he pulls out, he flinches, feeling incredibly sore and raw and exhausted. He has half a mind to not collapse right then and there, on top of Arthur, but he does collapse sideways, landing onto the mattress.

Someone turns off the light, it seems, and then it's turned back on when something sharp pinches him. Alfred opens his eyes and finds that Arthur has been teleported from a supine position into a sitting position; he looks surprisingly put-together, wearing Alfred’s previously discarded jogging pants, and he’s holding a - 

“Did you just - ”

“Fluids.” Arthur interrupts, and he tosses the now-empty hypospray on the nightstand behind him. “It seems your vitals are lowering back to an acceptable range. How do you feel?”

Alfred blinks, trying to process that just a second ago, he was still fucking the love of his life, so to speak. He must have passed out. And shit - Alfred just had sex with the love of his life. 

“Like I’ve been hit by a car.” He says, trying not to panic. He pushes himself up into a sitting position and ignores the fact that he’s as naked as the day he was born - at least his dick is no longer defying gravity itself, which is something.

“I’m beginning to wonder what it feels like to be hit by a car.” Arthur muses, and then he smiles and leans forward, planting a brief and sweet kiss on Alfred’s lips. “Stop panicking.”

Alfred’s heart sings; but his mind struggles, and it must show, because something hesitant passes over Arthur’s face - something vulnerable, something that makes Alfred want to square up and punch himself. “But I - ”

“Do you regret it?” 

Alfred does, in a way. He regrets the circumstances - or rather, he regrets not having had the courage to admit his feelings for Arthur before this happened. He regrets that his first time with Arthur is rapidly becoming a muddled memory, drowned by the haze of his feverish state. 

“I hurt you.” Alfred settles on saying, hoping that it conveys all that he wants to say. “I took advantage of you.”

Arthur’s brow furrows in a way that reminds Alfred of their Academy days; of when Arthur would receive a 98% score on an exam, instead of a 100% one. He’s offended, Alfred realizes. Arthur's offended by Alfred thinking he’s hurt him, of thinking he has used him. 

“Don’t think for one second that I wasn’t on board with this, Alfred F. Jones. I’ve been waiting years for you to get your head out of your ass, I even followed you into the bloody unknown. I knew exactly what I was doing when I offered my help. You say you took advantage of me? Hell, I say I took advantage of you. God, you drive me insane. I can’t believe it took an alien toxin for you to finally kiss me, much less admit you love me - ”

Alfred, overcome with a kind of fondness that threatens to make him cry, leans forward and shuts Arthur up by kissing him. It’s a gentle and chaste kiss, and when Arthur sighs and relaxes, Alfred’s heart squeezes so intensely that he wonders if perhaps, it stopped for a moment. 

“I love you.” He says against the curve of Arthur’s lips, and when Arthur grumbles ‘you damn well better’, Alfred kisses him again and again, determined to make up for literal years of lost time.