Title: Space Pants  
Author: Juliette Mercutio Torres 
Email: juliette_torres@yahoo.com
Pairing: Dylan/Rhade 
Spoilers: References to "Under the Night" 
Thanks to: Kyrre, JCalanthe, and Drusilla Rain. 
Disclaimers: Andromeda belongs to Tribune.  
The phrase "Space Pants" apparently belongs to the  
Firefly fen. 
Rating: Hmm. R for a handjob? 
 
---------- 
 
Dylan's ass felt bisected in a way that an ass 
should only feel if wearing a G-string. Not that 
he was wearing any underwear at all. He wasn't 
sure anything would have *fit* between his skin 
and these pants. 
 
It was uncomfortable, but also good--rather, 
interesting, Dylan mentally self-edited. And that 
was a problem in and of itself: if he had a 
physical reaction to any interesting sensations, 
the pants would do nothing to conceal it. 
 
Which was another problem. Dylan felt like he was 
on display. He had always been proud of his body, 
but this was ridiculous. In particular, Rhade's  
appraising gazes had been very distracting in a way 
that directly related to the aforementioned problem  
with the pants. 
 
"You," Dylan said to Rhade, who was sprawled on 
the couch, arms spread along the back, his bone 
spurs making him look like some kind of avenging 
angel. Dylan was envious. He couldn't sit down in 
the damn pants. "Were not in proper uniform at the 
dress rehearsal." 
 
Rhade was, instead, in standard duty uniform--red 
jacket and khakis. The fact that he looked good in 
it did not excuse the fact that he *should* have 
been in his dress uniform. 
 
"I'm having the seams let out," Rhade replied. 
"I'll wear it to the actual wedding. I promise." 
 
Dylan raised his eyebrows and asked, with a heavy 
dose of sarcasm, "You mean to say you couldn't fit 
in the uniform Admiral Stark had specially 
tailored to your *exact* dimensions for the 
occasion?" 
 
"You didn't notice she ordered them specially 
tailored two sizes too small?" 
 
Ever the literalist. And of *course* he noticed. 
He suspected blood flow had been cut off to most 
of his extremities. "I'm going to laugh at you," 
Dylan warned, "if you tell me you couldn't manage 
to squeeze your ass into it anyway." 
 
"No, I could," Rhade answered. "But my concealed 
weapons were--" He shifted one his legs slightly, 
and Dylan, because he knew where to look, caught 
sight of one edge of the knife under Rhade's left 
thigh holster. "Less than concealed." 
 
"You were planning to wear concealed weapons to my 
wedding?" Dylan demanded, his disapproval tempered 
with amusement at Rhade's habitual paranoia. 
 
"I'm a Nietzschean," Rhade reminded him. "I never 
go anywhere without at least ten lethal 
instruments secreted on my body." 
 
"What could possibly happen at my wedding that you 
would need ten concealed weapons for?" Dylan 
snorted. 
 
"Sarah could turn out to be a siren from New Rigel 
IV, and we'd have to stab her before she ate your 
brain," Rhade suggested. Dylan favored him with a 
long, incredulous stare. "What? It's a 
possibility. Remote, I admit, but it pays to be 
prepared for *any* contingency, however unlikely." 
 
Dylan thought he heard a tinge of bitterness in 
Rhade's light tone. "Or maybe you just don't like 
my fiancee," he retorted. 
 
Rhade, the picture of innocence--false, 
naturally--gazed up at Dylan and asked, "Why 
wouldn't I like your fiancee?" 
 
"Rhade, we have to have this discussion sometime." 
Dylan said, using his tone to indicate that he 
*would* make it an order if necessary--but not 
immediately. While he was standing around in the 
pants from hell probably wasn't the ideal time for 
this conversation. He was having a hard time 
concentrating. Actually, standing around in the 
pants from hell probably wasn't the ideal time for 
anything, even getting married. Maybe it wasn't 
too late to get the seams let out on his own 
uniform, too. Or maybe he could just accidentally 
spill coffee on it on the big day and 
apologetically show up in his dress blacks. "That 
*was* what that crap about will you won't you be 
my best man was about, wasn't it?" 
 
"Just because I'm not fond of the idea of sharing 
you doesn't mean I have anything against Sarah 
personally," Rhade replied. His voice was still 
light, but he was beginning to sound defensive. 
 
Yes, *thank* you, Dylan thought. It was the first 
he'd gotten Rhade to touch the subject at all. 
Dylan had, at one point, developed a nagging worry 
that because of some inexplicable Nietzschean 
attitude about sex, Rhade really didn't have any 
feelings on Dylan's impending marriage and Dylan 
had been pushing for a reaction that wasn't there. 
But no, it was there--he was certain he'd heard 
it. "I can't imagine she'd be fond of the idea 
either--" he began. 
 
"Which is why we're not telling her, yes, I know," 
Rhade snapped at him. "I swear, Dylan, if you give 
me the 'discretion is the better part of valor' 
speech one more time, I'll--" 
 
Rhade looked away and clenched his jaw, biting 
back whatever threat he had almost uttered. He 
seemed almost as surprised at his own outburst as 
Dylan was. Dylan felt a little relieved, as well, 
as if he were finding out Rhade was human after 
all. Rhade, on the other hand, just looked upset. 
 
"Honestly, Dylan, I do know," Rhade went on after 
he had collected himself. "Any other part of valor 
is best strenuously avoided by anyone with a 
regard for his own life, so discreet is all I ever 
intend to be." 
 
"I... appreciate that," Dylan said tentatively, 
unsure how to continue. 
 
Rhade stood abruptly, straightening his jacket as 
he did so. "Have we discussed the matter to your 
satisfaction?" he asked coldly, clearly intending 
to leave. 
 
Dylan couldn't let him go, not yet. "I, ah, 
actually didn't ask you here to talk to you about 
that." 
 
"No?" Rhade asked, his stiff posture relaxing 
marginally. 
 
Dylan looked down. Best just spit it out, he 
supposed. "I can't get out of my pants." 
 
Rhade let out a bark of laughter. 
 
Dylan glared at him. "I'm really annoyed with you, 
you know," he said. "You're a traitor, abandoning 
my ass to be the only ass in these ridiculous 
things. Everybody's going to be staring at it, 
especially Admiral Stark, probably even after I'm 
legally her nephew." 
 
"It's *your* wedding," Rhade retorted pleasantly. 
"Shouldn't they be staring at your ass, not mine?" 
 
"They shouldn't be staring at *anybody's* ass," 
Dylan protested. "It's a wedding!" 
 
"Yes, and? It's a very nice ass," Rhade informed 
him with a downward glance and an almost hungry 
smile. "You should be flattered at the attention." 
 
"Why is everything always about sex with you?" 
Dylan demanded. "Don't answer that. I know. 
Nietzschean reproductive imperative." 
 
"It's a wedding," Rhade pointed out. "Isn't it 
already about sex?" 
 
"No!" Dylan said. "It's a formal event." Rhade 
frowned at him. "You're thinking of the 
honeymoon," Dylan told him. 
 
"Or possibly the bachelor party?" Rhade suggested. 
 
"No, there will be no sex at the bachelor party," 
Dylan ordered. 
 
"Then what are the dancing girls for?" 
 
"Fun." 
 
"I see you have euphemisms prepared." 
 
"I mean it, Gaheris, no sex," Dylan insisted. "I'm 
not going to cheat on Sarah." Guilty pause. "With 
anyone besides you." And here they were, back at 
the thorny little tangle he'd made that just hurt 
more every time you pulled on it. And Dylan didn't 
know what to *do* about it. 
 
"We could always stop, you know," Rhade said, 
turning his head to one side, as if he didn't want 
to have to witness Dylan's reaction to the 
suggestion. 
 
"What?" Dylan asked, pulling back. He couldn't 
believe he'd heard right. 
 
"You assume I wouldn't understand why you want to 
be monogamous with Sarah," Rhade said gently, 
"because that's not the way Nietzscheans do 
things, because I have four wives and you besides. 
I don't know why you seem to have decided that 
that was reason enough not to end this, but I 
wanted to tell you that I would understand." 
 
"Would you?" Dylan asked weakly. 
 
"I understand jealousy," Rhade replied. "I 
understand possession. I understand that Sarah has 
both prior and better claim to you than I." 
 
"Better?" Dylan interrupted, startled. "Prior, 
certainly, but better? I've hardly even seen Sarah 
in the last three years, except for letters and 
the occasional shore leave on Tarn-Vedra--but you, 
I'm with every day." 
 
"Because I'm your executive officer, yes, but I 
hardly see how that's relevant," Rhade replied, 
eyebrows slightly raised. "She can give you 
children, and she has relatives in a position to 
aid--or hinder--your career. I do call that better 
claim, Dylan. I don't understand how I, regardless 
of relative proximity, am worth the risk of her 
anger and rejection, should she discover us." 
 
"I--" Dylan ran a hand through his hair. "Not 
proximity, Gaheris. Shared experience. You know 
things about me that I can never tell her." 
 
Rhade considered this, studying him. "Argosy, you 
mean." 
 
"Yeah," Dylan agreed. 
 
"You've never considered breaking regulations to 
confide in her?" Rhade asked. 
 
"She wouldn't understand," Dylan said. "It's not 
that the work was classified. It's that--she 
couldn't understand, no matter what I said. But 
with you, I don't even have to say anything. You 
can accept the things I've done, because you've 
done them, too." 
 
"Yes, well," Rhade said, and his mouth quirked, "I 
have been told my race lacks any kind of moral 
compass." 
 
"You see?" Dylan asked, and followed Rhade's lead, 
reaching for a joke to make about the affair. "I 
need you around to counteract my self-righteous 
pomposity." 
 
Rhade smiled an acknowledgement, but it was a 
small, rather forced-looking smile. 
 
Dylan allowed himself to be sober for a moment. "I 
do want you, Gaheris." 
 
Rhade nodded once, seeming oddly at a loss for 
words. "As you wish," he said, after a moment. His 
smile this time was warmer. 
 
"I'm glad that's settled," Dylan said. He *was* 
glad--for a minute, he'd really been afraid he was 
going to lose Rhade. Dylan cleared his throat, 
almost embarrassed by how much the relationship 
mattered to him. He went on, "Because I really 
don't know how I could have asked you to get my 
pants off me if we'd broken up." 
 
Rhade's smile transformed into a broad grin. "But 
as matters stand, it is a perfectly acceptable 
activity," he agreed. 
 
Rhade moved Dylan's left side, where the zipper, 
blessedly, was located. The admiral must have had 
some idea of the problems of wearing ridiculously 
tight pants with no underwear. Rhade laid one hand 
on Dylan's hip, holding the fabric, and pulled the 
zipper down with the other. 
 
Dylan felt the waistband loosen slightly, although 
most of the pants still clung to him, adhered by 
sweat. Then Rhade leaned closer and traced the 
sliver of flesh revealed, and he breathed on 
Dylan's neck, and Dylan turned his head towards 
that breath, shivering. Dylan's cock hardened, and 
the front of his pants flapped away from the left 
side of his body, pushed out by his erection. 
 
"Maybe we should take off your boots," Rhade 
suggested teasingly, pressing his leg against 
Dylan's and rubbing his calf, "if we want to get 
your pants off..." 
 
"Forget the boots," Dylan ordered. "*Pants.*" 
 
Rhade grinned and reached in. As he took hold of 
Dylan's cock he asked, "Get them off? Or get you 
off?" 
 
"Me," Dylan said. His eyes were closed and he was 
leaning on Rhade, slightly. 
 
Rhade obliged, pumping Dylan with his hand, 
thumbing his foreskin back. The strokes were rough 
and fast, and Dylan groaned. Rhade rubbed Dylan's 
ass with his thigh, pulling the pants down between 
his cheeks. Rhade's hand on him was firm, and 
Dylan figured that if he came in under a minute, 
he could argue that the pants had been a six hour 
exercise in unrelieved arousal. 
 
Rhade had stood awfully close during the rehearsal 
ceremony. 
 
"You're hot like this," Rhade told him. "I like 
the uniform... on you, anyway..." 
 
Dylan gasped, and gripped Rhade's arm, and came. 
 
"You've messed up your specially tailored 
uniform," Rhade scolded him, and kissed his 
forehead. 
 
"I was trying to think of something to spill on 
it," Dylan replied, trying to get his bearings 
back. "I guess I'll just have to get married in my 
dress blacks now." Disappointment was not evident 
in his voice. 
 
Rhade chuckled, and pressed a kiss to his ear. 
 
Dylan turned toward Rhade, laughing as well. He 
put his hand to Rhade's groin. "So tell me, Mr. 
Nietzschean, is that a concealed weapon in your 
pocket," he asked. Rhade was grinning widely 
before Dylan even finished saying, "Or are you 
just happy to see me?" 
 
"I'm always happy to see you," Rhade said, and 
kissed him on the mouth, slow and wet and 
passionate. "However..." 
 
"However?" Dylan demanded. 
 
"However," Rhade repeated, and a klaxon went off, 
accompanied by verbal orders from Andromeda 
herself that all crew report to battle stations. 
 
"You didn't," Dylan said with disbelief and 
despair. 
 
"We've been docked for a week while you prepare 
for your wedding," Rhade replied loftily. "The 
crew's been getting bored." 
 
"The crew," Dylan said, "would prefer you let them 
have some fun instead of scheduling drills every 
few hours!" 
 
"They should be *prepared,*" Rhade said. "What if 
we were attacked?" 
 
"The only attack the crew is afraid of is that 
you'll kick all their asses if they don't jump 
to." 
 
Rhade snorted. 
 
"And I can't oversee a drill like this!" Dylan 
added, looking down at his uniform. As well as his 
own semen splattered on the jacket, there was the 
unlikelihood of his getting the pants zipped up a 
second time. 
 
"Here, let me help you out of your pants," Rhade 
said with a sigh. "If you can get dressed in under 
a minute, you're sure to be ready before the crew 
is..." 
 
~the beginning