Captain Proton's Blistered Buns
by Judy

Summary: Captain Proton's rocket pack propels more than his flight through space. Although the Captain Proton scenarios play out in black and white, the characters are believed to be able to discern colors.

Disclaimer: They're Paramount's, damn it. Story's mine. Copyright, 1999. Public or private feedback is welcome. Inspired (?) by an apparently painful occurrence on the Voyager set. However, beyond the initial premise, absolutely nothing else in this story bears any resemblance to any real person or real events, past, present or future.

Warning: Sex. A few bad words. 






Captain Proton's cries carried to Buster Kincaid as he awaited the arrival of his companion, the intrepid, intergalactic savior. Buster had been busy repairing damage to the rocket ship from both Chaotica's latest attack as well as from an unwitting robot's 'helpfulness' when he heard the Captain's increasingly desperate and painful sounding shouts. 

With the rocket parked on the planet, Buster simply opened the doors and let himself outside to await Captain Proton's arrival. His appearance was heralded by loud pleas for help as Proton headed feet first for a landing, his rocket pack's fire extinguishing as Proton rolled on the red-brown dirt of Chaotica's planet. 

"Harry!" Proton gasped, stepping completely out of character. "Help me! Get this fucking thing off of me!"

"Okay, okay," Harry responded, bending down to help. "Hey, stop rolling around, will ya'?"

There his friend was, leather jacket, khaki pants, metal rocket pack, beet red face, and -- uh-oh -- beet red buns peeking out from under the rocket pack. Instantly, Harry understood that somehow the rocket pack had malfunctioned and burned his friend's pants and shorts clear off his rear, exposing tender flesh to nasty looking burns. "Here, Tom, I've got it."

Harry slipped off the pack during a brief moment when Tom remained still enough to tackle. He flung the pack away and it skittered playfully across the dusty set, totally belying its nearly deadly attack on Tom's backside. Hooking one of Tom's arms, Harry helped to set the pilot on his feet. 

All the while, Tom tried to catch a glimpse of his blistered backside. However, that proved a little difficult to manage when he kept hopping from foot to foot. "I need ... I need a bucket of water!"

"There isn't any, Tom. What you need is sickbay."

At Harry's far too practical suggestion, Tom blanched. "Harry, I can't go there. The doctor'll take one look and make my life miserable. You know how he is."

"Yeah. But you need help there, partner."

"Medkit, I mean, first aid kit, it's in the rocket ship." Tom couldn't stand still, tried unsuccessfully to fan a cooling breeze across his heated buns with his hand, jumped up and down in pain. 

"Hurts?" Harry asked helpfully.

"Oh, shut up," Tom muttered as Harry preceded him into the rocket. Tom determined that climbing the steps up was extremely painful. Pouting, Tom declared, "Harry, this hurts."

"Looks that way," Harry agreed amiably. Once inside, Harry's dark eyes scanned the interior of the ship, "Uh, where's the medkit?"

"First aid kit," corrected Tom almost automatically. "Under the ... what ever ... the ...."

Too distracted by the pain in his butt, Tom proceeded to yank open a cabinet door and pointed in tormented triumph to the white box marked 'First Aid'. "There."

"Okay, I see it," Harry acknowledged and pulled out the heavy metal box. "You better drop your pants and we'll get the regenerator going, fix you up right away."

Tom was about to point out that the box did not contain a regenerator when Harry discovered its absence on his own. He pulled up a package of gauze, a rectal thermometer, a glass jar of petroleum jelly, and replaced each. "Tom, there is no regenerator in here."

"It's authentic to the period, Har."

"Then I'd better replicate one."

"There's a slight problem," Tom admitted.


"B'Elanna took them offline to work on them tonight."

In his most reasonable 'I know I'm dealing with Tom' voice, Harry suggested, "Then how about we go to sickbay?"

"No. Harry, you've got to help me." 

Based on the upper register of vocal sounds in which Tom begged for his help, Harry realized that his friend was truly beyond reason here. Well, then, he'd do his best until he could find a regenerator and actually make a difference. "Fine. Take off your jacket and let's get these pants down, huh?"

As Harry helped Tom with first the leather jacket, placing it over a railing, he noticed the sweat soaked face and hair of his friend, the genuine anguish in those blue eyes so much like the color of a desert sky on Earth. He couldn't help but murmur, "We'll have you good as new in no time."

Tom continued to jump around in pain from his burns and Harry had to hold him by the waist to keep him still. "Tom! Pay attention. We need to get these pants off next. Understand?"

"Yeah, but be gentle."

With a smile that threatened to break out into a grin at any moment, Harry assured Tom of the great personal care that would go into the removal of Tom's pants. In fact, to facilitate matters, Harry bent down on his knees to unbuckle the belt and the pants. There wasn't much fabric in the back so Harry pulled them down along Tom's front and sides, tugging when needed. Some of the material appeared to want to stick to Tom's bottom and Harry didn't want to hurt his friend further. "Uh, Tom, the pants are stuck."

"What? No way. Just ... you've got to get them off me," Tom begged.

"Of course," Harry replied, after all he was a good friend, a very good friend. With a muscled tug, the pants ripped off to bundle at Tom's ankles, stopped by the boots. Tom's howl of pain was truly of the sort to induce panic in most men, but not stalwart Harry. Nose to groin, Harry helpfully pulled the white shorts, or what was left of them, down to join the pants. Another cry nearly deterred Harry from his work. 

"We've got to get these boots off," Harry muttered. In truth, it was a little hard to concentrate on the boots considering their relative positions. But duty called. After all, Tom was in desperate pain. 

When he bent his head down to take in the task of removing his friend's boots, Harry ordered, "Put your hands on my shoulders, Tom."

Tom had been reduced to whimpering. Whether it stemmed from the smarting skin that had departed his body along with his shorts and pants, or whether it came from some unintentional head rubbing by Harry against Tom's front, Harry couldn't tell. But he was forced to ignore it in the effort to get off the boots and pants. The job was finally completed amidst Tom's continued cries and pleas for help. 

With nothing left to do in his kneeling position, well, nothing helpful to do, Harry reluctantly stood up. He regarded his friend carefully. Tom's shirt tail hung down barely enough for modesty's sake and what with Tom waving the ends around his backside in a vigorous up and down movement, obviously designed to create cool air, but having a side effect of alternately displaying and covering places that needed to remain covered, Harry wished he hadn't bothered getting to his feet. 

"Tom." Harry called his friend's name in an effort to break-up the mesmerizing sight of his friend's dance. "Tom."


Hmm, Harry judged, cranky, irritated, still in pain. "I can put some of this stuff on your -- um -- injury now. How about if you go over to the console there and lean over? That's it, place your hands on the counter. Good."

It was almost too tempting a sight for anyone's eyes, let alone a loyal sidekick's. Tom did indeed follow his directions, had bent over the console, his red ass half-covered by the shirt tail. "Har, what are you waiting for?"

In truth, Harry thought, you don't want to know. Even blistered, that was one fine ass. The thighs that continued down those long, long legs were also very red, the redness seeming to have tapered off behind the knees but picking up again, a slightly lighter shade, along the calves. "Um, just finding the stuff to put on from the first aid kit. You're gonna hafta' pull up that shirt, Tom."

Peering at the contents of the first aid kit, Harry briefly considered the helpfulness of the thermometer in registering Tom's temperature. Maybe someday there'd be a need for such information, but this wasn't the day. With a sigh he turned to the more promising items in the kit. Hefting the jar of petroleum jelly, Harry opened it and hoped it contained some kind of recuperative powers. His exploring fingers found a sticky goo. Scooping up a big glob of it, he lightly pressed it to Tom's rear as Tom held the shirt tail bunched in front at his waist. But something made Tom jump and stand up. 

"Harry! That's fucking cold!"

"I thought that was the idea, Tom. Something cold on your heated skin?"

"Not that cold," Tom protested.

"Okay, then, I'll warm it up some first."

Mollified, Tom resumed his position. Harry continued to look at Tom's invitingly presented bottom as his hands warmed up the messy jelly. "Ready?"


Like a painter with a vision, Harry spread the warmed jell on Tom's cheeks. Although Tom flinched, no doubt from anything touching that tender skin, he didn't pull away. Harry happily worked at his task, scooping up goo, warming it thoroughly, then spreading it on Tom's backside and thighs, all the way down to his calves. Before he finished the calves, Harry was once again on his knees the better to complete his task. With Tom's ass at eye level, Harry could tell that considerably more jell was needed. The earlier application seemed to have dried already. 

Tom's cries had changed in tone, from exceedingly pained to moderately hurting. When Harry began to reapply the jelly to his cheeks, Harry realized that he enjoyed helping his friend gain relief from the painful burning of the rocket pack. This was what friends were for.

"Tom, I'm going to check that nothing got burned, you know," Harry began.


Obviously, Tom was still in too much pain to recognize the sincere offer to investigate all possible burn locations on Tom's lower body. Harry scooped out more from the jar and applied it liberally under a not so steady gaze. Finally, in a husky voice, he announced, "I need to check further." 

A sudden, heady scent of Tom's body went directly to Harry's brain in about seven seconds. This was the musky scent of male arousal. Harry blew gently at the hot skin and saw an involuntary spasm shudder through Tom. Fascinated, Harry continued his search for additional burn locations.

This business of helping Tom was definitely heating up Harry more and more. Apparently, he wasn't alone in experiencing a rising temperature.

"Oh, Harry," Tom groaned.

Removing his hands, shaking just slightly, Harry stood up and began to unbuckle his very large Buster Kincaid belt. It clattered to the metal floor with a jarring thud. Without wasting any motion, Harry undid his pants. After all, it had been totally unfair for only one of them to be undressed. 

Harry grasped his friend around the waist and knew from Tom's groans that a more intimate, in-depth search was required. As a loyal friend he could do no less. Soon he became lost in noises of effort, pain, joy, climax, release. The noises quieted to sighs as Harry leaned on Tom's back.

Tom seemed to come back to his surroundings first. "Jeez, Har."

"Uh-huh," Harry murmured.

With a fond grin, Tom turned his head back so he could see Harry's face. Beautiful as only a fantasy come true could be, Harry's eyes remained closed to Tom's scrutiny. "Hey, you gonna stay there all night?"

"Love to," was Harry's lazy reply. Finally, the head lifted and a pair of brown eyes still glazed with lust locked together with equally marbleized blue eyes. "Hey, you're just complaining 'cause it was my turn to fix Captain Proton instead of you getting to rescue Buster."

With a laugh at their situation, Harry slowly stood. He pulled Tom to him, placed his hands on Tom's miraculously healed buns and kissed him straight through Captain Proton's helm controls. When they came up for air, each had a huge grin for the other. Definitely one of their better Captain Proton outings.

Tom looked Harry up and down and grinned. But his grin faded when Harry started to pull up his pants. "Hey, we've the holodeck for the entire night."

"I know," Harry agreed. Then, he teased, "But are you sure you can take it? Computer, initiate Program Harry Beta 4.6."

Tom whistled. "Beta 4.6! Okay, Harry. That's a great one!"

A large hot tub replaced the Captain Proton rocket ship. When they both had shed all their clothes and were lounging peacefully in the bubbling water, a glass of wine in hand, Tom reflected, "You know, I love the holodeck."

"You love the fantasies for having sex. Your rocket pack burning your backside ...." Harry snorted. "Where'd you ever get that idea? It'd never happen in real life, you know."

"You liked it, didn't you?"

Harry's answering grin struggled with a sober expression to match his words. "Well, 'Captain Proton's Blistered Buns' has a certain appeal as a chapter title. But, I thought it meant a blistering of a different kind. You ever notice how wide that belt is that Buster wears?"

The light dawned. "No way, Har, no way," came Tom's uneasy laugh. 

Returning to his question, Harry asked again, "So how'd you get the idea?"

Tom smiled and admitted, "Well, Har, it just came up in some of my research on those old serials."

"So it happened to some poor guy?"

"I guess so. I'm just glad the holodeck safeties were on. I'd hate to experience the real thing."

The End