by Mara

Summary: A series of unconnected drabbles. Mood, setting, and pairing will vary.

1. Strike Up the Band

Hoshi almost laughed as Enterprise headed toward the Expanse. The whole
departure felt oddly anticlimactic, as if someone should march beside them
playing drum and fife, trumpeting the songs of war.

Because Enterprise–Earth’s first warp five ship, built for peaceful
exploration–was off to war.

She was there because of loyalty, others had stayed for revenge. Earth had never
known such a devastating attack and floundered in its wake, but Starfleet knew
what to do.

In her mind, the band played as Enterprise went to warp.

She couldn’t tell if it was a victory march or a funeral dirge.

2. Help Unasked for

“I don’t want any damn lessons on suppressing my emotions,” Trip snarled, trying
to close the door.

T’Pol stopped it with a hand. “I was not suggesting that. Although it might make
the atmosphere more…pleasant for me, it would not be appropriate for you.”

“Then why’d you drag your Vulcan ass here?”

“To help you find constructive ways to express those emotions. But I can see I
was mistaken–you do not wish my assistance.”

T’Pol allowed her expression to look ever so slightly crestfallen.

Trip grimaced, but his upbringing kicked in. “It’s not…it’s just…”

T’Pol waited.

“Fine. Come in.”

* * * * *

Yes indeedy, folks, it’s Mara’s take on what TIIC *should* mean by their
references to a Tu/T “relationship.” Look, Ma, no sex! It’s all about teamwork
and friendship

This was expanded to a full story after the first episode of Season 3, using the same name.

3. All Signs Point to

Sunburnt and disheveled, the crew huddled around Hoshi as she punched buttons on
the UT, her eyes a bit wild.

“No more leave on planets that don’t allow shuttles,” Malcolm muttered, eyeing
the jostling crowd of aliens.

“We’ll talk about it when we get back,” Jon said, trying to see what Hoshi was
doing.

T’Pol tilted her head. “Ensign, perhaps if you–”

“Be QUIET!” Hoshi’s face turned red as her crewmates and a nearby party of
three-legged aliens stared at her.

“What do the signs say?” Jon asked gently.

“I don’t know. Something about…lemmings? Egrets? That can’t be right.”
“Traveling Blues”

T’Pol was startled by the sight of crewmembers staggering aboard after a
diplomatic mission to a friendly planet. Taken aback, she couldn’t frame a
question.

Jon held up his hand. “Don’t ask.”

“Captain–”

Trip stopped trying to scrape gunk off his boots long enough to scowl at her.
“They lost our luggage. The building had no air conditioning. We all got food
poisoning. Our vehicle got stuck in a swamp and we had to walk out. Can I go
take a shower now?”

Jon waved.

Trip stomped away, his voice drifting back. “I’m never leaving the damn ship
again.”

4. Freedom’s Just Another Word

Travis sits at his station, staring out at the stars. There’s not much for a
navigator/pilot to do, no ships, no nearby planets to investigate, not even any
interesting stellar phenomena. Just space dust.

Which leaves him too much time to think.

He thinks about his family, the Horizon, how badly he wanted to leave and join
Starfleet. Family stifled him, especially in their close confines.

In Starfleet, Travis figured, he’d be free to go his own way, never haul freight
again.

He never realized that freedom would mean losing so many of the things that were
important to him.

5. Editorial Discretion

Damn it, Hoshi, can’t T’Pol leave my reports alone?” Trip paced the length of
his quarters, forcing her to duck his flailing arms and perch in the chair.

“Relax, Trip, it’s part of her job,” she said. “Besides, nobody expects you to
be a good writer.”

“Thanks for the support,” he growled.

“I just meant–”

“I know what you meant.” Trip leaned against the wall and crossed his arms,
pouting.

She sighed. “What did she change that’s annoying you?”

Trip flushed a brilliant red. “The first paragraph now says that the problem was
‘excessive coupling in the warp coils.’”

6. I Can’t Be Bothered Now

The lush music swelled, sounding as if he’d tucked an orchestra into the
bulkhead. Despite the close quarters, Jon contrived to swing Hoshi in a circle,
dip, and dance on. Her cheeks felt warm–she laughed, misgivings swept away in
sheer joy.

“I didn’t even know you could dance.” She’d forgotten how happy it made her to
move with another person like this.

Jon grinned and executed an intricate little step around her feet. “For you, I
can do anything.”

She looked away as his smile had the usual volcano effect on her insides. “What
brought this on?”

Jon sang:

“I’m up among the stars
On earthly things I frown
I’m throwing off the bars that held me down.

I’ll pay the piper
When times are riper
Just now, I shan’t.
Because you see I’m dancing and I can’t be bothered now.”

* * * * *

Okay, to be technical, it’s 100 words if you don’t count the song lyrics. Hey,
I’m trying to cheer somebody up here, okay? ::grin::

7. Cheek to Cheek (sequel to I Can’t Be Bothered Now)

Although busy dancing–their second favorite activity–Hoshi tried to read Jon’s
expression. The message they’d received from Starfleet was unequivocal:
Enterprise was recalled to Earth, to be replaced by newer, faster ships.

As Jon swung her around his quarters, they automatically avoided stepping on
Porthos. Her stomach was knotted with conflicting emotions–bubbling joy at the
touch of her partner, and concern for his happiness.

“Jon,” she said breathlessly, “are you okay?”

“Never better.” He managed to sneak in a kiss without dropping a step, his
dancing only improved over the years.

“No regrets? Truly?”

Without pausing, he sang:

“Oh I love to climb a mountain
And reach the highest peak.
But it doesn’t thrill me half as much
As dancing cheek to cheek.”

8. Friends Don’t Let Friends Sneeze Alone

Hoshi lay in her bunk, surrounded by the necessary accoutrements: tissues, a
glass of water, and medications. She was laid low by the common cold and there
wasn’t a damn thing modern medicine could do except ease the symptoms. Slightly.

Phlox found it amusing, probably because Denobulans don’t get colds. Her door
chimed and she sneezed, tearing at her already painfully sore throat.

“Hi, Hoshi,” Trip said, stepping in, “I brought you some things.”

She tried to glare, but it took too much energy. “I thought I said everybody
should leave me to die.”

“Well, until that happens, here’s some stuff that might help.”

Curiosity got the better of her. “What?”

Balancing the box, Trip pulled up a chair and sat down next to her. “Let’s see.”
He rummaged a bit. “Chef sent you chicken soup, his mom’s recipe.” Out came a
pot, heavenly-smelling even through her stuffed nose. Next he hauled out two
padds. “And to keep you busy, Liz sent trashy novels and Malcolm sent crossword
puzzles.”

Dazed, she took the padds. “Oh.”

“I brought company, so you’ll know you’re not forgotten.”

Hoshi dabbed her eyes. “Thank you, Trip, and thank everyone else.”

“Hey, what are friends for?”

* * * * *

Yup, you guessed it, I’ve got a cold. Write what you know and all that.

9. Travis’s Decision

Travis stood in front of Jon, expression sad but stubborn. “I’d like to request
a transfer, sir,” he said.

“But why?”

“I don’t feel you’re using me to my full potential.”

A wave of sadness came over Jon. “I wish you’d said something sooner, Travis.
You’re a valuable member of this crew. But if you’re sure…”

“I am.” Travis was having trouble staying calm, his jaw working furiously.

“In that case, I’ll approve your transfer. Dismissed, Ensign.”

“Thank you, sir.” Travis turned and reached for the button to open the door.
“Oh, one more thing, Captain.”

“What’s that?”

“April Fool!”

10. Stiff Upper Lip

Starfleet armory officers undergo fairly rigorous training, and Malcolm had
applied himself to that training with great energy. Some of it he never talked
about, such as learning how to survive torture and interrogation.

Malcolm suspected his teachers had no clue how that training would be applied
once he was in the field.

As he eyed his adversary, he wondered just how much he would be forced to reveal
in order to escape. Perhaps he might be able to make a run through that door…

“So, Malcolm,” Captain Archer said as he sipped his orange juice, “how are
things going?”

11. Morning Surprises

Lying in the warm bed, the thought crossed Hoshi’s mind that she did *not* drink
alcohol and now she remembered why: a splitting headache combined with no memory
of the previous evening.

Eventually it penetrated her brain that an arm lay across her chest, hand
nestled in an indelicate location. Head tilted down, she considered the hand. A
man’s hand, it looked like…oh my…it looked like…

“Hoshi?” Jon–sounding confused and half-awake–murmured into her ear.

Frozen in something between horror and lust, she couldn’t respond. The hand, it
belonged to…

“Jon?” Trip asked. “Since when do you have breasts?”

* * * * *

This drabble is stexgirl2000′s reward for being one of three winners of my Anti-
Marriage Protection Week Contest. She’d asked for either A/Tu/S, A/Tu/T, or
R/Tu/S.

12. Weather or Not

The captain, Hoshi thought, was unbearably cheerful about the situation and she
didn’t know why. She fanned herself, moving muggy air across her face.

Jon peered through the window “Well, we won’t be leaving until the rain stops. I
can’t see a meter.”

She frowned. “If we’d left when I–”

“I know, we’d be back on Enterprise already.”

“Well, yes.” She swallowed, uncertain of the look in his eyes.

“But if we were on Enterprise, I couldn’t do this.” Leaning forward, he reached
out.

Hoshi’s eyes widened.

Jon tickled her stomach, and her laughter echoed through the rainy day.

* * * * *

This drabble was written for Stexgirl2000

13. Gossip Makes the World Go Round

Hoshi stomped into the room. “Do you know, I think we’re going to have to reveal
our secret, because the gossip is driving me absolutely INSANE!”

“Which gossip?”

“Oh, people claim that I exchange ‘significant glances’ with Malcolm on the
bridge.”

“Do you?”

“No! Of course not. And I distinctly heard Alison say that the captain and I had
chemistry together.”

“Ah.”

“And Liz insists that I’m watching Trip’s ass. And Travis’ shoulders.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really.” Hoshi leaned over and kissed T’Pol’s nose, her expression
impudent. “I know, Vulcans don’t get jealous. But you can’t blame a girl for
trying.”

* * * * *

This drabble is seema’s reward for being one of three winners of my Anti-
Marriage Protection Week Contest. She asked for something with Hoshi.

14. Picnic Problems

“Trip…an insect is stealing our picnic,” Hoshi said.

Basking in the alien sunshine that warmed his bones, Trip waved a hand at her
and didn’t open his eyes. “Well, I don’t begrudge an ant some of Chef’s
excellent brisket, do you?”

“Normally, I wouldn’t. But we might want to do something.”

Trip yawned, breathing in the floral-scented air as he opened his eyes. “Hoshi,
what are you talking ab–”

The “ant” was royal blue, with too many hairy legs for Trip to count. It was
also five feet tall and carrying the entire picnic basket in its mouth.

“Aaaaahhhh!”

15. Nice Work If You Can Get It

Hoshi waved at Malcolm as he picked up his dinner, and came over. “I’m sorry to
hear you won’t be joining us for shore leave,” he said, sitting down.

“Yeah, that’s too bad.” Trip poked at his fish. “I’ll almost feel bad having
fun.”

“Don’t do that,” Hoshi said. “I’m sure I’ll keep busy.”

Trip frowned. “Don’t work too hard.”

Twenty-four hours later, she sank back in bed with a sigh, picking up the first
linguistics journal in her pile. She sorted through her box of emergency
chocolate, choosing a coconut cream.

“Ah, nice work if you can get it.”

16. Peaks and Troughs

Jon held a padd, but instead of reading engineering specs he stared out at the
stars. When his door chimed, he jumped, unsure how long he’d been staring.

“Come in.”

It only took a second for Malcolm to accurately assess the situation. “Moping
again?”

Jon glared. “That’s ‘Moping again, *Captain*.’”

But Malcolm just chuckled softly–undeterred–and leaned against the side of the
desk.

Sighing, Jon turned away to look at the stars again. “I don’t know. Everything
just seems so…flat. I’m another year older and what have I really
accomplished? I’m captain of a ship in the Bermuda Triangle of outer space,
hoping we won’t all get killed.”

“It’s not unusual, you know, to feel like this right now.” Malcolm paused,
taking a deep breath. “We all know what we signed up for.”

“That doesn’t help much, right now.”

Hands descended on his shoulders, warm and solid and comforting. “I know. And
I’m here for you.”

“Thanks.”

“Maybe if you’d ventured out of your ready room today, your mood would be
improved.”

Puzzled, Jon craned his head to look at Malcolm. “If I…oh no.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Hoshi may never forgive you for ruining her surprise birthday party.”

“Good grief.”

* * * * *

This story has a double purpose: to cheer up Mareel and to meet Stexgirl2000′s
challenge to write ships I don’t usually write. It’s dedicated, however, to Avi.
For reasons he’d understand.

17. Monsters in Starfleet Uniforms

“Monsters! They’re monsters, I tell you!” Hoshi stamped into Jon’s ready room,
waving a padd like a sword.

Only force of will kept him from jumping out of her way as she stuck it under
his nose. “What?”

“I refuse to participate in a travesty like this. If they insist, I’ll resign, I
swear.” Her face was red and eyes narrowed in anger.

“Who? What’s wrong?”

“The admirals, that’s who. Not only are they monsters, they’re all perverts.”

Taken aback, Jon could only stare.

“Have you seen these proposed uniforms? Have you seen how short the skirts are?
They’re monsters!”

* * * * *

Okay, I’ll admit it. I stole the idea of referring to the TOS uniforms from
somebody at in the LiveJournal roleplaying group NX01messhall. I can’t remember
who it was, but someone (Taryn? Stexgirl?) used it for a couple of throwaway
jokes. It worked so perfectly for a drabble that I’m hoping whoever it was will
forgive me. ::puppy dog eyes::

18. Letters From Far Away

Dear Cousin:

Stop worrying. I mean it! I don’t know why you think your Mom and Dad will
disapprove, but forget it. Sure they’ll miss you, but they’ll also be proud that
you, Ivan, and little Anika plan to emigrate to one of the new colonies.

Hey, just because the Mayweathers have been pilots since the days of ol’ Travis
doesn’t mean we can’t do other things. Expanding humanity’s reach is the kind of
thing our ancestor would’ve loved. After all, even *he* settled down eventually.
Adventures aren’t for everyone, and neither is Starfleet.

Love from the USS Piscataway,
Andrew

19. It’s All In Your Perspective

She wondered why the trees were moving. Hoshi was pretty certain that wasn’t
supposed to happen, even if she couldn’t remember why she was lying down.

“Why are the trees moving?” she mumbled.

“What?” one of the trees asked.

“Where are you going?”

“What’s she talking about, Phlox?” another tree said.

A branch waved over her face. “Perhaps she was hit harder than we thought,
Captain.”

“Talking trees,” she giggled. “Neat!” She watched with fuzzy amusement as
several trees shuffled around her quickly, each with a slightly different color
of bark.

“We’re not trees, Hoshi.”

“That’s what they always say.”

20. They Can’t Take That Away From Me

Malcolm didn’t think he was a romantic and he wasn’t good at expressing his
emotions. This might, in some quarters, be a virtue–if not a necessity–in his
present circumstances. But Malcolm found he couldn’t agree.

T’Pol touched her fingers to his head, and her words echoed in both mind and
ears. “Live long and prosper,” she said, stepping back.

“I’ll find a way…”

“It is possible.”

So that’s what ‘heart in your throat’ meant, he realized. “Don’t forget me.”

“I could not.”

The door slid closed. Malcolm closed his eyes and breathed in the last of her
scent.

* * * * *

Somebody asked me nicely to write this couple for them and now I’ve forgotten
who. Anyway, as part of my continuing quest to write *something* for as many
different ships as possible, here’s another ship checked off the list

21. The Stories We Tell

She felt tears in her eyes as she beheld the small crying child, curled in a
ball, shutting out the cruel adult world. His grandmother saw her own sadness
reflected.

“I’m here, Johnny.” She sat on the couch and pulled him into her lap.

“Grandma,” he said, raising his red face to hers. “Grandpa’s not coming back.”

“Yes, dear, I know.” She swallowed her own sadness. “But if we remember him,
he’s not completely gone.”

The child sniffled and Hoshi hugged him. “Did your Grandpa Malcolm ever tell you
about the time he faced down an entire room of Klingons?”

by Mara

Summary: In the alternate universe set up by “Twilight,” Archer and T’Pol spent many years together…

by Mara

Summary: Hoshi has lost her memories of an away mission, and nobody’s talking. What’s up?

NOTES/DEDICATION: This is for the folks at the Linguistics Database Forum
::grin:: Thanks to Josephine, who assures me this is laid-back funny.

//thoughts//

* * * * *

The evenly bright lights were the first things she noticed. Even through her
eyelids, they stabbed into her brain and stoked the painful headache that had
awakened her. She thought about trying to bring a hand up to cover her eyes, but
that seemed to require too much effort, so she relaxed onto the firm surface
beneath her and waited for things to make sense.

Eventually, she realized there were voices as well as lights. Once she started
paying attention to them, they seemed to become louder and clearer, as if she
were adjusting her comm equipment to hear them.

“When’s she gonna wake up, Doc?” Trip asked.

“I told you, Commander, she will awaken when her body deems it time. If you do
not stop asking me, I will have you and Lieutenant Reed removed from Sickbay.”

//Wow, I’ve never heard Dr. Phlox sound so irritated. They must really be
driving him up the wall,// she thought.

“I’m sure there won’t be any need for that,” said the Captain’s voice, warning
clear. “Right, Trip? In fact, perhaps both of you should go to your quarters and
get some rest. Come back later. I’ll contact the two of you when Hoshi wakes
up.”

“Yes, sir,” Malcolm said.

“Yes, Cap’n.” Trip’s voice was resigned.

The voices stopped, and in the silence, Hoshi pondered the new developments.
//Okay, I’m in Sickbay. And they sound worried about me.//

Footsteps approached, and she thought about opening her eyes. It took some time
to recall exactly how to turn thought into action, but finally she found herself
squinting up at a blurry face.

“Hoshi?” the face said with the Captain’s voice.

She blinked a few times to clear the blurriness, and proved to her own
satisfaction that Jon’s voice had, in fact, emanated from Jon’s face.

“Hoshi? Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m not quite sure,” she croaked. “What happened?”

Jon looked at her for a long moment in apparent surprise, then turned away and
called, “Doctor, she’s awake.”

Phlox pushed aside the curtain and bustled over to see her. He began to examine
her, and she ran a quick internal check.

“How do you feel, Ensign?” Phlox asked.

“Other than a blinding headache, not too bad, I guess,” she said. “But why am I
here?”

Phlox frowned and began scanning her head, as he asked. “What is the last thing
you remember?”

//Good question.// She closed her eyes and cast back in her mind, remembering
going on duty, working on a new language…

“Hoshi?” Jon asked.

“I’m thinking,” she said with some irritation, then her eyes flew open. “Sorry,
sir.”

Suppressed amusement and worry fought for first place on his face. “That’s
okay.”

Phlox put a hypospray to her neck. “This should ease your headache,” he said,
and went back to scanning.

“I remember reaching Li Sha,” she said, sighing as the pounding in her head went
from an entire drum set to a small didgeridoo.

“Yes,” Jon said. “What else?”

She looked up at him. “That’s it. I remember reaching the planet and hailing
them. Were we attacked and that’s why I’m here?”

Jon and the doctor exchanged looks of concern, and Hoshi’s headache tried to
make a comeback.

“No, we weren’t attacked,” Jon said.

“Well, then *what*? Sir.” Hoshi just wanted to go back to sleep and these men
were being evasive. A wave of fear swept over her, leaving behind a sheen of
sweat. “Is everyone okay? Did somebody die? Is that what you’re not telling me?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Phlox said. “We are merely concerned because we
reached the planet yesterday.”

“We were invited to join their New Year’s festival,” Jon said. “Does that sound
familiar? We met their leader and he took quite a shine to you. Then, we went to
see a parade.”

She concentrated, but his words didn’t bring up any associated sounds, sights,
or emotions. “No, I just remember hailing them. How did I end up in Sickbay? Was
anyone else hurt?”

“Everyone else is fine,” Phlox said. “And I believe you are suffering from a
case of traumatic or retrograde amnesia, likely due to the injury to your medial
temporal lobe.”

“And how did I happen to injure my medial temporal lobe?” Hoshi asked, her
patience wearing thin.

“Well, you were accidentally hit by a float in the parade,” Jon said, shuffling
his feet.

“Oh, good grief,” Hoshi said with a wince. “How embarrassing. Does anyone know?”

Jon nodded. “A few people.”

“How did it happen?”

A long pause. “It was complicated. Maybe Trip could explain.”

Hoshi closed her eyes and sighed. Before she could ask any further questions,
the Captain said, “Well, I should let you rest up and go let everyone know
you’re okay. They were very worried.” And he left the room at a rather
undignified pace, leaving behind a confused ensign.

Phlox patted her shoulder and said, “Sleep and I’m sure everything will be
better in the morning. Your memory should return with time.” And he was gone
before she could gather her scattered wits.

She lay on the biobed, listening to the muted pounding of her head, the creaks
of the walls, and the thrumming of the warp engines. Hard as she tried, her
memory stopped at hailing the planet.

The familiar sounds lulled her and gradually the lights of Sickbay dimmed and
she slid into sleep.

* * * * *

Hoshi blinked in confusion as the bright lights blinded her. “Do you ever get a
feeling of déjà vu?” she muttered, moving restlessly on the hard biobed.

“What’s that?” Trip’s voice reached her from somewhere off to her left.

She rubbed her eyes, the sparks on the back of her eyelids forming and
reforming. “Nothing.”

“How do you feel? Should I get the Doc?” Trip was hovering like her mother, and
Hoshi couldn’t decide if it was endearing or annoying. But she was grateful as
he helped her sit up.

“I’m fine, just a little groggy.” She swallowed experimentally. “And thirsty.”

“Here, let me get some water for ya,” Trip said.

She was pleased to note as she waited for the water that everything seemed to be
in order and her headache was almost gone. The water tasted like ambrosia, which
let her know just how thirsty she was.

When she was done, Trip took the glass and resumed hovering, his blue eyes
filled with concern.

//If he’s going to stay, he might as well be useful,// she thought. “So, do you
know when the Doctor will let me out?”

A trace of Trip’s usual grin appeared. “Well, as it happens, he said you could
leave as soon as the question occurred to you. I’ll go get him.”

Within moments, the smiling Phlox was doing a last scan of her. “With a little
more rest, I believe you will be fine, Ensign.”

“What about my memory? Will it come back?” she asked. Out of the corner of her
eye, she saw Trip get a strange expression on his face, rather as if he’d just
swallowed a live frog. But by the time she’d turned her head, he looked his
normal genial self. //Am I imagining things? Maybe being knocked on the head has
made me paranoid.//

Phlox said, “I’m sure your memory will return in its own time. It’s quite common
for head trauma to cause loss of memory just before and after the injury.”

Trip made an abortive movement and Hoshi narrowed her eyes as she looked at the
two of them. “After? Am I forgetting something that happened after I was hit on
the head? I thought I was knocked unconscious.”

Phlox said quickly, “Oh yes, the injury caused you to lose consciousness.”

//Okay,// she thought. //If that’s the way he wants to play it. I don’t have the
energy to argue about the semantics of what he just said.// “Can I go now?”

“Absolutely. You should take it easy for the next week, half-shifts only, and no
work at all until tomorrow. I’m sure Commander Tucker would be happy to take you
to your quarters, or the messhall if you’re hungry.”

Trip helped her off the biobed and waited while she ducked into the bathroom for
a quick shower and changed into fresher clothing.

As they set off for the messhall, she considered her next move. She was unable
to ask Trip anything as they walked through the halls, as he was busy greeting
people they passed, many of whom politely asked after her well-being.

The messhall was almost empty, and she sat down at the nearest table, while Trip
got her something to eat.

“Here ya go, good for whatever ails ya,” he said with a grin as he put a bowl of
chicken soup and some bread in front of her.

He got a cup of coffee for himself and she waited until he had just taken a sip
before she asked, “So, how did I get hit by a float?”

The response was everything she could have asked for as Trip spit half his
mouthful back into the cup and choked on the rest. She calmly ate her soup as he
coughed and wiped up spilt coffee.

“Damn, woman, you’re good,” he said with admiration when he’d recovered.

“I know,” she said with no modesty. “So, what’s the answer? I know there’s
something nobody is telling me, and I want to know what it is.”

“Maybe you should ask the Captain.”

She poked the spoon at his chest for emphasis. “*He* told me to ask *you*.”

“Oh.” Trip looked into his coffee, apparently hoping the answer would float out
of it. “Well, it was complicated. Maybe Malcolm could explain it better.”

“Malcolm was involved?” she asked, wrinkling her nose at his obfuscation.

“Well, he was there.” Trip was looking anywhere but at her. “But I’m sure you’ll
remember what happened soon enough and that might be easier than trying to
explain things and *look* there’s Ensign Cutler and I’m sure she’ll make sure
you get back to your quarters, I’d better get back to engineering.” With that
astonishing speech, he leapt out of his seat and took off out the door like a
bat out of hell.

Hoshi’s jaw dropped as she stared at his retreating back, and she barely managed
to close it in time to greet Liz Cutler.

“Good to see you up and about, Hoshi,” Liz said. “I’d be happy to see you back
to your quarters, but what was that all about?”

“I have no idea,” Hoshi said slowly, “unless you can tell me the circumstances
of my accident.”

“Oh, that’s right, I heard you had a bit of amnesia. No, sorry, I wasn’t there,
and all I heard was that you hit your head.”

* * * * *

When she reached her quarters, she found she wasn’t tired. After pacing
restlessly for a few minutes, she decided to do a little research into what had
happened.

She started with her personal log. //Naturally, it won’t include what happened,
but maybe it will jog my memory.//

But she was disappointed when she found only a few details after her shift on
the bridge.

“They’re having some sort of festival and we’re invited,” her image said to her.
“The Captain says we should go and Malcolm isn’t thrilled, but he’s agreed. When
I left, they were still arguing about how many security people would join us and
how heavily they would be armed.

“I’d love to wear something dressy, but it looks like it’s uniforms all the way
today. Oops, time to go!”

Hoshi tapped her fingers on her desk. //That was useless. Let’s see what the
Captain’s log has to say.//

She skipped past several reports on the planet, finally finding his notes upon
returning to the ship.

“There was a minor diplomatic incident while we were guests of Xin, the
Emperor,” Archer said. Hoshi leaned forward, holding her breath. “One member of
the crew, Ensign Sato, was injured while we were viewing the parade. However,
once the confusion was sorted out, we were able to smooth things over and Doctor
Phlox assures me Ensign Sato will make a full recovery.”

Gritting her teeth in annoyance, she skimmed the rest of the log to make sure
there weren’t any other clues, but it was entirely routine matters.

* * * * *

Hoshi cornered Malcolm in the armory, the only place she knew he’d always
appear.

“I’m glad you’re recovered,” Malcolm said, concentrating carefully on the phase
pistol in his hand. “Please let me know when you’d like to resume your lessons.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” she said.

“Oh?” he asked, much too casually.

Hoshi leaned against a wall, carefully avoiding the weaponry and considered the
armory officer. //Unfortunately, he’s even harder to get a straight answer out
of than Jon or Trip.//

“I’m here,” she said, “to get some details on what happened while we were on Li
Sha.”

Malcolm continued to stare at the phase pistol in his hand, although he’d
stopped making adjustments. “Perhaps you should ask Commander Tucker about the
exact circumstance, because it was-”

“If you say it was complicated,” Hoshi said, stepping forward, “I swear I will
scream.”

Startled by her tone, Malcolm looked up and found himself practically nose to
nose with an angry comm officer. She continued to glare at him and he seemed to
be considering his options. //Fortunately, I’m between him and the door because
he looks like he wants to run away.//

“It really is difficult to explain,” he said, his tone placating.

“I’m not interested in the level of difficulty,” she said. “I’m interested in
getting a straight answer about what the three of you are hiding from me. It
can’t possibly be worse than what I’ve been imagining.”

“Don’t bet on it,” he said under his breath, looking down again.

She groaned. “That’s it!” And she marched over to the nearest comm panel.

“Sato to Tucker.”

“Go ahead.”

“I need to speak to you immediately in the armory,” she said.

“Ensign,” Malcolm began. She glared at him and he stopped.

“Malcolm? Is that you?” Trip asked.

“Trip, meet us in the armory,” Hoshi said.

“I’d recommend you do as she asks,” Malcolm said dryly, “she’s quite annoyed.”

“On my way.”

“Sato to Archer.”

“Go ahead.”

* * * * *

It was a truly amazing sight: a petite ensign staring down a lieutenant, a
commander, and a captain. Yet somehow when faced with her standing over a table
of weaponry, none of the three quite remembered that she couldn’t order them
around. //Guilt, I assume,// she thought.

“Now talk,” she said, crossing her arms and eyeing them like particularly
unsavory specimens.

The Captain tried to look in command of the situation, Malcolm looked like he
was about to be court-martialed, and Trip looked exactly like a boy caught with
his hand in the cookie jar.

The uncomfortable silence dragged on as the three men avoided her eyes, gazing
with apparent interest at their feet, the floor, the bulkheads and the weapons.

Finally, the Captain sighed. “It all started when we were watching the parade.
T’Pol went off with the first minister, which left the four of us in the
Emperor’s viewing stand, with him and his bodyguards.” He paused, his expression
pained. “The Emperor was paying quite a bit of attention to you and you were
looking uncomfortable. When he practically dragged you onto his lap, I thought
it was time to intervene. So, to get his attention, I pointed to one of the
passing floats.”

He braced himself and she stared at him. “Do you mean after the *three*
briefings T’Pol and I provided before we reached the planet you *forgot* that
pointing at things is absolutely forbidden to anyone not part of the royal
family?”

“Well, yes.” He shuffled his feet and continued. “Then, you tried to cover it up
and explain my mistake to the Emperor.”

“But he wasn’t havin’ any of that,” Trip said. “And he started yellin’ and
sayin’ stuff.”

“And Mr. Tucker got rather hot under the collar,” Malcolm continued.

The Captain looked at him. “That’s putting it mildly.”

“Well, he was up in your face, so I got up in his face,” Trip said.

“And the Captain was trying to calm everyone down, but the bodyguards became
rather nervous.”

“They pulled out their weapons, so Malcolm pulled out his.”

Hoshi’s eyes were practically popping out. “You brandished a weapon in the
Emperor’s presence?”

“That’s when things got a mite hectic,” Trip said quickly.

“There was a great deal of pushing and shoving and shouting,” Malcolm said.

“Somewhere in that mess, you were knocked off the viewing platform and hit your
head on a float,” the Captain said.

“And then all three of us were yelling at the Emperor,” Trip said, “But he got
real apologetic.”

Malcolm frowned. “He sent his personal physician to look at you and said it
balanced the scales.”

“We apologized and he apologized and we got you the hell off that planet and
into sickbay,” Trip said.

Hoshi’s face was a bit pale as she peered at the three of them. “I can’t believe
it,” she choked out. “I can’t believe three highly trained and intelligent
officers could make that many mistakes in such a short period of time.”

They stared at their feet in such identical expressions of schoolboy shame that
she felt a grin twitch on her lips. But she stifled that quickly. “Is there
anything else I should know, while we’re at it?”

“Nothing much,” Trip said, still not quite able to look her in the eye.

She sighed. “‘Nothing much’ as in, you accidentally killed the Emperor on the
way out, or ‘nothing much’ you’re going to make *me* write the final report to
Starfleet?”

Malcolm took a deep breath. “The Commander is referring to the Emperor’s parting
words.”

“Yes?” Hoshi leaned on the table in front of her.

“As we were loading you into the shuttle,” the Captain said, the words drawn out
of him reluctantly, “the Emperor said to congratulate you on acquiring three
such attentive husbands.”

All the breath whooshed out of her and she groped for the nearest chair.
“Husbands?” she managed, looking up at the three men.

“He apologized again,” Malcolm said, his face slowly turning red, “and said he
wouldn’t have paid such close attention to you before the incident had he
realized our relationship.”

“But he agreed our rude behavior was perfectly understandable,” Trip said,
resigned now, “if we considered our wife to be threatened.”

Hoshi opened and closed her mouth a few times. “You, you didn’t correct him,
right? Please tell me you didn’t try to explain anything.”

The Captain’s face could have been made out of stone as he said, “We apologized
for the misunderstanding and thanked him for his good wishes for our marriage.”

Malcolm’s face approached beet-red, Trip was probably trying to avoid some
terribly inappropriate joke, and the Captain really looked like he hoped someone
would shoot him.

Hoshi stared at them a few moments longer. “I was unconscious at this point,
right? There’s no reason I should remember this, is there?”

Dead silence met her and her jaw dropped. “Oh my god. I was awake? What did I
do?” She clutched the edge of the table.

“You,” Trip paused and looked at the other two for support. They steadfastly
refused to look at him. “You laughed and said you’d marry us again in a
heartbeat.”

Malcolm’s voice was tight as he continued. “I believe there was also something
about our sexual prowess. The Emperor was very amused. And impressed.”

Hoshi put her head down on the table and started to laugh.

* * * * *

Additional Author’s Note: LD Forum habitues might have recognized that this was
*entirely* caused by re-reading the “Everybody Loves Hoshi” roundrobin (or
“Three Guys and a Girl”, as it was re-titled.)

by Mara

Summary: Hoshi’s not in a very good mood, and a box found at her station doesn’t bode well.

NOTES: This story is a response to Taryn’s Writer’s Block Party Challenge:
“Hoshi finds a small box in her chair at the communications station. Show me
what is in the box, her reaction to it, and what it all means.” Taryn also wrote
the first line. Thanks to Captain Average for the beta.

* * * * *

Hoshi pulled her chair out, not wanting to be on the bridge at all today. After
three ship-wide crises in four days, a spur-of-the-moment translation while
weapons were drawn, not to mention the tail end of a nasty head cold, Hoshi was
in no mood for the scutwork that had been building up.

This was a mood not improved in the slightest by the sight that met her eyes:
not the seat of her chair, waiting to be warmed, but the seat *plus* a box.

She looked around, but her gamma shift counterpart had left the bridge somewhat
early to work on some communications equipment in engineering.

T’Pol glanced up from her station. “Is there something wrong, Ensign?”

Lifting the box off the chair gingerly, Hoshi inspected it, rather expecting it
to explode or melt or otherwise embarrass her. On the other hand, Travis wasn’t
around to witness it, so it probably wasn’t one of his jokes.

“Did you see who put this here?” Hoshi asked, staring at the undecorated plastic
box. It was just an ordinary storage box, the sort of thing extra bits of
equipment might be stored in.

“No. It was not placed there while I was on the bridge.” T’Pol paused. “Perhaps
you should open it?”

Hoshi sighed. “You’re right.” She sank down into her seat and regarded the box
unhappily for another few seconds before finally lifting its lid.

Her spirits fell further when she saw several rows of data chips, brightly
colored silicon, each capable of holding several terabytes of data.

Wordlessly, she tilted the box so T’Pol could see it, but the science officer
shook her head slightly and returned to her work.

Hoshi stared in dismay at the chips. If they hadn’t come from T’Pol, the only
other person likely to drop off work at her console so casually was the Captain.

This was probably another one of his morale-raising assignments, guaranteed to
make her life miserable. Maybe these contained everyone’s mail home and she was
supposed to put together a master list of everyone’s favorite foods.

Or perhaps the Captain, with his vast belief in her abilities, had come up with
a few dozen new languages she could decipher in her spare time. As if updating
the UT, and trying to keep all the information they’d gathered so far, in order
wasn’t enough work for a dozen linguists. Maybe while she was at it she could
end the Vulcan-Andorian conflict as well.

The chips rattled in their box as she tapped her fingers rapidly against the
side rapidly, and she frowned down at them–unreasonably annoyed by the noise.
Her mood darkened even further as the translucent chips gleamed offensively up
at her.

It was just the final straw, Hoshi decided, slamming the lid back on to close
off the sight. The final straw that broke the comm officer’s back, that’s what
it was. Whatever this extra work was, it could just wait until she was finished
with the dozens of other assignments waiting for her. She didn’t care if Admiral
Forrest himself wanted it done, it could just wait.

Hoshi glanced over at the door to the Captain’s ready room. It was time to go
tell the Captain so in person. He’d been taking advantage of her willingness to
do the impossible for long enough.

She stood up, took a deep bracing breath and tucked the box under her arm, just
as the turbolift doors opened and let Trip out onto the bridge.

“Mornin’, Sub-commander. Mornin’, Hoshi,” he said. His eyes dropped immediately
to the box Hoshi held, and his face lit up with a broad grin. “Hey, is that my
box of data chips?”

Stopped in her tracks, Hoshi stared at Trip. “What?” she managed, her voice,
sounding a bit strained even to her ears. Had *Trip* had the temerity to leave
her an assignment? If so, she was going to-

Unaware of her internal monologue, Trip continued. “Empty data chips? I had a
box in my hands not half an hour ago when I was up here making some adjustments
to a few stations, and boom, they were gone. So, I figured I left them here
somewhere.”

Hoshi felt her jaw start to drop and she firmly closed it, holding the box out
to him. “I suppose they’re empty. I didn’t actually check them.”

Taking the box, Trip gave her an odd look. “Well, that must be them. So, have
you had a chance to use your console yet this shift? I think this latest upgrade
Hess and I came up with will really make a difference in its performance.”

She managed a weak smile. “No, not yet, but I’ll just sit down and give it a go
now.” Her face was starting to heat up, and she quickly turned to sit back down
at her station and hit a few buttons. She was sure that Trip and T’Pol were
exchanging curious glances behind her back, as their confusion was practically
audible, but she was not about to explain her mistake.

“Well,” Trip said, “I’ll just be heading back to engineering now. Thanks for
finding my chips.”

“Thank you for the upgrades, Commander. I’ll let you know.” She kept her head
down, waiting for the first flush of embarrassment to recede. Oh my god, she
thought, I nearly bawled out the Captain over a box of empty data chips. This is
nearly as bad as the time I accused Sub-commander T’Pol of trying to sabotage
me. At least Trip got here in time to stop me.

Hoshi rubbed her eyes, vowing to get some additional sleep, That’s it, she said
firmly to herself, no more jumping to conclusions without better data. And in
the future, perhaps she would look on strange boxes as an opportunity rather
than a challenge.

Or maybe not.

by Mara

Summary: A revised version of the scene between Trip and T’Pol at the end of the third season premiere, “The Xindi.”

NOTES: This story is the result of yelling at the television, “You idiots, *I*
could write a better scene!” You see, the universe yelled back, “Prove it!”
Those of you who read my drabbles might recognize a few sentences of this,
cannibalized from my drabble of the same name. Thanks to various folks for
encouraging me to write this, especially Stexgirl2000

* * * * *

When the comm in her quarters chimed, T’Pol wondered if the humans were having a
detrimental effect on her–she experienced a momentary desire to ignore the
sound. Dutiful as always, however, she answered the summons.

When she heard Phlox’s voice, she schooled herself into her usual emotionless
calm, although his desire to push her to help Commander Tucker greatly strained
that calm.

“He’s on the way to your quarters,” Phlox said, voice sounding rather giddy. “He
believes that I have given him a sedative, but it is only a placebo.”

“Understood.” T’Pol clicked the button to turn off the comm system, and
considered her situation. It was unclear exactly how she had been maneuvered
into this, but the reality was the expectation that she would train the most
emotional and fractious member of the Enterprise crew in Vulcan meditation
techniques.

Her lips pursed slightly as she imagined the restrained disbelief this idea
would engender back on Vulcan. Or the unrestrained amusement it would cause on
Earth, for that matter.

A quick glance around her quarters showed that she was prepared for meditation,
work put away, candles and pillow in place. Absently, she adjusted the loose,
comfortable robes she wore, glad she had already donned them before Phlox’s
call; it would be most inappropriate for her to try to teach a relaxation
technique while wearing her bedclothes.

The door chimed and T’Pol closed her eyes briefly. But it would be illogical
cowardice to refuse to continue once she’d agreed, so she allowed Tucker to
enter her quarters.

He looked nearly as uncomfortable as she felt, standing just inside the doorway
in his off-duty clothing, fumbling the padds that Phlox had sent him with as a
ruse. “Here, the doc said you needed these.”

“Thank you.” She took them and placed them on her desk without even a glance,
disliking subterfuge nearly as much as Phlox enjoyed it. In fact, if the doctor
had one flaw, it was his delight in minor manipulations of those around him.

Tucker shifted his weight from leg to leg, seeming uncertain what to do with his
hands, first putting them in his pockets, then clasping them behind his back.
“Well, I’ll just, uh, Phlox gave me this sedative and–”

She spoke almost on impulse. “There was no sedative. Phlox wished you to come
here this evening.”

His eyes widened. “Why, that interfering old–”

“Commander.” She didn’t raise her voice, but it worked and Tucker fell silent.
“The doctor is concerned about your continued inability to sleep and was
attempting to help you. And I wish you to stay.”

“Stay?” Tucker actually took a half step backward, nearly running into the door.

“I was about to begin my meditation for this evening. It might be beneficial for
you to join me.”

Tucker’s jaw dropped and he shifted his stance to something more adversarial. “I
don’t want any damn lessons on suppressing my emotions,” he snarled, turning to
open the door.

T’Pol stopped him with a hand over the buttons. “I was not suggesting that.
Although it might make the atmosphere more…pleasant for me, it would not be
appropriate for you.”

He paused before turning to look at her, likely trying to rein in his temper.
“Then what’re you talking about?”

“I wish to help you find constructive ways to express those emotions. But I can
see I was mistaken–you do not wish my assistance.”

T’Pol allowed her expression to look ever so slightly crestfallen.

Tucker grimaced. “It’s not…it’s just…”

T’Pol waited, making an attempt at downcast.

“Fine.” He rubbed his upper arms, avoiding her eyes. “What do I do?”

She studied him for a moment, considering again why she had pursued this–
undoubtedly foolhardy–course of action. She noted the dark circles under
Tucker’s eyes and the tension that had seemingly not left his shoulders since
news of the Xindi attack on Earth had reached Enterprise.

“Please have a seat,” she said, nodding at the brown cushion on which she
usually sat. He gave her an odd look, which she ignored, reaching behind her
desk to retrieve the spare cushion, worn and red and not kept for sentimental
reasons. No, not at all, although it had been a gift from her mother many years
ago. Its presence was purely utilitarian, of course.

Tucker plopped awkwardly down on the cushion, propping his elbows on his knees,
and T’Pol tried not to sigh. She sank onto her cushion, legs folded neatly in
front of her, forearms resting on her knees, and waited for him to follow suit.
When he did, she nodded and began to prepare.

Lighting the candles, T’Pol found she was watching Tucker. He was often easy to
read even when he tried to hide his emotions–at this moment, even the youngest
Vulcan child with no exposure to humans could guess his thoughts and feelings.

He could barely suppress the sneer at her actions, but simultaneously looked
prepared for flight if she made any unexpected moves. Candles lit, she turned
the lights in the room to low and looked directly at Tucker. He was nervous,
certainly, unsure what she might ask him to do, and too exhausted to think very
clearly.

She frowned slightly at this realization. Phlox might very well have had a
point. The commander was obviously stretched to the limit of his mental
resources.

“The purpose of meditation is not,” she said quietly, “to suppress emotions,
although that is what Vulcans use it for. Its purpose is to clear the mind and
place your thoughts in the proper context.”

Tucker just looked confused.

“Never mind. Perhaps we will begin with a simple relaxation exercise. That may
be all you need. Now close your eyes.”

He obediently closed them, but they opened again almost immediately. “Why’re you
doing this?”

“Doing what, Commander?”

“Trying to help me. I mean, you don’t even like me.” The tone was plaintive, as
if he was unused to not being liked. And this might have been true, as it seemed
that most of the crew reacted favorably to his informal, emotional style.

“My likes or dislikes are irrelevant,” T’Pol said. “If a member of the crew is
in need of assistance or training, it is my obligation to help.”

This seemed to be the wrong answer, as Tucker started to stand up. “Never mind,
I don’t think this is gonna work.”

“That seems premature, as you have not even tried it yet.”

“It’s just that–”

“Ambassador Soval would agree with you, however.”

Kneeling on the cushion, Tucker stopped and stared at her. “What?”

“The Ambassador would agree that Vulcan meditation techniques will not help you.
In fact, I am quite certain he would consider this a waste of my time. Humans,
in his view, are incapable of the mental dedication and concentration necessary
to master even the most elementary methods of meditation.”

Tucker blinked, seeming about to speak, then choked a bit and dropped back onto
his cushion, nearly upsetting the nearest candle. His face changed so rapidly,
T’Pol was unable to read his emotions clearly. She made a mental note to consult
further with Ensign Sato on the matter of body language and nonverbal
expression.

Tucker continued to stare at her, and unperturbed, she looked back.

“So, you figure I’ll give this meditation thing a try just to spite Soval?”

The thought had crossed her mind, but in truth, she was pleased he had seen
through that gambit. She inclined her head slightly. “Perhaps. However, I
believe that you should try it because your doctor has suggested it might help.”

“So you think Soval is wrong.” His gaze pinned her, although she now wished to
look away.

“I…am here,” she said. Much went unsaid: alienating Soval, resigning her
commission, perhaps exiling herself from her people.

“Yeah, you’re here.” Tucker sighed, a gust of air that caused the flames to
flicker and dance. Shaking his head, a small grin crossed his face and some of
the tension seemed to leave his shoulders. “I guess the least I can do is try.”

–end–

by Mara

Summary: “Oh, Trip…can I call you Trip? That’s what your friends called you, wasn’t it?”

NOTES: This story was inspired by the last line of a round robin on the
Linguistics Database Forum. Josephine ended the story with Trip telling Hoshi,
“Call me Charlie,” and it got me thinking. Once again, thanks for the beta go to
the marvelous and talented Captain Average, the speedy superhero who says nice
things about my fic. This is the newly revised version, created for the Strange
New Worlds contest, which it obviously did not win

* * *

Charles “Trip” Tucker figured out something was wrong when Rylan pulled a weapon
out of a drawer and pointed it at him. The sun streaming gaily through the
windows contrasted oddly with the situation.

//I’m getting real sick of people pointing weapons at me,// he thought as he
slowly raised his hands. //Next time, I trust my instincts. Hell, next time I’m
staying on the ship to realign the plasma coils.//

“Whoa, hold on a minute there,” he said, trying to sound calm, “What’s goin’
on?”

Rylan, her lavender skin and downy hair apparently hiding the soul of a snake,
slid the weapon into her right hand and tapped a button on the wall with her
left. Without taking her eyes off him, she spoke. “Ixy?”

“We’ve got them,” a voice said, booming out of what was obviously the comm. In
the background, he heard noises that suddenly resolved into voices.

He held his breath as he recognized the sounds of an angry Jon and Hoshi. “What
do you want with them?” he asked, his breath catching with concern.

Rylan smiled. “Oh, Trip…can I call you Trip? That’s what your friends called
you, wasn’t it?”

“You can call me Ishmael if you want, just tell me what’s goin’ on.” He found
himself shuffling his feet on the opulent carpet, impatient to move into action.

“Please, sit down while I explain.” She gestured at a heavy chair in front of
him.

“I’d rather stand,” he said.

She narrowed her eyes and aimed the weapon at his torso. “That may have sounded
like a request, Trip, but it wasn’t. Sit down.” Still, he hesitated, and she
continued. “I don’t think you realize how thoroughly out of your control this
situation is. We have your friends, and shortly we will have your ship. The only
question is whether or not you are alive to see that.”

//I’m no good to anyone dead.// He sat, hands clenching into fists and yearning
for one of Malcolm’s beloved phase pistols.

“Much better, Trip,” she said, strolling around the chair, but keeping her
distance. Even with the weapon in her hand, she was apparently too canny to get
close enough for him to grab her.

She walked behind him and he turned his head trying to keep her in sight. “If
you’re takin’ my ship,” he said, “why am I still alive?”

Her voice floated from behind him. “Because I need a good engineer, Trip. What a
lovely name. It sounds so very close to one of my favorite words in my language:
money. Trip.” She laughed.

His eyes darted around the room, looking for a weapon, a plan, something, but he
found only objets d’art casually displayed around the room.

The door opened, and he tensed, hoping for a rescue, but it was more of Rylan’s
friends, come to help her. Before he could do anything, the three burly aliens
had tied him to the chair, his arms digging into the firm padding.

“So, Trip,” she said, strolling over to stand right in front of him, “what can I
offer you to convince you to become our engineer?”

He stayed silent. //There isn’t a good answer to that, is there? “Not a damn
thing in the universe” isn’t good for my health, but somehow I don’t think she’d
buy it if I tried to pretend anything else.//

She smiled as he struggled to not react. “Oh, don’t worry, I don’t expect a
decision right away.” She paused for effect, then leaned over to look him right
in the eyes, “Trip.”

He winced involuntarily, then looked away.

She grabbed his chin and forced him to look at her. “I don’t expect an immediate
answer, but you should know that if you don’t help us learn how to run your
ship, we’ll start killing your crewmates right in front of you. Who should I
kill first? Your choice…Trip.”

* * *

“No!” he yelled, sitting bolt upright in bed, sweating and shivering at the same
time, heart racing as if he’d completed a marathon. It took several long moments
for his eyes to adjust to the darkness and for him to realize he was in his
quarters on Enterprise–that the events of his dream were over a week in the
past.

In fact, none of his shipmates had died, although it had been a close call on a
few occasions. And he’d even had the great satisfaction of knocking Rylan on her
butt, 48 hours after his capture.

But ever since their escape, he’d found the sound of his nickname distasteful.
It didn’t matter who said it, every time he heard someone call out “Trip!” he
saw that alien bitch threatening him.

He lay back down in bed and tried to bring his breathing and heart rate under
control. But the more he concentrated on them, the more ragged they became,
until he felt light-headed and his stomach heaved. Tears of shame pricked his
eyes and he jumped out of bed and threw water on his face. The cold water and
the movement seemed to help and he felt a little steadier.

//I’ve got to stop this,// he thought, sitting down on the edge of the bed. //If
I don’t get a good night’s sleep, I’m gonna be no use as an engineer. But if I
ask the Doc for drugs, he’s gonna want to know why. How can I explain what’s
bothering me?//

He lay back down and tried to find a comfortable position, squirming under the
covers. //It’s so stupid. Nobody died, just another fun couple of days out here
on the frontier, what am I so worked up over that I can’t even sleep?//

Tossing and turning, he tried unsuccessfully to fill his mind with neutral
thoughts.

* * *

The next morning, he stared at his plate of eggs. The Captain’s mess was quiet,
the steward moving silently to place food in front of him. The smell of
breakfast was nauseatingly strong, and he had to resist the urge to push the
plate away.

“Trip?”

As he fiddled with a glass of cranberry juice, the voice floated toward him, but
it seemed unreal. He continued to watch the light shining through the glass,
casting a red glow onto his fingers and the table. Like blood, he mused.

“Trip?”

A hand tapped the edge of the plate in front of him and he jumped. “What?”

Jon peered at him. “Are you okay? I’ve been trying to get your attention for the
past few minutes.”

He shook himself all over once, like a dog shaking its hair back into place.

“Yeah, Cap’n, I’m fine.”

“You sure? It looks to me like something is bothering you.”

He looked up at his friend. “Can I ask a favor?”

“Sure, if it’s within my power, I’ll do it, you know that, Trip,” Jon said
immediately.

Deep breath. “Call me Charlie.”

Jon sat back in his chair and stared at him for a long moment. “Did I do
something? What-”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s nothing like that. I just…I don’t want
to be called Trip any more.”

“Can I ask why?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Jon said slowly. “Well, if that’s what you want, I’ll call you Charlie.
You do realize it’s going to take some time for me to break years of habit.”

“Yeah.” He wanted to say more, wanted to explain, but the words just weren’t
there. He lapsed back into silence and waited for a response.

Jon still looked a little hurt. “If there’s something bothering you, you know
you can talk to me at any time. About anything.”

“I know.” Digging into his cold eggs, Charlie tried to look normal.

* * *

Over the next few days, Charlie made the same request of other crewmates who’d
become accustomed to addressing him as Trip, and collected a whole series of
strange facial expressions, hurt looks, and confusion. Somehow, the more people
he asked, the more important it became.

He knew everyone thought he was acting oddly, but it was becoming an obsession.
//I don’t want to hear that nickname ever again.//

He spent as little time with the rest of the crew as he could, working odd
shifts, sticking to the depths of engineering and off-hours in the mess hall.
When he did encounter his crewmates, he limited conversation as much as
possible, making excuses to leave.

He had an idea the engineering staff was humoring him most of the time, when
they weren’t avoiding him, but couldn’t be bothered to be upset. //Eventually,
folks will get the message and leave me alone, right?//

* * *

After five days of avoidance, Charlie had learned that 0300 was the safest time
to get something to eat. So, when he ventured out of his quarters, he found the
mess hall empty.

With a sigh of relief, he grabbed a plate of whatever was closest and a glass of
milk, which he took to the farthest corner so he could stare out at the stars.
He dropped the dish on the table and told himself to eat it.

He’d just stuck a fork into the unappealing spaghetti and meatballs when the
door to the mess hall opened behind him. //Can’t I be alone anywhere except my
quarters? Well, if I’m lucky, whoever it is will leave without bothering me.//

“Trip, I mean, Charlie, I had the late shift, but what are you doing here at
this hour?” Travis’ cheerful voice was about the last thing Charlie wanted to
hear at this moment. The friendly boomer wasn’t likely to let him brood in
peace.

“Just needed somethin’ to eat,” he managed to say politely, “then back to
engineering.”

“Why? Is something wrong with the ship?” Travis asked as he sat down at the
table with a dish of chocolate ice cream, flashing a grin at him as he took his
first spoonful.

“No. Just things to do.” Charlie took a bite of his spaghetti, but it tasted
vile. He managed to swallow around the large lump in his throat and wondered how
much he really needed to eat.

Travis said, “Well, I wanted dessert before I went to sleep.”

“Hmm.” Mindlessly rolling the spaghetti around his fork, he stared blankly out
at the stars, hoping Travis would get the message.

“So…I’ve been wondering…”

Restraining the urge to bang his head on the table, Charlie asked, “Wondering
what?”

“You’ve been kind of tetchy recently, and-”

“Tetchy?” He shook his head in disbelief as he looked at the young ensign.
“Jeez, you’ve been spending too much time with Malcolm.”

“Look, you’ve been a pain in the butt, and I’m wondering if there’s something I
can do to help.” Travis’ voice was filled with so much concern, Charlie had to
look away.

“No, there isn’t.” He choked down another bite of pasta, then made himself say,
“But thanks for askin’.”

“You’re sure? I was kind of thinking that it might be T’Pol. Or Hoshi. Or
Malcolm. Something like that.”

“Huh?”

Travis blushed slightly and stirred his ice cream into mush. “I’ve just noticed
that people tend to get grumpy when they’ve got woman troubles. Or man troubles.
Whatever. So, if that’s what’s bothering you, it might help to talk about it.”

A wave of weariness swept over him. “No, I’m not pinin’ away for anyone.” //I
wish it were that easy.//

Travis ate more of his liquefied ice cream. “Well,” he said, “if you do find
something you want to talk about, let me know.”

“Thanks.” Charlie got up from the table. “I’m not as hungry as I thought. Maybe
I’ll just get some sleep now.” He left without waiting for a reply, leaving a
startled Travis staring after him.

* * *

Not wanting to be caught in a lie, he went to his quarters to lie down, but
sleep continued to elude him.

Sleep required relaxation, the clearing of thoughts, and these were things he
couldn’t manage. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that face leering at him.

Then, the thoughts would begin.

//What if they’d all died?//

//They didn’t.//

//But if they had. It’d be my fault. I failed them. I didn’t save them.//

//But they’re alive.//

//They might have died. What I heard, it could have been real. It could still
happen.//

//It won’t.//

//How do I know it won’t? How do I know it won’t happen tomorrow, next week,
next month? I can’t just sit around and wait for them to die. I can’t. I can’t
do it.//

* * *

Hoshi tracked him down in his quarters the next evening, the only person brave
enough (or foolhardy enough) to bother him there, other than Jon. When Charlie
realized who was at his door, he groaned silently. I don’t have the energy to be
nice to her.

“Hoshi, can’t whatever it is wait?” He was lying on his bed, staring mindlessly
at a wiring plan.

“No. Can I come in for a few minutes?”

“Fine.” He looked around the room, distantly noted the mess, then ignored it.

She bounced in, slowed slightly as she looked around, but bravely continued.
“Hi, Charlie. I wanted to see how you were doing.” She cleared the padds off his
chair and balanced them precariously on top of a stack of unwashed uniforms.
Perching on the seat, she looked expectantly at him.

“And that couldn’t wait?” He looked down at the wiring plan, which blurred as
his eyes became unfocused, and he had to blink several times to refocus.

“Charlie?” she called, her voice soft.

He looked up from the schematic in his hands and waited for her to get on with
whatever she had to say.

Face clouded by some emotion, she studied him for a few long moments, and he
started to get annoyed. He put down the schematic, folded his arms behind his
head, and examined her in return. “What do you want?” he asked.

She looked a little hurt. “You’ve been down recently and I thought you might
need a friend.”

He laughed, but it wasn’t his normal good-natured chuckle. “Jon thinks
something’s bothering me, Travis says I’m ‘tetchy,’ and you tell me I’ve been
‘down.’ Have any of you considered that I might just want to be left alone? If
T’Pol’s hangin’ around waitin’ for her turn, tell her to go back to her
meditation, ’cause I don’t need anyone’s help. And if the Cap’n sent you, you
can tell the ol’ busybody that I’m just fine.”

As he spoke, she bit her lower lip, and for a moment he felt bad, but that faded
quickly under the onslaught of suppressed anger. //I just want to be left alone.
Is that too much to ask?//

Hoshi nodded slowly when he was done. “If it’s what you want, I’ll go. But you
know where to find me if you change your mind.”

“Fine, great. Don’t let the door hit ya on the way out.”

By the time the door hissed shut, he’d already gone back to staring at the
schematic.

* * *

Engineering was quiet (even though it was alpha shift) except for the gentle
pulsing of the warp core. Charlie sat at a station and watched the ebb and flow
of the energies of his engines, allowing himself to be soothed by their familiar
sound and the subliminal vibrations that passed through his body.

His reverie was interrupted by the comm. “T’Pol to Tucker.”

He stomped over to the comm and stabbed the button. “Go ahead.” Crossing his
arms, he leaned against the bulkhead, careful not to jostle the levers of the
adjacent coolant system.

“Commander, I need to speak to you at your earliest convenience,” T’Pol said. “I
have been examining the records of the engine’s performance during…”

She continued to speak, but he wasn’t really listening to her, his attention
drawn by the other sounds of the bridge. Behind T’Pol’s even tone, he heard Jon.
Then, Hoshi’s voice, obviously annoyed by something. The two of them sparred,
voices raised, and it was familiar.

Jon and Hoshi, voices coming through the comm system clearly. He gripped the
arms of his chair, every muscle tensed, and he stared at Rylan.

“What are you doing?” Jon yelled.

The echoing sound of a hand hitting flesh, a startled yelp from Hoshi. “Leave
him alone! Don’t-” Her words were cut off by the hackle-raising whine of a
weapon being fired.

“No!” Jon’s anguished cry was the last thing he heard before Rylan cut off the
comm.

“So, Trip,” she said, “what’s your answer now. Yes or no?”

“No?” T’Pol asked. “No to what, Commander?” If a Vulcan could sound perplexed,
she was managing it.

“No…” Charlie forced the words out, “No, I can’t deal with this now. I’ll get
back to you. Tucker out.” Through blurry eyes, he pushed the button to close the
channel, his heart racing with the need to take action. The elephant perching on
his chest impaired his breathing, and a sudden fever came over him, a prickling
heat that seemed to ooze out his pores.

Hands flat against the bulkhead in front of him, Charlie tried to concentrate on
the here and now. //I’m on Enterprise,// he thought fiercely. //Everyone’s
alive.//

The sound of his breathing rasped in his ears as he struggled to block the
memories flooding his mind.

Shouting and shooting and gut-wrenching fear. Straining against his bonds.
Yearning to wrap his hands around a pale throat and squeeze the life out.
The fear of those two days came back as if it had never been gone. “No,” he
whispered into the stillness of engineering.

He was going crazy. Having a heart attack. Dying. Something. He shivered and
gasped for air. Held upright by the bulkhead, he wanted…to die? To live?
How long he stood like that, he never knew, but gradually he came back to
awareness, still leaning, sweat-slicked palms trembling, sick to his stomach.
Somehow nobody seemed to have noticed him and he made a dash for the doors,
startling a crewman or two as he flew by.

He made it to his quarters without being stopped, where he spent long moments in
the head, throwing up the little food he’d taken in, then collapsing on his bed.
“No,” he said again. “I can’t take this.”

But he didn’t know what to do, so he lay shivering on his bed, hoping for an
answer. Gradually, his tired body allowed him to drift off into sleep long
denied.

* * *

He dragged himself on duty next alpha shift and was fiddling with the wiring in
an out-of-the-way Jefferies tube when he heard Malcolm’s voice. “Need any help
there, Commander?” The words, determinedly casual, echoed down to where Charlie
was buried headfirst in the conduit.

He closed his eyes. //I figured I could get some peace here, at least.// With a
sigh, he called back, “No thanks, everything’s under control. Just checking on a
squirrely connector.” //Now, go away.//

“Oh. Well,” Malcolm paused, and Charlie barely restrained a growl, “that’s not
really why I’m here.”

“I thought not,” Charlie muttered.

“Did you say something?”

“No. Look, can we do this when I’m off-duty?”

“Perhaps, if you weren’t avoiding everyone.” Malcolm sounded exasperated, and
Charlie had a vague feeling that should amuse him. “I believe that we are
friends, and as your friend and your crewmate, I’m concerned about you. What’s
wrong?”

“I’m fine, Lieutenant,” Charlie said, bearing down on the last word. He slid out
of the conduit until he was leaning against the bulkhead facing Malcolm, a piece
of the recalcitrant machinery in his hand. “Why does every damn person on this
ship feel compelled to ask me what’s wrong?”

“Perhaps it’s because we’re your friends. And with all due respect, I don’t
think you’re fine.” Malcolm stood calmly in that parade rest attitude he always
used when saying unpalatable things. “Something is bothering you that you won’t
talk about, and we’ve all let it go too long. I’m tired of it.”

“You’re outta line, Lieutenant.” Charlie felt an inexplicable anger boiling up
and the words dripped from his mouth like acid.

“Am I?” An insolent eyebrow rose. “As security officer, part of my job is
ensuring the health and safety of the crew. I’m beginning to consider you
neither healthy nor safe.” Pause. “Trip.”

With an inarticulate bellow, Charlie lunged at him. //Wipe that goddamn
smirk…//

Malcolm smoothly stepped to one side and grabbed his arm. Charlie felt the arm
used to lever him face-first against the cold bulkhead, and he heard the clunk
as he dropped the connector he’d forgotten he was holding.

For a long moment, Malcolm held him pinned, and Charlie felt his anger slip away
into confusion. When Malcolm let go, Charlie slowly turned around and slid down
the bulkhead to sit on the deck, hands clenched on his knees, head hanging. What
just happened?

He looked up as Malcolm knelt in front of him. “Commander? Did I hurt you?”

Utterly at a loss, he said, “Malcolm? I…I didn’t…”

“I know.” Malcolm examined him for a long moment, his face solemn. “Talk to
someone. Me, Hoshi, the Captain, Chef, I don’t care. Just do it before you try
to hit somebody who’ll remember it later. You know where to find me.” He waited
to see if he got a response, then stood up gracefully and left.

Mind whirling, Charlie sat for a long time staring at nothing before finding the
nearest comm unit.

“Tucker to Archer.”

“Go ahead.”

“You got some free time, Cap’n?”

“Sure. Ready room or my quarters?”

“Your quarters, I think.”

“Okay, meet you there in 10.”

* * *

When Charlie got there, Jon was already sitting on his bed with Porthos on his
lap, giving the room an air of normality.

“So, what’s up?” Jon asked, scratching behind Porthos’ ears, as Charlie settled
into a chair.

Charlie could hear the barely-suppressed “Trip” at the end of the sentence, and
he ground his teeth before forcing himself to relax. //Malcolm’s right. I’m just
getting worse.// He looked down at his hands. “I’ve gotta speak to you as a
friend, not as the Captain.” He couldn’t look up, but he heard Jon shifting.

“Okay, so as a friend, what’s wrong?”

He stared at his hands, twisting, almost wringing them. He heard Jon put Porthos
on the ground, and he looked up. Jon was leaning forward, looking worried.
“Charlie? What’s happened?”

He looked away, staring at the bust of Zephram Cochrane. “I just tried to beat
the crap outta Malcolm.”

“What?” Jon sat up straight.

“He pushed me. To see what would happen, I guess. Or to show me what would
happen.” He stared down at his hands again, seeing himself trying to smash
Malcolm’s head. “I lost it. Badly. He said I had to talk to someone.”

“I’ll have to remember to thank him later,” Jon said. “Does this mean you’re
ready to talk about what’s made you so ornery lately?”

“Geez, Jon, I don’t know where to start.”

“If I say start at the beginning, will you try to hit me?”

Charlie managed a weak smile. “No. I think I’m done with that.”

“Glad to hear it. I’d hate to have to dump you in the brig before I get a chance
to find out what’s wrong.”

Leaning back in his chair, Charlie took a deep breath. “I guess it all started
when we were captured by Rylan and her bunch.” Even saying the words made him
choke up, and he struggled to continue.

Jon finally spoke. “That’s not the first time we’ve been captured by hostile
aliens.”

The words burst out of Charlie like projectiles. “I know, that’s the problem!
Lately, it seems like every time I turn around, somebody’s gettin’ shot, or
kidnapped, or something, and all I can do is sit around and wait for people to
die.” He heard his voice getting louder and shut his mouth for a moment,
starting again in a more reasonable tone. “I’ve been having these…nightmares.
These flashbacks. I’m back in that room, with that bitch stalking around me,
crowing about how she’s going to kill y’all, and there’s nothing I can do.
Remembering when I thought people were dying.”

“Trip, you-”

“And she kept calling me Trip, like she had any right to use that name!” He
pounded the side of the chair in impotent anger.

Jon sighed, his brows furrowed. “That’s why you wanted us to call you Charlie.”

“Yeah.” He leaned forward and scrubbed his face with his hands. “Every time I
hear someone say ‘Trip,’ I hear her saying it, gloating it, laughing it. It just
makes me want to rip someone’s throat out. I thought if I didn’t hear the name
anymore, I could forget.”

“I take it that didn’t work very well.”

“No. I’ve still been gettin’ the nightmares.”

“You’ve also been avoiding everyone. Acting like a bear wakened early from
hibernation.”

“That good, huh?”

“Even worse.”

Charlie sighed, fiddling with the cuff of his uniform. “I don’t know how to
describe it. It’s like I can’t stand to be near anyone. Everything rubs me the
wrong way, making me edgy, itchy in my own skin.”

“It’s not exactly unusual to be upset by something like what happened with
Rylan, or any number of other things that have happened to us since we left
Earth.”

“I’m not crazy!” He pounded the chair again.

“I didn’t say that. Although I should point out that you just told me you tried
to hurt Malcolm. That’s not exactly a hallmark of rational thinking, either.”

Charlie buried his head in his hands. “I don’t want to think about it. That’s
one of the reasons I’ve been avoiding everyone.”

“You’ve got to think about it, talk about it. You’ve been through, we’ve all
been through a hell of a lot, and you wouldn’t be human if it didn’t bother you.
You’d be Vulcan. And then I’d have two Vulcans on my ship, and that’d be one too
many.”

Jon deadpanned the last two sentences, and Charlie looked up at him in surprise.
Suddenly, he snickered, and put his head in his hands again. Then, he started to
laugh–full-bodied, all-out, take-no-prisoners laughter–with a hysterical edge,
perhaps, but the first real laughter in weeks.

The laughter subsided into near-sobs, and Jon let him calm down before speaking
again. “Charlie…Trip…let me help you. Let us help you. Don’t push us away.”

“I’m sorry, Jon,” he finally said. “I…it’s like everyone expects me to just
brush off what’s happened, but it happens over and over again.”

“I don’t think it’s what we expect of you, it’s what you expect of yourself.
You’re not a superhero, you know. And it’s not as if you’re imagining
things,” Jon said with some exasperation. “You’re bothered by horrible things
that actually happened.”

“I know.”

“I think you need to start with getting some sleep–without nightmares. Let’s go
talk to the doctor about something to help you with that.”

“Okay.”

“And then I think we should put in a call to Starfleet and find you someone a
little more qualified than me to talk to.”

Charlie looked up at that. “I don’t want-”

“That’s an order, Commander. I need my Chief Engineer healthy, and he’s going to
do what it takes to get that way.”

“Yes, Cap’n.”

“There’s no shame in needing help.” Jon leaned forward far enough to touch
Charlie’s knee. “It doesn’t make you weak.”

* * *

Once he managed to ask for (and accept) help, he got it in spades. “I don’t
think I ever realized how many friends I have on this ship,” he said at one
point, somewhat dazed.

“They were there all along,” the psychologist told him, “you were just afraid to
see them. Afraid to lose them.”

And once he managed to talk about his fears, he found they diminished in size.
They didn’t disappear, of course, but they became manageable.

The nightmares finally went away as well, although that took a little longer and
some pharmaceutical intervention.

One day, about six months after it all began, he was eating breakfast with Jon
and he looked around and realized he was happy again. Honestly, truly, deeply
happy to be out in space and on the Enterprise.

It was a bit of a shock, actually. He’d gotten so accustomed to fighting through
storm clouds of misery, that it took him a few minutes to accept that he might
be essentially recovered. He poked at the painful memories experimentally, in
the way you can’t help poking at a sore tooth, and was surprised to find they
didn’t bite back.

He stared at his plate of eggs.

“Charlie?” Jon asked, concerned.

Eyes wide with astonishment, he looked up and grinned at his friend. “Call me
Trip.”

–end–

by Mara

Summary: The crew is on leave, and the boys decide to go fishing while Hoshi watches from shore.

NOTES: The title of this story is stolen completely from the novel by Jerome K.
Jerome (by way of my having read Connie Willis’ “To Say Nothing of the Dog”).
This is a response to a Challenge in a Can from the Linguistics Database
(http://judy.jteers.net/lingdata/indexframe.html). As usual, I’ll reveal my
challenge at the end. Thanks for the beta go, as always, to Captain Average, the
superhero who has met Connie Willis.
DEDICATION: This is for the folks who made my Sandy Neck vacation fun: the three
men in a boat (Avi, Ben, and Peter), the other ladies on the deck (Monique and
Stacy), and the kids (Anna and the oh-so-obstinate Jake), to say nothing of the
dog (Duke the darling basset hound).

* * * * *

The hardest part was convincing T’Pol to go along with the plan, but even she
seemed to be relaxed and enjoying herself. Hoshi tipped her hat back on her head
a little and squinted through the bright sunlight at the Vulcan seated in the
deck chair next to her.

T’Pol was reading a padd, probably something scientific and dull, but at least
she’d agreed to come on shore leave, this time, and let her hair down
(figuratively speaking). Liz Cutler, seated on the other side of T’Pol, had
propped her feet up on the bench and was sipping her drink with an air of
contentment.

The wind shifted slightly. Hoshi took a deep breath of the salty air, letting it
tickle the back of her throat. The warmth of the sun felt great on her skin–a
slow bake to take away the chill of deep space. The deck sat at just the right
angle for the best view of the opposite shore and the most refreshing breezes.

Beneath the swish of the tide coming in under the deck, Hoshi heard the
distinctive drone of a motorboat. She peered across the water to the fishing
boat that held Trip, Malcolm, the Captain, and, of course, Porthos, whose
excited barking drifted across the water.

They seemed to be shifting position again, Jon at the wheel and the other two
consulting the fish-finding equipment they’d rented along with the boat. T’Pol
tried to point out that numerous pieces of equipment aboard Enterprise could
more efficiently find and capture as many fish as desired, but the Captain
responded with an eloquent ode to the joys of fishing the old-fashioned way. He
gave up when met by the flat Vulcan stare and the famous raised eyebrow of
disdain.

Hoshi smiled and waved at the three men, who waved back. They’d taken the boat
out toward the sea earlier, with no luck, so they’d taken to alternately
trolling and drift fishing in the sheltered bay that held their hotel.

Sinking further into her chair, she luxuriated in the feeling of having
absolutely nothing to do except read her book, drink the pink concoction that
Trip had discovered the night before, and perfect her basking.

The tiny waves lapped the shore with a sucking sound and she stared idly at the
water, enjoying the shifting shades of blue and green. Two laughing children ran
in and out of the water further along the shore, giggling and splashing each
other.

Hoshi’s eyes were drawn, again, to the three men in a boat. Nobody looking at
them would take them for a starship captain, his chief engineer, and the armory
officer. Somehow, in 24 hours, Trip and Jon had sprouted scruffy whiskers and
gotten their off-duty clothing damp and rumpled. Malcolm had somehow avoided
most of the mess, but even he looked decidedly off-duty. From shore, Hoshi could
see Trip run his hands through his disheveled hair, making it spike up into the
most amazing waveforms.

Grimy, and obviously thoroughly pleased with themselves, they seemed to be
messing around with the lures–bits of plastic dyed colors that no fish, Terran
or alien, should ever mistake for food. And yet they did. At least they did for
other people. So far, the three men (to say nothing of the small, excited
beagle) hadn’t caught any keepers.

They had, however, hooked six small purple fish, one orange thing with spikes
that startled Porthos and made him slide across the deck, and two abandoned
rigs. But they were ever hopeful and optimistic. Even as Hoshi pondered, she saw
Jon frantically reeling something in, excitement apparent in every line of his
body. With the calm born of a day’s experience, she watched his line suddenly go
slack and the empty hook bob into the air.

Hoshi leaned back in her chair, took a sip of her drink, and picked up the padd
to return to reading her cheesy and sleazy vacation book. Instead, she lay it
down on the bench in front of her, tipped her hat down and closed her eyes.

The water sounded different this way, louder, closer, like buckets being dashed
on the rocky beach. The caws and cackles of alien birds were clearer too, as
they rose and fell on the heated winds.

Porthos’ renewed barking roused her from a lazy half-doze, and Hoshi opened her
eyes. Liz leaned forward in her chair, and even T’Pol looked up.

There was a lot of movement on the boat, running back and forth, Malcolm nearly
taking a header over the side (apparently caused by an overeager and underfoot
dog), and great excitement over something at the end of Trip’s rod.

“D’you think he’s really got something this time?” Liz asked, her light hair
ruffling in the breeze.

“I hope so,” Hoshi said, “otherwise he’s going to be grumpy.”

Trip’s rig hung over the side of the boat facing away from them, so the women
couldn’t quite see what was going on. Jon was wielding the net and Malcolm
hovered nearby with gloves, pliers, and other necessary equipment for removing a
hook from a fish’s mouth.

Hoshi held her breath as Trip wrestled with his line, which seemed to be
fighting him. A final flurry of action and then…

Jon and Malcolm’s laughter echoed across the water, like a funhouse, and Porthos
yipped. Hoshi looked at Liz and T’Pol, neither of whom seemed to have any better
idea what had happened.

Facing away from shore, Trip stood stock-still, net in one hand and rod in the
other, while Malcolm collapsed into a seat and Jon leaned over the side
convulsed in laughter.

Finally, just before the suspense killed her, Hoshi saw Trip turning around. He
put down the rod and net and lifted out of the latter: a tiny fish, no bigger
than his hand, and a gigantic pair of black boots.

Hoshi’s jaw dropped, but T’Pol got in the final word: “If Mr. Tucker was in need
of new footwear, I am certain there was an easier way to acquire it.”

* * * * *

My challenge was engineer/disheveled/boots. Just for the record, my husband and
the boys caught a number of yummy fish and not a single piece of footwear. Just
so you know.

by Mara

Summary: Trip’s been spending too much time working, methinks.

NOTES: This little ficlet is a response to a Challenge in a Can from the
Linguistics Database. I’ll reveal my challenge at the end. To see the original
Challenge in a Can, visit http://www.dymphna.net/challenge/. The shippiness is
for Josephine, ’cause she keeps asking so nicely

* * * * *

//Engineering’s sure quiet this evening,// Trip thought as he started at the
sound of the tool he’d dropped clanging onto the decking above the warp core.

After a few deep breaths to slow his heart rate, he picked up the tool and went
back to crouching over this section of his beloved engines. Within moments, his
concentration was so deep he failed to notice the sound of footsteps until
someone stood behind him.

“There you are,” Hoshi said.

Trip yelped in surprise, falling over backwards to sit on his butt, the tool in
his hand flying over the railing to land beside the warp core. “Commander?” a
startled voice shouted from below, “Are you okay?”

“Fine, Lieutenant, just fine,” Trip lied through his teeth from his position on
the floor. He maneuvered to his knees and slowly turned at the sound of a giggle
to glare at Hoshi.

“Sorry,” she said, sounding thoroughly unrepentant as she stood with her hands
clasped behind her in a parody of military posture.

Looking to the heavens for patience, //just like my momma used to do,// he stood
up and dusted off his hands. “What are you doin’ here now? I know you’re off-
shift.”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“The coolant levels have been fluctuating strangely,” he said. “And it’s the
first chance I’ve gotten to check it out.”

“Is it an emergency?” she asked, looking concerned.

“Well, no, it’s not an emergency,” he said with a frown, “but I didn’t want to
let it go too long.”

“Could somebody else do it next shift?”

He fidgeted in place, wondering why he was allowing an ensign to interrogate
him. “I suppose so.”

“Oh, good.” A brilliant smile lit up her face, and he caught his breath at how
beautiful she looked with that smile. As he opened his mouth to ask why she was
smiling, she grabbed his left wrist, locking a handcuff around it.

He stared in shock at the cuff, linked to another cuff around her right wrist.
“What the-”

“Just a little idea I had to get you out of engineering for the rest of the
evening. You ate and ran so fast, I knew you were coming back here.”

“It’s my job, you know,” he said in annoyance. “Now, get this damn cuff off,
Hoshi.”

She stared up at him, the very picture of innocence. “I don’t have the key.”

A primitive growl emerged from his throat. “Then we’re gonna march down that
ladder to main engineering and I’ll cut the damn things off.”

Her face fell. “And spoil my fun?”

She looked so downcast that, in a daze, he found himself saying, “Fun?
What…kind of fun?”

Her smile crept back and she stepped closer to him. “Naughty, Trip, not that
kind of fun.”

“I didn’t-”

“I’d planned a little treasure hunt for you,” she said, looking up at him. “I’ve
hidden the key to these handcuffs somewhere on the ship. Do you think you can
find it with some clues?”

//I should say no,// he thought. //There are lots and lots of good reasons to
say no.// If only he could think of any of them, with her standing so close that
her silky hair, unbound from its normal severe style, kept drifting across his
arm.

“Yes,” he said.

As she led him out of engineering to find the first clue, he spared a few
moments to wonder where she’d found the handcuffs, before deciding some things
were better left unasked.

* * * * *

My challenge was engineer/tease/handcuffs.

by Mara

Summary: Hoshi is less than thrilled by the results of this first contact.

NOTES: This is a response to a Challenge in a Can from the Linguistics Database . As usual, I’ll reveal my
challenge at the end. This was just another one of those odd ideas that came up
during my vacation last year. Don’t ask me about this one, ’cause I couldn’t
explain it. Thanks for the beta go to Captain Average, the superhero who
laughed.

* * * * *

Hoshi gently banged her head against the wooden wall behind her. If she survived
this experience without committing either homicide or suicide, nobody,
absolutely nobody, was going to believe her.

Scrubbing her hands across her face, she wiped off the sweat that had formed. In
the humidity of the small room, there was nowhere for it to go, so it rolled
down her neck, tickling like a trail of insects.

The sweat ran under the sodden towel wrapped around her and Hoshi shifted
uncomfortably on the bench. Through the steam, sounds drifted toward her, oddly
muffled and yet echoing at the same time.

She couldn’t decide if it was worse to listen or to try and block out the sounds
around her. Trying to distract herself, she went back to finding human
equivalents to the smells of the room. At least it wasn’t the pine smell that
she hated so much. Vanilla? Maybe, but a sharp vanilla, if such a thing were
possible. With just a hint of seaweed.

The steam cleared for a few moments with an eddy of air, and she got a good look
at the noisemakers on the other side. Hoshi had to admit that the view, at
least, was impeccable. Lined up in a row, black towels wrapped around their
waists, and muscular damp chests on display, were Jon, Trip, Malcolm, and
Travis.

If only they could be quiet and let her enjoy the view, things would be fairly
peachy. Well, toasty, but bearable. But no, the Captain insisted that if the
Enterprise crew was going to join the festival ritual, they weren’t going to do
it halfway. In between making the abominable noise that was tormenting her, they
were swigging a foamy white liquid out of huge mugs.

When they returned to the ship, she and Dr. Phlox were going to have a little
talk about the exact definition of the words “mild intoxicant.”

But first, a suitable revenge would be prepared for the helpful alien who said
that participants often sang as they sat in the steam.

The noise died down, and the four men stopped singing and started comparing
their present experience to other first contacts. Unfortunately, the “mild
intoxicant” seemed to have reduced their vocabularies by a large amount, and
they replaced many of the words they were groping for with “thingummy” and
“whatchamacallit.”

Hoshi banged her head against the wall behind her as the four men opened their
mouths and resumed their song. The same song they’d been singing for at least
the last hour.

“Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer…”

* * * * *

My challenge was linguist/torment/sauna. What would you have done?

by Mara

Summary: When Trip and Malcolm set out to rescue two crewmates from the Tandarans, things go from sublime to ridiculous.

NOTES: This is a response to a Challenge in a Can from the Linguistics Database.
For once, revealing the challenge in advance won’t ruin the story: it was
Trip/ache/socks. Tremendous thanks to Jane, Taryn, and Kim of the
Entwritebrigade, who made some fabulous suggestions to improve my highly
mediocre first draft, and generally inspired me to do a complete rewrite. Kim,
Taryn, and Ozchick then made more fabulous suggestions when I got stuck on the
second draft, which I (to my detriment, I’m sure) chose to ignore. I can only
hope the end product was worth the wait! Thanks to Captain Average for the beta
and the EWB for encouragement.

* * * * *

Hoshi made a face as she looked down at Trip’s feet. His boots were long gone
and he was left in a pair of socks; socks that she was certain had been both
clean and blue at the beginning of his away mission, earlier in the day.

Trip lay slumped in the chair, a pile of abject misery. She couldn’t decide
whether to hug him or slap him, so she settled for a question. “You’ve been to
Sickbay, right?”

“Yes,” the pile of misery muttered. “Doc said the pain shot’ll kick in any day
now. I’ll just lie here and ache until then.”

“Get out of that dirty uniform, and you can take a shower.” She closed her mouth
before “see, I told you so” could emerge.

Trip groaned.

“How about starting with your socks?” She held her breath as she knelt in front
of him and tentatively reached for the clothing in question.

She peeled the ripped, multicolored, and odiferous cotton off his feet. When she
let go of each foot, it dropped back to the floor, a rag doll’s limb.

“I’m gonna frame those socks,” Trip said.

“You *must* be kidding.” Even held between the tips of her fingers, as far away
as she could reach, the socks were still truly vile.

“Not kidding at all. You can see a map of everything that happened on those
socks. They’re better than a mission report.” Trip managed to lift his head, but
it quickly drooped back down.

“Certainly they’re smellier than a mission report.” Hoshi stared at the socks,
then at her weary lover. She tried to resist, but… “What *did* happen?”

Trip dragged himself out of the chair and slowly started to peel off his
uniform. “Well, it all started when those Tandarans grabbed the Captain and
T’Pol. We nearly got caught ourselves and we would’ve if Malcolm hadn’t been
looking in just the right direction at just the right time. When he dragged me
under the table, I thought he was nuts, but we got outta the room when the Cap’n
and T’Pol went down. When we realized the comms were blocked, we knew we were in
trouble.”

As his bruised and battered body slowly emerged from his filthy uniform, Hoshi
winced. “How did you lose your boots?” She carefully put the socks on the desk
and lay down on their bunk where she could see–but not smell–them.

Trip limped toward the shower, leaving the door open so he could continue the
story.

“Okay, picture this: We’re being ushered into the government building. It’s a
bright sunny day…”

* * * * *

Trip smiled as they strode down corridors filled with late afternoon light,
which streamed through small windows set high in every outside wall. (Malcolm
muttered something uneasy about arrow slits, causing the Captain to chuckle and
T’Pol to frown at him.)

The brightly painted walls sparkled and everything was smiles and cotton candy,
and fetes in their honor as night slowly fell. Trip wasn’t paying much
attention, though, he was too busy coming up with ways to apologize to Hoshi
when he got back to the ship.

That was when the Tandarans struck, taking Captain Archer and T’Pol in moments,
leaving Trip and Malcolm fleeing in unfamiliar territory.

At night, few of those previously bright hallways were lit by artificial means–
making them slightly sinister, filled with shadows that Trip expected to turn
into weapon-wielding villains at any moment. He tried to creep silently behind
Malcolm, but every time he took a step, his boots squeaked.

Finally, Malcolm stopped and turned, pointing at his feet. Trip blinked at his
crewmate and then shrugged his confusion. Malcolm pointed more vehemently and
Trip stared at him. He couldn’t possibly be suggesting…Trip mimed pulling off
a boot and groaned internally at the emphatic nod he got in response.

Glaring at his teammate, he pulled off his boots, and when Malcolm nodded in
satisfaction, they resumed their creep through the building. The stone was
slippery beneath his feet, and he had to resist a terrible urge to start skating
instead of walking. Hoshi would probably say it was his inability to take
anything seriously.

Loud voices–Trip flinched. Malcolm dragged Trip out of the hallway into a small
room. They pressed themselves against a wall and held their breath as a group of
Tandarans tramped down the hallway past them. When all was silent again, they
ventured out of their hiding place.

Trip hoped that Malcolm knew where they were, because he’d lost track about five
turns back. His world narrowed to Malcolm in front of him, moving, slowing,
stopping, looking around. He shifted his boots to his right hand, and tried not
to worry about what the Tandarans might be doing to Jon and T’Pol.

BAM! something slammed into Trip, throwing him against a wall, momentarily
stunning him. The boots dropped to the floor and Trip brought his hands up to
struggle with the shadowy figure pinning him. A few feet away, Malcolm grunted
as he struggled with his own attacker.

Trip yelped as a boot whacked into his bare ankle, a hot spike of agony shooting
up his leg. Grabbing the arms pushing against him, he slammed the Tandaran
against the wall. The attacker yanked Trip’s left arm, nearly pulling it out of
its socket, and Trip slugged him with his right.

But the angle was bad, and the Tandaran immediately kicked him, knocking him
across the hall. Trip bounced off-balance against a corner, hitting the floor
with a thud. Before Trip could get back up, Malcolm took out the alien with a
well-placed punch, followed by a kick in the gut. Without a pause, Malcolm
grabbed the now-unconscious man and dragged him toward a closet.

* * * * *

“Malcolm didn’t have to step in, I almost had him,” Trip told Hoshi, yelling
over the splashing of the shower.

Hoshi shook her head at the defensive tone. “Then what?”

“We lit outta there like bats outta hell and we were who knows how far when I
realized I’d left m’damn boots behind.” There was more splashing and some
spluttering, probably Trip scrubbing his face. “I couldn’t exactly go back, so
we kept moving.”

She looked over at the socks. “Is that when they got the holes?”

“Oh no, that was later.” The sound of the water changed and Hoshi frowned until
she realized Trip was rinsing off and had stuck his head in the stream. “That
was when I got the yellow and green stains.”

* * * * *

Running, ducking, hiding. Trip groaned as he staggered along behind Malcolm; he
was getting damn tired of this. Shouts heralded the discovery of their
unconscious pursuers, and they ran faster.

The blood pounded in his ears, a drumbeat of worry and a backbeat to his gasping
breaths; when the Captain and T’Pol were snatched, Trip was so surprised, it
didn’t occur to him how serious a situation they were in.

But now, as they ran, Trip realized he had a decision to make. If they made it
back to the shuttle, they could try to get back to Enterprise, or they could
launch their own rescue mission.

And why the hell was he stuck with this decision? This was definitely not why he
joined Starfleet. He was pretty sure that he’d had a lot more exploration and a
lot less running in mind. Maybe Hoshi’d had a point when she said–

Trip hissed in pain as he bumped a flailing elbow against a piece of protruding
statuary. Time to pay attention to more immediate problems, he told himself,
like not getting killed.

They rounded corners without even looking first, and when Malcolm skidded to a
stop, it surprised Trip. Caught up in the attempt to slow down, his feet slid on
the slick stone surface, and he slammed into a ladder, stepping backwards smack
dab onto a drop cloth covered in blobs of thick paint.

Trip stared down in dismay at his socks, now covered in green and yellow spots
to match the freshly painted walls.

“Redecorating?” he growled. Malcolm just shook his head and they leapt over the
drop cloth to dash down a side hallway.

The turns and halls blurred together: a left, another left, a right, a long hall
filled with construction supplies, a right, a right…

When a door appeared in front of them, it might have been a mirage to a thirsty
man: a small, almost invisible door that led out into elaborate gardens.

They staggered–at least, Trip staggered–across a gravel path into a quieter
patch of shrubbery, and began to wend their way toward where they had left the
shuttle. Trip closed his eyes and briefly hoped against hope that nobody had
managed to break into the shuttle, then cursed as he stepped on something sharp
and prickly.

Malcolm put his finger to his lips at the noise. Trip just glared back, trying
to silently remind the man that *he* wasn’t the one running around with no boots
on. Their movement continued, Trip checking the ground beneath his feet a bit
more carefully when possible. This enabled him to avoid tripping over some sort
of short hedge and narrowly miss crushing a lacy confection of a plant that
moved itself aside as they thumped through.

Trip almost laughed at the bizarre juxtaposition of the gardens–which he
vaguely remembered from earlier in the day as quite lovely–with their flight.
Hurtling over a low bed of spiky orange flowers into a thicket, they continued
on their way. The moonlight was just enough for them to keep from falling over,
but not much more. Trip figured the gardens would probably be very romantic, if
he weren’t on the run, of course.

He could hear their pursuers, but thankfully they seemed to be nowhere nearby.
Distant shouts–and even some weapons fire–kept them moving.

Just as Trip was starting to wonder if they were lost, he spied a spear of rock
that looked familiar. Hadn’t they passed it on their way to the suggested
meeting place?

Malcolm seemed to agree, as he paused by the rock, apparently to get his
bearings, then pointed. Trip grinned as he recognized a tall plant that T’Pol
had stopped to inspect. The shuttle couldn’t be farther than a few hundred
meters or so.

Relieved, Trip grinned as they turned the last corner and beheld the beautiful
sight of the clearing containing Shuttlepod One. He nearly ran down Malcolm as
the other man came to a screeching halt halfway across the clearing.

“What?”

“That.”

Malcolm pointed at the ground and Trip stared at the extraordinary sight of a
pack of small animals rooting around in the ground between the men and the
shuttle. They looked rather like squirrels, small, dark, and furry, with big
fluffy tails. They ceased their activity and looked up at Trip and Malcolm, eyes
wide and shining in the light of two moons.

Trip opened his mouth to say ‘Aw, how cute,’ but before the words left his lips,
the squirrels bared teeth shinier than their eyes and leapt at them.

* * * * *

Trip came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, and another
being used to dry his hair. He still looked bruised, but now that the grime had
been washed off, he looked slightly less disreputable.

As he dug through a drawer for some off-duty clothing, a choking Hoshi finally
managed to speak. “You were attacked by alien squirrels?”

“Go ahead and laugh. The Cap’n already did and I’m pretty sure even Phlox had a
good chuckle.”

* * * * *

Trip stared in momentary disbelief as the small animals scampered toward them,
teeth bared and pointy. He fell back a step as some of those teeth gouged into
his leg, ripping a hole in his uniform and scraping across his calf. “Ow! Damn
it!” He felt blood seep through his sock, a warm trickle cutting across the
pain.

More teeth ripped into his foot, shredding the upper part of one sock, and Trip
kicked at the little beast trying to subdue his foot. It fell back a few feet,
hooting loudly. Beside him, Trip could see Malcolm kicking and stomping as well.
Soon, the hooting and screeching of the creatures drowned out Malcolm’s low
cursing, and the animals had all dropped back to watch them.

Wincing with pain, Trip eyed them as they seemed to consider their next move; in
that moment of indecision, Malcolm howled and took an aggressive step forward,
swinging his leg. That was enough, the squirrels scattered for parts unknown,
leaving the path to the shuttle clear.

Trip’s jaw dropped as he looked at Malcolm, but all he got in return was pursed
lips and a bland expression. “Shall we?” Malcolm asked, waving at the shuttle.

“Oh yeah.”

Running for the hatch, Trip punched in the code for the lock faster than he ever
remembered doing it before, they jumped in and closed it behind them.

Trip leaned against the inside of the hatch, taking a moment to revel in his
natural habitat: sleek lines, flashing lights, much-loved machinery.

“Your orders, Commander?” Malcolm’s voice dragged him out of that happy moment.

“Damn.” Trip moved to check the comm, hoping to avert the impending decision by
getting help from Enterprise.

“Escape or rescue?”

Malcolm rummaged for supplies, and Trip looked up from the hopelessly jammed
comm in time to catch the medkit thrown at him. Turning away, Malcolm opened
panels all over the shuttle to reveal knives, a phase pistol, and several
objects Trip couldn’t immediately identify.

“Never hurts to be prepared,” Malcolm said without turning.

“Yeah. Speaking of which, I don’t suppose you stashed any *boots* in this
shuttle, did you?”

“No, I’m afraid that never occurred to me. You’ll just have to muddle along.”

“Okay.” Trip took a deep breath. “We go get ‘em.”

“Good.” Malcolm’s fierce grin slid across his face so fast, it was almost
undetectable. “Then let’s get out of here before one of our pursuers figures out
where we are.”

“Consider us gone. But next time, I’m bringing boots.”

“Along with alcohol, extra water…soon the shuttle will be too full to carry
passengers.” Malcolm grinned as he opened the shuttle door and Trip grabbed the
scanner out of his hands.

The darkness and damp of the planet’s night seemed even less welcoming after the
shuttle, which had an air of home about it.

“Hey, if the shuttle’s full, then maybe you and I can get through a whole week
without one or both of us getting hurt.”

“Hmm, a subtle but clever plan.” Malcolm’s quiet voice was absent-minded as he
kept one eye on the path ahead and also looked over Trip’s shoulder at the
scanner. “Sounds like a plan Hoshi would approve of.”

Trip looked at him. “Has she been saying something to you…” The scanner caught
his attention and he grimaced. “Somebody’s coming this way. Let’s go.” As they
started to run, Trip sent a quick prayer up to whoever it was that watched over
fools and children.

* * * * *

Hoshi curled up against Trip’s shoulder, trying to avoid the obviously injured
bits. She was still annoyed with him, but she had to touch him, and prove that
he’d returned more or less in one piece.

“That’s holes and reddish-brown patches,” she said, nuzzling her cheek against
his neck. “What damage did you do to your socks next?”

“Let’s see, next were those brownish-black stains on the left sock.”

“They aren’t-”

“No. We were creeping around when I heard a kind of ‘sploosh.’”

She blinked and lifted her head enough to see if he was teasing her. “Sploosh?”

“Softer than a splash but louder than a squish.”

“Oh.”

* * * * *

The moon was obscured behind clouds now, which made movement more difficult.
Trip was annoyed at how sure-footed Malcolm seemed to be, even in the darkness,
and he spared a moment to wonder how the other man did it.

Biting back a curse as he stumbled over yet another small rock, Trip tried to
stay upright and find a clear path to his goal.

The lack of light began to press on Trip, the humidity filling his lungs,
creating an almost smothering feeling. He swallowed and focused on what was
important: finding the Captain and T’Pol and getting the heck off this planet
and back to Hoshi.

It was difficult, though, to ignore the general creepiness of wandering around
an alien planet in the dark, with the possibility of being jumped by the bad
guys any moment. Heck, the scanner was having trouble distinguishing animals
from dangerous lifeforms. The Tandarans could be right behind them with night
vision goggles and he’d have no way to know. What if–

SPLOOSH!

Trip groaned as he looked down at his left foot, buried up to the ankle in slime
that felt like warm tapioca pudding. As he lifted his foot out, the oozing and
dripping was one of the most disgusting things Trip had ever felt.

He took a step forward and groaned at the squish of slime under his feet.

Malcolm’s face was difficult to see as he turned to look at Trip–but his mouth
seemed to be twitching in amusement. “Be quiet, Yank,” he said, “or I’ll leave
you behind next time.”

“You’re welcome to, ’cause I’m not having a whole hell of a lotta fun on away
missions any more.”

Malcolm just shook his head and they turned back to the hunt. Each step with his
left foot was like stepping on a greasy sponge, and Trip took a moment to dream
of being clean and dry, and in bed with Hoshi.

Squelch. Squelch. Trip wondered if this was ever going to end. Maybe he was
never going to get back to Hoshi. Maybe he was the Flying Southerner, doomed to
forever squelch through the forests of this planet, appearing now and then to
weary travelers…

Intent on his morbid musings, Trip was surprised when he realized they were
closing in on their goal. “They’re being held not far ahead.” Trip handed the
scanner to Malcolm. “So, oh tactical genius, what’s the plan?” He leaned against
a tree and peered through the darkness at his feet.

Malcolm studied the scanner for a few long moments. “It seems that Colonel Grat
doesn’t want the general population to suspect that anything is wrong, because
this building is lightly guarded.”

At that, Trip’s eyebrows shot up. “Isn’t this the part where I say, ‘It’s easy.
Too easy’?”

“You’ve been watching too many movies. Besides, it’s my job to be paranoid.”
Most of Malcolm’s attention was focused on the scanner.

While Trip tried to ignore the feeling of slime dripping down the side of his
foot and undoubtedly causing horrible infections in his scratches, Malcolm
rummaged through the supplies they’d grabbed. “I’ve got a plan,” he said
finally. “We’re only missing one thing, which we’ll have to improvise.”

“What, you want me to build you another phase pistol outta rocks and leaves? I’m
good, but I’m not that good.”

One side of Malcolm’s mouth quirked in a half-smile. “No, but do you think you
can rustle up something to use as a tripwire? It seems appropriate.”

“Funny.” Trip blinked, then looked down at his feet. “Oh, what the hell.” He
yanked off the unslimed sock and started to pick at the holes left from the
squirrel attack.

“What are you…oh, string. Very good, Commander. Now we’ve got to lure the
guards away from the Captain and the Sub-commander, so here’s the plan…”

It took them 15 minutes to set up. At the end of that time, Trip was crouched in
a bush just outside one of the two entrances to the building.

He peered through the near-darkness at the small outbuilding, which only
contained a few rooms if the scanner was to be believed. Small windows set high
in the wall–just as in the building they’d been in earlier–let out a few
spears of light.

From his position under the shrubbery (which insisted on dropping hard seeds
down his back) Trip could hear two guards in conversation.

“So, I haven’t had leave in six months, and it’s all that dralach’s fault,” one
said. Trip snickered a bit at the translator’s refusal to give him a direct
translation of what was obviously an obscenity. Maybe if Hoshi ever forgave him
for this morning’s argument, she’d translate it for him.

“And the food on this mission is the worst,” the other guard responded.

Trip shook his head at the universality of military service, and was momentarily
sorry for what they were about to do. Then, he remembered what the Captain
looked like the last time he’d been in Tandaran hands; anger washed away both
his amusement and discomfort as he strained to hear Malcolm’s signal.

A hooting echoed from the other side of the building, and Trip counted to 10
slowly before opening his mouth for a resounding shout.

“Olly olly oxen free!” Before he’d even finished shouting, he was taking off
around the building, and he could hear guards piling out of the building behind
him.

He pounded around the corner, taking a big leap at the last moment before diving
into nearby bushes. Malcolm yanked him out of the way and handed him a knife.

The Tandaran guards came piling around the corner and Trip held his breath as
their sounds of pursuit turned into sounds of surprise and falling. Malcolm
poked his head and phase pistol out from behind his bush and carefully stunned
every flailing limb in the pile.

Within moments, all the Tandarans lay still. Malcolm looked up. “Olly olly oxen
free?”

“It’s all I could think of. Besides, this plan is a bit weird, anyway, doncha
think?”

“It worked.” Malcolm shrugged. “I suspect the Captain might not be pleased if we
killed too many Tandarans getting him out. Speaking of which, shall we?”

Trip quadruple-checked the scanner. “Okay, I think there’s one more guard.
Problem is, he’s standing right next to the Captain and T’Pol, and he’s probably
getting pretty anxious right about now.”

“Implement Plan B.”

“Is that the technical term?”

“Shut up, Commander.”

“Watch that insubordination,” Trip grumbled, following the other man.

Phaser in one hand and scanner in the other, Malcolm led the way inside the
building. Trip winced as the cold stone floors met his wet and slimy feet.
Squelching unhappily down the hall, he followed Malcolm toward their crewmates.

* * * * *

“Well?” Hoshi lifted her head when Trip fell silent. “Then what happened?”

“The rest was anticlimactic. Malcolm jumped into the room, shot the last guard,
and we rescued the Captain and T’Pol.”

She stared at him for a moment. “All that, and nothing happened at the end?
You’re kidding, right?”

He shook his head. “How’d you guess? No, that’s not the end. We got back to the
shuttle and when I was a few steps away, I discovered that our little squirrel
friends–I think–had left a present. That’s the brownish stain on the right
sock.”

“You mean…”

“Oh yeah, you didn’t think I could run around the entire planet without stepping
in a pile of animal poop, did you?”

“Oh, dear.”

“Uh huh. Really, the worst part was how nobody wanted to sit next to me on the
shuttle. You think I can install a little shower on the shuttle pods? Anyway,
why doesn’t this stupid stuff ever happen to Malcolm? He gets speared by mines
and I get animal poop.”

The joke fell flat and Trip seemed to realize it as soon as the words were out
of his mouth, but it wasn’t fast enough.

Hoshi rolled out of the bunk, pacing to the other side of the room.

“Hoshi, I’m sorry.”

She didn’t turn around, just crossed her arms and breathed in deeply. In front
of her, the wall was decorated with an assortment of photos–a birthday present
from Trip. He’d arranged them in chronological order, from an early shot of the
crew to their most recent shore leave together.

As she stared at a picture of herself, arms thrown around a startled and
delighted Trip, she felt his warmth behind her. Sensibly, he didn’t touch her.
“Darlin’?” he said.

“I told you not to go,” she said.

“I know, and–”

“I told you not to go, because you’re the chief engineer and this was a
diplomatic mission.”

“Yes, you’re–”

“Be quiet and let me finish!” She turned in time to see his mouth snap shut. “Do
you know what happens when every single one of the senior officers is down on
the planet? We’re left with nobody in charge. What kind of idiotic organization
leaves nobody in charge?”

He opened his mouth and she glared at him. He closed it.

“I told you not to go because I’m tired of you coming back hurt. You dismissed
my arguments. You condescended to me. I *hate* when you do that!”

Shamefaced, he looked away and she felt a flush of triumph.

“You just get in trouble and nearly get yourself killed and–”

So intent was she on her rant, that she was surprised when his lips closed on
hers, and his arms encircled her. She started to struggle, getting an elbow into
his ribs, but when he winced, she froze.

It was hard to maintain her annoyance when he was kissing her, and by the time
he lifted his head, she had trouble remembering what she’d been saying.

Instead of the smirk she was expecting, his face was serious. “It was the only
way I could think of to stop you.”

“Trip, I–”

“Wait, it’s my turn. I’m sorry. I’m sorry we fought this morning. I’m sorry you
thought I was condescending. I’m sorry we scared you. I’m sorry it’s dangerous
out here.”

She slid her arms around him, leaning her head against his shoulder–he smelled
humid, a kind of soapy rainforest.

“I thought about you practically the whole time I was down there, and how I
wished I was here with you.”

“You weren’t thinking about your socks?” she teased.

“Well, them too. But I’d rather they were totally destroyed than the rest of
me.”

“Me too.” Hoshi held him as tightly as she dared, considering how battered he’d
looked. “Just promise you’ll try not to put yourself in more danger than
necessary.”

“I’ll do my best.” He stroked her hair. “So, can I frame the socks now?”

–end–