SETTING: Minor spoilers: "Stigma"; "First Flight" and "The Expanse". Set after the events of "Savior".
FEEDBACK: Always! [email protected] DISCLAIMER: Paramount owns the characters. I’m just borrowing them, and promise to return them safe and sound. The only thing I gain from this is some writing practice. SUMMARY: Everything has a price.
Chapter 18
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It was dark. So very dark. He was trapped. He couldn't see, and he couldn't move. He couldn't get away. And they were at him. Again. He could hear them. And feel them. Trapped, in the dark. Forever. He screamed in horror and despair, and with that, jerked into a terrified wakefulness. He saw Jon, bending over him. "It's all right, brat." Trip could not answer. He was staring at his lover in shock. Jon was unshaven and unkempt, and dark circles bracketed the Captain’s worried hazel eyes. "Jesus, Jon – you look like hell." "Look who's talking," Jon retorted, but his humor was forced. "Have you slept? At all?" Jon did not reply. Instead, he bent and kissed Trip on the forehead. "That's what I thought," Trip said grimly. "Jon, you've got to get some rest." "I'm not the only one," Jon replied. "This is the third time tonight that you've woken screaming. Phlox called me after the last time." He stroked Trip's hair. "What are we going to do with you?" Trip had no answer. Jon sighed. "And I don't think Phlox is going to let you come home anytime soon, either." Trip sighed in turn. "I know. I'm sorry," he managed to whisper. Jon looked surprised. “What?” “I’m sorry. For screwing things up.” “It’s not your fault, Trip. You can’t help being sick.” “Not that. The Vesorams.” “What about the Vesorams?” “I mean, the banquet. The dance. They must have noticed you were gone. Probably pissed them off no end.” Jon smiled. “On the contrary, brat. They were afraid that they were responsible.” Trip stared. “Huh?” “Mistress Y'Ayna knew you’re recuperating, remember? And she also knew that you supervised the overhaul of their engines. She was afraid it was too much for you.” “Did you let her know it wasn’t that?” “Yep. As far as she knows, you had a relapse and that’s it.” “Malcolm … ?” Now Jon’s voice was flinty. “I’m not about to air our dirty linen in front of the Vesorams. They don’t know anything about his part in it. We’ll deal with that quietly. Privately. And it's not your fault either, brat." "That's what everyone says. But I can't help feeling bad. And is Malcolm... ?" Jon's face hardened. "What about Lieutenant Reed?" "Jon – please." "He's confined to quarters." "Is he okay?" "Don't worry about him." "I can't help it. I am worried." "It's more than he deserves." "He was drunk, Jon. Drunk. He didn't know – " "No," Jon said with finality. "No, that's not going to work, Trip. He wasn't that drunk. He knew what he was doing was wrong. You said no. Hell, I could hear you out in our living room. He heard you, too. And didn't stop. Where I come from, that's called assault." "But – " "But nothing. This is not something we can ignore, and you know it. This is a matter of ship's discipline. Lieutenant Reed assaulted a fellow officer. Tell me, would you still be so lenient if it had been Hoshi? Or Marsha?" Trip was silent. "You see?" Jon asked. He stroked Trip's hair. "I don't want you worrying about it." "I know. But like I said, I can't help it. What's going to happen to him?" "That hasn't been decided yet." "I think I should have a say in whatever you do decide. After all, it was me that he – he – " " – Assaulted." Trip surrendered. "Okay. Assaulted. I should have a say." "You're in no shape to deal with this right now. It's already made you sick. Literally. I don't want you getting sicker." "Do you have to decide right now?" "No," Jon said reluctantly. "Then you can wait a while?" "Only for a little while. I can't put it off forever, you know." "Okay. Fair enough." He sighed. "You know, I doubt that any punishment you hand out is going to hurt him any worse than what he's already feeling himself." "You might be surprised," Jon growled. "Jon," Trip said. "Please." "All right," Jon sighed. "Maybe so. But I can't let him off the hook because he feels badly now." "I know," Trip said. "I understand." The curtains around his bed parted, and Phlox came through. "You are supposed to be sleeping, Commander." He had another hypospray in his hand. Trip held up a weak hand. "Doc –" "- I'm afraid I must insist, Commander. You need your sleep." "OK – but Jon does, too." He looked at his lover. "I'll take a shot if he does." "Okay," Jon said reluctantly. "I promise." "Sorry." Trip shook his head. "You first." "I'll never make it back to our quarters!" "Plenty of beds here. Right, Doc?" "Indeed, Commander." Jon sighed. "All right." He watched as Phlox pulled back the curtain separating Trip's bed from the next. The Captain then slowly climbed onto the bed, pulled a blanket over himself. Phlox gave him the shot, and he glared over at Trip. "I hope you're happy now." "Delirious." Phlox pressed the spray against Trip's neck. He heard Jon say, as if from far away, "Brat." "Bastard," he managed, and then fell asleep.* * *
Trip awoke, and turned his head to look at the biobed next to him. His last clear memory had been of seeing Jon stretched out there. Now the bed was empty. Not surprising, considering. It was past noon, according to the bedside clock. He swallowed; his throat was awfully dry. He propped himself up on one elbow, and managed to snag the thermal glass on the bedside table. He drank thirstily, emptying it, and then laid back with a sigh. Phlox appeared as if summoned. "Commander." "Hey, Doc." "Do you think you could eat?" "Not right now." Phlox did not push it. Instead, he came, and sat beside him. "Did you sleep well?" "A little better, thanks." He looked over at the empty bed. "And Jon?" "A few hours." Trip shook his head. "That's not enough." He sighed. "He looks like hell." "The Captain is under a strain right now," Phlox agreed. "He needs a break." "I concur. But he has refused the shore leave – " "Shore leave? What shore leave?" "The Vesorams have offered the crew the hospitality of the planet. And Starfleet feels that this is an excellent opportunity to further relations." "So the entire crew is taking shore leave." "On a rotating basis, yes." "Except for Jon." "And you. And me." Trip sighed. "Jon really needs a break. More than anyone else." "I'm not disagreeing, Commander. I was contemplating making it a medical order." "Don't," Trip said decisively. "I'll take care of the good Captain." He settled back on his pillows, his pale face set and determined. "Very well," Phlox agreed, careful to hide his smile.* * *
Archer entered Sickbay at a near-gallop. Phlox had refused to let him see Trip until last night, when the dreams had gotten particularly bad. And now the doctor had called him to come down again, and he feared the worst. He pushed the curtains around Trip's bed aside, and hurried over. The younger man was pale and still, and Archer felt his heart twist in his chest. Then Trip opened his eyes, looked up at him. "Buster," he said, "you are in so much trouble."* * *
"You can't expect me to just leave you here!" "I can and do. Hanging around isn't going to help me right now. What it will do, though, is piss me off." "But I think Phlox will let you come home if you ask." "Well, I'm not going to. Ask, that is." "What?" "You heard me," Trip said quietly. "I'm staying put. That way, you've got no excuse for staying aboard." He looked at Archer, determination evident in every line of his face. Archer stared back. He'd forgotten what a forceful personality Trip could be, and right now, that force was aimed directly at him. "I can't," he protested again. "I can't go off and leave you. I won't." "Fine," said Trip angrily. "Fine. You stay. Go right ahead. Make yourself sick. That'll be real helpful." "Trip – " "No. If you don't want to go, then don't. But I'm staying here. And I don't want to see you." Archer felt like he'd been punched in the gut. "You're kidding." "I am not. I'm not going to help you kill yourself." "You're exaggerating." "Not by a hell of a lot. Looked in a mirror lately?" Archer did not respond, and Trip frowned. "Obviously, you're set on behaving like a damn fool. Well, I don’t want to put up with it. Get out." "Trip – you're joking, right?" "You heard me. I'm serious. You're pissing me off. It's not good for me. So get out." Archer sighed. "And if I agree to take some leave?" "Then you'll be showing some sense. Finally. And I won’t have any reason to still be mad." "OK." Archer surrendered. "I'll take a couple of days." "Like hell you will. You're taking ten." "Three." "Nine." "Four." "Eight." "Five." "Seven. And that's my final word on the subject." "All right," Archer agreed. "Seven days." "And nights." "Nights? Whoa – I never agreed to nights!" "Seven days and seven nights. You're not coming back up here every night, undoing all the good the day's done." "But what about you?" "I'll be fine. I'd imagine Phlox is going to want me to sleep a lot anyhow. Plus, I have some thinking to do.” “About what?” Trip did not answer. Jon looked stricken. “You can't tell me? Or won’t?" Trip looked up at his lover. He was shocked; he'd never seen Jon look so vulnerable, so sad. He realized then the tremendous power – and responsibility – he had. He could really hurt Jon if he wanted to. He couldn't bear the thought that Jon was hurting because of something he did. He had to reassure him, and right now. He reached up, placed his hand on the back of Jon's neck, and pressed, bringing Jon's face down to the level of his own. He lifted his head from the pillow, kissed him. "You stupid bastard," he said affectionately, "It's not like that at all." "You sure?" Lightly, he tapped Jon on the nose. "Positive.” “But you still won’t tell me.” “Not right now. But soon. I promise. Now you go, and have a good time. And when you come back home, I'll be waiting for you. That's another promise." "And we'll talk?" "About anything you want, you bastard. Anything at all." Jon's relief was palpable. "Okay." Trip kissed him again. "Good. I'm glad we got that sorted." "Just one thing?" "What?" "I'm going to call you. Every day." "I think I can live with that. You going to take Porthos?" "Of course. Sickbay's no place for a dog." "Of course. And take lots of pictures, okay?" "You bet. Just for you, my brat. Just for you."
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