Payment in Full - Chapter 19

Payment in Full - Chapter 19 TITLE:                      PAYMENT IN FULL- CHAPTER 19
AUTHOR:                 PIPPIN
RATING:                   NC-17 (to be on the safe side)
PAIRING:                  Archer/Trip

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 19

Four a.m. The time when the siren song of sleep calls out to those still awake. When the internal rhythms are at their lowest ebb. The time when, according to those who know, most deaths occur.

Four a.m.

The hour of the wolf.

Malcolm Reed leaned up against the clear steel window and stared, unseeing, at the planet below. He felt as if he were the only moving, breathing, thinking, being aboard ship right now. He had always been a loner, but never had he felt so utterly and totally alone as he did now.

It was all gone, wasn’t it? All in tatters. Everything. Career, friendships and reputation – all swept away in one shattering moment. How could he have been so stupid? He’d lost everything that mattered to him and gained nothing.

He stared down at Vesora. Pretty place. He should really get a good look at it; it was more than likely that he’d never get the chance to view any other planet from such a vantage point ever again. Not once Archer – and Fleet – were through with him.

It didn’t matter. He deserved everything that was coming to him. In spades, as Trip might say. Trip. He didn’t want to think about what he’d done to Trip, but he couldn’t help it. Just like you couldn’t help touching a sore tooth, he couldn’t help reliving the nightmare.

Reed froze; then hastily pushed himself off of Trip. And then saw, with bemused horror, that Trip was ashen, and was breathing in quick, panicky little gasps. Oh my God – what have I done?

And then Archer was on him.

The next thing he knew, he was halfway across the room in a crumpled heap on the floor. He stared in terror as Archer, with fury in his eyes, took a step towards him. But a faint moan from Trip stopped him. Just in time. Reed had seen Archer angry before, but this went far beyond anger; for a moment, he had seen murder, pure and simple, in the Captain's eyes.

Archer bent over the bed, then straightened up, grabbed a communicator that was lying on the bedside table. He flipped it open. "Get the doc down here," he said to someone on the other end. His tone was urgent, commanding. "Now." He half-turned and saw Reed gaping at him. The fury returned to his eyes. "And security." He closed the communicator, glowered at Reed. "You," he said tightly. "Don't move. Not a goddamned muscle. You understand?" Reed nodded dumbly. He was afraid to speak. "I'll deal with you later," Archer added with angry contempt, and with that curt threat, turned back to Trip.

Trip moaned. “It’s all right,” the Captain soothed. “I’m here now.”

“Jon?” Trip was whimpering.

Had he reduced Trip to this ashen, trembling bundle? Apparently he had, for the Captain shot him another angry glare, and then turned his full attention back to the engineer.

“I’m here, brat,” he soothed. “You’re all right.”

“No,” Trip moaned. “No, I’m not …” He cried out softly, and a shudder ran through him. The sharp, unmistakable odour of vomit filled the air. “I’m sorry,” Trip whimpered. He sounded like he might be crying. “Oh, God, Jon … “

Slowly, Reed stood up. As he did, Porthos raised his head; growled. Even the dog hates me, he thought bleakly.

Alerted by the beagle, Archer looked over his shoulder. “I thought I told you to stay put!”

“Please … let me help …”

“I think you’ve ‘helped’ enough already.”

Reed took a cautious step towards them. “Please. I’m so sorry. Let me help, Captain.”

“It’s a little late for sorry now.” Archer was stripping the bed of the soiled sheets. “Come near Trip and I’ll snap your neck.” This said so matter-of-factly that it made Reed’s blood run cold.

Trip groaned. “Jon … I’m sorry …”

“What’s wrong? You going to be sick again?” Archer’s tone was tender; in marked contrast to that used with Reed.

“I’m sorry …” Trip repeated helplessly.

“It’s all right.” The Captain held his head, steadying him. “You can’t help it.”

Trip’s frustration and shame were evident. “I’m sorry,” he whispered for the third time.

“Stop being such a goddamned idiot,” was Archer’s reply. His tone was brisk, but Reed could see the hands cradling Trip’s head were gentle, and the expression on the Captain’s face tender. “You can just stow that, Commander. Unless you want to be scrubbing plasma conduits for the rest of the mission.”

Trip managed a faint smile while Archer gently cleaned him. Reed wondered how he could have ever thought, even briefly, that Archer did not care for Trip. Their professional relationship might be crisp, cool and collected, but here and now was a very different matter. The depth of his feeling was evident in everything the Captain did. It was in the way he spoke to Trip, the way he moved around him, and the way he touched him. It was obvious that Trip was the most important thing in Archer’s life. And the way Trip’s eyes followed Archer … Reed turned away. He was intruding on something very personal and very private.

He wished he had never taken it into his head to come here tonight.

The door opened, and Phlox hurried in. He swept past Reed, seemingly ignoring him, which was just fine as far as Reed was concerned. He wanted no more than to find a hole somewhere and crawl into it.

“Trip,” Archer was saying, urgently. Then, “He’s fainted.”

“Not surprising.” Reed turned back to see Phlox running a scan over the unconscious man. The doctor looked up at Archer, his expression grave. “I think we had better get him to Sickbay.”

“Damn.”

The door opened again, and two of Reed’s security crew entered. “Captain?”

“Please escort Lieutenant Reed back to his quarters.” Archer gave no further explanation, and Reed’s crew were far too well trained to ask for any. “Sir.”

Reed’s last glimpse was of a strained, unhappy tableau consisting of an unconscious Trip, a worried Phlox and a furious Archer. Then the door closed on them, and he had a long, miserable march back to his quarters.

He turned away from the window, stumbled over to his bed and sat, head in hands. How could he? How could he have done that to Trip? Hadn’t the man been through enough already?

It was a bloody miracle he hadn’t killed him, or at the very least broken the engineer’s ribs all over again. Climbing on top of him like that – what in God’s name made him think, even for a moment, that Trip would welcome his fumbling, frantic groping? That was the problem though, wasn’t it? He hadn’t been thinking. Not above the waist, anyhow.

He’d really done it this time, hadn’t he? Drunk and disorderly. Conduct unbecoming an officer. Assault. Attempted rape. He could just imagine what everyone would say when they knew. They didn’t; not yet. The Captain hadn’t said anything, nor had Trip. Well, that wasn’t surprising; Trip was in no condition to say anything to anyone.

Cutler had given him the latest on Trip’s condition when she’d dropped by earlier this evening. Phlox had sent her to check on him; apparently, a few crew members had had “negative” reactions to the Vesoram liquor.

Negative. Yes, you could say trying to rape your best friend was a negative reaction. Ex best friend. Why, oh why could he have not just accepted things the way they were? Friendship was better than nothing. Which is what he had now. Trip would never want to see him again, let alone be friends with him. Assuming he ever got out of Sickbay, that is. Phlox was very worried about the engineer; Cutler had said that Trip was not doing very well. Bad dreams. And because of the bad dreams, he wasn’t sleeping. And because he wasn’t sleeping, he wasn’t healing. Reed knew who was responsible for this, even if Cutler didn’t.

His father was right; he really was a screw-up, wasn’t he? He could just imagine the old man’s disgust when the news of his wayward son’s latest caper reached his ears. There’d be no help or support coming from that quarter. He remembered his father pronouncing on a similar case years ago.

“Claims he had too much to drink.” Captain Stuart Reed lifted his tea cup and sipped.

Captain Mary Reed offered her husband a plate of biscuits. “And?”

“And nothing, my dear. You know that drunkenness is never an excuse. Not for anything, but most especially not for that.” He looked down his aristocratic nose at his son. “You remember that, boy. An officer always behaves like a gentleman. Always.” He set his cup down. “They’ll drum him out of the Service and into 20 years hard time. And a damn good thing, too.” He shook his head. “Bad blood, that one. It always tells in the end.”

Yes, it does, Father, Reed thought. The old man had already practically disowned him for joining Starfleet (“They’ve no tradition, no history, boy”); this would be the proverbial straw that would break that particular camel’s back. He wouldn’t be able to depend on the family coming to his defense, that was for bloody sure. Not that he had much of one. Too much to drink? At a diplomatic function, no less? Archer was all ready to fire him out the nearest airlock, and he had no doubt that once Fleet knew the details, they’d hold open the hatch.

And he sure as hell would not have any allies aboard ship, either. Trip was one of the most popular members of the crew, his senior status notwithstanding. He was the one everyone brought their troubles to. Not only did he listen, he would do everything and anything he could to help. The fact that he had the Captain’s ear didn’t hurt, either. It was Trip who managed to get Ensign MacFarlane leave when he needed it, and it was Trip, who had helped Lieutenant Scadden, without comment or judgement, take care of the “little problem” she had picked up over her last shore leave. He worked tirelessly, not only keeping Enterprise on an even keel, but her crew as well.

Everyone knew the Chief Engineer had been through hell on Tasumi, although only a select few knew exactly what variety of hell that had been. Reed was one of them. He’d known. And his response? To put Trip through the nightmare again. Bloody brilliant strategy, Reed.

Even if the crew didn’t know the details, everyone knew that Trip had been smashed to hell and back saving the Captain’s life. Assaulting an injured and helpless man – that would go over well with everyone, wouldn’t it? Hell, Archer wouldn’t need to fire him out the airlock; the Captain probably be hip-deep in crew members volunteering to do it for him. With the greatest pleasure, no doubt.

Actually, he would prefer being blown out an airlock to what was probably waiting for him. Court-martial. Then a good 20 years in a “rehabilitation colony”. That was what they were calling it nowadays, but a cell was still a cell, no matter what kind of fancy label you slapped on it. And at the end of those 20 years – what? Would anyone want a so-called security officer who was a convicted sex offender? He wouldn’t be able to get a job working security on someone’s flower garden, let alone a starship. Even the Boomers wouldn’t hire someone like him.

Really, there was nothing for it, was there? There was only one option left to him. The logical thing to do, as T’Pol would say.

He went over to his closet, reached, found what he was looking for. It was a small, ordinary looking box. He opened it, took the revolver out. Sometimes, the old-fashioned ways were the best. He looked at the Colt’s gleaming gun barrel. You could almost see your reflection in that blue-black surface. Almost see your hopeless, haunted eyes, staring back at you.

The gentleman’s way out. That’s what it was. It had been done that way for centuries. Not quite as honourable as dying in battle, but still – better than living the rest of one's life as a failure. Who was he to stand in the way of tradition? He checked the chamber. Six bullets. Old-fashioned ammunition was hard to come by nowadays, but he had managed. Well, he wouldn’t need all six, would he?

He went and sat at his desk.

No sense waiting any longer. He had debts, and it was time to pay up. He pointed the gun’s barrel up at him, and looked deeply into the depths of the barrel that was so much like a lidless eye staring back.

Last call.

Time, gentlemen, please.

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