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 26
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Archer leaned back, looked up at the ceiling. "Interesting idea," he said. "And sure would cut down the amount of time spent on the so-called 'housekeeping' you and your crew end up doing." "That's what I thought. I never realized just how much time we spend doing that kind of stuff until I was able to get an overview of staff scheduling. When you're up to your ass in it day-to-day, it's easy to not notice." "And it's especially noticeable," Archer agreed, "since you're out of commission." He looked at Trip. "I always knew on some level that you worked hard, but seeing these figures," he tapped on the padd, "drives it home. You really do do the work of about three people, don't you?" Trip blushed very slightly, and shrugged. "I just do what has to be done." "Yeah, well, I think we're going to have to do something about that, too." "Well," Trip pointed out, "if I could get this idea off the ground, it would certainly help." "True. All right, brat – go to it. Just don't overdo it. And if Phlox finds out –" " – it's my ass," Trip finished for him. "Got it."* * *
Trip stretched, rubbed his eyes. He looked over at the bedside clock. Uh-oh. And as if on cue, his bedside communicator chimed. He sighed, and picked it up. "I know," he said."Indeed.” It was Phlox. "Then why am I calling you, Commander?"
"Sorry. I lost track of the time." Phlox's voice immediately sharpened. "Doing what?" "Just reading," Trip said hastily. "But I'll stop right now and take my nap." "See that you do. I am busy, Commander, and would prefer not to have to pay you a visit to enforce this."You and me both, Doc. Aloud, he said, "You won't have to. I'm turning off the lights and going to bed right now."
"Good." And the doctor signed off.
Trip sighed, but turned the lights down. At this, he heard the click-click of canine feet, and sure enough, Porthos came trotting across the floor. "There you are. Decided to join me after all, have you?" Porthos' tail wagged, presumably in agreement, and he jumped onto the bed. "Watch the leg," Trip warned, as the beagle walked about, choosing the most comfortable spot. He sometimes wondered how much the dog understood, for Porthos immediately settled down by his foot – his uninjured foot. He pulled the blankets up, and lay back, closed his eyes, and began the meditation technique T'Pol had taught him to help fall asleep. He was just on the verge when the communicator sounded again. Damn. "What?" It was Jon this time. "Why aren't you asleep?" "Because you woke me up." "That's not what these readings are telling me." "Okay. But I was nearly asleep." "Do I have to come down there?" Trip sighed, loud enough so that Jon could hear him on the other end. "No, you won't." He was tempted to add, 'you bastard', but Jon sounded cranky, and he had no desire to start a ruckus with his lover. "Good. Don't make me call again." If everyone would leave him the hell alone, he might be able to get some damn sleep. But all he said was a humble, "Yes, sir." He heard Jon snort, and the communication ended. He shifted, got as comfortable as he could and looked at Porthos. "Your daddy is a pain in the ass. You know that, right?" Porthos' tail wagged again, but whether it was in agreement with that sentiment or not, it was impossible to tell. Well, he'd better get to sleep, or both Phlox and Jon would be all over him like white on rice. As he drifted off, he reflected that even though Jon could be overbearing and downright annoying, he really had no cause for complaint. None whatsoever.* * *
"Hey." "Hey yourself, brat." When Trip did not respond, Archer frowned. "What's wrong?" "Oh, hell – I'm stuck." "How so?" Archer sat on the bedside, inwardly relieved that it wasn't anything physical bothering the engineer. "Anything I can do to help?" "I don't know." At the look he received, Trip added, "It's these damn maintenance nanobots we discussed the other day. I don't have a lot of experience in that area, and I'm having a helluva time trying to get a basic design down." "There's nothing in the database?" "Yeah, there is, but it's not exactly easy reading. That's why I was late getting to sleep today. I was trying to pull some stuff up and was having trouble finding it." He sighed. "It would be just so much easier if I could get a look at one. Once I see something, it's easier for me to go from there. Just how my strange brain works, I guess." Archer smiled, kissed him. "Works pretty damn good." "Thanks." "What about the ones the Vulcans implanted?" "I already thought about that. I asked Phlox, and he told me that there was no way, short of surgery, to remove one for me to look at. And I sure as hell don't want to undergo any more surgery, that's for damn sure." "So those nanobots are permanent residents?" "Yup." He looked up, saw the expression on his lover's face. "Don't worry, Jon. Once they've done their job, they'll be deactivated. It'll be like they're not even there. It would take a quantum scan to even see them." Archer breathed a sigh of relief, and went back to their original topic. "Well, won't Phlox have schematics?" "He does, but he won't let me look. In fact, he gave me six shades of holy merry hell when he found out what I was doing. Threatened to take the computer away and the rest of it." Archer kept a straight face. The doctor was obviously one hell of an actor. He and Phlox had agreed that Trip would get more enjoyment out of these projects of his if the engineer thought he was, as the doctor put it, "getting away with mischief". And Phlox was generous enough to be willing to play the bad guy, something for which Archer was very grateful. "I don't see why that should stop you." Trip looked surprised. "Huh?" "You've already hacked into the engineering/systems database on your own. How hard is it going to be to get into the medical database?" "I must not be 100%," Trip said ruefully. "You know, I hadn't even thought of that. Thanks for the idea." "No charge," Archer said lightly. "It'll give you something to do tomorrow." "Tomorrow." "You know the rules, brat. You're on my time now." Trip pretended to sigh. "You are such a bastard, you know that, right?" Archer did not answer in words but his reply was eloquent, so much so that Trip forgot his complaint.* * *
This was it. The last. The absolute. The final. The straw that broke the camel's back and all that. Trip managed to move his head enough to be able to take a breath. He also was able to see the bedside clock. Goddamn three o'clock in the goddamn morning. He tried to move, but couldn't budge. He took as deep a breath as he was able, and tried with all of his feeble strength to push. No good. Jon, deeply asleep, was still sprawled atop him, and was not inclined to move. His lover's weight was driving Trip deep into the mattress and making it difficult to breathe, let alone move. If he were 100%, he'd be able to give Jon a good push, and his partner would roll over and away. He was used to it; God knew it happened often enough. He liked to tease Jon that he was a possessive bastard even when asleep, as it was normal for Trip to awake two or three times a week to find his lover lying atop him, arms wrapped firmly about him and disinclined, even in sleep, to let go. But he wasn't 100%, and it was taking all of his energy simply to keep breathing. That would be the final, finishing touch, wouldn't it? Jon literally killing him with kindness and suffocating him to death. Well, he had no intention of going quietly into that good night. "Jon," he said in a hissing whisper. "Get the hell off of me!" No good. Jon simply snorted, sighed, and tightened his grip. Great. Just great. If things kept going this way, he'd have all his ribs broken all over again. I'll pass, thanks anyhow. "Jon!" Another muffled snort. "For Christ's sake, Jon – move! You're going to break my goddamn ribs!" And he managed to apply a strategically-placed elbow to his lover's side. Jon snorted again, sounding somewhat affronted this time; then groaned, and then, thank God, rolled over, buried his face in his own pillow and was heavily asleep once more. Free at last. Trip lay and stared at the ceiling. He could feel his heart thudding, he was breathing as if he had just run a long race. He scowled. He supposed that in due time, he'd be able to see the funny side of this, but right now it was anything but. This was absolutely ridiculous. Nearly smothered to death by his lover's embrace, all because he didn't have the strength to push him off. This has got to stop. I can't take much more of it. And what of Jon? Trip had no intention of telling him what had happened tonight; he knew it would upset his partner and Jon already carried too much of a burden, in terms of worrying about him, trying to run the ship and keeping Fleet and the damn Vulcans off his back. The sooner Enterprise's Chief Engineer was up and around again, the better for all concerned. He swallowed, and felt a dry click in his throat. He was thirsty, and still a little light-headed. Probably from all the exertion, such as it was. Well, at least there was a ready solution to that problem; there was a large thermal glass on his bedside table which ostensibly contained orange juice, although Trip suspected that Phlox had added other things to it as well. No matter; it still tasted like orange juice, and that was all Trip asked for at this point in time. Using the bedside as a lever, he managed to hoist himself into a sitting position. He reached, got the glass, pressed the button on its side, and the flexible straw sprang out. He drank thirstily, and the juice, kept cold by the special container, was sweet and good. Better, much better. He leaned over the rail to return the glass to the table, and felt a familiar pressure on his temples, and a ringing in his ears. The bed seemed to tilt crazily upwards as the room began to spin around him. Oh, no, was his last coherent thought, and then he knew no more.* * *
Porthos was worried. Things were not as they should be right now; more so than usual. He looked up from his post at the end of the Bed and over to the Mate/Trip's side of the Bed, and things there were definitely not right. Of course, they had not been right for some time, and this had affected everyone in the pack. The Mate had been seriously hurt; Porthos could smell the sickness on him, even as he could see that the Mate was visibly unable to care for himself. It was necessary for the Mate to remain in the Den, in the Bed, and required the Master's/Daddy's help in such simple things as grooming and feeding. And the Master was worried. Terribly, terribly worried. Porthos could sense the fear and anxiety coming off of him as clearly as he could smell his own supper when it was served to him. Even when they went for Walkies, the Master's concern for the Mate was uppermost in his mind; this was obviously evident to Porthos, although it appeared that the lesser members of the pack (those who did not live in the Den) were unaware of the depth of the Master's concern. For his part, Porthos had done what he could. He guarded the Mate assiduously, never straying far from his side. And for good reason. For one thing, he did not entirely trust the one referred to as the Doctor/Phlox. The Phlox often took the Mate away, out of the Den, where Porthos was unable to watch over him. And, even when the Phlox allowed the Mate to remain, he often appeared to be doing things to the Mate that hurt him, but since the Master (and the Mate) permitted this, all Porthos could do was watch helplessly. However, this Phlox had better watch himself. One wrong step ...! But right now, things were wrong, very wrong indeed. Instead of sleeping the deep, heavy sleep that was usual since he had been injured, the Mate had awakened. He had been in some distress, although Porthos was not entirely sure why; he did not sense pain or hunger; instead, it seemed that the Mate had been angry. This had confused Porthos, because the Master had been embracing the Mate, and usually such embraces were welcomed by both sides. He watched as the Mate struggled for a moment. The Master, apparently finished for the time being, or accepting the Mate's refusal, turned away. He did not appear to be upset by the rebuff; he was asleep again (indeed, it appeared to Porthos that he had been asleep the whole time). But the Mate was still awake. He was panting, and clearly agitated. Before Porthos could come forward to comfort him, the Mate sat up. He drank something, and Porthos watched, expecting him to finish and then lay down. When he did, Porthos would then go up to him and give him what consolation he could. But the Mate did not lay back down. He stiffened, and then slumped over the barrier that had been erected on his side of the bed. The Mate's breathing was rapid and shallow, and Porthos could hear his quick and unhealthy heartbeat. He whined, trying to get the Mate's attention, but there was no response. He whined again, but the Mate was motionless. Porthos then realized that he was not awake, but not naturally asleep. The Mate had FAINTED. This had happened before, and Porthos knew that this was a Bad Thing. A Very Bad Thing, in fact. He knew then what he must do.* * *
"Porthos!" Archer was irritated. The beagle was whining and licking his face, and he made a sleepy attempt to push the dog away. This was something that he simply did not tolerate; and from puppyhood, Porthos had been trained not to try and wake him up. And in the middle of the night --? His dog did not stop. Instead, apparently encouraged by the fact that Archer was somewhat awake, he barked. "You'll wake Trip up! Bad dog!" And he sat up, looked over at his lover. Oh my God.
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