Payment in Full - Chapter 29

Payment in Full - Chapter 29 TITLE:                      PAYMENT IN FULL- CHAPTER 29
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 29

Hands, reaching down through the fog. Hands seeking, hands hunting, hands reaching. Hands finding, hands touching, hands handling, hands hurting. Please…

He tried to get away, to hide, to evade those persistent, insistent hands that were bringing him so much pain, but he couldn’t move. It was if he was weighted down, as if an invisible coat of lead had been poured over him, pressing him down, keeping him prisoner, making it impossible for him to lift his head, let alone escape. He was confined; the world was pressing in on him, closer and darker. It was all he could do to draw breath. He was trapped, buried alive, at the mercy of those anonymous hands. He struggled, but they – whoever they were - held him down, made escape impossible. No matter how hard he tried, how often he begged for some relief, a little mercy, or even just a brief respite, it was all in vain. They ignored him. Nor would they let him go, or grant him any peace. All he could do was lie helplessly and endure, until at last the fog darkened into blessed nothingness and he knew no more.

Someone was calling him from far away, their voice faint and echoing. Silence for a moment, and he thought he was alone. Then they called again.

Trip blinked and tried to see who it was. It seemed as if he was looking through a heavy mist and he wondered where he was. Still aboard Enterprise? Perhaps, but definitely not in his quarters.

He peered upward, difficult as it was; any effort at all made his head – which already ached abominably – hurt more. He was just barely able to make out two figures, staring down on him from far away. He squinted, straining, trying to see who they were. Finally he was able to discern their features. It was Jon. And Phlox.

They seemed distant, standing many metres above him, and he wondered why. It was then that he also became aware of just how hot he was; it was as if he had been baking in an oven for a long time. He could almost see the heat waves emanating off his body.

He looked up again, and now he noticed the smooth grey walls looming up over him. Again he wondered just exactly where he was. Slowly, painstakingly, he tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together. They – meaning Jon and Phlox – had put him here, here in this deep well or crevice. They must have had a good reason for doing so; Jon wouldn’t do something like this on a mere whim. But why?

It was difficult to think; his thoughts were as thick and heavy as molasses, and moved with the same slow deliberation. Finally, laboriously, understanding came. The heat, the pain, the isolation – it all fit together, it all made sense. It was so obvious, he wondered how he overlooked it, and he chuckled softly.

He’d been exposed to radiation! That was it. It explained everything. When and how it happened – well, that was something else altogether, and he’d worry about that later. But obviously, they had had to isolate him. That was why he was here – wherever here was. A maintenance shaft, probably. That made sense. Until he was decontaminated, this was the best place to keep him.

He looked up from his ruminations to see that Jon and Phlox were leaning over. He wanted to call out a warning: Don’t lean over too far – you’ll fall! But no words came. He could hear Jon’s voice, but he was too far away for Trip to make out the actual words. He tried to calculate just how far away they were; based on the evidence of his eyes, he guessed at least 20 metres. He wondered how they managed to get medication down to him. Remote control? And the IV tubing … He was considering all of this when the fog rolled in over him, and he knew no more.

Trip blinked. Where was he? For one brief, wretched moment, he thought he was on Tasumi: there was the familiar ache in his joints, the customary weak feeling in his limbs, the usual upset stomach. Panicked, he tried to sit up, but could not even lift his aching head off of the pillow. Heart hammering, he turned his head. The room was too dim to see much, but he saw the bedrail, saw the bedside table, saw all of his usual paraphernalia; saw enough that he was able to breathe a sigh of relief as he realized that Tasumi was far away, both in time and space.

He was home. Home in his own bed, home where he was safe and sound. Well, safe, anyway. He hurt all over; his head and neck ached and he was so weak he could barely move. He was terribly thirsty, too. Here we go again. With a massive effort, he managed to raise his head off the pillow. There was a thermal container on the bedside table, only a million miles or so away. He sighed, and tried to pull himself upright by using the bedrail. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and with a faint groan, he fell back onto the bed again. Great. Just great.

The bedroom door opened, letting in a stream of bright light. Trip winced and closed his eyes. A moment later, he felt a gentle hand on his forehead. He opened his eyes, looked up to find Jon standing over him, looking down at him with an unfathomable expression. Jon bent, kissed his forehead, and then without a word, slipped a hand under Trip’s neck, lifted his head and held the thermal container to his lips.

Trip began to drink rapidly, thirstily. Jon took the container away. “Easy,” he said quietly. “You can have all you want, but take it nice and easy. Okay?”

Trip nodded, and at a slower pace, drank until his thirst was slacked. Jon smoothed his hair back, bent and kissed him again. When he straightened, Trip noted the dark circles under his eyes and the deep lines of strain, running from nostril to mouth, on his lover’s face. He swallowed. “How bad was it?”

“Bad enough,” Jon replied. He then added hoarsely, “Fucking awful.” He swallowed, hard. “I thought I was going to lose you, Brat.”

“I’m sorry,” Trip whispered.

“No more, okay? I can’t take anymore. So promise me.”

“Okay. I promise.” He sighed. “How bad is it?”

“Not as bad as you think. You’re going to feel like hell for a little while longer, but you’ll get over it. Phlox says no lasting harm was done. You should be back to where you were in about a week.”

Trip nodded, then winced slightly.

Jon smiled. “Sore neck?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, that we can fix.” He rubbed the engineer’s neck for a moment, then opened the table drawer, pulled out a hypospray and gave Trip a shot, who then sighed as his aches and pains began to ebb away.

Jon then went around to the far side of the bed, climbed in. Carefully, very carefully, he took Trip in his arms, pulled him close and gently held him, so that Trip’s head was lying on Jon’s chest. “I thought I was going to lose you,” he repeated. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Trip was silent. He closed his eyes, sighed. Jon stroked his back. “I couldn’t stand it if I lost you,” Jon told him. There was a slight tremor in his voice.

“You won’t,” Trip whispered.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Trip awoke with a start. He was still in Jon’s arms, still lying with his head on Jon’s broad chest.

“It’s all right,” his lover said quietly. “You just decided to have a little nap, that’s all.”

“And you’ve been like this all that time? Just lying here?”

“I like lying here. And I like holding you. You know that.”

“You’re being awful mushy.”

“I’m entitled to a little mush, don’t you think? After everything?”

“Okay.” Trip coughed.

“Thirsty, Brat?”

Trip nodded. Jon reached, got the thermal container, gave him another drink. “You’ll probably be thirstier than usual for awhile,” his partner informed him. “You got pretty dehydrated, even with all the IVs Phlox gave you.”

“What happened, anyhow?”

“Don’t you remember?”

“Nothing that makes any sense. Once I remember thinking I must have radiation poisoning, ‘cause I felt so hot and you and Phlox looked far away. Figured I was in a ventilation shaft or something.”

“I know Phlox has some unusual methods, but even he wouldn’t go that far.”

“Yeah. I was probably pretty out of it then. Like I said, I don’t remember anything that makes sense. Last thing I remember for sure is you putting me to bed the other night.”

“Not the other night, Brat. A week ago.”

“Oh.”

“Your body began to reject the nanobots.”

“Oh.”

Jon stroked his back for a moment. “Your rewrite of the program was pretty damn good, you know. But you forgot to put an upper limit on the productivity increases. So after the nanobots had increased their rate to a certain point, your body perceived them as a threat and acted accordingly. Rejection set in.”

When Trip did not reply, he continued.

“Phlox and T’Pol shut them down, and once that happened, they were able to stabilize your condition. And Phlox finally let you come home last night.”

Trip sighed. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to get well.”

“I know you did, Brat. I know.”

“Just how mad are you?”

“Hmm?”

“I mean, if you’re planning to rip me a new one, I’d rather you do it now, okay? I don’t want to have it hanging over my head and have to worry about it for the next six months. So I’m asking – just how mad are you?”

Now it was Jon’s turn to sigh. “I’m not.”

“You’re not mad at me?”

“Nope.”

“Even though I screwed up?”

“God knows I should be, that’s true. But I’m not.”

“Why not?”

Jon did not answer immediately. Instead, he bent his head and gently kissed Trip, who looked up at him. The captain smiled ruefully. “Really. I’m not mad at you, my own.” He stroked Trip’s back. “Besides, I figure you’ve been through quite enough as it is.”

“If you say so,” Trip said slowly. “Like I said, I really don’t remember much.”

“Not the nanobot thing. Well, partially. But that’s not all.”

“What, then?”

“You were delirious,” Jon said. “I guess you could say you came unstuck in time. Sometimes you thought you were at home in Florida; sometimes you thought you were back on Jupiter Station. But most of the time,” and here Jon paused and looked uncomfortable, “you thought you were on Tasumi.” He paused again. “You talked. A lot. Guess you could say I got a walking tour of life on Tasumi. Or of hell. Same difference, far as I could see.”

At the mention of Tasumi, Archer felt Trip tense against him. When he learned he had spoken aloud about his ordeal there, he trembled. Archer tightened his grip (as much as he dared) on his lover and kissed him on the top of his head. “It’s all right, my own.” Hell, indeed.

“What did I talk about?” Trip’s voice was low, but determined.

Archer did not answer immediately. He knew that this was something that they needed to talk about; but he also knew that he was in dangerous territory. He felt as if he had been dumped into the middle of an emotional minefield. He would have to step very carefully; otherwise there would be explosions everywhere.

“Jon?” That was the thing about Trip. Not only was he stubborn, he was also extremely persistent.

“You talked about a lot of things, Brat. Some of it I knew already.”

“And?”

Archer sighed, kissed the top of his lover’s head again. The hair under his lips was rumpled but silky to the touch; unlike the way it had been in Sickbay, when the sweat that had accompanied Trip’s fever and delirium had left him drenched. It had been one hell of a time, Archer thought ruefully. One hell of a time. His thoughts flew back, and he remembered how horribly frightened he had felt, standing helplessly by Trip’s bedside…

“No… please… don’t … It hurts … it always hurts … ”

“Don’t what, Trip? No one’s going to hurt you. I promise.”

But Trip does not hear him; he is far away, far from this place, far from the here and now. He is no longer in Sickbay; instead, he is back in his room on Tasumi. It is morning, and he is lying in watchful wakefulness, waiting. Waiting for the unavoidable. Hoping against hope that maybe today will be different.

Hope is shattered once again when the door opens, and they come in. He isn’t sure who exactly they all are. He supposes the tall stern man who leads this little troupe every morning is some sort of doctor; he always has a bag filled with hyposprays and other medical instruments. The others he’s not so sure of. Possibly guards. Or nurses. Or both. It really doesn’t matter.

The “doctor” (if that is what he is) comes to his bedside, looks down at him. There is no word of greeting; Trip supposes that this is just another part of his daily routine. He twitches Trip’s coverings aside, and Trip averts his eyes, staring upward at the ceiling, tensing, waiting for the inevitable.

Trip’s hands clenched. “I hate this,” he muttered.

Archer, feeling miserably helpless, took one of those clenched hands, held it between his own. “What is it, Trip? What’s wrong?”

“Every morning,” Trip moaned. “Every damn morning. No matter what …”

He hears the sound of what he supposes is a medical scanner, and knows from previous experience that the doctor is running it up and down his form, checking for who knows what. To see if I’m still alive, he thinks bitterly. He supposes it would put a crimp in the running of the household if he were to be discovered dead some morning.

He’s then examined for any bruises or other marks that Her Ladyship would find unsettling. The doctor orders him to turn over, and he does. His back and ass are covered with welts, evidence of another “lesson” from the Corrections Mistress. This is not something that the Mistress of the House can be allowed to find on her pet; so therefore, it must be attended to. Obviously, the medical treatment he received last night was not sufficient, so the doctor administers another application of the regenerative gel. It is soothing and cooling and when it is applied, the pain ebbs away. Now those tell-tale marks will be gone by mid-morning at the latest, and if the Lady calls for him this afternoon, he knows that his skin will be smooth and soft, and she will not encounter anything disquieting when she grips his shoulders or runs her hands across his back.

He’s flipped over onto his back quickly and efficiently. He tenses, knowing what is to come, but is careful not to clench his fists or grit his teeth. Any outward show of tension could be construed as defiance, and that could earn him another session with the Corrections Mistress.

He hears the hiss of the hypospray as he’s injected with God knows what; some cocktail of drugs designed to make him ready, willing and able whenever and wherever his Mistress so desires. The doctor stands over him, waiting. One of his aides hands him a small cup, and Trip resolutely keeps his eyes averted. He knows what’s coming, knows it’s seen only as part of the routine to these people, but knowing all of this does not make it any easier to bear.

He feels himself stir, and the doctor takes him in hand, quickly, efficiently, brings him to climax and collects the residue of that climax. One of the aides cleans him off, and he has to blink, hard, to keep the tears from falling. It’s all part of the usual practice for pleasure slaves; he’s been told all about it, he knows that, but he also knows it’s ridiculous. He and the Lady are of different species – there’s no way in hell that he could ever impregnate her. But tradition and custom demand that he be infertile; hence the drugs; hence the morning ritual; hence the testing; hence the shame; hence the tears.

“The seven components of a warp reactor are … one … the dilithium … the dilithium …” Trip was whimpering. “No reaction, Tucker. You can’t let them see. Again. The seven components … “

Archer blinked hard, trying to keep his own tears from falling. He’d never known about this part of Trip’s captivity, and wondered again how Trip was able to stand it. It was a miracle he’d managed to survive with his sanity intact. “That’s all over,” he told his lover. “It’s never going to happen again. I promise.”

Trip shook his head. “Every morning,” he mourned. “They never leave me alone. Not even once … Every damn morning … Concentrate, Tucker. Don’t let them see. The seven components …”

Finally, finally, they leave, and as usual, not a moment too soon. Not just because he’s afraid they’ll catch him in the act of weeping (although that would be cause for punishment in and of itself) but because the reaction to the drugs is setting in. He told them about the side effects. Once. Now he simply endures them; it’s easier this way.

His stomach cramps; it feels as if a great iron hand has reached down inside of him and is twisting. Sweat breaks out, and he shivers as well. He begins a slow panting; he’s found it helps him get through the worst of the pain. Now his leg muscles are knotting themselves together. His hands clench the pillow and his panting increases. It’s at this point he feels that he’s going to pass out, but he never does.

Slowly, slowly, it passes. The hand twisting his guts finally loosens up, as do the muscles in his legs. He’s finally able to straighten out again, and his breathing slows to normal. As usual, it’s just barely in time.

His door opens again. “Blue! Breakfast!” And a tray is deposited on one of the splendidly carved tables in his room.

He waits until the door is closed and he hears the lock click. Then slowly, gingerly, he manages to make his way from the bed over to the table where his breakfast awaits. It’s a sumptuous feast they’ve given him, as is only befitting for the Lady’s favourite pet, but he can’t eat it. Even the smell of it is almost enough to make him sick. But he knows what will happen if he doesn’t leave empty plates to be picked up.

He manages to carry everything into the bathroom and dispose of the food down the toilet. Then the tray goes back on the table, and he goes back into bed. If he’s lucky, he can sleep for an hour or so. And perhaps today will be different; perhaps today by the time lunch rolls around, he’ll be able to eat something. Sometimes the Lady feeds him when they’re together and he’s able to keep that down; but more often he has to wait until dinner before he can try to eat.

“I promise you, Trip. No one is going to give you any more of those drugs.”

“No … the Captain’s not coming … you’re just going to tough it out … but oh, God … please make it stop hurting …”

“Trip. Listen to me. The Captain is coming. I’m here. I won’t let anyone hurt you like that. Not ever again.” And he reached, stroked Trip’s forehead. Trip looked up at him with eyes that were both seeing and unseeing. “Captain? How … how…?”

“You never mind how. All that matters is you’re safe. Do you hear me? You’re safe. You’re far away from them, and they’re not going to hurt you ever again. I promise.”

But Trip had slipped away from him again, sinking down into semi-consciousness, where time and space had no meaning and where today was yesterday and yesterday was right now.

There was silence for a long moment. Then Archer finally spoke. “At least now I know why you were so damn thin when we finally found you.” He could feel Trip’s slight nod.

“Yeah.” The younger man’s voice was husky. “Didn’t have much of an appetite after those drugs.”

“I’m sorry,” Archer said quietly.

“What for?”

“What do you mean, what for? Isn’t it obvious? I’m sorry you had to go through all that. I mean, I had no idea. I never knew … “

Weak as he was, the engineer’s temper still flared. “Is that an accusation of some sort? Because pardon me all to hell for not sharing every moment of every day with you, Captain, sir.”

Archer took a deep breath. Trip was obviously on edge. It wasn’t just because of the memories that had been dredged up, even though Archer knew the engineer would simply prefer to bury those as deep as possible and forget them. His lover was physically exhausted, worn out by the events of the last few days. He was also probably feeling guilty, Archer realized, because he had screwed up so monumentally with the nanobots. And a guilty Trip was a defensive Trip. He tried to defuse the situation. “No, it’s not, okay?”

Trip was still sullen. “I just don’t want to talk about it.”

“Too bad.” At Trip’s scowl, he added, “Because you already have, Brat. In detail.”

Trip sighed, but his scowl disappeared. “Damn. Guess I walked right into that one, didn’t I? If I could walk, I mean.”

Archer smiled at him. “It’s all right. We’ll muddle through somehow. We always do, don’t we?” He kissed the top of Trip’s head. “And like I said before – you’ll be walking again. This is all just temporary.”

“Yeah, I know.” Trip sighed again. “I just wish it could be a little easier.”

Archer kissed him. “So do I. Easier for you, that is. But I guess we just play the hand we’ve been dealt.”

Trip looked at him. “I wish you weren’t saddled with my lousy cards, that’s all.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Maybe not, but I do.”

“I know.”

“I know you do. And by the way - thanks.”

“You’re welcome. What for?”

“For putting up with me. Even when I blow up at you.”

“All part of the service. Besides, I know you’re not yourself right now.”

Trip sighed a third time. “We’re probably going to have another go round at this again. You do realize that, don’t you? I mean, I wish I could be all cool and analytical about it, but I’m not. And I won’t be.”

“You’re cooler than most people would be in the same situation. So don’t worry about it. Like I said, we’ll deal with it. We always do.”

“No – you always deal with my nonsense.”

“For the ten billionth time, Trip – it’s not nonsense. Okay? You went through hell and managed to come out whole the other side. Maybe not the same as before, but close enough. And that’s a damn miracle, as far as I’m concerned. Like I said – we’ll deal with it.”

“You are one stubborn bastard. You know that?”

“A perfect match for a spoiled brat, don’t you think?”

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