DISCLAIMER: Paramount owns the characters. Im just borrowing them, and promise to return them safe and sound. The only thing I gain from this is some writing practice.
SUMMARY: By saving Trip, Archer may lose his friend.
Savior
By Pippin
"Oh, goddammit all to hell!"
And the swearing continued; rich, ripe, imaginative curses. Despite the annoyance and frustration evident behind the profanity, Archer found himself smiling. When he wanted to, Trip was capable of letting loose language that could curdle new milk at ten paces.
He rose from the couch, and went into Trip's side of their quarters. The engineer was clinging to the wall outside the bathroom, turning the air around him blue.
"Tsk, tsk," Archer said mildly. "Language, Commander."
"Jesus bloody Christ on a carousel!" was the response.
Smothering another smile, the Captain went up to him, took his arm. "Going in or coming out?"
"Out," Trip replied.
Archer helped him back to his bed. Despite the Captain's support, Trip swayed and nearly fell. "These goddamn meds!" he snarled.
"I know it's aggravating," Archer told him. "But look on the bright side at least you're sleeping through the night now."
"I don't have much of a choice," Trip complained. "I'm so damn dizzy all the time that all I can do is sleep!"
"Phlox said one of the side effects of these new drugs is lowered blood pressure," Archer reminded him. "That's why you're dizzy. He also said your system will become acclimatized. Eventually."
"It's that last word that worries me," Trip said irritably. "'Eventually'. What the hell does that mean? Tomorrow? Two weeks from now? Or when hell freezes over? Who knows? Doctors," he grumbled, pulling the blankets up over him, "there ought to be a law."
Despite himself, Archer smiled again. Trip glared at him. "Think this is funny, do you?"
"Yep."
"Well " Trip started, then stopped. "Yeah, all right. I see your point," he admitted grudgingly. "But it's still frustrating as hell for me, you know."
"I do know, Trip. But you're just going to have to be patient. Why don't you read for a while?"
Trip sighed. "I'm still having trouble concentrating for more than an hour or so. And my short-term memory is still shot to hell, too. I tried reading this morning, and I got twenty pages in and forgot one of the plot points!" He scrubbed his face with his hand. "And I think I'm getting another headache. Maybe I'll try and sleep it off."
"I'll give you a back rub if you like," Archer offered.
Trip hesitated. He had come a long way, but was still wary of being touched.
"You'll feel better," Archer added.
Trip sighed. "You're right. It's just that ..." and he trailed off.
"I know. But that was then; this is now. It's your call, though. I won't touch you without your say-so. You know that."
"I know. And I appreciate it, Captain."
Archer nodded. He had not realized, until now, when he had to refrain, just how tactile a relationship he had with Trip. All those casual clasps on the shoulder or arm, the pats on the back, all given without much thought.
Trip sighed again.
"Okay we'll skip it for now."
Trip shook his head. "Sorry."
"No apologies needed, Trip."
"It's just that ... "
"Do you want to tell me about it?"
"Want to? No."
Archer understood. He sat on the bedside. "What happened, Trip? After Arex, I mean."
Trip frowned. "I can't remember much. They kept me pretty doped up. It's like a dream. Faces that came and went. I do remember being carried down a corridor at one point in time. And then I think I was on another ship altogether."
"You were. It was a Malzat trading ship."
"Oh. That right?" He looked at his blanket. "The next thing I do remember is standing somewhere well, being propped up, actually and Maya looking at me. And then, the next thing ..."
Trip blinked and looked around. He was in a fairly large, luxurious room, lying atop a bed covered in silk sheets. Tapestries, comfortable furniture and a thick rug met his gaze as he looked about. All in all, it was a far cry from the small, barren cell he last remembered.He looked down at himself. He was buck naked, but had gold bracelets on his wrists. Ankles, too. He could feel something around his neck as well it was a collar. He examined one of the bracelets. It was a smooth, shining gold, with no locking mechanism that he was able to see.
His back itched. Craning his head as far as he could, he could glimpse what looked like a tattoo on one shoulder blade, and frowned. He didn't go for that kind of thing, but it looked like he had no choice.
Before he could get out of bed to investigate further, the door opened. A tall bald man, wearing austere black robes, and a red insignia on his chest, entered the room. He was followed by a whole retinue of people, dressed identically in green and yellow uniforms.
"Turned out to be Al-Saahn."
"The House Master."
"Right. Him."
The House Master looked at Trip with dark, hooded eyes.
"Who in hell are you?" Trip demanded, "and what the hell " He got no further. The man was wearing a large, ornately studded bracelet on one wrist, and he fingered one of the jeweled studs. A bolt of pain shot through Trip.
"Manners," Al-Saahn said to one of the others. "Arrange sessions with the Protocol Master."
"Yes, House Master."
He looked at Trip, and wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Clean him up." And he turned on his heel and left.
Before Trip knew what was happening, he was hustled away into a large, splendid bathroom. There, the retinue of other servants bathed, shampooed, shaved, powdered, manicured and pedicured him to within an inch of his life.
When they were finished, he was marched down a hall and into another room. Al-Saahn, sitting behind a desk, looked up when Trip was unceremoniously deposited in front of him. He regarded Trip for a moment.
"Better," he finally said. "Make sure his bedding is changed, too."
"Yes, House Master."
"What the "
Before he could say another word, another hammer blow of pain dropped him to his knees.
"First lesson," the House Master told him. "In this House, you will speak only when spoken to. Do you understand?"
Trip was silent. This earned him another jolt of pain.
"Understand?"
"Bastard!" More pain.
"Understand?"
"Go to hell!" Now he was sprawled on the floor. Al-Saahn, watching impassively, let him writhe in agony for what seemed like forever. Just when he thought he was going to pass out, the pain stopped.
"Understand?"
Trip gasped for breath.
"I will take that for a yes." He stood up, came around from behind the desk, and crouched down beside Trip. "Listen to me, my young friend. My Master has paid a great deal for you. He wishes to make a gift of you to the Mistress of this House, his most beloved wife. She returns in seven days, and it falls to me to make you presentable to her in that time. And I plan to do so. So there will be no more temper tantrums or theatrics. You may be pretty enough to merit her indulgence when the time comes, but not mine."
He stood. "Behave yourself, and the rewards will be great. My Mistress is very kind. Too kind, sometimes. As for my Master, he is a hard but fair man. Please his wife and you will please him. Again, you will find that to be worth your while." He looked down at Trip. "Misbehave, on the other hand, and you will suffer the consequences. I am quite sure that you will find serving the Lady of the House far more preferable than being turned over for the amusement of his Lord's troops."
"You don't understand," Trip said, "I don't belong here!"
Al-Saahn laughed. "Who amongst us does?" He sobered. "Belong here or not, you are here. You are fortunate. I can think of far worse places that one such as you might have ended up in. One of the City Bordellos, for example. And since you are here, I suggest that you accept the inevitable. It will make your life much easier." He reached down. "Now, on your feet."
Trip looked away. "I spent the next week 'training'," he said, and shivered.
"Protocol?"
Trip shook his head. "Not exactly."
"Please ... no more. I can't take any more." His voice was little more than a whimper. "Please."
The Teacher shook his head. "You can take it," he said. "You are taking it. And learning patience in the process."
Trip writhed at this. He was bound to his bed, and was wearing was euphemistically referred to as "trainers". These were devices on his nipples and sex; devices that kept him constantly stimulated, in a state of arousal and near-orgasm. The Teacher controlled their intensity and duration of the stimulation. Trip could not remove or control them; escape was impossible, so all that was left was for him to endure.
Initially, he was only required to wear them for a short time, and then was given a rest. But the sessions grew longer and longer, and in this session, he had been forced to wear them all day, and by now he was in an agony of frustration and need. He cried out again, begging for release, but the Teacher was implacable. He began to instruct Trip in the proper breathing techniques.
Breathing techniques! If Trip could have, he would have laughed in the man's face. "I can't," he moaned. "I can't."
"You can and you will," the Teacher said patiently. "Follow my instructions. There will be no release for you until you do."
Trip whimpered again in frustration, and as a result, the intensity increased. He cried out.
"What did I say? Now, breathe. As shown to you."
Frantic for some relief, he obeyed, following the teacher's example. And to his surprise, the fierce need faded. A little.
"Again," the Teacher commanded. And again, he was compelled to obey.
"Very good." High praise, coming from the Teacher.
And the stimulation increased; this time, it did not stop or slow down, and he was finally allowed to climax. His orgasm was so intense that he grayed out for a moment or two. When his vision cleared, he saw the Teacher gazing intently at him. His arms and legs, stiff with tension all day, slowly relaxed, and he drew a deep, shaking breath. And another. Finally, his heart slowed down and he was able to breathe normally again.
The Teacher gave him a long, appraising look.
And then.
"Oh, no," he moaned, and the devices were activated. Again.
"They did that to you for a week?" Archer demanded.
Trip nodded. "More than that, actually." He trailed off when he saw the look on Archer's face. "Captain?"
"Sorry, Trip." The Captain's fists were clenched. "It's probably just as well I didn't know all of this before," he told his friend. "Otherwise, I think I would have killed them. All of them."
Trip stared at him, shocked. "You're not kidding, are you?"
"I've never been more serious in my life," was the grim reply.
* * *
Trip looked up as Archer entered their quarters. "What's going on?" he asked.
"Why aren't you sleeping?" was the Captain's response.
Trip shook his head. "Something's not right. She," meaning Enterprise, "doesn't feel right to me. Something's out of whack here."
Archer reflected that Trip's oft-repeated statement that he knew Enterprise like the back of his hand was no idle boast. He also knew that trying to keep something from the engineer was impossible; if Trip wanted to know something, he'd figure a way to find out.
"One of the nacelles. There's a problem with the plasma vent."
Trip sat up, swung his legs over the bed. "Maybe I "
He practically fell to the floor as a wave of dizziness swept over him.
"There's your answer," said Archer mildly. "No. You're on sick leave, remember?"
He helped Trip back into bed. "Acclimatize eventually," Trip said bitterly. "The Doc is so full of "
"He wants you to rest," Archer interrupted. "And so do I. You're going to have to listen to what your body is telling you, Trip. And right now, it's telling you to take it easy." What he didn't say was that he suspected that Phlox had deliberately added this new drug to the mix that Trip was already taking, knowing full well that its particular side effects would force Trip to remain quiet and rest.
"What does Hess say?"
"She says no problem. Says should take 4 5 days."
"Bull." Trip's eyes were very blue. "I may be on sick leave, but I still know a snow job when I see it. You tell Hess two days. That's all it should take. They're all jerking off down there," he muttered. "Four days! I'd hate to see what's going on, if this is the kind of crap Hess is feeding you."
Archer smiled. This was more like the Trip he knew. And thank God for that. The younger man was still on a mental roller coaster, and emotionally, he was all over the map, but at least now he was slowly moving forward, making progress, instead of standing still or worse yet going backward.
"I'll tell her what you said."
"Please," was the reply. "Four days," he repeated. "I can't believe it."
Archer grinned. "I'll crack the whip over 'em." But Trip did not grin back; instead, he froze.
Damn it! I've put my foot in it again! "Sorry, Trip. I didn't realize ..."
Trip managed a faint smile. "It's all right."
Archer looked at him in concern. "Did they really --?"
Trip sighed. "The Protocol Master..." he shivered.
"Now, again he Ladyship is?"
"The Mistress," Trip groaned.
"Or?"
"My Lady."
"And the Lord?"
"The Master?"
"Or?"
"My Lord."
"Or?"
Or what? Trip did not know. A crack of the electric whip across his shoulders, bringing a sheet of blinding pain, was his reward.
"Sir," the Protocol Master said. "You may call him Sir."
"Sir," Trip repeated, gasping.
"When may you say 'no' to the Mistress?"
"Never."
Another crack of the whip. The world went gray. "You told me that yourself!" he cried out.
Another bolt of agony.
"You may say 'no' if she asks you if you wish to stop."
Trip groaned.
"A few whacks with that thing and you say whatever he wants you to," Trip said.
"I'm sorry, Trip."
Trip managed a faint shrug. "Not your fault, Captain."
"Maybe not," Archer replied. "But you shouldn't have had to go through that." He sighed. "Now I see why you have problems with the back rubs. I should let Phlox know."
"I doubt that would change his mind," Trip replied. "He's a pretty stubborn customer."
The deck plating trembled slightly. "Hess had better get her ass in gear," the engineer growled. "This keeps up, and we'll be flying in circles." He looked up at Archer. "Captain?"
"What is it, Trip?"
"Can I ask a favor?"
"Sure. Anything."
"You sure? You've already done so much for me."
"Not so much, Trip."
The younger man looked up at him. "That's what you think."
* * *
"Hey, Commander!"
"Good to see you again!"
"Hey guys it's Commander Tucker!"
And Trip was then surrounded by his crew. He looked around from his wheelchair. "Hey, everyone," he said faintly. "Good to see you again."
Lt. Hess strode through the group. "Back off a bit, you fucking assholes! You're sucking all his goddamned air, for Chrissakes. Give him some room!"
Smothering smiles, the rest of the crew stepped away, to reveal the Chief Engineer in a wheelchair, with the Captain of Enterprise standing behind him.
Hess stopped. Her dusky complexion made it impossible to tell if she were blushing or not, but Archer figured it was a good guess that she was.
"My goodness, Lieutenant," he said mildly. "Is the language always so colorful down here?"
"No sir," she said, recovering nicely. "Only when Commander Tucker is here. Sir."
"Busted," Trip muttered. He looked around. "Everything going smoothly down here, Hess?"
"Yes, sir."
"Oh really? Then what's this I hear about four days to repair the venting on the starboard nacelle, then?"
Hess looked to Archer for assistance. The Captain shook his head. "You're busted, Lieutenant."
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