Accent-uate the Positive - by kyrdwyn
Trip Tucker shifted on the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position for thinking. His sleeping lover reacted to the change with a tightening of the arm thrown across Trip's chest, an unconscious plea for Trip to stay. Trip soothed his lover with a quick kiss to the forehead and a brief stroking of the mussed hair, tactile reassurance that he wasn't leaving. Trip had no intentions of leaving his lover's embrace until he had to return to his own quarters in the morning.
Still stroking the silky hair, Trip allowed himself to think about what was bothering him. He'd inadvertently overheard a conversation between two crewmembers earlier that day and been surprised and upset by what they had said. He knew they hadn't known he was there, but that didn't make it any better.
"There are times I can't believe he's Chief Engineer of Starfleet's only Warp 5 ship."
Trip had stiffened, not recognizing the crewman's voice.
"What do you mean?" asked another unknown crewmember, a woman.
"You've heard him talk," the first responded, as if that answered her question.
"Yes, and I've also heard him yell when the warp engines were offline. So what?"
"Then you've heard that hick accent he's got. It's amazing someone from his area made it through college, much less became an orbital engineer."
"Oh, so just because he's got that Southern drawl means he's not intelligent enough to rub two sticks together?" the female crewman asked, sounding a little stunned.
"I'm just saying that you'd think Starfleet would have put someone who sounds more intelligent than he does in charge of their only Warp 5 engine."
There was a pause and some noise as the two worked. Finally, the second crewman spoke again. "The Commander's been involved in the Warp 5 program since he was a senior at the Academy. Probably the only other human who knows more about the engine is the Captain, and he's not an engineer."
"Look, we're out there, representing humanity in a lot of first contact situations, and we've got some hick-sounding engineer meeting these aliens? How does that make us look?"
"So, we're all supposed to have no accent at all?"
"I didn't say that, Dee."
"Well, that's what it sounded like to me. What about Lieutenant Reed?"
"What about him?"
An exasperated sigh came from Dee. "He's got an accent, too."
"Yeah, but he's British."
"You say that like it means something, and I'm not getting it."
"It's a different accent, Dee. It sounds more intelligent."
A snort from Dee. "Look, Kev, I've met Brits who have the same accent the lieutenant has and couldn't find their way out of a paper bag. Just because you sound intelligent doesn't mean you are, as you are so obviously demonstrating. And what are you going to do if you ever go on an away mission?"
"What do you mean?" Kev had apparently missed the insult.
"You really think that any aliens we meet are going to speak like we do? Even the Vulcans have different accents depending on where they're from on their planet. Are you going to judge a species based on their linguistics? That's silly, and you know it."
"It's different for humans, Dee."
"Why?"
"It just is."
They'd moved off down the corridor, leaving a disturbed Trip behind. The conversation had haunted him all day. He'd had his abilities and his intelligence questioned before, but usually people would back off when they'd worked with him a while. Nothing like this blatant stereotyping by someone with whom he had worked.
Trip sighed, still stroking his lover's hair.
"You're brooding like a Scotsman."
Malcolm's sleep-slurred voice broke the silence of the cabin. He shifted so that he could rest his chin on Trip's chest, gray eyes looking into blue. "What's wrong, love?"
Trip rested his hand on Malcolm's bare back. "Mal, when we first met, first talked, what did you think? Of me?"
Malcolm frowned, thinking back. "You annoyed the hell out of me, considering I was trying to get the deflector aligned and the weapons working without the proper equipment and you kept telling me to keep my shirt on."
"Yeah, in a southern accent."
Malcolm frowned. "Well, yes. Hard to ignore that."
"You thought I was a hick." Trip said flatly.
"No. I thought you were ignoring my concerns." Malcolm tilted his head, concerned. "Trip, what's this about?"
Trip stared up at the shelf above the bunk. "You ever worry about bein' judged on yer accent and not yer abilities?"
"Sometimes, yes. Or at least being expected to live up to an image because of it - stiff upper lip and all that guff."
"How shocked they would be to find you nekkid in bed with me."
Malcolm laughed. "Ah, but I like being naked in bed with you." He sobered quickly, reaching up a hand to brush a stray lock of hair from Trip's forehead. "What happened, Trip?"
"I overheard a few crewmembers sayin' that they couldn't believe Starfleet put me on this mission 'cause of my accent."
"You don't really believe that, do you?"
"I don't know, Mal. I've run into a lot of misconceptions just because I talk this way."
"So what are you going to do about it?"
Trip frowned at Malcolm, puzzled.
"Well, if having your accent is such a problem, how do you plan to remedy it? Take on a different accent? Scottish, perhaps, to match your brooding? Italian? I'm told Ontario English is considered to be 'linguistically neutral' as far as accent goes. Or maybe you could get T'Pol to help you adopt a Vulcan accent." Malcolm rolled off Trip and out of the bed, walking to the other side of the room. "Or perhaps," he said with his back to his lover, "you could ask for a transfer so someone else more acceptable to the crew could take over your position."
Trip sat up and started to say something, but Malcolm cut him off. "Of course, that would leave me alone on this ship - in accent and in bed. Perhaps, though, I'll see if Captain Archer can adopt a southern accent."
"The hell you will!" Trip was out of bed and behind Malcolm, turning the younger man around, anger evaporating when he saw the expression in the gray eyes. "Mal, what…"
"I cannot believe you'd want to throw away your career just because some crewman has archaic notions of how humanity is supposed to be perceived. You were chosen for this ship because you were the best, Charles Tucker. We all were - regardless of accent or background or morning beverage preference. And if some of the crewman don't like it, they can bugger off." Malcolm reached up to take Trip's face between his hands. "Besides, your accent is just as much a part of who you are as your engineering skills, your blond hair, or the way you smile."
"An' the stereotype of a dumb hick."
Malcolm threw up his hands. "You honestly believe that, don't you?" He shot Trip a disgusted look as he stalked over to the closet and yanked out skivvies and a fresh uniform. He began dressing in silence.
"Mal, what -- "
"I have scans to run. At least I won't have to worry about the weapons doubting themselves because of some stupid crewmembers."
"You're angry?! Ah'm the one who's got people he thought were friends talkin' about him behind his back!"
Malcolm slammed the closet shut. "And I'm the one who's in love you with - all of you, down to that accent that drives me insane when we're on duty and makes me horny as hell when we're alone. I can't stand you doubting yourself."
"Oh gawd, Mal, Ah'm sorry. Ah just couldn't believe what Ah'd heard."
"I know the feeling - you think I haven't overheard my share of conversations about my accent and what people think based on it? That the only thing that could thaw my British reserve is the prospect of getting to blow up an entire planet full of Klingons?"
"How d'you deal with that?"
"I ignore it - the people who count know the real me. The rest are just tossers."
"Which category do I fall in?"
Malcolm pushed Trip back to the bed, forcing him to sit before straddling him. "You, Mista Tucka, are the only person on board who knows the real me. And if you even consider losing your accent, I'll space you out a torpedo tube!"
Trip gave Malcolm a lazy smile. "Is that a threat, Loo-ten-nant?"
"I never threaten, Commander," Malcolm said with a kiss. "I promise."