Squeaky and Leah

"…And then he says: 'you couldn't keep anything clean and tidy unless it had a warp coil attached to it.'" Trip gestured towards the captain with his glass. "And then I said, 'you're so uptight, you could straighten any warp coil with the sheer strength o' your sphincter alone-"

"You said what?" Jon was coughing, wiping beer off the front of his shirt.

Trip took a sip of beer. "I was mad."

"No kidding." Jon said, "so what did Malcolm say to that?"

"Well," Trip wiped his mouth with his sleeve, "that was when he picked up the data padd from underneath the pile of laundry and handed it to me."

Jon looked at his friend, eyebrows raised. "Data padd?"

"Yeah," Trip frowned, "weren't you listenin'?"

"Humour me," Jon replied.

Trip sighed elaborately, "Malcolm came to my quarters right after shift, askin' if I had looked at the data padd he had left there. I told him I was gettin' around to it, and when I couldn't find it, he told me-"

"-That your quarters should be subjected to a level three decontamination. Yes, I remember." Jon said, "and then you said he should have told you if it was important, and everything went downhill from there." He looked askance at Trip, "how did you manage to bury a data padd under a pile of laundry?"

Trip looked at him sourly as he took another sip of beer. "That's not the point."

"Well," Jon said, "if you had read the data padd instead of losing it somewhere in your quarters, this fight wouldn't have happened, right?"

Trip glared at him. "Now yer soundin' like my mom."

Jon finished his glass, put it down on his desk. "Trip," he said gently, "how would you feel if you had given Malcolm something that he needed to look at and he lost it?"

"He wouldn't lose it," Trip snorted, "probably velcro the damn thing right to his—"

"What I mean," Jon interrupted, "is that you wouldn't be any happier if the situation were reversed, would you?"

Trip shrugged. "Maybe." He lifted his glass to his lips, then scowled at it and plunked it down next to Jon's. "He never said it was important."

Jon just looked at him. "Did he have to?"

"Oh, c'mon Cap'n!" Trip exclaimed, "I'm the damn chief engineer! You got any idea how many reports I have t'read-?"

Jon's mouth curved in a half-smile. "I think I might." His expression became serious. "Has Malcolm ever given you anything that was trivial?"

"When did you an' Malc become such good buddies?" Trip snarled.

Jon grinned. "Since he started going out with my best friend."

Trip let his head drop. "He probably doesn't want to go out with me anymore."

"Don't pout," Jon said, "you look like a four-year-old." He shook his head, "Go apologize to Malcolm, read whatever's on that data padd—and clean your room."

"Clean m'room," Trip pouted, "don't know what for—s'not like Malc's gonna care." "Trip," Jon sighed, "you two have been going out for six months. He might find it in his heart to forgive you."

Trip looked up at Jon, head still lowered. "You know what kinda suck Malcolm can be."

Jon burst out laughing. "-And you're not exactly a Vulcan yourself." He shook his head again, still chuckling. "Go clean your room."

"Now you really sound like m'mom," Trip muttered. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Any ideas on how I should apologize?"

Jon smiled at him. "I'm sure you'll think of something."

***

"Sweet Jesus," Trip murmured. His room really was a mess.

There was a pile of dirty laundry in a haphazard avalanche beside the bed. He'd been sleeping on another pile of clean laundry for so many nights it was now probably dirty again, too. In fact, the uniform he was wearing was most likely the cleanest thing he owned. He didn't even want to think about the sheets.

There was a large collection of data padds, containing half-read articles from 'Warp Engineering Monthly' and 'Astrometrics Today,' as well as a sizable number of 'Starfleet Alumni' magazines he hadn't gotten around to erasing yet. Yesterday's shift report was somewhere in the pile, waiting to be reviewed, along with two letters home he'd started and intended to finish any day now. All of this was stacked precariously on the floor, leaning against his desk. He knew that if he moved even one padd they would all come crashing down. The laundry pile was steadily encroaching into the padds' territory—no doubt how he had lost the one from Malcolm in the first place.

The desk itself resembled the mess after a busy lunch hour: There were two mostly eaten sandwiches, four apple cores and two empty glasses he should have returned to the kitchen a while ago. A few pairs of lose socks were scattered here and there amongst the plates—casualties of failed long-distance passes across the room. A final one dangled sadly over the front of his prized, antique diver's helmet; the helmet itself was powdered with dust, making the once-golden metal into a dull bronze.

And there, dropped between an empty plate and a twisted sock, was the data padd Malcolm had given him.

"Damn," Trip sighed. He walked gingerly over the various piles to the desk, picked up the padd and thumbed it on.

He read it: there was only one message, very short. Trip's eyes went wide. "Damn," he said again, "damn, damn, damn."

He placed the padd gently on the top of the pile. They all crashed to the floor.

***

It took him five hours to clean the room. The diving helmet sparkled. There wasn't a speck of dust anywhere. He'd even sorted through all the data padds and finished the letters to his family. He was completely up to date on the latest shift review and the current research on star ship engines. There was even an article on transporter safety that he had bookmarked and e-mailed to the Captain, with a blind copy to Hoshi. In a moment of generosity brought on by the satisfaction of having a clean desk for the first time since space dock, he had even sent fifty dollars to the Starfleet Alumni Association. Some of their articles were actually pretty good.

Except for the uniform he was currently wearing, he had no clean clothes. He had no clean bed-sheets, towels or pyjamas, either. The quartermaster wouldn't be returning his laundry until at least 0800 the next morning. Trip inspected the front of his uniform, scraped off a bit of grease with his thumb. It could pass muster for at least one more shift. It wasn't like he hadn't worn the same underwear two days in a row before, anyway.

He'd even found his harmonica in the toe of a boot that was trapped between his fitted sheet and his mattress. No wonder the bed had been so lumpy even with all the laundry on it. With a sigh of accomplishment, he sat on his clean chair and put his polished boots up on his clean desk, crossing his ankles. Experimentally, he blew into the instrument and was pleased when a clear note sounded. All that time in his boot hadn't done it any harm. He started to play a blues riff his mom had taught him, thinking of what he was going to say to Malcolm.

He hated having to apologize, especially when the lieutenant was right. Still, he smiled to himself, Malcolm looked really cute when he was being smug. And maybe there would be some make-up sex for compensation. And his bed was bigger anyway, now that two people could actually fit on it again.

He had to admit he liked his quarters like this: all nice and clean and organized. He could see why Malcolm was so keen on all this spit-and-polish stuff; it was easier to think without all the chaos.

Yep, he thought to himself, this is way better. If he had it his way, Malcolm would never see the messy, dishevelled and grubby Trip again. Trip nodded to himself as he played; he'd make Malcolm proud.

The comm. beeped. It was Jon, asking him to come to the bridge because they had found a ship in distress. Something about a stasis pod.

"On my way," Trip sighed. Hopefully he'd be done soon, so he could apologize to Malcolm. And thank him for giving him the code to unlock his quarters. It was a hell of a gift for being together six months, and Trip was going to make sure he stayed worthy of it. He would do everything in his power to show Malcolm how important their relationship was to him.

Trip looked around his spotless quarters one more time, smiled to himself and went out the door. Maybe he and Malcolm could grab a bite together after he got this problem fixed, something they could take to his quarters to eat. And he'd return the dishes this time.