Author's note:
I'd started this many years ago, meaning to create a chapter for each of the seven main characters – their particular point of view on a situation or event having to do with a speech. It was a sort of character study exercise I'd setup for myself.
I quickly wrote up a draft for Trip, T'Pol and Archer, had extensive notes and bits of prose for Travis and Phlox, and an idea for Hoshi and Malcolm each… but then I never got back to it. I tried to - several times - but the muse was decidedly uncooperative. So I've given in and decided to publish the one POV that I could mold into a finished piece. Maybe, someday, I'll get around to the others. Don't hold your breath.
Thank you to my beta, Dinah!
He fidgeted and fought off a yawn.
Another planet, another ceremonial hall, another speech.
Another very long speech.
Trip Tucker carefully and surreptitiously stretched his neck a bit, and then allowed his eyes to stray to a seated figure to the far right of the podium, several meters below and to the left of where the senior officers of Enterprise stood at attention.
Surrounded by robed dignitaries, the man seated there was the very picture of confident dignity, focused attention and interstellar goodwill. These last several months Captain Jonathan Archer had had to be a diplomat at his best, convincing this, the tenth world in the last year and a half, to join the fledgling Coalition.
But here they stood. No wonder rumors were flying around that Earth's president was leaning on Starfleet to promote Archer off the bridge of Enterprise and into a role as Earth's official Ambassador.
Seeing his friend down there, so committed to something so important, gave Trip a twinge of guilt for wishing the whole thing was over and done with. He straightened up, shifted his weight to ease his aching feet a bit, lifted his chin, and refocused his gaze on the speaker currently behind the podium.
Despite his best efforts his mind began to stray after only a few minutes, cataloguing things that needed to be done. He'd need to speak to Rostov about the glitch they'd seen in the feed to the injector assembly. Maybe get Hess to help with that one. And McFarland had mentioned a faulty circuit in the turbolift controls for B deck. They'd need to purge the injectors soon, and there was something bugging him about last night's data readings. Oh, and Chef's stasis units kept cutting out on him. He'd send Kelly on over to look into that one.
Trip stifled a sigh. What he wouldn't give to be crawling around in a plasma conduit right about now.
His feet were killing him. Rustling sounds from behind him told him that a certain linguist and helmsman were having difficulty with the tedium as well. He stole a glance to the left. Vulcan poise. A glance to the right. British stoicism. This time he did sigh.
After another twenty minutes he started tapping a finger against his thigh. How long was this going to be? Was that the alien Ambassador, again? Another speech from him? He'd barely stayed awake through the first two! With no official program he had no idea how long they'd be here.
This was ridiculous. They'd been standing here for at least two hours. He desperately needed a distraction. With another sigh, he pushed his shoulders back, stretching tired neck and back muscles again. As he moved, he could feel the Vulcan next to him shift on her feet, some tired throat clearing to his right, and more restless movement from behind him. Correction: they all needed a distraction.
Okay then. Time for action.
He thought for a moment. Left or right? He stole quick glances to either side. Left? Or right? After a moment's hesitation, his smile turned impish. Left.
He started to turn… Wait...no. He frowned. That thing at breakfast. Damn. It wouldn't be fair, twice in one day.
Right it was.
Trip glanced quickly about, and then cleared his throat slightly. Rubbing his nose absently, he leaned over to the right and nudged another shoulder with his. A brief pause, to make sure he had the man's attention, and then, "Gazelles..." he whispered sotto voce.
The dark haired man next to him made a strangled noise. Coughing erupted behind him. He straightened up quickly and, ignoring the slightly disproving glance from his left, he lifted his head and schooled his features into the best display of An-Heroic-Starfleet-Officer-At-Attention he could muster.
After about five minutes he stole another glance to the right. Steadfast British composure recovered. Well, we'll just see about that.
Casually he leaned over again and opened his mouth to whisper. . . "Ow!"
The sudden grip on his arm was like a steel trap and the whispered voice in his ear like a phaser set on stun. "I swear to God, Trip, if you try to make me laugh out loud again I'm going to booby-trap your toothpaste."
Even as the other man released the engineer's arm from his iron grasp, Trip could hear snorting and a smothered giggle from behind him. A slightly exasperated-sounding sigh also escaped from his left and a quick glance revealed a soft expression that, to his mind, couldn't quite conceal amusement. Trip bit his lip to keeping from grinning, stealing a glance again to the right. The twitching lips on the face of the dark haired man next to him bespoke an expression that warred between annoyance and amusement, but an infinitely more relaxed posture.
Rubbing his bruised arm, he let himself break into a wide grin. Oh yeah, that was much more like it.