A/N: A short, (hopefully) humorous oneshot placed shortly after A Night In Sickbay. This is inspired off an OOC post on the USS Tumblr, in which several of us wondered about some of the more domestic activities of those aboard the Enterprise. I'm trying to get myself back into the fanfiction-writing groove; you all have been waiting far too long for the next chapter of Right Direction, Wrong Occasion. Hopefully this assists me in bringing my muse forth once again. As always, thanks to BonesBird for encouraging me/consistently delivering sorely needed swift kicks to my backside. Let me know what you think; constructive criticism is always appreciated. This work is rated T for foul language and some suggestive material.

Laundry Night on the NX-01

"Bloody hell!" Lieutenant Malcolm Reed exclaimed as he entered the quartermaster's workroom, his pronouncement followed by the muffled sound of a brimming laundry basket overturning. Who had been so careless as to leave their wash in front of the door? More curiously, why had Crewman Morales not bothered to correct this error of judgment?

A quick survey of the room was completed as soon as the disheveled Brit had steadied himself, running his palms over the expanse of his pristine uniform. To his chagrin, there were dozens of similar clothing receptacles piled about, on top of washing machines, stuck in between walkways, and stacked in each of the four corners of the room. Certainly a safety hazard, the armory officer concluded, and he turned his head to look into a compact, adjacent room. There, a disused computer console rested atop a desk cluttered with PADDs, an apron or two, and a digital picture frame slowly scrolling through photographs of what was surely the quartermaster's family.

Although he inwardly abhorred such a display of disorderliness, Malcolm found himself stifling a wry smile. Crewman Miguel Morales, a robust Latino with an ever-burgeoning waistline, was nearly impossible to dislike. What with his alliterative name and immaculately groomed moustache, he was the life of any party, the center of any conversation that he thrust himself in to. It was the jovial Spaniard's task to clean, press, and supply the uniforms of all eighty-three crewmembers aboard the Enterprise. He took his job incredibly seriously, however, oftentimes shooing curious shipmates away from the delicate machinery that lined the walls of his sanctum. There was no stain that he could not obliterate, no wrinkle that he could not level; if you were one for dramatic metaphors, you might say that Crewman Morales was the omnipresent overlord of all he surveyed—at least in the laundry room. The man certainly knew his textiles, and it was common knowledge among the crew that it was unwise to challenge him on any related matter. Not unless they wanted to wear hyper-shrunk skivvies for the next week.

Where was Miguel, anyway? Malcolm temporarily rested his hands on his hips before hurriedly turning around the right the basket that he had upset moments before, blushing slightly as he piled the women's undergarments back into the vessel.

"Nice goin', Mal," came an unmistakable Southern accent from somewhere within the depths of the fabric labyrinth. Groaning inwardly, he stood, craning his neck to see where the imploring voice had come from.

"Over here!" a bare arm, unclothed to the elbow, emerged from behind a particularly monstrous pile. A split second later, the fair-haired chief engineer stepped into view, his palms rested on his trim hips.

"Commander Tucker," he acknowledged, still fighting back the crimson color in his cheeks. He gestured broadly to the expansive mess that they were currently ankle-deep in. "If you don't mind me asking…"

"Yeah, I was wonderin' the same thing." He shrugged, running a free hand through his blond tresses. "Apparently our good ol' friend was struck down by a particularly bad case of food poisoning. Jon told me about it this morning over breakfast. Said that he would ask Hoshi to send out a message to the crew that they'd have to do their own laundry instead of just droppin' it off…" A sharp bark of laughter escaped from his lips. "I guess we could call this a study in how often the staff of a starship thinks to check their email." He disappeared behind the heap once again, and one of the washing machines lurched as the door was yanked open, thereby disrupting the cleansing cycle.

Malcolm Reed crossed his arms and approached the Floridian warily, still somewhat steadfast in his belief that friendship and duty should not mix. He had been adamant to Captain Archer about this, but somehow he had managed to open up to him and forge a fragile companionship with his senior-most officer. Perhaps it had something to do with the both of them nearly perishing in a nearly futile attempt to disengage a Romulan mine from the ship's hull. Perhaps not.

"Mmm, Chef Moreau isn't going to like this one," he muttered in an endeavor to engage in small talk. "In my experience, the French are quite defensive persons."

Trip chuckled at that as he began to pull article after article of clothing from the machine. "Yeah, I can imagine. Duelin' accents, here we come."

Malcolm smirked at the irony. Mere months before, the same anecdote could have been used to describe their relationship. How fate behaves, he mused, is truly beyond human understanding. He never would have imagined that he would be pals—in a very loose sense of the word—with the Enterprise's most incorrigible crew member.

After a few moments of awkward silence, in which Malcolm was lost in his own thoughts, Trip asked, "So, what brings you here to the quartermaster's workroom this fine mornin', Lieutenant?" His upper body disappeared once again as he reached for a few more items lodged deeply within the bowels of the machinery.

"Oh, I was planning on asking if Crewman Morales could take up the hem of my dress uniform pants half an inch."

A distinct sound of disbelief could be heard from within. "Mal, I doubt that we're gonna run into a situation where we'll need them any time soon."

"I know, but an officer should always look his best, no matter what the circumstance," he experienced a brief flash of déjà vu. In his mind's eye, he was bent before a miniscule mirror to the rear of a condemned shuttlepod, haphazardly shaving even though he had been privy to the knowledge that he would most likely not survive another few days. "Or at least, be prepared to," he murmured.

There was a groan, and then Trip Tucker swore, "Shit!"

"What is it?" The armory officer came down to his haunches and peered into the cavernous maw of the washing machine.

"One of my uniforms is stuck on the goddamn…the…the…the thing," he declared, pointing at a set of cogs attached to the roof of the contraption. Malcolm could see the problem clearly; the left side pocket had become entangled in one of the gears, more than likely preventing future operation. Whilst his examination continued, he could see Trip's arm shoot out and take a firm hold on the breathable material. Before he could give it a tug, he slapped his hand away.

"Ow!" Trip exclaimed before Malcolm tossed him a sharp look.

"Are you crazy? Morales will eat us alive if we damage one of his laundry machines!"

"Well, what do you suggest?" Trip inquired, slightly indignant.

"How should I know? You're the engineer!" His voice rapidly jumped in pitch.

"Well, I had an idea, but it obviously wasn't good enough for you!"

"That's because it was stupid—wait a minute!" Malcolm stood, his eyes darting around the room. "Commander, do you know where the engage switch is?"

He nodded. "In Miguel's office, where no one can tamper with it."

Malcolm knelt once again. "Alright, I want you to go and press the trigger for this particular machine. Once the washing cycle has started, the gears will be spinning so fast that we could easily slip the garment out."

"What about the door mechanism? The cycle won't start unless the doors are closed."

Malcolm exhaled, pointing to the axle joint on the door hinge. "If I engage the automatic lock apparatus, the simple inner computer won't know the difference."

"Let's hope," Trip turned and beat a hasty retreat to the adjacent room without a second thought as Malcolm slid his upper body into the barrel. With one hand clasped to the door's fulcrum and the other with a firm grasp on the offending garment, he barely had the opportunity to consider how awkward his current position was. A few half-hearted prayers from his days in Anglican Sunday School ran through his mind as he imagined the worst possible scenario. Decapitation by washing machine surely would be an undignified way to die.

As his hold shifted on the rear of the uniform, his fingers skimmed a bulge in one of the pockets. Slipping his hand into the fold, he retrieved a strange looking medallion filled with some sort of vivid green liquid. It looked like a strange piece of tribal jewelry. Suddenly, the memories came washing back; only three days prior, Captain Archer had been subjected to undergo an extremely extensive and ritualistic apology ceremony on the Kreetassan home world. His sole grievance had been allowing his diminutive beagle, Porthos, to urinate on one of the people's precious Alvera trees. Malcolm had heard tales from both Ensign Sato and Commander Tucker of the humiliating outfit that the Captain had had to wear, and he could imagine that Trip had taken great pleasure in teasing the living hell out of his commanding officer about the ordeal. It suddenly dawned on Malcolm that this pendant must have been taken as a souvenir, and, Trip, in his haste to shed his uniform after a long day in engineering and playing diplomat, had forgotten to empty his pockets.

As he lifted the rondure, feeling its inexplicable weight, he concluded that it must be made from glass. A small tug confirmed his worst fear; it was wound into the pocket by means of a loose string of cloth or circumstance. He opened his mouth to warn Commander Tucker, but it was too late; as the spin cycle was engaged, Malcolm lost his grip on the wayward uniform and could only watch in horror as the necklace slammed against the metallic rim of the washing machine, bursting open and depositing a thick, sticky emerald-colored liquid all over his person.

"Stop! Stop! Stop!" He shouted. A few seconds later, having obeyed this order and come running, Commander Tucker came to a halt at the head of the row of machines. He stared, agape, at the scene before him.

The pendant had indeed exploded, covering everything within a ten foot radius with disgusting lime goo. The two men could only look at each other in shock for some time until Trip erupted into laughter, clutching his sides and falling to his knees with the power of his mirth.

Malcolm glared at him with an expression of undisclosed rage for a fraction of a second, before he, too, doubled over, his body racked with truncated peals of laughter as he struggled to catch his breath.

"Holy shit…you look…you look…like a massive booger!" Trip managed to choke out, before he was once again consumed by the waves of giggles at the quite childish assertion he had made.

"Hell I do!" Malcolm retorted, "You waltzed right on over here and just stood there like a deer in the headlights!"

"Why ya little—" Trip stood and approached him, his fists cocked in an unconvincing display of mock fury.

"How's about we settle this like men, Mr. Tucker?" Malcolm questioned, mirroring his stance and taking one step forward. As soon as his foot made contact with a now-soiled uniform that a crewman had left carelessly strewn about on the deck plating, he slid several feet and collided headlong with his would-be adversary.

The two men fell to the floor, their backsides sinking into the tacky sludge below them. Rapidly rolling off of him with only a second to assess the engineer's startled expression at being now in the state that he was in, Malcolm crossed his arms across his chest and began to chortle softly. When his companion showed no audible signs of such a similar reaction, Malcolm turned his head.

Trip had rotated his body to face away from him, his attention focused on a laundry basket whose contents were particularly dark-colored. "So that's what she wears underneath that cat suit o' hers," he muttered in hushed revelry, raising a thoroughly doused pair of boy shorts above his head.

"Commander Tucker!" Malcolm exclaimed, flabbergasted at such a blatant breach of professional disclosure. Sure, they had both been privy to the glorious view of the ship's Vulcan science officer in such a state of undress, but what was to be said about personal decorum?

"What is it, Mal? Do ladies' underthings scare ya senseless?" Grunting, he began to roll over.

"No, no, it's just—" he began, only milliseconds before the slippery fabric escaped Trip's grasp and fell, with quite a gross-sounding plop, onto his chest.

"Christ!" Malcolm cried, desperately flinging it away from his person.

Trip, catching his disgruntled expression, snickered, "Come on, man. Might not be the only time that happens."

Malcolm blushed fiercely at his suggestive tone of voice. Swallowing deeply, he responded, "I'd prefer not to think about it."

"Yeah, sure. I seem to remember a quite intoxicated armory officer informing me that she had 'quite a nice bum.'"

"You remember that?!" Malcolm was astonished.

"Damn straight," he replied. And without a thought to his next course of action, flipped over and dumped the entire contents of the Sub-Commander's laundry basket onto him.

"Lord in heaven!" He shouted, struggling to twist and writhe in this tight space between his companion and the adjacent washing machine. "Alright, alright, very funny, but how in the hell are we even going to begin to clean all of this?"

Trip sat up abruptly, wiping a dripping trail of liquid from his forehead. After beholding the sorry state of his surroundings for a moment, he acquiesced, "I have no idea. Who woulda thought that such a small amount of fluid could cause this much mess?"

"Any liquid spreads out to fill the shape of its container," Malcolm muttered absently as he rose to his feet to further assess the situation.

"Thanks for that chemistry lesson, Professor Reed," Trip reacted sardonically, "Now, where does Miguel keep the cleaning solution?" He turned to approach the quartermaster's office.

"No!" Malcolm said, clutching his forearm. "I really doubt that a little seltzer and water could fix all of this."

"We might as well try," Trip implored, departing as Malcolm scraped a bit of the alien substance from the floor with his fingernail. It was just as he feared; the goo was nearly impenetrably thick. Sighing as Commander Tucker returned with a compact spray bottle in hand, he stepped aside to encourage his friend's futile efforts.

"Alrighty, here we go," aiming at an isolated splotch of filth on the doorframe of a nearby washing machine, he pressed the trigger.

As soon as the ministration was complete, the mass of substance grew inexplicably to twice its size.

"Told you so," try as he might, Malcolm could not bite back the sharp retort.

"Okay, looks like you were right," Trip held up a single palm in surrender, kneeling down onto his haunches away from his intrepid failure to contemplate his next move.

"Of course," he scoffed, leaning against a tower of laundry baskets facing the site of the experiment. A few moments passed before his very eyes, the liquid began to expand, its outer regions seeking and consuming objects cluttered about like pseudopods on an amoeba might.

"Commander Tucker—" he began, taking a few wobbly steps away.

"I know, Mal, you don't have to say any more. It was stupid of me to try something without makin' some sort of examination first." While Trip was lost in his defeatist musings, the fluid was quickly approaching his backside on a clearly determinable mission.

"Trip—"

"Really, I get it. You don't have to say any more." As he sighed, the liquescent substance entwined around his ankles and began to work its way up his muscular calves.

"Damn it, man!" Malcolm bellowed, pointing at his feet in a last-ditch attempt to make the Commander see what he had been not-so-quietly observing for the past twenty seconds.

"Holy shit!" Trip thundered, rising and beginning to forge a path through the impassable muck, which seemed to suck down his heavy work boots even further with every step he took.

"We have to get out of here!" Malcolm exclaimed rhetorically as he fought to reclaim his foot. It slid out eventually with an ungainly plop, taking his shoe with it. As the goo quickly rose to their knees, the two men found themselves only about halfway to the exit.

"What the hell is this stuff?" Trip huffed, exerting massive amounts of power to fight his way through.

"Do I look like I have the faintest idea?!" The exasperated armory officer hollered, rounding the home stretch.

Trip was the first to reach the ingress. Oddly enough, it hadn't slid open as they had approached it. "It's jamming the door!" Traces of fear could clearly be heard in the undertones of his voice.

Malcolm began to slosh his way to the access panel, but Trip had beaten him to it. "I doubt that your manual security override codes are going to help in this situation, Lieutenant!" Hastily working to unscrew the mechanism, he had no time to notice that the liquid had risen to just above his waist.

Pressing against the door with his upper body, Malcolm came to the unfortunate conclusion that suffocation by goo would be just as undignified as meeting his maker via decapitation by washing machine. He had not the time to consider his circumstance any further; there was a beep from the console on the wall, and Commander Tucker threw himself against the exit so as to avoid being swept away with the churning substance.

Almost instantly, the door slid open, depositing the two men and quite a copious amount of goo onto the deck plating of the hallway. A handful of passing crewmen paused to gape at them in a curious mixture of wonder and confusion.

Observing over his shoulder that the alien substance had slowed its growth substantially, Malcolm took a few moments to disentangle himself and his single-shoed feet from the greasy trap. Trip began to work his way in the opposite direction.

After a few moments of struggle, in which none of the assemblage had bothered to move, the men stood with a great deal of difficulty, covered in bright, lime green gook from toe to neck. While Malcolm turned his face to hide his mounting shame, Trip slowly rotated around to address the steadily-growing accumulation of crewmen in the hallway.

"Laundry's gonna be a little late on the return this week," he stated simply, before making a sharp about-face and following his newly-appointed partner in crime to the turbolift.

The End