This latest addition to my Friend In Need series was written on a suggestion by SitaZ, whom I thank.
For Shades of Fine I forgot to mention my wonderful beta readers, Gabi2305 and RoaringMice - sorry girls, and thank you! RoaringMice also betaed this story.
Also, I think we can extend I Am Fine Month for another bit... indeed, almost indefinitely, LOL: for a certain Lieutenant, it is always IAF month! :-)
§ 1 §
The fact that their Chief Engineer from one day to the next had taken to wearing civilian clothes without any explanation – from the man himself or the Captain – had set half the ship off guessing.
Ensign Sato had suggested that the laundry people, fed up with having to clean grease stains out of Tucker's uniforms, had just quit giving the Commander back fresh changes of clothing.
Mayweather, on the other hand, had been convinced that the man had eaten too much pecan pie: he must be waiting for the quartermaster to sew him larger uniforms.
Crewman Rostov had thought it was his Chief's not-so-subtle way of telling the Captain that he was ready for some shore leave.
And, according to the ship's grapevine, the Engineering complement had started a wager on how long their Commanding Officer would remain out of uniform.
As for Malcolm, he had known that something a lot fishier was going on, and had taken it upon himself to observe Tucker surreptitiously. The man had definitely been nervous, and famished – although Malcolm's tactical mind had suggested that the second could well be a consequence of the first – and had avoided contact with the rest of the crew, when not strictly necessary. Plus there had been that strange pimple that had appeared on his wrist. And all of this had begun after his two-day mission to repair the engine on that Xyrillian ship.
But damn if he'd have ever suspected the truth.
As Malcolm reminisced, a chuckle tickled his throat. The pressure inside his windpipe was ready to explode into a loud and regrettable snort, but he managed to control it, and just in time: two crewmen appeared around the bend in the corridor, headed in the opposite direction. Malcolm's repressive efforts still got him a curious glance, but he froze the two with one of his 'Lieutenant Reed looks', and sent them on their way with a sharp nod.
That Trip Tucker, though... Southern charm indeed!
As he walked briskly along the corridor Malcolm mused that the job description for Armoury and Security Officer on Earth's first Warp 5 vessel definitely hadn't included looking after an amorous Chief Engineer. Hell, in first contacts he was going to have to watch more than the aliens. Perhaps their aloof Vulcan SIC wasn't that bad a presence on board after all; a bit on the cold side, but after this incident he would consider that a positive quality. Indeed if rumours on Vulcan mating customs were true, she would give them no surprises of the kind Tucker had brought back – at least for a few years.
Amusement took over again, and Malcolm smiled, shaking his head in disbelief. Pregnant! Interesting scales, he had joked with the Commander over lunch. Interesting scales indeed: when, on the Bridge, the Commander had raised his shirt and revealed that odd-looking bulge on his side...
Actually, after the first moment of mirth Malcolm had been struck by the realisation that it was because of a bloody flirt that he might have to defend the ship from a Bird-of-Prey full of pissed-off Klingons, and Tucker's entanglement had suddenly appeared a lot less amusing.
But now that things had turned out fine, he could appreciate once again the funny side of it all. And now that the Commander's ribs were once again unencumbered, they could be made the target of some innocent little ribbing. Nothing that might re-open the stitches that must be there – the man was still his superior officer – just fair retaliation for unnecessarily getting them into the path of danger.
Malcolm smiled smugly: he had the perfect excuse to visit the man. Next morning Tucker was returning to duty, and he had intercepted Lieutenant Hannah Hess – who had been in charge of Engineering while the Commander was... erm, on maternity leave – en route to bring her Chief the department report; Malcolm had offered to do it for her, and she had accepted without qualms.
Here he was now, in front of Tucker's quarters. Malcolm looked at the time – oh-twenty-fifty – and raised his hand to the bell.
"If you are looking for the Commander, Lieutenant, I believe you will find him in the Mess hall."
Turning to the familiar voice, Malcolm watched T'Pol approach. "At this hour?" he blurted out before he could stop himself. A blush crept up his neck and he straightened his shoulders, assuming a more formal stance.
Giving him a glance made steady and self-assured by the customary logical approach, T'Pol replied, "Presuming his course wasn't diverted, he was heading in that direction."
Malcolm watched the Vulcan pass by, all curves and suppleness, and followed her with his gaze till she disappeared behind the next bend. How could she be so bloody cool and hot at the same time? He shook his head; and himself out of his daze. Mess hall it was, then.
Retracing his steps to the turbo lift, Malcolm considered his destination. It had been two days since the Commander's... delivery, one of which the man had spent secluded in sickbay to recover fully: his appetite should be back to normal, meaning that he ought to be eating only for one again. On the other hand Tucker was known for his snacks at odd times. And how was he – Malcolm – to know what would be considered normal anyway? He was hardly knowledgeable about maternity, delivery and appetite levels before, during and after.
Malcolm couldn't suppress a grimace. Damn, but he'd never get used to it: there was something entirely disturbing about the idea of male pregnancy.
The Mess, not surprisingly, was empty at this hour. Lights had been dimmed, the bright serving cabinet standing out on one side as an elongated, beckoning entity.
Malcolm stopped just inside the room and scanned it. It wasn't difficult to spot the only person there: Tucker was sitting in the farthest corner, head propped up on one hand. In front of him sat a plate with what, even at this distance and in this poor light, Malcolm recognised as a piece of his favourite pie; a glass of milk, still full, was beside it. The man hadn't stirred at the sound of the doors opening, and didn't now.
After studying him for a moment, Malcolm went to the drink dispenser: he was here, he might as well. "Tea, black," he ordered. Cup in hand, he finally approached his victim.
"Evening, Commander," he said. All business, he placed a padd. on the table. "I brought you Lieutenant Hess's engineering report." He controlled his mouth, which wanted to curl up, as he added nonchalantly, "I thought you might want to peruse it, since tomorrow you're returning to duty after your, uhm, deli– "
"Thank you," was the deadpan reply, spoken loud enough to cover Malcolm's last word. Without moving his head Tucker shot the padd. a brief look before returning his gaze to the slice of untouched pie.
"Mind if I sit for a few moments?"
The grunted assent wasn't very welcoming, but Malcolm didn't mind: the mischievous child in him was begging to be let out. Putting his cup down, he took a seat across from the engineer. No fraternisation with superior officers – a stern voice in his mind admonished; but the next bit of ribbing was already out of his lips.
"You took Zephram Cochrane's motto to the letter, Commander: where no man has gone before, indeed."
"Look, spare me, will ya?"
If the words were no surprise, Tucker's almost pained tone was, and it wiped all the mirth instantly off Malcolm's face. He took a better look at the man and mumbled in confusion, "Sir, are you all right?" In the semi-darkness the Engineer's expression was hard to fathom; his body language, though, now that he actually looked at it, spoke plenty.
"Trip?"
The name felt funny on Malcolm's lips, used as they were to the formality of rank. Yet for some reason it had slipped out and, strangely enough, he didn't regret it. Perhaps because it got him the wanted results: the blue eyes lifted from the slice of pie and he was finally able gauge their depth.
"I thought a bit of sugar might perk me up," their owner said, his voice surprisingly brittle. "But my stomach has closed." He numbly pushed the plate away.
Malcolm opened his mouth to say something, but couldn't quite find what. This despondent mood was unexpected. Tucker had seemed very relieved when they had found that ship of Xyrillians again, and Malcolm had been sure he'd find him in a much different frame of mind tonight.
"I suppose this is what they call post-partum depression," the engineer muttered darkly.
Malcolm's eyes went wide. "Good heavens," he breathed out. "Do you want me to take you to Phlox?" It seemed like the sensible thing to do. He was hardly the right person to give psychological support in the best of cases; in a case like this he wouldn't dare.
"She was a girl," the man said, ignoring the offer.
His focus had now definitely shifted from the pecan pie to Malcolm, who felt sort of trapped. "A girl," he echoed, breaking the intense eye contact. "Did you..." He licked his lips, using the brief moment to chase away the small voice that said he was being too nosy. "Did you actually see her?" He didn't know the technicalities of how the... unborn child had been removed, but there couldn't have been many ways.
Malcolm watched Tucker shift uncomfortably on his seat, and instantly regretted his boldness. "I'm sorry. Just forget I... It's really none of my business." Lowering his gaze, he closed his hands around his cup of tea.
"I only got a glimpse of her."
There was a shrug with the words, but if it was meant to lighten the tone it failed rather miserably. Indeed it was an uncharacteristically self-conscious version of their Chief Engineer who croaked on, "I was kinda groggy. Phlox and that Xyrillian doctor didn't put me under, but gave me somethin' that made me... groggy."
Malcolm raised his chin in acknowledgement.
In a subdued voice Tucker admitted, "When they lifted her out I was so damned relieved that the last thing I cared for was takin' a good look." He was now carefully avoiding Malcolm's gaze. "Scrawny thing; full of scales and not particularly pretty, anyway," he mumbled with a frown.
"Where did they put her?"
A wince creased Malcolm's features: it had sounded as if he was talking of a misplaced object; but the other man didn't seem to notice. He said, "Another host. Don't know who, he was in another part of sickbay." Then, sliding forward in his chair, he leaned against the backrest and blurted out, "Damn it, how can I miss some alien creature that had nothing to do with me?"
Malcolm rubbed his stubbled chin; he wasn't privy to the details of this messy affair, but he had been under the impression that... well, that Tucker had…
"Are you certain of that?" he enquired guardedly. "That she had no human DNA?"
"Hell, Malcolm, not you too!" The blue eyes rolled in a typical mannerism. "I only put my hands in a box of pebbles."
"Sorry, I didn't know how it... had happened," Malcolm stuttered, as his gaze sought the comfort of the deckplating. A frustrated groan told him he had touched a sore spot.
"I stuck my hands in a damn box of pebbles – a game those people play, which allows them to read each others' thoughts," Tucker explained with more than a hint of irritation. "And it was enough to transfer... to end up… well, you know," he concluded grimly.
A low huff escaped Malcolm's lips. "I'll say: a game full of surprises."
"Ya better believe it."
Silence fell for a long moment. Malcolm's unease grew with every second that passed. He felt he had to say something but didn't know what. He had come to poke a bit of fun at the Commander and perhaps share a laugh with the man, not be his therapist.
"I didn't even think of her these past couple of days," the Engineer murmured after a beat, almost to himself. "I was just fine, quite happy in fact, until..."
"Until?"
"Until I was released from sickbay and went back to my quarters. My eyes fell on the civilian clothes on the chair, and for some reason I felt..." Tucker faltered again. "Ah, forget it," he breathed out, giving up. Grabbing his glass of milk, he took a half-hearted sip.
"Well, I suppose it might have triggered… yes, a sense of…" Malcolm cleared his throat. "Loss?"
They were both stammering, both finding it difficult to discuss the subject. But they were Starfleet officers, for heaven's sake, and male at that: not psychologists or... obstetricians!
"Look," Tucker blew out, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You don't have to sit here doin' this. "It's awkward enough dealin' with it on my own."
No sooner had the words been uttered than a part of Malcolm was ready to jump up and leave. Another part, though, wouldn't allow it. He might not be a therapist, but he wasn't going to leave a man in distress all alone; and to hell if it meant he had to bend his 'no fraternising with superior officers' rule in the process.
"I don't think you should deal with it on your own," he said quietly. Eyes on his teacup, he continued, "That stupid thing I said before, about Cochrane's motto? It's no joke, actually. You did go where no man has gone before. It might do you good to share your feelings with someone. Not necessarily me, Commander, but…" He looked up into confused blue eyes.
"Yeah? And who would you suggest?" Tucker asked with a mirthless huff. "T'Pol has made it clear what she thinks of me and all this business." He frowned. "Hoshi and Travis are junior officers, and the Capt'n..." With a lopsided smirk, he concluded, "I gave him enough trouble in the past few days."
"Phlox?" Malcolm's eyebrows lifted in hope. "He's a doctor, Commander."
"Look, why don't you let go of all these Commanders for a few minutes," Tucker said, with a wave in the vague direction of his own pips. "We're off-duty."
Before Malcolm could say anything to that, he went on, "I don't want to sound like a racist, but… Phlox's not human. I mean, Denobulan family bonds sound kinda… strange, if you ask me." Blowing a frustrated breath, he let his head fall back. "Besides, I wouldn't want to give him the idea that I need a shrink."
"It appears that leaves only me." Malcolm knew his voice had betrayed the wariness he felt, but it was too late to draw back now. "I'll listen, if you think it can help."
Trip's head came back up, eyebrows fully lifted. "Isn't that what you've been doin' all along?"
"Right."
There was a pause.
"All those things they say about... mothers developing a bond with their unborn child." Trip frowned pensively. "I suppose they're true." Curiosity tingeing his voice, he enquired, "Do you think that the time that embryo spent with me could have left her somethin'?"
Malcolm blinked. Heaven help him – this was definitely not what he'd trained for. "Uh," he stuttered. "I'm afraid I don't have any experience with… pregnancy and children." He swallowed. "Fortunately."
There was a snort. "Well, for sure I have developed a new respect for pregnant women. Morning sickness alone is enough to..." Trip's budding smile suddenly fell, and a disquieting palette of emotions appeared in its stead. "Sorry," he muttered. "Don't know what the hell is happenin' to me."
"Hormonal changes?" Malcolm wondered, with a grimace. He had given up trying to keep a straight face; the subject was a bit too awkward for that.
"I thought you had no experience."
A moment later they were sharing a chuckle, letting it melt away some of the tension and unease.
"I wouldn't be surprised if she did absorb something from you," Malcolm said, having regained control first. "What we are – thank God – doesn't only depend on our DNA."
Feeling Trip's eyes on him, he cursed his big mouth and feigned a sudden interest in his tea – which had undoubtedly grown cold by now. He took a sip and replaced the cup on the table. It had.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Brilliant – Malcolm fumed silently. He cleared his throat. "Only that what we are is the sum of many influences, our DNA being just one of them, Commander."
"Trip."
"Trip."
Silence fell once again.
"I wonder what she'll be like when she grows up," Trip mused after a moment. "I'm not just talkin' physically." With an abrupt change of mood, he tilted his head to one side, an impish expression flitting across his features. "Who knows? Maybe she stayed with me long enough to have absorbed a bit of Southern charm." His eyebrows did a funny dance.
Malcolm smiled. "I'm quite certain she'll like taking things apart and putting them back together, with two engineers as parents."
"I'm not her parent."
"Foster parent," Malcolm amended, with a jerk of his head to the side.
Retrieving the plate from the centre of the table where he had pushed it, Trip picked up his fork, cut a bite of pie off the slice and put it in his mouth. "For all ya know she may not like engineering at all," he said around his morsel. "More often than not children hate what their parents want them to be."
"You don't say."
Trip stopped chewing. "What's that?"
"Nothing." Malcolm cleared his throat. "I hope for her sake that she hasn't absorbed your tendency to get into trouble."
The blue eyes narrowed cuttingly. "That's out of line, Lieutenant."
"I..." Bloody hell, what had got into him, to be so relaxed and outspoken with a superior officer? "Sir, I apologise. I didn't mean to– "
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Malcolm!" With a chuckle, Trip shoved another forkful of pie into his mouth, shaking his head in disbelief. Then proceeded to polish off the rest of the sweet and gulp down the milk.
Malcolm frowned. It seemed he'd been beaten at his own game: the pulling of the leg.
"Nothin' like pecan pie to make you feel better," Trip finally said, leaning back in contentment. Raising clearer eyes, he added quietly, "Or sharin' what's buggin' you with a friend."
Malcolm acknowledged the words with a small smile. Amazing – he mused – the ship's pessimist lifting the spirits of the most positive man on board. "Are you certain you don't want to see Phlox?" he enquired, just as quietly.
There was a sigh. "Nah, I'll be fine."
Well, if the empty plate was something to go by, perhaps the man would indeed be fine. Malcolm began to relax. He knew this had just been a chancy thing. Trip – Commmander Tucker – was a close friend of the Captain's; no doubt the Engineer would return to his habit of sharing things with Archer, after tonight. Besides, there was always that rule against fraternising with superior officers. No, he definitely couldn't see this sort of thing happening again.
"Come on, Loo-tenant," Trip said, getting up. "We both have shifts to work, tomorrow."
As he followed suit, Malcolm noticed with pleasure that the man sounded more like his own, confident self again. He had to admit, Enterprise wouldn't be the same without the breath of enthusiasm that this particular individual, flamboyant as he was, brought to it.
They left the messhall and walked side by side along the corridor.
"You know, what bugs me to no end in all this business," Trip said after a moment, "is that everyone assumed I couldn't behave properly." With a sideway glance he added deadpan, "You included."
Malcolm felt a pang of conscience. He had been wrong and perhaps also a bit biased. "I'm sorry," he croaked out. "But what would you say if I came back from an away mission pregnant?"
Trip shot him an amused look. "That your offspring could only be a… You don't wanna know."
"Right: I don't," Malcolm groaned.
They walked in silence for another stretch and soon they were at Malcolm's quarters.
"Thanks for keepin' me company," Trip said, suddenly serious, swinging to face him as they stopped. "It was good of you to listen."
The open sincerity in his voice gave Malcolm another pang of conscience. "Actually, Commander," he replied uneasily, "I had come with a different goal in mind, one that wasn't quite as noble."
"Yeah, I forgot: to bring me the Engineering report."
"Ah – not quite. Even less noble than that."
Trip shot him a longer, more inquisitive look, and Malcolm cringed under the scrutiny. His facial muscles tightened: honour wanted that he confess the truth. He straightened his shoulders. "To give you a bit of ribbing," he mumbled, feeling a blush creep up his cheeks.
"You..."
Malcolm crossed his arms over his chest. "You nearly put me into the very undesirable position of having to defend the ship against a Klingon war vessel: I thought it was only fair retaliation."
Hands on his hips, Trip regarded him with his mouth agape, making Malcolm suddenly feel all the crashing weight of his audacity. "I… I don't know what got into me," he stuttered. "I apologise, Commander. It won't happen again."
The other man's mouth curled into a grin. "Son of a gun!"
Malcolm's eyebrows lifted. "Wouldn't that be my offspring?"
"I didn't say that," Trip chuckled, raising defensive hands.
"You don't you mind, then?" Malcolm felt his own mouth curve up; Tucker's mood was quite infectious. "That I wanted to, you know…"
"Ah! It's all in good fun."
Trip's hand came down on Malcolm's back, making him stumble forward. Then, with a 'Good night, Lieutenant', the engineer started down the corridor.
"Night," Malcolm muttered, almost to himself, as he watched him walk away. He was going to have to review his understanding of "superior officer". His father would never believe this man.
Just as he was about to shift his gaze back to the door, Tucker turned, pointing an index at him. "Tomorrow night, oh-twenty-hundred, my quarters?"
"Uh, yes, if you wish, but..."
"And you'd better like beer," Tucker said as he disappeared behind the bend.
THE END
Please leave a comment