Timeline: This story takes place in the second season directly after "The Cogenitor". In fact it begins immediately after Trip leaves Captain Archer's office upon learning of the Cogenitor's suicide.
DISCLAIMER: The characters involved are not mine.
Notes: This is my first piece of fan-fiction, so please read and review. Note that the footnotes (after many of the song quotes) are simply to allow attribution while breaking up the flow of the story as little as possible. Also, my depictions of characters mental states are based on behaviours demonstrated within the confines of the television show. And if my history isn't exact… remember that Star Trek has never shied away from alternate universes. If the background I give doesn't match up with something you've found somewhere (which I probably haven't seen), feel free to mention it, but don't hold it against me, rather look at it in that alternate universe light. After all, much of that history is events that most people would not relate, and ones witnessed only by the dead. And it could have happened this way…
Life SupportDead. Suicide. The words careened their way around Trip's consciousness like particles in an acceleration chamber just waiting for the chance to collide and set of a catastrophic chain reaction. Behind them chased the ones he'd just spoken in the captain's office. It's my fault. Another voice joined them, this one from farther back in time. "I don't know why…" his father's bitter tones echoed, "I don't know why he can't use the brains God gave him, and he certainly got enough…" If only Charles Jr. could see him now. Yessiree, talk about the brain-dead move of the millennium. Chalk another one up to the champion cogitator of Panama City…
Fragments of a forgotten poem (or was it a song?) surfaced and dove down again before he could grab hold of them. In front of him the doors of the turbo-lift slid back, offering an escape. Not enough of one, he'd prefer something that'd allow him to disappear entirely, but – like a good engineer – he'd have to make do.
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Thank God that's over. He leaned back against the wall of his quarters while the door slid shut; moving farther was out of the question in his current state. Word spread quickly in a small community – gossip was a universal force that went warp ten everywhere – and through the entire shift he could feel them watching him. Staring. Wondering. Too polite to say anything, still respecting the rank, but… Do they still respect the man? His inner voice, the mocking one, let loose with another nasty punch. He couldn't blame them if they didn't, he sure didn't have any appreciation for the man and he was the man. He caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the helmet of the antique diving gear that formed the main decoration of the room. "Asshole." The word came out, dark, fierce, fervently meant. As he turned away, a glint of light caught his eye from on top of the desk, and the buried words {…and any promise we make/is as easy to break/as the plastic people on the wedding cake/so says you…[1]} surfaced again, this time sticking around long enough to register. From where… He moved towards the desk, and picked up the picture that had fallen out of place so that the overhead light reflected oddly off its frame. He was about to put it back when he realised what picture it was. Two faces stared out at him, grins plastered across both of them. One was a boy about ten, dark hair flopping down on to his forehead but not quite covering up a long, healing gash, his eyes – one of them blackened -- glinting with intelligence and rampant mischief. Crazy kid, if he only knew what he'd grow up into… The other one held his attention longer, as though by staring at it he could cause the image to be real. Dark red hair held back in a fraying ponytail, and those unforgettable mis-matched eyes: one of them violet and the other an intense green. {…if you think about me/from far away/I hope you find that with me or without me…[2]} Ah, Toby, why of all times now? It would explain the music but…God. He replaced the picture and turned away, pain washing over him, threatening to stop his breath. He remembered reading somewhere how back in the early twenty-first century some scientists showed how emotional pain and physical pain were processed in the same manner by the human brain.
"That's for sure," he murmured, unable to stop the first few tears from spilling out of his eyes. Working more on instinct than conscious thought, he made his way to the footlocker below his bed. Inside he located what he'd been waiting for all day, is this the sign of a problem, Tucker?, the long squared off bottle; a glass nestled in beside it. Just a little something to calm his frenzied nerves to quiet the voices of ghosts. He inhaled before tasting, that first sniff often did more than the drink itself; it was the anticipation of drink, of sweet blessed oblivion. Besides, he needed a good nervous system depressant – depressant, Tucker? Are you sure you need another depressant? – after everything he'd just been through.
"Shut up," he muttered, needing to say the words out loud, needing to be louder than the mockingbird. Damn, that voice could be disturbingly academic at times, hell it could probably out intellectual T'Pol. He drained the glass and refilled it, more to spite himself than anything. "Devil, pour me another shot." Funny how songs were obsessing him today, he was sure that line belonged to another one.[3] Toby thought about songs a lot, was almost always singing one softly in that sweet soprano voice of hers. Twenty-twenty-first century rock music, generally. {…you're really gonna hate this/pieces of you swimming in my brain/drenched to the bone/waiting for you in the rain…[4]} It was one of the many standout things about her, along with her fearlessness and ever-questing mind. She would've loved the chance to get out here and explore, to find what lay hidden behind the blinding light of the next star. She would've…
And why is she not here, Tucker? Hmmn? Any thoughts on that while we're at it? Any brilliant flashes of inspiration there, Mr. Damn the Consequences?
"Will you…" So hard to argue with the one person who knew all his weak points, all his dark little secrets. His jaw tightened as he tried to force the thoughts out of his head as he tried…{…I know you've heard it all before/So I don't say it anymore/I just stand by and let you fight your secret war…[5]} "Damn it." He hurled the glass at the opposite wall, but its sturdy construction denied him the satisfying sound of it shattering against the metal. Instead he watched while half a glass of good bourbon dripped down and onto the floor, marking his transgressions with its distinctive scent. Even off duty he shouldn't be drinking, not like this, and somehow he didn't think that Archer would be inclined to forgive him for anything right now. {"Heart of the Matter." Don Henley} Her voice now, and her famous shorthand while she was at it. Song title and artist, and somehow he was supposed to figure out what the message was. Face it, Tucker. This time, his shadow spoke, a hint of laughter in it. You are certifiably going insane.
He paced the small room for a couple of seconds, then turned and headed out the door. He would go crazy in here, trapped in with his own thoughts. Problem was, he wasn't hungry – he'd throw up if he tried to eat anyway – and there'd be too many people in the mess hall. The last thing he needed now was any kind of conversation. Besides he was, well, idgy is what Toby would call it, a cross between irritated and edgy. He needed to do something, burn off this new energy that somehow had invaded his body.
The gym, then. It shouldn't be too crowded and with luck a good hard workout would be enough to knock him out (since trying to do that with the booze hadn't worked), and exercise was permissible, right?
Oh like you're so good at asking permission, right? Like you asked permission before you taught Charles – even his inner voice used the name the cogenitor'd chosen for herself -- how to read, and basically fucked up what was left of her short life. Like you asked permission before you promised her she could have sanctuary, setting her up to have her only hope yanked away. Yeah, Tucker, you're really good with rules and permission, aren't you. Goddamn fuckin' genius at it.
Doing his best to ignore himself, he selected one of the stationary bikes and cranked up the tension. It was going to hurt; he wanted it to hurt. Make the physical pain stronger than the emotional. Focus on something else. Anything else.
Across the room a couple of crewmen shared a joke. "God," one's voice carried across to him, cutting through the layers to register. "Remember your first time?"
First time. The first time he ever saw her. Like he could ever forget that very first meeting…
[1] From "Carry Me Away" by Concrete Blonde, off the album Free.
[2] From "Carry Me Away" by Concrete Blonde, off the album Free
[3] Actually, it does. "Roses Grow" by Concrete Blonde, off the album Free.
[4] From "Rained Out Parade" by Wide Mouth Mason, off the album***
[5] From "Joey" by Concrete Blonde off the album Bloodletting