Chapter Twelve: Planning
A/N: Warning: implied slash. I've tried to keep this beneath radar for those of you who don't want to see it, though.
Trip sauntered into the mess-hall. It took some effort to affect this much nonchalance; but he felt that there were lengths he had to go to in order to play this part. He'd picked up some clues from Captain Archer earlier, that perhaps the man he was supposed to be stayed within the system but crept dangerously close to crossing lines when he thought he could get away with it.
Trip hoped so. This system was cruel and corrupt, and although his other self seemed to fit in well enough, it made him feel a little better to think that the other Trip bucked at the rules a little bit, even if only in minor ways that barely mattered.
The mess was much the same as it was in his own reality, although not entirely; while meal-times were not standard on the Enterprise, people tended to coordinate their dining so as to socialize. There was a minimum of socializing going on in this room; and that that was happening was strictly within individual ranks. He saw no crewmen and ensigns chatting companionably over a cup of coffee, no lieutenants and commanders being pals over a plate of tuna salad sandwiches, and he suspected that if he wanted to spend some "fun" time with anyone of lesser rank aboard this ship, he would probably have to schedule it someplace private, without prying eyes.
Everyone seemed at least a little on edge, eating alone or sitting in small groups, speaking quietly amongst themselves and occasionally casting suspicious or worried looks towards other tables.
There was a data-padd sitting by itself next to the food service area. Trip picked it up to see who had left their work behind, but it turned out no one had.
Meal requests, Trip thought, grinning a little as he looked at the padd. Crewman Cutler had apparently requested miso soup and Lieutenant Bexler was looking for some fried chicken. He wrote "pecan pie" on the padd just for the hell of it and affixed his name, thinking that meal requests was one thing these people had right and that he ought to pass the idea onto Cook when he got home …
Assuming he got home.
The thought was sobering. Trip picked some plates with open-faced turkey sandwiches on them, wondering idly whether or not Hoshi actually ate open-faced turkey sandwiches, and glanced around the mess-hall, looking for something to cover the plates in to keep them warm on the trip back to the quarters he shared with Hoshi.
His glance fell on a table near the back of the room where Ensign Travis Mayweather dined alone.
Trip had almost forgotten, distracted by the open-faced sandwiches and the idea of requests for the kitchen. He headed over to Travis's table.
Travis cringed a little as he saw Trip approaching, chewing slowly and deliberately as he tried not to look at the chief engineer's face. He also seemed determined not to speak first.
Trip wondered what had been done to this boy.
"Hey, Ensign Mayweather," he said, somehow sensing that using Travis's first name would be unwelcome with this version of his young friend.
Travis's dark eyes flicked briefly to meet Trip's, and then slid back to his dinner. "Commander," he acknowledged softly.
Balancing his and Hoshi's plates in either hand, he sat down next to the ensign. Travis seemed mortified, his body language very stiff, uncomfortable to the point of downright fright. Trip watched him measuringly, letting the silence extend between them.
"Is … something the matter?" Travis asked finally.
"No," Trip replied, "nothing's wrong." He leaned closer, aware that there were prying eyes. "There's something I want to discuss with you in private, Travis," he said, despite his original instincts not to use the younger man's first name; it was important that Travis understand that Trip was making a request outside the usual, something unrelated to command structure, and that meant leaving off his rank.
Travis looked at him briefly with an expression of only mild surprise. Trip was surprised to see how little reflected in those dark eyes; his own Travis was always a vibrant presence, his gaze full of earnestness or mischief but never so dull, so bland, so full of apathy. Trip found himself wondering again what had been done to him; it seemed that Travis was faring worse than most on the Enterprise … except for Phlox, and the image of the battered, miserable Doctor Phlox left Trip with a knot of fury in his stomach. Some things were going to be changing around here, if he had his way.
What was boomer-life like in this reality? Did it put Travis on some level lower than the Earth-born crew? Why did he seem so broken, or if not broken, so very close to breaking? Where was his spirit?
"Whenever's convenient for you, Commander," Travis said, just as quietly. "My time's yours." He didn't sound very interested. It was clear that he would take what came, but he had no reason to think of anything hopeful coming from Trip's direction.
"How about … midnight? Zero hundred?" Trip said.
Travis shook his head slowly, a hint of misery showing in his face. "I've got an appointment with the captain," he said. There was something about the way Travis said the word "appointment" that made Trip's stomach turn. "It won't be over by midnight."
"0100, then? My quarters?" Trip said.
Travis looked at him and then nodded sadly. "Yeah," he said dully. "I'll be there."
As Trip left the mess-hall, he heard some voices behind him:
"Huh. Looks like Tucker's branching out."
"Wonder what Sato will have to say about it?"
"Wonder what Archer will have to say about it?"
And Trip decided that he didn't want to think about what had been done to Travis. Because he had a feeling he knew, or would know if he gave it enough consideration, and it wasn't something he wanted to dwell on.
Some things were definitely going to change around here. And if he had to do it their way, so be it. A plan was crystallizing in his brain, and he thought that it might work, with a lot of luck.
"Hi, Hoshi," Trip said as he entered their quarters. "I stole us some food."
She was sitting up in bed, dressed in a sleek-looking navy bathrobe, and she smiled tentatively as he entered. "Great," she said, "I'm hungry." She glanced sideways at him, curiously. "So … uh … how's Travis?"
Trip shrugged. "Not so hot," he said. "I don't think he gets enough sleep."
Hoshi closed her eyes and sighed. "I know he doesn't get enough sleep," she said.
"Well, he'll be getting less tonight," Trip said, setting down their food. "Come on, let's eat."
"Why?" Hoshi said guardedly as she sat down at the table.
Trip glanced wryly at her. "So concerned for Ensign Mayweather," he said. "Should I be jealous?"
Hoshi looked annoyed. "Trip," she said. "Why?"
"He'll be over around 0100," he said, relenting. "We'll try not to wake you."
She blanched. This was evidently unwelcome information for some reason. "Oh," she said, and looked away.
Trip thought she somehow had gotten the wrong idea. "I just want to talk to him, Hoshi," he said.
Hoshi did not look at him. "I see," she said.
"Come on," he said, "I know you're hungry. Eat up."
She started to eat, somewhat mechanically, although she finally did look back at him. "Thank you," she said.
He shook
his head at her. "Don't worry, Hoshi," he said. And then, because he had to say
it, "You know I love you."
She caught her breath, and
nodded. "I love you, Trip," she said, smiling.
Trip set to devouring his open-faced sandwich and wondered privately how much he was lying.
