444
Working in restricted spaces was hard and tiring, and at the end of the day Malcolm was ready for the longest shower and the quietest evening. The sodding hiccup was still pestering him, but he had no intention of seeking Phlox's help, especially after what the doctor had said he would have to do if the problem persisted. He ended up unconscious in sickbay often enough as it was, no need to add a stupid little thing like that to the list of causes.
He rapidly got to his quarters, removed his uniform and stepped into the shower. He stood there for what seemed like forever, letting the water pour directly on top of his head, grateful that the hammering sound overpowered that of his gasping. When he finally opened his eyes again he realised that the small bathroom had turned into a tropical microclimate, and reluctantly reached for the tap to turn the water off.
A few minutes later he was dressed in casual clothes. He sat down heavily on his bed just as his stomach complained loudly. Since the infamous biscuits of that morning he had eaten only a sandwich, which Müller – God bless the man – had kindly and on his own initiative brought to the Armoury, sparing Malcolm an embarrassing appearance in the crowded mess hall. He was wondering if he should dare make a foray there now when he heard the bell ring.
"C-- Come," he called, rolling his eyes at the umpteenth hic.
The door swished open and Trip strutted in.
Who else?
"Hey, feelin' any better?" he asked.
"Grand," Malcolm ground out. "Got any spare diaph -- phragms in engineering?"
Trip frowned and walked up to sit in Malcolm's desk chair. "Maybe we oughtta let Phlox knock you unconscious," he suggested gravely, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "You've been out so many times, one more really couldn't hurt you."
Malcolm snorted. "It's like saying that you fr-- fried your hands so many times, one more won't hurt you," he commented in outrage.
Trip looked offended. And he sounded it too. "Look, I'm just tryin' to help ya," he said in a thicker-than-usual Southern accent. "Anyway, Loo-tenant, I haven't come here to fight," he added, scowling.
"Well, thank God for that," Malcolm replied huffily, falling back flat on his bed. "I wouldn't have the en--energy to fight right now. I used it all up hiccuppingfor – oh, lovely! – close to -- eleven hours straight," he grunted.
"What you need is a bit of distraction," Trip suggested.
The change in Trip's tone of voice made Malcolm look at him: a warm smile had replaced the frown that had been on his face a moment before. That was one of the aspects of Trip's personality that Malcolm really appreciated – and envied. No matter what happened, you could always count on Trip Tucker to lift your mood.
"And you probably haven't eaten much today," Trip went on, looking pointedly at Malcolm. "I bet that's why you're feelin' so down."
"I had a sandwich in the Armoury," Malcolm said defensively.
"Well, there you go." Trip looked at Malcolm reproachfully. "Besides, it's against regulations eatin' around the ship, Lieutenant," he reprimanded him.
But again the cloud that had come to veil his sunny gaze was gone in an instant. "Come on," he urged, slapping Malcolm's leg. "You can have supper and I… well, there's always a little room for coffee and pecan pie in here," he said, patting his stomach.
Malcolm regarded him silently for a moment. He really was quite hungry. And at this time most of the crew would have already eaten, so the mess hall should be rather empty.
"All ri--ght," he finally agreed, pushing himself up from the bed.
"How ca-- can you eat all that sugar?" Malcolm commented, grimacing at the sight of the huge portion of pecan pie Trip was putting on his tray.
"Well," Trip replied with a big grin. "Helps me keep my sweet personality goin'. You oughtta try it, you bitter old Brit," he suggested playfully, wagging his eyebrows.
Malcolm shook his head and selected pasta al pesto and a bowl of salad. Carbohydrates to restore his energy levels were what he needed right now.
Suddenly Trip coughed loudly a couple of times and cleared his throat.
"Cho-- choking on the sugar already?" Malcolm teased.
"Ah, no, must've swallowed a fly," Trip replied, quickly moving off to find a table in that stiff funny walk he sometimes used when he felt self-conscious.
Malcolm was about to follow him when an arm clad in white reached out of the serving cabinet and touched him, making him jump with surprise.
"Tenente, ehm, Lieutenant?" a hesitant voice called.
Malcolm bent down and, looking through the opening, found himself face to face with Chef.
"Goodness gra--cious, Chef," he said emphatically. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."
"Ah-ha, I see you've chosen linguine al pesto," Chef replied jovially, ignoring his reproving words. "Good choice, Tenente. Give it here, I'll warm it up for you and add a bit of fresh pesto; makes it better." The white-clad arm stretched out of the compartment to reach for Malcolm's plate.
"Oh, no, thank you Chef," Malcolm said pulling back. He so hated to be fussed over. "It's not -- necessary."
"But of course it's necessario, Lieutenant," Chef insisted. "You have that terrible hiccup, lukewarm pasta will only make it worse, credi a me – believe me."
With that Chef leaned out of the cabinet and managed to grab Malcolm's plate. Malcolm turned to Trip, expecting him to be looking impatiently in his direction; but the engineer was sitting with his back to him and at the furthest table. Hmm…
A couple of minutes later the captive linguine were returned to him – if truth be told looking much more desirable – together with another plate, on which sat a strange blob that could, if one let his imagination run wild, probably be interpreted as a dessert.
"Here, I made this giusto for you, Lieutenant," Chef said warmly. "When I heard you were not well I told myself, Giuseppe, why don't you whip up something special for Signor Reed?"
Malcolm tried not to look as disconcerted as he felt at the sight of Chef's offering, and forced his mouth into a small smile. "Splendid," he managed, accepting the dire-looking would-be trifle. "-- Thank you, Chef. You shouldn't have gone to any tro-- trouble."
"No trouble at all," Chef exclaimed. "Mangia – eat, before your pasta gets cold again," he urged, waving him off.
Malcolm gave the man another quick little smile and hastened to join Trip.
"Ah, here you are," the engineer said, polishing off the last of his pie. "I was beginnin' to worry, was gonna call security."
"You should have," Malcolm replied studying Trip – something was fishy here. "My pasta was prac--tically abducted by Chef."
But Trip looked like he hadn't heard a word. His eyes were fixed on the unappetising dessert, and his cup of coffee was hovering in mid air, seemingly never to reach its destination.
"What's… that?" Trip asked with a wince, waving a finger in the direction of the plate.
"That, Commander, is what -- Chef has prepared giusto for me, for poor, hiccupping Signor Reed," Malcolm replied with narrowed eyes. "You wouldn't hap--pen to know anything about it, would you?" he enquired in his Armoury Officer's 'don't-fool-around-with-me' tone.
"What? Me, know about Chef's secret recipes?" Trip asked in outrage. "You gotta be kiddin'."
Malcolm smirked, not at all convinced, and began to eat his pasta, rolling the linguine expertly on his fork under the slightly envious gaze of his friend. Trip was very good with his hands, in fact the best Malcolm had ever seen; but he had yet to master the art of rolling pasta onto a fork – well, not surprisingly, the obstinate man insisted on turning the fork counter-clockwise.
Eating without choking while hiccupping was something worthy of a Cambridge or Oxford degree, Malcolm mused; but thankfully he managed to get all of the linguine in his stomach and none up his nose.
Trip had been silently looking on, sipping his coffee, and the fact that the usually loquacious engineer seemed to have lost his tongue was adding to Malcolm's suspicions.
"So… aren't you gonna try that?" Trip suddenly asked, jerking his head in the direction of Malcolm's dessert.
Malcolm studied the blob with a lopsided smirk. He picked up his spoon and warily probed the gelatinous mass with it. "Know your enemy be-- before you attack it," he said darkly.
"I think there's chocolate in there," Trip suggested.
Malcolm narrowed his eyes. "You don't say!"
He took a spoonful of the stuff and let it trickle back down onto the plate. It had the density of honey and the colour of chocolate. And what in heaven's name was that on the bottom?
"Looks like peanut butter on a spongy cake," Trip said, as if he had read the question in Malcolm's mind.
"Scrum-- scrumptious," Malcolm commented wryly.
Trip bit his lower lip. "Well, you can't let Chef down. I mean, he prepared that joosto for you…"
Malcolm frowned. "Are we absolutely sure I can't?"
"Absolutely," Trip answered, leaving no room for doubt. "You don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Malcolm."
Malcolm heaved a deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut and took a tiny tasting. Then he took a little larger one, and finally put the whole spoonful in his mouth. He opened his eyes again and saw Trip studying him in concern.
"Well?" the engineer enquired, grimacing.
"It's -- quite deli-- delicious, actually," Malcolm mumbled back with his mouth full. He took another spoonful, closing his eyes once more, this time to concentrate on the flavour.
Trip's eyebrows rose à-la-T'Pol. "It is?" he asked in disbelief.
"Hmm-m," Malcolm confirmed, too busy savouring his dessert to formulate an intelligible answer.
"So I'd be the one eatin' too much sugar, uh?" Trip commented with a grin, leaning back in his chair.
Malcolm shot him a look and scooped up another spoonful. "Care -- to taste it?" he generously offered, turning the spoon towards his friend.
"Very kind of you, but no, thanks," Trip declined. "You need it more than I do," he added with a chuckle.
Malcolm narrowed his eyes. "Ne-- need what?" he asked doubtfully, turning the spoon towards his own mouth.
"Ah, well…" Trip faltered. "The… energy that sugar will give ya. You know, feelin' tired...?" he left the rest unspoken.
"Uhm," Malcolm acknowledged, nodding as he swallowed another spoonful and scraped the last of his dessert off the plate.
"Chocolate honey; what a brill idea," Malcolm marvelled. "And Chef put something special in the peanut butter, I can't for the life of me tell what, but it blends fan-bloody-tastically in with the rest of the flavours."
He raised his eyes from the now empty plate and saw Trip look at him with a happy grin on his face.
"You know," Malcolm went on cheerfully. "I don't generally go for sweets, except for pineapple cake, but this I could very well eat every day."
Malcolm felt quite well; he had to admit that perhaps a bit of sugar was not a bad thing. He studied his friend. Trip's smile, for some reason, was about to split his face. What was wrong with people today? First Travis cracking jokes with a perfectly straight face, now Trip grinning like a child on Christmas day just because he liked Chef's dessert… Better ignore him, as he had done with Mayweather.
"I must compliment Chef and thank him for his kindness," Malcolm said, shifting his eyes from Trip's mouth to his dancing eyes. "He really went out of his way to…"
Malcolm's voice died away as he saw that his friend was unaccountably getting a bit too happy and excited. Trip was leaning forward in his chair and looked like he had ants in his pants.
"Trip?" he asked hesitantly. "Are you all right?"
"Are you all right?" Trip merrily echoed.
Malcolm frowned. "Can you be serious for a moment?" he replied with a touch of irritation. "I don't need you to repeat what I just said. Just answer the question: are you all right? You look like you're sitting on dynamite ready to explode."
"I am bein' serious," Trip said with a chuckle. "Alright: I am all right."
Malcolm grimaced. "Is that what you call being serious?"
Trip regarded him with twinkling eyes. "Malcolm, are you all right?" he asked, meaningfully waggling his eyebrows.
"What is this, a riddle of some s…" Malcolm suddenly fell silent and his eyes went wide. "I am all right, aren't I?" he murmured, breaking into a wide smile. "I. am. all. right. My hiccup is gone. My sodding hiccup is… -- … --…"
Trip's face fell and he slumped in his chair. "Oh, no! Not again!"
Malcolm just buried his head in his hands.
TBC