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“Coitus Conceptus” Rating: NC-17 This story is a sequel to Coitus Experimentus. Part 1 Commander Trip Tucker swore violently. Three heads whipped around to stare at him, and he hopped silently on one foot, gripping his crushed toe through his boot with both hands. “Sorry,” he grunted, waving an arm at his Engineering staff to indicate that they should get on with what they were doing. Glances were exchanged as they continued their various tasks. Trip tried not to notice the humorous looks as he kicked the offending core strut with his good foot, gritting his teeth and stubbing his other toe. Finally, defeated by his own engines, he slunk away toward his ‘office’: a partially concealed corner desk with a computer terminal half-buried in PADDs and partly-finished projects. Trip sat at the desk, gathered up a random, slipping handful of different-sized plastic PADDs from the blotter and shoved them clatteringly on top of an undersized in-box at the back of the desk. Three or four rattled to the floor and lay there, inert, while Trip gingerly removed his left boot and sock and pulled his leg up onto his lap to examine his munched hallux. A shadow fell across the injured foot and Trip looked up to see Commander T’Pol watching his contortionist efforts curiously. He let his bent leg spring inflexibly back off his lap, his bare foot slapping the cold decking as he put it down. “What can I do for ya?” he asked, as if nothing was amiss. T’Pol gazed at the chief engineer’s exposed foot and the floppy boot on the desk for a second longer, before handing him yet another PADD. Trip took it and scrolled swiftly through the contents. The specs from Starfleet for the new warp field protocols. “I don’t know why everyone gives me these things,” Trip complained as he put the PADD down among the rest. “Can’t anyone just send the message through the computer?” The question was rhetorical, but T’Pol offered him a logical answer anyway. “It is well-known that you rarely check your messages. I believe that the crew give you PADDs in the hope that you won’t be able to overlook their memos so easily.” Her gaze travelled over the small avalanche of plastic display devices upon his desk, to which he just had added her own small missive. “Clearly, our efforts are misguided.” Trip pulled his sock and boot back on, satisfied that he hadn’t broken anything. “Yeah, well the reason I never check my messages is ‘cause no one ever sends me any.” “A vicious cycle indeed,” T’Pol observed blandly. She remained standing where she was. Trip finished securing his boot, put his hands on his lap decisively, and looked up at the still-hovering Vulcan. “Don’t worry,” Trip reassured her. “I won’t go barefoot in engineerin’ anymore. Just a one-time thing.” His reassurance did nothing to drive her off. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Commander?” Trip asked, finally. T’Pol opened her mouth and closed it again. If Trip didn’t know better, he’d have said she was uncertain of what she wanted to say. Finally, seeming to settle on something, she spoke. “Have you had lunch yet?” Trip glanced at the time. It was only 1030. “Uh, nope,” he replied. He sensed she wanted to speak with him about something. “Do you…want to go get something?” “I suppose,” she agreed, as if it was his idea. Turning smartly, she made her way out of Engineering. Trip watched her departing form, nonplussed, before rising to follow. They said nothing as they traversed the corridors together. T’Pol seemed wrapped in a world of her own, staring downward as the turbolift rose and starting visibly when it suddenly slowed to a stop at their destination. Trip looked at her askance. “You okay?” T’Pol’s eyes were almost frightened as she glanced at him and nodded. But then, he thought, perhaps it was only his imagination. She exited the lift normally enough and strode briskly along the corridor to the mess hall. Trip kept up silently, his curiosity fired. They entered the mess hall. No shift change was due for another couple of hours and so the place was mostly deserted. Trip chose a tomato sandwich and a strong mug of black coffee. T’Pol served herself a small bowl of steaming plomeek broth and a cup of peppermint tea. They made their way to a nearby table and sat. Trip looked about. A few crew were dotted about the large room, reading PADDs and sipping quiet cups of coffee. He leaned in toward T’Pol. “How many of those y’think are goin’ down to my desk?” T’Pol glanced about at their self-absorbed, reading companions. “I certainly hope Ensign Lefter’s isn’t going anywhere near you. I need that report for this afternoon.” Trip smiled at the total lack of expression with which she delivered the jibe. She was getting much better at humour these days, it seemed. Delivering it, anyway, if not appreciating it. T’Pol moodily stirred her broth, not paying Trip any attention. He decided to be direct. “So, how come you’re so disgruntled?” he asked, innocently sipping his coffee and then taking a large bite of bread and tomato. T’Pol eyed him, her spoon pausing in its mixing momentarily. “Pardon me?” she stalled. She had heard him perfectly well. Trip just chewed, gesturing as if he would reply, but, y’know…sandwich. T’Pol was left either waiting for him to repeat himself or admitting she had heard what he said. She swiftly chose the latter, if only to close the matter. “I am not disgruntled. I am perfectly regular.” She deliberately held his gaze for a moment before dipping into her soup, as if this would lend credence to her point. Trip swallowed. “Yeah, except you’re lyin’,” he explained patiently, as if they were simply discussing the lack of weather. He dusted his hands over his plate and tipped his chair back to reach a couple of napkins from a nearby pile. He handed one to T’Pol. “Now, y’asked me in here for lunch two hours before lunch starts, you’re all disgruntled and jackrabbity, and now you’re saying you’re fine. You’re perfectly gruntled.” “Gruntled?” T’Pol took a napkin from him disbelievingly. “That is not a word.” “Sure it is,” Trip said carelessly, opening his sandwich to salt it. He licked his thumb. “Opposite of disgruntled. Ask Hoshi. She says it all the time.” T’Pol simply stared at her friend, wholly uncertain, as she often was, as to whether or no he was teasing. He chewed another bite of sandwich busily, his eyes twinkling at her suspicious expression. T’Pol pushed her untouched soup aside and wrapped her suddenly cold hands around her mug of hot tea. The smooth ceramic was comforting against her skin, and she spoke quietly, while Trip was still dealing with his latest giant mouthful. “Dr. Phlox suggested that I speak with you.” Trip raised his eyebrows in an unvoiced question, still chewing. He wasn’t going to interrupt now that she’d finally started to spill. T’Pol glanced once at him, took a breath and continued. “That is why I asked you here.” Trip waited silently for her to stop procrastinating. Suddenly finding the venue somewhat too public, she began to push her chair back, formulating a sentence in her mind about needing to run to the bridge. The bathroom. The brig. Anywhere. But Trip had caught her subtle body language and was already behind her chair. He tucked it in with a gentlemanly-seeming forceful shove as he nodded and smiled benevolently at the room in general, still chewing away. He sat back down, as if this was a perfectly normal thing to have done, and resumed his tattered sandwich, looking at T’Pol interestedly. T’Pol silently seethed at him through a dispassionate glare, as she readjusted her seat so the table wasn‘t cutting quite through her liver. Fine. He wanted to know, she’d tell him. “I am having a…medical problem,” she hissed at him, her voice nearly non-existent. This got his attention. He sat up and swallowed. Looking around first, he leaned in. “What’re you talkin’ about?” His dining companion blushed the green version of furious crimson. Trip’s brow furrowed with the beginnings of real concern. “T’Pol? What’s up?” T’Pol inspected her fingernails, her face flaming. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. She finally spoke, simply to end the humiliation of being in the middle of trying to start. “It’s…been seven years….” Trip’s eyes snapped wide. “Since….” “Yes.” T’Pol glared at him with a shut-up sort of face. “Oh.” Trip sat back in his chair, examining the remains of his sandwich. Thoughts clicked into place. He looked up. “And you want me to.…” “Yes.” T’Pol interrupted, her whispered voice becoming weary. “Oh.” Trip looked back at his sandwich. Something occurred to him. “This was Phlox’s suggestion?” T’Pol met his eye for a long second before answering. “Phlox made the diagnosis and recommended treatment. I made the choice as to whom I would approach.” Trip swallowed at the implications of this and deflected his sudden unease with humour. “And no one else’d agree, huh?” T’Pol didn’t bat an eyelash. “Not even Chef. You are my last hope.” Trip laughed aloud at her reply, attracting the faintly curious attention of their crewmates. Usually laughter and the Science Officer were not at the same table. After a moment of silence, the pair found themselves unscrutinised again. “Your answer?” T’Pol demanded quietly. Trip thought for one second. Of course he wanted to say yes. He was dying to say yes. He was freaking out at the fact that she had asked him for help, even as a more cynical part of his mind acridly enquired as to exactly who else she would approach on this matter. Little did she know she could have chosen almost anyone. Male or female. Trip shook his head as this thought invoked some sudden, bizarre, tasty mental pictures. He looked at T’Pol. She was waiting for his answer, and there was an edge to her patience that betrayed actual nervousness. He sighed. “Of course. Whatever y’need.” “Thank you,” T’Pol replied sincerely, and with that, she swiftly rose and left the mess hall. Startled, Trip watched her go, fighting an urge to call after her. He put his head in his hands, oblivious to the glances of the others. What had he gotten himself into? |
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