|
"The Firebrand"
Rating: NC-17 Part One "Look, whatever it is, I can do it." "Commander--" "It's only fair, *Sub Commander*," Trip hissed in exasperation. They were walking at a fair pace through the corridors, and even though their conversation was unlikely to be overheard, they spoke in low tones. "Listen, there ain't a Tucker for generations back who's ever welched on a bet. I sure as hell don't plan on being the first," he grumbled. "Welched?" T'Pol asked with mild curiosity. They passed through one of the low doorways and Trip ducked his head. "Aw you know--backed out of the thing, didn't follow through . . ." "Sometimes it is the wiser course of action," she murmured. Trip stopped, dropping his fists on his hips and giving her a look she was coming to know well; she paused and arched an eyebrow at him. "Not this time, T'Pol. I'm serious about this wager, even if you aren't-- you mastered the Tango fair and square and I told you I'd be willing to take on something culturally Vulcan if you did." For a long moment, T'Pol studied his expression of eager frustration, her dark eyes taking in his bright gaze, his pursed mouth. She remembered the other more intimate moments when his face looked the same way; with resignation, she declined her head in a graceful motion. "Very well, Commander. Come to my cabin after your evening meal. It would be advisable to wear something--removable." Trip grinned, his dimples deepening even as he flushed. He leaned forward to say something, but T'Pol moved away from him, hands crossed behind her back. Over her shoulder she added, "You may want to bring pain medication as well--" For a long moment after she left, Trip stood lost in thought as his expression slowly shifted from anticipation to serious worry. "Uh, pain medication?" he asked himself in a small uncertain voice. *** *** *** "Enter." The door slid open, and Trip stepped over the fractional ledge into T'Pol's quarters quickly. His jaw was set, and he took in a deep inhalation, but as he looked up, the sight of the room made him let the breath go in one noisy whoosh. Everything looked as functional and calm and boringly normal as possible. The mediation candles were unlit, the pillows neatly stacked in one corner. T'Pol looked up from her desk as Trip approached. "Is there a problem, Commander?" "No, No--I guess I was expecting . . .." his voice trailed off as he tried to figure out exactly *what* he'd been anticipating. Normality certainly wasn't it. Taking pity on him, T'Pol spoke up. "I have thought long and hard about what I could share with you that would be a prime example of Vulcan culture. It is a delicate matter, since the High Council is ostensibly in charge of such cultural exchanges. However . . ." she picked up a miniature glass jar from the desk, studying it. "There is one ritual in particular that might fill the challenge." Trip looked at the jar she held in her elegant hand. It was the pearly opaline color of a soap bubble, and the hinged lid had a knob in the shape of a square. There was a small hole in the lid as well, and a faint spicy fragrance drifted out of it. He sniffed. "Perfume?" "No. This is distilled venom from a Le-matya," she told him flatly. "The closest terran animal to it would be the ancient sabertooth tiger." "Venom? As in a naturally occurring poison?" Trip shot her a wary look. She nodded. "It is suspended within a base of other chemicals that greatly dilute the toxic nature and make it far less of a threat. It is an essential element in the ceremony of Matyatok, or in English, the Firebrand." "And this ceremony entails *what* exactly? We drink the stuff?" Trip was eyeing the tiny bottle with a skeptical look. "To be honest, T'Pol, there wouldn't be enough for a decent swallow for either one of us in that thing." "It isn't swallowed, but applied, Commander," she managed with patience. Reaching into the desk, she pulled out a slender silver tube and set it on the surface. It had a small stopper on one end, and a curved ivory fang on the other. Trip shifted his gaze from the bottle to the tube as T'Pol continued to speak. "In ancient times, Vulcans tested themselves by etching designs on their skin with the Le-Matya venom. The longer a person wore it, the more courageous they were deemed. Later, after Surak brought enlightenment to our civilization there was still a place for the Firebrand. My ancestors understood that trials of personal endurance and strength of character were still needed to forge the Vulcan nature. The Firebrand became a physical element to the most personal and private bonds. Students and their mentors undergo it, brothers undergo it--" "Oh I get it--it's sort of an endurance test. Like holding your hand over a flame kinda thing," Somewhat relieved, Trip grinned at her and cocked his head. "A contest of wills." "Your ability to define things to the smallest common denominator is-- unique," T'Pol managed to reply, and Trip took a second to realize it wasn't exactly a compliment, but she continued. "--But essentially your perception is correct. The Firebrand is a match of resolve either with oneself, or between two willing participants. When there are two persons involved, the branding is done to each by the other." Trip picked up the stylus, carefully examining the curved fang with thoughtful interest. He looked down the length of it and spoke up. "So you fill this thing with venom, then scratch it over the skin in a pattern. I see the hole where it comes through--how hard do you press?" "Lightly--no more than the same surface pressure used in normal writing," she answered. "Once the venom touches the skin it produces a faint welt, but the irritation increases over time and with exposure to perspiration." "So you get to tattoo me--hell, I guess every sailor gets one, huh?" he teased. T'Pol's lovely brows drew together, but Trip forestalled her biting reply and possible lecture on the sanctity of Vulcan tradition by handing her the stylus with a formal bow. "It'd be an honor to be Firebranded by you, Sub Commander." "Thank you," she replied, faintly surprised. "Although you may not think so by this time tomorrow." "Anything you can do, I can do--" he countered easily as he rolled up his sleeve. "Something nice on the bicep maybe?" "Oh no, Commander . . ." she shook her head slowly and for the first time, Trip's smile faltered a little. She rose up regally from the desk, carrying the small pot and stylus with her as she moved across the room. Trip watched her set them on the middle of the carpet, then reach for the meditation pillows, lining them up on the floor. "You will brand me first, since I am the initiator," she reached behind her back and tugged the zipper tab, then calmly peeled her catsuit down low on her slender hips. Stretching out, she lay face down on the pillows, offering Trip a magnificent view of her lovely back. He let his eyes travel from the nape of her neck down the long expanse of bare flesh to the sweet slope that ended at the dimples on the base of her spine. He shivered and tugged at his collar. "So--you go first . . . Ah, any particular design you want? I'm not very good at art . . ." "Your name would be the appropriate choice--" She looked over her shoulder at him. "I believe there is enough space for the full signature of Charles Sartorius Tucker the third, is there not?" "Who th' hell told you my middle name?" he groused, dropping on one knee the better to glare into her face. She stared back up at him mildly. "It is a matter of public record, Commander, although you rarely list it and obviously prefer the short epithet of Trip. However, since this is a serious undertaking, it would be fitting to use your proper and given name." Trip looked at her back, the muscles and delicate bones of her spine, the velvety flesh so pale against the dark green pillows and licked his lips. He picked up the stylus. Carefully he pulled out the stopper, then opened the pot and carefully poured the venom into the fanged pen. He put the stopper back in and closed the lid on the pot, then pushed it out of harm's way before looking back at T'Pol. "You sure about this?" "I am sure," came her steady response. Trip knelt, leaning over her, pen poised. "My name . . . right across your back . . ." "Yes," the barest hint of impatience now; Trip gave a wondering shake of his head and dropped the fang tip down between her shoulder blades. A faint hiss floated up, a tiny curl of steam. Trip lightly wrote in large looping letters, concentrating on finding the balance between the upper and lower letters along the smooth knobs of her backbone. With a flourish, he pressed the tip of the fang to cross the Ts and dot the I, then rocked back on his heels to scrutinize his handiwork. The letters were beginning to stand out in faint bronze against her ivory flesh, a visible impression that Trip suddenly found almost more arousing than the body itself. He leaned down close, his breath caressing her skin, feeling possessive. "Helluva thing, Darlin . . . it's so--" "--Intimate," T'Pol finished huskily as she curled up to a sitting position. She rose and slunk to the bathroom, turning to see the Firebrand in the mirror's reflection there. Still half-naked, T'Pol twisted, cat- like, and Trip felt another surge of something hot and wild race through his system. Slowly she pulled the catsuit up and zipped it before turning back to him. Shakily Trip handed her the stylus. "And now it is your turn, Commander," her voice was lower. Trip drew in a breath and his hand found the tab for his jumpsuit. He managed to undo it and peel off his undershirt, wondering why it seemed so much more than personal this time. T'Pol glanced down at the pillows and Trip shrugged, stretching out on his stomach. "Roll over, Commander--" came T'Pol's quiet request. He blinked. "Beg pardon?" "By tradition, males wear the Firebrand on their chests," she told him. Trip managed to shift himself around and sighed, crossing his arms behind his head. "I'm getting the better end of this you know. T'Pol is only four letters long, Darlin'," he mumbled to hide his nervousness. "Four letters in English," she corrected, reaching for the pot. "But ten in Vulcan." "Ten?" Rising up on his elbows, he watched as she filled the pen and moved to straddle his hips. Trip swallowed as she dropped a supporting hand on his hard smooth chest. "Need I remind you that *your* full name is twenty-five letters?" she chided. Trip rolled his eyes and lay back in resignation. "Fine. Ten letters. I can handle that." T'Pol pressed the tip of the fang on the middle of his chest, and made a series of circles and loops, dropping the tip down between his nipples before lifting it up again. Trip winced at the faint sting, but said nothing. T'Pol pressed the stylus under the last contact point and moved down, again dragging it across his flesh in ornate loops and curves. Trip watched her with interest. "The letters are signed on vertical plane, like a hieroglyphic, huh?" "Yes," she replied, shifting back and pressing the stylus down again. This time Trip suppressed a shudder as the mix of pain and pleasure hit him full force. Her warm weight was resting perfectly across his lap, but the bee-like sting of the pen was enough to make him twitch. She paused for a moment to meet his gaze. "I am humbled by your trust in me," she admitted softly. He looked down the length of his body and nodded. With a few more minutes of concentration, she managed to finish up her signature down his stomach and flat abdomen, the last loops curling right into the dark blond curls of his pubic hair. Trip drew in a deep breath as he watched the Vulcan letters begin to rise in pink relief against his fair skin. They looked like fancy elongated treble clefs. T'Pol was straddling his knees, looking down over her handiwork with an intense expression. She seemed mesmerized by the sight. "T'Pol--"' he called softly as he pushed himself up on his elbows again. The sting down his chest and stomach was mild, but he could feel it when he moved. She looked up from her name to his face. "It is done. We are Firebranded until tomorrow, or whenever we choose to nullify the venom." "And just for curiosity's sake, how do we do that?" Trip asked slowly, keeping his gaze locked on hers. She licked her lower lip. "A gel. It is cooling and somewhat . . . slick," she murmured, bending ever closer to him. Trip lifted his head, brushing his mouth against her full one, whispering, "Could be . . . fun . . ." A klaxon sounded, blaring out through the ship. The mood shattered in a thousand pieces as T'Pol flew off of Trip and hit the 'com button on her desk. "Engineering, what is the problem?" "Sub-Commander, we've got big trouble down here! As far as I can tell there's been a major breech in the coolant system. We're up to our knees in synthetic freon, and nobody can figure out where the stuff's coming from!" "Kelly, I'm on my way--" Trip announced tersely. "Get Hayden, Miller and Cho outta bed. Lock down the main floor." "Yes sir--" came the relieved response. Trip grabbed his T-shirt and pulled it over his head while T'Pol moved swiftly to the door. "I will take the bridge and let the captain meet you down in Engineering," she told him. Trip nodded, zipping up his jumpsuit as he followed her out and the klaxon continued to wail around them. *** *** *** "Damn it, this is not good," Archer rumbled in frustration, looking at the computer display across the tabletop of the Ready Room. Across from him, Trip nodded. "I agree Cap'n, but this is what we're looking at--we can make it to Deneb II at impulse in two days. They won't be real comfortable days, but we can't risk going any faster." "How much coolant did we lose?" "About sixty five percent of it leaked and became contaminated, sir. From what my team can see, the integrity of the enclosed system outside Main engineering failed--I don't want to call it a design flaw, but it's going to be one of those structures we'll have to check anytime we take damage." Archer frowned, lightly letting his palm smack against the display. "So we we've got no way of cooling the ship until we replace the synthetic freon--" "No sir, we don't. Can't open a window in space. We *can* vent some of the accumulated residual heat and avoid some of the buildup if we put most systems on minimum--cut the lighting, a good bit of the gravity, that sort of thing." Trip gave a sympathetic shake of his head since the Ready Room was already at 92 degrees and rising. Archer sighed. "Okay. Cut the nonessentials, re-route whatever coolant we've got to the critical systems and keep monitoring them. We'll just have to limp our way through this I guess." Trip fought the urge to scratch his chest and added, "It's gonna to get hotter, Cap'n, and the crew's gonna get mighty uncomfortable--" "Trip, how much hotter?" Archer shot him an exasperated look. The Chief engineer shrugged unhappily. "About twenty to thirty degrees more than it is right now." "That bad?" Archer looked down at the dark patches of sweat currently staining both of their jumpsuits and shook his head. "I'll have to relax the dress code I guess--the Quartermaster can issue some shorts and T-shirts . . . Phlox better get ready for heatstroke and dehydration . . ." T'Pol set down the clipboard and tapped the keyboard in front of her, keeping her focus on the readout from the monitor. She leaned back against the chair and ever so faintly rubbed her shoulders against the backrest. It didn't help. She shifted slightly, putting more of her spine in contact with the chair, but before she could do more, the bridge door opened and Malcolm Reed walked in, moving to his station. His face was wet, his dark hair dripping onto the tank top he wore. "Dear God, Engineering is a regular Dante's Inferno--" he muttered, planting himself at his station. Mayweather shot him a miserable glance before looking back at the stars ahead. "*Any* chance of at least going to Warp one?" "None at all--" came the terse reply. "More's the pity. I detest the heat." "It's not too bad," Hoshi piped up from her station. "Reminds me of the rain forest." Surreptitiously, both men took a leisurely moment to look at her, perky and sweet in her damp T-shirt and shorts. "Considering the amount of condensation building up inside the corridors, it might as well *be* the rain forest," Reed replied. T'Pol rose from her seat, heading for the door, but stopped as Reed called to her. "Sub Commander, I suppose being Vulcan, the heat doesn't bother you?" She paused for a moment before replying, "As I have often heard among humans, it is not the heat, Commander, it is the humidity." "Maybe you ought to get into something cooler--" Hoshi suggested softly. "Those long sleeves--" T'Pol met her glance and nodded. "A reasonable recommendation, Ensign. Commander, you have the bridge--" Once in her quarters, T'Pol took a moment to study the Firebrand in the mirror again. It was darker, a gold bronze filigree in contrast to her ivory skin. She slid out of the uniform and searched her personal effects, finally settling for a sleeveless catsuit of dappled grey with leggings that ended at mid-thigh. The neckline was scooped, and she studied the back of it carefully, noting that only a tiny part of the Firebrand was visible. Changing had irritated it further, and she backed up against the doorsill, rubbing her shoulder blades there in a small, but futile attempt to counter the prickling sensation. Phlox looked up at the monitors and tossed an orange porous lump at them. The lump hit with a soft thump, and began to crawl up the screen, sucking up the droplets in its path and growing larger. Archer grinned. "Living sponges?" "Of a sorts. Webbu absorb moisture, storing it in their bodies. They can take up to seventy five times their own weight in water, and they can be wrung out--" Deftly Phlox plucked the lump off the screen and gave it a squeeze. Archer winced, expecting the doctor to end up with a handful of orange goo, but instead a small stream of water trickled out down his wrist, "--With no harm to the creature. I have twenty that can be used in engineering to keep certain areas fairly dry. They are excellent filters, too, and the water is entirely drinkable." Archer nodded, looking incongruous in his tank top and shorts. "I'm sure Trip would be delighted with as many of these things as you can spare. How's the crew holding up?" "Fairly well--a few cases of dehydration of course, and some skin irritations since none of us can stay dry for any length of time--" Phlox still wore a tunic, but it hung open, revealing his own undershirt, and he had tied his hair back in a short ponytail. He handed Archer a bottle. "Set an example, Captain and make sure you are taking in sufficient water as well. I'll pack up the Webbu and send them down to Commander Tucker, unless he'd prefer to come and fetch them?" "I'll send him right up--he needs a break from the sweat box," Archer grinned with weary humor. "Thanks Doc. Now I've got to go and attempt diplomatic negotiations with Chef--" "Oh yes, the walk-in freezer--" Phlox gave a wistful sigh. Archer nodded gritting his teeth as the thought of arguing with the one person on Enterprise who now wielded more power than he did. "Wish me luck," he called mournfully as he left Sickbay. Trip too, was gritting his teeth. The heat was bad, the smell of contaminated synthetic Freon was bad, the main floor of Engineering was bad, and the prickly fire running down his chest and stomach was the worst of all. He tugged at the collar of his soaked t-shirt and snapped when his 'com went off. "Engineering!" he barked. "Calm down, Trip--go see Phlox, he's got something to help you keep the monitors clear--" came Archer's steady voice. Trip took a deep damp breath. "Gotcha Cap'n--sorry about yelling like that. Engineering out--" Moving swiftly, he managed to reach Sickbay within a few minutes, noting with dismay that it was hardly any cooler than where he had just been. Phlox looked over at him keenly. "Drink more water," he rumbled. "You're here for the Webbu, I take it?" "Uh--yeah, I guess . . ." He tugged at his shirt, looking around. Phlox moved closer, explaining and demonstrating the extraordinary talent of the little sponges again, stopping only when Trip ran an absent hand over his stomach, scratching. "Commander, are you suffering from heat rash?" "What? Ah, no--" Alarmed, Trip shot a wary look at the doctor, who frowned. "You're obviously uncomfortable--" Phlox reached over, tugging the damp shirt up, revealing the angry pink scrollwork on the Chief Engineer's chest and stomach. Neither man said anything for a moment; Trip's mouth was pressed in a hard line, Phlox merely stared. "Look, it's kinda personal," Trip growled, bracing himself for the doctor's commentary. Phlox however, dropped the shirt, sighing. "First the bite on your shoulder and now the brand on your chest--is there *any* part of you that the Sub Commander hasn't claimed as her property?" he murmured. Before Trip could protest, Phlox held up a hand. "You're right, Commander, you're right--this is a personal matter between the two of you. I only do hope that it doesn't drag on too long--in this heat, there could be scarring." "Really?" Trip's tone was thoughtful, and Phlox sighed again, handing him the bucket of Webbu. "Really. So unless you want the Vulcan calligraphy for "T'Pol's possession" on your skin permanently, I'd suggest ending the ritual soon." "Wait a minute--I thought it was just her name!" "It is, but she's curled the tails of all the letters to the left, which puts it into the possessive case."' Phlox gave him a keen look and added, "Right now, that line of script down your body indicates that you belong to her." |
Like it? Hate it? Just want to point out a typo? Join the discussion now.
Disclaimer: Star Trek in all its various forms and its characters are the property of CBS/Paramount. No copyright infringement is intended by the authors of this site, which is solely for the purpose of entertainment and is not for profit. This site is owned by CX and was opened to the public in February 2008.