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"The Firebrand"
Rating: NC-17 Part Two The dim emergency lighting throughout the ship made it harder to navigate through the corridors, and faint trickling sounds that echoed sporadically added to the slightly spooky atmosphere. Crewmen tended not to linger, but moved from stations to mess hall to cabins with less of the usual socializing. Everyone was counting down the hours until they reached Deneb II, none more than the poor souls in Engineering as they sweltered through the small hours of the morning. "Cho, why the *hell* haven't you cut gravity in the shuttle bay? Nobody's going to need it for at least another eight hours . . ." Trip groused, sweat dripping off the end of his pointed nose. Impatiently he shook it off and ran his hands over a digital keyboard, adjusting something. Ensign Cho gave a grunt of frustration, wiping his own face with one hand. "Sorry sir--I've been keeping an eye on the relays--we've got enough heat building up behind a few of them to damage some of the insulation there." "Yeah, I know--you got CO2 ready in case any of 'em blow out?" "Yes sir. Time to wring out the sponges again--" he sighed. Trip took the plastic tray from him and pointed to a wall panel. "I'll do it--get Kelly to help you start loosening the bolts on those--I don't want to lose any time if they overheat and we have to get in there." "Aye sir--" Cho plodded off, and Trip ran a hand through his hair, leaving it in a spiky wet mess as he gripped the tray and turned the corner to a workstation tucked at the end of the hall. The prickly irritation of the Firebrand had grown to a nearly unbearable stinging sensation in the humidity of Engineering, and Trip gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to hit something. With a muttered oath, he swung the tray up onto the stainless steel workbench and dumped the hapless sponges out on the surface near the scrub sink. He picked up the nearest orange blob and squeezed hard. "This one's for *you*, Darlin, and this stupid contest of wills . . ." Trip growled. Water gushed between his fingers. The sponge gave a small squeak, and guiltily Trip dropped it, hoping he hadn't killed the poor thing. It wobbled across the sink edge with a distinctly huffy attitude--or as much of one as a sponge could convey. "Sorry buddy--Nothin' personal. I got woman trouble," Trip confided to the supremely uninterested invertebrate. With a sigh, the chief Engineer picked up another sponge and gave it a lighter wringing, still muttering to himself. "Bad enough the damn thing feels like a nest of fire ants under my skin," he groused, "but the unmitigated gall of her attemptin' to subjugate me as well--" The water gurgled down into the drain and off to the recycling tanks, but part of it splashed on Trip's shirt, alleviating the saline sting for a brief moment. He paused, and then pulled a plump sponge from the pile. A quick look around, and he peeled the damp shirt up and lightly mashed the sponge against his chest; immediately the cool trickle of water ran down the ladder of hieroglyphics, muting the prickly tingle. Trip gave a blissful sigh. "Shoulda guessed it was the salt in the wound--" T'Pol was in agony. She made it to Sickbay, forcing herself to stay calm and focused, but once the doors swooshed shut behind her, she turned her dark gaze to Phlox and spoke through clenched teeth. "I need--medication," she announced bleakly. Phlox gave her a mild gaze and moved over to her, making soft clucking sounds. "I was wondering how long it would be before you showed up, Sub Commander." "Consider your speculations at an end, Doctor. Normally I would be capable of dealing with my own discomfort, but unfortunately, neither meditation or logic are effective strategies at the moment," she responded in a testy tone. Phlox smiled knowingly and picked up a small green vial. "I have a drug that may work, but there is a possible side effect." "The side effect cannot be any worse than my current level of distress," T'Pol told him. "I am prepared to endure whatever it may be for the sake of my personal sanity." "As you wish--" Phlox poured the contents of the vial into a small U- shaped filter and handed it to the Science officer, who took it with unseemly haste and swiftly plugged it into her nose. She didn't sigh, but the tension through her strong shoulders eased visibly as the numbing agent seeped through her nasal passages. Phlox looked up and studied the ceiling. "Olfactory overload brought on by overexposure to excessive human perspiration," he mused. "It will make an interesting case study for the Vulcan Science Academy." T'Pol took in one last inhalation and handed the filter to Phlox, her expression as dry as a desert. "The side effect?" she asked. "Increased thirst," he told her cheerily as he handed her a bottle of water. "Drink up." She took the proffered water and headed for the door when he called to her. "Sub Commander--about your Firebrand . . ." Slowly she turned, trying to meet his gaze, but not quite doing it, settling for a spot over his right shoulder. "As your physician, I advise that you and Chief Tucker not let this ritual go on too much longer." "Understood," she replied distantly. He shook his head. "I don't think you do," came his slightly annoyed counter-comment. "The ambient conditions are such that there is an increased risk for scarring, not to mention the psychological implications of your chosen signature." "What do you mean?" T'Pol asked in a faintly bewildered tone. Phlox waved a finger in the air, swinging it to the left. "The possessive form?" "That is not possible," she stated, brows drawing together in slight confusion. He arched an eyebrow right back at her. "A very telling slip then, Sub Commander. There may be more at stake here than a mere cultural exchange." "Possibly," she conceded with great reluctance. "But in a few hours it will be over, with no lasting consequence." She stepped out of Sickbay, while the doctor wandered over to check on the limp bat. "No lasting consequence. Of course. And if I believed that, I would be wearing a pink lace tutu while leading a Baboon dance troupe on the streets of Risa Major," he muttered into the cage. *** *** *** The one small break from duty Trip rewarded himself with was interrupted by Ensign Kelly's nervous cough. Trip didn't open his eyes, but he did pull his feet off the desk and sigh deeply. "Yeah?" "Sir, we've just gotten a report that some of the condensation is shorting out the turbolift to the bridge--it's intermittent right now, but-- " Trip opened his eyes to see Kelly standing there, sweaty and miserable, her tank top saturated almost to transparency. He kept himself from grinning or staring. "Lemme get some of those sponges up there then--check with the Doc to see if he's got any more he can lend us. I want you and Miller here, send Darling along if she's around." "No sir, she's manning the water recycling right now--" "Damn! Okay, I'll give you a call if I need anybody--" he flashed a smile at her; she wiped her brow and smiled back. "And to think--I could have blown a week's pay for these same conditions in a ritzy spa--" she muttered. Trip laughed, and headed out. He picked up another plastic tray and began collecting orange blobs from various points throughout engineering, wringing them down from brain size back to potato size. He dumped the water into the scrub sink, and then moved down the dank corridor towards the bridge. It took longer than usual; the uncirculated air was gamy and wet. Trip could hear the carpet squish slightly under each step he took. He rounded the corner to the turbolift to see a familiar spectacular backside visible just outside the open doors. Trip tried not to stare, but the testosterone within him flared up and he whistled. T'Pol backed out from a tangle of wires and circuitry to meet Trip's gaze, her annoyance faintly evident. "I assume that irritating sound was to attract my attention, Commander?" A tiny trickle of sweat slid down her high cheekbone; Trip watched it roll down the side of her neck. "In part--" he replied distractedly. "You holding up okay?" "If by that you are inquiring into my physical comfort, the answer is yes. The humidity is not pleasant, but it is bearable," she replied shortly, still on her hands and knees. Trip dropped to his haunches beside her shoulder and looked across the expanse of her back, where the catsuit was clinging wetly along the center spine. His mouth twitched in amusement. "How's if feel to bear the weight of my name, Darlin? You know there are a couple of women back on earth who wanted to, once." "Their reconsideration speaks highly of their intelligence," came T'Pol's seemingly serene reply. Trip refused to rise to the bait, and shook his head good-naturedly. "Admit it, T'Pol. You burn and tingle and sting as much as I do right now--in fact, it's gotta be worse for you since you can't even scratch most of it." "How considerate of you to remind me," she handed him a laser solder. "Do you have anything *supportive* to do here, Commander?" "Yeah, I've got some critters here to help soak up some of the excess moisture from inside the lift. They should help dry it out for a while, but I don't want to leave here without someone keeping watch and wringing them out once in a while." "What are they?" "The Doc called 'em Webbu, but they seem to be non-marine sponges of some sort. They're coming in real handy." "Interesting," she commented briefly as she peeked over the rim of the plastic tray at the orange globes. Trip glanced down the corridor, thinking hard. It was nearly three in the morning, the deadest hour on the Enterprise; the third shift wasn't due to change over for another two hours. Trip leaned closer to T'Pol. "I want to see it." "Excuse me?" she sat back on her feet, her hands full of fusing compound. Trip thrust his jaw forward and his voice took on a slightly harder tone. "My signature. It's been nearly eighteen hours since we carved our names into each other, and I wanna see it." "Commander, this is a public access area--" "--It's three in the morning and nobody else is here T'Pol, jest me. Isn't it a little late to be self-conscious?" he purred in his slow drawl. She looked at him, weighing his manner before pressing her lips together. "*Why* is it necessary to do this?" "Because I'll bug the livin' shit out of you until you do," came the honest and tired reply. T'Pol's eyebrows went up, as did the tiniest corner of her full mouth. "Very well. Once I have accommodated your imprudent curiosity, we must finish rewiring the lift." "Goes without sayin, doesn't it?" he smiled. T'Pol cast a brief glance down the corridor, then rose up gracefully and slipped the shoulder straps of the catsuit down as she turned her back to him. With light tugs, she managed to pull it to her waist. Trip exhaled a hard breath. "Geez, honey, why didn't you *tell* me!" In the dim lighting, Trip could see that her small back was crisscrossed with ropy bronze welts in loops and lines. He stood up and moved closer as she stood facing the wall, arms crossed protectively over her breasts. "Repairing the Enterprise took priority," she reminded him in a composed voice. "I am prepared to wait until we reach Deneb II if needed." Trip blew a delicate breath across her back; she didn't make a sound, but shivered ever so slightly. "Did that hurt?" he whispered, knowing the answer before she spoke. "No--it was-- somewhat alleviating," came her uneven reply. Trip longed to touch her skin, but knew from personal experience it would only aggravate the wounded flesh. He looked back at the tray thoughtfully. "Will ya let me try something, Darlin? It might lessen some of the discomfort. We'll get right back to the turbolift, I promise." "The point of the ceremony is to use the discomfort to gain insight into one's personal integrity, Commander," she replied tersely. "Pain is an essential part of the ritual." Trip shifted his lean form closer to her, his lips very nearly grazing her temple as he braced one arm on the wall. "Look, I understand the purpose of Matyatok, T'Pol--hell I can appreciate the gravity, the symbolism and the honor associated with it too, but we won't have a chance to end this ceremony until we get to Deneb II, and frankly it killin' me to see you injured like this . . ." She turned to face him, her large eyes dark and deep in the half- light. "I appreciate your concern, but--" "Just let me try something. That's all I'm asking." When she hesitated, Trip added, "Please." T'Pol nodded, and before she could change her mind, Trip moved swiftly to grab one of the orange blobs. With caution, he held it above her nearest shoulder blade and gently squeezed, releasing a gush of lukewarm water. It splashed down onto her bare skin with a faint sizzling sound. T'Pol opened her full lips, saying nothing. Trip locked gazes with her, and he could feel his breathing go ragged when she dropped her arms slightly, revealing more of her sweat-slick breasts. "Better? Or worse?" She struggled; he could see her internal conflict over how to reply, but honesty won out and she admitted in a low voice, " . . .Better." "That's what I was hoping--" he reached for another sponge, then brought his arm up behind her, dangling it on the tips of his fingers over the back of her long neck; she shifted closer, her full chest pressing against his wet t-shirt. Trip swallowed hard as his body sent wicked heat pulsing through him at her proximity. He squeezed. The spill of water down her spine made a wet crackling hum and compelled her forward. Trip couldn't tell if it was pain or pleasure that shuddered through her frame, but the hot, sultry slither of her against him made his knees weak. He could feel the graze of her hard nipples on either side of his own Fire Brand, and the urge to kiss her overpowered him; he lowered his lips to hers. "Trip?" Archer's voice echoed very faintly down the emergency hatchway. Trip gave a harsh sigh, and swiftly pulled back from T'Pol, frustration radiating from every pore of his body. He ambled over to the hatch with forced casualness and called up. "Cap'n'?" "We've got three hours to go, fifteen hundred gallons of coolant waiting for us at the Deneb II docking station, and *some* of us up here on the Bridge would like to get off--" "--Christ! So would some of down here," Trip muttered to himself with a wry twist to his mouth. T'Pol had pulled her catsuit back up, looking damp but serene. Archer continued. "If you see T'Pol, send her up--the damned humidity's putting half our com links on the fritz--" "Will do, Cap'n, " Trip shouted, closing his eyes as she brushed by him and began to climb the emergency ladder. She paused for a moment and softly murmured, "We must end the Matyatok within precisely six hours, Commander--" "My place then--I know the captain will give me the shift off once the coolant's in place," he replied huskily. She nodded and glided up the ladder, out of sight. He watched her go, and licked his lips before turning back to the toolbox. *** *** *** "So they'll take the remnants of the contaminated coolant off the ship, and we can schedule shore leave in shifts for the crew while we get the new coolant pumped in. The system's ready to go?" "Yep--finished the last welding seal myself. I've got Bennett overseeing the transfer, so if you don't mind, Cap'n--I'm due for a shower and about fifteen hours of sleep." "Yeah, I can see that--" came Archer's amused response. Trip looked at him and made a face. "Well la de dah--you don't look that dainty yourself--" Both of them were dripping with sweat; Archer had taken off his shirt off to mop his face as they stood looking down at the main engineering floor. Trip shook his head, droplets flying from his hair. "We should be feeling a drop in the temperature in about four minutes- -" he reminded Archer, who leaned over the rail. Out of his line of vision, two of the female crew eyed his furry chest and high-fived each other. "Go get some well-deserved rest, Trip. We can handle things from here- -" Archer gave a wry smile. "Aye sir--" Moving quickly, he made it to his quarters, feeling the change in the air. The staleness was slowly fading, and Trip sighed as he let himself drop into the desk chair. He was eyeing the door to the shower when the door chime sounded. "Come in--" T'Pol stepped through, arms crossed behind her back. She gave him an austere look touched with faint censure, and he found himself sitting up straighter. "Commander--" she began, but he cut her off with a gesture, and rubbed his eyes. "Sub Commander. Let's cut to the chase shall we, Darlin? Both of us have just put in a hellishly long shift and frankly, I'm feeln' irritable, cranky and downright mean." He rose out of his chair, frowning. T'Pol stood her ground as he pulled his shirt off and dropped it to the carpet. Against the flat hard muscles of his chest, the treble clef ridges of her name stood out, shiny and thick. He glared at her. With one swift yank, he grabbed her right hand and pressed it, palm flat against the top glyph at the base of his throat. Trip gritted his teeth at the burn of it, but pressing his hand on hers, slowly forced her to drag her palm down the length of her signature. "T'Pol's possession, huh?" he snarled. She met his stare unblinkingly as their intertwined fingers slid lower and lower down his body. Stepping closer, she lifted her chin in a small but defiant gesture. "A Freudian slip on my part, Commander, for which I must apologize. You are no one's possession, I assure you." "Or maybe you just labeled the wrong *piece*, Darlin," he replied, his anger and bitterness just under the surface of his words. She shook her head very slowly. "In the moment of branding, I chose the intimate form of my signature, Commander. I put it into the possessive without conscious thought, instinctively--" "--Without logic, you mean--" Trip dragged her hand down lower, over the heavy ridge that strained against his shorts. Her face bloomed with bronze as she blushed, but her fingers gently caressed him. "Without logic," she confessed in a low whisper. Trip drew in a harsh breath, and reluctantly pulled her hand away, letting it go. "I guess it's time to end this." T'Pol reached into the waistband of her catsuit and withdrew a long packet of glowing violet gel, holding it up to his inspection. He squinted at it. "This it T'aa. It's an extract of a Vulcan flower, and it will neutralize the poison. I was unable to replicate any since it has a fairly complicated genetic code." "So there's not a lot of it--" He pointed out. She nodded patiently, handing it to him. "By the principles of Matyatok, we anoint each other to release the brand, the weaker to the stronger. I acknowledge you as the stronger, Commander." Trip took the packet in his hands, feeling the coolness radiating against his palms; he turned his glance to T'Pol and a dangerous smile crossed his mouth. "I'd declare it a dead heat," he drawled. "Turn around, T'Pol, and get that uniform off." Instantaneously, she understood his intention and twisted about, her hands peeling the catsuit off. Behind her she heard the faint 'pop' as Trip squeezed the packet, bursting it in his fist. His hands caressed her, the gel gliding over her scorched skin in smooth strokes from her shoulder blades to her hips. T'Pol tried to concentrate, but the throb of her back under his big hands made her breathless. She turned her face to look over her shoulder. "You have utilized all of it . . ." she observed, a faint hint of alarm in her voice. Trip laughed. He let his hands slide around her ribcage to cup her breasts, yanking her back against him in one firm tug. Her spine squished wetly against his chest as the gel oozed between their two bodies. The sensation forced a groan from Trip; his hands slipped brazenly over her hard nipples and down her flat stomach as he forced her back against him. T'Pol shifted her hips in slow twists, grinding on him as the gel made sucking noises. They rocked together, shifting across the room until T'Pol felt the edge of the bunk press against the front of her thighs. She braced her hands on the mattress, gripping the blanket under her fingers tightly. Trip arched over her, his fingers sliding down between her catsuit and heated legs, pushing the material to the floor. "Without logic? " came his searing breath in her pointed ear. T'Pol nodded blindly. She felt his weight across her back, the hard good weight of muscle and shifted her legs apart, as much at the cloth would let her. One of Trip's slick hands glided up between her thighs while the other braced on her shoulders. He thrust himself forward with a hard grunt, shuddering as she arched her spine in instant response, hips grinding in blind desire against him. Trip rocked back, thrusting again and again, building a rhythm between them punctuated by the slurp and suck of the gel as it trickled from them to stain the blanket under T'Pol. She began to breathe raggedly, her back quivering in hard spasms against his chest. He licked her ear, running his tongue up the delicate point. "God I love ya, Darlin--" He groaned, hands tightening their grip on her hips as he shuddered, emptying himself deep within her and collapsing across her back. After a moment, she raised her head and looked at him over her shoulder, a thoughtful expression across her elfin face. Trip was gravely amused to note it was the same one she could have worn looking at him on the Bridge, or in the Mess Hall--only a faint gleam deep in her eyes spoke volumes about her inner thoughts. "This is not the way the ritual usually ends," she admitted softly. Trip laughed tiredly. "Yeah, that might be a real problem between brothers--" "Normally, " she continued, refusing to acknowledge his joke, "The participants pledge lifelong respect for each other out of the mutual pain they have shared." "Darlin' you already have my lifelong respect--and not just for the pain, either," he admitted, rising off of her and reaching for the folded blanket at the end of the bunk. He gently lifted her legs onto the bed and tucked the blanket around her unresisting form. By the time he got out of the shower, she was on her side, sleeping soundly, and before he climbed in beside her, he looked at her bare back, noting the smooth unblemished skin. Trip glanced down at his own chest and gave a regretful sigh. "You'll never know . . ." he whispered in a tiny breath, "but I wouldn't have minded . . .keeping . . . it . . ." He curled around her, settling into sleep as T'Pol stared at the bunk wall, eyes bright with tears that she refused to let fall.
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