Gigi Sinclair

Trip was cool, he decided. This was a new development for him, more of a lifestyle choice than a personal characteristic. And it was a decision born of necessity, because they weren't even a year and a half into their five-year mission and he was already starting to get seriously annoyed by just about everyone around him.

In order to reduce the likelihood of him stealing a few of Malcolm's phase pistols and one day going postal on the bridge, he had adopted the healthy, Starfleet-approved personal motto of "Who cares?" So every time he left the ship, he ended up lost, stranded, injured and/or sexually molested by an alien princess. Who cared?

So Jonathan, his best friend who had once shared everything with him down to his favourite ice cream flavour and that one recurring nightmare about running into Admiral Forrest in a male strip club, had started freezing him out like a frigid Florida debutante. Who cared? So T'Pol, who had, in the early days, shown occasional flashes of likeable quasi-humanity, had gone back to being a snotty bitch who just happened to have not only his job but now his captain's confidant status as well. Who cared?

So Malcolm, the sexiest thing Trip had seen next to a pulse cannon since that NRA weapons/bikini show in Tampa Bay, not only showed absolutely no inclination to reciprocate Trip's admiration, but seemed to classify Trip as a sort of peripheral buddy, the kind of guy who was fun to meet for the occasional drink or poker game, but who otherwise wasn't worth thinking about. Who cared?

So the warp drive had gotten itself completely fucked in a firefight with the Suliban, and they were now floating quietly outside towing distance from Jupiter Station. Well, that Trip had to care about, because it was his job. But he, as he told himself repeatedly, really didn't care that it had been twelve hours since the captain had even come down to see how things were going.

"Try it now." Trip wiped his hands on his already less than clean uniform and nodded at Lieutenant Hess. He uttered the same prayer he'd uttered when trying to start his grandfather's fully restored 2001 Volkswagen Beetle back on the farm, and was met with the same result. Nothing. "Shit."

"Everything going well?" Jonathan, looking suspiciously well-rested and refreshed, came tripping down the Jeffries tube.

"It's been better."

"You should take a rest." Jonathan put his head on one side, his brow furrowing with concern.

"When this thing's fixed, Hess and I are putting in for a six-week vacation to Risa." Because his last trip there had been such a rip-roaring success. Another thing Trip didn't care about.

"Don't worry. I've got some people coming in to help."

"What?" Trip snapped. Jonathan smiled placidly, as usual, completely immune to the subtleties of human existence.

"I knew you'd be pleased. Dr. Sophie Leclerc. Her shuttle's scheduled to dock at 2100." Sophie Leclerc. Trip knew the name, of course. She was a theoretical engineer, one of the best in Starfleet. He and Jon had had some correspondence with her when she was doing her doctorate thesis on the warp drive, and since then, she'd become a professor at Starfleet Academy. If there was anyone in the universe who knew more about the warp drive than Trip did, it was Sophie Leclerc. Which was precisely why she couldn't come within a hundred light years of this ship.

"Captain, I don't need any help. No one knows this machine like I—like we do." He shot a solicitous glance at Hess, who didn't seem completely enraged at the prospect of outside assistance.

"I know, Trip," Jonathan gave him a condescending slap on the back. "But Forrest asked us to shuttle her and her assistant out to Vulcan anyway."

"So now we're the goddamn intergalactic Greyhound?"

"Leclerc knows what she's talking about. Maybe even more than y—than we do."

"Jonathan, please." Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or maybe the persistent not caring was wearing him down, but Trip was suddenly desperate. "You can't do this to me. It'd be like…" He searched his mind for an appropriate comparison. "Like if Admiral Forrest brought in someone else to be in charge next time we do a first contact." Jonathan gave a hearty laugh.

"Believe me, Trip, sometimes I'd wish he'd do that. Getting hurt every time we meet a new species got old after the first month."

"Captain…"

"Take a break, Trip. You have two hours until they get here. Time for a snack and a shower, if nothing else." Or, Trip thought, time to work like hell to get the thing fixed before they arrived.

"Commander, do you have a minute?"

"No. Go away." Trip, along with his "Who cares?" policy, had also adopted a policy of being as polite as possible to Malcolm. There was no point, he had decided, in fighting with the man when he didn't even get the enjoyment of make-up sex afterwards. But this wasn't the time for niceties. He did, in fact, have twenty-eight minutes before the shuttle was scheduled to arrive, and the warp drive was still sitting, silently laughing at him. His crew had abandoned him for the mess hall, and, with the captain's permission and even encouragement to do so, he had been powerless to stop them. Even Hess had taken a bathroom break an hour earlier and hadn't returned. If he'd had the time, he would have gone looking for her and dragged her back.

"I need to ask a favour," Malcolm was not to be deterred.

"Take whatever you want, use whatever you want, just put it back afterwards." Trip heard Malcolm clear his throat.

"It's more of a…personal favour, actually. Sir." It was the 'sir' that got him. Wiping his eyes with his dirty hands (giving himself, he was sure, raccoon eyes, but who cared) he looked at Malcolm, who was staring at the floor.

"What is it, Malcolm?" Malcolm took a deep breath and, looking anywhere but at Trip, asked:

"Would you mind pretending to be my lover?" Trip slipped, grazing his hand with the sharp end of his pliers.

"What?"

"Just while the visitors are here." Another deep breath. "Dr. Leclerc's assistant is my ex."

"Ex-girlfriend?" It was suddenly all very clear to Trip, who went back to twisting wires. "I get it. You told her you were gay because you didn't want to hurt her feelings when you dumped her." It was a technique he was familiar with. Jon had even used it when he was trying to get rid of some boring little brunette, Laura or Lisa or something. Of course, Jon couldn't act his way out of a paper bag, so Laura or Lisa (or was it Lindsay?) had been less than convinced, even when Trip had planted one on him right in front of her. In the name of friendship, of course. Malcolm coughed nervously.

"Not…not exactly." Trip glanced over to where Malcolm was turning shades of red heretofore unknown to mankind. When he didn't seem about to speak, Trip prompted:

"So what, exactly?" Malcolm answered in a rush, as if he had somewhere to be.

"He's my ex-husband. And I'm pretty sure he knows I'm gay." Trip didn't have time to take the statement in. He was too busy looking at the pliers, cheerfully impaled through his palm.

***

"While I am pleased you are finally taking an interest in your own well-being, Commander, this is not a life-threatening injury." Phlox, looking censorious, glanced up from where he was suturing Trip's hand. "It could have waited until Ensign Cutler and I had finished our meal."

"No it couldn't have. It fucking hurt." Trip looked at the chronometer. Eleven minutes. "Anyway, what about the Hippocratic Oath?" Phlox smiled beatifically.

"It doesn't count when we're having Chef's spaghetti and meatballs for dinner."

When he finally got out of sickbay, Trip made a beeline back to Engineering. And was met halfway by Malcolm.

"How's your hand?"

"Fine." Trip answered, stiffly.

"Sorry about the shock."

"You think you coulda mentioned something before." Trip tried not to sound hurt, which he was. Among other things. "I thought we were friends." Or at least peripheral buddies. "When we were in that damn shuttle and you were naming off girls like the star quarterback…"

"Our divorce wasn't exactly amicable." Malcolm sighed and Trip felt a twinge of sympathy. Then reminded himself of his new philosophy, and went back to resolutely not caring. "When he wrote to tell me he was getting remarried, I…" Malcolm trailed off.

"You…"

"Told him I was involved with you." Trip laughed, because there was nothing else to do, really.

"I'm real flattered, Malcolm, but I don't think I'm your type." He certainly hadn't received any indications that he was and, back in the days when he'd cared, he had looked. Hard. Frequently.

"Travis is too young and I didn't think Alan would believe I was sleeping with the captain."

"What about Hoshi? Or T'Pol?"

"Women were always Alan's thing. Not mine." Coulda fooled me, Trip thought. Despite how he felt at that moment, he was no idiot, and he could put two and two together. Or one and one.

"He's involved with Leclerc."

"He's married to her. They met just after we left space dock." Malcolm looked at him. "I hear she's some kind of expert on the warp drive."

"So I've heard." Trip sighed. Seven minutes. "How long have we been together?"

"Six months."

"Is that all? What took me so long?" Malcolm smiled.

"You were waiting for me to make the first move."

***

Trip didn't know what he expected Malcolm's ex-husband to look like. Probably someone snooty, probably with one of those toffee-nosed English accents. The kind of guy who always looked like he'd just stepped in one of Porthos's cheese-related accidents. Trip was surprised when Alan Petersen turned out to be a blond Californian, younger than Malcolm and certainly younger than Trip, with a non-regulation hemp necklace and a wife who looked like Catherine Deneuve and sounded like Jacques Cousteau.

"Captain Archer." They both saluted Archer, who beamed back at them.

"Dr. Leclerc. We meet at last. And Commander Petersen. A pleasure to have you on board. This is our chief engineer, Commander Tucker."

"Commander." Trip noticed Petersen flicking an appraising eye over his body.

"Commander." Trip nodded back, doing some none-too-subtle appraising of his own. Hell, it was what he would have done if he really had been Malcolm's lover.

"Commander," Leclerc put in, smiling. Trip nodded as graciously as he could manage.

"Doctor."

"And this is our armory officer, Lieutenant Reed." Archer, looking slightly dazed, pointed at Malcolm, who had been lurking in the shadows. Petersen grinned when he saw him, in a way that neither Trip the friend nor Trip the pseudo-suitor found particularly reassuring.

"Malcolm! How are you?" Petersen seemed about to hug Malcolm, who, Trip noticed, immediately went into defensive mode. Petersen settled for a handshake. "God, it must be two years. At least."

"You know each other?" Archer asked, never one to shy away from stating the obvious.

"Yes, sir," Malcolm put in, before Petersen could respond. "We're old friends."

"Well then!" Archer clapped his hands. "I'll get you to show our guests to their quarters." Trip exchanged a look with Malcolm, who appeared more frightened than when he'd been moments away from death by hanging as a genetically-enhanced spy. Or when he'd been moments away from death by Romulan mine explosion, or death by freezing, or any of the other deaths Trip had seen him face.

"Sir, I'm very busy at present…"

"Nonsense." But it wasn't and, as Malcolm's friend and pretend partner, it fell to Trip to do something about it.

"I'll show them the way." The look of gratitude in Malcolm's eyes was almost worth it.

"All right." Showing the fortitude of command, Archer agreed instantly.

"Why don't you take the suitcases, Alan, and I will get started with the engine? If that is acceptable to you, Commander." Dr. Leclerc looked politely at Trip, who couldn't think of any good reason, beyond "It's mine and you can't touch it", to refuse. So, as the Captain and Leclerc headed towards Engineering and Malcolm, with a final, grateful glance in his direction, disappeared towards the armoury, Trip took Malcolm's ex-husband to the guest quarters.

"She's a hell of a ship," was Petersen's opening line, after they'd suffered a long walk and an even longer turbo-lift ride in silence.

"Yes." Trip agreed. He wasn't usually at a loss for words, but then he wasn't usually pretending to be Malcolm's lover for the benefit of Malcolm's ex-husband, either.

"You know, I applied for your job." Since Trip didn't know how to reply to that, he just grunted. "Malcolm and I applied together. Back when we were together. Oh jeez, he did tell you about us, right?" Petersen looked concerned.

"Sure. When we first started going out." Coming up on forty-five minutes ago, now.

"It was nothing, really. Ships that pass in the night. Of course, the night lasted five years in our case." Petersen laughed, which Trip found odd, but not incomprehensibly so. If Trip ever got married, he thought, and then divorced and then remarried, he'd be a little nervous about seeing the ex again, too. Especially if the ex was in a new relationship. Especially if the ex was Malcolm.

"Here we are." Trip opened the door to the quarters.

"Great." Petersen glanced around approvingly. "Hey, you sure you and Mal don't want to borrow that big bed? I know what a pain it is for two guys to try and get it on in one of those tiny bunks."

"It's OK, thanks." Trip didn't know, although he had imagined on one or two occasions. Usually, though, his fantasies had more exotic settings, like the armoury and the mess hall. And that bar basement on Risa.

"Suit yourself. But if you change your mind," Petersen gave a lewd wink. Trip stared at him for a moment, then uttered the words he'd never thought he'd say.

"If you're finished, I'll show you the engine."

***

"The paneling?"

"Yes." Dr. Leclerc smiled pleasantly. "The warp drive will not run if the paneling is not secure. It is one of the many safety features." Trip felt like he was about to die. And he didn't mind one bit.

"You're telling me," he repeated, twisting the knife in his own stomach, "I worked for eighteen hours on this goddamned thing and the trouble was a screwy panel."

"A not-so-screwy panel, actually." Archer put in, helpfully. Trip's thoughts immediately turned from suicide to homicide.

"Do not feel badly, Commander Tucker." Leclerc soothed. "It is an easily overlooked detail. Particularly if your mind is on more complicated problems." Petersen hadn't said anything since Leclerc's diagnosis of the problem, ten seconds after arriving on board. Trip didn't think he was being overly paranoid, however, when he thought he saw Petersen smirking as Leclerc replaced the screw on the panel.

"You're too smart, Trip," Archer added.

"Well, I'm sorry you were troubled for nothing, doctor," Trip tried to sound gracious.

"It is no trouble," Leclerc replied quickly. "As you know, I have long studied warp theory. It is one thing to work with numbers and formulas and isolated engines, but to see an engine like this one, in an actual working ship, to see all the theories in practice…" She shook her head in wonder. Trip knew how she felt.

"It's something else, huh?"

"Oh, Commander Tucker." Leclerc practically gushed. "You have no idea."

Minutes after Trip arrived in his quarters, just as he was about to collapse into bed, the door chimed. Against his better judgement, he opened it, to see Malcolm, looking on the verge of panic.

"They want to get together for a drink. A drink!" His voice cracked. Exhausted, embarrassed, mortified as he was, Trip couldn't help but find it amusing. Courageous Malcolm, who had stared death down a dozen times, afflicted with good old ex-fear.

"You still got feelings for this guy, Mal?"

"Of course not." Malcolm scowled, and Trip was far more convinced than if he'd shouted his refutation. "But that doesn't bloody well mean I want to be alone with them." He looked at Trip, pleading. "You've got to come with me, Trip." Trip sighed. How could he resist?

"Fine, Malcolm." He rubbed his eyes, then grinned. "But if they ask, you usually come first, OK?"

The mess hall was mostly deserted. Dr. Leclerc and Commander Petersen, or Sophie and Alan as they insisted on being called, sat on one side of the table, with Trip and Malcolm on the other.

"So when Sophie told me she was going to give a talk on Vulcan, I thought I'd join her." Alan took a drink of beer. The same brand, Trip noticed, as he himself drank.

"But enough about us," Sophie swirled her glass. Although Trip had pegged her as a white wine drinker, she had in fact asked for a double scotch on the rocks. "Tell us about you."

"Us?" Malcolm, who had only recently stopped fiddling nervously, looked up like a deer caught in headlights.

"Not much to tell," Trip replied for him. Alan seemed satisfied with that, but Sophie smiled knowingly.

"Oh, Commander Tucker. I am sure you are a romantique." The look on Malcolm's face turned from nervousness to horror. What the hell, Trip thought. They may think he was an incompetent engineer, but he could still redeem himself in the Casanova department.

"Want to hear about our first date?" Malcolm stiffened beside him, but Trip caught a glimmer of something, jealousy maybe, in Alan's eyes.

"Of course," Sophie smiled. "We French love to hear stories of romance."

"This is a good one," Trip assured her. "We were both on the night shift. I arranged our meal break for 0400, when I knew this place would be empty." Trip glanced around. "I got Chef to leave out two helpings of Malcolm's favourite lasagna, and a bottle of Pinot Noir 2098, and we had a candlelight dinner at four in the morning." Trip hoped that sounded at least partly improvised, at least to Malcolm. He didn't need to know this was just one of the many first-date scenarios Trip had planned out in detail. Sophie sighed wistfully and, knowing he had got something right, Trip couldn't resist adding: "Remember that, darlin'?"

"How could I forget?" Malcolm replied dryly. "Lasagna at four AM. The heartburn nearly killed me."

"Come on, Mal." Trip nudged him. "You know that wasn't the reason you didn't sleep that night." Sophie laughed, but Alan stood up abruptly.

"Anyone want a refill?" Trip declined, but Sophie and Malcolm put in their orders. "You'd better come with me, Malcolm. I can't carry all those drinks on my own." With a glance at Trip, Malcolm followed Alan. Trip watched them go.

"Do not worry, Commander," Sophie lay a hand on his arm. "There is nothing between them anymore."

"That's what Mal tells me."

"It is the truth. Alan and I are very happy together. Besides," she raised one carefully plucked eyebrow at him. "Why would Malcolm want Alan when he has such a wonderful man right here?"

Despite Sophie's assurances, Alan was clearly still attached to Malcolm, attached enough to insist on walking him home. Or rather to Trip's quarters, where he finally left them, with much winking, innuendo, and a promise to meet them at 0700 for breakfast. When Alan had at last disappeared down the corridor, calling "Don't do anything I wouldn't do" loudly enough to wake the early shift, Malcolm turned to Trip, frowning.

"I don't know who he thinks he is." Trip shrugged.

"Obviously, he still cares about you." Trip knew all the perverse hallmarks of the obsessive ex. He'd only stopped following Ruby and her boyfriend around when he'd been threatened with a restraining order, not something he wanted on his Starfleet record.

"But we've been divorced for two years. And I told you, it wasn't pleasant."

"Doesn't mean anything. Anyway, it'd take me a hell of a lot longer to get over you." Trip replied. Then replayed the words in his sleep-deprived, alcohol-addled brain and hastily added: "You know, if we were really seeing each other." After a moment's pause, Malcolm smiled.

"Thanks for everything, Trip. I'd better get going. I'll be back at 0645 for Act Two."

"You could always stay here." Malcolm looked up at him, his expression unreadable, at least to Trip. "It'd be easier than sneaking all over the ship." Malcolm glanced down, then back up again, a different kind of smile on his face.

"If you're sure." Trip swallowed, suddenly not at all sure they were talking about the same thing. Or maybe too sure they were. Either way, he was too exhausted to do anything but chicken out.

"Sleeping bag's in the closet. You can clear a space on the floor somewhere. And you'd better not snore." He went into the bathroom, refusing to speculate whether the quickly covered-up expression on Malcolm's face was one of relief or disappointment.

Just as he was about to fall asleep, Trip was seized by the sudden, nagging thought he was forgetting something. Beyond the reason why Malcolm was on the floor and not in bed with him. It came to him a short while later, when he woke up and remembered he'd left his toolbox in Engineering.

The sensible thing would have been to go back to sleep and get it in the morning. Trip didn't believe for a second that any of his people would take anything. He doubted anyone would even notice it. But they might. And inside the box was something Trip didn't want anyone seeing.

When they had first learned of their assignment to "Enterprise", back in the days when they exchanged more meaningful dialogue than "Good morning," "Good night," and "Pass the ketchup," Trip and Jon had exchanged congratulatory presents. Trip had given the Captain a ship in a bottle. Jon had given the engineer a toolbox with an inscription inside the lid: "A pair of star-crossed lovers", and their initials. He may have been a rocket scientist, but Jon had never been great at English Literature. He thought it meant people who liked astronomy.

Trip loved Jon like the brother he'd always wanted (instead of the annoying jerks he'd got), but he had to admit, the man could be more than a little clueless at times. Still, knowing he would be horrified and embarrassed if he knew to what the quotation actually referred, Trip thanked Jon, said nothing, and kept the suggestive toolbox out of sight. For the first three months of the mission, until Jon, looking hurt and fondling his ship in a bottle, asked why Trip never used it. So Trip had taken to bringing the box with him, always keeping a close eye on it and never letting anyone else look inside. There were already enough rumours around about him and the captain. And a much more interesting one about him, the captain and T'Pol.

Trip rolled over and squeezed his eyes shut determinedly, but it was no use. He knew he'd never get to sleep unless he knew for sure one of his people wasn't innocently reaching for a wrench and finding instead enough grist to keep the rumour mill running for the rest of the voyage. So he got up, stepped over Malcolm, pulled on a pair of sweatpants and dragged himself to Engineering.

When he arrived, the place seemed empty, which wasn't that unusual. There was only a small crew on duty this time of night, and they could have been anywhere from the bridge to the ducts over the mess hall, given the orders Trip had left them. Trip was about to take his box and go back to bed when he rounded the corner and saw Alan Petersen in front of the engine.

"What are you doing?"

"Trip." The commander turned to look at him, as if there was nothing unusual about a visiting officer skulking around the engine in the dead of night. "Malcolm got you too wound up to sleep? That always was the trouble with him. Fell asleep just as I was getting warmed up for a second round. Or a third, or a fourth." Trip ignored him.

"Why are you near my engine?" Petersen laughed.

"Your engine? I'd call it the ship's." The laughter stopped, but he kept smiling as he continued: "It could just as easily have been someone else's job to look after it. Mine, for example, if I'd been lucky enough to have Captain Archer's ear. Or," he glanced at the toolbox in Trip's hand. "Another part of his body." Trip tightened his grip on the handle, just to keep from punching the bastard. He didn't think that would go over well with the captain, or with Malcolm.

"Get the hell out of here." Petersen laughed again, a sound which was rapidly joining "Hey, Trip, you're on this away mission" as Trip's least favourite sound.

"I'm better qualified than you, Trip. And I don't only mean for the chief engineer's job." Hell, Trip sighed inwardly. All he'd wanted was to retrieve his compromising toolbox and get back to his nice warm bed. But apparently that was too much to ask, because he now seemed poised to enter a sparring match with Malcolm's ex-husband. Not that he minded that, he just would have preferred to do it with eight hours of sleep and some bacon and eggs under his belt.

"I think Malcolm made it clear who he thinks is better qualified for that…position." And, from what Trip was seeing, it was the best decision he'd ever made.

"Yeah, I'm sure you're very experienced. Was the captain able to give you a good reference?" Grinding his teeth, Trip decided to be the bigger man. Probably literally.

"Look, Petersen, I don't know what happened between you and Malcolm, but let's be professional, OK? Go back to your quarters and your wife." Before Trip bashed his head in with the damn toolbox.

"And you can do the same." It took all of Trip's Starfleet-taught sportsmanship, not to mention his considerable willpower, not to clock him from behind when Petersen turned to leave.

Trip had barely set foot back in his own quarters, and had just put down the toolbox, when something heavy hit him from behind. In the blink of an eye, he was on his back on the floor, Malcolm sitting on top of him and pinning his wrists above his head.

"What the hell—"

"Sorry, Trip." Instantly, Malcolm removed himself from Trip's body. "You startled me."

"And you should learn to relax. You're gonna give yourself a heart attack." Trip rubbed his shoulder peevishly. Not that being jumped by Malcolm had been a completely unenjoyable experience, considering Malcolm had been sleeping in his regulation blue underwear and nothing else.

"Where were you?"

"Running into your buddy Alan. Is he nuts or what?"

"Did he do anything to you?" The look of concern on Malcolm's face, and the implied promise of swift retribution if he had, pushed Trip to ask:

"Why did you tell him we were…" His mind ran through several possible euphemisms, but he finally elected to call a spade a spade. "Fucking each other?"

"I told you." Malcolm stiffened and scuttled back across the floor to the sleeping bag. "He wrote to say he was getting remarried, and I didn't want to look like a lonely loser."

"But why me?"

"I told you that, too." Malcolm studied the floor.

"Right. You're no cradle-robber and the captain's way up on some pedestal. Bullshit, Mal. There are dozens of guys on board. Not to mention all the people you coulda invented. So tell me the truth." He hesitated. When nothing was forthcoming, he continued, a little less confidently: "Do you like me?" Malcolm grabbed onto that one like a man with a life preserver.

"Of course I like you. We're friends."

"You know what I mean." But just to be sure, he qualified: "Do you like me the way you like weapons and big explosions?" After a hesitation that seemed to last forever, Trip saw Malcolm smirk.

"You're not as good as really big explosion. A small one, maybe." Trip grinned. He couldn't have stopped himself.

"And I guess you never told me cause you weren't sure how I felt." Malcolm snorted.

"You must be joking. You're about as subtle as a ton of bricks."

"What?"

"Trip, you're always hanging around me. You stare at my arse when we're in the turbolift together and you practically salivate when you see me in the gym. I'd have to be blind not to know how you felt."

"Oh." Trip, who had always prided himself on his suavity, was a little disappointed. Until Malcolm smiled and reached over to put a hand on his arm.

"But it's all right. I like it. I just didn't know if this was a good idea."

"Why?"

"Because I'm terrible at relationships. And because it's a small ship. If we ever broke up…"

"You couldn't hop on the next deep space mission to get away from me." His pride wounded but not fatally injured, Trip smiled. "But who's to say we'd ever break up?" Malcolm smiled back, a real smile that did serious things to Trip's insides.

"No one could ever accuse you of low self-esteem."

"Hell no." Another brief hesitation, and, just as quickly as he'd dropped Trip to the ground, Malcolm was back on top of him, this time with less malicious intent. Lying on the floor of his quarters with Malcolm's tongue in his mouth and his hands rubbing Malcolm's back, Trip could think of a lot of things that should have been going through his mind, not to mention other parts of his body. But the only thing actually there was how exhausted he felt.

"Listen, Mal," with a final, fond kiss, Trip pushed him away. "Don't take this the wrong way, but…"

"You're knackered."

"If that means about to pass out, yes."

"That's all right. For now." Malcolm smiled again, his lips redder than usual. Trip leaned forward to stroke the other man's hair.

"Can I take that to mean you've decided to risk breaking up?"

"It seems like an acceptable risk." Trip stood up as Malcolm climbed back into his sleeping bag.

"You don't have to sleep there, Mal."

"I thought…"

"I'm tired. I'm not a moron." At least not when it came to this.

"I know that." Malcolm got into Trip's bed with as much eagerness as Trip had ever seen him display in a non-battle-related situation. Trip snuggled in beside him and had the best three-hour night's sleep of his life.

As promised, Dr. Leclerc and Commander Petersen arrived to collect them at 0700. As soon as they left for the mess hall, Sophie engaged Malcolm in a discussion about the weapons. Petersen leaned in to Trip as they squeezed past a couple of ensigns and didn't return to his original position. Instead, he looked at Trip, lowered his voice, and said:

"I'm sorry about last night, Trip. It was inexcusable for me to be so rude." He paused, although, Trip thought, if he wanted forgiveness, he was in for a long wait. Petersen eventually continued: "I just really love this ship." He gave Trip a comradely grin. "Hey, do you think I could get a look at the blueprints?"

"Why?" Petersen shrugged.

"To see what I'm missing?" Trip's mother had been a great believer in intuition. She had been able to tell him, after half an hour's polite conversation, exactly why each of the girls he'd brought home was completely unsuitable for him. Trip didn't need that much intuition to know that this guy was up to something. "It's just so fascinating. Please? Just one quick look. What harm could it do?"

"OK." Trip agreed, since no one had ever been court-martialed on intuition. But he'd be damned if Petersen was going to get any time alone on this ship.

"I don't trust him, Captain." When the captain joined them in the mess hall, Trip made the hasty decision to abandon his fried eggs and the conversation about old Academy professors, and asked to speak to the captain alone.

"Well, that is a shock." Jon smirked.

"Are you being sarcastic?" With the captain, it was always best to ask.

"Come on, Trip. He wanted your job and he used to be married to Malcolm. I'd be more surprised if you liked him."

"I—how do you know about him and Malcolm?"

"Malcolm told me. Right after they came on board." Trip shook his head.

"Well, that's got nothing to do with it. There's something funny about that guy." Jon looked across the mess hall.

"Yeah, there is," was his verdict. "Why did he waste five years on Malcolm if he could attract a woman like that?" Trip scowled, in no small part due to the implication that Sophie Leclerc had anything on Malcolm.

"I'm serious, Jon. I've got a really bad feeling about him." The captain sighed.

"Keep an eye on him, then. But I don't know what you expect him to do in three days."

"She sure is a beauty," Petersen all but swooned over the 'Enterprise' blueprints. "Talk about design. Don't you think?" He glanced over his shoulder at Trip, who was watching him like a Suliban prison guard, only less friendly.

"Sure."

"And that warp drive," Petersen turned away from the blueprints and looked at another schematic. "Wouldn't mind getting my hands on that on a regular basis."

"I thought Dr. Leclerc was a world authority on the warp drive."

"Sure, but we don't have them lying around the house." Before Trip could think of a snappy rejoinder, the comm trilled and Malcolm's voice said:

"Commander Tucker? If you've got a spare moment, I could use you in the armoury." Trip looked at Petersen, who hadn't lifted his eyes from the plans.

"On my way, Lieutenant." As he left, he stopped at Hess's side.

"Don't let him out of your sight. Watch out for anything suspicious." Hess glanced between Petersen and her commanding officer.

"Like what?"

"I don't know." Trip had to admit, rather lamely. "Suspicious activity. I'll be right back."

When he got to the armoury, Malcolm was looking at a console with an ensign. Trip's heartrate increased exponentially when Malcolm looked up at him, smiled, and sent the ensign off with a PADD.

"I told you. Always hanging around me." He whispered, once the ensign was out of earshot. There was no one in the immediate vicinity, which Trip was very glad of, since he didn't have anything handy to hold in front of his, suddenly embarrassing, crotch. A problem which only worsened when Malcolm lowered his voice even more and murmured:

"When do you get off?" In about five minutes in the nearest washroom, if he made it that far. For a man who had been convincingly distant for the last year and a half, Trip thought, Malcolm sure could turn around fast.

"1700." Trip finally squeaked.

"I'll met you at 1830. Your quarters." Malcolm glanced down, then back up, into Trip's eyes. "Take a nap in the meantime." Trip laughed.

"Will do, darlin'. But you called me here for that?" Still grinning wolfishly, Malcolm furrowed his brows.

"What?"

"Not that I'm complainin', darlin', but you never struck me as the type to mix business and pleasure."

"I don't." He did, in fact, seem affronted by the very idea. "You're the one who showed up here."

"Mal, you asked me to come. You called me." Malcolm drew himself, the smile disappearing.

"I most certainly did not."

"Shit."

"What's going on?"

"I don't know. I've gotta go." Still he, couldn't resist. "See you tonight?"

"1830," Malcolm repeated, to his relief.

He practically ran to engineering, only to find Petersen still looking at the blueprints. Hess was nowhere to be seen.

"What happened to—"

"Captain called her to the bridge." Petersen barely glanced up. Trip didn't believe a word of it. But, since he was also very aware of what the captain would say if Trip told him Petersen had somehow impersonated Malcolm on the comm, he didn't do anything. "How's our boy?"

"What?"

"Malcolm. Everything OK down there?"

"Fine." Trip had the distinct feeling he was missing something, possibly something vital. "Are you finished with these?" He picked up the blueprints.

"Yes, thanks." Petersen smiled. "They were very informative."

For the rest of the day, Trip stuck to Petersen like a bluebottle on flypaper. He only let him go at 1800, when he and Dr. Leclerc were scheduled to dine with the Captain. Who hadn't, incidentally, called Hess, and had apparently been rather flummoxed by her sudden appearance on the bridge.

Back in his quarters, Trip hurriedly stuffed a pile of random junk into his closet, shoved another pile under the bed, and lit a few emergency candles for ambience. He changed into a pair of tight jeans (but not tight enough to put a crimp in the evening's planned activities) and unfastened his shirt a little (but not enough to look like a gigolo.) He put some jazz on the sound system and, by the time the doorbell rang, he was sitting on his bed, doing a passable impression of someone calm.

"Come in," he called, as sultry as possible. Which wasn't very, because he was too excited.

After a pause, the bell rang again, and Trip got up. Lowering his voice a good half an octave, he draped himself against the doorframe and repeated:

"I said, come in," with the emphasis on the third word. An emphasis which, fortunately, T'Pol didn't seem to notice. "I'm afraid I didn't hear you, Commander."

"Sub-commander." Trip cleared his throat. "What can I do for you?" She raised an eyebrow at the candles, the music and the freshly made, turned down bed.

"You were expecting someone else." Trip toyed, briefly, with the idea of saying, "No, it's all for you, baby," but abandoned it in favour of:

"Yeah, kind of."

"I will not lecture you on the potential dangers of being sexually involved with a subordinate."

"That's real good of you." Trip sat down, fastening buttons as he went.

"That is," T'Pol continued, "Presuming your expected guest is not Captain Archer."

"That a joke, T'Pol?"

"I never make jokes, Commander."

"Right. So what do you want?" T'Pol glanced around as if, Trip thought, the place was crawling with insects or spies, then said:

"I have…certain concerns about our guests."

"Ha!" Trip couldn't resist a cry of triumph. "I knew there was something fishy about that son-of-a-bitch. What did you find out about him?"

"I have no information on Commander Petersen beyond what Captain Archer provided me with."

"Well, then…"

"It is Dr. Leclerc that has…" She hesitated. "An elevated level of fishiness." Trip frowned.

"What do you mean?" She's seemed the more normal of the two. Hell, Trip thought, she was French.

"It is not usual for humans to give lectures on matters relating to space travel in front of the High Command."

"Wonder why that is."

"The Vulcans are far more qualified…" T'Pol trailed off. "You are being sarcastic." Trip smiled tightly.

"I'm never sarcastic, Sub-commander."

"In any case," T'Pol continued, "Dr. Leclerc's claim aroused my suspicions. I researched her both in the Starfleet records and in the database of the High Command."

"What, she's not a real warp expert after all? I knew it. It'd take a layman to notice something like that door screw."

"On the contrary, Commander. Dr. Leclerc is a renowned authority on the warp drive and is widely considered to be a scientific genius." If Trip hadn't known better, and if T'Pol hadn't constantly reminded him that Vulcans never expressed emotion, he'd have thought she was enjoying herself. "In fact, Dr. Leclerc did lecture the High Command on that very subject many years ago."

"A human lecturing Vulcans."

"No, Commander. A Vulcan. Dr. Leclerc is in fact a Vulcan engineer named T'Rion."

It took a moment for this to sink in. It wasn't that Trip didn't believe her. If T'Pol said it, you knew for a fact it was as damn near one hundred percent certain as anything could get. He just couldn't picture his new lover's ex-husband's wife as a Vulcan.

"What about her pointy ears?" Or lack thereof.

"I assume they were surgically altered soon after or immediately prior to her move to Earth."

"Why?" From what Trip could see, the Vulcans were patriotic bastards. More patriotic even than him, who had the stars and stripes on half his off-duty underwear and the Confederate flag on the other half.

"It is my belief T'Rion had no wish to be identified as a Vulcan."

"Because of prejudice, you mean?" Trip couldn't deny it existed.

"That, and because, on Vulcan, she is a wanted criminal."

Trip listened, fascinated, as T'Pol told him about a small sect of Vulcans, shunned by mainstream society, who disapproved of their work with Earth and thought their planet should be establishing a more militaristic presence in the galaxy.

"They claim their ideas are supported by the writings of Sarak, but…"

"The devil can quote scripture."

"Indeed." T'Pol nodded. "Most of the leaders were imprisoned, but there are still adherents. T'Rion was one of the group's most vocal advocates, until her disappearance."

"Shit. No wonder Petersen wanted to look at the blueprints."

"It is logical to assume that T'Rion is returning to Vulcan in order to continue her illegal activities. Perhaps to provide her allies with warp capability."

"Which would be bad."

"Very." The doorbell rang again, and Trip remembered his date. He went to the door but before he could send Malcolm any kind of signal, he came inside, brandishing a bottle of wine and saying:

"Sorry I'm late, but I figured we've been waiting eighteen months, what can another five minutes matter?" He'd barely finished when he noticed T'Pol and, without missing a beat, continued: "But I see you've got a visitor, so we'll just have to play poker some other time. Good night, Commander." He turned around and headed back towards the door.

"If you would please remain, Lieutenant." A slight colouring that may have been repressed embarrassment, or perhaps just poor lighting, appeared on T'Pol's cheeks. "We are discussing a matter that concerns you both as head of security and as Commander Petersen's former partner."

"What—"

"Never tell the captain anything," Trip advised, as Malcolm joined him on the bed.

***

"We have to stop her," was Malcolm's, not unexpected, response to T'Pol's story.

"Medical tests will confirm she is indeed T'Rion. But we have no proof as to her intentions once she reaches Vulcan."

"But it's obvious what she's up to," Trip put in. Malcolm shook his head.

"We need evidence, love." The endearment was casual, almost unconscious. The slight flicker of T'Pol's eyebrow indicated she had noticed. The silly grin on Trip's face, he was sure, made it clear he had noticed, but Malcolm was preoccupied with other things. "If T'Rion's an experienced undercover operative—"

"A terrorist," T'Pol corrected.

"Either way, she'll never crack. But Alan might."

"I have no logical reason to believe Commander Petersen is fully aware of T'Rion's activities."

"He is." Trip answered, earning a surprised glance from the other two.

"How do you know?" Trip shrugged.

"Call it a gut feeling." As in, that guy made his gut heave every time he saw him. T'Pol, once again, looked skeptical, but Malcolm seemed to accept it.

"Then all we've got to do is get him to admit it." From the devious gleam in Malcolm's eye, Trip had an idea, but he still asked:

"How will we do that?" Malcolm grinned, in his element.

"Entrapment." For his sake, Trip hoped Malcolm would get to shoot someone in the next few hours. Preferably Alan Petersen.

"I'm all set in here." From a crewman's cabin down the hall, Trip and T'Pol watched Malcolm give the thumbs up to one of the hidden cameras in his quarters. It had taken less than an hour to equip Malcolm's quarters with half a dozen cameras and another four audio recording devices. Although it was still early in their relationship, Trip wondered if Malcolm might be persuaded to keep a camera or two, at least for a while. Thing like that could be kind of fun.

***

"The captain has escorted T'Rion to his ready room. Commander Petersen should be on his way," T'Pol replied. When they'd explained the plan to Archer, he, enthusiastic as always, had asked what he could do. He'd become even more enthusiastic when T'Pol had requested he distract the beautiful Vulcan terrorist for as long as it took Malcolm to get a confession out of her husband.

"Good luck, Mal." Malcolm adjusted his hidden earpiece and nodded at Trip. Trip then watched him cross the room to wait on the bed. Trip couldn't help but notice he was wearing leather pants and a silk shirt, a much sexier outfit than he'd worn to Trip's cabin.

"Perhaps it would be best if you returned to Engineering, Commander," T'Pol suggested. "I can manage things here."

Trip glanced up at her.

"I'm fine, T'Pol." She looked at him evenly.

"My long experience with humans leads me to the conclusion that, as Lieutenant Reed's mate, you will likely experience negative emotions while watching him attempt to coerce information from another man. Particularly one with whom he has a prior relationship." Trip looked at the screens. Since they were "out" to T'Pol anyway, he didn't bother denying the relationship. Instead, he snapped:

"I've seen Malcolm get beat up by the Suliban, pinned to the hull of the ship and nearly hanged. I think I can handle him flirting with another guy."

"I do not doubt that, Commander. However, Lieutenant Reed is a most dedicated officer and he will likely do whatever it takes to ensure the success of the mission…"

"Since when are you so concerned about my feelings, anyway?" T'Pol blinked.

"I simply do not wish you to do anything that may jeopardize the mission."

"Well, don't worry. Malcolm can fuck the guy right there in front of us if he wants to. I can control myself."

"As you wish." Of course, that ensured that Trip couldn't have left even if he'd wanted to, an option Trip regretted losing as he watched Malcolm go to greet his ex-husband.

"Hi. Is Sophie with you?" Trip hadn't heard Malcolm use that particular tone of voice before, but Petersen didn't seem overly surprised.

"Archer dragged her off to look at toy ships or something." Malcolm laughed.

"Good." Trip and T'Pol watched Petersen step into Malcolm's quarters and look around.

"What's all this?" Trip had lent Malcolm his emergency candles for authenticity. The jazz had proved impractical for the recording.

"We haven't had any time alone since you got here." Malcolm sat on the bed, crossing his legs. Petersen sat next to him, practically drooling already. Trip could hardly blame him. He was having a similar reaction and he wasn't even in the same room.

"You're the one who doesn't go anywhere without Inbred Jed."

"You know what it's like in space, Alan. He's a diversion, that's all." Trip saw T'Pol glance at him, but he kept his eyes resolutely on the screen.

"A diversion that you divorced me for." Malcolm's smile wavered, but only briefly.

"We got divorced because I was tired of always arguing with you."

"And you just happened to realize that two days after you met Mr. Wonderful?" Trip had always thought of himself as an easygoing, well-liked kind of guy. Hearing the hatred in Petersen's voice was tough. Even though the feeling was completely mutual.

Malcolm reached over to put a hand on Petersen's thigh.

"What happened between us has nothing to do with Trip. Although," Malcolm's voice went down and his eyebrow went up. "I must admit, I do sometimes find myself comparing the two of you. I needn't tell you who comes out…on top." Trip could feel rivers of sweat running down his back. If they ever did succeed in having sex, Trip decided, he'd have to ask Malcolm to cool it down a bit. Otherwise, Trip would be finished, showered, and halfway through a shift before Malcolm got his shirt undone.

From the looks of him, Petersen wasn't faring much better. He shifted on the bed. After a moment, Malcolm looked away and, in a slightly less licentious tone, continued:

"You haven't done too badly yourself, though. Where'd you ever meet a woman like that?"

"She…she came to do some research on the 'Poseidon' when I was there.'"

"She must be a bloody genius if the Vulcans want to hear from her. Has she been there before?" It was so casual that, for a moment, even Trip didn't notice it.

"No, it's her first time." Wrong answer. Trip swore to himself, but Malcolm wasn't deterred.

"You know, it's the strangest thing, but I feel like I've seen her somewhere before."

"You probably have. She used to teach at the Academy."

"Anyway, lucky you for landing that one." Malcolm changed the subject. "Shame you didn't end up here, though."

"I could do a way better job that than moron," Petersen agreed.

"I know," Malcolm replied, a little too readily for Trip's liking. "It's not all that exciting, though. The Vulcans are always watching us. Making sure we don't have too much fun."

"Yeah, that first officer looks like a real tight-ass." Trip turned to look pointedly at T'Pol, who ignored him.

"The thing is, the Vulcans could be a brilliant military society if they had the guts. What a waste." This was the opening. Trip held his breath, more transfixed by this scene than anything they'd ever shown on movie night. He tensed as he saw a flicker of doubt cross Petersen's face. Then, glancing over his shoulder, Petersen leaned forward and, in a conspiratorial whisper just loud enough to be picked up by the equipment, murmured:

"So Mal, I know we're a baguette or two short, but want to re-enact that weekend in Paris?"

"Shit!" Trip yelled, partly out of frustration and partly because it gave him an excuse to take his eyes off the kiss in which Malcolm was participating more than enthusiastically.

"Commander Tucker, please." T'Pol knitted her eyebrows at him.

"This whole thing was a bad idea." He confirmed the feeling by glancing, very briefly, at the screen, where Malcolm and Petersen were going at it like a couple of teenagers in the back row of a movie theatre.

"Lieutenant Reed is a competent officer. He will find a way to get the answers we want."

"Right. Petersen probably shouts out 'My wife's bringing warp technology to a group of Vulcan terrorists' every time he shoots his load."

"May I remind you, Commander, you assured me you could control yourself."

"That was back when I thought there might be some reason for Mal to prostitute himself like this." T'Pol looked at him impassively.

"I think it would be in the best interests of the mission if you returned to Engineering." That wasn't what Trip wanted. If nothing else, he knew imagining what might be going on would be a thousand times worse than actually seeing it.

"OK, I'm sorry."

"Commander, it was not a suggestion. It was an order." On the screen, Malcolm broke away and started licking Petersen's ear.

"Mmm, Alan."

"Commander Tucker." T'Pol's voice took on a warning tone. The hell with her, Trip decded. He could spend the next three and a half years confined to his quarters for all he cared. At least he'd get regular security visits from Malcolm.

Malcolm, who was currently sucking on his ex-husband's earlobe and murmuring:

"What would your wife say?" It wasn't a rhetorical question, at least not when T'Rion stepped in and answered it.

"Probably something like, 'It's a trap, dear.'"

"Sophie!" Petersen stood up, staring at his wife, who was pointing a phase pistol directly at Malcolm.

"We gotta get security in there." In a second, Trip had gone from being consumed with jealousy and frustration to being consumed with fear for Malcolm's life. Maybe, he thought absently, there was something in that Vulcan repression after all. He'd be lucky if he didn't end the evening with a massive stroke.

"There are arms stored beneath the bed."

"And how's he going to reach them with her pointing that thing at him?"

"I mean, Alan," T'Rion continued, looking around the quarters. "He's not interested in you, he wants to know what you can tell him about me. A dozen of his crewmates are probably watching this little spectacle." Malcolm shook his head.

"Look, Sophie, I'm sorry, but I didn't want to talk about you at all."

"Then perhaps I should just shoot you out of jealousy."

"No!" For once, Petersen and Trip had identical reactions. Trip didn't see how Petersen continued with his. Ignoring all protests from T'Pol, he rushed out the door and down the hallway to Malcolm's quarters.

Malcolm had given Trip and T'Pol the code for his door, in case of such unforeseen circumstances. Trip had decided not to mention that, as chief engineer, he knew all the door codes anyway and had paid particular attention to Malcolm's. That was more of a third-date revelation. When he opened the door, T'Rion turned for just a fraction of a second to look at him. It was all the opportunity Malcolm needed. T'Rion, noticing the pistol now in Malcolm's hand, turned back and fired at Trip, but it was too late. Her shot grazed Trip's leg, while Malcolm's hit her directly in the back.

"Are you all right?" Immediately, Malcolm was beside him. Trip smiled.

"Fine." Petersen, however, was less fine. "Jesus." He stared at his wife's prone body. Only stunned, since Trip had been unable to convince Malcolm to use the 'kill' setting. "Was she serious, Malcolm?"

"Sorry, Alan." Malcolm turned the pistol on his ex-husband. It was the most beautiful scene Trip had ever witnessed. "But I'm going to have to ask you a few questions."

"I'm really sorry." Leaning over the biobed, Archer apologized for the seventh or eighth time. "I went to get my origami 'Enterprise' and when I came back she was gone."

"Forget about it, Captain."

"There. All fixed." Phlox smiled and removed his hand from Trip's leg.

"You sure he's going to be OK?" Archer frowned.

"Certainly, Captain. It was a very minor injury." Archer looked uncertain.

"Really, Captain. I'm fine." Trip sat up.

"If you're sure…"

"I am."

"In that case, Trip, you're confined to quarters."

"What?"

"You disobeyed two direct orders from T'Pol. I don't have any choice."

"Of course you have a goddamn choice…" "Let's go."

***

"I think 72 hours should be enough." Archer had the nerve to smirk as Trip collapsed on his bed. "After all, you've never given me any trouble in that regard."

"Thanks a lot." Archer's smirk became even more pronounced.

"I'll send Malcolm down to put a lock on your door."

About ten minutes after the captain left, Trip heard someone come in. He looked up to see Malcolm, balancing two plates and a bottle of wine.

"Hi."

"Hi." Trip smiled.

"I know it's not quite the abandoned mess hall, but you're not exactly getting out these days."

"It's OK." Suddenly, it was. "Better for the post-date activities." As much as he enjoyed spending platonic time with Malcolm, he was really ready to have some sex.

"That it is." Trip spread out the plates (lasagna and a Pinot Noir 2098) while Malcolm fussed with the door.

"There. Now no one can get in or out of here except me." Now that, Trip thought, as Malcolm reached up to press their lips together, was something he found it very easy not to care about.