It Takes Two to Tangle: The Aftermath

Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount.  No infringement intended. 

Summary: When you've things to think about, sometimes it pays to find somewhere quiet.  And there again, sometimes it doesn't...

Author's Note:  Many thanks as always to Distracted for being a great beta reader.

Note to reader: This story is a sequel to It Takes Two to Tangle, posted in The Bridge.

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Trip hunkered down behind the cases with a sigh.  He needed time and space to think. The mess hall was too crowded, the observation lounges not private enough, and somehow his cabin wasn't giving him the right opportunity.  For one thing, there was a bunk in it.  Any time he got around to thinking about T'Pol, his gaze tended to stray to the bed, even if he wasn't in it.  His imagination usually took over from there.  After that any objectivity he might have had usually went out the window, and in short order all he was left with was the urgent need to take a shower and clean himself up.

At least Cargo Bay 2 didn't have a bunk in it.  Insofar as that went, he was safe.

Not that 'objective thinking' was likely to do him much good.  Objective or not, his thoughts were going round and round on the same fruitless treadmill.  She's a Vulcan.  She wouldn't touch you with somebody else's ten foot pole. She wouldn't even think about a Human that way.  But I can't stop thinking about her.  I can't stop dreaming about her.  I can't stop imagining....  Okay.  Even without a bunk in the room.  Even on these packing cases... her cat suit coming off, spilling from her body on to the floor... and her... her...and her....O God... her...

"Crewman?"  Malcolm's voice on the other side of the stacked cases slammed the brakes on the treadmill in mid-stride; his heart must have been hammering so hard he hadn't heard the bay doors opening.  The visuals that were about to become strictly adult viewing clicked off in Trip's mind with a sound that he was surprised wasn't actually audible, and he shrank into his hiding place.  Bad enough Malcolm finding him here at all, without finding him in this condition.  He'd never hear the end of it.

No-one replied.  Reed called again, more sharply, and then when there was still no answer the Brit's voice muttered a phrase that was probably in common usage in the lower decks of the Royal Navy, then, "Bloody practical jokes!"

The doors hissed again, open and closed.  "It wasn't a practical joke."  The click of the locking mechanism sounded.  "I've been wanting to do this ever since we started that dancing.  And I think you want it as well, so just lie back and think of England!"

"Hoshiiiiiii-mf!"

Ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip

*gasp*

Ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip

*rustling sounds and more gasping*

"Permission to come on board, sir," Hoshi's voice purred.

"Permission granted," Malcolm growled low in his throat. "As many times as I can manage."

"....oh, yes......yes!"

*packing cases shift as two bodies crash into them*

"OH!  YESSSS!!!"

*thump* *thump* *thump* *thump*

*Loud vocal sound effects of two officers fraternising their asses off in a manner extremely contradictory to every Starfleet rule in the personnel manual.*

Too mortified to move, Trip curled up even tighter into his refuge.  It wasn't even erotic.  It was just downright embarrassing.  At some point tomorrow he was going to have to walk on to the bridge and look these two people in the face.  To judge by the noises, whatever Malcolm was thinking of right now, it sure as hell wasn't England.  And whatever angle Hoshi's legs were at, this time it definitely wasn't because she was practising a complicated dance move.  He covered his ears with his hands in a desperate attempt to block out the crescendo, and had to bite his lip to stop himself from bursting loudly into song.  Hell, if they ever found out he'd been in here none of them would ever be able to look each other in the face, and the cap'n would think he had a row of pink peonies on the bridge tomorrow morning.

The packing cases were starting to shift with the impacts.  Tucker had to take one hand away to bear back on the other side of the nearest before the whole lot fell on top of him and the game was well and truly up.  O God, let them not notice afterwards.  Whenever afterwards was going to be.  For a guy who had just had one of what must be his fantasies sprung on him, Malcolm was just showing off that famous Brit self control, the bastard.  Hell, the maroon piping on those shoulders would sure be covering up a few pieces of evidence tomorrow.  There must be some excuse for clapping him hard on them ... really and truly extra hard ... maybe there would be something about the latest weapons test results that would call for a couple of astoundingly enthusiastic whacks.  If it took him all night, he'd think of something.

... Hell, how long had Hoshi been bottling this up?  Was that three now, or four?  Trip's free hand twisted in his hair as he stifled a moan.  Just how mean did the universe get, making a man in his condition listen to this?  Malcolm, if you don't put me out of my misery soon, so help me I'll be congratulatin' you so hard I'll break both your collar bones.  And Phlox can make what he likes of it.

*Sound effects of an armoury officer's maximum yield torpedo explosion finally taking place on the other side of the packing cases*

Oh, there is a God in heaven after all. 

...Oh no.  No.  Don't get all kissy.  No lovey-dovey stuff.  I can just about cope with listening to ya goin' at it like bunny rabbits for hours, but no whisperin' in each other's ears.  Just remember the cargo floor's real hard and uncomfortable.  Go practice your dance moves in the mess hall or somethin'.  Tell the cap'n you want to make ballroom dancin' compulsory for all ranks.  Anythin', just let me get out of here.

And to his indescribable relief, whether it was because the floor was indeed hard and uncomfortable, or because they'd thought of a new dance move that they wanted to try out, or even because they were now in a condition where a discreet shower was virtually mandatory if they wanted to walk past T'Pol without having her eyebrows shoot off the top of her forehead, the two of them cut the whispering mercifully short.  Clothes went back on, zippers went back up.  There was a short pause that could have been accounted for by hands tidying rumpled hair and restoring order to a disarranged ponytail, and then the bay lock clicked. The double hiss of the door opening and closing again was the sweetest music Trip had ever heard.

He emerged from his hiding place like he'd been shot out of a torpedo tube.  Thirty seconds should be enough to let them get clear.  He stood beside the door, counting them off, his hand hovering over the door lock ready to slam down on it in case either of them had forgotten something and came back for it.  The few seconds it would take for Malcolm to key in the security override would give him time to hide again.  Feverishly he checked out the scene of the crime.  Nothing that he could see, just a few packing cases not stacked as neatly as they had been.  Surely even Malcolm wouldn't think that was worth coming back to tidy up.  Not till his knees had recovered, anyway...

Twenty eight, twenty nine, thirty.  He took a deep breath and pressed the door control. Anyone seeing him peer fearfully out would have thought he was expecting to encounter sniper fire in the corridor, but sniper fire would have been a blessing in comparison to seeing two blue-suited figures still waiting for the turbo-lift.

The corridor was deserted.  He plunged out and fled for the nearest access hatch.  He wasn't even going to call the lift.  He was going to climb the ladders all the way up to Engineering and then spend the next six hours up to his ears in matrix calculations, because he sure as hell wasn't going to get any sleep.  And in between time he was going to have to work out a way to look Malcolm in the eye tomorrow, at least at some point after handing him that extremely emphatic congratulation on the improvement in the weapons test results.

The lucky bastard.

The End