A World of Hurt

Author: Elessar/John O.
Rating: PG-13 for mild cursing
Disclaimer: Star Trek, Star Trek: Enterprise, and all affiliated characters, titles and names are registered trademarks of Paramount Pictures, CBS Television and VIACOM International. This work is not intended for distribution for profit or publication. Even if I am better at it than them.

Notes: I realized I hadn’t contributed to the Main Engineering section yet, so I just whipped up this little piece in a few minutes to take a break from YMAM. Hope you like! The lighter side of Commander Tucker’s job aboard the Enterprise! From Season 1.

With a slip, Commander Tucker’s feet sailed higher than his head, bringing him flat on his back in the shower. Water sprayed on his face and chest as he spit and sputtered to keep from choking.

“Ahhh, crap,” he groaned. Standing, he was holding his bruised hip when suddenly, the communications panel started chirping.

“Yeah, Tucker here,” he answered.

<< Commander, this is Rostov, sir. We’re having some problems with the water filtration system. >>

“Don’t tell me… the viscosity’s outta wack?” Trip asked. There was a surprised pause.

<< W—Well yes, sir. How did you know? >>

Tucker nodded, shaking off out a sadistic chuckle.

“Lucky guess. I’ll be down shortly, I’m just getting out of the shower.”

<< Aye, sir. Rostov – out >>

As he rounded the final corner towards Engineering, Tucker was inspecting a nasty bruise on his forearm he hadn’t noticed before. He felt it as he put his uniform on, but just figured it was another parting gift from his shower floor. While partially unbuttoning his sleeve cuff to check it out, he slammed directly into Subcommander T’Pol. In the shock and confusion of the collision, his hands just so happened to be pointed outward, bent at the elbow, coming into direct contact with T’Pol’s breasts.

“Oh, Sub—” was all Trip managed to muster in the .1275 seconds it took for T’Pol to instantly react, shoulder throwing him to the floor. A few seconds passed while Trip lay splayed and stunned on the corridor floor, staring up at a mildly inconvenienced Vulcan Subcommander. Trip blinked, trying to force a syllable through his lips that didn’t involve her mother.

“Ow!” was all he could manage.

“Commander, I apologize… I overreacted.”

“Ya think?!” Trip snapped. “T’Pol… I don’t think I can move…”

“I may have caused you injury. I will alert the Captain,” T’Pol moved to find the nearest com panel.

“No, T-T’Pol, just…. Just help me up, I’ll be fine.”

A few seconds later, T’Pol reentered his field of view – which was precisely the space above his eyes, since his neck seemed to not want to move.

Leaning down, T’Pol scooped one arm under his back, the other simply hovered in mid-air to maintain her own balance until Commander Tucker instinctively took her hand to help stabilize himself. They stood triumphantly, and Tucker straightened his uniform.

“Thanks,” he groaned. He started, releasing her hand suddenly.

“See ya… Subcommander,” he mumbled, as T’Pol strode off.

Trip shook his head. “What a weird day.”

As he limped away, an Ensign from tactical passed him, having apparently witnessed the exchange, he eyed Tucker curiously while passing.

“Oh, crap. There go the rumors.”

“Commander Tucker…” Archer called as he rounded a corner in Engineering.

Tucker’s blonde head withdrew and lifted from within the navigational array’s computer core. But he failed to come out far enough, and upon standing, the back of his head slammed into the core compartment’s edge. Letting out a string of curses, Tucker stood, holding the back of his head with a disgruntled frown as Archer approached. Archer winced by proxy, smiling apologetically.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Trip shook his head. “Just another badge of honor,” he cracked a grin.

“Just havin’ a hell of a day…” Trip complained. “What’s up?” he asked, straightening as he sighed.

“You didn’t hear?” Archer asked as they fell in stride, pacing about Engineering.

“Hear?” Trip asked, somewhat impatiently, still nursing the bruise at the back of his head.

“We came across a derelict Vulcan scout ship. T’Pol’s working on reconstructing the sensor logs but she could use a hand—“

“HEADS UP!” someone shouted across Engineering. In the same instant, the sound of percussion, a blast of coolant, and a hunk of metal flying through the air filled engineering. Archer and Trip’s heads jerked in response to the source of the noise, both of them ducking at the knees. Unfortunately for Commander Tucker, on the steel alloy coolant seal cap’s 6th bounce, it ricocheted off a coolant pipe on the opposite side of engineering, but had enough energy to sail twenty meters and collide with his ankle. The impact dropped the engineer to his butt with a yelp.

“Archer to Sickbay,” the Captain called, pressing a nearby com panel as he kneeled by his friend. “We have an injury in Engineering. Send a medical team ASAP.”

<< Right away, Captain >> Phlox agreed.

“Ah, dammit,” Tucker groaned, allowing his head to fall back against the steel grating beneath him.

“Yes,” Phlox said to himself, running the tricorder of Tucker’s foot as he laid on the biobed. “That little seal did quite a number on you,” he said, half-grinning to Tucker’s slouched, half-reclined form as he leaned on his palms. Phlox flipped shut his tricorder, walking past the Captain.

“Your fibula is cracked, and the ATFL is slightly torn,” the doctor reported. Trip hung his head and rubbed his eyes.

“I’ll have to operate,” Phlox announced.

Trip sighed, slightly thankful for dodging duty with T’Pol. “How long will I be out?” Trip asked.

“Actually,” Phlox said, grinning widely as he returned with a laser scalpel. “I can do it right now!”

“Dammit,” Trip sighed.

“You will feel a slight pinch…” Phlox warned nonchalantly.

“AHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Later that evening, Tucker limped back to his quarters, a mess of bruises, contusions and head trauma – just begging to find his bed before a runaway kitchen sink KO’d him flat in the hallway. When he spotted the Subcommander rounding the same bend as he in the opposite direction, he groaned, holding his hip.

“Whatever you do, T’Pol, please don’t hit me,” Trip pleaded, half joking.

Raising a stolid brow, the Subcommander came to a halt in front of Trip’s quarters. She paused in front of him, her eyes shifting downward, sideways, and generally away from him as she folded her hands at her back where he couldn’t see them fidget. After the day he’d had, he was fresh out of subtlety.

“What do you want, T’Pol?” Trip asked weakly.

“After your… recent slew of injuries, I thought you might benefit from a therapeutic Vulcan massage.”

Trip’s brows rose higher than the Tower of London as he blinked, clearing his throat and leaning against the door frame next to his quarters.

“It seemed appropriate,” T’Pol moved to explain herself. “After our… misunderstanding in the corridor.”

“Ahm… Yea-yeah,” he managed. “What’s um… What’s it… um… It’s like medical, it’s a treatment thing right?” He stammered. T’Pol straightened rigidly.

“Yes.”

“That sounds great. Please, after you,” Trip nodded at his quarters. T’Pol keyed his quarters and entered. Sighing into the hallway, Trip muttered:

“What a weird day.”

Before he could enter, however, he saw the same Ensign from Tactical peeking around the edge of a bulkhead down the hallway. He soon disappeared as he was spotted.

“Shit,” Tucker sighed. A grin weaved its way onto his lips as he shrugged. “Oh well,” he chuckled, turning into his quarters.

The End!