The BLTS Archive - Worthless
#3: Uniformity
by miera (mierac72@yahoo.com)

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Archive: Ask first

Date: January 8, 2003

Feedback: We (me and the bunnies) appreciate your support.

Author's Notes: This story did not start out life as a post–2.13
"Dawn" fic, but the episode fit in so well I tweaked the story to
include it. Actually it started because of a thought I had after 2.11
"Precious Cargo" about how many times Trip has ended up out of uniform
(erm, not that I'm complaining!). This is in line with "Blankets" and
is a sequel, of a sort, to "Frozen, Baked and Marinated."

Spoilers: 2.13 "Dawn"

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Trip entered the Mess Hall, a bounce in his step. It was his first day
back on active duty, and more importantly the first day he'd felt
normal again after nearly sweating to death on an alien moon. The
after-effects of the dehydration and heat exhaustion had hung on for a
few days, but now he was back, and he had a breakfast date with Hoshi
and Travis.

He collected his food and spotted the two Ensigns at a table. He
smiled and sat down. "G'morning."

"Good morning, sir. How're you feeling?"

"Human again, finally. Slept like a rock last night," he told Travis,
digging into his bacon. He caught the look on Hoshi's face and
chuckled. "Go ahead, Hoshi. I know you're dying to ask."

"How did you pick up those words so fast?" Hoshi blurted. Trip got the
feeling she'd been restraining herself for days, wanting to grill him
on his encounter with the Arkonian pilot.

They talked through most of breakfast, Trip answering Hoshi's eager
questions. When he was done eating, he moved to go, but Travis stopped
him.

"Sir? We, well, we got you something," he exchanged a look with Hoshi.
"Sort of a welcome home present."

Trip felt the hair on the back of his neck go up. The entire rest of
the Mess Hall, which was full to capacity with other people preparing
for the morning shift, had gone silent and they were all watching.
What were Hoshi and Travis up to?

Hoshi pulled a slim white box out from under the table and handed it
to him. There was nothing else for him to do, so he opened it. As soon
as he looked inside, his gaze went to the conspirators, who were
trying valiantly to restrain their giggling.

Trip hooked one finger into the regulation blue undershirt and held it
up. It was in his size. The entire room burst out laughing. He made a
face at Hoshi and Travis.

"We just thought you might need some extras, at the rate you're going
through your clothes," Hoshi explained between fits of laughter.

Trip nodded sourly. He glanced around the room, at the amused crew,
made them a little bow, and headed off to start his shift. Great way
to start his first day back, as the laughingstock of Enterprise.

Again.

---

Trip entered his quarters at the end of the day and dumped the
things he was carrying onto the bed with more force than was really
necessary.

He glared at the pile, which remained unaffected.

After Hoshi and Travis' little surprise over breakfast, he had been
extremely wary on the way to Engineering. However, he got there and
nothing happened. Hess gave him a brief update, and he was back with
his engines, where he belonged, all morning. By lunch he was even
starting to forgive Hoshi and Travis. After all, it had been kind of
funny.

That all changed after the lunch break. Hess, with the rest of the
shift around her, presented him with a large box, "a welcome home
present." Knowing that this couldn't be going anywhere that would be
good, he opened the box to find a pair of Starfleet boots in his size.

Apparently the Chief Engineer's wrath wasn't enough of a deterrent for
his team. Maybe he had threatened to charge people with
insubordination too often without following through. After growling
out a less-than-sincere thank you, they all just laughed and went back
to work. He had buried himself in a Jeffries tube all afternoon in
order to avoid any other presents. Unfortunately, when he got back to
his office, a small box was waiting on his desk, with a note from Dr.
Phlox. Inside were a pair of socks.

He had a strong suspicion what was going to happen at dinner. He
managed to get through the main courses and started to think maybe he
was free and clear, until the pecan pie was delivered sitting on top
of yet another white box.

"Not you too, Cap'n," he had protested. The complaint died on his lips
as he saw the look on Jonathan Archer's face. Trip realized that the
Captain was probably behind the whole damned thing. That would explain
the organization among the entire crew, not to mention his own staff's
lack of fear. Resigned, he opened the box, and then gave his old
friend a reproachful look. Jon had merely laughed.

Trip sat down on the bed, looking at the extra uniform in his size,
with the red piping that matched his rank, the extra boots, extra
socks and extra underwear. Well, he thought bitterly, at least
everyone *else* got to have a good laugh at his expense. He nearly
died, died trying to do the honorable thing, even, when he could've
just left, and his so-called friends seemed to think the occasion was
an excuse to make a fool of him.

His stomach hurt slightly. Probably from the stress and eating that
big meal. He really should never have let it out that he liked pecan
pie so much. Yeah, he liked it, but he was pretty equal opportunity
when it came to dessert. Like any of *them* cared. Good ol'Southern
boy Trip Tucker, all he ever eats is catfish and pie. . .

"I'm a very complex person," he muttered to the room, fully aware that
he was sulking and not really caring.

The door chimed. Great, now what? "Come in."

Malcolm Reed entered his quarters, datapadd in his hand. "Good
evening, Commander. How are you feeling?"

Trip held up his hands, "Look, Malcolm, whatever is on that padd, I
don't want to hear it."

Malcolm stopped, confused. "Sir?"

"I get the joke, alright?" He gestured to the pile of clothes on the
bed. "Trip can't stay in his uniform, ha ha, very funny. There's no
need to rub it in any more. So whatever that is, directions on making
my own clothes, whatever, forget it."

Malcolm looked at him, bewildered. "Commander, I have no idea what
you're talking about."

Trip paused. "You're not here to give me some gag gift to complete my
ensemble?" He waved his hand at the pile of clothes.

Understanding dawned and Malcolm's face twitched in amusement. "No."

Trip sat silent for a moment, embarrassed. "Oh."

"Personally, I'd rather see you out of uniform more frequently."

Malcolm paused, only for a fraction of a second, but it was enough for
Trip's heart to start racing. Did Malcolm. . . was he. . . ? A blush
began to creep up towards Trip's sunburned cheeks.

Malcolm's lips quirked into a smile. "I spoke to the Quartermaster not
long ago and he told me there is only one other person who has
destroyed more uniforms than I have."

He realized what Malcolm actually meant and his body began to relax.
Somewhat unhappily. Trip nodded. "Me." *Damn you.*

Malcolm chuckled. "That's an honor I'd rather do without." Trip shot
him an annoyed look, and Malcolm handed him the padd. "This is a
letter I received the other day from Commander Vallejo at Starfleet
Headquarters. She said they are running a series of experiments to
adapt the phase cannons, given the results of our little unplanned
experiment with overloading the relays when we ran into that hostile
ship. She'd like your input if you can spare the time."

Trip looked at the letter. "Thanks. I'll try to write her back soon."

The armory officer waited for a beat, and then observed as neutrally
as possible, "I do have to say, I believe you're well in the lead
again."

Trip saw Malcolm trying not to smile and he couldn't help it. His dark
mood broke and he laughed a bit himself. "I don't know. I'm starting
to repeat myself. This is the second time I've nearly gotten my ass
cooked, second time I got stranded on an alien planet. With an alien.
I don't wanna get boring."

"Heaven forbid," Malcolm said, grinning.

"You'll have your work cut out for you, tryin' to catch up," Trip
joked.

"I'm sure you'll understand if I don't make it a priority," Malcolm
observed wryly.

"Well, just keep in mind I have no intention of becoming Disaster Guy
around here. I prefer being part of a team."

It was Malcolm's turn to blush. *Serves you right,* Trip thought.

Malcolm cleared his throat. "I wouldn't worry. I'm sure I'll be shot
or beaten up, or impaled, or arrested again sometime soon." He rolled
his eyes.

"Maybe you'll find a whole new way to put yourself in mortal danger.
Like I said, we don't want to bore people, right?"

"Certainly not," Malcolm grinned, and headed for the door. He paused
just before he opened it and turned back. Trip was looking at the
datapadd.

"Trip?"

He looked up. Malcolm was staring at him.

"I'm glad you're back safe."

Malcolm's voice was low and gentle, very unlike his usual clipped,
precise tone. Something in it seemed to sink right into Trip's spine.
His mouth went dry and he could only nod, his gratitude in his eyes.
The two men looked at each other for a long moment, then Malcolm
turned and opened the door.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight Malcolm."

The door swished closed. Trip looked at the datapadd again, then
tossed it aside. He fell back against his bed, flat on his back. He
let out a very loud, very deep, very frustrated groan.

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The End