LuRe Reverse Big Bang Fic--Starship Engager

[luresoromantic]

It is nearly midnight on a Friday night, but we are still wide awake and alert. We have just finished counting out our combined stashes of money. After four weeks of shovelling snow and throwing papers and the occasional grocery store run for an elderly person who doesn’t want to brave the treacherous streets, we have amassed $239.54. We dump the money onto the Engager bed and take turns rolling around in it as if we are millionaires. It almost feels like we are. Some of the bills stick to our clothes and then fall off onto the floor, along with a few coins that roll under the bed. The atmosphere is one of glee. We throw wads of crinkled, dirty bills into the air and let them rain down over our heads. We say hopeful things like, “Maybe in another month’s time we can afford to hire a mechanic for the Engager.” We clink our soda cans and drink to the pile of money on the bed.

I am wearing my new Star Trek uniform that I have ordered from a catalogue for $18.95 plus $2.95 shipping and handling. The Uniform is grey blue to denote my status as counsellor. My Federation badge glints in the low lamplight. Reid presses the badge on his uniform and says, “Data to Captain Picard. We seem to have come into a strange money cloud off the starboard bow. How shall we proceed?” I press my badge and say, “With caution. Money clouds can often be a disorienting trap. Keep shields up as we enter. I want a full scan run on the cloud--what kind of currency is it made up of, the dimensions and density.”

“Aye, Captain,” Reid says, tapping his badge again.

We chuckle to ourselves and begin collecting the money and returning it to the coffee can. “I can’t believe you hit that one lady in the face,” Reid snickers as he dumps a handful of quarters into the can. “Sounds like it served her right.”

“Yeah, I guess it did,” I laugh. “But I felt so bad!” I chuckle again, remembering the way her glasses had been knocked crooked on her face.

“You sure you didn’t do that on purpose?” Reid teases.

“No!” I say as I playfully tousle his hair. I sit back quickly, my hand and arm on fire. I’ve never touched Reid intentionally before-not like this-not with friendly affection. It came out of nowhere, my playful gesture. Have I offended him? I look away, pretending to absorb myself in the collection of the money. I can feel Reid’s eyes upon me. He has stopped collecting the money and sits quietly, looking at me for a few moments, then he slowly resumes his task of putting the money into the coffee can that sits between us in the centre of the bed.

“Anyway,” he laughs quietly. “It’s a hilarious story. I wish I could have seen that.”

I nod, my cheeks warming. We push our hands through the wad of bills, and sometimes our fingers touch, and suddenly, I feel Reid’s hand grasping my own underneath the blanket of money. He holds onto my hand, his eyes lowered to the bed. His fingers are warm and soft and burn into my skin with the strange fire of pleasure. I do not move my hand away. I do not breathe. After several moments, Reid slowly begins to lift my hand upwards toward his lips. My body trembles as he leans forward and places his lips onto the back of my hand. I can feel his soft breath on my skin. I can feel the way his lips move with his kiss, the slight pressure of it, like the edge of a bird’s wing fanning over my hand. I suck in my breath and close my eyes, absorbed into the sensation, and then all at once, I am ripping my hand away and shoving hard and fast against Reid’s shoulders. He falls backwards onto the mattress and stays there, unmoving, as I stand up and walk away from the bed, running my hands through my hair, pacing back and forth, my heart clenched and in pain.

“I’m sorry,” I say in an agonised whisper. “I just can’t…..”

Reid straightens up and smoothes the front of his uniform. He clears his throat and then in a voice full of misgiving, he says, “No, Counsellor, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. It was inappropriate of me, but I’m glad we got it straightened out.” He gets up from the bed and shovels the last of the bills into the can. “I hope this incident will not interfere with our friendship,” he says, keeping his eyes fixed to the can.

“It won’t,” I say. My throat burns.

“Good. Then I shall say goodnight. Goodnight, Counsellor.” Reid nods crisply in my direction and then leaves the room. I hear the door opening and closing, and then his footsteps crunching through the packed-down snow along the trail to his house. I stand in the room for a long time, holding the hand that he had kissed to my chest as if I am cradling the body of a deeply wounded, or deeply loved, creature in my arms.

***

Days pass, and then the weekend comes. It’s as if nothing has happened, nothing has changed. Reid exhibits no tension, no awkwardness. He talks to me just as he always has. He wears the uniform. He drinks Coke. Watches TV. I begin to wonder if I have just imagined the occurrence in the Engager, but the hand he had kissed still feels warmer than the rest of my body. I still remember his quiet lips like rain on my skin. I couldn’t have imagined this, but yet there is no acknowledgement of the gesture to confirm otherwise. I am confused and even hurt by the way we are handling the situation, but I am too afraid to say anything. I am too afraid to know what I want or what I feel. I want to apologise for my harsh reaction, but the apology never comes. It continues on like this for many days.

Saturday is the day of our first scheduled rehearsal. We all meet, scripts in hand, at Reid’s place at noon. All of the recruited actors are here except for Noah. There is a sense of anticipation, nervousness, and curiosity among the group as they shuffle into Reid’s living room and seat themselves on the orange couch, the floor, and the naugahyde armchair in the corner. I am on the couch next to Reid, and already I am trembling at his nearness. The script quivers in my hands as I take roll call and then ask everyone to stand up and assume their positions. Trevor Keating (Picard) and Will Jackson (Worf) are wearing uniforms they have bought from the same catalogue where I have purchased mine. Julie Anderson (Dr. Crusher) and Lenny Opfer (Riker) wear black slacks, solid-coloured shirts, and badges that I have cut out from cardboard and spray-painted silver and gold. Will has the most elaborate costume. Across his chest he wears a wide silver band made out of dozens of bottle caps. He has sculpted from clay Worf’s brain-like ridges on top of his head, colouring them rich brown with acrylic paint. “I’m even growing a goatee for this part,” he says proudly. We all stare in admiration.

As we are preparing to read through the first scene, Reid’s Uncle Angus enters the living room carrying a plateful of grilled cheese sandwiches. This is only the third or fourth time I’ve seen Angus, even though I’ve been coming over weekly to watch Star Trek on Reid’s television. Angus has the same red hair, blue eyes and fair skin as Reid--thin like him, too. He looks how I imagine Reid will look in 20 years, except he’s several inches shorter than Reid and has a beard and wears polyester suits from the 70’s.

Angus places the sandwich plate on the laminated burl coffee table and says, “Help yourself, kids. There’s more in the kitchen if you need extras.” He nods hello to me as he wipes his hands on a mustard-coloured cloth napkin he had been carrying in his pocket. “How’s it going, Luke,” he says pleasantly. He waves toward a chess board set up on a TV tray to the right and asks if Reid has suckered me into playing a game with him yet.

“No, not yet,” I laugh politely.

Reid says, “Most people find chess incredibly boring, Angus. I wouldn’t want to put Luke through that agony.”

I glance down at the script, smiling shyly. This is the first time I have heard Reid say my name. He has always called me Counsellor or Mr. Snyder, or just Snyder, but never Luke. Coming from his lips, my name sounds like an interesting foreign word that I have never heard before, and I find myself wanting him to say it again, like an eager parent who wants to hear his child repeat that first precious word. But Reid turns his attention back to the script, motioning for Angus to leave as he calls out, “All quiet on the set,” and I must wait until another time to hear my name spoken again.

The afternoon moves on. We eat the sandwiches, drink pop, and practise the first two scenes for an hour. Reid stands in for La Forge until we can find a suitable replacement. Everyone does fairly well with their lines, although Julie complains that she does not have enough “screen time.” She stops in the middle of one of her lines, smoothes her hands over her thick red hair, and proclaims that her character has been more neglected than anyone else’s. She questions whether or not this because she is the only female character in the script, and if her lack of lines isn’t a subtle form of sexism, a way to subjugate women in positions of power.

“But you see, you play a pivotal role later in the script. See, right here,” Reid explains patiently, pointing to a scene where Dr. Crusher overcomes her shadow-self’s deepest fears of inadequacy and saves Captain Picard’s life. “You’re basically the hero who saves the day,” he says.

“I guess,” she sighs, looking unconvinced. “But I still think I should have more action in the beginning.

In the middle of the third scene, someone knocks on the front door, and when Reid opens it, Noah walks in wearing a militaristic-looking uniform. “Sorry, this is all I had for now by way of uniforms,” he says breathlessly as he chucks a rucksack onto the floor. “I guess I decided I could star in your film, but only if my name is changed to protect my identity,” he adds. “Anyway, I’ve been learning how to edit film and direct and stuff, so I thought maybe you could use some help that way.” He stands alert as if waiting for a military order, shoulders back, legs straight, his razor-nicked chin lifted upwards toward the ceiling.

For a moment, there is an uncertain silence, and Reid and I exchange looks, not sure what to do. Then Reid steps forward and says, “Very well, Mr. Mayer,” and smiles professionally as he hands him a script and ushers him into the room. “We Xeroxed an extra-large print copy for you so you can easily read the words in case your eyes are still giving you trouble. We’ve just started scene two. This is where you meet your alter ego, the one who has no math or engineering smarts and is content to work a janitorial position cleaning toilets at a local school.”

“Right on,” Noah says, grabbing the script almost violently and skimming through it. He stops on a certain page and frowns. “But how are we going to have two of me in these scenes?”

“That’s where your editing skills might come in handy,” Reid says. “We decided that it would be more intriguing to have the same actor play the two different roles. We would film the scene in two parts, one where we are acting as our real selves, and the other as our shadow selves. Maybe you can help us figure out the best way to do that.”

“All right,” Noah replies eagerly. He flicks the script a couple of times with his middle finger and smiles briefly with his mouth closed. “But like I said, only if I’m called by my alias during this whole production.” He cracks his knuckles and then yawns and readjusts his groin area.

“What is your alias, then?” Reid asks.

“Buck Wildcat.”

A few snickers escape the group, and Noah looks around the room, glaring. “Shut up! Just shut up!” His voice cracks with anger and pubescent strain.

“All right, all right, let’s settle down,” Reid says calmly as he holds up his hands to silence the crew. “We will all from here on out refer to Mr. Mayer as Buck Wildcat. Understood?” He turns his head from side to side and looks everyone in the eye. When he meets my eyes, we share a bewildered smile.

“Aye aye captain,” Trevor says in his clipped English accent, and a few of us chuckle good-naturedly.

I try to decide if I have misjudged this Noah kid. Maybe it wasn’t him that I had seen in the group of assholes bullying me that one day at school. And if it was, maybe he’s had a change of heart. He seems like a wildcard, though, an angry person. My gut doesn’t settle right at the sight of him, my sense of security breaks down. I watch him closely for the rest of the afternoon, and after we are done practising and all the kids have left, I approach Reid and say, “I don’t think I trust that kid Noah. I don’t think it’s a good idea we have him as part of the film.”

Reid makes a tepee out of his hands and presses it to his lips in contemplation. He sits in the naugahyde chair and swivels himself back and forth as he thinks. “You can sense things that I can’t, Counsellor…” he begins thoughtfully.

“Luke,” I cut in. “You called me Luke today when you were talking with your uncle about chess.”

“A momentary lapse of etiquette, Counsellor Snyder, one that I assure you won’t happen again.”

“No,” I say quickly. “No, I want you to call me Luke. I want you to call me by my first name.”

I stand before Reid embarrassed, uncertain and afraid. Our eyes meet fleetingly, and then I look away and grab my script off the coffee table, pretending to study it intently. Reid rises from the chair and walks over to my side. He says in a quiet voice, “I can call you Luke, if you want.”

“It’s…it’s ok. Counsellor is fine. I was just…” I bluster, shuffling through the script. From somewhere in the back hallway, a door shuts, and I clear my throat. “Anyway, about Noah….your opinion on that, Commander……”

Reid steps away, his hands behind his back. I can feel his sudden distance the same way I might feel one of my limbs being torn off. “I can understand your concern about him,” Reid responds diplomatically. “I myself am not sure he is to be trusted, especially considering that he might have been a bully toward people different than himself.”

“I don’t know……maybe we could give him a trial run…..” My suggestion sounds doubtful.

“He might genuinely be interested in participating……” Reid ponders. He walks over to the front window and rests his hands on the windowsill. “It’s hard to know the motives of human beings sometimes…..It all boils down to a matter of trust in many cases. Sometimes blind trust.”

He turns around and folds his arms across his chest. “But I know that it is difficult for you to trust others. You have been given plenty of reasons not to.”

“I’m working on that,” I say quietly. I absently pick up a cold grilled cheese sandwich wedge from the coffee table and take a tentative bite. “I guess we can just keep a close eye on him. Give him the benefit of the doubt for now…..” I stuff the rest of the sandwich in my mouth and feel my jaw crack as I chew.

“I will trust your judgment on this one, Counsellor,” Reid says officially. “I know I have expressed my own share of doubt about Noah, rather unkindly as I recall, but I’m rethinking things, trying to approach this scientifically. I’ve done some equations, and according to my estimates, it appears there is about a 13% chance Noah might be a problem. What do you think about those odds, Counsellor?”

I laugh and shrug. “Not bad, I guess.”

“Well, we’ll trust those odds for now and see what happens,” Reid says. He walks over to the coffee table and takes a sandwich for himself. He tears off little pieces and chews each piece quietly and thoughtfully. “By the way,” he says in-between bites, “Who was it that you thought you saw Noah picking on? Is it anyone I know?”

“Uh, no…no, it was just some kid. I don’t think he even goes to school here anymore,” I stammer, looking away, hiding again. The Grandfather clock chimes the Westminster tune and then gongs four times. I bite nervously at a hangnail on my right index finger. I thought I was ready to be more brave than this. Hadn’t I been challenging myself for weeks now riding past Damian’s house, preparing myself for a confrontation, preparing to assert myself, defend myself? I realise that my morning forays into Damian’s shadowy world have been some sort of trial, a kind of self-designed psychological exercise to prepare me to confront my fear and own who I am in the face of certain ego-death. Obviously, I have failed this exercise. In the heat of my inner battles, I have forgotten everything I have practised, forgotten what I am fighting against and why. The righteous battle cry has been lost to the din of the collective prejudices and misunderstandings of the world. The rainbow flag I secretly bought two weeks ago at a PFLAG meeting downtown remains hidden in fearful obscurity at the back of my closet, and so do I.

I look at Reid and see someone who has emerged from the societal battlefield as a victor. He has been told by his family and the culture at large that he is essentially a plaything of the devil, an unfortunate specimen of humanity, a sexual deviant who has been willingly tempted away from God’s eternal reward by Satan himself. Yet in the midst of the bloody ruckus of condemnation, rejection, unkind words and unkind feelings, Reid has not forgotten his own personal protocol. He has not forgotten himself. He has faced the threats bravely and refused to apologise or hide in shame. He has the scars, and the strength and inspiration from those scars, to prove it.

One afternoon about a week ago, Reid had rolled up his sleeves and shown me several pale, slightly raised and irregularly-bordered portions of skin running from the middle of his inner forearms down to the tips of his elbows.

“They look like blisters,” I had said.

“Scars from hot water burns,” Reid had corrected me. “When I was in the eighth grade, a kid from school had thrown a scalding cup of hot chocolate at my face when he found out I was gay. Luckily, I saw it coming and was able to shield myself with my arms. Some of it splashed on my face, but only a tiny bit of a scar remains near my jaw.” Here, he had turned his face and pointed to a small pinkish line curving from his right ear to his jaw line.

“Jesus!” I had exclaimed, staring in horror at the scars. “Did it hurt?”

“I strangely did not feel a thing. The doctors said it was because of the natural pain-fighting endorphins that kicked in after the water had hit my skin.”

“What about that kid? Did he get in trouble for what he did?”

“Expelled from school. My uncle tried to press charges, but the police bought the kid’s defence that he was just playing around and had thought the cup was full of cold water. Nothing ever came of it. My uncle decided to immediately removed me from that school and enroll me in another one.” Reid pushed down his sleeves and then had shocked me by saying that he was glad that the kid had assaulted him with the hot chocolate. “That day in the emergency room, I realised what I wanted to do in my life was become a doctor. I wanted to help save people’s lives, and I had never really understood that clearly until that moment.”

“A doctor? Wow-that’s awesome,” I said admiringly.

Reid had touched the scar on his jaw and replied, “’It would seem that evil retreats when forcibly confronted.’ Yarnek of Excalbia said that, stardate 5906.5’ I confronted the evil of the act. It retreated. And now I want to be a neurosurgeon. I want to fix people’s brains. Hot chocolate lead me to this pivotal decision in my life. Can you believe it?”

“Yes, I can. But hot chocolate has never had such a profound effect on me, I am afraid. You put the rest of us mere mortals to shame, Commander.”

“Oh I am mortal, dear Counsellor, terribly so at times. Of that I can assure you,” Reid countered, affecting a polished and proper tone of speech. And then he had cracked open a Coke, and taking a hearty swig, had burped loudly afterwards to prove his point.

Thinking of that moment when Reid had revealed his scars, I feel suddenly exposed and inferior in the presence of his calm, intelligent, and proud demeanour. I gather the pages of my script and say, somewhat clumsily, “Well, I guess I’ll see ya later, then.” I feel unworthy of standing before his scarred body in the way someone might feel unworthy standing before the cross and the bloody wounds of Christ. I do not know how to regard Reid in these moments. He seems superhuman in a way, hovering somewhere just above the normal realm of the human condition. Is it his manner of speech, his frighteningly clever mind, the rational, scientific way he sees the world, his seeming mastery over the baser emotional triflings of humankind, his erudite and regal features, startling in their demonstration of classical beauty? It must be all of these things, combined in one inspiring and intriguing figure more intricate and puzzling to me than this weird universe full of unknown mysteries. I can’t completely fathom the depth and vastness of what I’m seeing in Reid. I can only wonder and appreciate it for the enigma that it is and how it is radically changing my life, my mind, my soul.

On my way out the door, I hear Reid speaking to me from across the universe. His voice turns my body around the way a bright star turns my eyes skyward to pinpoint its location. Reid stands at the Grandfather clock on the other side of the room, one hand resting at his side, the other pressed flat against the polished, pale-wood of the clock as if he is feeling for its heartbeat. He seems to sense the sudden distance between us, and as if throwing out a rope to draw me back over to his side of the world, or to take another gamble and swing himself back into mine, he says, “You don’t have to go so soon. I haven’t said anything wrong, have I?”

“No.” I smile and shake my head. “I’m just….tired I guess.”

Reid looks at me quietly, a half-smile on his face. Is he thinking about that night he kissed my hand? He believes he has offended me, and I’ve done nothing to suggest otherwise. But he hasn’t offended me. He’s opened me up, challenged me, dragged my fears out into the light. Not forcibly, but with the quiet force of his presence. I want to tell him, “It’s ok that you kissed my hand.” I want to offer my hand again to his lips in a sentimental display of old-fashioned romance. No one this day and age does that-kisses hands. You see that in black and white movies, but this is happening now--this is happening in my life-in colour--with Reid. My hand throbs as if I’m holding my heart in my palm. I’m scared. I’m on the threshold. I could walk over to where he stands right now and leave behind the old and tired ways, all the denial and uncertainty, but I waver at the door.

Reid allows me my hesitations. He lets me retreat and says, “I’ll call you later on the walkie talkie.”

But at the last moment as I disappear out the door, he adds, with a voice of knowing and gentle persistence, “Luke.”

I smile long and late into the night.

***

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