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

Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom all due thanks as always!

This is dedicated to all the kind people who asked for the conclusion of the story, and especially to Serit, who nudged me in the ribs and got me writing it.

The buzz of his alarm dragged Trip from a deep sleep.

He turned over and opened one eye just enough to glare at the display. It couldn't be time to get up already. Hell, it felt as though he'd only just gotten off to sleep!

But the clock was adamant. It was time to get up and start getting ready for his shift.

He yawned, and mumbled a curse. At least it should be a relatively easy day today. He'd worked late yesterday, trying to track down a problem with one of the lighting circuits on B Deck. Minor problems with the lighting had started to occur in various locations over the past week; nothing serious, just inconvenient. The cap'n had been forced to eat his lunch in the semi-darkness one day, but that was about the worst that had happened. So far.

Well, with any luck, there wouldn't be any repetitions today.

He sighed, threw back his blanket and touched the light switch.

Nothing happened.

He pressed the switch again, a bit harder.

Nothing happened.

He pressed it again – a lot harder.

Nothing happened.

He lay back, now cursing a blue streak under his breath. What was it with the lighting? They hadn't had a single problem with it since they left Spacedock, and now suddenly there was a gremlin on board. Cargo Bay 2, the hydroponics office, the captain's mess and odd patches of one of the starboard corridors on B Deck were bad enough, but the chief engineer's cabin – now that was going too far. That was just plain provocation.

Well, the ship was in a pretty peaceful area of space at the moment, so hopefully nothing in Engineering would require his attention. Inconvenient as it would be to shower and dress by little more than touch and memory, the light from the viewing port saved the cabin from absolute darkness and would enable him to manage. Then he'd catch breakfast, make sure that no more important issues had arisen overnight, and hopefully get down to having a real go at finding out what the hell was going on around here.

They'd been out here long enough for him to find his way around perfectly well even in minimal lighting conditions. Luckily, he kept his toiletries better organized than his personal possessions. Shower gel, shampoo, antiperspirant and hair gel were in their places ready for his hand. The faint radiance from the viewing port made enough of the bathroom visible for him to manage pretty well as usual, though he had to comb his hair by guesswork. Shaving in the semi-darkness was even more of a guesswork job, but he smoothed a hand carefully around his chin and found a couple of places he'd missed the first time, and attended to them. He'd laid his clothes out ready the night before, so that posed no problem.

His preoccupied mood lasted until he reached the Mess Hall. Malcolm was heading there from the opposite direction, and with a sinking feeling Trip recognized the look of indignation on the Brit's face. Yep, the gremlin had struck again. One of the lights in the weapons storage area, and what if there was an emergency... Malcolm expounded on the theme so loudly and vehemently that practically everyone who was eating breakfast looked around at the two of them. Trip was aware of grins breaking out.

"Malcolm. I'll get on to it. Honest." He sat down and started on his own breakfast, hoping the tactical officer would do the same and shut the hell up.

"Yes, well, I hope you'll treat it as a priority!" said Malcolm crossly, spreading peanut butter on his first pancake. "Sir," he added as an afterthought, being a stickler for the rules.

Trip took a mouthful of coffee and sighed. He supposed anything to do with the Armory was more important than his cabin, in the general scheme of things, even if there were seven other lights in the weapons storage area and the one that had failed was in the very furthest and most obscure corner. And besides, he was damned if he wanted to spend all day receiving strongly worded hints from his junior officer as to the fact that the light was still out and what if there was an emergency, sir... He knew of old that once Malcolm got his teeth into anything to do with the weaponry he was like a mastiff. You wouldn't unlock his jaws with a crowbar.

The head of Tactical went on to illustrate this point during the course of breakfast.

It wasn't, of course, that Trip wasn't interested in where the source of the problem might lie. Ordinarily he genuinely enjoyed technical discussions with a friend whose knowledge in some respects of the ship's functions was almost the equal of his own. But right now he had a headache, and given the choice he'd really rather have been left alone to sit and try to think through where the best place to start his detective work would be. So he rather tuned out and concentrated on his breakfast, leaving Malcolm to ramble, and only supplied the occasional 'Mm' and 'Yeah' and an intermittent 'Could be' when the Brit paused for breath.

He was thankful when they were both finished eating. If he'd thought he was going to get rid of Malcolm that easily, however, he was wrong. As soon as he turned towards Engineering, the lieutenant returned to the fray with the suggestion that a good place to start would be the engineering console on the Bridge. Maybe there was something wrong there? After all, it did control systems all over the ship...

"I guess I could take a look there to start with," grumbled Trip. He didn't actually think he was going to find anything wrong under the console, but he was quite sure that refusing to go along with the suggestion would ruffle Malcolm's feathers even further. It wouldn't hurt to just accompany him up there and take a look. And at least it would shut him up for ten minutes.

That last prospect had become more and more attractive by the time the turbo-lift disgorged them. Malcolm had paused briefly during the journey up, but it was plain that he'd done so only to marshal further complaints about how dangerous all these lighting problems were, and especially the one in the weapons storage area, because if anywhere on the ship was a worse place for anyone to have an accident, he couldn't think of one...

It was evident that everyone on the Bridge was amazed by the usually taciturn Brit's sudden volubility. Even Travis turned from his station to stare, and turned back again in a hurry, his shoulders heaving. Hoshi suddenly ducked under her station, muttering something about having to check a circuit in the matrix library.

T'Pol raised her head and sent a long, disapproving stare across the Bridge. Meeting it, Trip lifted his shoulders slightly. Well, I'm hopin' he'll just run out of steam. Even Malcolm can't keep grousin' the WHOLE day.

Captain Archer, fortunately for him, was in his Ready Room. Just as well the door was soundproofed. Lucky sonofabitch, thought Trip morosely, pulling off the front of the engineering console to check the wiring.

He spent half an hour going through every circuit inside it, ignoring the occasional snipe from the vicinity of the Tactical station. And, as he'd expected, he found precisely nothing.

His temper was not at its sweetest by the time he re-emerged, hot and frustrated. He glanced up at Malcolm, who'd been running a firing simulation and was now wearing the satisfied smirk of someone who's hit his target and blown it to smithereens.

"At least you found somethin' to put a smile on your face," he growled.

"Oh yes, Commander. When I line up a target I want badly enough, I always get it eventually." The tactical officer sat back in his chair and folded his arms. The smirk was now pronounced. "And there's nothing in the world sweeter than the sweet taste of ... success."

Trip had the fleeting impression that 'success' wasn't the word the other man had originally intended to use, but his attention was distracted by the captain's emerging from the Ready Room at that moment. Jon glanced across the well of the bridge and stopped, looking surprised. At a guess, he was wondering why the chief engineer was up here; he'd usually be found in his own domain at this hour of the working day.

"Just tryin' to track down what's causin' all these lightin' glitches around the ship, Cap'n," Trip explained. "Malcolm thought it might be a problem with the console here, but everythin' checks out fine."

"I see." The captain's gaze travelled to Malcolm, who returned it with limpid innocence and just a hint of appeal. "Well, don't let me hold you up. Any idea where you'll be searching next?"

Trip shrugged. "I guess I'll have to check out the relays in Engineerin'. It doesn't make sense. Circuits don't just switch themselves off for no reason."

"Not generally, no. Carry on, then, Trip. I'm sure you appreciate how important it is for everything on board to be in the pink." Jon turned away, but not quite quickly enough to hide a suppressed smile.

Glad somebody thinks this is funny, the chief engineer thought sourly. I'm the one chasin' this damned gremlin all over the ship, and all Jon can do is laugh.

He glanced across to where Hoshi was having another go at sorting out whatever problems she was having with that matrix library; that would most likely be the next thing he'd be called on to fix. Travis, meanwhile, appeared to have developed hiccups, and T'Pol was looking even more disapproving, as though at any moment she would suggest that Ensign Mayweather might want to go and have a drink of water.

"Well, I might as well get on with it. Wouldn't want the whole crew to end up wanderin' round in the dark, now would we?" Trip stood up and stalked across to the turbo-lift.

Just as the door closed, he heard T'Pol's voice. "Captain, I fail to understand–"

Whatever the Vulcan didn't understand, however, it was unlikely to have anything to do with Trip's problem right now. He stopped the lift at B Deck, just to check that the lights were still working; they were, but a passing crew-woman stopped in her tracks and stared at him as though she'd never seen him before.

"Anythin' wrong, Crewman?" he asked, puzzled.

"N-no, sir. It's just that your–" She floundered to a halt. "You're usually in Main Engineering," she finished lamely.

Trip eyed her. "You sure you're feelin' all right?"

"Yes, sir. Certainly. I mean– I'm in a bit of a hurry. I'm really sorry!" And as soon as he nodded dismissal, she scooted away up the corridor and disappeared from view.

He stared after her for a moment, then shrugged and got back into the turbo-lift. If it was getting to the point where people stopped and stared at him just because he was in a different part of the ship, maybe he ought to get out more.

The lift stopped again and disgorged him at D Deck, close to Main Engineering.

At least people here wouldn't treat him any different.

He pressed the door control, and the panel hissed open.

Emma Russell was right opposite him, carrying a pile of PADDs. They hit the floor and went all over the place.

Anna Hess was up on the inspection platform in front of the warp engine. She let out a loud squawk, stepped backwards and nearly fell down the steps, only saving herself by a quick grab of the safety rail.

Mike Rostov spun around from a diagnostics check on the far side of the room, alerted by the clatter and the squeal, and stood there with his eyes bulging and his mouth open.

Eloise Chastain darted around from the console alongside the core to see what was happening, and clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle what seemed to be a demented compulsion to burst out laughing.

Trip stood still in the doorway, glaring at his staff. Was everyone in this place except him going crazy?

"Report, lieutenant!" he hooted at Anna, who'd succeeded in righting her footing if not her expression. She was in charge of this mad-house he'd left in reasonable order yesterday. She could tell him what the hell was going on here.

His second climbed down the steps extremely slowly. Her face was lowered, as though she was keeping it hidden as long as possible. Only when she was right in front of him did she look up, and her mouth was going through some quite extraordinary contortions. Her eyes were so bright she looked like she was fighting back tears, but not of uncontrollable grief.

"Errrh, sir, you…." She stopped, swallowed, and bit her lip. Her mouth buckled again, and her chest heaved, as though it was containing some pretty powerful emotions. "Sir, have you looked in a mirror this morning?"

Trip blinked at her. Whatever he'd been expecting, this wasn't it.

Oh, no. No. Don't tell me he…

Malcolm and the bunny-tail. That Easter prank, and all the weeks he'd spent waiting for the retribution that hadn't come. The weeks that had turned into months, until slowly the incident had been forgotten and he'd started to believe the Brit had decided retaliation was either beneath or beyond him.

There's only one thing that tastes sweeter than success.

Revenge.

If anyone was capable of arranging for circuits to turn themselves off, it was Malcolm. No damage had been done; all the other incidents were simply a blind, a preparation for the coup de grâce. With everything else that had happened, Trip had been lulled into thinking that the lighting failure in his cabin had been just another perplexing incident in a series, when it was actually the entire point of the series. The tactical officer had dropped by the previous evening, ostensibly to drop in a PADD with some suggested upgrades for the phase cannons – and he'd asked to use the 'bathroom' while he was there…

Cold, horrible certainty congealed in Trip's guts. Showering in the dark. Grooming himself in the dark. Unable to see himself in a mirror. Distracted in the Mess. Diverted to the Bridge. Hoshi. Travis. T'Pol. Jon. And Malcolm, sitting in triumph at the weapons console and smirking like a damned Cheshire cat.

"Okay," he croaked. "I want a mirror, and I want it now."

"I'm not sure you do, boss," said Anna, who by now had her hand clapped to her mouth as well, and her eyes were starting to leak.

"I. Want. A. Goddamn. Mirror," Trip enunciated.

At this point Eloise started to say something along the lines of 'Keep your hair on, sir,' but for some reason it turned into a sound that could have passed muster for one of Malcolm's failed Reed Alert sirens. She folded up in paroxysms of laughter.

"P-Pull yourself together and fetch the Commander a mirror, Crewman Chastain," Anna achieved, somehow keeping her voice relatively steady. Her transfixed gaze seemed to war between horrified pity and the compulsion to fall into convulsions too.

It seemed to take Eloise an extraordinarily long time to fetch a vanity mirror from her locker. It would have been quicker for her department head to go to the nearest washroom, but no way was Trip going to venture out again until he knew exactly what the score was.

In the meantime, Emma busied herself picking up the PADDs she'd dropped. As soon as she had them all she ran behind the warp engine, and he damn well knew stifled giggling when he heard it.

Eventually Eloise reappeared. She'd grabbed a handful of Kleenex and done her best to restore some kind of respectability to her face, but one look at her commanding officer and the siren kicked off again. "Sorry, sir," she whimpered from the midst of the Kleenex as she handed over the mirror.

Everyone stepped back.

Trip lifted the mirror and glared into it, bracing himself for the worst.

Pink hair. Shocking, brazen, audacious pink hair. His gel must have been quietly removed and a different tin substituted. He and Malcolm used different grooming products, so the tactical officer must have obtained a tin of the correct make from the Stores and prepared the contents accordingly. Once that was done, he only had to wait his moment. And yesterday, it seemed, his moment had come.

The comm bleeped. "Message for Commander Tucker," said Hoshi's voice – and even that was suspiciously quavery.

"Go ahead, Hoshi." Jon was probably listening in, so that was the diplomatic alternative to what Trip would actually have preferred to say at this moment.

"Er, you have a couple of messages on your computer terminal you might want to read, sir. Bridge out."

Trip looked at the mirror again.

Then, ignoring the members of his staff, who had by now given up all attempts to restrain themselves, he tramped into his office and brought up the computer screen on the desk there.

There were two messages, both of which had arrived during the last couple of seconds.

The first was from Malcolm. It was short and to the point. "IT WAS WORTH THE WAIT."

The second was from Jon. "My tactical officer has assured me that the pink will wash out. I suggest you go to the nearest washroom and test this for yourself. Incidentally, I don't think pink's your color."

Trip uttered an expletive that no Southern gentleman should be heard using, and which would have redirected half his month's wages into a cuss box if they'd ever got around to setting one up. From the renewed guffaws outside, his subordinates had crept up to eavesdrop.

Then he started to grin. Soon a chuckle emerged, and moments later he was laughing even louder than the people outside his office. "Sonofabitch," he gasped, wiping tears from his eyes as he surveyed his reflection again. "I can't believe he waited this long. Well, I'll be damned!" And he went off into another peal of laughter.

Jon had been right about one thing, anyway.

Pink was definitely not his color.

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