After an additional face-stretching yawn and body-unkinking shake, the Commander accessed his quarters, leaving the frustrations of the day outside in the dimly-lit corridor. He was bone tired, and a nice, hot shower would do his soul the best good he'd had all day. His door whooshed shut and he closed his watery eyes once it had.
(Alone at last...amen, and do not disturb till my next tour of duty rolls around.)
Those were the Chief Engineer's normal sentiments, drawled through a tight lip, whenever his grueling shifts ended. It never ceased to amaze Tucker how taxing they could be. It was always something. Manifolds that had supposedly just been trouble-shot rupturing, surprise coolant leakages, the fickle warp core under-performing when it was least expected to, and then, just when it looked as though one propulsion-related problem was solved, two, or several more cropped up.
Phew--it was enough to make a conscientious- bitten, hard-working man like Trip want to tear his hair out by the roots sometimes, in his never-ending quest to be more inventive, finding ways to improve on any of the ship's specs if it would better the ship's efficiency.
That burning desire to make Enterprise the best in Starfleet's spotty line-up was a noble aspiration. To Trip's credit it was one Jonathan Archer would often commend him for, but it also had a great way of landing him in the doghouse when he would inevitably go head-to-head with the shapely Vulcan Sub- Commander and her rigid policy of never giving an inch.
Sadly, today, typically, had been no exception.
From the moment T'Pol had agreed to assist with the routine diagnostics Trip had scheduled for the nacelles, she had done nothing but argue with him over the procedures he had carefully outlined. He thought he had done something out of the ordinary by having gone through the trouble of handing her some very detailed print-outs. Something he'd never done for her benefit, or so he'd thought. He'd thought wrong; oh, so wrong.
T'Pol, with her high and mighty Vulcan superiority hoisted high, had acted as though it had been his intention to promote his own formulations and models, eschewing any critical input she unerringly had in mind.
Trip denied that his drawing up the proposal was an attack, the word T'Pol had used, on her intellect. Their verbal disagreeing within Engineering had gotten so bad, that a substantial number of unsettled personnel thought it in their best interests to leave the immediate area, until the shouting, and hooting, the boisterous posturing and blistering name calling, which had basically come mostly from Trip, died down.
An urgent call had been put through to the Captain, requesting his immediate presence in Engineering, before his first and second in command really killed each other, this time.
"She has the knack, like a polecat has for raidin' a coop, for makin' me lose it like there's no tomorrow," Tucker muttered to himself, slumping down on his bunk like a sack of loose potatoes. He shook his head, staring off into the compact space of his quarters, not really focusing on anything tangible that filled the small area.
"What I wouldn't give one day to have that pointy-eared Vulcan witch right where I want her." He smiled evilly, and huffed, "It sure ain't the place where ol' Malcolm wants her. That's one sick boy, lusting after that alien she-devil." He scrubbed his right hand over his stubbly cheeks, and held it against his face. "I can't let her get my goat like that. Not ever again, like that. My teams saw a side of me nobody, 'ceptin' T'Pol deserves."
Sighing in deep resignation, he continued talking things over with himself. "Man, I was this close," he swore, leaving only a thin slice between his thumb and forefinger, "this close to deckin' her. Not the gentlemanly thing to do, but, boy, it sure would'a' felt good lettin' loose just this once." He gave a hollow, yet long laugh. "Yep... Pow--right in that puffy kisser of hers." He sucked on his lower lip, temporally lost then in self-satisfying, subliminal thought. "Down for the count." The faraway look in his eyes danced. "And still champ...Charlie 'The Kid' Tucker."
He unballed his right hand from the fist he had unconsciously made. "My reputation as a gentleman shot to hell, and they'd throw my ass in the brig for assaulting an officer, but she sure ain't no lady."
He was just about to go over in his mind's eye the list a mile long he loved to review that enumerated the Vulcan's innate shortcomings, when it dawned on him how great a serving of pecan pie would be right about now.
"Yeah...I really could go for some 'Dixie sweet.' Up and at it. And to think I had the crazy notion of introducing her to my favorite dessert. Hah! I can forget that. From here on out, until the end of our mission, I'm makin' it my business to have as little to do with her as possible. Strictly professional, and whatever she says goes in one ear, and clean out the other. Yes, her to death, and do what *I* want. Tunin' her out's gonna be the order of the day, far as I'm concerned."
He rose stiffly on bowed legs, and straightened to his full height when the slight soreness in his muscles mellowed out. Carelessly, he ran both hands through his short hair, preparing to head back out.
The cabin door retracted out of his way, revealing just one of the many shocks of his life, standing before him like one very solid piece of stone; fast asleep on her feet.
Trip's wooly-feeling mouth went drier. Through slitted eyes he took in the unbelievable spectacle of a somnambulate T'Pol at his door, looking like a natty zombie, in one of her flowing meditation robes, her critical eyes shut for a change.
"What the hell's this?" he wondered aloud, but it was said in an undertone, aware that if the Vulcan had been wide awake, there'd be no way she'd be crowding his threshold; not after the way he had 'torn her another one' this day.
She swayed a bit then, and reflexively, Trip reached out with both hands to steady her. He looked up to where the bulkhead joined with a molding brace, and balked at the idea that with all the quarters T'Pol had to choose from, why for the love of failing interspecies relations did she have to pick his?
He'd had quite enough of her for one day.
"Wak--" He cut himself off in mid-reveille, swiftly reminding himself whether or not it was wise waking a sleepwalker. No one in his family had ever been one, but he remembered one of his friends in high school, whose house he'd once spent the night at, had had the problem.
His friend's mother had quietly guided her son back to his bed and had wordlessly coaxed him to lay down. She hadn't left her son's room until she'd been sure he would stay put. Trip remembered his gawking at his spooky friend, not sure about what he was supposed to do through the whole weird experience.
Gutterally, he voiced, "Yeah, but does that rule of thumb apply with Vulcans?" Knowing T'Pol, if I have the bright idea of waking her, he thought, she'd try takin' a poke at me when she sees whose place she wound up at.
His line of vision glanced off his communications link, just to the right of his sleeping visitor. "Better raise the Doc. This is the kind of stuff that's his field of expertise. Mine is makin' sure this finicky piece o' technology doesn't implode on us one fine day."
Holding T'Pol, who was now propped up against him, around her firm, sensuously firm, he dimly thought, middle, he put the call through to the doctor.
"Hey, Doc. I need your help."
"How may I be of assistance, Commander?"
Stringently, Trip kept his voice low. "I've got a sleepwalking problem on my hands." He lowered his head, his chin bumping against T'Pol's drooping head, and thought, literally.
"Oh?" the jovially-tinged sound of Phlox' voice wafted over the link. "You sound wide awake enough to me, Mister Tucker."
Trip made a gurgly sound deep in his throat. T'Pol shifted a bit in his grasp, but still remained dead to this sector of the galaxy the ship was presently traversing.
"I ain't the one with the problem," he airily huffed, this time. "It's the Sub- Commander... T'Pol's here with me in my quarters, out like a light, snorin' her head off."
"Ah, I see..." the doctor intimated. The little smug smile he made would have gotten Trip's goat further if the Commander were there in Sickbay to witness it.
"It's not the conclusion I hear ya jumpin' to, Doc. So help me. I found her standin' at my door fast asleep." He didn't know what to think when her warm head came to rest upon his shoulder, as though they had a history of her using it for a pillow. After a sticky swallow, which felt as though it had taken several protracted minutes to do, Trip continued whispering, "Should I wake her up, or what? Is this normal for a Vulcan?"
Trip's smirky smile ruled his lips as he thought, (there's nothing normal 'bout Vulcans).
"Under no circumstances should you attempt waking her, Commander. Undoubtedly, Sub-Commander T'Pol must have undergone something stressful today; an experience that has triggered this Vulcan defense mechanism of coping. It's a common response." Trip tried hard not to wince. Following a brief pause, Phlox ventured somewhat knowingly, "Were you two, shall we say, engaged in some form of confrontation earlier?"
Tucker rode roughshod over that speculation, which he judged had come out of left field. With the heated words they'd exchanged not more than four hours ago, still fresh in his mind, Trip buttressed, "Just tell me what to do. Bring her to Sickbay? Or maybe you should come here. Have a look at her in my quarters, huh?"
"I'll take your reluctance to answer my quiry as a 'yes.' I'll be there momentarily, Mister Tucker. Try not to have her remain on her feet. Trust me when I say she needs to be completely relaxed."
Trip gnawed on the side of his mouth. "Is she okay?"
"I can assure you that the Sub-Commander's behavior isn't anything out of the ordinary. If you two were doing what seems to come so naturally for you both, so frequently."
Annoyance gnawed on Trip. Phlox had to work on curbing his presupposing attitude, which was really getting on his nerves, more and more Trip found. "And what's that?" Tucker spewed in cloying irritation. "There's nothin' natural about her bein' with me, actin' out a scene from 'Night of The Livin' Dead.'" These folks think they've got us poor humans all figured out, Trip considered. (If she can't take my brand of vocal criticism, that's just too tough.)
"Oh? Is that what you think? She's acting?"
Trip shrugged, feeling T'Pol snuggle up even closer against him, and it wasn't his ears playing tricks on him when he heard her give, what sounded to him like, a very contented sigh. Flustered then, the Commander marshaled his resolve to disregard the quickening beating of his heart. (It's not like I don't know she's attractive, hell. She's got some beautiful body. It's her damn disposition that stinks to high heaven. I could never get with a gal who treats me like crap, day in, day out.)
"I don't know what to think," he dismissed, growing clammy beneath his uniform. "Could ya just get down here on the double? She's startin' to worry me."
The way T'Pol had suddenly taken to twining her pliable body around his had started making his susceptible flesh react. Trip's knitted eyebrows reached for the ceiling, and he gulped, gingerly beginning to move over to his bed with her in clingy tow. Getting her to lie down, instead of her like this, all over him, was a better idea each time he thought about it.
"On my way, Commander," the roseate physician guaranteed in his overly optimistic pattern of delivery. Mentally, he riffled through the uniquely categorical possibilites that might account for T'Pol's sleep-inspired journey to Tucker's place. The medical officer couldn't help but smile. For a couple who seemed to have nothing in common, there was no shortage of numerous experiences, they'd shared thus far, he thought.
Subconsciously, the placid Vulcan began speaking in a husky whispered tone of voice in her native language. Trip stared down at her, having laid her upon his bunk. T'Pol's exotic features and the raw sensuous draw of her puffy, moist lips held him in fascination. He felt powerless to look away, and wondered what having those full lips fondling his own thinner ones could feel like.
"V'alkaak...tau'vrak-auu...saaraak." She kept repeating the musical-sounding mantra like some mystical litany.
"God, this just keeps gettin' spookier, and spookier," Trip intoned, looking around his quarters half expecting to see the apparition she sounded as if she were summoning put in its ethereal appearance anytime now.
Trying to get his mind off the peculiarities of the circumstance, he concentrated on how vulnerable and slight she looked, stretched out on his bed. She was a long way off from portraying the cut-and-dry tongued, despiser she prided herself on being, on and off duty.
Right now, she looked like a woman he wouldn't mind trying to woo. For once her presence wasn't a nuisance, a hinderance to his being his outspoken self. She looked fantastically sweet lying there; sedate, with an innocence he found strangely intoxicating, as though he needed to breathe her lovely bouquet in, and swoon.
He sat on the edge of his bunk, wrapped up in T'Pol's womanness. The woman who was as outspoken as he. The woman of conviction he sometimes found himself wishing she'd allow him to know underneath her hardcore Vulcan mien.
Hesitantly, he reached out to dust her lovely face in sweet repose, with his tremulous index, middle and fourth fingers. "Darlin', I'm sorry I lost it all with you like I did. You didn't deserve..." He chuckled softly. "Well, most of the crap I hurled at you the way I did. Just a little of it," he playfully mused. His fingers stalled against her velvety cheek, and the smile never left his lips. "You really are somethin', y'know that? You trounce my pride like it's an old shoe, and I still come back for more. Why do ya suppose I keep comin' back, huh?"
Talk about conflicted, and he capped the paradoxical thought, that cut like a two-edged sword, by inching closer to the unconscious first-in-command. "I could go for you in the biggest way, bigger than for Ruby even, if you could appreciate that I'm not a simp," he softly gusted through clenched teeth, sparing her a look that softened the hard edges of his face.
He recalled the first day they had met, he being struck with the thought that she was the first Vulcan he'd ever met that had potential in a 'your place or mine' sort of way. Trip smiled then, recollecting the look of curiosity that had sparked in her eyes, which T'Pol had been a failure at hiding.
'That wasn't curiosity, Commander, it was examination spawned by your...'
"Geez--what the hell?" Trip recoiled, jumpy and surprised. His amazement deepened when he found he could not withdraw his hand away from her face. It felt as though some strong, invisible force had his fingers welded to the pliant facial flesh. His hand shook with the effort of his trying to pull his fingers free. He struggled, sweat beads forming upon his forehead.
'Calm yourself, Commander. Be with me, be close to me in this manner. I want to understand you, as your desire is to understand me better.'
Trip blinked, a prickly sensation of fear coursing through him, realizing that it was T'Pol speaking to him, doing so by some eerie link she had somehow bridged between their minds.
'No harm do I wish to cause you. Allow your thoughts to become my thoughts, as my thoughts, become yours...'
Incredulous, Trip stared at her, with her eyes still shut, and his mouth agape. A feeling of well-being overwhelmed him, and not entirely against his will did his eyes flutter shut. His breathing deepened as his mind swam with pleasant, unburdened thoughts. T'Pol, standing squarely in his mind's eye, with her hair tousled by a gentle breeze, beckoned for him to come to her.
A flowing conglomeration of his thoughts urged him to find meaning laced with solace in her outstretched arms, and obligingly, he did.
'...Better?' her moving ideas whispered to him.
'A whole lot,' his power of reason, which T'Pol caressed with hers, eagerly responded, although his emotions were in an uproar, and he felt as though he had been on a bender for several days; the stupor he was sliding into was nothing he could prevent.
'I wish to understand, Commander...'
Through the swirling mists of electric thoughts, Trip nodded, as T'Pol grasped both his hands. '...Guess you could say this is a start, huh, Darlin'?'
'Yes, Commander. I would say...' Much to Tucker's stark suprise, she squeezed his hands which she held with an undeniable possessiveness.
'...I could get real used to this euphoria, T'Pol...habit-formin''
'I too am enjoying the feel of your mind as well...'
'So you came to me for this?'
'...It is our way. I am not your superior,' she assured, her mind absorbing any risidual tension it was hard for his to brush aside, which she accomplished by evoking sun-soaked impressions of his favorite fishing hole he had once described to her. Ripples of contentment surged through his thoughts. 'I seek to understand the inner workings of your mentality. I wish to grow...'
He squeezed her hands firmly. '...I reckon there's room for me in that department too.' She allowed him to draw her in closer, her newly-expressed impulses sonorous. Her intrinsic beauty was such that it broke through any last vestiges of resistence he felt lurking just below his subconscious. 'I don't want every interaction we have just one more exercise to see how inured we can be with each other's differences...' He was loath to have the linkage end, but he could feel it was, could feel T'Pol's imageries slinking from his aggressive grasping. '...This won't be the last time for us, will it?'
'No...it will not...'
The 'tinging' of his quarter's visitor signal sounded far off. It came to the fore of his consciousness that it was Phlox. T'Pol opened her eyes at the same time Tucker opened his, and he smiled at her in a distracted sort of way. "I called the doc."
"Yes. I heard." Already, she was dislodging herself slowly from his bed, efficiently swinging her legs to the floor after he stood. "I have no need of his ministrations. I am fine, and will return to my cabin."
Trip told Phlox to come in.
"Anything ya say, T'Pol." He skirted out of her way. "Uh...glad ya stopped by." Trip purposedly sounded expansive, playing to the doctor's curiosity; who fairly reeked of it.
"Well, it appears Sub-Commander T'Pol is no longer asleep," Phlox duly noted with enough twinkling going on in his eyes to display during the next feature-length presentation in the mess hall. The hypospray he was armed with vanished behind him to nest in the small of his back.
"She woke up not much after I got finished talkin' ta you, Doc," Trip informed him, and watched as the ex-sleepwaker stepped lightly off to Phlox' left, on her way out.
"I'll catch ya on the bridge, later, T'Pol. Sweet dreams," Tucker called out after her, amusement animating his visage; his playfulness not an easy thing to subdue.
"The cat seems to have her tongue," Phlox remarked, raising his eyebrows a time or two. "As you humans say." His probing eyes rinsed the suggestibility from Tucker's face.
Watching after T'Pol several moments more after she had left, Trip turned to Phlox. "She woke, and we talked. Y'know, I never noticed how refreshing she can be when she doesn't monopolize the conversation." His eyes had stolen some of Phlox' sparkle. "She makes the most sense when her lips don't move."
The doctor didn't bother to voice how little sense that statement made to him, and Trip shelved an explanation, happy in the knowledge that T'Pol and he had had whatever it was that had happened between them. He'd ask her the next convenient time just what had happened between them.
"Hey, Doc, I was just on my way to the mess hall for some pecan pie," Trip stridently announced. "Wanna join me?"
Nodding, Phlox replied, "By all means, Commander Tucker. It's been something I've been meaning to try."
"Yeah, Doc. Tryin' new things." He arched an eyebrow, thinking about his favorite fishing hole, the one T'Pol had flooded his mind with. "Guess that could fall under a sub-category of why we're out here." Clapping the doctor hard on the back, Trip grinned, and Phlox experimentally returned both gestures as they vacated Trip's quarters.
End