Alpha Waves - Pt 7

Alpha Waves

By Aquila

Rating: R
Category: Angst, Romance
Summary: Sequel to Beta Waves – T’Pol meets her Father and trips.

==

Part 7

Trip hung back to watch T’Pol sashay up the boarding ramp. He let his eyes rove about. The other male passengers were watching that hip motion too. One woman cuffed the man she was with. A few females put some competitive locomotion into their walk up the ramp. This transfer, thought Trip, was getting interesting.

Still he hung back, letting T’Pol identify their seats. When she stretched to open the overhead bin, her skirt rode up exposing the curve of her ass. She wasn’t wearing underwear. A dozen male heads hung in the aisle, with mouths gaping.

Trip was amused. She had fought his suggestion every step of the way, but once she had agreed to it – hell – she rewrote the book and that had him puzzled. Vulcans were not known for improvisation and role playing. Trip regarded her with new and questioning eyes.

T’Pol, on the other hand, noticed only Trip. She delighted in his approval of her characterisation. Playing the role was easier than she thought and it had a freeing aspect that she found satisfying. Not as satisfying as her companion bent on stripping her of control, but satisfying nonetheless.

Who was that making advances toward him? The calculating female had dropped her scarf right at his feet. She watched Trip return it to the woman, who ran a finger down his cheek then placed a kiss of thanks on it. T’Pol suppressed the urge to throttle the hussy where she stood.

Trip noted that T’Pol’s jaw was clenched more than usual, a sign that her temper was on a hair-trigger. How do I know that, he wondered? T’Pol? Temper? Nah, he dismissed the idea.

They were travelling as Ralph and Alice Cramden. T’Pol had given him a peak into her past when she forged the documents. When he asked where and when she had acquired the skill, she reverted to what he now thought of as her former self, cutting him out of the loop by insisting the information was classified.

==

Hayes and Reed had returned independently to Enterprise - for a piss and puke in the language of the MACO or a shower and a shave to quote Malcolm. A compelling need for legal stimulants drove each of them to the dining hall. Hayes arrived to find Malcolm hunching over a black coffee, his head in his hands.

“Doctor Phlox may have some sort of vermin that will cure what ever you have more readily than coffee.”

Malcolm cautiously raised his head to peer into the grinning face of the newly promoted Colonel Hayes. “I don’t see you in sick bay, Colonel Hangover.”

“MACO tolerance for dissipation is exceptionally high,” crowed Hayes as he gingerly sat in a chair opposite Reed.

“But your arse bruises just like anyone else’s,” observed Reed.

Congratulations were in order, remembered Hayes, hoping to steer the subject in less embarrassing direction. “Lt. Commander Reed has a ring to it.”

“More like a bloody stick,” groused the newly promoted weapons officer.

The expression on Hayes face informed Malcolm that the new Colonel had failed to follow his train of thought.

“The promotion was the carrot that accompanies the stick,” explained Reed.

“What stick,” asked Hayes as understanding dawned.

“What stick?” Reed spluttered grabbing his head as it began to pound. “You bloody well know what stick.”

“Ah, you’ve been told.” Hayes hesitated.

“What flaming idiot had the idea to second me to MACO weapons training school?”

Hayes grimaced, “I’m that flaming idiot.”

==

“How long will the refit take, Jonathan?”

“Are you asking professionally or personally?”

Sheila Farnsworth ran her eyes up and down the man who sat across the breakfast table. He held still letting her take his measure. Which ever role she chose was fine with him, although one would have more pleasing perks than the other.

She took in his indifference. Intuitively she understood that their relationship would proceed based on the answer she gave him.

“A journalist,” was followed by a surprising twinge of regret.

==

“No.”

Hoshi’s mouth twisted in a pout. “No, doesn’t leave much room for negotiation.”

The couple, deciding that fresh sheets were in order, had left their hotel room momentarily. The decorum required to function in public placed an unexpected strain on the newly formed bond between them.

“There is no room for negotiation.”

“But Travis,” she lowered her voice seductively and slipped a hand inside his shirt, where she set a finger to work in a pattern that she had learned turned him to putty in her hands.

“Hoshi, listen to me,” he brushed her hand away, “I will not deposit sperm in a bank so that you can withdraw it any time you feel like getting pregnant.”

“I’ll give you as many children as you want, but I insist on taking an active part in the conception.”

Hoshi tried again, “You know that I would prefer that, but you may be light years away for half a decade.”

“Then we’ll just have to make some compromises. I can come home on leave. You can travel with the kids and I can meet you.” Travis’ gut fell out. “You do understand that I plan to exercise my rights as their father, don’t you?”

As the full impact of their decision hit them, they cried out in unison, “I think we need to see a lawyer.”

“And Phlox,” insisted Mayweather.

==

“Welcome to the Honeymoon Capital of the Universe, Mr and Mrs. Cramden.” The unctuous immigration official placed the stress on moon and presented the thumbprint screening device.

T’Pol pressed the pad of her thumb on it, but before she could remove her hand, Trip grasped it, raising it to his lips. The official watched in voyeuristic fascination as Mr. Cramden nibbled his way along Mrs. Cramden’s outstretched arm. When the official tore his gaze away, he swallowed hard. The tip of Mrs. C’s tongue could be seen tracing her full lips. He became so distracted he failed to compare her scan with the ID she carried.

Still nibbling away, Trip pressed the pad of his thumb against the scanner. When the beam of light had passed, T’Pol pulled him up by the lapels into a lip lock that left nothing to the imagination. Sweat broke out on the forehead of the immigration official who just nodded them through the gate.

“Get a room,” he shouted after the couple, increasing considerably Trip’s assessment of the man’s intelligence.

==

Travis’ suggestion that they visit Phlox made sense to Hoshi. “It may save us thousands in lawyers’ fees.”

“You mean you want to forget the whole idea if you find you aren’t pregnant?” Travis wondered if he would feel relief if she confirmed the reprieve?

The arrival of Phlox stayed her answer. “I came as quickly as I could. And I brought my bag as you asked.” He lifted it in the air as proof. “Now, what is this urgent need for my services?”

==

“You booked the honeymoon suite,” T’Pol asked under her breath.

The bellman was pointing out the features of the room, taking his time so Trip could dig deep in to his wallet for the tip.

“Hide in plain sight, honey,” whispered her accomplice.

“And if you do not wish to be disturbed, flip this switch,” he said pointing to a naked cherub holding a bow and arrow. “Not even the hotel pass key can open the door to your suite, when you’ve engaged this feature.”

Trip slipped a generous sum to the bellman, which caused the fellow to take special interest in his guests.

“Don’t I know you?” The quizzical look was an indication to T’Pol that their disguises were effective.

“People say that all the time,” grinned Trip, “We’re celebrity look-a-likes. We met at a big event on Earth and fell in love.

“Unlike the couple for whom we are often mistaken,” interrupted T’Pol.

End of Part 7

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