Seek First to Understand

Seek First to Understand

by Aquila

Rating: R
Category: Angst
Disclaimer: Thank you Berman and Braga for creating Trip Tucker. Thank you Connor Trinneer giving him life. Paramount do you own their souls too?
Summary: Spoilers, Alternate Universe, The effect of the Expanse on Trip, T’Pol and their professional relationship. Part One is told from T’Pol’s point of view.

==

At this moment

He dreams the dream of the damned again and I do not know how to help him.

His sleeping bag is twisted about his body, like a strait-jacket. His forehead glistens in the lamp light where fear oozes from his pores. I hold the lamp aloft. His eyes, restless in REM, wear away at his lids.

“You bastards!”

He yells out then begins to flop like a hooked fish on a dry dock. He mumbles incoherently, before resting quietly at last.

Reassured that he does not need immediate aid, I return to my pallet. I am not qualified to provide the kind of assistance he really needs. However that circumstance does not relieve me of the obligation to try.

==

Two days earlier

“T’Pol, join me in my ready room, please.” His request was a like a plasma wake that trailed behind him as he crossed the command deck.

“Travis, you have command,” I completed the protocol before joining the captain.

The door had barely shut behind me, when he began his report, “I’m ordering Malcolm and the MACO’s to return to Enterprise. None of them have the expertise to make sense of that contraption. Leaving them on the surface makes them vulnerable to attack. We can’t afford to lose any more personnel.”

“You are abandoning the attempt then?”

A passive face hid my concern. Finding the device was our first opportunity to gain much needed intelligence about the enemy. I would have preferred that we continue to ascertain its capabilities and purpose.

“Hell no.” He sat in a chair. “Sit down. I need a second opinion.”

==

The next day

“Hand me the spanner, please.”

The Commander would have made an effort to be heard over the syncopated rhythm of the device’s engine, if I had not been his assistant. Instead he continued to work on the malfunctioning machine while his head was buried in its interior. He considered my Vulcan ability to hear a pin drop at 1000 paces useful on away missions.

I found the requested tool and placed it in the palm of his hand, which was extended toward me. He was on his knees, with his head thrust so far into the machine, that only his lower torso, posterior and legs showed. Until he had stopped to request the spanner, he had appeared armless as the machine had swallowed his appendages along with his head.

Commander Tucker’s posture called to mind a conversation that I had overheard in the mess. [Eavesdropping unintentionally is an uncomfortable consequence of my enhanced hearing.]

“Who has the best butt on the senior staff?” A female member of the crew asked Ensign Sato.

“No competition, two words – Travis Mayweather,” replied the Communications Officer.

The females at the table could barely contain the giggles that erupted at her declaration. There appeared to be no dissenters.

“My turn.”

Her companions nodded, Sato paused, took a deep breath, then asked, “With whom would you most like to be stranded in Shuttlepod One.”

The captain called me to the bridge, so I missed the responses to that enquiry. Was there one male on board on whom they would all agree, as they had about Ensign Mayweather’s posterior?

“T’Pol,” Commander Tucker’s tone was cool. “Aren’t ya supposed ta be assistin' me?”

I presumed he had backed out of the device when I had failed to respond to a request while I recalled the conversation.

“My apologies, Commander.”

By admitting, even if only indirectly, that I was in the wrong I turned his frown to a smile, a rare commodity, since he learned that he had lost his sister during the attack by the Xindi.

The Vulcan High Command had warned me that traveling through the Expanse could produce emotional anomalies, which might threaten my well being. Perhaps my inattention was a symptom? I concluded that the sexual interest the Commander was engendering in me could be another symptom. I must claw my way back to an illusion of control.

The top of his flight suit hung from his waist, the weight of it pulling at the waistband, so that his suit rode low on his hips. He uncorked his water rations, bent his head back, opened his mouth and let the water trickle down his throat. My imagination followed its course downward. My eyes lingered on the exterior view, exposed muscles covered in hair. Sweat tracing on the outside the path of the refreshment, my right forefinger twitched to play amongst the textures.

“Enjoyin’ the view?”

A twinkle of amusement flashed from his eyes then vanished. He was trying to maintain the light banter for which he had a reputation.

“Ya know a look like that could be misconstrued by a subordinate officer?”

His attempt failed. I did not rise to the bait as he wore his pain like a badge of honour.

“Sorry, Sub commander.” He sighed. “I had no right to tease you like that. You’ve never given me any cause to accuse you of harrassment.”

He lowered himself onto a packing case. The water container dangled from his hand which rested between his legs. His thighs held his forearms. His head hung low. He rolled his shoulders. The action did not appear to relieve the tension he felt, because he twisted his head from side to side.

I moved from my seat to stand at his back. He was sufficiently forward to reveal at his waist a tan line. The white skin of his upper buttocks contrasted starkly with the darker skin of his back. My eyes explored the musculature, which was toned from hard work and play.

“If you straighten your posture, I will attempt to relieve some of the tension in your neck and shoulders.”

He hesitated. I could imagine his face as he considered my motive for offering to touch him. He was aware of my distaste of physical contact. His discomfort must have been greater than his wariness, because he accepted my offer.

I began by placing my two thumbs on either side of his vertebrae, where the neck and cranium met. I placed my fingertips under his ears and along his jaw line. I began to apply pressure in small circles, that grew wider and wider as his muscles began to loosen.

Five minutes later my hands were taking the weight of his head, which I could manipulate from side to side without resistance. I turned it slightly, to obtain a view of his profile. The long lashes of his eyes rested on his cheekbones. He was dozing.

Gently I let his chin drop against his chest, so that I could move my hands to his shoulders. I recalled the last time my hands had been permitted to roam his body. We had been in the decontamination chamber, applying a disinfectant gel to our bodies. We were wary of each other, ministering the gel reluctantly, eager to remove ourselves from the close proximity of the decon chamber.

This time as I massaged his shoulders, I was wary of myself, not of him. My uncharacteristic inattentiveness and undeniable response to his masculinity were unsettling.

My thumbs followed his spine, my fingers manipulating the muscles within their reach. I took extra care to seek the knots that had formed around his shoulder blades. When I reached the base of his spine, I lingered to massage the upper buttocks, tight and firm and white. Then I applied myself to the knots hidden deep in the trapezoid muscles. His torso sagged lower and lower as his muscles relaxed in response to my ministrations.

Impulsively I pulled him back, to rest against my torso, slipping my hands down his chest to his pectoral muscles. I drew lazy circles with my fingers, before pressing hard and deep into the still damp flesh. The hair on his chest returned the friction of my fingers. His head rubbed against my abdomen. Sensation was layered upon sensation. I reluctantly refrained from flicking a finger across his nipples.

It was only at that moment that I heard the whine of charging phase pistols. I rolled my dozing colleague onto the ground, covering him with my body. I reached with my free hand for the phase pistol attached to my utility belt, losing valuable seconds as I unhooked the safety loop and set the pistol to stun. There was no time to aim. I fired in the direction of the sound.

We were saved by coincidence. The enemy had hidden behind a reserve fuel container. My shot missed my intended target, but hit the container. The explosion downed every being in a ten meter radius. As we were already prone on the ground, the debris flew over our heads. We suffered minor cuts and scrapes, while our assailants and the device we had been investigating were scattered in small pieces around the camp site.

“T’Pol, what the hell happened?”

I continued to protect him from the debris that fell. I pushed down, using my greater strength to adhere him to the ground. I am embarrassed to recount that I succumbed to the instincts that had been gnawing at my composure like Porthos at a bone. As I pressed down I shifted, rubbing my breasts and hips, heightening the contact, reveling in the feel of my body against his.

“T’Pol?” He spat dirt from his mouth, which he had swallowed on impact with the ground. “Sub-commander?”

I released him, rolling on to the ground by his side. “I will search for survivors.”

He rose, wiping dirt from the knees of his uniform. “I’ll survey the damage.”

I felt his eyes burning a question mark into my back as I ran low toward the perimeter. I remember speculating if he found the view of my backside as interesting as the females on Enterprise found Mayweather’s.

==

Later that day

“Stop beating yourself up!”

I was not physically abusing myself. That was one of the Commander’s more colourful expressions intended to alleviate my embarrassment at having become distracted sufficiently to have placed our lives at risk.

“At least you were awake.” He continued. “I was the one who fell asleep on duty. That’s a court martial offence.”

“You cannot be brought before a court martial if you are dead.” I stressed the obvious in order to focus his attention on survival.

“Yes, ma’am,” he gave me a mocking salute. “Survive now, so that I can be prosecuted to the full extent of the regulations later. Your motivational skills are slipping, T’Pol.”

==

That evening

The shuttle had survived the blast, therefore our first concern became moving it and the camp site. Obviously our location had been pinpointed by the enemy. Captain Archer’s plan to use the device as bait to entice the enemy into showing himself had worked. Although the plan was foiled by my inattention, our objective had not changed. Identify the enemy, draw him out and capture one of his personnel. The only manner in which I could make amends for my tactical error would be to complete the mission.

Commander Tucker stood before the fire, rotating his shoulders. He was fully clothed, having spent the better part of the afternoon, reestablishing a campsite and camouflaging the shuttle. I had conducted a reconnaissance of the area, attempting to determine if our attackers had companions lurking on the perimeter. We had come together over a meal of rations to debrief each other.
“The situation requires that one of us mounts a watch at all times.” His jaw was set. “I’ll take the night watch.”

On a digital readout the chain of command was clear, but in actual practice between us the command structure was problematic. The lack of clarity had led to complications in the beginning, but we had reached a tacit understanding that we would act as equals rather than a hierarchy.

“You are not properly rested. I will take the night shift.”

“What do you mean I am not rested?” His tone was defensive.

“I know for a fact that your sleep was disturbed last night by an incubus.”

“A nightmare?” he scoffed, switching immediately to concern. “Did I talk in my sleep?”

“Incomprehensibly, yet with enough volume to awaken me.”

I had chosen my words with the intent of easing his anxiety that I had been privy to unsolicited private confessions.

“Was I loud enough to alert the enemy?” He had found an avenue that led to his objective, to stand night watch.

“Perhaps.” I conceded.

“That settles it then, I’ll take the night watch.” He swallowed the last of his coffee.

“There is an alternative.”

Blue eyes snapped with irritation across the rim of his mug.

“We stand night watch together.” I continued quickly before he could protest. “I need far less sleep than you do. The night will pass more quickly, if we share the duty.”

I did not point out that should he find the task arduous, I would be awake to cover him.

End of Part One.

Continue to Part 2

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