Court and Spark - Chapter 2

Court and Spark

by Ragua

Disclaimers in Chapter 1.

A/N: Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know it’s too early in the season for berry-picking if they’re in the same timeline as Zero Hour. And I know that there aren’t a hell of a lot of marionberries in the southeastern U.S. But hey, it’s the 22nd century. Who’s to say they didn’t hop on a transport and head across the continent to go berry-picking at Sauvie Island (Oregon)? That’s why it’s called fan-FICTION, people!

Chapter 2

T’Pol gazed down with a profound sense of satisfaction. It had been a battle, and she had not come away unscathed. Her attention turned momentarily to the numerous scratches on her arms and legs. Several were oozing blood, dotting her clothing with green spots. Her opponent had fought her every step of the way, but she had achieved her objective.

A full basket of marion blackberries.

It certainly had not been easy. She had crushed the first few berries by applying too much force when attempting to remove them from their vines. Dark purple splotches accompanied the intermittently spaced green spots. But once she had figured out the correct amount of pressure to apply while gently twisting the small pieces of fruit, the task had been accomplished swiftly and efficiently. Mrs. Tucker would no doubt appreciate her efforts. Apparently the small fruits could be turned into any number of earth dishes. Pie, of course, but Charles’ mother had also spoken of jams, preserves, and even wine. T’Pol was eager to observe the procedure for converting the fresh fruit.

She glanced at the sun overhead, attempting to gauge how much time had elapsed. More, it seemed, than she had anticipated. Ordinarily, such inefficiency would have bothered the Vulcan, but since her arrival three days ago, a sense of calm had descended upon her, unlike anything she had ever known.

She gazed into the distance, pondering her current situation. How ironic that she should find serenity in such a setting and with such companions. And yet, the last three days had been so peaceful that she had not found it necessary to meditate!

Charles’ convalescence required that he still do a great deal of sleeping, so T’Pol’s mornings were spent on long, pleasant walks with Mrs. Tucker. Although the women might discuss various topics during their outings, neither felt obliged to do so. Silence was just as comfortable as conversation.

In the afternoons, Mr. Tucker usually invited her to his workshop—an old barn behind the main house—to inspect or assist with his motley collection of “gadgets.” The man had an affinity for ancient Earth transportation devices, and there were numerous specimens from different eras in various states of repair. His favorite was something called a ‘57 Chevy, which was, according to Mr. Tucker, “cherry.” (Apparently comparing a device powered by an internal combustion engine to a piece of fruit was an indication of mechanical superiority.)

T’Pol shook her head in wonder. The young Vulcan had fully expected her visit to be trying in the extreme, however well she had gotten along with the Tuckers during their short time on Enterprise. She had expected to be overwhelmed and exhausted by having to deal with their emotions. Instead, her visit had been more peaceful than if she had been on a retreat at a Vulcan monastery.

As she contemplated her situation, T’Pol meandered along the blackberry bramble, wondering where the other “berriers” were. She was concerned that Charles might overexert himself. According to Mrs. Tucker, this was his first outing of any length since his return to Earth.

She strolled past the rows, looking down each for a sign of her companions. Mr. Tucker waved to her from the far end of one. T’Pol acknowledged his greeting, but moved on.

Finally she spotted Charles, sitting in the middle of a row near the end of the blackberry patch. She moved briskly toward him, worried. Her eyes quickly took in the details as she neared his recumbent form. Yes, the berry-picking had most certainly been too much for him. His basket had hardly any berries in it, and he was drooping in the heat. Even more alarming, there was some sort of strange discoloration around his mouth!

Trip turned when he heard her coming and gifted her with a beatific smile. T’Pol paused, uncertain. He certainly did not seem exhausted. But the bluish tinge around his lips was very disturbing.

“Charles!” she called. “Have you overtired yourself? I will take you back to the transport.”

He looked surprised at her obvious concern. “No, T’Pol, I was just enjoying the day. And the berries.”

The Vulcan blinked, puzzled for a moment. Then her brain reassessed the evidence before her. It was not exhaustion that left his basket devoid of berries. The discoloration around his mouth had an external source.

“You have been eating the berries!” she accused him severely. He looked disconcerted by her reaction.

“Well, yeah, T’Pol, that’s why we’re out here!”

“I understood that our objective was to harvest the berries so that your mother could...put up...preserves and other such items,” the Vulcan stated, eyeing him in confusion.

Now it was Trip’s turn to blink. “We’ve got all day, T’Pol. Mom’ll get her berries.” He cocked his head at her, puzzled. “Part of the fun is eating ‘em straight off the vine,” he continued, giving her a purple-toothed grin to emphasize his point.

T’Pol looked down at the full basket of which she had been so proud mere moments before. It certainly did not look “fun.” Charles followed her gaze and a disappointed look stole over his face.

“You didn’t eat a single berry, did you?” he said, a note of pity creeping into his voice.

“You said that we were going berry-picking,” she responded defensively, appalled to hear petulance in her own voice. “Not berry-eating.”

His bewildered expression was almost comical. “But that’s what you do when you go berry-picking!” he protested. “You eat twice as much as you put in your basket!”

T’Pol kept her gaze on her full basket, which now seemed completely unsatisfactory. “I was not aware of this custom,” she said slowly, disheartened that she had apparently misinterpreted the purpose of their outing. It had seemed that she was adapting to their culture so well!

“I’m sorry, T’Pol,” the human apologized. “I shoulda realized that you wouldn’t know the ins and outs of berry-picking tradition.” He appeared truly upset at his failure to impart the critical details. She moved the final few steps separating them and sat down gracefully at his side.

“Perhaps you can explain them to me,” she reasoned, settling the basket in her lap. “What, exactly, are the particulars that must be observed to fully appreciate this custom?”

The purple grin reappeared. “Well, with berry-picking, the main thing is to have fun.”

“Not to pick berries?” T’Pol attempted to clarify.

“To have fun while picking berries,” he amended. “I mean, if you just wanted berries, you could get ‘em at the store!”

“And how is fun accomplished while berry-picking?” she queried, glancing down at the scratches on her arms.

“There are a bunch of variables that affect the fun factor,” he explained, matching her tone in the spirit of scientific inquiry.

“Such as?”

“First, you have to do it with people you love.”

“Family members, for example,” she offered, nodding in the direction of his father.

“And other loved ones,” he added, giving her a shy glance. She nodded acquiescence. They sat in contented silence for a moment.

“You said there were many variables,” she prodded him.

He pondered a moment. “It helps if it’s a gorgeous day.” Their eyes rose as one to the cloudless blue sky. T’Pol had to admit that the weather was ideal for an outdoor excursion. The day was pleasantly warm, not stiflingly hot.

“And,” Charles continued with enthusiasm, “you absolutely haveta eat the berries straight off the vine!”

T’Pol lifted an eyebrow. “You are implying that berries eaten straight from the vine would be superior to these,” she held up her basket, “despite the fact that they were picked less than an hour ago?”

His confidence never wavered. “Absolutely!” When she continued to regard him doubtfully, he gestured to her basket. “Try one of those, T’Pol, and we’ll see.”

The Vulcan obligingly selected a plump berry and put it in her mouth. It was wonderfully tart, and yet sweet at the same time. She raised her eyes to his. “It is quite tasteful,” she acknowledged.

He grinned, leaning over to pluck a berry from the bramble. “Okay, now try this one!” T’Pol took the fruit from his hand and put it in her mouth. It too was delicious, but not in such a way as to make it superior to the first berry. The Vulcan turned her raised eyebrow back to her companion, slightly amused to see his face fall.

“Oh, c’mon, T’Pol!” Charles protested. “You can’t tell me those berries tasted the same!” When her skeptical glance told him that she could, and did, he refused to admit defeat.

“Try it again,” he grumbled, pointing at her basket brusquely, before turning to pluck another berry from the bramble. Deciding to humor him, T’Pol calmly selected and consumed another berry from her basket. Once again, her senses delighted in the tang of the fruit as it slid happily down her throat.

Charles did not seem as happy as the berries. He wore a scowl that suggested he was contemplating shoving the specimen he currently held down her throat. “Here!” He held it out to her, scowling.

An unprecedented sense of mischief prompted T’Pol’s next action. Rather than taking it with her hand, she leaned over and delicately grasped it with her mouth, allowing her tongue to suggestively swipe his fingers as she did so.

His surliness dissolved instantly.

T’Pol chewed and swallowed slowly, never taking her eyes from his. “While this berry has certain...qualities that the others lacked, I still can discern no marked difference between those from my basket and those directly from the vine,” she reported.

When he continued to stare openmouthed, she went on. “Perhaps you should try one of these?” She took a berry from the basket in her lap and held it out to him. “They may not be as inferior as you believe.”

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He leaned over and secured the berry gently with his teeth, hesitating just long enough to allow her to trace his bottom lip with her index finger. He cast a thoughtful look up at the sky while swallowing the fruit.

“You may have a point there, T’Pol,” he conceded.

The Vulcan could be gracious in victory. “I suspect that it is not the time lapse from vine to basket, but the manner in which the fruit is presented that is the deciding factor,” she theorized.

Charles raised an amused eyebrow at her. “We should test that hypothesis.”

“Agreed.” T’Pol was already reaching into her basket for another berry. She set the basket out of the way decisively once she had made her selection.

As she placed it in his mouth, he brought his own hand up behind hers, entwining his fingers with her own. He pressed his lips gently into her open palm and then traced from her palm to the inside of her wrist with his tongue.

T’Pol grasped his face between her hands in order to bring his lips to her own. He had not shaved that morning, and the stubble scraped her tender skin, but she did not mind. On the contrary, the friction was exceedingly... pleasant. She gently raked his bottom lip with her teeth, wishing to share the sensation. A soft groan told her that her efforts were appreciated.

Charles’ hands were now gliding past her ears—she shivered at the brief caress—and into her hair. He twined his fingers through her short locks, angling her head so as to better facilitate their connection. She attempted to emulate his technique, but his hair was still too short to allow a firm grip. She dropped her hands to his chest instead, pausing momentarily to feel his heart beat beneath her palms. Then she embraced him with fervor, bringing their bodies together with a force that drove an “Ooof!” from lips still attached to her own.

For a brief moment, she remembered that he was still recuperating from serious injuries. Perhaps she should suggest that they refrain from such intense cardiovascular activity? But then he began nibbling his way down her throat, and all logical thought fled her mind. She reclined on the soft earth and pulled him down with her.

T’Pol was too intensely focused on navigating the logistics of their coupling—there was a decided lack of coordination in the placement of arms and legs—to notice anything else. Otherwise, she might have heard the footsteps approaching. As it was, neither she nor Charles was aware of anything but each other until a hearty voice interrupted their endeavors.

“Hey, you two kids—Hell’s bells!”

“Oh my—!”

“Come along, mother!”

For all his comments about sparking, Mr. Tucker was not prepared for the sight that greeted him. He rallied, however, dragging his equally startled wife away from the scene with alacrity. As she and Charles broke apart with an audible “pop,” T’Pol caught a brief glimpse of two pairs of feet hastening away.

She raised herself to one elbow staring after her companion’s retreating parents for a moment, then looking down at Charles, uncertainty furrowing her brow. Her friend seemed caught between mortification and hilarity. Before she could inquire about proper human etiquette in such a situation, a tentative voice drifted across the blackberry patch from several rows away.

“Honey?” T’Pol had never heard Mrs. Tucker sound so unsure of herself. “Um, you know that Dr. Phlox didn’t want you to...to engage in anything too...um...strenuous for at least six weeks!”

Before either she or Charles could react, both caught Mr. Tucker’s hissed comment to his wife, “Hush, woman! Don’t be such a killjoy!”

At this, Charles clapped both hands over his mouth and turned a vivid shade of red. T’Pol was alarmed until she noticed that his eyes were bulging with mirth. His shoulders began to shake, and tears of laughter ran down his temples into his hair.

The Vulcan did not understand what he found so humorous in his mother’s comments. Mrs. Tucker certainly had a valid point. Given the state of his health, T’Pol’s attempt to entice him into a sexual liaison had been extremely irresponsible. She raised an eyebrow at her companion.

“Your mother is quite correct,” she chided him, when he failed to see the seriousness of the situation. “You are certainly not physically capable of sexual relations at this time.”

“Aw, c’mon, T’Pol,” he protested, stifling his mirth with difficulty. “I was doin’ just fine until we were interrupted.” He cocked his eyebrows at her and gave a pleading smile. T’Pol wanted to believe him, but a brief visual inspection revealed a touch of pallor beneath his fading blush.

“If you will recall,” T’Pol reminded him, “our previous...interlude was extremely taxing for you. And you were in perfect health at that time.” A look of indignation replaced the amusement on his face. He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. “There is the distinct possibility that premature participation in...strenuous activity could result in cardiac arrest.”

Trip scowled, skewering her with a disgruntled look. “Death by sex? You’ve gotta be kidding me, T’Pol!”

“While I admit that it is unlikely, there is a slight possibility,” she responded primly.

He grimaced, but only for a moment. “It’s worth the risk!” he declared, a raffish grin creeping over his face. “And if I don’t make it, damn! Helluva way to go!” He raised his eyebrows at her and opened his arms invitingly, giving her a mischievous, hopeful look.

T’Pol narrowed her eyes at him. “Your demise would leave me in an extremely awkward position,” she commented wryly. “There would be many questions to answer.”

He deflated somewhat, contemplating the imaginary scenario. “Yeah, there’d be a lot of paperwork. And it’d probably put a serious damper on human-Vulcan relations.”

She nodded, relieved that he had decided to be rational. “It could also inhibit any members of our species who might be considering the path we have chosen,” she added softly, raising her eyes to his.

Her companion met her gaze with a wistful smile. “The sacrifices we make for posterity,” he sighed theatrically.

T’Pol allowed the corners of her mouth to turn up ever-so-slightly as she inclined her head toward him. “Indeed.”

They sat silently for several moments, enjoying the simple—and non-lethal—pleasure of holding hands. Then T’Pol picked up his near-empty basket.

“I should continue to procure berries,” she decided. “You have not met your quota,” she added, giving him a pointed look.

“I’ll sit here and guard your basket,” he announced grandly. “Leave the berry-picking to a real go-getter.” When he noticed her stony glare, he asked defensively, “What?”

“From whom will you be guarding the berries?” she inquired skeptically.

Charles waved at the skies expansively. “Oh, there are loads of birds around that would try to take ‘em,” he explained. “I’ve personally seen some really vicious crows go kamikaze on people. Gotta protect our harvest, T’Pol.” He returned her gaze, wide-eyed, the picture of innocence.

T’Pol noticed that the tinge of pallor in his face was more pronounced now that his blush had receded, and she realized that he was inventing an excuse to rest. She should have known that he gave in to her earlier arguments far too easily. Still, it would not do to reveal that she was aware of his motives. His stubborn pride might goad him to insist on accompanying her.

“Who will guard the berries from you?” she asked dubiously.

He put his hand over his heart, as if offended by her suspicions. “T’Pol, they aren’t straight from the vine, so without the proper...um...presentation, your berries are safe from me.” He threw in a leer, as if to convince her that any designs he had were not on the berries.

She sighed, rising to her feet. “Very well,” she acquiesced. “But will you also ‘guard’ my outerwear? It has become quite warm.” T’Pol removed her sweater and draped it over his shoulders. He pulled it around himself, batted his lashes at her, and eyed her expectantly.

When she raised an eyebrow in inquiry, he asked, “You’re not gonna take off any more?”

She gave him a long-suffering look designed to impart just how much he was trying her patience. “Hardly. It would be extremely inappropriate.” She ignored his exaggerated look of disappointment, gathered the empty basket, and strode away, careful not to look back.

T’Pol paused here and there to pick berries, but the row had already been thoroughly gleaned. When she reached the end, she finally turned to look back. Her companion lay on his side, wrapped in her sweater and curled up around her basket like a juvenile Earth feline. The steady rise and fall of his ribcage told her that he had already fallen asleep.

No, she thought. He certainly is not recovered enough for...strenuous activity.

To her surprise, she found that the realization left her thoroughly disappointed.

Chapter 3

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Nine of you have made comments

Awesome! This was a really great chapter with lot of little "aw" moments. I liked how T'Pol reacted to Trip telling her she was picking berries the wrong way, and I thought it was really funny that she'd been so serious about it. The whole scene was so easy for me to imagine.. I just went beery picking last weekend! Please update soon!

That was so cute! Too funny how they were discovered by Trip's parents! I love this story. Please keep going!

Oh, poor kids! That was a very beautiful chapter!!

I so loved:

T’Pol narrowed her eyes at him. “Your demise would leave me in an extremely awkward position,” she commented wryly. “There would be many questions to answer.”

:-))))))

Continue soon, please!!

Great story! Very cute. Hope you continue!! :-)

Great stuff, keep it up. They're so cute!

I loved this, very amusing and sweet. And it was so funny when Trip's parents discovered them - I couldn't stop laughing. Bravo! Ali D :~)

Absolutely marvellous, can't wait for more.

This is sooo cute!

"...enjoying the simple—and non-lethal—pleasure of holding hands."

Non-lethal...LOL!

Please continue soon!

Poor T'Pol, six weeks is a long time! LOL I hope Trip's recovery moves quicker!