Mood Swing- Pt 3

Mood Swing

By Sue

E-MAIL: susieqla@yahoo.com
RATING: PG-13, Friendship/Romance?
SPOILERS: "Rajiin" - "If we were pursuing a romantic relationship, it wouldn't be Lt. Reed's concern, would it?
ARCHIVE: Yes.
DISCLAIMER: 'Enterprise' is the property of Paramount and its associates. No profit is being made.
SUMMARY: Missing scene...

Notes: This is an on-going string of vignettes, tailored to this pair's developing relationship.

Credit: Ms. Bonnie Raitt's, 'Something To Talk About.'

Part 3

***************

Once, maybe even twice, being fair, and if recollection served correctly, Trip Tucker had been accused of being a little slow on the uptake. His sister Lizzy had often said sometimes in jest that a brick wall had nothing on him. She, on the other hand, had been wizard at getting a clue even before a concrete word was said.

It had just happened to him again; he would be obliged to add to the growing list of delayed reaction.

Trip blinked, halting in the middle of the corridor whose sentinel walls seemed to close in on him. What'd she mean by it? he thought fuzzily, the surah'than she'd performed on him working its desired effect. Yawning, he heard the words she'd spoken as though she stood right in front of him.

'...If we were pursuing a romantic relationship, it wouldn't be Lieutenant Reed's concern, would it?'

Unsteady on his feet, Trip stared wide-eyed into empty, quietly-humming space. 'If we WERE...'

What he had said echoed in the recesses of his startled mind. '...I suppose not...' He'd gone with his first impulse, and did he regret having replied his hasty words in hindsight? Bricks from said wall might not do the trick, but a feather would serve the purpose handily for knocking him over, right about now.

Did T'Pol want him? Did HE want HER? Was that where all their, "I'll stimulate yours, if you'll stimulate mine" sessions leading? Could innocence coexist with an intimacy that was becoming increasingly more suggestive, and in turn, that much more addictive? It felt right when she was attending him, but when he left her, he was aware that she stayed on his mind to an inordinate extent each time...her touch, her being, her very essence.

For some clear out of left field reason, the refrain from an ancient Pop tune looped in his brain... 'Let's give 'em somethin' to talk about. Love ain't a mystery to figure out. Let's give 'em something to talk about.how about love, love, lo-ve...'

(...Get ahold of yourself, Tucker, man. She's Vulcan to the nth degree and you're one, hot-headed, hot-blooded too, for that matter, son-of-a-gun...who'd hold her in my arms, and kiss her like she's meant to be kissed...WHOA--where the hell did THAT come from? Aw, crap, the little vixen's really gettin' to me. Takin' a cold shower'd undo all her work, but not a bad idea considerin' what I feel wantin' to twinge below deck...)

Ashamed, Trip shook off his source of embarrassment…and his stupor. He shambled into a skittish walk. If he could just get to his quarters, and collapse atop his bunk instead of here. That was a goal to shoot for.

'...If we WERE...'

He gulped, waiting for the lift and boarded it when it finally came. He felt as if he needed a good, stiff belt of the nauseating elixir his maternal grandma swore by that would cure, "Anythin', ailin' a body," Geritol. It was all so strange. On the one hand he was bone tired, yet on the other, the idea of being with T'Pol this very moment, getting to know her oh, so much better still, sent his pulse racing.

("And she's as good as told you she couldn't care less if the whole ship knows.")

Trip cursed the sway of thought his mind was taking.

"Dirty double crosser," he mumbled louder than he intended. Malcolm, his third closest friend, and T'Pol-obsessed, would conveniently credit him for stabbing him in the back with a knife he never saw coming. I can't do it to poor Malc, he argued with himself, despite what seems to be developin' between us.

("What's that, exactly, Action Jackson?")

"The hell I know. Two lonely souls tryin' ta connect someway, somehow? She's good company when she forgets how Vulcan she is and how human I am. Easy to talk to, most times. Smart as all get out. We work well together, as a rule. She's got the prettiest dark brown eyes. God, she has no clue how sexy she is when she's not in uniform... Slips out of the top of her p-jays..." He breathed in deeply, momentarily forgetting how to breathe out. A fine sheen of sweat coated his wrinkled brow. "And...I still kinda feel responsible for lousin' up her weddin' plans... Sorta."

The flip side of his conscience taunted, ("You told her what she needed to hear. How's it your fault she made the decision to stay? You want her for yourself, lose the guilt trip. You've been in space so long, you can't tell when a woman wants you like nobody's business, Loverboy?")

"No-no-no! Shut-the-hell-up! Loverboy--ha! That sure's never been me!" Trip ranted.

("As your dear friend Malcolm would spout, 'To thine own self be true...'")

Trip capped his ears with his hands, filling the lift with impassioned denials. It was a good thing he was leaving as two crew members came aboard. There would have been no stretch of either the woman's or the man's imaginations that the Chief Engineer was losing it if they had been a party to his one-sided tirade. He had scarcely noticed them, stumbling out, muttering something incoherent about, "Green with envy...olive... olive....soft, sweet...beautiful..."

("Thinkin' 'bout you every day...")

"Dreamin' 'bout ya every night," Trip absently sang, and when he realized what he'd so mindlessly chirped, he groaned.

He was in desperate need of his cabin. He couldn't be seen in such a state, rambling on and on with himself, no soul in sight. People might think him unwell. It would get back to Phlox, and the Denobulan 'buttinski' would order him to stay with T'Pol overnight.

("Hmmm, and that would be bad because?")

"--Now cut that out, dammit!"

Trip felt a strong urge to reward himself with a good swift one where any sun in the known galaxy never shined. "This is her doing. She's makin' me want ta want her, but it's just not right. It's crazy, inn't it?" Offering up a rushed prayer of thanks for having made it back to his haven, he practically toppled into his quarters, nearly tripping over his own feet once inside.

He dropped to his hands and knees anyway, crawling the final leg of his journey to his bunk which seemed to beckon to him. Were his ears playing tricks on him the way his mind was? He would hardly be surprised, judging that he had succumbed to a certain voluptuous Vulcan's uncanny influence. Relax! he told himself gruffly, just your imagination. You're almost there...just a little further...sleep...sleep.

He stood long enough to throw himself upon his resting place and it felt as though the bunk had waiting arms all its own. He sighed deeply, telling himself that at least he'd gotten something out of their sessions. The breathing exercises could relax him instantly at this stage--and a good thing too.

He'd tell her tomorrow. They'd had their last session tonight; there would be no more. It wasn't that he no longer trusted her. He couldn't trust himself, not now, anyway, and hurting Malcolm was the last thing he ever wanted to do.

"In, out, in, out, in..." he coached. "Good, good." He halted his encouragement to redirect his focus. "Thank you, T'Pol..." It didn't take long before he was drifting, skimming over puffs of perceptions effortlessly, in a glorious state of semi-unconsciousness and feeling sublime. He was floating on a bed of dewy rose petals, blazing red, passionate in their intensity. "Thanks so much, T'Pol," he murmured, reaching for her hand, the one his subconscious extended to him which he grasped, pressing it to his heart like a keepsake. "Can't thank ya enough."

"...Pleasant dreams, t'nmri'lau," his dream girl whispered to his mind. "Rest well..."

Cupping her flawless hand, he eagerly brought it to his lips. Seeing her gratified smile, the dreamer tenderly kissed its delicate knuckles. Trip yawned loudly, several times, wallowing in bliss, thoroughly sated, as always. He, securer in the knowledge that in the power of her desire of wanting to help him, she had banished his terrible nightmares. Following a soft snort of a snore, he blearily admitted, "I don't wanna give ya up." He sounded all of ten, again.

He rolled over onto his side, tucked well into the deepest sleep since beginning neuropressure therapy. This boon, this miracle, was her gift to him, only for him, for as long as he needed her to bestow it.

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TBC - End Part 3

Continue to Part 4

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