Mood Swing- Pt 5

Mood Swing

By Sue

E-MAIL: susieqla@yahoo.com
RATING: PG-13
CATEGORY: Friendship/Romance?
SPOILERS: “Exile”
ARCHIVE: Yes.
DISCLAIMER: 'Enterprise' is the property of Paramount and its associates. No profit is being made.
SUMMARY: Missing scene...

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

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Part 5

Down Time

The Commander, following the softly-spoken suggestion made by the single-minded Vulcan who was gently kneading his temples, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. His head rested in her lap much to his initial discomfort. With each session, it seemed as though greater proximity was called for. It wasn't so much that he minded being right up on T'Pol. She was nice to be close to. The closeness, however, made keeping his cool, so to speak, all the more difficult. She did smell great, though, as if he had gotten lost in a sprawling forest thickly populated by towering pines and spruces.

"You're tense. You were like this when we first began. Perhaps even more than your introductory session. It might be logical to assume that you are back at square one, if you pardon the overused expression." She rearranged the angle of his head a third time and he groaned in response.

The scent of her breath wafted its way to him, bathing his lazily smiling face with its warmth. He enjoyed hearing the twinge of concern he believed was couched in her voice. "You'd be tense too if you had to personally oversee the repair of dozens of anomaly-related breaches. This boy is one tired pup and on my last nerve. If your findin's go on to uncover even more spheres than just the fifty scanned so far, I've got my work cut out for me, I'm talkin' dinkum."

Where was Starfleet's gift to translation when she was needed? It was no wonder how famously Hoshi and the commander got on when it came to conversation. Sato was never left wallowing in ambiguity by reason of Mr. Tucker's inventive use of dialect. T'Pol, maintaining her honed nonchalance, evenly asked, "This 'dinkum' you speak of...what is it?" Trip opened his eyes and, if sworn to truth, T'Pol could have testified that his blue orbs twinkled.

"The real deal, total honesty," he said, slowly and deliberately.

"You were free to solicit my assistance, Mister Tuck--"

"Back to another square one," he teased, wriggling his offshoot of a nose at her in her upside down direction. "I thought we'd settled this. Call me Charles when it's just you and me. Charlie even, not givin' up hope, or call me nothin'."

The Vulcan, in her best imitation of one of the ancient Stoic philosophers, who easily might have called Athens his hometown, replied, "Nothing."

Trip chuckled, delighted that their growing familiarity allowed her to kid him; and she *was* teasing right back. Her wrinkle-free deadpanning didn't fool him any more. She had a keen sense of humor buried beneath all her stolid Vulcan training. "Cute." He reached up and pinched her nose between the mid-joints of his index and middle fingers. "You're a regular Lucille Ball."

"An historic icon, I take it." Her nose throbbed only a little; the Commander generally underestimated the considerable strength of his powerful hands. "Interesting how I've never come across her name in the Vulcan databases."

"Doesn't surprise me one bit. The VDs don't have a sense of humor. Lucille Ball was the madcap first lady of comedy way, way back in the twentieth century. For fifty years, or so, she had America, and in time, the whole world, in stitches. Remind me to run a 'I Love Lucy' episode for ya sometime; one of my particular favorites is when she's doin' the Vitameatavegamin girl routine. Even as we speak, back on Earth, one of those reruns is playin' somewhere. It'll be a great shot in the arm for your buddin' sense of humor, S-c. That woman's great!"

"You talk as though she were still alive...Charles."

Trip beamed, doubly pleased. "Hell, she is. Great entertainers like her never die. They live in the hearts and minds of all who still can't get enough of 'em. Mass-media preservation's a beautiful thing."

A fiercely sentimental race indeed, T'Pol pondered, beginning to understand at last why humans were so puzzling and enthralling at the same time. They were as fiercely pragmatic too; of late, she was seeing a whole nother side of Captain Archer she had never suspected lurked beneath his biases. As a totality, perhaps she'd never fully understand the species, but evaluating them on a one-on-one basis, as her sojourn aboard Enterprise readily afforded, was proving more and more invaluable each day.

"What is 'I Love Lucy?'"

"You're just full o' questions tonight." He rolled his eyes at her, tantalizing her sense of curiosity further. The commander had also called the extraordinary female comedienne the 'Queen of Comedy.' Treating T'Pol to his best put-upon sigh, he responsively answered, "The name of her T.V. series, back in the late forties, early fifties if I recollect correctly, give or take. And that's the nineteen forties, fifties. It, like she, was ahead of its time. It was said Lucy was the first woman who wore pants as a matter of course on her show, and from that time on, women have worn the pants, so to speak, ever since." Waxing tongue-in-cheek, Trip released an airy-sounding breath.

As though on cue, T'Pol said, "So, why didn't you ask for my assistance with the repairs?"

With a wrinkled forehead, and a gaze that retreated a little from hers, he rejoined, "Because it wasn't the safest thing for you to be involved with. Cap'n ordered me to shore up the damage with a derivative alloy of Trellium. Not a whole lot, mind you, but just enough to reinforce the weakened structures to see if it works the way the projections indicate it should." He paused significantly before he told her what had been troubling him ever since the experimental project had begun, without her knowledge. "Spatially attenuated and trans-alchemized or not, why risk it? I don't want you anywhere near that fluky stuff. It could still be lethal to ya, even in this transmuted version." He patted both of her hands that were still moored at his temples. "Playin' it safe has a lot goin' for it."

"I appreciate your concern for my well-being..."

He expected her to give him a hard way to go, but to his thorough amazement,
she left it at that. He had already lost Lizzie; T'Pol wasn't going to be added to that sad list, not if he had any role in keeping her out of harm's way.

"While I was in Sickbay today, Doctor Phlox wanted my analysis of how your neuropressure sessions are proceeding," T'Pol said a shade too expectantly, and hearing it, she mildly reproved herself in the privacy of her mind. "If you'll be needing many more of them."

As though the effect of holding his breath influenced the sound of his voice, he asked, "What did ya tell him?"

T'Pol, not mincing words, but drawing each one out to dramatic perfection, replied, "I told him you are deriving great benefit from neuropressure."

"Okay, but somehow I sense that's not all you told him..." Trip winked unabashedly at her, hanging his hopes on a strong hunch. Her heart, despite her objectivity, beat irregularly a time or two.

Collecting herself, she added, "You are a long way off from optimal mental and emotional stability. I recommended more sessions."

The additional chuckling emanated from deep within his throat. "Aside from your makin' me sound like a serious head case, and as the old expression once went, 'Bellevue bait,' combined, you done good, kiddo."

Rewarded by his wide, affecting smile, she retorted, "I postulated you'd be pleased."

"Hell, yeah. You postulate as efficiently as always."

"Dinkum, to quote you?"

"Yes." His hands closed over hers, his ears warming still further from his
temperature subtly starting to rise.

"And why did I succeed in pleasing you?" she thoughtfully asked.

"You know why. These past several weeks...I think it's become more than a mite obvious, T'Pol." He squeezed her hands, and delighted over her not seeking to squirm out of his possessive claim of her.

As though his grip on her was a signal that she lower her face closer to his, she responded the way he hoped she would. She couldn't help it. It was as if she were impelled by some irresistible force forcing her to pay homage upon the pristine altar of his lips which beckoned. The act of surrendering herself to him did not shock her nearly as much as the fleeting thought had when their first session had drawn to a close. Yield to temptation? Was it merely temptation, or something more binding than physical attraction? Even she couldn't deny that her feelings for Charles Tucker were proving stronger than her desire to impugn them.

As long as she lived, there would never be another male who could be his equal. Or maybe that was the way he made her feel. When she was with him, she felt processions of things hard to mold into logical thought. In and of itself, emotional responses, as long as they were strictly regulated, did not mean a complete breakdown of control, she was learning day by day. Her careful indulgences in them were new, and revelatory experiences, helping her grow. These garnered her clearer insights into her human associates. The lingering ill-effects of concentrated Trellium exposure might be the heightening cause, but something more primal buried deep within her told her differently. Although so thoroughly human, the commander was potent inducement all his own. Was it any wonder that he caused her to sidestep around all that had made her what she was, up till now? Yes, he was human, and so what? It wasn't the grand issue it once had been. Intriguing how attached she felt to him...to Charles Tucker, the Third.

Implausibly, the commander interrupted the downward descent of her lips to his, lips that he had wanted to sample since that first day he thought he'd seen her curl them at him in distaste. "Hold that thought," he whispered, "least till I've got enough energy to finish what I think we both want to start. Don't take this wrong, but your magic fingers always put me in the mood when the pressure's just right. I'm so sleepy." He battled against yawning, but failed.

Regally, drawing herself up, T'Pol nodded, outwardly, unperturbed. He made true sense of course; the purpose of neuropressure was to induce restorative sleep, not prime sexual drive, per se; that could come over time. The commander was still a relatively new recipient of this form of treatment. Inwardly, she held her disappointment in check.

"The only logical thing to do is for you to retire to your quarters, Charles."

"I was thinkin' the same thing, 'bout retirin', that is." Trying to stifle another pesky yawn, he said, angling, "Only...'stead of hikin' back to my place, ya might let me camp out here..." Defending his daring request, he expressed, "I'd just like to be near ya a little longer, is all. I'll sleep right on this." He thumped the treatment table with the heel of his foot. "Facin' my bunk alone is hard sometimes right after ya do what ya do to me." He shook his head to clear it as best he could. "If it's a bad idea, just say so. I'll understand."

"Your idea has merit," T'Pol told him, detecting his need for closeness by the way he spoke. Neuropressure had varying immediate aftereffects on individuals; reactions were never predictable.

"So, you don't mind?"

"The only thing I mind is your choice of furniture. My bunk is more preferable for deeper sleep than this table."

"And where're you gonna sleep?" Tucker asked knowingly, expecting her to say the floor on cushions.

"Beside you," was her unemotional response.

His mouth fell open, and like a reflex, he closed it, imagining how dumb he looked. "You sure 'bout that, T'Pol?" Trip assayed, not quite believing she'd said it.

"Completely."

"No hanky-panky, I swear. On my honor as a perfect gentleman. I just don't wanna be so alone tonight. Some of the bad dreams have kicked in again. I don't get 'em as frequently, like I used to, but lately...I don't know. The one where I'm little and callin' to Lizzie who's smack in the path of that damn beam's started up again."

Removing her hands from his ears, and mindful of the way she dislodged him from her lap, she stood. She glanced at her bunk and then back at Tucker who rose to meet her gaze with his discarded t-shirt in hand. Extending her hand to him, she invited, "You won't have that dream tonight. I will help you refocus. Come, take your rest, Charles. I will be near. Permit Lucille Ball to be your guide."

Accepting what she was offering, Trip clasped her hand, and allowed her to lead him to the accommodating sanctuary she graciously tendered. "Thanks for bein' so understandin'. You're an angel."

"No Charles, I am your friend...an honor."

The lump clogged his throat before he realized he was having difficulty swallowing. He wanted to hug her; the quiet intensity of her eyes suggested he do something demonstrative. By and large, he wasn't the type to agonize over a thing, the tragedy involving the cogenitor, notwithstanding. Should he or shouldn't he? He wondered if she had ever been hugged. She looked as though she could use a good one, like so many times before but he had lacked the nerve to presume. She wasn't the impassible woman he thought she could only be, not anymore.

"Angel, friend...one in the same, the way I see it...and I'm definitely yours. The honor goes both ways." He hugged her. Unassumingly, he molded his body to hers; it was a perfect fit. He rested his chin upon her shoulder and closed his weary eyes.

Cautiously, following the novelty of sensations bombarding her, with his arms holding her tight, T'Pol gradually reciprocated, deeply moved.

^_^_^_^_^_^

Continue to Part 6

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