Mood Swing- Pt 9

Mood Swing

By Sue

E-MAIL: susieqla@yahoo.com
RATING: PG-13
CATEGORY: Friendship/Romance?
SPOILERS: “Carpenter Street,”
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.

Part 9

Impressed, and thinking what a good job she and the captain had done, what they'd accomplished in the past that had been trifled with, Trip scrutinized the blue-tagged haul a bit more closely. "Nice work." His eyes shifted back to her face. Judgin' from this, it was a cake walk."

T'Pol took the compliment in stride in her own inimitable way, nothing registering on her face, one of her more demurring attributes. She admitted to herself that hearing his commendation pleased her. "No, Commander..." Trip's facial expression remained neutral so T'Pol assumed he was too preoccupied to insist that she address him more familiarly. "Cake was never involved. There was, however, an over-consumption of beef." Ever so slightly, T'Pol's nose curled, much as it had when Porthos had entered her quarters, preceding his master, making himself right at home on the mat intended for leaving one's boots. 'Beagle needles,' the dog's thin, straight hairs, were vexatious to clean out of the fabric.

"Do tell," Trip said, joviality saturating his voice. Skipping to the fun part, he went on, "How'd you have yours? Rare, medium or well done?"

Sniffing louder than she'd meant to, she coolly retorted, "The Xindi abettor and the captain solely partook. I consumed nothing."

Mockingly, but sounding good-natured about it, Trip replied, "Nothin'. You're not gonna stand there and say you didn't eat a bite the whole time you were back in time?" The placid look on her face was his answer; this particular look used to gall him to no end. "The whole time?"

"Precisely." The memory of the voice behind the garish drive-thru menu replayed in her mind. "The thought of adding bacon strips to the fiesta salad I was encouraged to have destroyed my appetite." She purposely dismissed the name of the unscrupulous human from the past, Loomis, and referred to him as, "the subject," after nearly terming him, "the specimen." "He resorted to name calling--"

"What did he call ya?" Trip asked trying with difficulty to contain his amusement.

"A vegan." The 'e' she elongated as though it were a musical note.

"Why, sure, that's what he thought you were comin' off like ya did. It's short for vegetarian, that's what they were called back then. Guess he used the word loosely. Strict vegans shunned leather or fur."

She looked at Trip questioningly. "Explain the purpose of igniting thin white sticks held in the mouth."

"Come again?" he answered, with an air of, 'what in the world are ya talkin' about?' chiseled on his face.

"The smoke emitted when the stick was lit smelled toxic."

There was that thing she did with her nose again, Trip saw. Then it dawned on him. "*Cigarette*! You're talkin' about a cig...cancer sticks...nails for the coffin." Anticipating, Trip serviceably supplied, "Alternative, more colorful names for the culprits responsible for bumper crops of early deaths throughout the twenty-first century courtesy the addiction. Until the breakthrough was made early in the twenty-second, that is; smokin' went the way of fossil fuels once the creation of new ozone neutralized the supposed pleasurable effects smokin' had on folks. Talk about cold turkey and it was just about the time pulmo-aeromulation was introduced. Gave a whole new meanin' to the phrase, 'breath of fresh air...'"

"Cigarette," T'Pol repeated. The nasal gymnastics she performed was impressive. Trip hid his reckless grin behind his hand. "Highly malodorous."

Pulling on his chin, her friend gazed at her slyly. "You tried one, did ya?" The imagery of her taking a slow drag temporarily crossed his eyes; old movies where the leads lit up spooled in his mind, one film in particular, "Now, Voyager." Paul Henreid's finesse popped into recollection.

Inwardly, T'Pol cringed and her facial muscles nearly gave her reaction away. "Not I. The amoral lackey prepared to use one in front of me, but I prevented him." Her timbre of self-satisfaction was more than a little obvious. The phantom of a smile, characteristic of one that needed perfecting, threatened her inviolate deadpan.

"So, on a scale of one-ta-ten, how would you rate your visit among unsuspecting earth folks, circa two thousand an' four?" He was cocksure he knew what she was going to say.

"Enlightening; I would rate it a seven-point-five-two." T'Pol lifted her chin higher, as though she had something to crow about. "Considering your hampered past, as a species, you've made tremendous progress in cultural, ethical, and of course, technological advancement."

"If that was a compliment, it needs work, but on second thought," he artfully arched, merriment crinkling the corner of his eyes, "takin' into account the spirit in which it was given, on behalf of the human race, past, present and future, I'll accept it." He had missed her with her highbrow Vulcan high-and-mightiness, intact; she'd grown on him--and how--how she had. "Feels like you were away for ages."

Something about the way he said that was much to her liking as well. "Indeed. We were in the past a total of seventy-five hours, twenty-one minutes, three point seven seconds, according to time calculation as prescribed by the parameters of time, then."

Trip wondered if she heard herself talking about being in the past like that, she the former scoffer of all things connected with time travel. He vetoed harping on the sensitive subject, although maybe it wasn't as sensitive as it once was. "Neuro-pressure tonight?" he asked, expectant as though she turning him down wasn't even a remote option. Wait--that was a little too eager, he censured in delayed reaction, no need for her to get the heady idea that he couldn't wait to get with her all alone. Though the idea had him worked up. "That is, if you aren't ready to drop."

T'Pol peered at him, taking some of the wind out of his sails, so to speak. "The captain requires the results of my immediate analyses relating to this recovery." She noted the faint dark circles beneath his eyes, his long face. On the brink of rescinding some of her diligence in her swift compliance with Archer's wishes, T'Pol vacillated to a tiny degree.

"I'd be glad to help."

"Thank you, but unnecessary."

Dejected, he tried feverishly to come up with something that would sway her mind and convince her she needed his help. Crestfallen, he came up empty, and it showed so that even she got a clue.

Urgently, for her, she conferred, "I'll expect you at my quarters at the usual time."

Blinking, Trip wondered if he'd heard right. Was it just possible that she *did* care, and not just within the bounds of casual friendship?

T'Pol just kept staring at him until she finally said, "Unless the usual time interferes with your schedule..."

A man with good spirits restored, Trip zealously shook his head. "Not in the least. I'm there...I am, that is, if you let me bring ya somethin' to eat."

T'Pol's whole demeanor changed before his solicitous eyes. "What would you bring?"

Trip bit, relishing the interest she didn't seem to want to hide. "A garden fresh salad--and may the warp core gremlins tie me up and hold me for ransom if you should find so much as even one half-eaten strip of bacon in it."

The petite corners of her mouth involuntarily twitched upwards. He would succeed one day with a sense of humor of that ilk; the day he made her laugh uncontrollably would be the momentous day she'd break down and eat raw meat. "Pecan pie for dessert?"

"Absolutely," he promised, sweetening the gambit.

"With a dollop of whipped cream on top," T'Pol anted.

"Positively," Trip avidly agreed, beaming while overwhelmed by sentimentality; she was widening out, willing to try more new things. "Just enough not to mess with your girlish figure." He couldn't help himself. Impulsively, he gathered her into his arms, daring himself to show her how much he'd missed her. He gave her a bear hug. He crushed his lips against her left temple, his actions jerky and fast, as though if he did it quickly enough, his public display of affection would skirt by her. Ignoring a sudden upshot of self-consciousness, he boisterously declared, "Anythin' ya want, you've got it."

A little, and only a little unsettled after he released her, and she recognizing all too well the ripening ability to connect with him on a psychogenic level, she said in a staid tone, "It is good to be back."

The smile he shone on her said it best as he continued to contemplate the peerless woman who increasing was making herself right at home amidst his unstructured thoughts day by day. "It's good havin' ya back safe and sound." He extended his hand to her and to his poignant delight, she accepted his invitation to make contact.

His eyes had followed her the entire way to the portal which had led to the past, despite his feigned nonchalance, showcased to the hilt, at her departure. When she had deigned to look back, however, their eyes locking, it had seemed to him that she had been asking him to come too. From some of the anecdotes she'd shared, it sounded as though tagging along with her in the twenty-first century's infancy would have been good for several laughs.

There'd been risks, though; she had related the knife incident, and it sobered him, steeled his resolve to protect her, come what may, regardless of her possessing greater physical strength than he. He'd been right to worry. What if she'd been badly injured, killed even? Inconsolable, that's how he'd be, grieving for her as he grieved for Lizzie, though handling it so much better as the quiet times he shared with T'Pol progressed. Thanks to *her*, giving of herself to help him with his grief, he was being made whole again.

He hadn't been asked to go along; someone had to be in command. Thank the good Lord she'd returned, alive and well...to be with him in the here and now. Yes, thank God indeed. At this fertile stage in this, their novel relationship on tenterhooks, Trip was aware that prolonged separations from her mattered to him. He wondered whether her being apart from him mattered to T'Pol. He liked to think it did.

Giving her another appreciative scrutinization, playing it cool, although a wealth of sincerity permeated his tone, he said, "Very stylish." The roguish wink of his eye rendered her spellbound. "You look good in leather..."

She gazed downward, examining herself. Perhaps he would too, she couldn't help thinking as the commander took off down the corridor.

"See ya later, darlin'. Duty calls. We'll make a night of it."

T'Pol considered him and the certainty of his gait every step of the way until the echoing of his footfalls faded. 'A night of it...' Painstakingly, she deliberated the ramifications of his unexpected sentiment. This human...this man...this singular being was just that, and the enormity of the powerful epiphany forced her smile. She could smile. One day, perhaps sooner than even she herself knew, she'd have reason enough to show it off.

"Hhrmmpf...uh...excuse me, ma'am."

T'Pol, with alacrity tempered, whirled around to see Major Hayes standing at attention, accommodatingly. His bearing suggested he was waiting for her to give him a direct order. "Yes, Major." Unusual for her not to have heard his strident approach.

"Captain Archer requested I assist you with processing the acquisitions." The head MACO was the soul of regimented allegiance to duty, and for a moment T'Pol was at a loss for knowing exactly how to put him off; she preferred working alone. She'd turned down Trip's offer for the very same reason.

Working alone wasn't a choice, judging by the determined look in the strapping military man's eyes, clinically trained on T'Pol. Sounding blunt, the essence of all business, she accepted, "Very well, Major, we should begin by transferring the dead Xindi to Sickbay."

"Very good, ma'am."

"What is it?" T'Pol queried, noting a trace of hesitation in the man's stalwart bearing.

"Would it be too forward of me if I addressed you as Sub-commander?"

T'Pol studied his deference, easily evident by the ticklish look on his face that had softened, as though he was petitioning for an acquittal of some arcane kind. She saw no reason to deny his request; she had no explanation for why the use of 'ma'am' made her feel ancient, as illogical as it was. Wasn't it the same with her escalating attachment to Commander Tucker? And yet, there it was, qualifying denial aside. "You may address me as such," she stiffly replied. With a quick nod of acknowledgment and an eagerness to begin the task at hand, Hayes never batted an eye when he observed T'Pol heft the unwieldy Xindi as though the alien weighed no more than a sack of feathers. Vulcan females, he thought, aware of the prickling fascination within himself, especially for this handsome female in particular, now they're women for you...

He picked up his lifeless burden, which felt as though it weighed the tonnage of this starship, and, for appearance's sake, stoically managed to keep pace with T'Pol.

Continue to Part 10

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