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The Eyes Have It--II

Author - Sue | Genre - Episode Addition | Genre - Friendship | Genre - General | Genre - UST | Main Story | Rating - PG
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The Eyes Have It

Part Two

By : Sue

E-MAIL: susieqla@yahoo.com
RATING: PG, General, Friendship, UST
SPOILERS: Future Tense
ARCHIVE: Yes.
DISCLAIMERS in Part One.
SUMMARY: A Sub-Commander, despite her best rigid intentions, sometimes can't help herself...


SPOILERS: Canamar

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

My report, recapping the tenuous course of events that occurred during the latest incident, was satisfactory. The captain's estimation was succinct. I've rated better.

It would seem that he is still under much duress. As I understand it, he did not want Dr. Phlox using anything that would speed up the healing process of his facial wounds.

Where is the logic in that?

Every time he sees them in the mirror, he is reminded of how widespread injustice is in the galaxy. The report he read to me that will be submitted to Admiral Forrest is rife with that lament. Captain Archer, as well as those of his Human contingency who have never ventured into deep space prior to this, have much to learn about how extensively injustice permeates the known galaxy. It would be fair to conclude that their naiveté, that is at times disarming, would be crushed once and for all under the burden of that knowledge.

I wasn't born yesterday, as their saying goes. These eyes of mine are keen, though inevitably aging. They've seen many forms of injustice at its worst.

My tea is cold, as I suddenly feel. I rise from the single cushion upon the floor, and decide whether I will get a fresh cup of berry blend for myself, or compensate by taking the hottest shower I can stand, instead. I find the tart taste of the berry pleasing upon my tongue. The liquid warmth streaming down my body will come later.

As I step into the quiet corridor, the insistent memory of the Commander's battered face casts a pall on my yen for hot tea momentarily. When the doctor offered to erase his visual cuts and bruises, Tucker agreed to it. As is his norm, his affirmative was immediate.

"Yeah, Doc. Undo the damage sustained pretty damn quick. My mug wasn't cut out to be somebody's punchin' bag..." he'd said.

Does that make him indifferent to injustice; his wanting to rid his face of his injuries, unlike the captain? Not to my logical way of thought. Parading around with a disfigured face won't end injustice. Enlightenment through logical thought is the better path toward that vista. Surak will never be proven wrong in that regard.


Before entering the Mess Hall, I hesitate for a moment.

The captain...Comm... I thought 'Trip,' first, and I acknowledge that. Trip and Captain Archer...so unlike each other, and yet, so alike that it puzzles me deeply. I go in, heading directly for my tea. I have never experienced such a raveling of paradoxes in my life. Is this growth, or is it something insidious, debilitating; a hint of my undoing...harboring strong feelings for them both? 'How dare I have feelings,' I admit. There should be remorse, but there is only acceptance.

I am about to extract my steaming cup from the service dispenser when one of the voices of contradiction calls to me.

"T'Pol, over here. Join me, huh?"

In my reflection from the dispenser, I saw my eyes light up when I heard him call my name. The hand holding my teacup trembles slightly. I am comfortable with the thought that he saw neither reaction. How am I supposed to know what I don't want him to think, when I am hampered by hosts of inconsistencies that gnaw at me constantly?

He draws me. I wish to be drawn.

As I approach, he says in that expansive way he has, "You weren't in the mood for seein' the movie tonight either, eh?"

I don't say one way or the other. In fact, I had forgotten about it being 'movie night' altogether. I had other thoughts crowding my mind, the most pressing one having been how to retrieve our missing officers, intact.

"I was more in the mood for watchin' the stars streak by at warp. Ow..."

He had smiled, and when he did, his expression of pleasure dissolved into one of pain.

Sitting directly opposite him, I respond, "Your face is not wholly healed?" I arch an eyebrow and look pointedly into his haunted looking eyes; eyes I'd had misgivings about ever seeing, glowing with that fire he lends them when he's impassioned over something, again. He looks tired, but his eyes are alight with that special fire. "There are no signs of the facial injuries you sustained."

"Nah, the doc patched me up just fine. It's my jaw. It's still a little stiff. The doc said I don't have a concussion, but the old noggin still Kinda aches. When they took us, I put up a fight. One of the Enolians whacked me real good right here."

He shows me, pointing from the crown of his head and drawing the imaginary line down to the region of the triangularis mandible. "And there is no concussion?" I ask, preventing any hint of concern from suffusing into my face.

I don't think I was completely successful keeping it out of my voice, because he winks at me, lets a moment go by, then says, "Not even a hairline fracture. Phlox took pictures and gave me a clean bill of health, or else I'd still be in Sickbay with one of his regenerative contraptions huggin' my head. My momma's right, she always said I was the hardheaded one." In spite of the pain he claimed, he smiles again, and he reinforces it with a stubborn look in his eyes.

I take a sip of tea before it cools. It teases my palate before I swallow. "You should get some rest, Mister Tucker." Even to my ears, that sounded maternal.

Nodding, he agrees. "Yeah, you're right. Feelin' a little restless, and I guess I came here hopin' to get a bite and maybe talk to somebody about what went on." He lowers his head, and confesses in a soft voice, "I'm still pretty shook."

Before I consciously know what I'm doing, my hand reaches for one of his. Our eyes lock, and neither of us utters a word. He squeezes my hand, and I find myself wanting to respond. I apply the same degree of pressure that he applied to mine. "If talking helps, then I am here to listen."

He nods again, and his other hand joins the one that holds mine, canopying my hand with it. I should extract mine from his firm grasp, but I do not. His hands are calloused, toughened by the difficulties of his work.

I stare at the union of our hands. I am unused to the nature of this tactile contact, but I don't break it off even though maintaining such contact isn't logical; it's irrational...disturbing. He gazes at me, and I attune myself to the sensations his touch brings.

"They used some kind of tractor beam. Held us faster than a fly stuck to flypaper. Four of the sons of bitches boarded the shuttlepod before either the cap'n or I could launch anythin' resemblin' a counterattack."

"As I recall, Lieutenant Reed suggested that you arm yourselves with phase pistols. Why didn't you use them as soon as they boarded?" He wedges the fingers of the hand sheltering mine in-between my fingers, and my inner voice warns me about what I'm allowing.

"And you saw us take 'em too. Unfortunately, when we got boarded, we were unarmed. Cap'n had me stow 'em in the aft munitions compartment. Who knew we'd be needin' 'em once breakin' orbit? One of 'em aimed his weapon at the cap'n and paralyzed him. Before I gave 'em the satisfaction, I was up outta my seat, chargin' 'em. Instead of zappin' me, I got my lights put out the good ol' fashioned way. Crunch." The bitterness in his tone is stark. "Those jokers were brutal, God!"

"You were clearly outnumbered. Why didn't you submit peacefully? Resisting or not, being taken captive was inevitable. You would have saved yourself needless injury. You put your life at great risk."

My hand feels as if it's in a vise.

The look of sheepishness that I am becoming intimately acquainted with storms his face. Sounding resigned, he admits, "You know me, T'Pol..." I command my facial expression to remain impassive. "I don't take kindly to bein' forced doin' anythin' against my will. Bustin' heads comes second nature if it comes to that." He gives me his boyish grin with both barrels, as I've heard it expressed in the last Western movie shown.

Striving to sound ironic, I say, "Indeed. The head put directly in harm's way was clearly your own."

"Maybe got a little sense knocked into it, huh? When there's a next time, maybe I won't get mine handed to me." I make a wry face. "Hey--it could happen." He stops talking, as though reliving more of the brutality. "They had these restrainers on our wrists," he continues as though he's talking to himself, oblivious to my presence. "Ya breathed too loud, or in my case, I got a tad too lippy, and they activated 'em. Put ya in a worlda hurt...sheesh. It was like white lightnin' combined with bein' kicked by several mules coursin' through the body. Wicked pain."

I remain silent, allowing him to move past his ordeal. A look of surprise crosses his face, but it doesn't stay long. "I guess that's one of the reasons I dumped big on the motor-mouth they stuck me next to. Zoumas--gawh--what a pest!"

Quizzically, I wait with my question, making allowance for his annoyed look to wane. "Motor-mouth?" I will *never* achieve a complete working knowledge of their ambiguous expressions. The majority of them are extensively arcane.

"Somebody who lets their mouth run away with 'em; a non-stop talker...like Zoumas. The guy they made me share the bench with. He bitched and moaned till I shoved every bit back at him. Man, he got on my last nerves."

"From what I have gathered, the situation was acutely trying. I'm sure you handled yourself as well as could be expected under such extreme circumstances."

Arching an eyebrow at me, he questions, "Okay...what have you done with the real T'Pol?" He jiggles my hand, looking ...what's the expression I heard the captain use when I observed him and the crewmember, who had bested him at one of their simplistic board games...wait...ah, yes; full of himself.

"*I* am T'Pol. There is no other."

Biting a small section of his lower lip, he says, "Y'know? Things bein' what they are since gettin' to know ya a bit better, I don't think I'd want it any other way."

The breath I take is audible, and there is a distinct glittery quality in the Commander's eyes now. I might never understand him, nor my strange reactions to him, but with no small measure of compassion, I say, "If you'd like, I could demonstrate a relaxation technique that could help you get some needed rest."

When he cups my hand with his hands, drawing it to his mouth, it's as though I'm the one who is paralyzed now. "Show away, Sub-Commander..." He presses his soft lips against the peaks of my knuckles. "I'll cheerfully accept all the help I can get if it gets me a good night's sleep. Nobody respects a sleep-deprived engineer." His eyebrows move up and down. I judge that whatever facial soreness he claimed he had must be subsiding.

"Close your eyes," I instruct, and lower my hand from his mouth. I chide myself for having trembled when withdrawing my hand, and watch his eyes bind mine to his.

"Yes, ma'am."

Once his eyes are closed, I tell him to visualize something that soothes him. He chuckles, and I say that he should be serious.

"Yes, ma'am," he repeats, still grinning, but his grin obediently disappears. "I'm thinkin'. Okay, I got it. Do you want me to tell ya what it is?"

"No, it is unnecessary, Mister Tucker. Dwell on every thought associated with the pleasing imagery. Reinforce your sensations with your thoughts." I take his hand and he responds to my touch as though driven by instinct. I close my eyes as well, and as the sum total of his mind concentrates, I'm able to glimpse the kernels of what his ideas of what is pleasant are. I guide him further, coaxing him with simple words said gently, sensing tranquility gradually enveloping his mind like a veil made of softly-spun Vulcan h'zsop. "The serenity within remains," I utter and say no more.

I reopen my eyes and watch how the peace he feels continues to drain all tension from his face, granting him freedom from the ill effects of a troubled mind.

Slowly, I extract my hand from his.

Without my having to tell him to, he opens his eyes, and after releasing a long breath, says, "I feel good, T'Pol; a whole lot better than when I came in here ready to pop." He looks deeply into my eyes as he goes for both of my hands with his. I startle what I hope is imperceptivity after he latches onto me. "You're better than any of those relaxation tapes, any day." He starts to get up from the table, still holding my hands fast, but I will not be moved to stand with him.

"I am glad I could be of help, Commander."

I sense him eyeing my cup of ice cold tea as he lets go of my hands. "Here, let me heat that for ya," he offers, taking my cup.

"No, that is quite unnneces--"

"Hey, I got it," he insists, targeting the machine that reheats items. I breathe deeply, determined to refocus. He returns with the steaming cup and places it before me, behaving as though I'm a dignitary. This side of him is new to me. "Least I can do..."

"Thank you, Mister Tucker." Lifting the cup to my lips, I blow on its contents a little. There is an awkwardness having him hovering over me, as though he is waiting for something to happen. "I suggest that you go to your quarters to get the rest you need. Repeat the technique, and you should have no problem falling asleep quickly."

"Maybe you'd like to come with--ya know--to kick the exercise off. Me, stretched out on my bunk. You, pullin' up a chair, runnin' me through it. You've got a nice voice..."

I gulp some of my tea, and the hot liquid burns my throat on its way down. '*Illogical*,' I upbraid myself. "You understand what is required on your part. You don't need me now."

I cannot be sure, but it sounded as though he muttered in a very low voice, "The hell I don't."

Sharply, I glance up at him, and he gives me that sheepish look again. "Goodnight, Mister Tucker," I mutter also. Breaking the brief contact that we'd had, I can no longer perceive what he's thinking. It is just as well, I analyze. Among many things I'd seen both in his mind's eye as well as in his physical ones, I had seen desire. Whether it is for me, or another, I am not certain, but desire for intimacy with a woman was there. "I h...have several entries in my personal log to make. You will do fine on your own."

"Okay," he says but sounds tentative, "although I'll do better if you're there, guidin' me like ya did." As I continue to probe his face, I begin wondering what if I went with him. Before I have a change of decision, he blurts, "I'd better quit while I'm ahead, huh?" He stoops and before I can say anything, he plants his lips on the top of my head.

His actions seem to leave little room for doubt. He desires me. I am that woman...but I must never give in to him or myself. I am Vulcan, representing all that my people stand for among these Humans, groping to find their way in this quadrant of the galaxy.

"Sure ya won't reconsider?"

The commander and I are senior officers. Me, consorting with a Human male. Fraternization is unthinkable, but as he brings his face even with mine, and smiles into it, I've never felt my heart beat so fast while not engaging in strenuous activity.

"I have numerous entries..."

He nods, and I sip more tea, more carefully this time. "Thanks, T'Pol, for comin' after us as quick as ya did. If ever ya need a big, fat favor, ya come ta me." Before he leans away, his fingers brush the left side of my face. The Mess Hall suddenly feels devoid of air. The beating of my heart hammers in my ears. I close my eyes, seeing his smile behind my lids.

Forcing my eyes open I clarify, "I did what is expected in my capacity as acting captain."

He chuckles, lightly pinching my cheek as he does so. "See ya tomorrow, Sub-Commander...g'night." Then he gives the top of my shoulder a firm squeeze before he stops touching me. The whooshing of the doors shutting impresses upon me that that is what I must do.

I must keep my feelings for the Chief Engineer contained; tightly closed off behind mental barriers if I am to survive. The other, less critical voice within me, advises that I should retire to my quarters to meditate.

Agreeing, I rise from the table, eye my cup that is still full, and start to leave. Meditation is the key to the survival of my sanity. I look out of the viewport, and as the stars steam by, the sapphire glow in his eyes is what I see.

What if he is waiting for me in the corridor? I hesitate before leaving the Mess Hall, anticipating all the same.

When I see that he isn't, was that disappointment I felt?


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


"The Eyes Have It" is a continuing series. Watch for new additions.


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Seven people have made comments

YAY! This is fantastic!! I love it! Keep on goin'...

Oh my! This is beautiful. Almost hypnotic with understated sensuality- Yes!! Keep going ;-)

I like the way this series is going. Very subtle, very nice.

I like this story alot T'Pol helping Trip with his problem of reliving his and Archer's abduction from the shuttle and the aftermath well done.As for T'Pol feelings growing for Archer and Trip and worriying about getting them back was perfectly handled.I can't wait to see how T'Pol struggles with her burgeining feelings for Trip will play out in your story.

I love the way this series is shaping up and having a seriously tempted T'Pol is delicious fun. So beautifully written, gentle and sensuous with that nice light interplay between Trip and T'Pol that is just so endearing. Can't wait to see where it goes from here. Well done, keep going! Ali D :~)

Really lovely story. I love the way you show Trip reaching out to Tpol and her battling with her own feelings. Wonderfully written and I feel so in character. Its nice to see this side of their relationship rather then an obsessive and mating frenzy which is sometimes portrayed. Look forward to the next installment.

Perhaps just for the time being "Eyes" is on hold. I really want to concentrate on my newest scribblings, "Mood Swing," since I'm trying to chronolog Season 3 through what, hopefully, will be Trip's and T'Pol's developing relationship. Please oblige me...