To Sleep- Ch. 2

To Sleep Perchance to Dream

By vandiver49

Disclaimer: I don’t own any of the characters associated with Star Trek, I’m just borrowing them for a moment. Please don’t sue; people in the Navy don’t make that much money.
I’m trying out a new style of writing, please bear with me.
BETA'd by stubadingdong
This story takes place after “Singularity”

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Chapter 2

Trip turned back into his room, the doors sliding closed behind him. He found himself fighting the yawn that yearned to escape, a contagious consequence courtesy of his late night guest. He walked over to the table that T’Pol had found so curious and retrieved the one item that she failed to take notice of; the harmonica. He grabbed it and plopped himself down on his bed, an Otis Redding classic echoing throughout his cabin as he played himself to sleep.

***

Monochrome, black and white, headlights beating back the night. Flying through the air? No, driving on the road; through a city. San Francisco? No, too clean. This is dark, dank, grimy, and gothic.

A skyline; a halo on the horizon. What buildings are those? Woolworth, Chrysler, Empire State? That’s New York. Aren’t there more skyscrapers than that?

“That was a great game; though I must admit I’m still partial to cricket.” That clipped slightly condescending accent could only be one person; Malcolm. What is he wearing? That’s not Starfleet issue. What’s that on his chest? ‘To serve and protect’? He’s a cop. If he’s a cop then what am I…covered in grease oil and dirt. I guess I’m a mechanic. That makes sense.

“Uh oh,” he says, peering up at a light in a building. “What did you tell them we were doing?”

Tell who? “I don’t know.”

“Bloody hell, they’re gonna kill us.” Mr. Dramatic at it again. Does he mean that literally or figuratively? Best not to chance it.

“Well, we can just drive around the block.”

“Nope, it doesn’t matter; your wife heard the car a bloody block away.”

‘My wife?’ Our wives, they’re supposed to kill us? What did we do?

“Just pull in right there.”

The long walk home; one flight, two flights, three flights, four. Seven additional steps and we‘re at the front door. It opens; we’re expected. I guess he wasn’t wrong on that account. Malcolm’s looking at me, I know the look. Dead men walking? How bad can it be?

“Malcolm Sterling Reed, where have you been?” Crispness, clarity, punctuated, enunciated; Hoshi. That’s funny, they deserve each other. Though, she shouldn’t wear her hair in a bun like that, it does nothing for her face. And what in the hell is she wearing? That’s the most God-awful dress I think I’ve ever seen.

“Ummm…working late?” Working late? That’s the best lie you can come up with?

“Yea, right. Do the two of you know what we were supposed to do tonight?”

No, but I’m sure you’ll tell us anyway. “Hey, could you at least let us in the door?”

Damn, look at the evil eye she just gave Malcolm. She’s seriously contemplating the question. Did we miss our anniversary or something? I’d sure like to know what I did that we are going to get in trouble for.

“Come in,” she relents. I pan to the left, pan to the right, still no sign of my wife. “She’s in the kitchen.” Am I that obvious?

There she is, in front of the sink, doing the dishes. Almost too easy. I wonder which one of my ex’s is playing the lead role of my wife. “Hi honey, I’m home!” I’ve always wanted to do that.

“Indeed you are.” Monotone, staccato…oh hell no. “So what was the cause of your delay?”

This just went from a dream to some kind of sick joke. “We were working late?” Hey it’s worth a shot.

“What type of work involves popcorn, alcohol and hot dogs?”

That nose, those ears. This has gone from bad to worse. Why is she in my dream anyway? “Listen, whatever I did I’m sorry, OK. I’ll make it up to you.” I’ll what?! Who said that?

“You cannot retrieve lost time. I would have thought that our anniversary held more meaning to you than some sporting contest. It appears I was mistaken.”
Ouch, that hurts, especially from her. “Look, would you cut me some slack, I’m only human. You know, you could look at me when I’m talking to you. It’s kinda hard tryin’ to have a conversation with your back.”

“I am well aware of your failings, Charles.” Even in my dreams, the woman can find a way to annoy me. Finally, she turns around. I can look into her eyes, know what she’s thinking. They’re narrow, menacing, have I hurt her? Do I care? Not with that snide remark.

“What ‘failings’ are you referring to?” I’m not going to feel sorrow in my own dream.

“Your failings as a husband, your failings as a friend, your failings as a mate.”

Damn, right in the kidneys. Is that a tear in the corner of my eye? How dare she! This is my dream!

Why you little… “One of these days T’Pol, one of these days. POW!! Right to the moon!” Well that was vindicating.

“I doubt you have sufficient strength to knock me down; to speak nothing of your inability to ‘knock’ me into lunar orbit.”

A buzzer goes off. It’s the timer on the oven. What the hell would she be cooking in an oven? Who cares, as long as it gets her to shut up.

“Furthermore, during the past four years of our union, you have made that same threat 173 times and have never made good on it. Why do you find it necessary to threaten me with bodily harm when you have no intent…”

Spare me. I can’t listen to that infernal racket anymore, either of them. “Fine, OK, I get the point. Just could you please just turn the timer off?”

“No, you turn it off.”

Why you little conceited… “Excuse me, but it’s your cooking!”

“Quite correct, but the noise is emanating from your alarm.”

My alarm.

My alarm?

Damn!!!

***

Trip snapped up in his bed, startled back to consciousness by the audible intrusion. He stroked his temples and winced at the slight discomfort; the unmistakable signs of an impending headache. He reluctantly rolled over and glanced at his chronometer, praying it had gone off prematurely; that there were a couple of hours left until his watch. He wouldn’t be so lucky.

“0600. You’ve got to be kiddin’ me.” He bemoaned, reluctantly tearing himself away from his rack. He trudged over to the bathroom and ran the hot water of his sink, preparing his razor to scrape away to subtle stubble he had accumulated during the night. As fog crept up the mirror from the steam, Trip slowly began to recall the bits and pieces of the dream that held his subconscious hostage during the night. The revelation left Trip consumed with a singular question as he struggled to get ready for the day. A question he scrawled into the gathering condensation; W T F.

And meanwhile, on the other side of the ship…

T’Pol arrived back at her quarters in short order, keeping the illumination to a low dim as she entered. She found herself slightly disturbed by her open display of exhaustion. She was capable of infinitely more control, of more discipline. ‘Except around Commander Tucker.’ As she slowly peeled out of her uniform, T’Pol couldn’t help but contemplate the words of her former mentor. “Perhaps it is time for you to consider another assignment.” Had she really become that corrupted by her time on Enterprise? It was a question whose answer could only be discerned through proper meditation. Changing into her pajamas, she retrieved a candle from a shelf and planted herself on the floor. She calmed her breathing as she focused her attention on the flickering flame. The systematic organization of thought, the conscience suppression of emotion, the dutiful elimination of stress; all comprised the normal routine of her mental cleansing. None of which happened as her mind succumbed to something far more relaxing; sleep.

* * *

3.1415926535…

2.7182818284…

The arches of my eyebrows are slightly askew.

1.6180339887…

But the hues of my cheeks are…perfect.

A perfect symmetry. A reflection of self. Perfect reflections upon a mirror. A mane of flowing ash supplants my perfectly cropped locks. Hair that must be braided and coiled just so atop my crown. Attention to detail is necessary if I hope to achieve the air of perfection that is required of me. Is this what happens to a dream deferred?

“Lady T’Pol, attend me.”

A beckoning call. My mate requires me. I hear his footsteps from afar. I turn to face him; I look up as he is tall, his eyes are dark and foreboding. His hair is as black as night, straight and cut to precision. He is the picture of Vulcan beauty, any Vulcan woman would be…‘pleased’ to call this man theirs; except me.

His two fingers are extending, awaiting mine in return. A gesture so curiously innocent, yet distinctly intimate. I do as expected, and respond in kind, bracing myself for the torrent of emotions normally brought forth by the tactile response. But there is nothing, no thoughts, no voices, no emotions, no love. Why does that disappoint me?

“Come, my t'hyla. We have company.”

‘His t’hyla’, a misnomer at best. I sense he has no affection for me, but we are bonded nonetheless. I follow him through our domicile, a stately abode in size, but sterile in color and décor. ‘Perhaps a terra cotta would compliment these beige walls nicely.’ We arrive in the parlor, where our guests are waiting.

“Ambassador Soval, Ambassador V’Lar, how may my wife and I be of service?”

My husband asks.

“We are here at the behest of the Vulcan Science Directorate,” Soval begins, his words cold and emotionless. “New discoveries by the Directorate suggest that time travel may not be as inviolate as once believed. Your wife filed several reports while she was assigned to the Enterprise that lay credence to these claims.” he explains to my husband.

“Sub-Commander, we require your assistance in the study of this phenomenon. Your first-hand experience would be an invaluable addition to our study,” V’Lar elaborates.

Though I don’t believe in time travel, I relish the opportunity to satiate my curiosity, to immerse myself in the purity of knowledge, and the pursuit thereof.

I prepare to express what could be misconstrued as adulation towards the prospect of working on this assignment, but I am suddenly gripped by a feeling of restraint and uncertainty. I turn toward my fingers, still connected with those of my mate. The feelings are his.

“I am sorry Ambassadors, but Lady T’Pol will be unable to assist you in your endeavors. She is no longer a practicing scientist.” He says in my stead, as is his right to. Am I to shiver up and die like I raisin in the sun?

* * *

T’Pol’s eyes blinked open instantly, only to find herself strew across the deck of her cabin, the flame of her candle tucked away behind a curtain of wax.
Patiently waiting for her mind to come into focus, she pulled herself off the ground, disappointed that her meditation was unsuccessful. She immediately realized the price for her transgression, as the memories of her dream slowly permeated her mind. But unlike the last time she dreamt, this one had an overwhelming feeling of…sadness.

To Be Continued
________________
for those of you curious about the those non-terminating numbers rattling around in T’Pol’s head, the first one is of course ∏, the second is the natural log number e, and the final one is Φ; commonly referred to as the Golden Ratio.

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

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A handful of people have made comments

Don't stop now! This begs for resolution, some weakening of the veil. This is good and very original. I like it very much, keep writing and thanks. Ali D :~)

oh my... The Honeymooners and The marriage from hell... what a future our pair have dreamed up for themselves.

Keep it coming!

The Cube Needs it!

You can't leave it at that!! ::breathlessly waiting for a part 3::

Please please PLEASE add to this story! There's so much there to work with! Trip and T'Pol being haunted by eachother in their dreams. Delicious. Please continue this story, I'd love to read how it turns out!

Where'd the idea a Vulcan husband can decide things like this for his wife come from? Made up for the story?