Double Bill

Double Bill

By aprylrae and Jazz

Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Paramount, and the authors are making no profit at all from this story.
Summary: ??
A/N: Entry into the House of Tucker Trip/T'Pol Winter 2003/2004 Challenge.

It was a peculiarity of life on board ship that the hours most looked forward to by the crew were those spent at the table, in that congenial space known as the mess. It became a catch phrase: "I'll see you in the mess," would be the order from one crewmember to another, whereupon a time frame would be fixed, and some wry comment made about the yet unknown menu. This blend of food, conversation, debate, flirting, discoveries and friendship, taken every evening without fail, was missed by nobody.

Nobody, that is, unless your name was T'Pol.

She dined that evening, on plomeek broth and green salad, with her usual dinner partner. The conversation was intelligent, the food nourishing. With the stars at her back, hers was the brightest table in the whole room.

And there lay the wish.

Irony is a strange thing. It should not have seemed so--her dining with only those stars for company, the seat opposite her as empty as the expanse outside--that she, a Vulcan, would consider it ironic. That the feeling of being alone that night was not resting happily upon her shoulders. That she might wish for company.

That she might wish for him.

Laughter shot across the room; bright, dazzling female laughter. T'Pol turned slightly and caught an image of two young people, intent on nothing and nobody else but themselves. Something hard pulled at her chest. Wherever she looked she saw happiness. Furtive glances across the tables. Friendship. Love. Desire.

Need.

She could, if she had not possessed that last ounce of strength to placate her long buried emotions, have seen his face in every man in the room, and turn her quiet solitude into a roaring stream of anxiety; loose, uncontrolled, and completely devoid of logic. She could have, if, on the verge of taking her barely touched meal away to be recycled, she had not seen him enter.

That night the mess was filled with noise, but when his eyes met hers it was if someone had muted the volume to a low ebb. As he made his way towards her she dipped her spoon back in the broth, and thought, I cannot show him this. I should not be thinking it. Yet even as the voice broke inside her head, she felt the longing for him grow with it. As he drew close to her shoulder, she let the spoon rest back on the table, so he would not see how it trembled in her hand.

"Sub-Commander." His voice sliced through the aural symphony playing in both the room and her head, and she looked up briefly, allowing herself a moment to search out his expression. It was, she saw with relief, slightly amused. Perhaps normality might ease her feelings.

"Would you care to join me?" she asked.

"Sure. What's the special?" He hovered at the empty chair, but did not sit.

T'Pol glanced down at her own meal. "I believe Chef has made lasagna."

"Ah, yes," he nodded at her bowl, "hence the soup. Well, I'll have what you're having."

"I would not wish you to forego a favorite meal for my sake."

"No, no, it's no problem..." His voice trailed off, as he looked longingly at the steaming plates being tucked into by nearly everyone in the room. T'Pol felt a strange comfort. He was willing to miss eating with the masses to avoid placing her ill at ease. There was once a time when he would not have done such a thing, when he and Captain Archer would happily distress her Vulcan sensibilities by ingesting large slabs of meat before her, sharing juvenile laughter at her attempts to accommodate human eating rituals.

He left her for a moment and returned with a serving of the Vulcan dish. She watched as he took a spoonful, mulling it around for a bit before swallowing. She said, "I had always assumed humans found plomeek dishes too bland."

A smile appeared as he dipped his spoon in again. "On the contrary, Sub-Commander, there's a lot to be said for mediocrity. One of my favorite soups as a kid was chicken noodle, and I'll tell you this for nothin', my grandma made it pretty plain and simple."

She gazed at his bent head, not sure whether the warmth she felt was from the dish or the new appreciation she was beginning to have for this man. In silence they ate together, exchanging conversation for mutual comfort in each other's presence, and T'Pol almost forgot what she had been thinking of before; that feeling that went somewhere much deeper than comfort. A feeling bordering on that which her Vulcan nature had submerged for so long, and which she herself had not considered since her supposed bond with Koss had been abruptly severed, and she had put her duty for this ship, and this crew, in front of a respected, logical partnership. There were such gaps between their respective personalities; to the plain observer, they were such complete opposites that any hint of attraction had to lie somewhere deeper. Somewhere, their intelligence had to meet on even ground. Somewhere, they had to be equal.

Here, T'Pol was beginning to see it.

Once finished, they sat in silence, each studying the table, the cutlery, other people in the room. But never each other. At last, Trip lifted his eyes.

"Care for dessert?"

She caught her breath.

He was staring at her in a way which she at once found both completely transparent and strangely unreadable. Was it anxiety? She didn't know. Was it the nervous courage that signaled his decision to finally take the first step? She didn't know. Was it desire? He was still waiting for her to answer, so she let the breath escape. "No."

"Me neither." His eyes were deep, so deep--she could not swim against such currents as these. She would surely drown.

"Well...I guess I'd better say goodnight." He didn't move.

She stood up. Her mind was everywhere and nowhere. She could not eradicate these thoughts. They were burning her in two; they were melting her cold, Vulcan heart. She said, "Goodnight, Commander," and left for the exit with speed, as if trying to cool the hot rush singing between her ears.

She left before she could make a mistake.

---

Inside the lift, the purr of the engines seemed very far away. T'Pol stared at the display, momentarily confused as to where, exactly, she was supposed to be heading. Your quarters, she told herself. It is imperative that you meditate. She closed her eyes, her thoughts scolding like a Vulcan adult to an undisciplined child. You should never have allowed this situation to occur.

She would meditate these thoughts away, she decided. Then sleep.

Surely in sleep she would be safe.

---

Sunlight glinted over the waves like a weightless river of gold. The sky was blue--so blue, and with not a cloud in sight, describing it as perfection would have seemed an understatement. T'Pol lifted a hand to shade her eyes, and felt the tense knots in her shoulders undo with every sweep the gentle water made over her bare feet and ankles. The rough sand under the sensitive soles of her feet felt like a pair of masseur's hands. A deep sensation of relaxation, of being asleep in the cradle of solitude she had been craving all day, all her life, carried her away. Away from Enterprise, away from Vulcan, the mess hall, the scientific instruments she toiled with, and that strange mess of humanity she was forced to cope with in her waking hours. Though she knew this was not real, it felt so good, and that was all she wanted.

She closed her eyes, dropping the hand. When she opened them, he was there.

"You came," she said. And as he opened his mouth to reply she stepped forward and stopped the words with her lips, not moving until his hands crept across the small of her back, and she felt sure he understood her. Then she kissed him properly, with intent, following the lines of his neck with her fingers, allowing his in turn to float over her spine, as gently as the water around her. She could no longer feel the sand, the waves, the sun. All she felt was him. All she wanted was him. An overwhelming heat burst inside her chest, and she clawed at him, felt his grin against her cheek, and then his whisper: "T'Pol...T'Pol...T'Pol..."

She woke suddenly, mere seconds before her alarm. Not moving, T'Pol lay in bed, thinking she could almost hear the waves wash away into the distant memory of her dreams.

---

"Doctor?"

Her first thought on entering sickbay was to wonder if she had made a wrong turn, and had perhaps wandered into the local petting zoo. Cages rattled with the squeaks and plaintive cries of dozens of exotic creatures, hungry for food and attention. The Denobulan physician Phlox, decked out in protective gloves and apron, moved about the room, seeming only too happy to comply with their wishes, though his reassuring coos were successful only in exciting the animals even more.

He noticed T'Pol standing inside the doors and, dropping the last of some unidentifiable morsel into the mouth of a hairless blue creature, stepped back from the cages and smiled at her. "Sub-Commander! How lovely to see you. Please, come in, come in." He stripped off the gloves and gestured her forward. She eyed the blue animal warily. Phlox turned and pulled a curtain across the wall of cages, chuckling. "I'm sorry, they are rather enthusiastic eaters," he said. "But they produce the most wonderful serum for treating burns. Terrifically concentrated. Now, what can I do for you?"

"I require an opinion."

"A medical opinion?" He eyed her keenly, the smile still in place.

She paused, knowing the awkwardness of this conversation might easily be avoided if she just told him she was having trouble sleeping; that she was under stress from work; that the hardships of life in space were simply taking their toll. It would not have been a lie--not exactly. But as the truth was turning her inside out, and she couldn't tell him...she had thought Phlox might understand. She looked at the doctor, at the strange menagerie surrounding them. At least he would remain confidential.

"Not exactly," she said. "It is...personal."

"Ah..." His expression softened. Gesturing at the bio-bed, he said, "Then I shall endeavor to assist as best I can."

She slid onto the bed. He took up a medical scanner and activated it. "In any case," he continued cheerfully, "it won't hurt for me to check you over. Even ailments afflicting the mind can be eased just as effectively as a headache. Unless, of course, the headache owes it's origin to movie night or some other social function our human colleagues wish to include us in."

"Of course," T'Pol echoed, as her jaw shifted ever so slightly.

He did not miss it.

Phlox dutifully checked her biosigns, watching carefully for the slightest gestural hint to the true nature of her concern in his usual disarming manner. Guessing the issue involved their alien crewmates was hardly a leap of faith, but often provided a good starting point. Their plethora of fascinating customs, while a joy to him, often posed a stumbling block for the young woman. Sole representative for her people, often becoming more Vulcan than Vulcans in an attempt to avoid absolute enculturation. He pressed on in this manner.

"Well, Sub-Commander, I'm not finding anything physically wrong... Perhaps more 'interpersonal' rather than personal?"

"I have been considering the value of solitude in comparison with social bonds. Denobulans are highly social creatures, so naturally I sought your insight into this dichotomy."

"Of course," he said as his smile grew. "How can I assist your research?"

T'Pol gently cleared her throat. "As a social being who understands the value of privacy, do you find that one might, at times, intrude upon the other?"

She's sensing loneliness, he thought silently. "Intrude upon? That is an interesting way of describing it. And the answer is yes. I have found, across species, it is perfectly natural for periods of privacy to lose their appeal at times. I don't believe this is unheard of in your own culture. Consider the priests of Gol. If I'm not mistaken they meditate alone, yet how many rituals revolve around groups? The philosophy of IDIC would not be possible to a solitary thinker. Perhaps you would like to study this in a more controlled environment?"

"What are you suggesting Doctor?" T'Pol asked, though she knew full well what his next sentence would be.

"Movie night offers the best of each variable, a compromise if you will. You can socialize almost by proxy, alone, yet not."

"Commander Tucker did mention this week's movie earlier."

Phlox studied her carefully. "Yes, I'm sure he did."

---

"Well, you coming or not?"

"Another Western no doubt. You North Americans do revel in melodrama."

"Independent filmmakers in the early twentieth century did set the standard for how many generations? Everyone loves a good drama, or even a good cry for that matter. It's more than just a cultural thing, its life."

"I hardly think everyone can identify with crazed robots, alien monsters, or life from the back of a horse. British films offer cultural enlightenment, not a reason for 'a good cry' or escape into a world of unattainable right and wrong. True theater."

"You mean like 'Romeo and Juliet' or 'Othello'?"

Malcolm glanced up briefly from his console, regarded Trip's easy concentration in profile, and returned to his work. "Last week was what? 'Sleep, My Love'?"

"Pickford was ahead of her time"

"No doubt. What is in store for us this week?"

"You'll love it, it's a Western...bring tissues."

"I hardly think I'll need them"

"Suit yourself"

---

"Well Cap'n, he did all but dare me."

Archer smiled wryly and relaxed further back into his chair. Noticing T'Pol's slight frown he asked, "What do you think Sub-Commander?"

"I do not understand the significance of this particular film."

Again Archer smiled, rather pointedly at Trip. "Care to do the honors?"

"It's just a good movie, mostly about loyalty and responsibility, a little on the edge of psychological horror sometimes. I haven't seen much in the way of Vulcan drama...but this film's pretty universal."

"You often say that in regards to films which depict the human condition."

Trip was now fully at the edge of his seat speaking across Archer to T'Pol. He tilted his head slightly forward and to the right, blinked slowly, and smiled. "Just watch," he said.

Malcolm entered the room, made his way toward them, and sat in the empty seat at Trip's side.

The lights dimmed, Archer glanced to his right, catching Trip's gaze, and raised his brows.

Trip smiled, illuminated by credits.

"This looks like Ford," Malcolm said.

"Same style, different director," Trip whispered.

Malcolm reached absently for another handful of popcorn. Beyond him, onscreen, young Travis gruffly taunting, "You touch a bite of this meat and, come morning..."

Hardly fair, Malcolm thought to himself.

The movie progressed. Screams from the screen. Chaos.

Eyes riveted, Malcolm watched. Beside him Trip sat a little straighter. Neither noticing the bowl was now empty.

Young Travis walks desolately into the dark Texas night.

Malcolm, face immobile, turned his eyes slowly to Trip. "They...shot...the dog?"

---

Later, while Malcolm was busy picking up the popcorn which had managed to transfer itself unnoticed from the bowl to the floor during the film, T'Pol sat alone in the front row, a slight frown on her face. The credits rolled silently.

"So?"

Trip stood beside the screen, twitching his left leg as he tried to remove a bad case of pins and needles. He watched her carefully, waiting for the usual Vulcan critique of how humans placed too much emphasis on immediacy, the quick result, the instant fulfillment. But she simply raised her dark eyes to his, and said, "It was quite...stirring."

He grinned. "Why, I do believe we have succeeded in impressing you, Sub-Commander." And he walked over and took the seat next to her, now abandoned by Archer, the captain having regretfully passed up post-movie discussion, mumbling something about old bones and tiredness. Trip, for his part, was secretly glad--tonight he was feeling strangely possessive of T'Pol, and was more than thrilled that she had stayed past the ending. Though he reluctantly admitted it was more likely she was still here because of her curiosity for humans as a whole, rather than just him. But still...

"I'm glad you had a good time," he said, leaning back in the chair.

"It does seem," she said contemplatively, "that, of late, your choices have outdone my anticipations."

He laughed. "I'm not sure whether to be flattered, T'Pol, or rebuke you for havin' so low an expectation of me." The laugh flattened out into a warm smile. "So...thank you."

"You are welcome."

There was a blip, and the screen flashed up the Starfleet insignia. The movie was officially over; they would both have to start making tracks. Trip felt a reluctance to leave, knowing T'Pol would return to her quarters, most likely to meditate or do more work. And he had goodness knows how many engineering reports to go over, and he really should be getting some rest...but something made him linger.

He watched her stand up, and the nervous energy that had put his leg to sleep now fluttered dangerously in his stomach. "Hey..." She was halfway to the door. "Do you feel like getting a bite to eat? I hear Chef's made cheesecake."

She paused, and there was a moment--just a moment--where he was sure she was about to say yes. But it passed quickly, and she simply said, "Goodnight, Commander," and walked out the door.

The room was silent.

"Ah, rejection. It's never easy, is it?"

"Jesus!" Trip whipped around, nearly jumping out of his skin. "Malcolm, for cryin' out loud..." He had forgotten the armoury officer was still in the room. Malcolm, the rescued popcorn in a bowl on the arm rest beside him, sat with his forearms resting on the seat in front. He gave Trip a sympathetic look, and stood up, stretching.

"That was quite a show," he said, smiling slightly.

Trip narrowed his eyes, not sure whether his friend was referring to the movie, or...but then he sighed, and thought, what the hell, it's not as if he was good at hiding his feelings in the first place. "Yeah," he said, as they walked out together. "It sure was."

---

"You must admit, she does possess a certain...allure."

Trip paused mid-lift, and stared at his gym partner. "Huh?" Malcolm smiled to himself. It wasn't often that he'd expect to hear himself giving Trip advice on women, and especially not when the subject was a certain Vulcan Science Officer. But they're the cards we're dealt with, I suppose. He suppressed a sigh. There was a time when he had been rather taken with T'Pol himself. Trip Tucker was on no easy path.

"T'Pol...?" he supplied helpfully, as Trip continued to stare at him blankly.

"Oh!" The commander gave a shrug, and went back to his weights. "Yeah, I guess so."

You poor fool, Malcolm thought, gazing sympathetically at the other man. You've got it worse than I thought. Placing his own weights carefully on the bench, he reached for a towel and patted the sweat off his face. "Right," he said slowly. "Well, if you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. I just thought you might feel better getting it out of your system. Clear the air...so to speak."

"Malcolm." Trip dropped his weight with a clang, the noise reverberating off the walls like a shout. "I know you're English, but do you wanna speak a version of it I can understand for once?"

Angrily, Malcolm threw the towel down. He pointed a finger in Trip's direction. "I'm talking about T'Pol! You and T'Pol. Look, you might be happy enough living on Planet Blissfully-bloody-Ignorant for the rest of your life, but spare a thought for the rest of us. It's like watching a never-ending soap opera, the way you two act around each other. I'm sorry I had to tell you like this, but if you don't do something soon, and put us out our misery..." He shook his head in exasperation. "I mean, Commander, really...you've got to tell her how you feel."

"'How I feel'," Trip echoed. "Gee, you make it sound so simple."

"Well, you can start by telling me."

Trip rubbed a hand over his face, and sighed. "God, where do I start?"

"At the beginning?"

"Right. The beginning. Okay...you ever had that thing happen to you, where you meet someone, and there's something about that person that just rubs you the wrong way? Well, that's how I felt when I first met her. Smug little...standing there giving the cap'n a major slice of attitude, like she owned the whole ship--no, Malcolm, like she owned the whole world. I'll tell you, that Vulcan superiority did not sit well with this Tucker. I thought, I'll show her. She's not gonna rule me like her whole race has ruled ours, and I'm not gonna let her rule the cap'n, either! And, well...you know how it went from there. We had some damned fine arguments. You probably heard most of them. Hell, I think the whole ship heard most of them.

"But then...I dunno, it was the little things. She started confiding in me. We'd be working together and instead of fighting, we'd...agree. Agree! It was strange, and yet...nice. Then one day, we we're all watchin' a movie--can't remember which one--and I was teasing her as usual, just for fun, and I swear...she gave me this look over her shoulder...and I wanted to laugh out loud. She just seemed...happy."

"Happy?"

"Yeah, it's ridiculous, I know--but it made me feel happy, too. Seein' her like that. And I suddenly felt then and there that I wanted to see her like that for the rest of my life."

A smile played on his lips, and he looked away, gave a shrug. "Well," said Malcolm, "this is just my two cents, remember, but I do think you should tell her. And--" He held up a finger as Trip opened his mouth to reply, "--I also think T'Pol has a fair idea already."

"Aw, hell..." Trip closed his eyes in disbelief. "You’re kiddin', right?"

"I'm surprised you're not aware of it, Commander. She cares about you. It's blindingly obvious."

There was a pause. "Having said that," Malcolm continued, as he began to pack up his gym bag, "it might be wise for you not to tell her all this in one go. Let it out gradually. Who knows--maybe she'll see sense and confide in you." He patted his friend on the shoulder. "Good luck."

"Yeah, thanks." This was mumbled underneath a towel as Trip rubbed his face wearily. Malcolm stayed for a moment, watching the commander's bend head as he packed up his own things, then with a shrug, turned for the door. Once more unto the breach...He smiled. He certainly didn't want to be in Trip Tucker's shoes right now.

---

Ship's night had fallen hours previously, and yet, sleep eluded the engineer. Dropping the PADD half-heartedly, he rubbed his eyes and continued up through his hair. Stars beckoned, yet again. Trip leaned back in the desk chair and gazed out the window. The stars had always held the answers before.

Streaming by, distorted, they lulled him. A million million points of light, around which orbited how many worlds? How many possibilities? Superimposed over the sight was his reflection, a ghostly echo. The light grey shirt fading into the blackness of space, stars streaming through his eyes. He gave himself over to them.

Malcolm's words lingered, 'she probably already knows...just tell her how you feel...put us out of our misery.'

He spoke aloud, to no one, to the stars. "And just what is it I'm supposed to be telling her? I don't even really know what's going on. Ok, she's not my type, so why is she always on my mind? Of course we're getting along better...it was that or kill each other dead in the turbo lift." He leaned forward, annoyed at the cacophony of questions his mind posed back at him. Mocking.

"This is getting aggravating. She's a colleague, a scientist, and a fine one at that." He half whispered the last, and tore his eyes from the stars. Staring at his lap he whispered on, "There's nothing, well, logical about this. I have to see her as a scientist, but all I see in my mind's eye are those eyes. Whether or not she'll ever admit it, I saw those eyes relax. It was a smile, as close as she'll give into a smile anyway."

He stood, paced the room in short order, and faced the stars full on again. There was a problem before him. While scientists might be content to run simulation upon simulation to solve a problem, he could not. He was, at heart, an engineer. He would therefore grab the nearest spanner and beat it into submission...he would make it solvable. He stared through the reflection of his own eyes out into the wisps of starlight, daring them to giggle.

With a final look at his desk, strewn as it were with abandoned PADDs, he headed for bed. Far off in the recesses of his mind a young lady whispered...'I'll think about it tomorrow'...his last conscious act was to mentally roll his eyes.

---

"Mr. Tucker, if you would answer please?"

"And you, Mr. Tucker, now have your answer."

---

It was not often that Jonathon Archer found making small talk to be a chore, but here at breakfast it was like having to fish for conversation with dear old Aunt Martha who hadn't visited in thirty five years. He stared at the bent heads of his two commanding officers sitting across the table, and grimaced around his poached eggs. Frankly, this morning's tête-à-tête--or lack of it--was beginning to feel like the empty vacuum outside.

"How's your French toast, Trip?" he asked, too brightly.

Trip looked up, momentarily resembling a deer caught in headlights. "My what?"

"Your toast." T'Pol offered him a dry stare. "The captain inquired if it was satisfactory."

Archer watched as they stared at each other. Trip, he suddenly thought, seemed to be acting in slow gear. He wondered of the younger man was getting enough sleep. At last the commander appeared to snap out of his daydream, and said, "Oh, fine, fine!" He nodded vigorously, almost as if he was trying to convince himself of the fact. "Fine..." And he trailed off, dropping his eyes from T'Pol's.

Is he...Archer paused, his cup of coffee poised in mid-lift. A smile tweaked at his mouth. Is he...blushing? He took a small sip. Well, I wonder what brought that on.

Whatever it was, he would have to wait until he got Trip on his own before he found out. But there was definitely something...and he suspected, as he watched Trip sneak a look at T'Pol's bent head, that it wasn't going to be cut and dry. But then, he mused, where Trip is concerned, nothing ever is.

He placed his coffee back on the table. The silence crept on.

Topic? Archer thought, searching his brain frantically for something to spark the non-existent conversation. Work? No, scratch that, we do enough of it as it is. "Movie night seemed to go well, I thought," he said at last.

For some reason Trip appeared to blush even more. T'Pol, he noticed, also looked uncomfortable. What on earth had happened after he had gone? Archer soldiered on. "It was a good choice, Trip. Despite what Malcolm had to say."

"Ah, he's just a frustrated critic," Trip mumbled, picking up a crust off his plate and examining it as if it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. "Unlike some people..."

In the seat opposite, T'Pol visibly bristled. "I thought I had expressed my appreciation of your choice, Commander," she said.

Trip gazed at her. "You did, too," he echoed, taking a bite of the crust. A slow grin teased his lips as he chewed. He watched her carefully. "Care to expand on it?"

"Very well." She took a sip of water. Her cutlery, Archer noticed, not without a hint of amusement, were arranged on her clean plate in a state as neat and well-organised as would make an artist proud. On the opposite side of the table, however, Trip's breakfast setting looked like the aftermath of a chaotic battle--crusts of abandoned French toast scattered about like the many wounded, all of it lying underneath a crumpled napkin. A spoon, the only item left untouched, he had still managed to knock at a rakish angle, while T'Pol's appeared to have been glued in place.

"I may have, in the past, disagreed with your choice of entertainment," she said. "And for the most part, those observations I do not rebuke. However, there are aspects to these films which I can appreciate do proclaim a positive edict towards human life as a social whole--however...deeply...they may be hidden beneath the frivolity," here Trip laughed and shook his head, "of the celluloid."

She looked at Archer, and with a sparkle in her eye, continued. "I will use last night's film as an example. The young boy had to face a situation which no doubt he found distressing, but the fact was that he had to do it."

Trip chewed thoughtfully. "It had a moral. You ever read any of Aesop's fables? The brothers Grimm? All stories, no matter how 'frivolous' they may seem, have something to say. It just depends on the viewer if they're open to receiving them."

"So, what's on the cards for next week?" Archer asked.

"Not up to me," Trip shrugged. "I told Malcolm he could come up with something. I wanna see him criticise his own choices for once. But that's not sayin' much. He might boast the higher moral ground when it comes to his country's films, but he's just as likely to spite me and give us a Carry On double--and believe you me, T'Pol, you don't wanna see that."

T'Pol lifted an eyebrow.

"What?"

"Now you are doing just as you accuse me of doing."

"T'Pol, Malcolm understands me. He knows I dig fun at him."

"And how is that different to how you treat my observations?"

"People! People!" Archer held his hands up. "Enough." He looked at the cold remains on the table, and sighed. "I think breakfast is over."

Trip smiled. "Sorry, Cap'n."

"I will see you on the bridge, Captain." T'Pol stood up, nodded at Archer, glanced briefly in Trip's direction, and left.

Archer stood up as well. He looked down at the commander, who had his fork in hand and was arranging the pieces of crust in random patterns on the plate. "T'Pol seems in a strange mood," he said.

Trip said nothing.

"You want to tell me why?" "I--" But then Trip paused, and stood up. He gazed levelly at Archer. "No, sir. It's complicated."

For a moment Archer was silent, then he nodded. "I'd better get on the bridge. See you later, Commander."

"Right, sir. And thanks for breakfast."

Archer watched as Trip turned and ducked out the door. No problem, he thought, vaguely wondering what, exactly, he had just witnessed. And moreover still, what could possibly be going on between his science officer and Commander Tucker.

---

"Sub-Commander."

The pair of cadets nodded at T'Pol, the woman holding a hand out to stop the lift door closing. They smiled in unison, moving over to give her room.

"Thank-you," she said, and stepped inside.

The taller one, a slender young man wearing the yellow piping of the ship's security division, smiled at her again, his hand hovering over the controls. "Which floor, Sub-Commander," he asked politely.

"Engineering, please."

The doors closed. Once moving, the pair proceeded to respectively ignore T'Pol's presence. She could tell she had interrupted something, and found the silence quite uncomfortable. They were turned away from her, so she afforded herself a moment to observe them. She caught brief glances, and more then a few smiles between them, and it suddenly occurred to her that she may have intruded in more ways than one. The thought struck her that her duty in this situation was obvious--to show disapproval--and that perhaps she ought to even mention it to the captain. Tell him that she had observed members of the crew fraternising on duty in a manner which, strictly speaking, was not entirely professional. Even if they were young, extremely green, and should probably know better.

The lift continued to descend.

T'Pol took a slow breath. Hypocritical. That was what she was. For had she not stood in this very lift herself only days ago, wresting with feelings that, if pushed hard enough, might have manifested themselves into a tableau not dissimilar to what she was witnessing between this pair right now? Had she not been as close to exiting the lift and following the path to his quarters that night, as she had ever been in her entire life? She did not want to think of that margin, for it seemed every day she was near him, it was narrowing dangerously, and furthermore, towards a point where she couldn't be certain she would not welcome it.

The lift stopped. With a nod at T'Pol, and a small, very secret, very knowing, smile at the woman, the young man got off. Shortly thereafter, the doors opened upon the engineering level.

She stepped out quickly, too briefly acknowledging the female cadet, and started towards engineering.

---

Duly given pride of place in the centre of the room, Enterprise's most prized possession sat glowing in vivid cherry pink, its powerful hum deftly understated, like the bow of a cello's deepest note. T'Pol stood inside the doors, and let herself soak up the quiet purr. It was almost comforting.

"Excuse me, Sub-Commander..."

She felt the whip of air a crewman swept past her, weaving off to some other part of the room. Everyone seemed to be busy, constantly moving or talking, and she had a brief sensation of being lost in time. It made her immediately step forward into the hubbub. In her hand was a PADD, and its recipient was somewhere in engineering.

Whether she could find him was another matter entirely.

She spotted the female cadet from the lift; the young woman was standing in a corner, a pile of PADDs in her arms. Her head was dipped towards another crewmember, talking animatedly. T'Pol started to move on, but then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the cadet glance in her direction.

I am not a paranoid creature, she scolded herself. But it suddenly became important--more important then anything--to find out what they were saying.

So she made herself busy at a nearby console. The young woman was obviously unaware, or had forgotten, the superiority of Vulcan hearing, and she found it was not necessary to move closer in order to catch what was being said.

"...was all over her at movie night. Were you there?"

The friend shook her head earnestly. "No. But Julie told me that the night before, in the mess hall, they had been eating together, and she said there was definitely something going on, but both of them seemed completely dumbfounded about the whole situation. Anyway, it's so obvious, I'm surprised she doesn't see it."

"Oh she's so completely smothered under all that logic, I doubt she'd see anything obvious. Especially someone as obviously infatuated as the commander." A pause. "Are you sure you weren't there at movie night--I could swear I saw you sitting with Ben."

"Ben? Give me some credit for good taste. No, I had a cold. I was stuck in bed all evening."

"Oh, poor you..."

Their conversation drifted off. T'Pol stood very still, gazing at the console before her. She wasn't sure what to think. At first she wanted to stride over and confront them, but that would mean causing a scene, and...what was that human expression? Adding fuel to the fire? No doubt her dressing them down was what she should be doing, but what if he should see? What if he should confront them himself?

Part of her thought that might be a good thing. Would not having the truth out in the open relieve her of this monumental tension she was living through?

But then she saw him, standing across the far end of the room. She gripped the PADD tightly, and with a curse upon herself for what she was about to do, T'Pol whipped around on the spot, and marched towards the exit.

---

Though he was in the middle of running a diagnostic, something made Trip look up. He quickly scanned the room.

Everything looks normal...engines appear in order...crew's functioning well...T'Pol's hurrying towards the exit...

Wait a minute! T'Pol was in engineering and hadn't come to see him? He frowned. And she'd had an expression on her face as if she had seen or heard something to upset her. Now that was unlike T'Pol...but was she trying to avoid him? He thought of going after her, but a beep from his console reminded him that he was supposed to be in the middle of an important job. He sighed. A job which couldn't wait for this saga with a certain science officer to be resolved.

What was it that Malcolm had said? Something about a never-ending soap opera? He rubbed a hand over his brow. This was getting ridiculous. He'd have to have it out with her soon, before he became the laughing stock of the whole ship.

His console beeped again. Don't you start, Trip thought, scowling at it. I've enough on my plate without a damned computer telling me what to do. "If only you had a relationship counseling sub-routine in you," he mumbled. He gazed back at the exit.

"Are you okay, Commander?" Trip tore his gaze away and looked back to find the concerned eyes of Ensign Peters trained on him. He forced a smile on his face, knowing it was about as unconvincing as this whole sorry situation with T'Pol had been from day one.

"Never better, Ensign," he said. "Never better."

---

Luminous streaks of candlelight lit up the room, creating softly dancing shadows on the walls. T'Pol knelt on her meditation mat, eyes closed. She sat very still, trying to concentrate on the silence, but she kept hearing the sounds of the world outside her quarters. People talking, laughing, moving about. Why was it that the world of humankind on this ship was so intent on its comings and goings? Where was the room for silence, for deliberation, in this instantaneous existence?

It should have been here, in this room. It should have been with her. But it wasn't.

She knew without looking that it had just gone past 19.45 hours. At around eight those who weren't stuck on night shift would begin to mill at the ship's small cinema. It was Tuesday night.

Movie night.

As the week progressed, T'Pol had made the decision that, for the moment, the best way for her to regain slipping control was to try to avoid any socially-intense events. It was an escape mechanism bordering on the cowardly; this she knew. This she understood painfully well--but what else could she do? So she remained in her quarters, while the rest of the ship went about enjoying life as it was meant to be enjoyed.

That is my lot, T'Pol thought. Her refuge was her own blood. She had not been born Vulcan to despise and reject the teachings of her race. She had a responsibility to bring order to an undisciplined whole. But lately the urge had been stronger--not only due to Trip Tucker, though he was a major contributor--that her logical Vulcan self might accept a small slice of humanity.

Yes, it made her feel guilty. Yes, it was a prospect fraught with risk. But it was there, nagging at her, pushing at her. No longer did denial hold the logical ground. Out here in the blanket of stars, she could not turn to her peers. Once, she might have considered it a challenge as much as a responsibility, but now she wasn't so sure. Every day she felt the eyes of speculation upon her. Would it be that terrible if she returned the gaze once in a while? Once to listen to the jazz wafting out into the foggy San Francisco night?

The voices, she realised, had faded. She looked at the timepiece on her desk. 19.51.

Everyone had left for the movie. She wondered briefly what they were seeing. Recalling a conversation at breakfast some days ago she remembered the commander waving off a comment that Lieutenant Reed was choosing this week's film. She tried to picture what sort of fare the ship's very British, very upright but occasionally eccentric armory officer would serve up. Not a western, that was almost certain. But she was here, and not there, so she would have to be satisfied with speculation.

Concentrate. Deep breaths. Think of nothing. The world is outside but tonight you are not a part of it. The minutes ticked past, turning into an hour, and still she sat there, listening. Distant voices, her own breathing. The beating of her heart. A chime. A chime of a door.

Her door. Someone was at her door.

T'Pol opened her eyes. Slowly she turned towards the sound. It came again, insistently shrill. She whispered: "Enter."

Love can do strange things. It knows no discrimination between animal, vegetable or mineral just as it cannot differentiate between male and female. It is the most violent and fragile of emotions, and yet those who fall prey to it can see no further than their own happiness. T'Pol stood as Trip entered, and watched the shadows which had crept across the walls failed to extinguish the strange longing in his eyes.

He didn't speak. He didn't need to.

She stepped forward and followed his outstretched hand; not touching it, just following. His barely-there smile she trained her gaze upon. They left her quarters.

In the corridor, he finally spoke. "You were meditating in your uniform, Sub-Commander?"

Together they looked down at her jumpsuit. She replied without thinking.

"I had the thought you might come."

"ESP?" He looked straight ahead, amused.

She opened her mouth to rebuke in the familiar pattern they had so often shared: Vulcans do not...Vulcans never...but something in his expression took the words away. "Perhaps," she said, turning her head.

"Perhaps..." He pressed the button on the lift. "Perhaps is a dangerous word."

Inside she could hear the click of air-filters busy at work in the confined space, but it gave her no relief from the heat that was running through her veins. "Define dangerous," she said.

His eyes swept across her. Concentrate. Deep breaths. Think of everything. The world is in here and you are very much a part of it.

"It's dangerous because it's speculation. You say perhaps, but what does that mean? It's all too gray, T'Pol, just like that uniform, just like these panels. Sometimes you've just gotta risk livin' in colours once in a while. Take a leap. Venture into the unknown. You never know--you just might enjoy it."

"And what if the risk is too great? Foolhardiness does not equal enjoyment."

"Who says?"

She gazed at the walls. "Statistics," she replied curtly. "Scientific data. History."

"Logic..."

He had turned slightly. She felt his breath tickle her ear. Her mouth became suddenly dry. "Yes," she echoed softly, "logic."

The lift slowed. "You have not told me where we are going, Commander." He smiled again, mysteriously, and they got out. "Take a guess."

Walking in silence, T'Pol tried to imagine life on this ship without him, and realised she couldn't. He was popular with his staff because he treated them with respect. He was welcomed by his peers because he offered them friendship. He was all that she was not. She looked across at him, suddenly aware that at this moment, here with him, she finally felt the sense of peace she had yearned for without success in her quarters.

Together they turned a corner, stopping at a closed door. She frowned. "But movie night has finished. There will be nothing to see."

"Ah..." He looked sideways at her. "There's been a slight change of plans. A double bill. For latecomers like us."

He pressed a panel and the door slid open.

The room was dark, silent. For a moment she could not make out anything, then in the dim light, way up the back, a lone figure moved, standing up.

"Malcolm," Trip nodded.

"Good evening, Commander. Sub-Commander." A slight smile creased the lieutenant's features.

I should stop this, she thought. It was clearly a setup; on whose part, Trip's or Reed's, she wasn't sure though, but it reeked of having been planned with her in mind. She should have frowned upon them, told them she didn't appreciate being made a fool of. The old T'Pol would have done so in a heartbeat.

But she wasn't that T'Pol. Not any more.

"Lieutenant," she said archly. "I shall presume you have chosen with care, considering that I appear to be the target audience tonight."

The two men exchanged a glance. Trip blushed slightly. "Can't get much past you, can I?" he said wryly.

Malcolm, with typical British aplomb, recovered quickly. "Now then, Sub-Commander," he admonished, "would you expect anything less from me?" He turned where he was standing, and touched the control panel on the far wall, twenty-second century technology mimicking what an old fashioned projector might have once done. The screen activated, turning black. He stared at them for a moment, then spoke meaningfully in Trip's direction. "Commander..."

"Oh yeah." Trip turned to T'Pol, clearing his throat. "Would you care to take a seat?"

She sat in the front row. Malcolm she noticed slinking towards the exit, and so she raised her voice. "Are you not joining us, Lieutenant?"

There was an awkward moment as the men performed a brief conversation with their eyes. At last Malcolm smiled waspishly. "Enjoy the film," he said. And then he was gone.

Silence. Onscreen, the image crackled and popped. Trip sat down next to her, but she looked straight ahead.

"This is an old movie," she said at last, purposefully ignoring his embarrassment. This succeeded only in aggravating it even more, and after a spot of hesitation, he smiled and sighed.

"You could say that." He held his hands out, a gesture of forfeit. He saw now how she understood him; how perhaps he had underestimated that awareness. "Look, T'Pol. I'm sorry if this looks like I've brought you here under false pretenses. I just--"

"I know."

"I just wanted to make you happy. And I know how weird that sounds, and I fully understand if you want to drop this right here and now."

"Commander." She twisted around in her seat, facing him. His eyes were on her, intently seeking out the slightest response in her own, and she felt the hundreds of milliseconds which made up the pause between them as if they were turned into years and years of her life. The happiest times she could imagine flashed before her, and for the first time it was not just her future she saw but theirs together. This connection. Their connection. Now she saw it spark beyond the realms of fantasy and into the solid form of reality. "I know," she said, "and I will not refuse it." She lost track of her voice.

She sat back, feeling lightheaded. He smiled faintly. "I suppose we'd better watch this thing," he said, "seeing how Malcolm went to all that trouble getting it ready..."

The screen warped slightly, and with a clap of orchestral music, the opening credits rolled. "What are we watching?" she asked, touching his cheek with the tips of her fingers. "Neither you nor Lieutenant Reed would say."

"Casablanca. It's a story about untold, unspoken love. The best kind there is."

She glanced at the screen, then back at him. "Have I not seen such tales already?"

Then he grinned. "Darlin', you ain't seen nothin' yet..."

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A whole mess of folks have made comments

I love this, especially the Malcolm and Phlox involvement... it's so real, with great intimacy and character interaction.

Plus, you can NEVER go wrong with Bogie!

GREAT JOB... off to read it again. Wooo!

Thanks!! This is just part one ya'll

Great! But oh the agony of having to wait for them to get to this point. Sigh. At last - be still my aching heart. Thanks so much, Ali D :~)

I really enjoyed this. A lot of suspense and dragging us to the final moment.....Very nice.

Slow progress. One step forward, two steps back. Hmm, reminds me of season 3.

Really nice work. I found this piece, while not exactly frustrating, more relaxing. It wasn't stressful or demanding. It was gentle and rolling, comfortable. I liked it.

Alright, I enjoy the Movie Night stories! Great choice for a classic movie! Would have loved to see Trip and T'Pol discuss this picture afterwards in either her quarters or his!!!
I loved how Travis and Malcolm come to Trip's aid, thankfully they did not tease him too badly! Glad to see that Phlox was there for T'Pol!

amazing story...no other word can describe it...the characters were themselves and i liked how u brought them together

A very sweet and believable tale. And only the first part, you say? Fantastic! Looking forward to more!

I loved the dream sequence where Trip was arguing with his Vulcan professor! I like how you used the professor almost as his subconscience or guide through his understanding of T'Pol.

Me thinks you two have been taking lessons from Joe and Stub on movie selection.

Oh the tenative reaches towards each other so nice and then you give us the ESP moment and all that followed. Delicious!

Double Bill I'm glad your going to continue this and thet it was movie nigth.Casablanca is one of my favorite movies.Phlox and Malcolm acting as sounding boards for T'pol and Trip .I like the dreams you showed of T'Pol and Trip.I just liked your whole story.Great job guys.Looking forward to part 2 sometime.

Excellent characterizations and dialogue. Great story all around.

Just is just part one? Bring it on, baby!!

I'm a bit confused at this point. I hadn't realized there were Cadet's on enterprise. Civilians, Crewmen, yes, but Cadet's? I hadn't noticed. Cool, I wonder what thier uniform looks like.

Excellent story. Loved the dialogue and character interaction and insights. Just great. Thanks.

Awesome! :D. I liked it, I'm still a bit confused as to the Cadets and T'Pol wearing a jumpsuit, but I'm used to it by now. And "Casablanca"?! Awesome!

I'm unforgivably late in reading this. I loved it, especially the ending! TY! :)