oo.com Received: from [66.218.67.195] by n26.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 19 Mar 2004 04:47:16 -0000 X-Sender: stephen@trekiverse.org X-Apparently-To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 37335 invoked from network); 19 Mar 2004 04:47:15 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.167) by m2.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 19 Mar 2004 04:47:15 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO avocet.mail.pas.earthlink.net) (207.217.120.50) by mta6.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 19 Mar 2004 04:47:14 -0000 Received: from sdn-ap-010dcwashp0392.dialsprint.net ([63.188.97.138]) by avocet.mail.pas.earthlink.net with smtp (Exim 3.33 #1) id 1B4BuY-0001GC-00 for ascl@yahoogroups.com; Thu, 18 Mar 2004 20:47:11 -0800 To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Organization: Alt.StarTrek.Creative Virtual Staff Office Message-ID: X-Mailer: Forte Agent 1.92/32.572 X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 207.217.120.50 X-eGroups-From: Stephen Ratliff From: Stephen Ratliff X-Yahoo-Profile: oldmanasc MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCL@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCL@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Thu, 18 Mar 2004 23:47:03 -0500 Subject: [ASC] ENT: Fic: Color Them Green - PG-13 - (T/Tu, C, R) (1/1) Reply-To: ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Buy Ink Cartridges or Refill Kits for your HP, Epson, Canon or Lexmark & Cana Printer at MyInks.com. Free s/h on orders $50 or more to the US da. http://www.c1tracking.com/l.asp?cid=5511 http://us.click.yahoo.com/mOAaAA/3exGAA/qnsNAA/5x3olB/TM ---------------------------------------------------------------------~-> Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: 16 Mar 2004 21:03:02 -0800 In: alt.startrek.creative From: susieqla@yahoo.com (Sue) TITLE: Color Them Green...(1/1) AUTHOR: Sue E-MAIL: susieqla@yahoo.com SERIES: Enterprise RATING: PG-13 CODES: T/Tu, C, R CATEGORY: Angst/PRST/Romance SPOILERs: Slight Harbinger ARCHIVE: Yes - Any and all places, fine. DISCLAIMER: Enterprise is the property of Paramount. No profit is being made. SUMMARY: T'Pol is, and it has nothing to do with being Vulcan. _______________ Color Them Green The last thing T'Pol expected to see was Amanda Cole sharing a meal with Commander Tucker. Yet, there they were, as big as shipboard life, seated together at the starboard aft viewport. By the look of things, they chatted congenially in between chews. There was a lot of food on their table, as though they'd had several courses from soup to nuts as the Terran expression went. Trip laughed suddenly, swept his napkin up from his lap and used it to carefully whisk at something insignificant near the corner of Cole's mouth whose rictus mirrored Tucker's perfectly. Despite telling herself to ignore it, T'Pol acknowledged that familiar spike well up from within. She grew hot under her snug collar and her hands clenched into tight fists. Surely this wasn't healthy; it just couldn't be. This peculiar feeling was habitually bothersome. It required too much from her, and she demanded not giving into its dictates. It wreaked havoc she never knew could coexist with her well-oiled logic. Sadness was its cohort, she finally admitted, hoping she would go unnoticed as she went to get herself some of her favorite tea. What reason did she have to feel sad? It was obvious the commander had taken her at her word. So, what was the problem, his acting as though what had passed between them had never happened? As it should be. It was what she wanted. Or was it? Sharing intimacy with a human? What had gotten into her? But, her human was not just any human. Charles "Trip" Tucker was a resolute rogue and a bad influence to round things out. Much of his impulsivity had somehow rubbed off on her, a good deal of his recklessness too. She sniffed near the beverage dispenser, and confirmed just how much he was a negative influence. His pheromonal scent was unmistakable and defied dilution, even in this room crammed to the rafters with other males. Her head swam...and it was as though his sultry voice murmured within it, promising her many forbidden things. The desire to revel in his flesh again, the way she had a mere two weeks ago, gnawed at her. It was a hunger growing stronger each passing day. When had the domineering appetite for intimacy with the commander...with her Trip...become inherent? Hadn't he been the one to suggest that their neuro-pressure sessions go on? Well, where had he been these past two weeks? Not in her quarters picking up where they'd left off, that was for sure. He was doing the ignoring, not she, and, to coin an all too human phrase, it was driving her crazy. "Er, excuse me, Sub-commander, might I get by?" The deferential voice of Malcolm Reed broke her one-track concentration. The jerky movement in response to the lieutenant's surprise intrusion upset her hand causing hot tea to burn her near the base of her thumb. T'Pol, her self-control caught napping, yelped a bit. Ever vigilant, not to mention appalled that he had somehow startled the covert object of his unrequited affection, Reed inwardly cursed that he had provoked the beauty's momentary discomfort. Rueful words tumbled from his lips. "There is no need to apologize, Lieutenant, no lasting damage has been sustained." If only that could be said of how she felt this very moment, seeing Trip guide a forkful of some wildly creamy confection towards a simpering Cole whose mouth was wide open. "I should have been paying closer attention." With an effort, T'Pol ordered herself to stop looking. What point was there, making herself feel even worse? And though loath to admit it, she was...feeling worse. "Free space is at a premium, it seems. Might I make so bold as to invite you to share a table with me, Sub-commander?" Reed invitingly plied. "I'm hunting up a snack as well as a place to sit." Neither had it escaped his notice the way T'Pol was absorbed with the goings-on at a certain table. Malcolm had the sneaking suspicion that T'Pol was far from pleased with Tucker's presence and carrying on at that table. *He's being the right cad,* the lieutenant judged, staring too now. *He knows she fancies him. What I wouldn't give to be in his boots. Perhaps there is some truth to the supposition that blonds do have more fun, after all.* T'Pol considered, analyzing whether the armory officer was supplying her with a way of helping her save face? Irrational, she viewed, but she was experiencing so many irrationalities lately, what difference did another make? If *Tucker* could dine with the MACO, *she* could accept this unanticipated invitation. "Yes, thank you, Lieutenant." As circumstance would have it, a table became available from a distance that allowed Cole and Tucker to be guardedly observed. No sooner had science and armory officers seated themselves when T'Pol started having incriminating second thoughts. She felt she was no better than the female lead in the last spaghetti Western shown, at the insistence of the captain, no less. The silly woman, wanting to make her corn-fed cowpoke jealous, began playing fast and loose, she'd heard Mr. Tucker describe it, with the sirenic gunslinger who'd come to town. The word 'floozy' had also been bandied about freely after the banal presentation. Eschewing what she felt like, she swiftly rose to her feet. The look on Malcolm's face halted her making a start for the mess hall doors. She stared at him, and he stared back, just as intently. Not blinking, he offered, "At least let me refill your cuppa. A great deal sloshed out when I upset you." "It did," was all T'Pol could think to say. Removing her cup from before her, he acknowledged what he thought he gleaned from her expression which was transparent even for her. "This may be taking a liberty, but you look as though you could do with some company." But not just anyone's. She sorely wanted to be with her fickle neuro-pressure recipient, despite his vagaries, and she may have been stretching it, but in the worst way. A sense of pride didn't enter in. The more she watched Trip and Amanda, surreptitiously of course, the more heartsick she felt herself becoming. Headily, it dawned on her the succinct reason why her species avoided granting their emotions free rein. She got the point but good, even if she never picked up Surak's didactic tome again for the rest of her life. Emotions unchecked, not stoppered into proper place, were ruthless taskmasters. *Trip, I'm over here. Desist from pretending I don't exist.* How could he be this apathetic? Down in the dumps, T'Pol tried to look away, but it was as though her heart stopped when she observed Trip lean over the table to peck Cole's cheek. Even from this distance, the first in command saw the gleam in his eyes. T'Pol had no way of knowing he had decided to thank Amanda that way for her agreeing to go easier on him next drill session under the hawkish eyes of Major Hayes. To T'Pol, his gesture was salacious. She toyed with the idea of going over to Tucker and nerve pinching him on the spot. Did she care how those on hand would view her? The human female was encroaching on *her* territory and it was *his* fault! How dare they--both!! "A tuppence for your thoughts." Malcolm was back and obliging with her cup hot and steaming. He wouldn't have sworn to it, but for a brief second T'Pol seemed to have forgotten about him entirely, judging by her tepid look of almost surprise. Sounding a mite flustered to his ears, she responded, "Oh? Lieutenant?" She wondered if her face was a PADD, clearly readable, the way he was looking at her. "Are you all right, Sub..." Malcolm paused, unsure, but he considered the casual setting in keeping with the generally relaxed atmosphere of the mess hall and said, "T'Pol?" She sensed his genuine concern, but it also seemed to her she heard her name being called from far off. Allowing another minute to slip by, at length she replied, "Somewhat fatigued..." Physical tiredness was not the issue, on the brink of mental prostration was. "But generally, I'm well." She thanked him for seeing to her tea although she made no claim of it, as though done with it. Casting eyes that, if they were anyone else's, could have been considered wistful at Malcolm, T'Pol said, "If you'll excuse me, Mister Reed, retiring to my quarters would be best. I'm not in need of company, but rather, solitude." Although...if a certain blue-eyed chief engineer loomed up, requesting, no begging for, T'Pol liked that thought better, neuro-pressure, she would have all too willingly complied after first refusing. Malcolm was not that easily put off. "An enviable, not to mention admirable pursuit aboard this starship." Quirking an eyebrow, T'Pol inquired, "Do you seek solitude on a regular basis, Mister Reed?" Softly snorting within his nasal passageways, he crisply remarked, "I live for the opportunities, as few and as far between as they are, owing to the scope of this dodgy mission." Realizing he had her ear, and the thought amused him since many a time he fantasized what caressing the tip of one might feel like, he tentatively continued, "I find there's nothing more pleasing than some quality unwinding with the classics softly playing in the background." "Which classics? Of Greece or Rome? I wasn't aware of their availability in the database." Although she had risen to her feet again, she remained where she stood, facing the table she would've preferred to be at, minus its outgoing female occupant. She paid better attention to Malcolm. "Please, don't leave. This has all the makings of a fine conversation." T'Pol humored him. "Now, which classics I believe was your question." Sounding conspiratorial, Malcolm disclosed, "Brahms, Beethoven and Bach...a smattering of Liszt and Mozart for good measure, as well as Chopin. And somehow I always manage to name Tchaikovsky last, yet he is my favorite. The 'Pathetique' moves me to tears." Jazz wasn't the only form of human music T'Pol interested herself in; a developing fondness for classical music came into play. So often the mood of the genre lent itself to leisurely patterns of elevated thought. The tug of his tone wasn't wasted on her. "You refer to music. 'The Pathetique,'" she repeated which to Malcolm's ears sounded listless. The title sounded vaguely familiar. "To be sure. Literally: moving, pathetic, exhibiting pathos, in French. Symphony number six in B minor, opus seventy-four. Those descriptives equally aligned with hauntingly beautiful and exquisite, quite. 'The Pathetique'...composed in eighteen hundred ninty-three; Piotr's final year on Earth. He was returning to a more classic form, working very much as a classical symphonist. Such genius! One of the greatest of the great masters, turbulent as his life may have been. Composer of the 'Nutcracker,' 'Swan Lake,' 'The Sleeping Beauty' and the 'Eighteen Twelve' overture as well." "Tchaikovsky's 'The Pathetique...' 'Tres triste.'" "T'Pol," Malcolm remarked, a touch amazed, "you speak French. I never imagined." "'Je parle un petit peu. Tres peu.'" The pout of her lower lip stole the chief security officer's breath away. Impassively as ever, she explained, "I studied it less than a year while in San Francisco. Often, it was impressed upon us that this Romance idiom in particular is thought of as the language of love among humans." She'd spoken whimsically, as though speaking from her heart, casting lowering eyes Trip's way. "You'd get no argument from the French, I daresay." Malcolm took careful note of her whole mood and wished she'd say more; she sounded wonderful speaking the so-called language of love. He marveled while voicing his opinion. "I tend towards Italian melodiously lending itself more readily, but that's just me, I suppose, being in the minority." Lost in thoughtful reverie for a moment, Malcolm plucked his courage. "Perhaps you might enjoy listening to the masterpiece...uh hmm...with me. That is if you'd care to. What I mean is, you'd be in for a right treat--listening to the entire symphony. If you haven't previously." Once again, her oblique look wasn't his idea of encouragement. *What a silly clod,* he morbidly chastized, wondering what had come over him. Surely he was overstepping unspoken boundaries. What made him think she would accept, although he hoped she might. If she accepted, it would mean going to his quarters, spending time alone together, something they'd never done before in a strictly social setting. Malcolm's heart thumped doggedly as though the intrepid pump sought release from its cage of ribs. "Are you inviting me to your quarters, Lieutenant?" T'Pol asked, sounding terse yet not as though he had asked the impossible. Recovering well from a faltering reply, he said, "It would appear I am." Inhaling, holding his breath and slowly letting it out, he inveigled, "What say you? You'd honor me by your acceptance." *I'm way out of line,* Malcolm silently reprimanded, *and she'll tell me so.* Clipped and to the point, T'Pol decided. "Then, I accept, Mister Reed, and thank you for the solicitation." "It is I who thank you." The look on Malcolm's face said it all. Still observing the troubling goings-on at the only table she saw, T'Pol deemed how much listening to this classical piece she'd only heard parts of was just the thing to bathe her agitated mind in solace. Perhaps after the private concert, she'd pay her philandering commander a visit to better ascertain exactly where she stood in his pecking order, doing so subtly, of course. The Vulcan and the Brit rose from the table in unison. They stood regarding each other, as though having just been introduced. Saying no more, they began leaving. And as they were, a pair of inquisitive eyes, whose corners crinkled, tracked their departure with more than a passing interest. Lightly, the pads of two fingers adhered to Trip's chin, and said fingers exerted a delicate yet firm pressure, turning his head back to Amanda's critical eyes. "I'm right here, not way over there, Mister Fix-it." She smiled at him like a cat with a mouse. "I'd appreciate your undivided attention." "S-sorry," the bemused man weakly offered. *Don't go doin' anythin' I already have, Malcolm, man,* Trip thought, and although he smiled back at Cole, sharp pangs of regret worked his heart over like brass knuckles. He tried convincing himself that T'Pol and Malcolm were probably headed to some matter concerning business. But what kind, his accusatory mind taunted. Reed looked every bit the conqueror. No, something work-related wasn't the case, not this time. *It's your own fault,* Trip soundlessly charged. *You've done the avoidin'. Pecan pie lips never called you a lab rat; you're the one. And you sittin' here like a bump on a log with Wonder Woman who's champin' to put serious moves of her own on ya. What are ya doin'?* Trip shut his eyes and supplicated: *T'Pol, honey, give me another chance. I don't wanna play two can play that game. Really I don't. I suckered myself into it. We might just have somethin' if...* When he opened his eyes, T'Pol and Malcolm were just going through the doors. Trip shot up from the table as though he had ants in his pants. He handed Amanda a hasty excuse about having to run a diagnostic long overdue and, making sure he wasn't leaving on his friends' heels, whipped out of the mess hall like the wind. He saw them about to board a turbolift at midships and ducked out of sight. What *was* he doing, stalking his crewmates? Getting all hung up on somebody could drive a person to do some crazy things. But this wasn't just any-old-body; this was T'Pol, the woman, gloriously all woman, who had called his bluff, not batting an eye. Even if his mind nursed a vestige of pride, his body couldn't help itself, reacting as it was, saddled with the memory of voluptuous curves hugging his receptive flesh. Her body was sweet, but the beauty she integrally hid deep inside was sweeter. Nearly a half hour later, he was still holed up in his office stewing. He'd started running the diagnostic, but gave up on it when he realized he'd performed the same exact function four times, all with different, mystifying results. A beautiful woman was more than willing to spend time with him, and here he was crabbing about not being with the other one who he'd never figure out even if he had her longevity. He couldn't get the thought of her leaving with Malcolm out of his mind. The more he mulled it over, the more irritable and nonplused he felt. Finally, having had his fill of feeling sorry for himself, he decided to take an innocent stroll past a certain lieutenant's digs. Blame it all on idle curiosity. He smirked at the haphazardly-placed clutter of his office. Yeah, right... Playing a hunch he begged for its being wrong, he took off. "That was lovely, Mister Reed. Thank you again for suggesting I listen to this particular symphony. Hearing it in its entirty was the 'treat' you spoke of." The last strains of the piano ebbed away once the virtuoso had struck the final chord. *Truly exquisite,* T'Pol cerebrally awarded. Reservedly, her spirits soared coupled with a new-found calmness. The ethereal music had infused her with a brighter, dignifying outlook, a better sense of who and what she was. Whether the commander wished to pursue some form of relationship with her or not, surely, her well-being did not depend on that decision. She was responsible for her own well-being, no one else. "I'm so glad you enjoyed it. Perhaps you'd enjoy listening to 'Swan Lake' as well, sometime in future." "That would be acceptable. Now, if you'll excuse me..." As Reed's door opened, Trip sprang away from it as though it had somehow become electrified, nearly spraining his ankle. He fled behind the corner of the nearest corridor, limping as he went. *Phew!* he thought like a reflex, making himself take deep breaths instead of gulping them. He rubbed the sting out of his throbbing ankle. "'Bon nuit, Monsieur Reed.'" "A smattering of the minuscule French I know," Malcolm jauntily rejoined. "'Au revoir, jusqu'a demain,' T'Pol. Passe une bonne nuit. Et merci encore une fois pour ta compagnie.'" Bowing from the waist, Malcolm, upon straightening up boldly claimed T'Pol's hand and hastily kissed it. Poised, T'Pol expressed, "'Tres bien. Il n'y a pas de quoi.'" When she spoke Le 'Francais,' she sounded mercilessly sexy. *Oh, Lord, they've got French in common, wouldn't ya know. Now that's just plain down an' dirty!* Wildly, Trip considered Hoshi giving him a crash course. He rolled his eyes bulkhead-wards, releasing a belabored sigh, only to fret that T'Pol's sharp hearing might have picked it up. He retreated from the area before she discovered him spying, skulking like a pathetic loser, bitten hard by the green-eyed monster. His sense of feeling out of sorts invigorated, Trip took off, walking aimlessly. For a while, he didn't know where he was going, and didn't care. He didn't, that is, until he found himself standing at T'Pol's door like some dumb homing pigeon. Cursing himself, he blamed his subconscious for where he'd ended up, but he thanked it too. His mind badgered him to walk away, but his heart had its own ideas. He'd put on quite a show for her benefit in the mess hall. Cole was more than a little infatuated with him, and he knew it, and it contributed to his crummy mood. Even though his behavior had been an act, by and large, Trip wasn't sure showing up on T'Pol's 'doorstep' was the smartest thing now that he was actually here. He sounded the chime anyway and not a moment after, T'Pol stood before him in her customary at ease pose. She wore the shimmery blue silk set which triggered the string of, what was now for him, feverish, treasured memories. She looked as though she was just whatever fell slightly below a tactical alert. "Is there something you wanted, Commander?" Being direct suited his state of mind best for this exchange. The gloves were off; offense and defense were strategies, and ploys had no place here. Trite, but true...honesty was the best policy. "You, T'Pol. Just you." "And Cole?" It was evident T'Pol's thinking was in the same vein. "Just you. Not a doubt in my mind." He wasn't sure if he should, but he felt he had to. Far be it from him to stand in her way if she wanted him out of it. "And you and Malcolm?" "A shared appreciation for classical music. In this instance, Tchaikovsky." Her riveting gaze did not dissuade him. "I might suggest to the captain that it's only fair we have a Classical Music Night to offset Movie Night." Her attempt at sarcasm was lost upon him. "Can I come in?" Instead of reminding him of how late it was, T'Pol nodded. As he stepped past her, she pulled him into her arms with strength reserved for him alone, then whispered, "And stay, if you like." Any reservations she may have had no longer factored in. "I'd like a lot of things," he bantered with a sigh. "If I stay, will you be nice to me?" T'Pol hugged him fiercely, so fiercely that his breathing became addled, but he refrained from complaining. He tried reciprocating, but his strenght was no match for hers and he refused to buckle within the crush. "I'll take that as a yes, darlin'," he drawled to perfection, but sounded winded. T'Pol clung until an observable gradation of her greenish tint drained from her face that reposed against his chest. Feeling better no longer concerned her, she did, and the man in her arms was directly responsible. Embracing the irrational was strangely satisfying, and she had no intention of relinquishing all that went with it any time soon. And if Trip's tenacious grasp of her was any indication, neither did he. _____________ End -- Stephen Ratliff ASC Awards Tech Support http://www.trekiverse.us/ASCAwards/commenting/ No Tribbles were harmed in the running of these Awards ASCL is a stories-only list, no discussion. Comments and feedback should be directed to alt.startrek .creative or directly to the author. Yahoo! Groups Links To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCL/ To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCL-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? 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