o.com Received: from [66.218.66.94] by n22.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 08 Apr 2004 06:34:40 -0000 X-Sender: stephen@trekiverse.org X-Apparently-To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 10999 invoked from network); 8 Apr 2004 03:41:00 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.218) by m1.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 8 Apr 2004 03:41:00 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO pintail.mail.pas.earthlink.net) (207.217.120.122) by mta3.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 8 Apr 2004 03:40:59 -0000 Received: from sdn-ap-022dcwashp0481.dialsprint.net ([63.191.161.227]) by pintail.mail.pas.earthlink.net with smtp (Exim 3.33 #1) id 1BBQPO-0007FX-00 for ascl@yahoogroups.com; Wed, 07 Apr 2004 20:40:54 -0700 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: 207.217.120.122 X-eGroups-From: Stephen From: Stephen 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: Wed, 07 Apr 2004 23:40:15 -0400 Subject: [ASC] Fic: ENT - Firsts - (T/Tu) - R- (1/1) Reply-To: ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: 7 Apr 2004 16:53:12 -0700 In: alt.startrek.creative From: susieqla@yahoo.com (Sue) TITLE: Firsts AUTHOR: Sue E-MAIL: susieqla@yahoo.com SERIES: Enterprise Part: 1/1 RATING: R CODES: T/Tu CATEGORY: Het SPOILERs: The Expanse, The Xindi, Similitude, Harbinger ARCHIVE: Yes, to all. Permission to archive granted to EntSTCommunity. DISCLAIMER: Enterprise is the property of Paramount. No profit being made. SUMMARY: With Trip and T'Pol there's a first time for everything. Firsts 'Spaghetti pomodori a la fresca' was one of Chef's specialties, but food T'pol had never tried before. What odd nourishment, she thought, contemplating the glistening meal set before her. As was becoming like second nature to her with anything humanistic, she questioned the logic behind her decision to give pasta a try. So far, getting the slimy spaghetti strands from plate to mouth was proving a dismal failure. The slippery, worm-like pasta refused to stay on her fork; the starch kept sliding off. The closer she raised the utensil to her mouth, the quicker the strands plummeted back to her plate. What was she doing wrong, she wondered. She realized there was a certain finesse involved, winding the strands around the tines of the fork and not letting any unravel while guiding it to one's mouth. She'd observed crew members eating spaghetti before. Dauntingly, she had no such finesse. With that thought firmly in mind, she donned her fork, once more, poising it above the aromatic mound of semolina of the finest quality. She wanted to beg off, opt for the familiar; dealing with plomeek soup was so much easier. Did taking the captain at his word about trying new things include making a fool of herself? T'Pol sighed, almost resolved to the idea of facing Commander Tucker's neuro-pressure session on an empty stomach. The occasional sacrifice had to be made. It was time she returned to her quarters to prepare. She was being watched, and she wasn't any the wiser about it. Trip sniggered behind a partially-clenched hand when he saw that she had wound too much spaghetti around her fork and the huge build-up had slid off into her lap. Her lower lip was looking very hard line right now. This could be interesting, he thought, realizing that not much amused him these days as they combed the Expanse desperately attempting to locate the elusive Xindi complete with their weapon of mass destruction. His devotion to revenge was a full-time pursuit. Sighing, Trip continued spying on the beautiful first in command. Easily enough, pleasant thoughts of Amanda Cole meshed with this impromtu comic relief T'Pol was treating him to. The latest women in his life were as different as day and night. Amanda was military through and through, but with a definite feminine side that coupled aggression with laid-back charm. It truly amazed him that they hailed from the same neck of the woods, back in Florida. It was nice to have so much in common with someone as spunky as Amanda, way out here. T'Pol, on the other hand, gave him a hard way to go practially every step of the way. She could get him going quicker than a fly biting an old mare's butt. Yet, even so, there was something so real and honest about her that fascinated him. Maybe it was her peerless ability to cut right through all his cock-and-bull. Her being so easy on the eyes didn't hurt either. Lately, it seemed, he couldn't get all the little things she either did or said out of his mind. Regrouping, T'Pol tackled her pasta again. She tried with less on her fork. She was concentration incarnate as she inched it to her mouth, but her forkful of spaghetti slipped off and fell into her lap again anyway. Stoic to the last, T'Pol lay her fork aside, breathed deeply, and strove not to glare at the impossible repast. Enough was enough. It was time to go. Unlike the commander, she was not one to keep anyone waiting. She would have her soup later. "Looks like you could use a few pointers. Y'mind?" She raised her eyes from her plate as all the buzzy wisps of commingled conversations in the crowded mess hall seemed to fade into the background. T'Pol looked up into the grinning face of Commander Tucker which radiated accommodation. Trying hard not to sound as taken aback as she couldn't help but feel, she detachedly replied, "No thank you, Commander. *Pointers* aren't necessary. I was just leaving." And she rose with dispatch. Vaguely, she wondered if he were making her ears the subject of jesting, yet again. Would he never adopt a maturer attitude? "It's time for your session. You should accompany me to my--" "Yeah, I know. It's about that time, but that's an awful lot of good food you're gonna waste." He slid himself into the free-form booh like he wasn't going anywhere for a very long time. "My momma raised me and mine to clean our plates. Just think of all those starvin' kids on the fringes of the galaxy who'd give anythin' to eat your grub." Patting the empty space beside him, he invited, "C'mon, lemme lend a hand." T'Pol blinked, uncharacteristically ruffled, and this time it showed. She was an impulse away from leaving him where he sat. "'Spaghetti pomodori a la fresca,' some slippery dish, isn't gonna get the better of ya, now is it?" Trip challenged, as though throwing down the gauntlet. T'Pol stayed put. "Just a casual observation, Sub-commander, you could use the help. I'm offerin'." He sounded the way he used to before the death of his sister had changed him, hardened him. She had to admit she welcomed this side of him...the one that reminded her of Sim, his genetic match. "Very well, Commander." She reseated herself, and to Trip's surprise, right next to him. Snatches of the conversation she had had with Cole, concerning him, echoed in her mind. '...What's not to like? He's a real gentleman...' "No fear," the Southerner recommended with a twinkle in his eye. She marveled that it was back, and how intently his eyes shone. "Show it who's boss." "Why should I fear a plate of denatured grain? It is logical." Her eyes widened when he laughed heartily. Only to herself would she admit to liking its rich sound. "Allow me to demonstrate." Obliging, Trip took up her fork, plunged it into the spaghetti and began winding, careful not to wind too much. "See...it's all in the wrist action. With a little patience and practice, there's nothin' to it. Your turn. Give it a whirl." Upon setting the fork down, the strands disentangled from the tines. He made spaghetti twirling look simple, like opening and closing one's mouth. Following through, T'Pol took up her fork, the commander's lopsided smile sanctioning her willingness to try. T'Pol got closer to him, and Trip couldn't have been more pleased. "That's right...easy. No need to wind every strand in hailin' distance. Snag just enough, not too much." Nodding with a tug on his chin, he prompted, "Yeah, that's fine. Go for it." She wasn't immune to his enthusiasm, or his general manner rooting her on, so she cautioned herself, keenly aware of her emotions affecting her to an inordinate degree. The mere fact that she desired his company was clear indication of how susceptible she was to his pervasive influence. T'Pol lifted the fork to her mouth even slower for this attempt, and Trip's nodding more assertively helped her confidence along, the higher the fork rose. "I think you're gonna make it this time..." Yet, not even this time though. The laden fork nipped the corner of her mouth and another tempting, shifting helping landed in her lap. At this rate, T'Pol judged, she'd starve. She tried looking blase about the mess in her lap, but even she couldn't quite pull it off. The clumsy swipe she took at her soiled leg to brush the spillage away was a sure sign she was anything but sedate as she mumbled something unrecognizable, maligning herself in Vulcan. As though he'd read her mind, Trip blurted, "Hey, it's okay, it's par. Rome wasn't built in a day, ya know. Where's your napkin?" Spying one across from them, he floated it unto her lap. "Rome wasn't built with spaghetti," T'Pol nearly huffed, and Trip chuckled. "Are humans born with the ability to successfully negotiate this food?" "Nope. It's an acquired skill, although some folks have natural talent. Aw, you'll get the hang." Looking as deadpan as ever, she tempered his optimism by dryly remarking, "This mission will not go on indefinitely." When her sense of humor was dead on, it tickled him. She was the only Vulcan he'd ever known who had the makings of a real fine one. Salvaging her fork, and looking expectant, Trip proposed, "Would ya object to a little hands on instruction?" Arching an eyebrow, T'Pol waited half a beat. "Meaning?" "Like this..." He began tucking the fork into her hand and ended with molding his to fit around hers. "Relax this." The light jiggle he gave her rigid hand almost made the fork fall out of it. "This'll give ya the feel of how much twistin' to do." "Comman...der, I don't think--" "Right. Don't for once. Let your instincts take over. Y'wanna eat spaghetti the authentic *I*talian way, don'tcha?" That's just what she was determined to prevent, letting her instincts take over. If they did, there was no telling what might happen. "As opposed to what?" T'Pol asked evenly, and then wryly, "eating with my fingers?" He chuckled deeply in his throat with T'Pol noting that, surprisingly, it made her feel more at ease, and that certainly wasn't logical. "It won't come to that. Just like it won't come to cuttin' it up with a knife." What an inspired idea, T'Pol thought, the use of a knife. Why hadn't she thought of that from the start? "Now that's logical. I'm going to get one." Before she could stand, his hand grasped hers; amazement shown in her eyes. "No--you're not. Where's the accomplishment in it?" In the next breath, he told her to pick up her soup spoon. "Why?" "Just do it, okay? You're always so concerned with the reason for somethin'." Her stare was uncomfortably close to a glare. Referring to the spoon he ordered, "Hold it steady," as he guided her hand holding the fork to the pasta where the spoon waited to intercept. "So far so good..." With his hand governing hers, they assiduously twirled the spaghetti as a team, using the spoon for better control over the slippy mass of thin noodles. "We've got it aced, sure 'nough," Trip crowed. "Nothin' beats a try." With a gentle squeeze of her hand, to signal that she could stop twirling, he awarded, "Ya did great!" "Owed to your practiced hand." "Now the real tricky part..." "Placing the spaghetti into my mouth." Her grip on the fork slackened. She had never spent so much time with a meal. "We've got it covered." Trip began raising her hand along with the fork, and when she gave him an odd look, he inquired, "What?" "You're not going to feed me, Commander." Sincerely, he replied, "Well, it had crossed m'mind, but I guess that'd be pushin' it some, huh?" "Considering the number of times the spaghetti has never made it further than my lap, perhaps your thought has merit..." "I'm willin' if you are." Already, his hand was moving hers into position. "I must inform you that this is very unVulcan-like but...very well, proceed." "So's eatin' spaghetti, but there ya go, givin' it a try, now open wide--here it comes," Trip stated confidently, with a few chuckles toggled on for good measure. When the fork had better than a fair chance of reaching her mouth, he eased up on his grip of her hand, eventually taking it away altogether, allowing T'Pol to 'fly solo.' Alert to some strands unraveling, he caught the wriggling three before they fell to her lap just as the fork went into her mouth. "One down, now you're on your way." Pleased with the relative success of her efforts, although looking as abstracted from the here and the now as ever, T'Pol dove her fork into the spaghetti. Her deft twirls of it reflected how nicely she'd paid attention. "Chef is a credit to his profession," she admitted and stopped twirling, judging that what was on the fork was enough, going by Tucker's standard. It traveled to, and entered her mouth without a single spaghetti strand lost. "This food is palatable. It is nearly similar to 'Klitanta s'mun t'forati.' Kleetanta with forati sauce." "You learn fast." "Learning is greatly facilitated by an effective teacher." Trip gawked at her, playfulness underlying his facial expression. He clutched the middle of his chest, bunching up the fabric of his uniform. And, with bedroom eyes he brashly drawled, "A compliment. Why, T'Pol this is so sudden." His teasing making him heady, he declared, "Out an' out appreciation." He batted his glinting eyes a time or two. "So...you kinda like the chow, huh?" "Chow?" "The spaghet'. The food." "It is acceptable. And strictly vegetarian." She sounded thoughtful to his ears then. "It would seem good food puts the crew in a better frame of mind." Now that was the honest truth. Nodding, Trip agreed. "Yeah, works wonders for me." She noted how something she couldn't identify, something sobering had drained him of some of his mirth. She sensed he had placed some distance between them. "What is it, Commander?" At length, he heaved a heavy sigh, to reply, "M'baby sister used to love spaghetti. Spaghetti marinara was her favorite, the saucier, the better." Pausing, he shifted in his seat, looking adrift, T'Pol judged. "God--" He banged his hand up against his forehead and left it there. "Why'd she haveta die? Why did any of 'em have to?" His voice had become thick and difficult to control with the sting of his loss, multiplied by the survivors'. His eyes, T'Pol saw as she continued to observe him, had grown glassy and he sniffed several times. "We should have the neuro-pressure now." T'Pol waited, surprised that she could almost feel the sadness he discharged. "Thought I was over the worst part," he huskily expressed more for his benefit than for hers. He suddenly felt exhausted. This was the worst grief-riddled he had ever felt about the untimely death. "I hate feelin' like this. How it sneaks up on me sometimes when I least expect it. I can't believe--I'll never accept Lizzie's gone." "Come," T'Pol said evenly, "I will help you as you have helped me." Trip flung a desperate look at her, but said not a word. When she rose, he did too, and when T'Pol began walking off, the commander fell in step right behind the Vulcan promising him relief. Maybe she's right, he thought, as soon as I'm in dreamland, the hurt disappears; I don't even get that horrible nightmare much anymore. A night of sound, solid sleep could only do him good. Neuro-pressure seemed to do the trick, having never failed him yet. `'`'`'`'`'`' Drowning, sinking fast--completely lost, effortlessly, in her spellbinding gaze, Trip forced his next breath. She had kissed him! Wonders of wonders, miracles of miracles! Her tangy taste languished on his tongue. His eyes, which had rolled back, were now focused on her, solely and soulfully on her, where they belonged. The mood of their interaction had shifted with a vengeance. Jealously had been vanquished by passion, searing, blistering in its intensity. The kiss Amanda had planted on him, floored him with, two days ago, paled in stark comparison. T'Pol's full lips weren't only for show; she knew how to use them--and how! But why was this happening? He embodied everything that made her cringe when the topic was humans. Talk about mixed signals. She must have been using invisible semaphores. What was he supposed to do now? Not enough blood in the brain, to make a decision that was anywhere near intelligent, too much in the excitable area much farther south. He squirmed, but it did nothing to stop the sizeable bulge from ballooning with a will of its own. Breathe, boy, breathe, he cerebrally coached. T'Pol waited before him, naked, a most glorious sight to behold. Every corporeal plane flawless, every curved inch perfection. She had pulled her robe off so seamlessly, as though straight out of a dream. Yet, not one of his dreams had done her fineness justice. All he did was stare, and what he stared at he wanted to sample, hands-on. Her supple bosom, prodigiously aimed right at him, was sublimely beyond magnificent. She leaned into him again, but this time she rustled words softly-spoken in a melodic undertone, first in Vulcan, then English. "Anything, Commander, anything you want. Anything at all..." She molded her body to his as she cradled his head in her hands. The bee in his bonnet buzzed his brain...'Man alive, never figured in a kazillion years she'd be warm for *my* form. God, she's got some rack!' T'Pol's inviting lips melded with his again while his hands instinctively cupped her ample mounds. She ground them firmly against his callous palms, yet his grip was tender. T'Pol's raspy, yet delicate moan induced his which sounded more like a grunt. "T'Pol," Trip murmured against her bottom lip, his lips nipping at it greedily. His breathing gathered volition, his thoughts tail-spinning. "*You* tell *me* what you want; how you want. Show me." He wrapped eager arms around her, delighting in the feel of her petite muscles rippling against the flesh of his bare torso. But he hestitated, testing, "And you're sure? You really want this; you, me engagin' in serious one-on-one?" He gripped her rear end with both hands more possessively. "You've made the first move, but don't think, uh, feel, oh hell--whatever, that you haveta follow through just 'cause I've seen ya in your birthday suit, and might I say...a mighty nice fit." Impulsively, he started kissing her eyes. "You brake, I'll stop." Dotting his chin with nippy little kisses, T'Pol breathily confided, "I don't want to stop, neither do I want you to. Proceed," she obligated with finality. She closed her eyes when she felt him stroking the small of her back. "Aye, number one," Trip rollickingly bantered. "I only hope you'll respect me, come mornin'." T'Pol wedged her fore and middle fingers between his waist and the waistband of his pants and began pulling. "Respect is earned. You, Commander, have garnered mine in increments many times in countless ways before this..." Laughing alongside her jawline, Trip liltingly rejoined, "Now you're really knockin' me out, darlin'. You got me turned every which way around." Gently, she fingered his swollen organ, then closed her hand over it as though claiming it for her personal use, stealing his breath away in the process. Trip eased back from her a fraction. T'Pol knew that she'd never forget the rapacious look lounging in his eyes at that moment, for as long as she lived. He divested himself of his pants, then anchored his arm about her waist. It never rains, but pours, Trip assessed, on their descent to the pillowed floor of her quarters whose low-key, candlelit ambiance muted their shadow play on the far wall. Women...he reflected, as the cliche he spun a bit differently turned over in his sensorily-overloaded brain. 'Can't live with 'em, wouldn't wanna live without 'em. And man if this babe don't take the cake.' He cast any lingering reservations about reining his libido in to the steady stream of unknown stars which fled from sight beyond the only portal in T'Pol's residence. "Com..man...der," T'Pol tried to articulate as Trip rolled her into a position more comfortable primarily for her. "Just for tonight, darlin', could you make it Trip? Seein's how after this we're gonna know each other a whole lot better." Laying her head in the crook of his neck, T'Pol softly whispered his nickname so he barely heard it, but Trip smiled anyway, and reveled in the gifting of herself which she had so unexpectantly bestowed. He reveled a respectable number of times, and plainly to his face, T'Pol told him she would have never thought it possible for a human male to be so-- "Studly," Trip had tartly supplied, while pinching her butt with little squeezes, though she preferred her word...versatile. "Bein' chief engineer's gotta count for somethin', now don't it?" His throaty chuckles had vibrated in her ears, and to his huge surprise, she kissed both crescents of his. The insistence to call her, "Baby," had welled up in him, but he decided he'd better save it for next time, having a feeling she'd probably take it the wrong way, probably making it crystal clear that she had not been a baby for years. Lying here in complete darkness, listening to her breathe, he knew there had to be a next time, wanting it with all his heart. Wanting her so right now, he ached. He was in no hurry to leave the comfort and security they had created. One shy of a half a dozen times wasn't nearly enough, not for him, and he hoped not for her either. Together they had something incredible in the most phenomenal sense of the word. How could things ever be the same after this, he thought groggily. once T'Pol had stopped talking, and was silent for some time, he had kept thinking it over and over. And then he'd thought how another myth about Vulcans being reluctant to discuss personal things had been exploded. Intimacy had cleanly cracked her tough shell. She lay fast asleep in his arms, and after kissing her forehead, which was still considerably warm, Trip continued to stare into the darkness. He'd told her over and over how hot she was, and literally that was also true. But she'd reminded him that it was owed to Vulcan heritage compounded by environmental adaptation. Her saying so with a stone straight face cracked him up all over again until T'Pol had demanded to know what he found so amusing. Satisfied she was sleeping so soundly, Trip gently tucked into her ear, "Down with the Ice Princess. Long live you, darlin', Queen of the Hotties. So damn beautiful and ya don't even know it. Keep this up, you'll flat out spoil me rotten. Thank you." He closed his eyes, pulling her to him even closer, and dreamt of her till his internal clock woke him at 04:35. It was time for him to go back on. Without waking T'Pol, he carefully settled the covers back over her, sort of knelt on bended knee to kiss her forehead. He groped for his clothes without bumping into anything that could break and dressed rapidly. Though reluctant to go, Trip left quickly. 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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