Path: newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.atl.earthlink.net!elnk-atl-nf1!newsfeed.earthlink.net!prodigy.com!news.glorb.com!postnews2.google.com!not-for-mail From: susieqla@yahoo.com (Sue) Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative Subject: New FIC: ENT - Tripping Up And Down (1/1) PG-13 T/Tu Date: 12 Aug 2004 09:11:10 -0700 Organization: http://groups.google.com Lines: 964 Message-ID: <2ccb8eac.0408120811.24e83531@posting.google.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 159.10.4.104 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit X-Trace: posting.google.com 1092327071 7088 127.0.0.1 (12 Aug 2004 16:11:11 GMT) X-Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 12 Aug 2004 16:11:11 +0000 (UTC) Xref: news.earthlink.net alt.startrek.creative:160365 X-Received-Date: Thu, 12 Aug 2004 09:11:15 PDT (newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net) Title : Tripping Up And Down Author: Laced Together (Sue) E-Mail: susieqla@yahoo.com Website: None. Series: ENTERPRISE Pairing: T/Tu Category: Romance/Het. Rating: PG-13 Summary: To everything turn, turn, turn... Tripping Up And Down Tempted to enter a personal log entry, T'Pol remained silent, staring at nothing in particular in her quarters. Her right ankle still throbbed. If any fault was to be laid, the anomaly that had wreaked havoc with the treadmill she'd elected to use over an hour ago, was the logical culprit. The commander's quick thinking, and even quicker hands had saved her. He'd caught her when the equipment's glitch had gotten the best of her. She'd turned her ankle when she'd been thrown off the equipment's belt. Her present circumstance would be a lot worse, if not for Trip. Despite her dogged protest, which he patently ignored, Trip had whisked her off to Sickbay, carrying her in his arms, no less. The doctor, with his smile typically knowing no bounds, had advised she stay off the foot and the application of the ice pack he'd given her was his learned prescription. While she waited for the doting chief engineer to return to her quarters, after his promising her he'd be right back with the blend of tea she wanted, her mind effortlessly drifted to the filmy flow of events that were the aftermath of her present predicament... "There is no need to hold me as firmly as you are," she had recommended, while she herself gripped the ice pack in rigid hands. "Now who's takin' ya to your quarters, huh? You or me, darlin'?" "I've asked you not to call me that outside of quarters," she had reminded him, but not as sternly as she might have if it hadn't been for her knowing that his concern was genuine, and it gratified her. "Can't blame an anxious fella for forgettin', now can ya?" Trip had hefted her in his arms, smiling at her; he seemed to be doing so much of that lately, always at her. "Can't have anythin' bad happenin' to my nimble n-p buddy, who just happens to be the best kisser, too." He had whistled then. "That's some swellin'." With the boot off, and her ankle skillfully wrapped in protective elastic, it had ballooned to the cumbersome size of a navel orange, nevertheless. "Have I ever told ya you've got the cutest toes?" She had stared at them, peeking out from the protective sleeve as they were, and then him. "I've never injured myself in this way before," she'd informed him, before passing judgment on its being too intimate for him to know. "No kiddin'? Wow, now that's some track record." Trip's eyebrows had wriggled up and down. "No pun intended. Hell, if I got a buck for all the times I've twisted my ankles, I'd be one of the richest men on Earth. My momma used to say I had weak ones, when I was comin' up." More to himself he'd mouthed, "Still might." "Coming up? To what does that refer?" Having been at a visible loss, she had known her facial expression had told him as much. What else was new, as he often coined. These novel insights, so generally forthcoming from him, could constitute a database unto itself. "What do you think it refers to? Okay, okay, I can see you have no clue what I'm talkin' about. It's just another colorful expression." Trip had paused, gazing at her thoughtfully. "Growin' up as a kid, a child. Honest, T'Pol, if I live to a ripe old age, I'm never gonna forget that look on your face." "Striving to be precise is never an exercise of poor judgment." "It's kind of like a least resistance thing with me now. When I'm around ya, I can't seem to resist the urge to pepper ya with the most colorful turns of phrase I know. Even Hoshi has commented on my inventive use of colloquial language, part and parcel of the neck I hail from. Maybe you might like to visit that sweet slice of neck with me, one day..." From that point on, they had waited in silence for the turbolift which had seemed to take its own sweet time to arrive. It had amazed T'Pol at the time that, far from being awkward, the absence of conversation had been absorbing. In good part, their not having felt the need to fill the void was a barometer of the growing satisfaction each felt in the other's company. They still had their share of rough spots, now and again, but for the most part, theirs had the makings of a friendship that might stand the test of time if they all survived the death dealing rigors of the Expanse. Friendship? To think of the commander as merely a friend was inconsistent. Their friendship, being his friend, his associate, were safe references. Charles Tucker provoked so much in her, not the least of which were feelings that she needed to explore with him. Her need wasn't far from bordering on compulsion. She reflected that whenever the subject of their surviving this mission was broached, the commander was in the habit of crossing his fingers. He had explained the significance of his doing so, but his explanation was fuzzy, at present, much as his logic had been at the time he had tried to explain. Their not surviving was unthinkable, not only for Earth's and countless other worlds' sakes, but for her own and this Human's. She needed to know why Trip made this difference in everything she had come to know and accept as truth. She lifted the ice pack from her injury, with a soft scowl, noting the annoying protuberance that plagued her ankle. She settled the pack back in place while the idea occurred to her how neuro-pressure had proven its value. It had laid the groundwork for the commander and she cultivating a unique relationship. A relationship that was as unlikely as Captain Archer admitting that her people had never held his father back. Even she had to admit it was nothing short of astonishing how far the intuitive blue-eyed Human and she had come from so much less than favorable introductions, what often felt like long years ago. Why...she was even telling him intimate things she never dreamed she would. And Trip...he was making it no secret how he felt about her. And then, the turbolift had finally arrived... Trip had hefted her in his arms once again, seemingly proud of the fact that nobody else was on board. As he'd carried her over the threshold he'd even exclaimed, "Safe from pryin' eyes." A gleam had taken hold of his when he'd intimated, "Remind ya of anythin', darl--I mean, T'Pol?" "What should entering a turbolift remind me of, Mister Tucker?" It had given her a modest zing of satisfaction to see him pout because it had been days since she'd called him 'Trip.' "Gettin' carried over the threshold, like any new blushin' bride." He had tried kissing her cheek, but she had demurely moved her face out of his lips' reach. "Aside from the fact that Human matrimonial rituals are arcane, at best. Your reference is illogical, Commander." She had felt his hard squeeze to her ribs, and repeated, "Commander, we aren't married. Not by Human standards, and certainly not by Vulcan dictates." Before Trip, with the aplomb of a punch-drunk boxer, had stumbled into tripping over his own feet, he had resiliently insisted, "Oh...I don't know about that. It's the damnedest thing...it sorta feels like we're married now, kinda." He couldn't have been more suggestive. "Speakin' squarely from my point of view that is, we sure banged each other enough like newlyweds our first time. Oh, I forget. Bangin's a ribald way of sayin' doin' the deed." Her beleaguered look, having grown more set, had prompted him further. "Havin' sexual you-know-what. And that 'lovin' feelin'' comes over me even when we're apart. And when we are, all I want is to be with ya." T'Pol shivered upon her bunk at his definitiveness which she still heard, remembering how he'd spoken those words. And, what was more, she had known what he'd meant; she found herself wanting to be with him more now too. If precision was what she prized so highly, then there was no fooling Trip; duplicity was for Andorians, not Vulcans. She had wanted him that fateful night when stripping down in front of him felt as natural as breathing in life-support-generated air, and when being brutally honest, she wanted him even more now. When it had appeared as though another female was staking her claim, (Amanda Cole's seductive visage popped into her mind's eye instantaneously) she, the now recalcitrant T'Pol of Vulcan, had claimed her Human anomaly first. In the plainest English she knew Trip could readily relate to, she 'had it bad for him,' her fixation of the Homo sapiens persuasion, whom she was seeing more and more as her 't'hy'la.' But confessing something this shocking? She was almost there, accepting it herself, but actually being in Trip's face, telling him her feelings for him ran deep? She wasn't quite there...yet. She thought back to how they'd toppled into the turbolift after Trip had tripped up. To his credit, he'd made sure she was spared the brunt of impact. He'd used his own body as a shock absorber so she wouldn't sustain further injury. They had lain dazed a good couple of minutes before he'd sheepishly asked, "You all right? A possible second reason for my nickname you've discovered today. I have this annoyin' habit of gettin' a might clumsy when it's inconvenient." He'd raised his head, squinting at her through slitted eyelids. "Sorry." Lying sprawled atop him, prone, she'd answered, "I'm fine, but you? Are you all right...Trip?" He hadn't reacted right away, and when the reason why had become apparent, she'd tried raising herself up off him. She couldn't though. One of the linkages to the belt she'd worn, which had lent a decorative effect to her work-out outfit, had somehow hooked itself into the slight hole in the front of Trip's sweatpants. Embarrassing was embarrassing, regardless of the species involved. Companionable silence hadn't been awkward, but finding themselves joined at their hips in this way, had certainly been. T'Pol shut her eyes, reliving the compromising situation anyone who might have innocently entered the turbolift would have found them in. Despite her having a twisted ankle, the person, or persons in question, seeing the determined chief engineer with his hands busily manipulating her crotch to free them could not have helped but at least begin to wonder if all the current rumors circulating about them were partially-true. Which, of course, they were; they were wholly true. And there was also the matter of his premature-- T'Pol squashed that baser thought, but not in time enough to prevent the stark image of the sizeable splotch that had soaked through to the front of the commander's sweatpants from materializing in her overactive mind's eye. "Oops--sorry, T'Pol. You know how highly suggestible I can be. Too much friction is a powerful thing." His haunting words clogged the flow for any further rational thought, since no truer words had he ever spoken. All this friction, and their emotions that were eating them alive...how would it end? She flopped back on the bed, her head hitting the slab-ish pillow; she pulled it out from under her head and put her head under it. Her audible sigh coincided with her door's light, airy chime. Trip stood inside her barely-lit quarters before T'Pol could muster up the request he enter. "Here's your tea, all pipin' hot, just the way you li--" He set the tray with its steaming cup and small lidded teapot down. He hurried over to the bunk wearing a frown that looked etched in his face. That's her biggest problem, he thought, taking in her languishing form, she only does what she wants, when she wants. "You should have that pillow under your foot, not over your head. You heard Phlox; keep it elevated." She didn't move a muscle; the pillow remained where it was, and the ice pack slipped off her ankle of its own volition. Trip returned to the tray Chef had provided and unstuck two medium-sized strips of tape used in insulation. He taped the ice pack to her leg, securing the strips to either side of her foot. He took it upon himself to lift the pillow off her head, and T'Pol let him, not protesting. Gently, he eased her foot onto the pillow, not finishing adjusting its angle and position until he had it just so. Gazing down upon her, he said, "I'll be right back with my pillow to put under your head so you'll be all nice an' comfy." T'Pol raised herself up to lean on her elbows. "No. Thank you, Trip, but no. I am quite comfortable as I am. There is no need for you to get your pillow. I'll be fine like this. You may return to your concerns." She settled her eyes on the tray over on the low table. She looked so small and vulnerable, and all he could think about was what he could do to help her. "You're my concern right now." Serviceably, he offered, "Here, I'll bring ya your tea." She couldn't help but appreciate his candent quality, even if most times his enthusiasm usually made her feel uncomfortable, unnerved, sometimes. Her physical discomfort was such that it forced her to realize how easily one could become infirm, a virtual dependent on someone else. His presence, his being at her disposal was reassuring. Reassuring...when had he become that? Before bringing her her tea, he removed a light blanket from the utility shelf, and settled it over her body. Then, he brought her tea. While Trip fitted the mug into her hands, he seated himself at the head of the bunk. She made careful note of his having changed into a clean pair of sweatpants. Unmolested, he coaxed T'Pol to use him as her backrest, resting her supple body against him gently. She felt wonderful, always did. "Much better," he conferred, looking down, past her head, at her hands that were molded around the mug. "Thank you, Trip," she acknowledged, resting against him heavily as she angled her head back to glance up at him tentatively. His sincerity was almost a palpable entity, nearly having the ability to grip her of its own accord. "No need to, glad to oblige. Since you're gonna be off your feet for a couple of days, if there's anythin' ya need, anythin' at all, just let me know, and I'll get it for ya." Nodding, she raised the brim of the mug to her lips. When had he developed this...this level of devotion toward her? Devotion...it was the first word that had sprung to mind. All the signs were clearly evident, and since they were, she chose to accept the implications. "I will, as I will also choose to thank you when appropriate." T'Pol sipped more of the tea he'd selected for her, somewhat amazed that he'd remembered her favorite was chamomile. Yet, there was something more flavorful about the taste, something faintly citrus. "How's your tea?" Trip solicitously asked. "Not too sweet?" "Not sweet at all...but different..." "I've watched how you prepare it," he said with a modest lilt in his voice. "Only this time, I took the liberty of addin' just a teeny tiny bit of lemon to the honey. I hope by, 'different' ya mean ya like it. If ya don't I can go get--" T'Pol shook her head. "By *different* I was referring to the tea's new taste. It is acceptable." She took another sip, longer this time, as though lingering with her lips to the mug was more a guilty pleasure than a chore. "How's your neck feel?" He looked as though he longed to stroke it, no matter what her response was. "Kinda sore?" "No, not at all. Why should it be?" She admitted to herself that he made an excellent 'visible means of support.' "The way your head snapped back the way it did, just before the treadmill chucked you off, I figure you've gotta be a prime candidate for whiplash." T'Pol said nothing, the risidual of a headache making her head throb. Headaches, she never used to be so susceptible to them; she got them often now. Ever since contracting Pa'naar Syn., the smallest provocation would set one off. Without thinking, she blurted, "My head hurts." She held her mug away from her, not wanting anymore of the beverage at the moment. Taking the mug out of her hand, Trip set it down on the floor, off to the right of his feet. "Let me see what I can do..." Intuitively, he placed his left hand at the back of her head, and his right hand, with palm covering her forehead like a band, began a gentle but firm vice-like undulation against it. T'Pol surrendered herself to the comfort he lent, not thinking twice. He always made a point of letting her know she had 'magic fingers.' His digits, his entire hand, both his hands were like finely-tuned instruments skilled in administering relief in their own right, relief she sorely needed. Her neuro-pressure student was gifted, and what he was doing to her now was a far cry from any n-p session they'd had to date. Even so, it was helping. His strong, determined touch was gradually working the headache out of her head. She felt adrift, listing on a sea of serenity; the sky she was under, a pacific blue. To her satisfaction, her ankle was beginning to feel more like its normal self. "Head feelin' a little better?" Trip inquired, more gently than the calm before a storm, easing up on the pressure applied to her forehead. T'Pol didn't reply, but with eyes still closed, she nodded within the confines of his restorative hands. The throbbing in the frontal region of her head was all but gone. In time, pleased that he hadn't left off from massaging, she said, "You have allayed my discomfort. You will have to teach me your technique. It's very effective." Trip took a break from his ministrations. His crackly laugh filled her quarters. "My momma taught me everythin' I know. My dad gets some real winners whenever he gets headaches, and when he does, he gets as grouchy as a wet hen. When my brother and sis..." He hesitated before going on, and when he did, his voice was level, sure. "When we were kids, we knew to give our old man a wide berth whenever we saw our mom at his head. We kids knew what *that* meant." T'Pol processed that unexpected bit of personal information, then opened her eyes. As long as she was going to be laid up, she might as well make the best use of the time. "Would you bring me the PADD near the computer, please?" A look of, 'your wish is my command' sparked in Trip's arresting eyes. "Why, sure. Anythin' for you, T'Pol." He fairly popped up when he stood, with eyes panning over to the desk where the tool was. Having forgotten all about the mug at his feet, he stumbled. He stumbled badly, his legs having seemed to work independently of each other, causing him to go down hard. He lay sprawled out on the floor. T'Pol regarded his fallen form, wondering why he was having such a problem with balance this day. Trip looked right back at her, red-faced, looking as though he wanted to be any place but here in all his clumsy glory. "Don't know what's got into me today," he muttered under his breath. "It's like my space legs have up and left." No sooner having made that observation, the comm. interrupted their fleeting contemplation of each other. '--Bridge to T'Pol. T'Pol, I'd like you to join me in the captain's mess tonight for dinner. You and Trip.--' "I'll get this," Trip told her, noting a look of uncertainty on her face. When he tried to stand, the groan he let out startled both of them. "What a pain in the ass!" "Have you injured your behind, Comman--Trip?" T'Pol innocently asked, looking the most concerned Trip had ever seen her. '--T'Pol are you in your quarters?--' "No, it's my ankle." Grimacing, Trip sort of bopped, sort of hopped his way over to the communications port. "Trip here, Cap'n....with T'Pol." '--You two seem to be spending a lot of time together, lately--' Leaning against the wall, trying to impress T'Pol by being as stoic as she could be, Trip responded, "She's had a mishap, sir, no thanks to an anomaly she never saw comin'; happened in the gym. The roilin' zipped along makin' the treadmill she was on throw her for a loop. Like Johnny-on-the-spot, I caught her in the nick of time. She sustained a nasty ankle sprain, so I took her to Sickbay." '--She's all right, though--' "You're all right?" Trip asked her, lowering his voice considerably. T'Pol nodded, taking him in with wide luminous eyes. She saw how he favored the ankle he rubbed, unable to stop herself from speculating. "She's fine, Cap'n, but Phlox'd like her to stay off her feet a couple of days. Her ankle really swelled behind the sprain." '--Then I guess it'll just be you and me tonight for dinner, then.--' Looking doubtful, Trip suggested, "Uh, it just might be you, sir. You know what they say..." He shot a 'we're in the same boat' expression at T'Pol. "One good turn deserves another." '--And what's that supposed to mean?--' "It means your first- and second-in-command have the weakest ankles on 'Enterprise.'" '--So, you're saying you sprained your ankle too?--' "On the nose, Cap'n. On the nose." Trip scrunched up his face for T'Pol who treated him to a quizzical look. '--I'll tell Phlox I'm bringing you in, and be there in less than a minute, stay put.--' "Oh, don't worry, sir, goin' somewhere is pretty much out of the question for me too right now. Man, you should see how fast this ankle is swellin'. Think I'm gonna need your help to Sickbay so Phlox can see what a good job I've done racking myself up." '--(Archer heard over the comm) - Mister Reed, you have the Bridge.' '--(Malcolm's voice) - Aye, sir.--' "See ya in a few, Cap'n," Trip interjected. '--I'm on my way. Archer out.--' Avoiding having his left ankle, the compromised one, make contact with the floor, Trip made his hobbled way back to T'Pol's bunk as best he could. Her PADD was in his right hand, and he set it upon the bed as soon as he was able to. "Talk about coincidence... We've been sharin' a lot lately, but sprainin' our ankles together draws the line." "I recommend neuro-pressure prior to seeing Doctor Phlox. Some preliminary treatment before the application of an ice pack will facilitate quicker healing." "That's okay, T'Pol, you're in no shape to be working me over with neuro-pressure. I'll be all right once Phlox slaps the cold on." She made room for him on the bed, and watched attentively as he hoisted himself up to carefully sit beside her. "My attending to your ankle will in no way interfere with my healing process. What's more, your healing process will be greatly enhanced by the application of neuro-pressure." Trip glided the backs of his fingers over her washboard flat abdomen. "I'm not willin' to take any chances with you, if I have anythin' to say about it." "But, if I remember correctly, you just told me you are willing to do *anything* for me." She arched her eyebrow, looking summarily pleased with herself for throwing his very words at him. "Sure, anythin' within reason. Not somethin' that could be bad for ya." "But that's not what you said, you said *anything*," T'Pol stubbornly insisted, seeing a pained expression frame the look on his face. "You know what I meant." He made a digging motion with the largest joint of his middle finger against her side. "You're not gonna browbeat me with semantics at a time like this," Trip said, scrubbing his hand over his face. "It's called not playin' fair." "I only wish to help..." And then almost plaintively, T'Pol purred, "Help you as much as you've...you help me..." Arching his eyebrow, Trip, looking her dead in the eye said, "You wanna help me, help me like this...then." He kissed her tenderly, first both cheeks and leisurely her lips which he felt tremble beneath his. After a while, he supplicated, "No hypospray could ever work better than what your lips do for me, honey." As he shut his lids, his eyes rolled back, and he knew she was waiting for him to say, "I know, I know, that's totally illogical, but just 'cause somethin' isn't logical doesn't mean it's no good. Is it logical you and I, the way we're goin'? Who would've ever thought, huh? But it sure feels like we should go as far as we can with what we've started." T'Pol thought that over, knowing in her heart of hearts that he was right. Had it been logical for her to resign her commission to be with this crew...to be with... She lowered her head, but when she felt Trip's finger beneath her chin, raising it, she couldn't help but meet his eyes, and the fragile look contained within them. It was a look she found herself anticipating with each passing day; it made her feel wanted, needed, prized. "We're good together, don'tcha think?" T'Pol nodded upon his finger, lost in the haven of everything he was beginning to mean to her. Her nostrils began twitching, her control over them to stop, nonexistent. "So do I," he whispered, leaning into her even closer, his intent to kiss her, clear. This time, his kiss left them both breathless. His lips quivered against hers, and he said, "We should get married. I've never felt so sure about anythin' in my life. We don't always see eye to eye, but that's what makes us work..." "Perhaps there is some validity in something I've overheard many crew members say." The texture of his skin against hers made her giddy. "And what's that?" Trip questioned, studying her face attentively. "Opposites attract..." "Amen." Trip claimed her lips for himself yet again, deepening the kiss in response to T'Pol's initiating her wanting him as much as he wanted her. The chiming of the door chime coincided perfectly with the couple's gradual withdrawal from the other's face. "Enter," they chorused, in complementary unison. Archer did as they'd instructed, coming into T'Pol's quarters the way he did when he entered any enclosed area aboard Enterprise. He swaggered. Seeing them lounging on her bed together neatly confirmed every speculation he was trying hard of late not to entertain concerning their relationship. Ever since 'Enterprise' had entered the Expanse Trip and T'Pol seemed to have something 'going on.' Their body language spoke volumes. In their own quirky way, it was increasingly hard to ignore that they were an 'item.' "Two peas in a pod," Jonathan quietly muttered deep within his throat, and that was as far as he wanted to take it for the time being. The captain watched his chief engineer give it a real college try in trying to get to his feet unassisted. Not knowing quite what to make of his sudden feelings of envy, Archer put a stop to Trip's aggravating his ankle further. "Here let me give you a hand." "I wouldn't mind if ya threw in a healthy ankle while you're in a generous mood, Cap'n. I really did a number on mine." "And just how did this happen?" Archer refused to permit his over-active imagination to run rampant. He guessed that if T'Pol wanted Trip here, that was why he was. At least she didn't seem to mind fraternizing with Trip; she rarely did with anyone else. "I tripped over T'Pol's tea mug which I'd set near my feet when I was gettin' her PADD for her, over on the desk. Just call me twinkle-toes with two left feet." "Looks as though you could use my assistance," Archer offered, eyeing his friend's ankle which indeed looked very swollen now that Trip had his athletic shoe off. "Sure could," Trip agreed. "Forget about my bringing you, on second thought..." The captain was at the communication port in two strides. "Archer to Doctor Phlox..." The doctor's acknowledgement was immediate. 'Yes, Captain...' "I think it's advisable that you come to T'Pol's quarters to take a look at Trip's ankle, here. I don't think it's a good idea for him to try to walk on it." 'Understood, Captain, I'm on my way.' Archer, not missing a beat, got back on the comm. "Chef, change of plans for tonight." Trip and T'Pol exchanged thoughtful glances, silently questioning, "now what?" "Instead of the captain's mess, I'd like to have dinner served in sub-commander T'Pol's quarters this evening." Trip glancing T'Pol's way was superfluous. Instinctively, he knew this turn of events wasn't what she'd expected at all. He also knew she'd go along with it, because she knew all too well that making a fuss was pointless. Once the captain's mind was made up, he was like a dog with a bone. You'd get hurt, trying to wrench it away. "Great idea, Cap'n," Trip awarded, secure in the knowledge that, smugly, T'Pol was waiting for him to reward Archer. Phlox arrived, almost on cue, and said pretty much the same things he'd advised in T'Pol's case, recommending that the chief engineer stay off the injured foot for a few days. Trip got his own ice pack. The doctor saw no reason why, with assistance, Tucker would have to remain in T'Pol's quarters. Inconveniencing T'Pol, anymore than she had been already, would be unnecessary. Again, the first- and second-in-command exchanged meaningful looks, the thought crossing both minds that the captain and the doctor sported twinkles in their eyes that advertised speculation. It was something the couple, particularly the Vulcan constituent of the puzzle, who wasn't quite sure what the well-liked Human and she were, could do without. No sooner had Phlox left, when Chef and his dapper entourage of stewards called, ready, willing and able to serve the triumvirate rarified fare fit for even T'Pol's discriminating palate. The servers set up a make-shift dining area, complete with table and chair, for the captain who would be dining at it while Trip and T'Pol would be using her bunk. Everything was as it should have been. The plomeek soup 'a la Provencale,' which was another way of saying Chef used vegetable stock instead of a dairy-based one, and the butter was purposely omitted, ever since T'Pol had inquired about his recipe, was superb. It was the best preparation to date; T'Pol requested a second serving, which was a blatant admission of how much she liked it. And she ate every bit of her 'Caponetta' salad, not leaving so much as a morsel, unlike her norm. The porterhouse steak, for the non-Vulcans, with all the trimmings, mashed potatoes and caramelized string beans with almonds were done to perfection. When Archer had inquired about the unusual flavor of the string beans, Chef had informed him to read up more on the Maillard Reaction. "Well, I guess it is getting late," Archer admitted, once an over-officious Chef and his efficient troop departed, leaving T'Pol's quarters as it normally was, minimalist. Sitting beside Trip, T'Pol regarded Archer expectantly. Nodding in agreement, Trip concurred, looking at her. "Where'd the time go? I'm so full, I hope I don't break the back of whoever's gonna haul my ass to my place." Following his pregnant pause, he added slyly, "Cap'n..." "Don't worry, Trip, I think I'll be able to handle it." Archer gazed over at T'Pol, who seemed to be regarding Trip with eyes as large as saucers. With a 'time to call it an evening' expression, he extended, "Is there anything I can get you before we leave?" "No, Captain, there is nothing I lack, thank you." Her eyes couldn't help but settle upon Trip and he practicably returned her sated look. "Goodnight, then," Archer bade. "Goodnight, Captain," T'Pol wished. Trip just smiled at her as though the set of his mouth would stay that way for a good while. Playing footsies under their captain's nose, when his eyes hadn't been on them, had been fun. "Ready, Trip?" "Ready as I'll ever be, Cap'n." Trip made to stand, but Archer was right under him, sparing him any undue exertion. "A little rocky, sir." "Not too bad. I've got you." T'Pol noted how heavily Trip leaned upon Archer, and thought that perhaps tensions between them were finally easing. "Captain," she said, "despite my temporary incapacitation, I will have those iconic analyses completed, as you requested." "Take all the time you need, T'Pol, there's no rush." With a pronounced sluggishness to the men's gait, Archer and Trip made a second start for the door. "We'll talk tomorrow, T'Pol. Maybe go over those injector percentiles, if you're up to it," Trip introduced. "That's only if she's up to it, Trip," Archer was quick to remind. "Aside from the swollen condition of my ankle, I'm fine. Mentally, I'm quite capable of performing my duties," T'Pol insisted. "Let's not push it," Archer cautioned, initiating the opening of the door. Upon its doing so, the captain gently urged Trip on. "Sprains can be a tricky--" "Watch out, Cap'n," Trip warned, but the warning came too late. Archer had gone one way and he another, with the result that both men were now lying in a heap; Trip had his face buried in Archer's armpit, and the captain was grimacing, clutching his ankle. Through the open door, they heard T'Pol call, "Is everything all right?" "Uh..." "Uh huh...ya damn right, uh..." "Is there some difficulty?" "Not unless you consider a three-way ankle sprain a problem," Trip piped up, sounding as snide as he could. "Cap'n, as soon as I'm able to stand on two solid feet, I'm gonna check the decks for bobbles." "You do that, Trip. You do that. T'Pol..." "Yes, Captain." "Could you call Phlox? I'd do it myself, if my ankle didn't feel as if it's broken. I'd appreciate it. Take your time though, no need worsening your present condition." Archer winced; shiny beads of sweat dotted his forehead. "I'll call him, Captain." "T'Pol," Trip hailed. "Yes, Commander?" "Watch your step." She supposed she'd make allowance for the unmistakable strains of amusement shading his tone. At heart, generally, he was a Human who managed to see the comical in the most unlikely situations. "Indeed..." The anomaly was responsible for her incident. What were their excuses? As she crawled her way to the comm. port, she tried making some for them, and found she couldn't...unless...clumsiness, in and of itself, was some new, more insidious form of anomaly. She wondered about that... End NewMessage: