"One and Two" By Cincoflex Rating: NC-17 Disclaimer: all characters from and references to "Enterprise" belong to Paramount. Genre: Trip/T'Pol, Romance Description: Trip and T'Pol find that horizontal is as much fun as vertical. In the course of his diverse and eventful life, Trip Tucker realized that he liked lots of things: sleepy puppies, long sandy beaches, single malt whiskey shots, Shammercraft crescent wrenches and Bach Concertos in Dolby stereo. Each of these things had brought him some sense of joy, and they resided in his memory in a cherished spot. Currently though, they were all being crowded out of his thoughts by the luscious sight of Commander T'Pol's curvy figure as she strode down the corridor towards him. Her attention was focused on a clipboard in her hand, but her navigation was unimpaired until Trip stepped forward, putting himself deliberately in her path. "Have this dance?" he teased in a deep voice pitched only for her ears. She glanced up, eyes widening at the sight of him. "Vulcans rarely dance, Commander, and then, only in ceremonies prohibited to off-world species," she replied smoothly. "Now that's jest a damn shame. The way I see it, you've got the hips for a samba, the waist for a waltz, the tush for a tango." "Tush?" "Rump, bottom, rear, ass--" "I *get* the meaning, Commander," T'Pol replied, stepping aside for a passing crewman. Trip grinned. "I'm not kiddin', T'Pol--let's go dancin' tonight. The hydroponics lab's free." "I lack both knowledge and practice, Commander," she pointed out patiently, "therefore it will not be as pleasant an experience as you seem to think it will be." Trip shook his head sorrowfully and brought his face so close to hers that his breath stirred her bangs. "It's too complicated for you to master, huh? Well I can understand your reluctance in admitting that humans might have superiority at a physical skill that--" "--It is *not* too difficult," she replied testily. As she studied his amused expression, she gave a tiny frown of realization. "I am being goaded into learning to dance." "Yep," Trip replied, not the least bit ashamed of his manipulation. T'Pol looked as if she wanted to sigh, and he chuckled kindly. "Think of it as a foray into an unexplored aspect of human culture," Trip mused, waving a hand at some unseen vista. "A chance to participate in an activity integral to the rise of so many of our great civilizations." "Or the decline of them. I seem to recall reading about a widespread loathing for a subversive form known as Disco--" she arched an eyebrow as he winced. "--Ouch. Yeah, there have been a few faux pax along the way. But lotta other dances are an art forms in themselves, like the Bossa Nova, or the Jitterbug." "A dance named for an insect?" her look was openly skeptical now, and Trip gave a rueful smile in return. "A dance that would require a great deal of physical stamina and coordination, darlin. Let's go for something a little less aerobic, shall we? I'm sure our databases would have the basics on say . . . a tango?" "I'm sure I will be able to retrieve the necessary information and assimilate it," T'Pol responded with a tiny hint of resignation. She added, "I am curious about your confidence, Commander. I certainly would not have expected dancing to be among your personal or professional achievements." He crinkled a smile at her, the same rakish grin that had broken many a heart in years past and whispered, "Ah--I'm a man of mystery, T'Pol. Just make sure that you're ready to be swept off your feet at about nineteen hundred hours." He sauntered off, whistling, leaving T'Pol to purse her full lips and frown. *** *** *** The Hydroponics deck was built to support and nurture a variety of plant life; consequently, the lighting was indirect, the deck was lightly cushioned and the rich smell of greenery was everywhere. Long tanks of nutrient-enriched water lined the walls at eye level, waist level and knee level. The deck needed only minimal maintenance and was one of the few places on board ship that supplied privacy as well as foodstuffs. T'Pol wandered down the main walkway, drinking in the various scents and making a mental note to visit the deck more often. She could hear the faint sounds of music farther ahead of her, but she refused to hurry, lingering over a cluster of hyacinths. The Chief engineer was leaning against a tank, twirling a stalk of bamboo in his hands and smiling. "Gorgeous place, innit?" Trip shared her mood. "Best air on the entire ship." "It holds a certain degree of appeal," she admitted cautiously. "A serenity of sorts." "But still a little primitive, a little exotic--sorta like the tango itself," Trip grinned. "Are you ready to give it shot?" "What will be the benefit of this? If I succeed, you will only seek another challenge in an attempt to best me," T'Pol pointed out. Trip gave a thoughtful frown. "True--let's make it a wager then. If you master the Tango, then you have the right to challenge me on something culturally Vulcan. Two can play at the 'Stretch your Horizons' game, right?" She thought for a moment. "Agreed." Her expression stayed neutral, but Trip knew her face well enough to draw in a deep breath and grit his teeth. "Okay--I may have just signed my own death warrant, but what the hell. I've got Mikasoa's recording of Black Cat Tango here so we can get started anytime you're ready." "I am ready," she told him. Trip smiled. He reached over to the music cube and set it spinning, then stepped close to the science officer. She closed her eyes briefly then extended her right arm as the deliberate throb of the music began to spill out. Trip slid his left hand under the length of her arm, letting his strong rough fingers come up to weave with hers. He pulled her close, his right hand braced between her delicate shoulder blades, his cheek pressed to hers. Hip to hip, they silently counted the beats and stepped forward with the deliberately exaggerated saunter. Four steps, and T'Pol felt herself twirled, caught and repositioned with an attitude she recognized as graceful machismo. The speed of it startled her; she barely got her footing correct before Trip led them back to their starting point. His spine was straight, the line of his posture clean and precise. With flair, he slid his hand down her back and lunged, bringing her down in a dipping arch so low that the back of her head nearly touched the deck. "Commander . . ." came her slightly startled comment. He smiled at her. "Up and reverse, Darlin--two three . . ." Gripping her hand, he spun her halfway around, letting her back lightly slam into his chest. Both of their left arms extended and intertwined. They stalked down the corridor again, their steps longer, sultrier. "Like a panther in the jungle . . . bold, decisive. You're gettin' it . . ." he whispered into her ear. His breath tickled, and T'Pol fought the urge to turn her head and glare at him. At the end of the measure, Trip held her hand high over her head and paced around her, his other hand sliding around her waist possessively. The music was relentless, a throbbing beat of drums and cellos that bounced off the skin. T'Pol tried to concentrate, tried to remember what was to come next. She raised a long elegant leg, wrapping it around Trip's hip as he twisted and lunged again, looming over her. For a long moment they were frozen, suspended in the music and the moment as she clung to him, staring deep into his smoldering blue eyes. A sudden rush of air, and he had her up again, spinning her down the length of his arm this time; she barely managed to hang onto his fingertips. T'Pol lifted her chin and minced back, rejoining Trip to meld into the original hip to hip, cheek to cheek position. "Damn you're good for someone who's never tangoed," he admitted as they strode off again. She raised an eyebrow. "As with many things, practice is much harder than theory. Where did you learn such a complicated dance?" she asked, a little breathlessly. Trip gave a sigh. "My aunt Phoebe ran a dance academy. For three painful summers I worked there, teaching little old ladies and giggly high school girls how to fox trot and box step--it was the only job this underaged desperate kid could get. Aunt Phoebe told me if I could tango, she'd pay me five bucks more an hour." "The incentive succeeded?" "Naw--by the time I mastered it, summer was over and I was back at school. Aunt Phoebe died around Easter so I never did have a chance to earn the money." He said it matter-of-factly as he spun T'Pol around. "I am sorry for you loss." "Me too--she was my favorite aunt and a helluva dancer," he admitted. The music was winding down, and T'Pol was startled by how hard she was breathing. Only part of it could be credited to exertion, she knew. The rest of it had to do with proximity and physical attraction. Trip dipped her once again, using a single strong hand to support the small of her back as the other hand slid up to caress the carved curve of her thigh. "You look a little flushed," he drawled in amusement looking down at her. She pursed her mouth. "A result of concentrated exercise." "And not, say, because you're feeling some heat below the pit of your flat, delectable stomach?" T'Pol was aware of his accelerated pulse, the tight line of his lips as he struggled to maintain a carefree composure. She locked gazes with Trip, and let her lips part slightly. It was just enough to make a tiny groan rumble out of him; content with her victory, she let herself be whipped up and out of the dip to slam against his solid frame, the impact barely softened by the searing heat of his mouth on hers. Their tongues tangoed, sliding in erotic rhythm as they kissed. T'Pol rocked her hips against him. Trip gripped her bottom, thrusting back against the thin layers of fabric dividing them with the slow and desperate drive of controlled lust. Only for a moment did he pause; T'Pol shook her head, her dark eyes brilliant. "Do. . . *not* . . . stop . . ." came her husky plea. Trip groaned, bending his head to press his face against the side of her neck while she wrapped a long and graceful leg around him, pulling him closer. Moments later, she uttered a soft little groan, her fingers gripping his shoulders. Trip shuddered, barely able to keep his balance. He gulped in air, and when he finally raised his face to look at her, he was blushing deeply. "Oh gawd Darlin, I haven't resorted to dry humping in about a hundred years . . . not that it was . . . uh . . . *dry*--" he looked down at the front of his uniform and swallowed hard. Both of them heard sounds coming up the main walkway and glanced up. In the pause, T'Pol grabbed one of nearby watering cans, deliberately spilling the cool water between their entangled bodies. Trip looked stunned and not altogether pleased; he reluctantly pulled away from her and drew in a breath, trying to regain his dignity. "Accidents do happen, Commander," she commented loudly. "It is regrettable that I have caused this spill. Therefore I suggest we return to your cabin to repair the damaged done by my carelessness--" came her gentle offer. He arched an eyebrow at her and a laugh rumbled up from deep within his chest. The young ensign with the clipboard gave them a puzzled, then pitying look as she brushed by. "Oh Darlin, I'll get you for this--" came the under his breath threat as Trip followed T'Pol out of the lab. She turned to look him in the eye. "Do not bet on it, Commander--" came her equally soft challenge. They stepped out the door together in perfect rhythm. End The story continues in The Firebrand.

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