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"Cry Havoc"
By MissAnnThropic
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: None of its mine. I’m just a sad little fangirl that spends her days writing fanfic and watching taped episodes of my favorite shows. :(
Description: The evolution of Trip and T’Pol’s relationship following the events in ‘Harbinger’.
Chapter 12
Kathleen looked up from setting the table in the dining room when she heard her son's voice approaching. Charles was already sitting in his customary seat at one end of the rectangular table and he too looked up at his son's approach, heralding the elder Tucker's first chance to see his son since the younger man arrived.
"... used to belong to my great aunt and uncle, they owned this house before my parents did, but the peach orchard turned out ta be a lotta work so they sold it." Trip stepped into the dining room and turned his attention away from the slim Vulcan at his side to feast his eyes upon the dinner laid out on the table.
"Damn," he quipped appreciatively, "chef's food can't hold a candle to this."
Charles rose politely from his seat for the sake of their guest. Buddy, lying watchfully beside his master's seat, rose into a sitting position and looked toward the two arrivals.
"T'Pol," Kathleen said partly in way of greeting, "I fixed you a salad and I sliced some bread, I hope that's all right."
T'Pol nodded. "It is, Professor Tucker, thank you. You have a very pleasant home."
Kathleen faltered only a second, mostly at the unexpected word 'professor'. "Thank you. Please, come sit down."
Trip, during the brief exchange, had left T'Pol's side and crossed the room to his father. The two men embraced warmly, then Trip pulled back to look toward T'Pol and say, "Dad, meet T'Pol; T'Pol, my father, Charles the second."
Charles nodded to T'Pol. "Pleased ta meet ya, ma'am."
T'Pol dipped her head in return. "I am honored to meet you, Doctor Tucker."
The four sat down at the table, Charles at one end, Kathleen on the other, and Trip and T'Pol on the sides of the table facing one another. Each tended to preparing a plate and partook of a few bites before idle talk broke out. Oddly enough, it was T'Pol to breach the silence first.
"Professor Tucker, Doctor Tucker, I would like to express my gratitude for you allowing me to stay."
"Our pleasure, T'Pol. Any friend of Trip's is welcome here. Why don't you tell us about yourself?" Kathleen offered as she took a bite of her own meal.
"Mom..." Trip interjected, "um... ya can't really ask a Vulcan somethin' like that, they're–"
"It's fine," T'Pol interrupted calmly, "as they have graciously permitted me to remain here in their home it is only logical I satisfy their curiosity regarding my identity." T'Pol lowered her silverware to the plate precisely and spoke, "I am currently the acting first officer and science officer aboard the Enterprise. I was assigned there by the Vulcan High Command when Enterprise was commissioned and have been serving aboard the Earth vessel since."
Charles tossed a bit of fried catfish batter toward Buddy.
"How do ya like it there? It must be strange, bein' the only Vulcan among humans."
T'Pol considered the question before replying, "It has been... elucidating."
Trip smirked into his food at her description.
T'Pol noted his amusement at her response but neglected to ask him about it. She picked her silverware back up and proceeded to hold down a slice of bread with her fork and saw off a bite-size piece with her knife.
The dinner conversation continued to skirt safe, conversational topics. Trip told them about their journey from Jupiter Station to Quincy. Charles spoke of his latest project he was working on for Mister Darby (the current head of the peach orchard directly to the north of the Tucker home; Trip explained that his father liked to tinker with older engines and machines in his free time). Kathleen filled Trip in on recent local town news, including rumors about friends of the family. T'Pol, commenting on the observation that Charles possessed the southern accent that Trip himself had, but Kathleen did not, was told about Trip's parents' origins: both were originally from Georgia but when Kathleen was a little girl her father had aspirations for her to go into international or interplanetary diplomacy and had hired a speech/dialect coach to train her out of her accent. Kathleen was once a math teacher but was now a professor of advanced architectural theory and design at the university in Tallahassee. Charles was an engineer, and the source of Trip's first interest in the subject.
Within a short amount of time the group was interacting comfortably, even T'Pol's rigid posture in the company of Trip's parents had eased by a fractional degree. Kathleen was feeling much more confident that she wasn't about to provoke further animosity between Earth and Vulcan over salad and fried catfish.
"Doctor Tucker..." T'Pol began to speak when Charles raised his hand and cut her off.
"T'Pol, what's with this 'doctor' and 'professor'? Ya don't hafta be so formal."
T'Pol looked toward her fellow Enterprise crew member. "Trip told me these were your official titles, are they incorrect?"
"Well, no," Charles said, "but they're not necessary, you're free ta call us by our names."
T'Pol hesitated, torn, but to her relief Trip jumped in. "That's just a Vulcan thing, Dad. Same with the crew on Enterprise, everyone's 'ensign this' or 'lieutenant that', and she's known everyone on the ship for nearly three years." As though to forestall any mention of the fact that, despite his explanation, T'Pol had been calling him 'Trip' all evening, he turned his attention to T'Pol. "Looks like ya made a friend." Trip nodded his chin toward the space beside T'Pol's chair.
T'Pol looked down at Buddy, who during dinner had deigned to leave his place by Charles and circle around to sit beside T'Pol. The dog was currently watching T'Pol closely, unblinking. For a moment, T'Pol returned the lackluster attention.
"Is he bothering you?" Kathleen thought to ask.
T'Pol paused before answering, "He is... unobtrusive."
"Huh," Charles huffed, "that's a good word for him, but 'lazy' is better. Buddy, leave T'Pol alone."
Buddy's ears twitched, he'd obviously heard his master, but the dog's eyes remained trained on T'Pol and he made no move to leave.
Trip pulled a scrap piece of catfish off his plate and dangled it over the floor. He had only to whistle once and Buddy vanished from T'Pol's side, readily abandoning his post to snatch the treat.
Kathleen sat watching her son. Trip had begun to lightheartedly tease T'Pol about dogs and Vulcan 'vibes'. In the process he looked across the table to the Vulcan and grinned. His blue eyes were alight, in such a way that it made Kathleen's heart ache, making her think of Elizabeth and times past when Trip and Liz had been small children, when things had been right and whole.
T'Pol said something in retaliation, in a calm and cool voice, and Trip laughed. His eyes remained on her, still glittering, and Kathleen cut a glance across to T'Pol in discreet scrutiny. The Vulcan woman was difficult to read, but her son was not. Kathleen had seen that same look on Trip's face a handful of times in his life. She knew well what it meant.
It raised of spike of maternal concern in the Tucker woman and she turned back to her food, surreptitiously watching Trip and T'Pol banter back and forth, with words and with looks.
At one point Charles brought up a hand to hide a gaping yawn and Kathleen had to concur. Time to call it a night.
"Well, kids," she said offhandedly, mentally grinding to a momentary halt to worry that such a term would be deemed condescending to the Vulcan. Hell, it was a good chance T'Pol was older than she was; she'd heard about how long Vulcans lived. When T'Pol did nothing at the juvenile reference Kathleen continued, "It's past our bedtime, time the old man and I call it a night."
"We'll clean up," Trip offered.
"Oh, it's fine, Trip, I'll take care of it."
Trip looked fleetingly at T'Pol, a cryptic glance Kathleen couldn't decipher, but the Vulcan in short order looked over at Kathleen and chimed in (with a tone that brooked little argument), "We will attend to cleaning."
Kathleen shrugged. "All right then, thank you. Charles, let's get our old bones to bed."
Kathleen left her seat and went to her son, placing a kiss on his cheek. Charles patted Trip's shoulder and bid a pleasant good evening to T'Pol, then called Buddy and the three retreated into the depths of the house, soon leaving T'Pol and Trip alone in the dining room.
Trip began to carry dishes into the kitchen and T'Pol followed suit. They worked in silence, Trip salvaging what pieces of catfish could be stored for later and alternately throwing away and placing on a plate for Buddy the half-eaten scraps. T'Pol, uncertain what to do, ended up standing near Trip's side while he worked.
"Was the salad okay?" he asked when he got to her plate, noting it was half-full.
"It was satisfactory. How may I be of assistance?"
Trip proceeded to trash T'Pol's uneaten portion and assured, "Nothin', this won't take but a minute." He looked over his shoulder at her. "What do ya think of 'em?"
T'Pol lifted a brow. "Your parents?"
Trip nodded.
T'Pol thought before answering. "They are pleasant; their reception of me has been better than that of the other humans we have encountered since leaving Enterprise."
Trip stopped at that, clearly uncomfortable, and he turned to look more directly at her. His expression was troubled. He took it personally. That his fellow humans were distant and unkind toward T'Pol upset him, even when it did not T'Pol, as though he claimed responsibility for every human's behavior.
Illogical, but perhaps human.
Trip's eyes were apologetic but his next words were obviously not his initially intended. "Why don't ya head on to bed? I'll finish here and be right there."
T'Pol glanced around the kitchen, confirmed the residual debris was nothing he could not expediently handle, and nodded acquiescence. Trip watched her leave and the lingering shame in his own people was steadily replaced by content. He stood with hip propped against the counter, dirty plate in hand, and a gentle smile on his face as T'Pol's form disappeared around the corner.
Trip finished up in the kitchen, turned out the lights, then walked the well-worn, memorized path to his bedroom. He tapped twice on the door with his knuckle, giving T'Pol fair warning, before he opened the door and silently entered the room.
T'Pol was dressed for bed in her blue pajamas. The room was dark. T'Pol sat on the edge of the bed farthest from the door, facing the far wall.
Trip closed the door behind him softly, locked it in deference to T'Pol's greater sense of privacy, then proceeded to change into his own nightclothes.
T'Pol continued to sit in the dark, her back to him, her posture practically rigid.
Trip, dressed in boxers and a T-shirt, stopped and looked at her. "T'Pol, you okay?" He couldn't exactly say something was amiss, but he just got that feeling.
T'Pol partially turned her head in his direction to regard him over her shoulder. "I'm fine."
Trip frowned but decided not to push the matter. "All right," he conceded and stepped toward the bed, "come on, let's peel back this comforter, it'll be too hot with it on."
T'Pol stood, backed up, and watched, hands at her sides, as Trip removed the heavy top cover from the bed and freed up the much lighter sheet beneath. He slid underneath it and looked up at T'Pol.
T'Pol hesitated a second then joined him in bed. She immediately positioned herself on her back, almost supine. Trip was turned on his side facing her, for a minute content to study her profile in the sparse light. He had to shake himself when he figured he'd crossed the line from looking to staring.
"Good night, T'Pol," Trip whispered and shifted across the bed toward her, rose up on one elbow, and leaned down to place a gentle, chaste kiss on her lips.
T'Pol seemed to spark into life at his touch and her lips instantly captured his in a much more intimate, passionate kiss.
Trip startled, but only a moment, then he was returning the kiss. He sidled even closer, his body coming flush against hers, and his hand dropped down to capture her waist.
T'Pol's own hands left their station of repose across her stomach and reached for him. One hand slid up his shoulder, the other trailing creases in the shirt material across his chest. She titled her body toward him and deepened their kiss.
Trip's hand against the hot skin of her waist tugged her closer. Adventurous, with a mind of its own, Trip's hand left its station at her side and tracked up her body, underneath her midriff pajama top. T'Pol did not make a sound but her body quaked, jolted, and her hands tightened their hold on him.
Trip's fingers blindly made quick work of unbuttoning her shirt and T'Pol freed herself from his hold to wriggle out of her top. She gave him a heated, impatient look, and Trip heeded to the silent order and shucked his own shirt.
T'Pol, satisfied, settled back underneath him as Trip slipped his hand behind her back and held her close, his face burrowing into the crook of her neck to kiss her shoulder. Unbidden his body began to rock against hers, a slow, preempting rhythm.
Trip moved from nibbling her neck to kissing the curved point of T'Pol's right ear lightly and she silently gasped. Her fingers curled into the hair at the back of his head. Her body temperature against his skyrocketed.
Trip quickly rid both her and himself of their last bits of clothing. T'Pol pulled him eagerly to her and Trip needed no further encouragement. He moved into her, his thoughts for a flaring moment a blinding, dissonant cacophony of light, thought, and sound that did not register to his senses as coming from the room. For a split-second, it was utterly disorienting.
T'Pol was feverishly alive under him, beckoning him with an urgency he'd never experienced from her before, and his mind cleared at once. He moved within her, with her, her arms curled around his shoulders with almost bruising force. He swooped down to kiss her gloriously proffered throat and against the sensitive surface of his lips felt her sweltering skin, the thundering rush of her blood. Her heart was hammering.
'Damn,' he thought, carried away by the heady rush of her blood's green rapids. It was like riding down a rampaging Vulcan river, headed straight for the precipitous waterfall.
Trip was almost lost in a mental din when he climaxed. He blinked and fought for his bearings, his sense of the limits of his skin imposed on who he was.
When he felt like the world had fallen back into place, piece by warped piece, he noticed two things. First, T'Pol was lying underneath him, looking up at him with a fathomless depth in her brown eyes... second, her hands were clutching onto his back with sharp consequences.
"Aaa..." Trip hissed lowly, "watch the nails, T'Pol."
T'Pol blinked once then promptly uncurled her hands from their claw-like grip on him. As though a little embarrassed she removed her hands from his person and looked carefully at him.
Trip was still on an adrenaline and testosterone high. 'What the hell was that?' he wondered dizzily.
He rolled partially to one side, propped on his side, pressed to T'Pol. Looking at her, her breathing quicker from their encounter, her skin lusciously flushed with a bronze tinge, her lips parted seductively whether she meant it or not, Trip realized he didn't particularly care what had brought on this impassioned tussle. It still sang in his thoughts, in his blood, intoxicating, inebriating, invigorating, and it seemed so damn right.
Trip, on impulse, slowly moved his hand up, intent upon gently caressing the shadowed features of her exotic face.
T'Pol abruptly turned her face away, tensed, and using her own hand hastily lowered Trip's from its advance.
Trip frowned, confused, a little wounded at the sudden change, but before he could question her T'Pol, his hand still captured in hers, rolled over on to her side facing away from him. She carried his hand with her as she shifted and ultimately ended with Trip's arm wrapped around her.
Trip would take that concession, for it was on the painfully rare occasion that T'Pol would allow him to snuggle up to her. It was easier, in order to keep themselves requisitely distanced, for them to avoid such prolonged contact, which precluded cuddling.
Trip settled down in the bed behind her, shaping his body's position to match hers, and with his arm given permission to circle around her he lowered his head on to the pillow they now shared. He practically burrowed his nose into the desert scent coming from her.
T'Pol was still strung taut under his touch, against his chest, but her breathing evened and her tension gradually gave way to easy suppleness.
Not long after that, Trip, thoughts humming contentedly at the feel of T'Pol in his arms, fell asleep.
*****
Kathleen Tucker always woke up well before Charles. She had gotten into the habit of very early wake-up calls when Trip was a baby and it had never completely left her. Once her children were school-age it was the only quiet time she had to get things done before the day started, before the kids needed to get ready for school and before she herself had to head to the local Quincy high school or later to make the commute to Tallahassee.
There was no such need today, of course, she'd requested vacation days when she discovered her son would be home from his deep space mission for two days, but still she was up with the sun. Buddy, lying on his bed in the corner of the master bedroom, had looked up at her when she got out of bed but, as always, chose to remain with Charles, snoring roommate though he was.
Kathleen shuffled through the house in the quiet early morning, heading for the kitchen. She always started coffee first thing.
The major rooms of the house: foyer, living room, kitchen, and dining room, were each installed with the modern sliding doors. Kathleen had friends who compulsively kept these type of doors closed at all times, enjoying the cutting-edge starship ambiance it created, but Kathleen enjoyed an open home where communal rooms flowed into one another. The only rooms in the house that were frequently shut, the bedrooms and bathrooms, were those that possessed the old-fashion hinge-and-doorknob doors.
It was because of this open, free-flow nature of the Tucker home that Kathleen became aware that she was not the only one awake.
When she walked into the dark kitchen she saw a red-hued soft light coming from the open doorway to the dining room. Kathleen stopped at the light and the sight of it took her back.
Back to so many Sunday mornings, memories of Trip and Liz. Every Sunday morning Trip and Lizzie would be up early like so many children their age, but instead of plopping down in front of the vidscreen they would set up in the dining room. The dining room had a large bay window facing east, the outside world frequently blocked by a solid shield much like the doors, but Sunday mornings Trip would open up the bay window shield and to the blood-colored light of the rising sun filtering through the cream-colored curtains brother and sister would sit cross-legged on the floor with a plastic building set and create wonderfully innocent, imaginative edifices. The clear plastic tubes and panels that comprised the building sets would catch the morning light and send red and yellow prisms against the carpet and her children's faces. It was almost magical, for Kathleen had never seen a true building near as captivating as the toy-scale creations her children had erected and demolished every Sunday. Liz's architectural inclinations and Trip's natural talent for comprehending such mechanical topics as photo-refractive angularity had entertained her children for hours each week for many years. Up until Trip left for Starfleet Academy, assuming their much busier schedules allowed, he and his sister would continue their weekly ritual.
Kathleen silently lamented every morning on her trek to the kitchen the pitch-black hole of the dining room, so void and desolate without the morning's ruddy complexion cast inward to bask over her two children.
Sadly, the reddish light slanting from the dining room now was paltry comfort. Kathleen knew she would never see her two children together in that room again.
Made curious what had prompted this familiar light now, Kathleen inched soundlessly toward the dining room door.
The sight that greeted her she would not in a thousand years have predicted... nor forget.
Trip and T'Pol were together in the dining room in their pajamas, sitting on the floor in front of the bay window, blanketed in its crimson hue. They were sitting Indian-style, facing one another, their postures erect, their eyes closed, their bodies utterly unmoving. Between them, held six inches above the ground by an rod-iron cup, flickered a candle.
They were meditating. Kathleen had known, from hearsay, that Vulcans actively practiced the art, but never had she expected to see her restless, ever-active son in such a posture of motionless, concentrated reflection.
With a mild manner, T'Pol opened her eyes and cant her head in Kathleen's direction. "Good morning, Professor," the Vulcan greeted, which prompted Trip to open his eyes and look over at his mother.
The spell broken, Kathleen found her voice. "Good morning. I didn't know you two were up."
T'Pol leaned forward to blow out the candle while Trip unfolded his legs and got to his feet. "Mornin'," he bade, then to his mother's unspoken but implicitly understood question Trip said, "we were just doin' a little Vulcan meditation."
"Trip assured me that you would not object," T'Pol said.
"No, no, it's fine." She looked between Trip and T'Pol then settled her eyes on T'Pol as she smiled. "I'm more curious how you ever got him to sit still for meditation in the first place. Charles won't believe this."
Trip rolled his eyes and Kathleen could almost swear, just for a fraction of a second, that some emotion flashed across the Vulcan's face, and it looked a hell of a lot like amusement.
"It was a challenge. However, once he applied himself to its mastery Trip proved to be a quick study."
'Looks like even a mother can learn something new about her own son,' Kathleen thought to the comment.
T'Pol rose gracefully to her feet and Trip retrieved a robe from the floor and held it open for T'Pol to slip inside. Tying the sash closed and collecting her candle and holder, the Vulcan excused herself and headed back toward Trip's room with her meditation items.
Kathleen realized then with unrivaled certainty that the two were sharing Trip's bedroom.
Trip turned to the window shield controls and the heavy sheet began to lower over the window, cutting off the well-remembered red-orange light.
*****
When next Kathleen saw T'Pol the Vulcan had changed into regular clothing (at least, regular if the attire she'd worn yesterday and now wore today was indicative). A blue one-piece suit with a belt riding low on her hips, no doubt present only for the utilitarian sake of clipping tools to it.
Trip and Charles were sitting in the living room watching the news on the view screen. More accurately, both men were only paying partial attention to the commentator, each immersed in something else. Charles was composing a personal correspondence to Mister Darby concerning the status of his peach-truck while Trip was studying a PADD containing the specs on Jupiter Station's intended actions to the Enterprise engines and systems. Kathleen alone was actually watching the news, nursing a cup of coffee as she did so. Buddy, lying quietly near Charles's chair, looked up at T'Pol when she came into the living room then stopped and stood.
Charles tore his eyes from his letter to look at her. "Good mornin', T'Pol."
"Good morning, Doctor Tucker."
Charles blinked then shook his head, chuckling. "Tell ya, don't know if I can get used ta someone callin' me 'doctor' in my own home."
One of T'Pol's eyebrows climbed and she seemed to search for words. Her eyes moved to Trip and the young engineer gave her a smile. It seemed to communicate to T'Pol that Charles was just making conversation rather than addressing any real discomfort with T'Pol's behavior.
"Would you like something for breakfast?" Kathleen asked, already moving to get up, "I know we have a cantaloupe in the refrigeration unit."
"No, I'm not hungry, but thank you."
"Well, if you get hungry later feel free to scrounge around in the kitchen, just make yourself at home."
That comment from Kathleen earned Trip another glance from his Vulcan friend but no words on the subject were exchanged.
Further conversation was forestalled when the news reporter shifted to a new headliner.
"Kenyan delegate to the African Peace Delegation Marcus Manzambi spoke out yesterday on the Xindi attack on Earth and Starfleet Command's response to the tragedy."
The image cut to a distinguished black man looking at the camera and speaking with a thick accent. "We have been told da Xindi struck against our world because dey believed dat in da future we would destroy der people. Da truth is dat we do not know dat dey are not right. Maybe dey did learn somedin about da future and dey were, in der eyes, justified in a preemptive strike against der enemies. I don't dink dat Starfleet Command has properly considered dis possibility when dey decided to send our most advanced ships after dem in what is clearly, before all else, a mission of aggression. We must consider a more diplomatic solution, even if only to have it prepared and at our disposal in case da Xindi are willing to speak wid us as a people. We are a civilized world and we must be prepared to face our problems wid equal parts force and diplomacy, we can ask of ourselves nodin less. I do believe we must respond to da Xindi attack on our world, it was a travesty and it must not be ignored, but I dink Starfleet Command should explore peaceful options. We need to speak wid these people, show dem we are peaceful, not a threat to der world or der people."
The news shifted to another story but the four in the Tucker home were oblivious.
Kathleen's throat was constricted, her hands curled tightly around her mug. The lines of Charles's face were set in angry, shadowed relief as he pinned steely eyes on the vidscreen, body held tight in suppressed rage. T'Pol was standing utterly motionless, her eyes locked on Trip.
Trip's hand had fisted tightly around the PADD in his hand, his knuckles white points against his flesh. His lips were pinched tight, his brow stormy, his eyes flint-fed blue fires. His breaths came in measured, clipped staccato.
Buddy looked around in befuddled concern.
Abruptly, Trip stood. His body was strung, furiously wired.
For a second Kathleen braced for a tirade, a flash of temper enough to make her cringe and grieve for her son. Instead Trip glowered dangerously at the vidscreen, took a couple of deep breaths, then turned on his heel and marched toward his room. Moments later he emerged, fully dressed, and without a word and with his face still etched with fury he went straight to the kitchen and out the back door.
Charles roughly set his letter down on the table and closed his hands into impotent, furious fists. Kathleen swallowed thickly, realized she would not get anything more past the lump in her chest, and set her cup down on the coffee table. T'Pol diverted her eyes to the floor, her posture somehow uneasy despite being identical to the way she'd comported herself the day before.
Kathleen resolutely turned the vidscreen off and disconnected the image of the callous news reporter who had the audacity to keep talking about other things, to have mention the Xindi massacre in passing like a brushfire in California.
The morning was, without question, ruined.
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