Chapter Text
He checked his watch for the twelfth time in two minutes, feeling like a creepy uncle outside the high school prom as people, gaudy, noisy and oblivious, going about their happy lives, breezed in and out of the club opposite. Awkwardly he shuffled back from the too-bright puddle of light cast by a tall streetlight, imagining himself being swallowed up by the surrounding shadows.
Or the ground. I’d kind of like that right now.
She’d be here. She’d given him a promise before he left Vulcan two months ago: and if there was one thing Charles Tucker the Third had learned he could depend on it was her word.
Her feelings – his own, for that matter – were a whole different ball game.
He’d tried not to think about her – them – in Mississippi. Done his best to ignore his mother’s troubled looks and his father’s magisterial displays of what passed among Tuckers for tact. There had been whole days when he’d almost succeeded.
Now, back in San Francisco with a shuttlepod pass to Jupiter Station in his back pocket, he could think of nothing else.
Lost in himself, he didn’t catch the familiar click-clack of illogically high heels on concrete. Her voice, soft in his ear, almost fired him to the station without an engine. “Trip.”
“Sonofa – I mean… hi, T’Pol.”
He sounded as shy as he’d been at his own first prom, but since he was feeling it Tucker didn’t care. In deference to their surroundings she’d abandoned her usual fitted bodysuit in favour of a floral print shirt and brand-new jeans: and in trying to fit in, T’Pol had managed to make herself stick out like an Andorian’s antennae. “You look… well.”
“I am. Thank you.”
If he hadn’t known it was crazy, the Southerner would have said she was more nervous than he was. “So, how was your trip – from Vulcan?” he stuttered.
“It was… pleasant.” Her fingers grazed his arm, raising gooseflesh in their wake until they reached his wrist and curled there. “Shall we go in?”
“I did say I’d buy you a drink here someday.” Even as he remembered the conversation, Trip flinched from it. It was a lifetime ago. Between other people.
“Indeed.” Just the tip of one high brow twitched: enough, he discovered, to propel him forward at a pace she couldn’t hope to match, and that made her lurch gracelessly before releasing her grip. “White wine, please.”
The corner of her mouth mirrored the motion of the eyebrow, and down behind his ribcage something gave a little skip. “As Doctor Phlox once pointed out, the Vulcan digestive tract is a remarkably adaptable organ. There are some human tastes I no longer find… unpalatable.”
“That’s good t’ know.” The tightest knot in his gut unwound a little and with a grin Trip crooked a finger to the nearest barkeep. “Grab us a table? It’s gettin’ busy.”
“Of course.” While he collected their drinks, she took a mid-sized table in the centre of the room. It was the last place a human would choose for this encounter but if he’d wanted total privacy, Tucker acknowledged, he’d have waited to reach Enterprise.
Yeah. Because nobody’s watching there!
He slid her glass across the table and carefully, as tentative as she’d once been with chopsticks, T’Pol tilted it toward him. “You look better,” she stated. His shoulders rolled.
“Mom’s cooking and a little Southern sunshine’ll do that to a guy,” he answered, pleased with the flippancy. “How did you get on? Meditating?”
“Well.” She hesitated, visibly scanning for the right phrase, and some of the bubbling tar in his belly began to cool, settling in a thick, gooey lining at the pit. It was a long time since holding a conversation with T’Pol had been uncertain - even unwelcome.
There again, it had been just as long since she’d been able to sneak up on him unnoticed. “Damn, that bond must’ve been stronger than I realised.”
“It was.” At least some things, it seemed, were still understood unspoken. “And I apologise. I should have prepared you better for the side-effects of Severance.”
He tried a tentative smile, relieved to see her match it. “You weren’t exactly familiar with them yourself, I’m guessing,” he suggested.
“Most Vulcans try to avoid direct practical experience.” Her dark eyes shadowed for a moment and guilt added itself to all the other nasty sensations crawling around his internal organs, because not once in the last eight weeks had Trip Tucker stopped to wonder what his former bondmate might be going through. “I believe you understand.”
“It takes some getting used to, if that doesn’t sound crazy.” Most of the time he hadn’t even known it existed, but the moment their mental connection snapped he’d felt a physical blow. T’Pol’s smile softened.
Wasn’t that supposed to flip his innards over?
“Far from it. And I hardly need a psychic link to realise this encounter is… awkward for both of us.”
“I used t’ think I knew how I felt about you, T’Pol.” Not quite the truth, but as close to honest as Trip could get. “I was in love with you.”
“Now you’re not sure.”
Her fingers twisted together around the stem of her wineglass and he took a healthy glug of his beer, giving himself time to gather a reply. “I don’t know if I am, was, will be… I hoped seein’ you tonight, knowing the bond’s gone, it might all make sense: but right now I’m just… confused.”
“I am… fond of you, Trip.” The admission didn’t come easy. He knew it, and he appreciated the effort. “And I miss our connection. I realised during meditation how much of a comfort your presence in my mind had become.”
Someone jostled her elbow. T’Pol didn’t notice, even as Trip gave the guilty ensign a glare. “However. I am Vulcan.”
“You have emotions.”
“I suppress them.”
“And I wouldn’t know where t’ start.” Grimly he hunkered down deeper in his seat, sucking his lips back into his mouth. “I don’t know, T’Pol. You mean a lot to me…”
If he wanted a reciprocal declaration, he should have been disappointed. Instead, as she gazed blandly at him, Tucker just felt lost, and frustrated as hell. “Your wine okay?” he asked, too brusque. T’Pol nodded.
“Fine. You’ve almost finished your beer. Shall I…”
“I may be a simple human hick, but where I come from a lady doesn’t buy for a gentleman.” He swirled the last few sips of beer around the bottom of his glass, fascinated by the changing colours as the liquid moved under a strong overhead light. “You, uh, you on the shuttle in the morning?”
“Yes.”
Without him intending to let it, Trip felt the silence stretch until it consumed all the noise and bustle around them, sucking it as if into a black hole. Her gaze dropped to the stained tabletop, His fingers drummed repetitively against his thigh.
“Another drink?” he asked eventually. Anything to snap the tension.
“Water, please.”
“Sure I can’t get you…”
“One is enough, but – thank you.”
For the drink, or not throwing myself over the table demanding you marry me right now?
It took all the willpower he possessed to drag himself upright. Everything felt heavy, his boots filled with lead. Maybe he’d daydreamed of an ecstatic reunion: of a sobbing T’Pol flinging herself into his arms proclaiming to the whole of San Fran that she couldn’t live without him.
Or maybe – just maybe – masculine pride was a tad dented because a one-time lover was out-Vulcan-ing Vulcan Master Soval in her nonchalance.
Gloomily debating whether to be mad at her or himself, Trip slouch-turned toward the bar. And stopped.
“Malcolm?”
The compact brunet standing a bare three metres away swung around sharply. “Trip!” Malcolm Reed exclaimed, lurching forward with a beaming smile that froze a nanosecond later. “T’Pol,” he added formally.
“Lieutenant.” The Vulcan half-rose from her seat, chin dipping in solemn acknowledgement. Enterprise’s chief tactical officer wet his lips.
“I...”
“Umm, I didn’t see you come in, buddy,” Tucker burst out, much too loud in the face of three-way awkwardness. Reed shrugged.
“It’s my job to be unobtrusive,” he said drily. “Anyway, don’t feel too bad. I’ve only just arrived.”
“When did you get back to town?”
“Last night. You?”
“Couple of days ago.” They were eying each other warily: almost as they had in the first few days aboard, when chief engineer and armoury officer had circled each other like a couple of territorial tomcats. “So, what brings you here, Mal? Feelin’ nostalgic?”
“A little.” The Reed’s mouth twitched into a familiar half-smile and Tucker relaxed, conscious of the tension un-twanging through his whole body. “I’ve always marked my, er, Starfleet milestones here since graduation, so it seemed appropriate…”
“Sonofabitch!” T’Pol was studying the handsome Englishman as if he’d started spouting Klingon, and when Trip sprang to drag him, yelping, into an odd one-armed hug, her forehead creased in real bewilderment. “Congratulations, Lieutenant-Commander. It’s about time!”
“Yes, well, thank you.” Discreetly trying to shake the creases out of his person, Reed stepped back and flashed the Vulcan an embarrassed smile. “I was at a loose end this evening, so I thought – what the hell? I was raised to honour tradition.”
“Lemme buy you a drink.” The words fell over each other in his eagerness, and if the smug Limey was laughing at him, Trip didn’t care. “And come join us – unless you’ve got company…”
“It was a bit short notice to gather my vast social circle,” Malcolm replied, dry as the Vulcan deserts his friend had seen way too much of lately. His clean-cut, angular features tightened as he executed the rarest of Reed manoeuvres, the full-scale retreat. “But I couldn’t possibly intrude…”
“Please. Malcolm.” The use of his given name stopped both men’s embarrassed stuttering dead. “We would be… pleased if you’d join us.”
She couldn’t have sounded much less enthusiastic, but Trip Tucker had learned to bite his tongue; and though he arched a fine sable brow, Malcolm’s innate good manners kept the inevitable observation firmly trapped inside his own head. “In that case – thank you,” he said, acknowledging Trip’s mouthed drink suggestion with a firm nod. “I suppose I would look a bit of a berk celebrating on my own.”
“Your promotion is merited. And overdue.” There could be no higher praise, and it relaxed the Englishman visibly, winning a cautious smile as Trip pushed a foaming cold beer his way. “Captain Archer will be delighted.”
“My ribs are still sore – he insisted on presenting the pip himself,” Malcolm added hastily. Trip bit his lip.
“You know he’ll want a bridge ceremony, right?”
“Bollocks! Sorry.” Colour crested over Reed’s high cheekbones: triggered by either the prediction or his unguarded reaction to it, Trip couldn’t be sure. “Hadn’t thought of that.”
“Even if he doesn’t, Hoshi and Travis’ll insist.” He watched his arm stretch out as if it had disconnected from his central nervous system, the hand already curled to the exact contours of his friend’s shoulder. “It should’ve happened long ago, Malcolm. Remember that.”
“You’re much too kind. Given my track record, I’m amazed it’s happened at all!”
The best thing about the Vulcans, Trip had learned long ago, was their resolute refusal to acknowledge curiosity. “We all make mistakes,” he pointed out, concealing the internal corollary in a long, slow pull of beer. T’Pol flinched.
Yeah. Even Vulcans screw up, and when they do – they do it big-time.
“I’ll remind you of that next time you tell me there’s no way Engineering’s activities are responsible for the power fluctuations affecting my torpedoes,” Reed quipped, seeking escape in the familiarity of wry humour. Trip laughed.
“I wouldn’t expect anything less, Lieu – Commander,” he corrected. Malcolm’s dark head twitched.
“I’m never going to get used to that,” he muttered.
“I expect you’ll adapt more quickly than you realise.” It was game of her to try joining in, and Tucker suspected their companion - still conspicuously uneasy - appreciated the effort, but it set his teeth on edge.
“I doubt I’ll have much choice once my team finds out.” Affection softened the clipped British tones. “Family okay?”
“Doin’ good, thanks.” He knew better than to return the enquiry, however much it touched his susceptible heart. “Susie’s moved to Mississippi now, ‘bout thirty kilometres from Mom and Dad.”
“Your brother still in North Carolina?”
“And won’t be comin’ back. He’s fallen in love.”
“Poor bugger,” Reed sympathised. T’Pol’s head twitched, but she made no comment.
“Her name’s Nicole and no - I haven’t met her yet. Mom’s already planning f’r the wedding and Dad says she’s a keeper. She plays golf.”
“Does Robbie?”
“He does now.”
Both men laughed, taking matched sips from their beer. “How’d you know I’d been home, Mal?” Trip asked, head cocked. The Englishman shrugged.
“You’ve picked up a tan. And your accent’s stronger.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Y’ know, T’Pol - neither had I.” It wasn’t, Trip figured, especially surprising that surrounded by a whole gaggle of noisy, talkative Tuckers his twang had reasserted itself: or that the most observant of all his friends should be the one to pick it up. “Remind me t’ lose it again before we see Hoshi.”
“Still threatening to tie you into the UT, is she?”
“Lemme guess – you too?”
“British slang,” Malcolm agreed wearily. “That woman speaks more languages than any human that’s ever lived, and what does she do as a hobby? Collect English bloody colloquialisms!”
“You shouldn’t talk so funny, Limey.”
“Coming from a bleedin’ hick, that’s hilarious!”
Only when he lunged to clout the slighter man’s shoulder did Trip notice the lack of coiled wire in his gullet. “It’s good to have you back, Malcolm,” he said, faintly embarrassed by his earnest tone. Dark chocolate eyelashes dipped to dance across Reed’s fine-carved cheekbones.
“The proverbial bad penny, that’s me,” he muttered, knotting his fingers. “I always turn up.”
“You, uh, you stayed on Earth this leave?”
“Did some travelling.” Evasive. For an expert in strategy and deception, Malcolm Reed could be painfully readable off-duty.
To some people, Trip amended grimly. “I hope it was pleasant,” T’Pol volunteered. Reed’s hawkish features tightened.
Trip’s guts followed suit. “I did meet some… remarkable people,” the armoury officer managed, almost level. Before the limits of Vulcan sensitivity could be tested again, the Southerner butted in.
“It’s one helluva planet, T'Pol. You should get out and see a little of it yourself.”
“Perhaps I should.” She knew him well enough to heed the warning and his internal alarms quieted down, allowing his attention to refocus on the erect figure at his side, sipping his booze with the same deliberate attention he did anything deemed worth his while. “Next time, perhaps.”
“Tahiti,” Trip announced, drawing two puzzled stares his way. “It’s a recommendation. A place to start. Mal?”
“The Austrian Tyrol. Or London, obviously. I’m sure the captain would have dozens of suggestions…”
“Yeah, but not ones I’d give to a lady!”
“Ouch. Care to expand on that, Mistah Tuckah?”
Trip winked at him and Malcolm laughed, rich and smoky. “’Nother time, maybe. You heard from Maddie?”
“Called in on my way back. She’s doing well.”
“Glad t’ hear it. Hey, you seen any of the new security personnel? Cap’n tells me we’re losing the MACOs…”
“And I never thought I’d say it, but I’ll be sorry to see them go.” Idly Malcolm swirled his drink, oblivious to the quizzical look on their companion’s face. “Actually, the captain asked me to go through the candidates’ files before they were assigned – met all of them at Headquarters today. I thought that was why I’d been called in!”
“Cap’n can be sneaky when he wants to,” Trip admitted easily. “Hell, there was this time on Jupiter Station…”
“Not the infamous poker game, I trust?” Malcolm cut in, much too smooth. Golden droplets of liquor sprayed all over the table as his neighbour shuddered through a voluble and volcanic convulsion. “Oh, I’m sorry, were we not supposed to know about that?” he added with perfectly feigned innocence, leaping to pound the sputtering Southerner on the back while T’Pol stared, entirely forgotten.
“Now how d’ you git t’ hear about that?”
“The captain of our first Warp 5 vessel sprinting starkers through the officers’ mess? All right, he wasn’t as famous then, but of course none of the station staff have ever mentioned that to a single member of Enterprise’s crew. Why would they?”
“Sonofabitch!” The whole ship’s company had likely heard the story – or a version of it, Trip reminded himself sternly, grabbing the Englishman’s beer and gulping since there was nothing left of his own. “I’ll buy you another,” he promised at the dark-haired man’s disgruntled moue. “The whole of Starfleet knows, right?”
“More than likely. You’d be one of the few with the full story, I assume?”
“Just your average game of strip gone wrong,” Tucker assured him airily. Malcolm chuckled.
“Remind me never to invite him to a game: and I happen to know that Travis is quite partial to making things more interesting, so consider yourself warned.”
“I appreciate it, Lieu – dammit! Thanks for the warning, buddy.”
Mock-solemn, Reed raised his friend’s empty glass. “I can take a hint,” Trip groused good-humouredly, summoning a pretty red-haired waitress with a wave of the hand. “Three more ‘f the same please – unless you want another wine, T’Pol?”
“No, thank you.” She watched intently as the two men joked, amiable insults weaving through their easy conversation like the scarlet silk threads in a Vulcan marriage robe. It had been present at the back of her mind throughout the past year, this feeling: that controlled force of emotion buried so deep in his psyche she wondered if Trip was even aware of it himself. Even without his mind touching hers she could feel it blossoming now, warming him.
Making him whole.
She watched the armoury officer swat off his best friend’s cordial punch, noting the way his body swayed dangerously close to Tucker’s personal space; how his smile widened and his colour heightened under the engineer’s affectionate (and painfully poor) imitation of his cut-glass accent.
A human would fail to notice the dilation of the pupils; the tip of a tongue that so often appeared to damp Reed’s lips when he looked up at his handsome neighbour.
T’Pol was Vulcan. She observed, and she drew the logical conclusion.
Malcolm Reed was sexually attracted to Trip Tucker.
A man who was wholly, utterly and with a depth of emotion none of her race could contemplate with equanimity, in love with Malcolm Reed.
“You’ve never played strip poker, Commander? Apart from with the captain, of course?” Reed was asking, merriment shooting blue and silver sparkles through the steely base of his fascinating eyes. Tucker shrugged.
“He’s a damn bad influence, and you can quote me on that!”
“Oh, I will.”
“Now what I wanna know is… are you a regular at Travis’s strip nights, Mal?”
The use of the unexpected diminutive, she noted, caused a minimal start, then a softening of the Englishman’s stern features. “I’ve been known to pop in for a laugh now and then,” Reed admitted easily. “He gets a bit flustered when Hoshi’s shirt comes off, but before you ask, it never goes farther. Underwear stays on is a house rule.”
“What, since Ensign Mulrooney started hangin’ around outside his door?”
“Someone should get that girl a hobby – or a transfer,” Reed agreed with a grin. “You heading back tomorrow?”
“First horse out ‘f town,” Trip confirmed expansively. “You?”
“Same.”
“Ready to break orbit?”
“More than. You?”
“Right there with y’, buddy!” Trip surprised them all with his fervency – himself included. “It’s good to go home an’ all but… well, I get antsy if I don’t hear those warp engines hummin’ after a while.”
“You get antsy often enough when you do, if I remember correctly.”
“Only when they’re not purrin’ like kittens, Mal.” Smiling at the slighter man, Trip raised his half-empty glass with a wondering air. “Now where’d that go?”
“Don’t look at me.” Cradling a glass still almost full Reed smirked back, allowing T’Pol to notice with almost perfect disinterest the effect that familiar lopsided smile had on her recent bondmate.
Tucker’s chest swelled. His smile widened. And he leaned in closer, brazenly invading his neighbour’s space. “Just as well Ah c’n handle mah liquor, Limey,” he declared with an exaggerated slur. Malcolm sniffed.
“I’ll remind you of that the next time Shran donates a case of his planet’s speciality to our festivities,” he said, lifting his glass with an air of defiant finality. Trip shuddered.
“That stuff ain’t fit for human consumption,” he growled. Reed bit his lip so hard a crimson spot of blood stained one pearly tooth.
“And you’ve certainly tested it enough to know.”
Their laughter rolled, twisting and twining until the two distinctive tones merged into one. Abruptly, inelegantly, T’Pol jerked to her feet. “I should leave.”
The screech of his chair’s feet against the laminated floor went through Tucker like the proverbial fingers-down-the-chalkboard. “I’ll walk y’ home,” he scrambled, almost knocking Reed’s glass off the table in his ungainly haste. T’Pol lifted a peremptory hand.
Time stopped. “Please, Trip,” she said, and he could have sworn the whole bar caught her low-voiced, throaty urgency. “Look inside yourself. Who do you really want to leave here with tonight?”