Disclaimers:
Trip, T'Pol, and Star Trek: Enterprise belong to Paramount, even if Paramount has forgotten all about them...
This story is an extrapolation of deeper currents to S2E7: "The Seventh." Spoilers for that episode, S1E7: "The Andorian Incident," and S1E14: "Shadows of P'Jem."
Author's Note:
I'll be adding a few chapters throughout August, and using this story as the basis of a series of drabbles I'll be writing for Story A Day Sepetember.
As with my previous drabble series, I will be looking for prompt words from my readers….they don't have to be Trek-related, since I love a challenge! So, please – lay 'em on me!
"A Watched Kettle"
T'Pol fails, for the seventeenth time, to meditate.
She fails, for the fifth time, to exhaust herself, or find clarity in, physical exertion.
Her hot water ration is gone, so even that solace is denied her.
Captain Archer is angry with her. Commander Tucker is curious, and she feels a most illogical impulse to go to him, tell him all the things she's feeling and thinking, and ask his advice – or, better, his companionship during the waiting time. She wants to ask him to accompany her on her mission, but that's impossible.
She's halfway to the Mess Hall before she understands she intends to go there, in the hope he will be there, or come, in the hope of seeing her. She had done the same last night, but he hadn't arrived. Is there any logic in wishing that he will, tonight?
No. It isn't logical. None of what occupies and agitates her is logical. However, it is real, and likely to impact her ability to complete the mission she's been assigned. Therefore, she must give it consideration, regardless of the classified nature of the assignment. She must have another's assistance in finding order once more, if she is to function.
But the room is empty, just as it was last night. T'Pol stands for nineteen minutes by the window, watching the stars as Enterpriseapproaches the point where she will be required to leave the ship. There is no logic in wishing Commander Tucker will come – and even less in wishing that some distraction of the type the humans can't seem to avoid or resist will present itself, and make her mission an impossibility.
There will be no such distraction. Long-range scanners show no other vessels between Enterprise's current location, and the departure point.
She must therefore create her own distraction. She glances at the food coolers. She'd been too unsettled to eat since receiving the communication, and that hasn't changed. She can, perhaps, manage tea.
She walks to the dispenser, and stands before it, not taking a mug, not giving a command. She's remembering Tolaris. He'd stood too close, and, if it weren't for Commander Tucker and his friend Kov's intercession, she might well be dead as a result of what Tolaris had forced upon her.
"I still might die." Illogical, to speak to herself, when she knows the truth well enough without the speaking. Illogical, too, to resist using the beverage dispenser, simply because she once shared its workings with Tolaris.
His hands - on her neck, on her face, holding her trapped.
Other hands - pressing her down against cold stone, holding her trapped…
T'Pol backs away from the dispenser, crouching, turning , her gaze covering every potential hiding space.
There's still no one here, beyond her.
She sighs, and goes into the galley. Perhaps she will make plomik broth. The process, done mindfully, is intended as a meditation. It might be a soothing exercise, but T'Pol can still feel the hands – Tolaris' on her face and neck, and the unseen ones holding her fast to the cold stone, unmoved by her screams.
She can't find the mindfulness she will need to make the broth. However, Commander Tucker secured a collection of loose-leaf teas. The preparation is simpler, but might still provide some solace.
Moreover, taking the time to brew the tea herself will allow more time to cling to the illogical hope that Trip might come to the Mess Hall.
She's standing at the stovetop, staring into the steam from a whistling kettle that ought to have set those pretty, sensitive ears of hers on high alert. Instead, she's just staring, her eyes vacant, as though she's not seeing anything in the galley.
She's shaking hard, and she's got her hands braced uncomfortably close to the heating element beneath the kettle, but she doesn't seem to notice that, either.
The way she's acting is starting to scare the hell out of him, too, and he tries again to break her out of it, before she hurts herself.
"It must not be true for kettles -" He says it nice and loud.
She actually jumps, making a startled little squeak like a human woman who's just seen a mouse, as she whirls into a defensive crouch. Her hands come up to guard her face and belly, one elbow knocking into the tea mug he hadn't seen till now. It shatters against the deck plating, and T'Pol's breath comes hard and fast, her chest heaving, her eyes wide and still not here, not really.
That was a little too much of a reaction.
"Hey, sorry - I didn't mean to scare you. Just trying to make a joke - guess I figure that if I can tickle your funny bone -" Trip trails off; he expects her to deny being scared, even with all the ecvidence. She has an illogical way of seeing that as an insult.
But she doesn't contest it at all, and maybe that's worse.
"'Funny bone'?" she echoes, instead, but it sounds involuntary. Still, her breath starts to even out a little. She frowns and shakes her head. "Too loud."
"I'll buy that. If I come over there and turn that off, you're not gonna drop me, are you? Cause, for a small person, T'Pol, you pack a helluva wallop."
She looks confused, her gaze flicking to him, then the screaming kettle, the door, the mug on the floor. "No," she says, finally, in a faint voice. And that's when her legs start to fold up under her -
"Hey - take it easy," he says, jumping in to catch hold of one of her arms. Damn, she's shaking so hard it's almost like she's in shock. What the hell does her damned government want her to do, anyway? "Lean on me. I'll get you to a stool, okay?"
"Yes."
On the way past, Trip shuts off the stove, and the kettle promptly goes from an angry shriek to a lower-pitched cry. T'Pol sighs in relief, and leans into him. She doesn't say anything; he thinks maybe she's still more somewhere else than she is here. He wants to know what the hell's gotten her into this state, but this isn't the time to find out. Besides, with the way she and the Cap'n were acting earlier, it's damned near sure to be as "highly classified" as the mission is. Wouldn't be fair to try to get it out of her when she's so clearly not in control of herself.
"What were you trying to do, test the theory? If so, I think you got the answer." He chatters to give himself something to focus on besides how good she smells, and how natural it feels to have her weight against him like this. He guides her to the closest stool, and gets her settled.
"Theory?" She answers, but there's something hollow in the word, like she's only going through the motions of conversation without taking any of it in.
"You know - well, maybe you don't. 'A watched pot never boils.'"
"That's illogical. The pot would not boil; it's the contents that are intended to do so. Nor would being observed affect the process."
Ahh, so you are still in there. Trip is damned relieved about that. Maybe he just needs to keep engaging her sense of logic, and she'll snap out of whatever this is. "It's not talking about the science of boiling points, T'Pol. It means that if you keep watching and waiting for something to happen, it seems to take a hell of a lot longer than if you just went about your business."
"The water in this kettle boiled despite my observation."
Trip goes back to the stove, slips on an oven mitt, and lifts the kettle. "I'll say it did. If you still want tea, I'll start some more. There's not even close to enough left here for a cup." He doesn't mention that she must have been standing there for a long time, for the kettle to be so close to empty.
"I wasted water - "
"No you didn't. The galley's got humidity sensors. When it gets steamy, the extra vapors are collected and returned to the ship-s"
"You don't understand. The first reality every Vulcan child learns is that water is the most precious resource. It must never be wasted."
"That's the first thing you learn? Before gravity, even?"
"Yes. Vulcan is a desert world. There are very few bodies of open water; it must be drawn from beneath the surface."
"So that's why you can go days without - I've always wondered about that. Mind if I ask why you didn't turn this off?" He doesn't look at her while he fills the kettle with enough tea for two; she won't ask, but he;s got the feeling she needs not to be so alone, so isolated, while she wrestles with whatever this mission means to her.
Are they sending her off to hunt down a serial killer? Somehow, he can't imagine that phasing her in the least. This is something else. Maybe something personal, like that letter she'd gotten last year, demanding she come home to marry to order.
"I was watching the steam. It reminded me of - of home." He voice is so soft, he can barely hear her, and he's sure she was about to say something different.
He doesn't let on, though. Instead, he gets the small broom and dustpan Chef keeps handy, and cleans up the broken pottery, The smell of loose leaf chamomile wafts up, mingling with the scent of T'Pol on the air, and saves him needing to ask what she's drinking.
"Wanna know something? Sometimes, I borrow Porthos from the Cap'n. We've all changed some, out here, but a dog is still a dog, no matter where he is - or at least, Porthos hasn't forgotten he's an Earth beagle. I take him down to the cargo bay and let him sniff out bits of cheese. Maybe don't tell the Cap'n that part, OK? Beagles, you see, are famous for their noses. It just makes me feel better, when I'm a little homesick, to play with a dog again." She doesn't say anything, but, when he stands up to dump the mess into the resequencing bin, he takes a quick peek, and she seems calmer.
He doesn't have to wait long; the kettle is close was boiling by the time he gets to the end of the cleanup. He ducks out, grabs two mugs, gets back just as the kettle starts to sing. He lifts it before it can assault her ears again, and fixes their tea while she watches.
"I didn't know you experienced homesickness." She sounds a hell of a lot better, like she needs something to focus on besides whatever is eating at her.
Trip shrugs. "I love Earth. Left a lot of people I love back there. My folks, my big brother and baby sister, some really good friends...thing is, I love space, too. This is where I want to be, but it doesn't mean I don't miss where I come from." He brings her the tea. "I saw some carrot cake out in the serving case. I'm going to grab it. I think there was some salad, and I know Chef keeps plomik broth handy - you want something?"
She shakes her head. "I'm not hungry."
"You didn't come to breakfast, T'Pol - or lunch, or dinner. Even you have to eat."
"I'm not hungry," she says again, a little more emphatically. A pause. "But I will have a piece of cake." She looks up at him with lost eyes, eyes that seem to beg for understanding, or maybe absolution for what she's about to do. Other than maybe Phlox, Trip's the only one aboard who knows how sugars affect her, that having a slice of cake is about the same as having a few stiff drinks, for her.
"All right," he tells her. "You just sit tight. I'll be right back -"
"I prefer to sit in the Mess Hall, where we may look out the window."
"I'm game. Need a hand?"
"No."
She sits at the table closest to the window, and Trip sets down his tea, then goes back to the serving case for two slices of cake. "Before you eat this, I want to tell you something."
"Yes, Commander?
"Just that I'm not going to ask you about - well, about your mission. Not that I don't want to know what's it is that's got you so scared, but I'm not going to ask."
"I don't experience fear." Trip is happier than he should be to hear her go back to that lie. Not that he's going to let her get away with it.
"Save it for the rest of the crew, T'Pol. You and I both know that you can feel just as much as any of us, so there's no point in denying this one's got you nervous. I'm not gonna ask, but I do want to tell you - I think you should consider taking backup."
"You?" Her brow goes up, and her head tips a tiny bit as she watches him. He can't tell whether she likes the idea, or would be laughing her ass off if she'd only let herself.
"I'd do it for you in a heartbeat, T'Pol - but I'm not so sure I'm your best bet this time around. I can tell you need to be at your best for this one, and I don't always bring out your best side. I think you should ask the Cap'n, or Malcolm."
"Why?"
"Whatever this is is already turning you into a wreck, and you haven't even left the ship. I think you need someone with you who you can trust, if you need them." He doesn't look directly at her; she doesn't like eye contact when she feels vulnerable. That was one of the first things he figured out about her, that first time Jon sent her to help him in Engineering.
"I'm not authorized to include anyone else." Her voice has that husky, fragile sound that she gets sometimes, when something's really getting to her, and she doesn't know how to fix it. Trip fights back the urge to hug her the way he might a human woman.
"If the High Command could see what this is doing to you, they might not ask you to do whatever this is at all. Just tell me you'll think about it, OK?"
"I will think about it." She lapses into silence, focusing on the cake. She eats methodically, without seeming to taste it. More like she's trying to numb herself.
Trip notices that she never looks out the window, not once. When she finishes she sighs deeply, and rises a little shakily.
"Hold on there, T'Pol. Like I've told you, I'm a gentleman. And a gentleman always walks a lady home when she's had one too many."
"I'm not a lady, and I haven't had 'one too many.'"
"You are, and you have. Let me walk you home."
He can see the sublte softening in her posture when she relents. "You won't attempt to take advantage of my intoxication?"
"Nope. No gentleman would - not in any way. Your honor - and your secrets - are safe with me."
He means it. Of course, there's not much he can do about it, if she reveals a clue or two as to what she's up to.
But she doesn't. When they reach her door, she half-turns to him. "Thank you, Commander." And then she slips inside, and the door closes between them. Trip stares at it for a minute or two, not sure if he helped, or just made things worse for her. Then he sighs, and goes back to the Mess Hall to clean up the remains of their snack.