A/N: I'm sorry for the delay, everyone. My muse has been largely silent over the past few weeks. I've been going through a lot of personal drama-the death of a friend, my grandfather having his third stroke, and my aunt and her family being affected by the recent tornadoes in Oklahoma. However, I'm leaving tonight for an all new adventure. All of this week, my marching band and I will be opening and closing Disney World with parades in various parks. I don't expect a lot of time to write, so the next chapter of RDWO will have to wait until I get back. I hope that you understand-I'm trying to push these things out, but I'm not exactly in any position to do so right now. Pray for my family and I, send good vibes and the like.

On to the chapter. What's a fluffy series of ENT ficlets without TnT? About five of you requested it, and I'm poking fun at myself by staging the bulk of this around the same times as the ATP chapter of the story. Like many ENT fans, I first shipped TnT and then gradually moved on and branched out. Writing this was fun, and I got to visit my old haunts for research-HoT, TriS, and the like. I know that this isn't what you were promised for this chapter, but I beg of you to bear with me. I apologize for any typos, as I'm leaving in a few hours and I'm in a rush.

I end this author's note with this parting thought, a dedication to a roleplaying friend that every member of the USS Tumblr loved and lost. RIP Jules. We have been and always shall be your friends.

Musings on a Dead Stop Part Four

TnT

She is standing close to him on his right, almost unbearably so. If he were to side-step a fraction of a meter in either direction, he was sure that he would collide with her, the fabric of their uniforms creating friction between two warmed entities. It didn't help that her presence was neither inconspicuous nor subtle; her very scent pervaded his senses and filled him with a distinct feeling of desire, of longing, of—what was that? Frustration?

Yes, Trip decided, subconsciously shifting from his left foot to his right; that was what it must be. However, his sudden and inexplicable distraction couldn't be entirely blamed on the incidence of the attractive woman beside him; there were certainly auxiliary factors left to account for. Perhaps the fact that he felt so helpless in such a dire situation had something to do with it. After surveying the damage done to the port portion of the ship that housed the impulse manifolds, Commander Tucker found himself filled with an unpleasant sensation akin to hopeless and unequivocal defeat. What was a chief engineer without a fully functioning warp drive? What use would he and his motley crew of recent Academy graduates be if they were to come upon the Romulans once again?

He, too, had been a bit skeptical at the thought of accepting the ill-begotten counsel of a Tellarite freighter, but once the repair station came into view, he experienced a surge of adrenaline, a wave of optimism and expectancy. Herein might lie his redemption—by salvaging spare parts from this repair station that appeared to be abandoned, he and his team might be able to recover the engines yet. His suggestion of boarding was quickly shot down, however, by the confirmation of a certain Vulcan first officer.

"I'm detecting a liquid helium atmosphere," she reported, her voice slightly muffled by the swiveling motion of her upper body as she rotated around to face the Captain. Pressing a few buttons on her console, she continued, "The temperature is two hundred and seventy degrees below zero."

Trip's mouth fell open in surprise before snapping closed once again. Punctuating his grimace with a pair of raised eyebrows, he turned away from her. Casting a rather unprofessional glance of appraisal at the crewman on duty at Malcolm's armory station, he ruminated with dismay that it seemed that it was always her to ruin his moment to shine, his firmly held propositions or educated suggestions. Well aware that he was being childish, he reminded himself that the Sub-Commander was only doing her job, carrying out her assignment of counsel and advisory to the crew of the Enterprise. She meant no disrespect, although it often came across as that. Commander Tucker would have thought that once you had the ability to get to know someone for a year they became predictable, all of the little nuances and idiosyncrasies wholly anticipated by you. But as the month of April came and went and their second year aboard the Enterprise was now fast approaching, Trip had to acquiesce and admit that he would never be able to call himself an expert on the social habits of Vulcans. He might never even get close.

T'Pol was within herself an interesting character, but the way that she conducted herself around him made her an enigma. Sometimes there was a certain spark in her eye, a distinct spring in her step that only acted to convince Trip that there really was fire hiding under all that ice. In fact, he was positive that there was—he had seen her expression, studied the tense movements of her arms and shoulders as they had discussed the implications of her arranged marriage in her quarters some months ago. She was unwilling to give up her career, to devote her life to a man that she had only met a handful of times. However bound and constricted by such an all-encompassing learned cultural identity, she had resolved to remain devout to her traditions. However, she was still here, right? She had postponed her nuptials to linger on Enterprise, her motives and rationale classified to everyone but herself. Although she still maintained the carefully cultivated Vulcan façade that she always did, Trip couldn't help but cling on to the little bit of hope that he still had left—one day, he would finally discover what the fascinating woman was concealing from everyone around her. Underneath all of those layers of Vulcan control, he knew that there was a passion, an undeniable vibrancy to T'Pol. He couldn't have imagined it. She had shared his pecan pie. She had come to movie night.

The inscrutable ways of the first officer were still on his mind as he stood beside her in the so-called "recreation facility", their attention focused on a rounded table before them. As they approached it, the inner rim of the furnishing had begun to glow, emitting a faint buzzing sound. Glancing down at her PADD, T'Pol confirmed, "A matter-energy converter."

Trip had leaned in close to her, ignoring the irrational sensation of tremors that her proximity always delivered him. There was no denying that the woman was beautiful; gorgeous, rapturous, stunning. As was his wont with any attractive woman, the chief engineer desired nothing more than to hold her, kiss her, and perhaps engage in some otherwise illogical activities with her. Even if a definitive layer of anti-fraternization legislation didn't already stand between them, there was the fact that she was Vulcan. Come on, Tucker, she wouldn't even shake hands with you when you first met. What makes you think that she'd ever have romantic feelings for you—

"Eh, could be a transporter," he was replied to her statement absently and was instantly confronted with what he privately referred to as The Brows of Doom. This was their routine. Funny comment, logical rebuttal. Innocent musing, pointed retort. It was true that he loved to see her reaction—something in the way that she tilted her head to one side or narrowed her eyes in assessment filled him with an unexplainable sentiment of triumph, almost as if he had managed to get away with something that he shouldn't have. Extending a hand towards the offending piece of technology, he rationalized, "What? An awfully small one."

T'Pol inhaled quickly before directing her gaze at Captain Archer, who was approaching the table from his former position at the window. "I believe that it's a molecular synthesizer of some kind, similar to a protein re-sequencer, but far more advanced—" casting a reproachful glance over her right shoulder at Commander Tucker, she barely hesitating before declaring, "Water, cold."

Within the blink of an eye, a squat glass appeared before the officers in attendance. Wrapping her slender fingers around the lower portion of it, T'Pol raised the chalice to her lips. After swishing the liquid within slightly and flaring her delicate nostrils to intake its scent, she imbibed a bit of it between parted lips. Separating his attention from this methodical display of inspection for a moment, his eyes travelled up to the face of his friend, Jonathan Archer. With slitted eyes, he was observing her investigation. Before he knew it, the tumbler of water was once again within his line of vision and T'Pol was saying, "I saw a similar device on a Tarkalean vessel. It was capable of replicating almost any inanimate object."

All kinds of bells and whistles began to sound in Trip's head. Excitedly, nearly stammering over his words, he addressed the top of the Captain's scalp as he leaned over to examine the underside of the table in question. "If we had one of these in engineering, we could make all the spare parts we need." His palms had once again found the inside of his elbows, and his person vibrated minutely as his mind worked overtime to calculate the implications of acquiring such a piece of equipment.

As his cheek swiveled involuntarily to survey T'Pol's reaction to his statement, he persisted, "I wonder what else is on the menu." He desperately wanted to show her that he was able to make his own discoveries, that he was just as quick-witted as she was. Never mind that he had proven this time and time again; he relished the oft-displayed dismissal with an indication of an "acceptable" job. Tilting his shoulders to the side, he intoned, "One pan fried catfish."

There was the muffled clinking and shifting of mechanical parts, and then a plate heaping full of meal shimmered into view. Chuckling slightly and offering Captain Archer a crooked grin, he reached down to retrieve the platter. Lifting it to his nostrils, he confirmed, "Smells like the real thing." Using the proffered silverware to slice off a piece of the tender filet, he sniffed at it once more before depositing it in his mouth and chewing contemplatively.

After a few seconds, Jonathan prompted him, "Well?"

Trip admonished him with a mien of reassurance and gestured towards the foodstuffs with his fork. "Not bad."

Almost rhetorically, the Captain mused, "I doubt that there's a catfish within one hundred and thirty light years."

T'Pol inhaled so rapidly that she nearly scoffed. "Its genome is stored in Enterprise's computer, along with the recipe. It appears that the station scanned our database."

"It would have been nice to have been asked," Captain Archer was now behind them, approaching the door from whence they came.

Shaking his head and making small, contented sounds as he continued to eat, Trip turned his head towards the retreating figure. "Cap'n, you gotta try this."

"Thanks, but I think that I'll stick with what Chef's serving," stepping through the now-open doorway, he disappeared from view.

Nodding his assent, Trip turned his attention back to his meal, monitoring the movements of his female accomplice in his peripheral vision. When he met directly her curious gaze, she quickly averted her eyes. This did nothing but confirm the Commander's suspicions. He, Charles Tucker, was a case for inquisition to T'Pol of Vulcan, and there was no denying otherwise.

And for the moment existing, that was all he felt that he needed.