Puck
By Asso
Rating: PG-13
Genres: angst, challenge, drama, humour
Keywords: Puck, Puck, Puck…
Author's Notes.
And now we are the end.
Now, finally, everything will be clear!
Oh... uh... well... or maybe... not?
Dinah, my marvellous Beta, what do you think?Conclusion-Part Two
Yes, sometimes Puck…
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They haven't even noticed me.
They entered the Mess Hall. Together. The one near to the other. Trip first, guiding her toward a table in a corner of the room - secluded.
They sat down, one in front of the other, and talked. As if uncaring that everyone's eyes were fixed on them.
Unaware of me.
They talked in a low voice.
And Trip took T'Pol's hand.
And T'Pol didn't withdraw it.
And they exchanged a look. Long, long, long.
That other look that they exchanged and that I noticed when I made my ceremonious excuses to the Kreetassans was nothing in comparison.
Their talk, quiet; the smiles on Trip's face; T'Pol's expression...
Their... intimacy.
I watch them while they head for the door of the Mess Hall, after they rose to their feet.
They walk, side by side, practically touching one another.
Without noticing me.
She is next to him like no Vulcan would do with anyone, with anyone who wasn't... who wasn't... Who wasn't who? Who, for Pete's sake? Who? What is Trip to T'Pol? A comrade? Or a friend? Or...or...
They are at the door. Trip opens it. He turns to T'Pol and smiles at her, inviting her to exit before him.
What is that expression on T'Pol's face? And that... that softness in her movements? Is she really letting Trip guide her?
My eyes don't leave them. I see T'Pol go out, brushing closely by Trip. She nearly rubs herself against him.
I don't think I am deceiving myself. No, I don't think so.
I don't think there could be any other explanation for the stunned expression on Trip's visage, his large, almost dreamy smile, while he follows T'Pol out the room.
I keep watching the door after it closed behind Trip's shoulders, then I look around, searching for confirmation.
The crewmen in the Mess Hall are exchanging looks with each other, looking in their turn for the confirmation I am searching for. I see them cast furtive glances at me, at their Captain, spying on my expression.
I lower my eyes to my table and I stare at my breakfast without seeing it.
In conclusion, I have what I needed. Now I know what that look meant between Trip and T'Pol. I don't need to speak with Trip to get my explanation; it has been enough to observe him. And T'Pol. Both her and him. Together. Together like...
Like... like...
I level my eyes again at the door beyond which Trip and T'Pol disappeared. Together.
Together, TOGETHER.
I have to lower my head again. It's heavy. It's burdened with hefty and grievous thoughts.
What was I thinking? What did I do?
Yes, I accepted an invitation to breakfast, but what about the other invitation, the one to his... to his den...? I accepted an invitation that could be seen as an... an intimate invitation. What do Humans call it? A date. And I have been cheeky. I told the Commander in no uncertain terms and... and... and almost joking - Yes! Joking like HE does - that I would like to share the pecan pie with him. Alone with him. In his den. This evening. Alone with him! To... to work with him - alone with him! - until... until the small hours.
If I were a gullible and illogical Human, I could believe that the Puck the Commander spoke of could really exist and that it was him who pushed me to act like I did, and... and to walk with the Commander, side by side, close to him, to brush against him with my body, to rub myself against him, as if I were that other T'Pol, the T'Pol of my dream.
All this must absolutely end. Take things for what they are, T'Pol. Tonight you, my clever Vulcan, will work with the Commander, and - alone with him or not, pecan pie or not - you will solve this mystery... with his help...i n his den.
In his den. Permeated with his scent.
His den. His lair. The hideout which belongs to him; which is his, only his; which no one knows but him. And which I will know. Only the two of us.
I will find the most intimate traits of his personality there. I will have more knowledge of him than anyone else.
We will talk while working, as... as two friends are in the habit of doing.
We will know each other deeply.
It will be... lovely. Intimate.
We...
T'Pol! Oh, T'Pol! Okay, okay, I understand. Meditation - a big amount. This evening no dinner: meditation instead. And this time, it must work! Meditation is absolutely needed, if... if I want to fully savour the pecan pie. And considering that Tr... the Commander said that he would take care of the pecan pie, and knowing his big appetite, it wouldn't be a bad thing if I skip supper.
We will sit on his settee and eat our servings. His settee? Yes, it can't be missing in his den. Maybe tiny, but it must be there. I will have to pay attention; a tiny settee can be... dangerous. Too much closeness, too much... scent.
On that sofa, next to him, I will be able to closely observe his profile, like in my dream, without him noticing that I am peering at him. I will be able to sense the turgor and the fastness of his muscles: their hardness, their solidity. Like in my dream. I will be able to perceive... to taste... to enjoy... like in my dream...
It could be easy, on that sofa, that... I could give myself to him.
Like in my dream.
"T'Pol."
His voice awakens me from my daydream.
I turn my face toward him, my head full of the images of my dream, of the sensations of my dream. His body, nude and strong, inside mine. His... his grunts of effort, of potency. My moans. Of pleasure. And of love.
"T'Pol."
His voice again. Sweet, and... and caring.
I shake myself. I recognize where we are. We are in the corridor, just after we came out of the Mess Hall. I lock my eyes onto his. How blue they are.
There's something inside them. Something that reminds me of that other... Trip, yes, Trip. The Trip of my dream.
I... I never saw her like this. She seems to dream open-eyed. She is not her. It doesn't appear right.
I call her in a low voice.
"T'Pol."
She seems to awaken. She turns her face toward me. My God! How beautiful her face is! It seems lost in... in what?
Suddenly in my head the images of my dream begin to run, the sensations of my dream. My body inside hers. Her marvellous and smooth body, warm and soft. My... my grunts of effort. Her moans. Of pleasure. And of love.
And... and she accepted my invitation, my intimate invitation, my date. And tonight we will be alone in my den. We will able to savour the pecan pie, in my den. Sitting on my sofa. Together. Close to each other. And on that sofa I will be able to perceive... to taste... to enjoy... like in my dream...
It could be easy, on that sofa, that I could ask her to give herself to me.
And that she might do it.
Like in my dream.
I shake myself forcibly and with difficulty. I feel like I am tiddly.
I call her again. Worried. With care.
"T'Pol."
Her eyes, wide open, catch mine. It's like I'm plunging into the dark depth of an endless ocean.
There's something inside them. Something that reminds me of that other T'Pol. The T'Pol of my dream.
I try to reply in a normal voice. "Commander?"
The moment has gone. Fortunately has gone. For... fortunately, yes.
Oh come on, Trip. Tonight we must simply work. Together, yes. And even if that happens in my den, it doesn't mean anything. Certainly, I will share my den with her, my lair, the hideout which belongs only to me. I must admit, it will be nice that she will be able to know it. Only she besides me.
We will know each other, deeply.
It will be... lovely. Intimate.
We...
TRIP! Stupid man!
I talk in my turn. Is my voice a little too high, by chance?
"Oh... Ahem. Nothing, T'Pol, nothing. Oh well, I think we better get on with our duties. My day is busy. I don't think I will able to see you until this evening. Remember, after dinner. But do not eat too much." I chuckle. "You know, the pecan pie..."
What's wrong with me today? I can't help but reply, "Commander, I am persuaded that it's you who must pay attention. You are a glutton, to use own your words. Try not to have to ask for the Doctor before this evening. It would be unpleasant if we had to give up our co-operation this night because you had indigestion. And please, try also not to hurt yourself, like you are in the habit of doing. I think you are the most regular customer for Doctor Phlox in this respect."
Is it me who is speaking or is it the T'Pol of my dream? The one who thought to be... to be bonded with the Commander?
I almost choke. But what the hell is it happening today? Really is T'Pol the one who is speaking? Is really T'Pol speaking like this?
Then...
Who pushes me to speak like this? "Oh well, Sub-Commander, I will take care of myself because I think Doctor Phlox might have no time for me. He may be too engrossed in curing his black eye."
I remain, mouth agape.
Puck. Does he exist, by chance?
I listen to the Commander's words. I adsorb their meaning.
Then...
It's like someone was pushing the words from my mouth. "Commander, I think Doctor Phlox should learn to behave a little more wisely. Maybe in this way, he might have avoided such an unpleasant accident."
I hardly manage to shut my mouth.
Puck. Does he exist, by chance?
That's impossible. Illogical.
That's illogical. Impossible.
There's indeed something out there...
...which is making fun of us.
Tonight...
...we will find...
... the explanation.
Together.
Together.
He and I.
She and I.
Now...
... let's go.
Don't ask...
Don't tell...
... don't tell.
... don't ask.
Let's...
... go.
Don't...
... think.
Let's go.Let's go.
I try to breath. "T'...T'Pol... I... I think it would be better if we go."
I attempt to answer. "Y... yes, Commander. I... I think you are right."
I stare at her, trying to keep my thoughts inside my head. Her eyes are enlarged. Her eyebrows are raised, both them. Her gaze echoes my look. I speak with the steadiest voice I can. "See you this evening."
I gaze at him, trying to keep my dismay inside me. His eyes are narrow. His eyebrows are scowling. His stare echoes my look. I reply with the calmest voice I can. "Yes, Commander. I will see you tonight."
I wave my hand nonchalantly. "Thanks for the nice conversation at breakfast. Have a good day, Sub-Commander."
I nod politely and quietly. "Thank you for your invitation, Commander, both for breakfast and for this evening."
I nod silently. Better that I don't speak anymore. I pivot on my heel and walk away. I hear her steps behind me. I go ahead quickly, my nose full of her subtle fragrance.
My head is burdened with inexpressible thoughts.
I see him turn around and walk quickly away. I pivot on my heel, in turn, and head for the bridge. I hear his steps behind me. I go ahead swiftly, my nose full of his claiming scent.
My head is burdened with inexpressible thoughts.
What am I doing here?
Trip, foolish man, what are you looking for? There are no answers to your questions, and there are not even any questions. You are an idiot. It's your brain which is running amuck, don't you understand that? Too much pressure for you, poor little man.
Do not be ridiculous. Go back to engineering, to your reliable engines. They are really trusty, not your mind. Not reality or dreams or... Vulcan girls. Trip, listen to what remains of your melted brain. Go back to... Oh look. Apropos of Vulcan girls.
Mh, nothing to do. Whatever the circumstance, I won't ever able to give up. If there's even the slightest possibility to take her by surprise... When will I be capable of growing? Oh well. The temptation is too alluring. She doesn't seem to have noticed my presence. I might be able to catch her off guard. It's... amusing... when I manage to do that.
I call her slightly loud. "Hey, T'Pol."
Oh holy mackerel! I am the worst ass that can there be! At the exact moment that I call her, I realize why she is here, just like me, in the corridor which leads to Sickbay. She simply preceded me. She was standing before the Sickbay door, firm, looking at it, as if unable to decide whether to come in, as I would have done, if I had been the one to arrive first.
She turns quickly and fixes me with those dark and large eyes of hers.
My God! If they have been dangerously appealing at breakfast, now they are terribly enchanting, now that surprise is opening them wide - surprise and something else... a nuance of... of embarrassment. Yes. It shines through them and makes them even more entrancing.
A Vulcan who displays embarrassment and even a tiny bit of shame. Incredible. But I have become aware today that T'Pol is a very special Vulcan, no doubt about that. I am sure I'm not deceiving myself because I know why she is here. And I know that she knows that I know.
She is here for the same reason as me.
And, sure as hell, her Vulcan mind is waging a big war against the illogic of her behaviour.
I approach and halt in front of her. She raises her face to watch mine and her eyes don't leave mine, as if she wanted to sustain my look while vainly trying to appear deadpan. And because of that, because of the fight I am able to see in them, they sparkle even more enchantingly, damnit!
Oh come on, man! Don't you think you should try to get her to relax? After all, we are friends, aren't we?
I speak softly, being careful not to invade her space, even if we are very close and...well... even if she doesn't withdraw.
"Excuse me, T'Pol. I didn't want to frighten you."
"Vulcans don't..."
I chuckle, interrupting her well-known refrain. "Sure, sure, I know. Well, in this case, excuse me twice."
Then, I become serious. "Are you well, Sub-Commander?"
That hint of shame and of embarrassment in her eyes seems to grow, as if she was aware of her insecure appearance, and as if my question had revealed to her that I recognized her incertitude.
But, hey! Damn! Since when am I so able to decrypt T'Pol's feelings? Once I thought that she hadn't any feelings, the imbecile that I was. And now... Oh bah, never mind. A true gentleman mustn't let a woman be embarrassed, and even more if this woman is T'Pol and if this gentleman is me, because... because... Oh, for Pete's sake! After all we have a date!
I try to settle the situation. "T'Pol, I meant you are here before the door of Sickbay. So maybe you have something, who knows."
I don't know if I am a good liar, but surely she is not.
Her voice appears quiet, but I am sure she is not feeling quiet. "Commander, I have a headache."
Oh well, she is not a good liar, that's for certain, but to make up for it, I am an idiot. "T'Pol, I didn't know that Vulcans suffered from headaches." The worse of the idiots! What a really good way to soothe her discomfort.
I open my mouth to say something intelligent and she decides to show me my idiocy, in all its extent.
I think nobody can combat against a Vulcan female who is learning, with all the Vulcan cleverness of her, to return like for like.
Her eyes shine almost cheerfully as she speaks. "Commander, and you? Are you here because you have indigestion? No, too early I think. So. You have injured yourself, haven't you, in the end?"
Bravo, my dear Chief Engineer, bravo. Did you want to smooth her supposed solitude? So, now pick up the outcome of your sowing.
The best defence is attack. I am finally able to understand the meaning of this Human saying. Do you want to catch me in the act, as you are in the habit of saying, my dear Commander? Okay, and I return to you tit for tat.
Tit for tat?
Suddenly I become aware of my thoughts. Of my words.
Of my acts.
There's something else beyond my increasing acquaintance with humans, with... with the Commander. There's the reason, the illogical and still pressing reason which compelled me to come here to the Sickbay.
The same reason which pushed him.
I lower my eyes for a brief instant, then I lift them to his. I don't want to hide my concern. And my disquiet. I want to be honest with the Commander. With... with Trip. He... yes... he deserves that.
I think... I think that the other T'Pol, the T'Pol of my dream, was wiser than me, in some respects.
But if the outcome of my sowing is this look from her... well, Trip... you should practise farming.
Suddenly I become aware - really aware - of my thoughts. Of my words. Of my acts.
And of hers.
I stop behaving like the eternal child I want to appear. She is clearly indicating that she is relying on me, that she has lowered her barriers. And I must be honest with the Sub-Commander. With... my T'Pol, the T'Pol who I am beginning to know. She... yes... she deserves that.
I think... I think that the other Trip, the Trip of my dream, was wiser than me, in some respects.
"T'Pol, don't you think we should stop delaying?" I know perfectly well that she knows perfectly well what I mean.
I nod. Be that as it may, we must know.
I nod at her nod, while I keep on smiling. Then I become serious and I look at the button which activates the door to the Sickbay. I push it and the door opens silently. I turn toward T'Pol, waiting for her. She nods again and moves in unison with me.
We enter the Sickbay together, side by side.
The lights are low inside and all is quiet, except that the sound of a voice. Our attention is drawn by it. It comes from Phlox's usual workspace and the doctor is sitting there with his back toward us. He looks... tousled and is still wearing his nightclothes. Strangely, he doesn't seem to have noticed our entrance. He appears to be totally absorbed in listening to that voice.
It is his own voice. It's a recording.
We halt and listen to the words coming from the computer system. We can only hear the last phrases.
"... because you need to be aware of its real value and of its possible limits, considering that many other doctors might use it in circumstances perhaps similar to those I've had to face.
Extremely Distinguished Professor, it's my unquestionable and irrefutable opinion that, if your treatise was printed on paper like it was in the past, and if the paper was sufficiently fine, and if better and more sophisticated devices weren't already in use in the lavatories, the most proper use for your work wouldn't have been the reading.
Please, may you receive my most dutiful greetings.
Your devoted admirer, Doctor Phlox."
I am unable to understand, and neither does T'Pol. The look she shoots to me, as I threw a quick glance at her, clearly shows the confusion she feels.
We again direct our attention to the doctor.
He is still engrossed.
For some moments everything is silent, and the doctor seems as immovable as a statue.
Then he moves slowly and, without getting up, turns his face towards us.
I feel a hand grasping mine. It's T'Pol's hand.
I don't feel any amazement at her gesture.
No.
I return her grip, staring intensely at the doctor's visage.
A thunderstruck expression is painted on it. He gazes at us, mouth closed, without saying a word.
He looks at us with his stunned and wide open eye.
The only eye able to watch us.
The other cannot.
It's black and half-shut.
... but sometimes Puck can help to find the right road, if you are capable of listening to him.
The End (or not?)
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For Humans I am the woods' shadow.
For Andorians I am the ice's frost.
For Ferengi I am the coins' clink.
For Denobulans I am the touch
Which heals or makes sick.
All people have of me their own image,
Or maybe try not to have it,
To not think of me.
So, for Vulcans and their Logic,
I am the dark shade of the past.
For them I don't exist.
But I there be.
You can ignore me, but I there be.
You can't know what I am, but I there be.
You can't seize me, but I there be.
Whichever way you want to call me,
Either you believe I exist or you don't,
I there be.
A breath, a joke, a flame, a ghost.
Perhaps, an unaccountable space freak,
Which skips and which turns,
Which mocks logic and minds.
Which bilks the wayfarers
But can show the right road,
If you are able to listen to it.
I am the unknown nonexistent which exists.
Do you want to understand who I am?
Listen to the words of a man
Who was able to capture my essence.
Either I mistake your shape and making quite,
Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite
Call'd Robin Goodfellow: are not you he
That frights the maidens of the villagery;
Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern
And bootless make the breathless housewife churn;
And sometime make the drink to bear no barm;
Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm?
Those that Hobgoblin call you and sweet Puck,
You do their work, and they shall have good luck:
Are not you he?
Thou speak'st aright;
I am that merry wanderer of the night.
...
I'll follow you; I'll lead you about a round,
Through bog, through bush, through brake, through brier;
Sometime a horse I'll be, sometime a hound,
A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire;
And neigh and bark and grunt and roar and burn,
Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn.
That's what I am.
And if your science
Thinks it has been able to erase me,
Look at all things
That you don't know,
That you will forever find along your path,
And at the bottom
You will find me.
A dark lump of inexplicable mystery,
A clot made with the dreams' substance.
That's what I am.
The master of dreams.
So, in the end of all that,
If you think that this little tale,
That you just finished reading,
Can have a slight hint of worth,
But you are unable to comprehend
If it speaks of reality or of dreams,
Allow me to end it in the way
I did in one of the tales of that man,
That writer, that Shakespeare.
I don't know if you know him.
It was infinitely nicer than this one,
It was a one-shot and unrepeatable
Masterpiece of immense greatness,
But I think that what I have said in it
Can perfectly fit for this little tale too,
For this very tiny "divertissement."
Take Puck's word for it.
If we shadows have offended,
Think but this-and all is mended-
That you have but slumber'd here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend;
If you pardon, we will mend.
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call:
So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends.
That's the real end. Take Puck's word for it.
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Mh... I think it's better being clear. Those rhymes, those rhymes in Italics, well, they are just quotes from that not well-known piece, that "A Midsummer Night's Dream", that comedy, I don't know if you know it. Oh come on, that comedy, you know, that one written by that obscure writer, that Shakespeare.
I don't know if you know him.
Oh, I know, it's difficult to distinguish between the stanzas in Italics and the stanzas written normally. But I swear, as far as they can be nice, the rhymes normally written are mine, they are not of Shakespeare.
Take Asso's word for it.