MORNING COFFEE

The turnover from Delta Watch to Alpha had settled in that time, the lingering scents of blueberry pancakes, scrambled eggs, and fresh coffee dissipating in the corridors outside the mess hall. Trip inhaled deeply as he passed, hoping to capture the residue of morning smells mingling pleasantly in the tasteless recycled air. It made his stomach flip hungrily, and the bitter tint of the freshly brewed coffee drew him towards the open doors like a magnet tugging a bolt.

He pulled himself up short. It had been a wearing night and the emotional drain of it had left him thirsty as a just-docked sailor heading for the nearest bar; but he had been dismissed from sickbay on captain's orders, and coffee, justifiable temptation though it was, would just have to wait. He reluctantly propelled himself past the mess hall and on towards T'Pol's quarters, dragging his feet in petulant resistance as a token rebellion. It was all very well for the captain, ordering him to go and find T'Pol. He didn't have to walk by that, smell that, and say no. After so many ups and downs in the past hours his nerves were frayed; the enigmas and unanswered questions had not died with Malcolm, and had been revived nonetheless by his miraculous recovery . . . a recovery Trip still had difficulty swallowing, but could hardly deny.

The corridors had emptied a little again, Delta Watch safely back in their quarters, and Alpha Watch—those of Alpha Watch not recently resurrected, missing, or on a wild goose chase—was safely back on duty. Trip hurried on to T'Pol's quarters, not so much hastening toward his destination as away from the coffee smell, and away from the temptation.

The doors were open when he arrived, something he had not logically' expected—if she had work elsewhere on the ship then she would seal her quarters, in true, private Vulcan form, and if she was under the weather, something perhaps not so Vulcan in nature, then that private mentality would want to keep people out. T'Pol was never willing to show weakness, or share strengths.

he called, hesitating at the threshold.

There was no answer, and that was even stranger; of the two options, he would be more inclined to believe she might leave her door open when she was inside than when her quarters stood unattended. He ventured inside a step, one level of his sleep-deprived brain registering the differences in the room, the other, unconscious level glossing them over and pressing them back into the organized environment he had expected to find. What his first glance saw did not fit into T'Pol's boxhedge-neat rigidity, and there was a faint odor, not the fine mist of charcoal and melted wax her meditation candles and incense burners produced, but the sweeter, richer, more complex scents of food. Not one food, one smell, but many.

he repeated, more cautiously this time.

He took a second step, and put his foot blindly into something that clattered and shifted its balance as his weight bore down on it.

A bowl.

Trip bent and retrieved it from the floor, casting an incredulous eye around the dried residue of ice cream crusted at its rim, his nose taking in the stronger signatures of chocolate and rum-raisin rising from it; and in an instant, the half-ignored differences to the room which he had partly assimilated and otherwise rejected clicked into place. He raised his eyes from the bowl, and saw that dishes were strewn across every available surface—empty dishes, unfinished dishes. He could not vouch for the others, but this ice cream looked to be at least a day old, and the volume would suggest a problem extending farther back even than that.

What the . . ? he tried to articulate, but the thought vanished into smoke, a kindling spark with no wood to burn. He set the bowl down where he had found it, and came fully into the room. T'Pol, you here?

A stupid question, but it was all he could think of to say. All pretense aside it was plain that she was not.

Would ya get a look at this? he muttered, pausing to examine several more of the dishes as he worked through the room's clutter. Best engineer they got in Starfleet and what am I doin'? Babysittin' a binge-eatin' Vulcan.

He dropped the last of a collection of toast crusts with peanut butter onto the table, watching them skid to a halt among the half-strangled arrangement of candles and incense burners there, and his gaze was naturally drawn to a larger, taller object at its center—a pot of steaming black coffee, beside an empty cup. A few dregs of syrupy dark liquid clung to the base of the cup, but the pot was still mostly full, and Trip was reminded once again of his sudden need for coffee. Surely T'Pol wouldn't mind . . .

But no. This couldn't be coffee. T'Pol herself had told him, on numerous occasions, that caffeine had very little effect on Vulcan physiology. This must be some kind of Vulcan tea that looked, smelled, and steamed like coffee, but wasn't.

Maybe he could just try a bit, anyhow.

He lifted the pot, flipped up the swivel lid on the spout, and inhaled, deeply. The sharp, burnt tang hit him between the eyes, and he lowered it again, convinced. This was the strongest, and blackest, expresso the mess hall served. And T'Pol, it appeared, had been drinking it, or else had entertained a nocturnal visitor who drank it.

Trip took the cup over to her sink and washed it out, rinsing away the cloying syrup drying on the rim and base, and returned to the table. Her candles and burners looked like flowers amid the clutter, choked by weeds.

He poured a cup and took a mouthful with great relish, wondering if this kind of coffee theft would earn him one of her stares, and what degree of stare it would be. He had had a little game going with Lieutenant Reed recently; they vied with each other to earn the most killing, chilling stare from the science officer.

Trip drew the liquid into his mouth and then stopped, dead. This wasn't coffee. Well, yes, it was, but this was a kind of coffee that only sugar junkies and children ever drank—it was almost pure, unadulterated sugar. It would kill a diabetic outright and make a diabetic of anybody that wasn't.

Face scrunched painfully against the evil taste still held in his mouth, Trip reached blindly for the cup he had set down, and in his haste knocked it flying across the tabletop. Coffee splattered over the dishes and candles and dripped raggedly into the deck, striking musical notes from a spoon directly in line to catch the falling drops. The cup rolled, trembled at the table's edge, and shattered on the floor.

Trip groaned with his mouth full, desperate to rid himself of the sickening taste, unable to make himself swallow it. He imagined the glide of it down his throat, and shuddered. No. He couldn't.

His eyes skimmed the clutter for the nearest receptacle to hand, anything that would afford him an opportunity to off-load it . . . and then, cringing, he leant forward and spat the coffee into the well of the nearest oil burner.

Sorry, T'Pol, he shrugged, to himself. Guess if caffeine doesn't do it for ya, sugar's the next best thing.

--------------------------------

The mess hall had emptied in that fifteen minutes or so, and only the final two or three of Delta Watch that had opted for a light snack before turning in were left, occupying the furthest window seats, watching the swooping black expanse outside. The stars sleeted by lazily outside the viewports, oblivious to the panic that had torn through the ship in the last few hours. It was peaceful, and the handful of crewmembers loitering over drinks looked as much—but the one crewmember Trip had hoped to find was not among them.

A steaming cup was thrust under his nose abruptly, and a bright, female voice trilled: Coffee, Commander?

Trip swept aside the tempting offering, sparing it a covetous glance, and spun to see Ensign Cutler beaming uncertainly at him. She still held the coffee cup aloft, and the smile was alert, brilliant; but fake. Wish I had the time, Ensign. He tried to return the smile, but the effort seemed to crack his face muscles like clay left out all day in the baking sun, and he let it collapse back again, too tired to pretend. You don't happen to have seen Subcommander T'Pol, by any chance, have ya?

Liz Cutler lowered the coffee cup, and shrugged. I saw her about a half hour ago. She was rushing off someplace, I assumed she had work to do. She paused, rolling her bottom lip idly between her teeth. Although . . .

Trip caught the off-kilter spark beneath the dwindling smile, and pounced on it, almost as greedily as he had pounced on T'Pol's coffee. What? Was she actin' strange, did she speak to ya?

Liz shuffled her feet. She wasn't quite herself, Commander. She didn't talk to anybody, which isn't anything unusual, but she . . .

What? Spit it out, Ensign. He winced at his own unfortunate choice of words.

Liz raised her eyebrows apologetically. She got coffee, she said.

No kiddin'. Trip tried not to let the obvious explanation forward, not liking where it led—but it was a fact. The open doors, the dishes, the coffee . . . dereliction of duty . . . and it all added up to the same.

T'Pol was acting as out of character as Lieutenant Reed had been.

I couldn't help but . . . well, I heard a few things from Delta Watch. Liz's smile had vanished completely now. Is it true about Lieutenant Reed?

Trip attempted the smile again, benignly forcing it forward to put her at ease. The rumors are wildly exaggerated, Ensign, he replied. Lieutenant Reed took a bit of damage in engineering, but he's fine and dandy in sickbay right now. Spread the word. Last thing I want is for Malcolm to hear people tell him he's s'posed to be dead.

Liz laughed uncertainly, and the smile peeped back through more genuinely this time. So . . . did you want this coffee? she offered, once more. I have to get to my station, and . . . well, no offense Commander, but you look like you need it.

Trip glanced down at the hot cup pressing insistently against the back of his hand, and smiled, finally without effort. Thanks, Ensign. I'll take it with me. This doesn't have sugar in it, does it?

No, why?

Nuthin'. Just a question. He turned to leave, but twisted round again as a new thought struck him. She didn't say where she was goin', did she?

Liz shrugged again.

Then I guess I'll just have to find her the hard way.

What way's that, Commander?



--------------------------------

Trip hesitated at the mouth of the access tunnel, hands gripping the rim of the opening tightly, arms braced. His first experiments with this bizarre corner of the ship had been less than successful, and in the months since their hasty launch, he had avoided traveling this way; but he wished, now, that he had practiced pushing off from the entrance and righting his orientation a little more.

Ensign Cutler had only confirmed his suspicions; Subcommander T'Pol was not herself, and simply walking between her regular haunts would not likely help him find her. So he had scanned the ship for Vulcan lifesigns, and the sensor readings had led him here. To the sweet spot'.

He had stifled his surprise and headed to the point, halfway between the gravity generator and the valve plate, where the gravitational field briefly reversed, but now that he reached the entrance tube the simple task of locating T'Pol had suddenly become far from simple. If she were really unbalanced, then what, exactly, did he intend to say to her? If her odd behavior were in any way linked to Reed's, then he had to be prepared for anything.

Trip shifted his grip, took a deep breath, and pushed off from the ladder. For a moment the upright gravity held him, weighting him like concrete boots; then the thread connecting him to the tube snapped, and he felt the reverse gravity take hold, pulling him to a ceiling now becoming a floor. He went with it, heart suspended for a beat as for an instant he was suspended between the two, before he slammed against the far bulkhead, and the reverse gravity anchored him securely.

He had cursed aloud before he opened his eyes and took in his new surroundings, and the first thing he saw was T'Pol, sitting with divine composure beside him, one eye pried open to take him in with utter disdain. Her spine was mast-straight and her fingers were laced decorously in her lap.

Embarrassed that she had witnessed his ungainly entrance, Trip grinned uneasily, and scrambled to sit upright. You make a habit of sittin' ears over space boots, Subcommander?

T'Pol's glare cut through him with effortless ease. That stare, Trip thought triumphantly, had to be the winner. Too bad, Lieutenant.

She refused to move or allow his arrival to disturb her in any discernible way, and the eye closed again, veiling that fatal dark stare. It could be argued that from my point of view, it is the rest of the crew that is currently ears over space boots', she stated, coldly. Same old precise T'Pol in every annoying way.

Wish I had my camera. I'd just love a picture of you upside down. What ya doin' up here?

I am . . . meditating.

Meditatin'? This early?

The hint of derision buried within his surprise made her turn her head, and both heavy-lidded eyes opened to fix a glare on him that made every other pale by comparison. I admit I have not been feeling quite myself.

Sugar rush'll do that to ya.

I'm sorry, Commander, were you speaking to me?

If ya want. What's with the midnight feast?

T'Pol turned away again, eyes slipping closed, and returned to her meditating. You have been in my quarters, she accused. There was a hard edge beneath the control which he did not like.

Well, ya didn't respond to a tactical alert, T'Pol. That isn't normal. Didn't you hear the alarms?

I was busy . . .

Meditatin'. I got it. Trip fell back, seeing this line of questioning was apt to go round in circles, and lead nowhere but a dead end. She seemed quasi-normal, and that had thrown him more than a little off-balance; for a moment there he had almost dismissed his concerns as overreaction. After all, from what he had grudgingly learned of Vulcans, they had weird biological cycles and the like—her overindulgence may be nothing more alarming than scheduled Vulcan munchies.

But there was that accusation, and its latent threat. That, however he twisted it, was far from normal. Did ya discover the meanin' of the universe yet?

My attempts to understand the universe' by meditation are more logical than seeking enlightenment at the bottom of a whisky glass, as I understand humans often have the custom.



T'Pol ignored his blithe comment, and continued: For your information, my meditation was not a philosophical exercise, but a means of maintaining serenity.

Trip nodded, humoring her. And being upside down helps, does it?'

Do you have a purpose here, Commander, or are you merely amusing yourself at my expense?

No. Apparently I'm wastin' my time, Trip growled, and made to push off from the ceiling and drift back to the upright safety of the access tunnel. A firm hand at his arm, insistent and sharp-clawed, prevented him.

Where do you think you're going, Commander? she purred, and her voice had dipped low, swooping to a smooth husk.

Trip swung round against the determined hand and found T'Pol's face close to his, her blacker-than-black eyes studying him meticulously, her gaze following his nuances of expression as a host of them flickered uncertainly across his face. You feelin' okay? he asked, nervously.

T'Pol's fingers tightened like a vice around his arm, her Vulcan strength restraining him harshly enough to hurt. Why don't you stay and find out? she whispered. A familiar scent danced lightly on his nerves, but too faint and far away to place, tainted by the copper essence of her Vulcan flesh.

Trip reared his head back, searching her face, feeling a bolt of stark panic at the unmatchable strength that held him. She was Vulcan, and although smaller than him, she was also stronger. Her eyes had dilated, become black holes drawing him towards them; a stronger gravity, even, than that at either end of this upside-down room. He went, unwillingly, but almost helplessly . . . and pulled back at the touch of her unnaturally cold breath again.

I'm gettin' you to sickbay, he muttered, and kicked off from the ceiling, the sudden thrust bringing her with him. They spun out into the center of the gravity well, floating unsteadily, and still holding tight to each other, caught in the liquid freedom of zero-g. The fire in T'Pol's fixed eyes flickered darkly.

Careful, Commander, she trilled, softly. We wouldn't want you to have an accident.

Trip reached with both weightless hands and grasped her elbows, snapping her body close to him, her face only a breath away from his. Their stares crossed swords, guardedly. Is that a threat, Subcommander? he demanded, quietly.

Are you pushing me to make a threat?

I'm pushing you straight to see Doctor Phlox, T'Pol.

T'Pol pressed closer, closer, her nose almost touching his. You'll have to catch me first, she whispered.

And kicked him.

--------------------------------

Trip yelled at the blow, but kept firm hold, pulling her struggling elbows in to him, clamping her arms with his own. She glared and rattled off a stream of garbled Vulcan, kicking at his shins.

Listen, darlin', I don't wanna have to knock you out, but you're not leaving me much choice. Now quit . . . kickin' . . . me!

T'Pol went abruptly limp in his hold, eyes wide, chin high, nostrils flaring fastidiously. There was such utter, emotional defiance there that Trip was taken aback, and despite his rising impatience he felt a little bad for being so rough with her. Her brittle dignity was fragile, a thin plaster cast over swarming, heated depths he had never seen in her before.

he said, more kindly, that's more like it. Phlox'll have y'all better in no time.

T'Pol continued to glare, nakedly hostile—and then gradually an indulgent smile curled her pouting lips upward.

An actual, physical smile.

Then she made her move. She braced her feet against his shins, her hands around his arms, and kicked. She flipped over his head, hauling her body weight up and forward. The two went into a free spin, tangled body and limb, and as the floor and ceiling revolved, Trip lost his grip on T'Pol's elbows.

He heard her laugh, the alien sound cutting through him like a knife between the ribs, lost somewhere in the confusion.

he called, as he slammed against a bulkhead, and groped for a handhold to right himself. She was nowhere to be seen.

Trip rubbed at his raw shins with his free hand, and looked around the empty space, perplexed. He had had no idea she would be so volatile—it was the one trait Malcolm had not, as of yet, displayed. But this blank-eyed distance . . . that sounded familiar.

A movement caught his attention at the corner of his eye, and he twisted, on reflex . . . and snatched T'Pol's hand by the wrist as it crept for his neck.

She made a startled, strangled sound in her throat, caught off-guard, and Trip twisted the arm he held aside, pulled her in to him roughly, and trapped her other arm under his. No longer braced against the bulkhead, they were thrown into the center of the zero gravity bubble, hovering between up and down, left and right, not sure which way was which.

Quit tryin' your little Vulcan tricks on me, he warned. T'Pol's composed ferocity seemed to burn through their uniforms, her jaw locked into silence. It won't work.

Are you sure about that? she soothed. She tilted her head, eyelids lowered, brows arched, watching him guilelessly from beneath them. Trip set his shoulders, unimpressed by her play.

I'm pretty sure you don't know what you're sayin', he replied.

You're hurting me. I'm sure about that.

Trip scoured her face, searching for the lie, seeing none. Her lip trembled, and her breathing continued to drag, pained, offended. He slowly slackened his hold, daring her with his eyes to take advantage of his generosity, and she relaxed a little.

Thank you, she said.

That's all right. But I'm not lettin go, so don't ask me. I'm under captain's orders to find you.

You found me. I'm . . . sorry, I . . . don't feel . . . quite myself.

Her head sagged forward a little, drooping in sudden unguarded listlessness. Her taut arms went slack, like cooked spaghetti in his hands. Trip looked down at her bowed head, suddenly ashamed at manhandling her, and sighed. It looked like this long night was far from over.

Ah, that's okay, he conceded, squirming a little. He froze as T'Pol shrank closer into his arms, resting her heavy head on his shoulder, her face turned into his uniform. He released her captured wrist, gently, and wrapped his arm around her waist, bracing her steady against the disruptive pull of the sweet spot. Don't worry about it.

When it happened, it happened fast; in a split second, too fast for Trip to see, her hand shot for his neck . . . and a thin, red-white phase beam struck her square between her padded shoulders. She fell, deadweight and unconscious, in his supporting arms.

Trip glanced over her at the access tunnel, having to twist his head the right way up to see who held the phase pistol. Captain Archer leaned half-in, half-out of the tube, phase pistol in hand.

That thing's set to stun, right? Trip asked.

Archer gave only a watery smile in return.