A Woman in His Life

Chapter Five - Waltzing

By Penmom

Author's Notes - (1) everybody hanging in there? I didn't hear as much about Chapter 4. Let me know what you think because feedback is a huge influence for me. Here we go -

He wishes beyond all else that he could turn off this infernal machine. The incessant beeping is driving him mad. For a moment he indulges in the fantasy of ripping it from its power relay.

Once Lizzie had come to visit him when he was working and had asked how he stood all of the various beeps and buzzes from the diagnostic equipment. She proclaimed that the only sound that she wanted to be confronted with on a daily basis was the sound of the sea.

Oh Lizzie --- never in a million years ---

Oh T'Pol --- never in a million years ---

He muses. He considers the twists and turns of his life. God, you cold lose yourself just wondering how it had all come to this point.

No, he corrects himself. He knows precisely how he came to this point - the Xindi - plain and simple.

The anger, the violence, the sheer hatred pumping through him strengthens him as nothing else.

He will live.

She will live.

T'Pol will live. She must.

He will not lose this woman. Period. She will live because Lizzie cannot. Solemn T'Pol, as still as Lizzie was antimated, must live. Both so precious in their own way, both able to touch him in ways no other could even begin.

A soft cough rouses him from his thoughts and he looks up to find Phlox, head tilted, considering him like he's tryin' to decide if he needs to take an extended shore leave ---in a padded cell.

"Commander Tucker, I thought it was your intention to talk to her. I've not heard a single word in well over an hour. Come, let me give you're a hypospray. You can come back tomorrow."

Trip responds to the Doctor's suggestion with a mixture of embarrassment, fatigue and resignation. "Sure thing, Doc, ten more minutes?"

"As you wish." Phlox smiles to himself as he sees that T'Pol's vitals seem to have begun to stabilize.

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Assembling himself after the Doc's departure, he focuses on T'Pol verses his own ruminations.

He thinks back to what she has taught him. One particular exercise stands out for one reason or another. What had she said? That your mind does not make random mistakes?

Before he can think through his intent, he is standing over to her. Taking three fingers from each hand, he touches her corresponding temples. He increases the pressure one finger at a time until a repetitive rhythm of sorts has begun. Kind of a like a waltz - 1,2,3 -- 1,2,3.

Hell, he had no clue what he was doing. Maybe something about the rhythm would be familiar to her, draw her out. He had to do something and such as it is, this is it!

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She is caught in this cycle of emotional events - as if these events have been imprinted on her brain - repressed for just this occasion.

She is eight. Her grandmother has just died. She had been eager to please the regal lady and had enjoyed walking through the gardens with her. On this day, she had run to the gardens and hidden under a flowering bush and cried. She stayed hidden until well after dinner, too ashamed of her weakness to show her reddened eyes.

She is under this foliage, biting the inside of her cheek to stop her sobs when she feels the L'Teal - an ancient meditative rhythm. 1,2,3 -- 1,2,3.

This is NEW. It is not part of this memory. She did not practice this as a child. She recognizes the pattern as the lifeline it is. .

Think T'Pol. Concentrate. Follow the rhythm.

Almost indiscernibly at first, she begins to not only sense the rhythm but to feel it as well. The touch is firm and sure. It is familiar. It gives her something solid to hold on to as she pulls herself up from this psychic abbess.

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After the first time or two, he is sure that she's in there. It's like something inside of him just knows it. Beyond his touch, he strives to focus as she's taught him. But this time, he is not focusing on a bloomin' candle but T'Pol herself.

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Hypospray in hand, Phlox enters the little room, halting as he realizes that whatever is passing between the pair should not be interrupted. There is something quite intimate in the simple touch being exchanged in from of him. Tucker is kneeling beside the low bed, his hands on T'Pol's face, his entire being focused on her.

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1,2,3 -- 1,2,3 --- she feels herself coming to the surface, disoriented but conscious. She would like nothing more than to sleep but she feels him pulling at her. He is desperate for her to open her eyes. For him she will do this if only for a moment.

TBC -