Miscommunication
by Ragua
Disclaimer: Paramount owns all. I'm just borrowing.
A/N: All Vulcan terminology courtesy of the Vulcan Language Institute
It's done! (And there was much rejoicing. Yay.)
Thanks to gizzi1213 for being my beta.
Thanks to all who have read and reviewed. Hope you like the ending.
Chapter 14
"You know another reason I reacted the way I did?" Malcolm asked his friend.
"Hmmm?" Trip was getting tired of the groveling, but his friend seemed to feel that it was true confessions time, so he lent a willing, if weary, ear.
"I was judging you by the way I would have behaved," the Armory Officer said morosely.
It took the engineer a moment to understand what his friend was saying. When he figured it out, he protested. "You wouldn't run around cheating on people, Malcolm," Trip defended him staunchly.
Reed shook his head. "No, my friend, we each see the world through spectacles of our own making. You don't see me as a...a cad...because you would never behave that way." He paused, evaluating his own character with disgust. The obvious corollary was that he had judged Trip the way he did because he himself would not hesitate to do such a thing.
"I don't believe it for a minute," Trip declared.
"Trip, you were stuck in that bloody shuttlepod with me. How many women did I write the exact same letter to?" Malcolm demanded.
"Well, yeah," Trip admitted, "but you weren't with all those girls at one time!" He paused for a moment, uncertain. "Were you?"
"I might as well have been," Malcolm grumbled, completely caught up in self-flagellation. "Why do you think I can't stick with one woman? Why do you think I've never had a successful long-term relationship? Why do you think my counterpart died a lonely death on that other Enterprise? Why do you think—"
"Whoa, big fella!" Trip interrupted him. "That has nothing to do with you being dishonorable!" he assured his friend. "You're very honorable, Malcolm."
The Armory Officer cast a look of regretful disbelief at his friend. "It's kind of you to say so, but—"
"You're plenty honorable, Malcolm," Trip went on as if his friend hadn't spoken. "It's just that you're a chicken."
"You don't—I beg your pardon?" The unexpected statement caught Reed amidships.
"Maybe it's 'cause you're a Security Officer, I don't know," Trip cheerily expounded on his preposterous statement. "But when it comes to women, you're a big fat chicken." As Malcolm stared at his friend, dumbfounded, the engineer went on. "Totally understandable. Being in love is pretty scary. Kinda like going into battle with the hull plating offline." He eyed his speechless friend shrewdly. "You've gotta be willing to put your shields down every once in a while, my friend. Otherwise you're going to spend the rest of your life writing form letters to cookie-cutter women."
Malcolm was sputtering with indignation. He had never heard anything so outrageous in his life! "Well, thank you, Doctor Tucker," he snapped caustically. "How much do I owe you for this session on the couch?"
Trip was unfazed by his sarcasm. "Free of charge, Malcolm. I'd never take money for helping out a friend in need." He returned Reed's glower with a cheeky grin. Then his face became solemn again.
"In all seriousness, Malcolm," he said quietly, "there is a favor you can do for me."
The sincerity of the tone led Reed drop the snide comment he was about to make regarding his friend's mental acuity—or lack thereof. Instead, he nodded for Trip to continue.
"Will you apologize to Hoshi?"
"Ah," Malcolm fell back on his traditional, all-purpose, non-intelligent response. He had been avoiding the Communications Officer like the plague. Obviously she deserved an apology as much as Trip did, but the thought of doing so made his stomach cringe.
Trip sat quietly, awaiting his response. When none came, he sighed, casting a disappointed look at the Armory Officer. "It's okay. You don't have to, if you're too scared," he said with exaggerated resignation.
"Scared!?" Reed responded indignantly.
"Well, yeah," Trip answered in mock surprise. "I mean, if you catch her at a bad time, and she doesn't feel like accepting your apology, she might kick your ass again." He nodded understandingly. "I can totally see how that might—"
"For your information," Malcolm replied archly, "Lieutenant Sato has never 'kicked my ass.' Nor will she!"
Trip eyed the fading bruise on his friend's cheek, but wisely refrained from mentioning it. "So you'll be going to apologize to her right away, then?" he asked innocently. Malcolm glared at the engineer, decidedly irritated at the manner in which he was being manipulated.
Trip looked up at the ceiling of sickbay and made a few clucking noises in the back of his throat.
"I take back anything nice I ever said to or about you," Malcolm snarled, defeated.
"Bawk, bawk, bawk," his friend responded, smirking up at the ceiling.
"Excuse me, Lieutenant," a clipped voice interrupted Hoshi from yet another daydream about captaining her own starship. She looked up into the face of Malcolm Reed, who seemed extremely nervous and ill at ease. "May I join you?" he asked.
Hoshi narrowed her eyes, seriously thinking about refusing him, but then decided against it. "Sure, why not," she answered lackadaisically.
The Armory Officer sat at rigid attention, hands flat on the table, staring at his tray for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and looked her straight in the eye.
"Lieutenant," he stated formally, "I would like to apologize for the assumptions I made about you and Commander Tucker." Hoshi blinked in surprise. "As you said about people who make assumptions—" The Armory Officer broke off, confused for a moment. "Well, I can never remember the damned quote, but the 'ass' part is most definitely applicable in my case."
"It was extremely wrong of me," he went on, "and if you wish to file an official complaint about any inappropriate remarks or behavior on my part, I will understand completely."
The Communications Officer gaped. She had smacked him upside the head, and he thought she'd want to file charges over a few snarky comments?
Malcolm mistook her silence for continued ire. "Of course, if you are unable to forgive me, that's understandable." He hesitated. "Expected, actually. My behavior was absolutely unconscionable."
Hoshi realized that he might go on condemning himself for a long time if she didn't step in. "Well, sir," she drawled slowly, suddenly delighted to be in the driver's seat. "I could probably forgive you." She paused to consider a moment. "But it would take an awful lot."
Reed, recognizing her teasing tone as an opening, took up the gauntlet. "I would be perfectly happy to make it up to you," he replied in the same vein. "You could stand a little work on your sparring technique," he mused, touching the bruise on his cheek. "Perhaps a few martial arts sessions, free of charge?"
The linguist sat back and eyed him speculatively, arms crossed as if she needed convincing. "Actually, I've been wanting to start up practice with some of the traditional Earth weapons. My father recently sent me some of his collection, including a jutte, a hachiwari, and an Edo katana that dates back to the 16th century."
Malcolm gawped in surprise, suddenly overwhelmed by the image of Hoshi in armor, wielding a samurai sword over her head. The Communications Officer mistook his silence for confusion. "They're ancient Japanese weapons, used by warriors known as samurai," she explained enthusiastically. "Hachiwari means 'helmet-splitter.' They were used for—"
"I know what they are!" Malcolm interrupted, somewhat alarmed—not to mention aroused—at the eager light in her eyes as she described the weapons. "At least, I know what a katana is, and I can guess at the others."
Hoshi smiled delightedly at his familiarity with the weapons. "Well, it would be great to have a chance to use them as they were meant to be used," she continued avidly. "They're antiques, but they're perfectly serviceable!"
"Let me get this straight," Malcolm summarized, still pleasantly distracted by the thought of the Communications Officer bristling with weapons. "You'll only forgive me if I give you the opportunity to bludgeon me with a big stick and skewer me with various pointy objects."
"If you don't want to, I completely understand," Hoshi responded, suddenly a bit embarrassed about coming off as a bloodthirsty termagant. "I was just kidding."
Malcolm ignored the clucking noise—complete with Southern accent—that suddenly piped up insidiously in the back of his mind.
I might end up getting killed, he thought, but, bloody hell, what a way to go!
"Your proposal sounds most intriguing, Lieutenant," he answered, smiling broadly. "It's a date!"
The linguist seemed a bit taken aback by his use of the "D" word. Their eyes locked for a moment, and then both quickly glanced away, unaware that they were wearing the same goofy grin.
The two spent the rest of the meal studiously avoiding eye contact and smirking into their respective plates.
"Commander Tucker, really!" Phlox admonished. "Your behavior is most childish."
The doctor had been attempting to get his patient to eat for quite some time, with little success.
Even if I had an appetite, Trip thought in disgust, that bowl of mush certainly wouldn't be the thing to satisfy it.
Their battle of wills was interrupted by a calm voice. "Perhaps I can be of some assistance, Doctor?" T'Pol offered, materializing spontaneously from around the privacy screen.
"Definitely, Sub-Commander," a frustrated Phlox told her. He handed her the bowl and spoon. "He's all yours," the doctor huffed, before he stalked off.
T'Pol and Trip gazed at each other uneasily for a moment. Then T'Pol moved closer to the biobed, taking up the seat the doctor had vacated.
"You have managed to irritate the doctor," she commented. "That is usually very difficult to do. He is normally the most agreeable of individuals."
"Can't help it," the surly engineer responded, uncomfortable with their first conversation since Modinok. "That stuff tastes like crap!"
T'Pol gave the bowl she held a searching look before turning back to him. "As I have never consumed excrement, I will have to accept your assessment."
Trip stared at her in disbelief, a spontaneous guffaw erupting from his throat. T'Pol took the opportunity to plop a spoonful of mush in his mouth.
Really, T'Pol thought as she watched him struggle to swallow, the number of expressions a human face is capable of is quite remarkable.
When Commander Tucker had managed to down the offending mouthful, he gave her his full attention. "Did you just make a joke?" he asked wonderingly, holding his broken right hand in front of his mouth to stave off another sneak attack.
"The scientists from the Karil have made me realize how important humor is in everyday human interaction," T'Pol responded. "I am attempting to learn the intricacies, so that I may better relate to the crew." She raised an eyebrow at him. "Was my first attempt successful?"
Trip shook his head, still unable to register that T'Pol had made a joke. He began to laugh heartily, but quickly realized it was painful to his fragile stomach and tried to stop. He wrapped both bandaged arms around his abdomen, alternately moaning and chuckling.
"My intent was to make you laugh, not to cause you pain," T'Pol said in some consternation. "Forgive me."
At these words, all laughter disappeared, and Trip raised his eyes to hers. They stared at each other in silence for several moments. Then T'Pol addressed him in Vulcan.
"Please forgive me, t'hai'la," she repeated. "My fear led me to see impediments where none existed. I have treated you with dishonor. I have shamed myself. I am not worthy of you." T'Pol bowed her head, unable to continue, awaiting his judgment.
Trip was completely at a loss. A short week ago, such a meek, heartfelt apology would have made his spirits soar—would have made him feel vindicated and self-righteous. Now it seemed inconsequential. In fact, it hurt to see T'Pol so humbled.
"T'hai'la," he began and then stopped. He couldn't do it in Vulcan; he just didn't have the right words. Hell, he didn't even know if he had the right words in Standard! But he'd try. "It's okay. It's scary, being in love. It's a scary situation to be in. It makes people do stupid things."
She raised her eyes to his, unable to accept his forgiveness. "I should have known—" she began again.
"Yeah, that's true," he agreed softly. "But...but you see that now. And I'm telling you that you never have to worry that I'd do something like that," he assured her. "'Cause I wouldn't!" he vowed fiercely. "Not ever!"
Despite the passion of his response, T'Pol still seemed unwilling to relinquish her guilt, so Trip went to the bullpen for his ace reliever.
"Dakh'uh pthak. Nam-tor ri ret na'fan-kitok fa tu dakh pthak," he bumbled, in what he knew was an atrocious accent.
"Cast out fear. There is no room for anything else until you cast out fear," T'Pol repeated his words, bemused at hearing the teachings of Surak used to argue a matter of the heart. She tipped her head to the side, wondering how such an emotional individual could be so forgiving.
As if reading her thoughts, Trip dredged up another axiom for his cause. "Nam-tor ri thrap wilat nem-tor rim!" he assured her earnestly.
There is no offense where none is taken, T'Pol translated effortlessly, despite the butchered pronunciation. And yet...
"Even a Vulcan would have taken offense at the insult I offered you," she argued, as if illogically seeking some sort of punishment. "I cannot believe that our...friendship...will not suffer from this incident."
"It won't suffer 'cause we won't let it," Trip assured her with determination.
"How can you be sure?" T'Pol questioned hopelessly.
"Because..." Trip hesitated. "Well, that's what being in love is all about." Suddenly, he realized that was the whole problem: T'Pol had never been in love before. No wonder she was terrified! Trip searched desperately for the right words to allay her fears. "Because...because 'Tilek svi'khaf-spol t'vathu—tilek svi'sha'veh.'"
The simplicity and absolute rightness of the statement took T'Pol's breath away.
The spear in the other's heart is the spear in your own.
Of course. She had been in pain during their separation because he had felt pain over her accusations, her lack of trust. And now he was suffering because she could not release her guilt, because she feared that his forgiveness was a transient thing.
She raised her eyes to meet his. He smiled tentatively, hopefully.
Their pain—and their joys—would always be shared. They were together.
T'Pol leaned forward abruptly, pressing her lips to his. He squeaked in surprise and then began to reciprocate enthusiastically, clumsily attempting to embrace her with his bandaged hands.
After several long, pleasant moments, she drew back, somewhat breathless, irrationally pleased to see her t'hai'la likewise affected. She took the opportunity to plop another spoonful of mush into his open mouth.
Only seconds earlier, T'Pol might have been intimidated by the outraged look he gave her, but now she was confident. He was her t'hai'la. She knew what inducement was necessary.
"The sooner you are healthy, t'hai'la," she explained to him, "the sooner you will be able to return to your quarters." He didn't need her raised eyebrow to follow the train of thought to its inevitable conclusion.
Like a baby bird, Trip opened his mouth for another spoonful of mush.
Jonathan Archer strode through the corridors of the ship, inordinately pleased with himself. He knew he was tempting fate by basking in the sensation, but it had been a long time since things had gone right, so he felt he deserved it.
Tomorrow they would be rendezvousing with two Vulcan ships to offload the Karil crew. The Vulcans had been surprisingly easy guests. Although reserved, Captain Kovek and the rest were unfailingly polite and non-judgmental—something Archer had never expected from Vulcans. In fact, they were quite curious about the workings of the earth vessel and the culture of its human crew.
When he'd asked T'Pol about it, she suggested that—since the Karil crew were scientists whose careers revolved around studying different cultures—perhaps they were more open-minded when it came to interacting with humans. Which made sense to Archer. Normal everyday Vulcans were just more amiable than the politicians and diplomats from the Vulcan High Command.
As the captain rounded the corner, he saw a figure waiting for the turbolift. The very person he'd been meaning to speak to!
"Travis! Just get off shift?" he asked the helmsman.
"Yessir," Mayweather responded, holding the lift doors for his captain.
Once the doors shut, affording them some privacy, Archer asked the question that had been on his mind since leaving Modinok.
"So, how much was the take?"
Travis grinned, not bothering to pretend to misunderstand. "Well, sir, seeing that gambling aboard Starfleet vessels is frowned upon, let's just say that I greatly benefitted from the generous suggestions you made."
Archer smiled back, pleased.
"To be fair, sir," Travis went on, "you should get a share of the pool winnings."
The captain drew himself up, as if offended. "Ensign, it would be inappropriate for the captain to profit from his personal knowledge of his crew."
Mayweather suppressed a smirk, looking at his captain sideways. The lift doors opened, and both men stepped out onto B deck.
"Of course, I wouldn't say no if a member of the crew wanted to buy me a gift during our next shore leave," Archer continued. "Say a couple bottles of bourbon. Or maybe some Andorian ale. A fine red wine is always a nice alternative, too."
Travis couldn't hide his grin any longer. "Well, my parents taught me to always listen to the captain's advice."
"I had no objections to Lieutenant Reed joining us," T'Pol told Commander Tucker as they left sickbay at a snail's pace. Phlox had released the engineer, but Trip still felt a bit wobbly after being off his feet for so long.
"Ah, Malcolm won't mind," Trip replied, a bit irritated with his friend.
The Armory Officer had arrived at sickbay at the same time as T'Pol, loudly announcing his intention of escorting his friend back to his quarters. From the glint in his eye as he looked from Trip to T'Pol, the engineer knew that this was payback for their earlier conversation. When T'Pol turned a quizzical look on the Armory Officer, Trip had made a slashing movement across his throat, which Reed gleefully ignored. Trip had been forced to convert the "cease and desist" gesture to a head scratch when T'Pol quickly turned back around to look at him.
It took a few minutes of dirty looks and polite refusal to counter Malcolm's insincere protestations that it was his duty as a friend to accompany them. Finally, Reed acquiesced, allowing T'Pol to do the honors. He grinned evilly as Trip gave him one last glare over his shoulder.
"You do not think he was offended by your refusal of his offer to accompany you from sickbay?" T'Pol queried.
"Nah," Trip responded sourly. "And if he was, he'll get over it."
"Are you sure? Perhaps the strange noises he made as we exited were an indication of irritation?" the Vulcan pressed.
Trip narrowed his eyes at the memory of the clucking. "Trust me, T'Pol, Malcolm's fine."
T'Pol inclined her head, ready to accept his expertise on what did and did not constitute an offended human.
"I have been discussing your language lessons with Lieutenant Sato," T'Pol suddenly changed the subject. "We have agreed that you should continue."
The engineer hid a grin at the fact that they obviously had no problem planning out his life for him. He kept his mouth shut, though.
"Lieutenant Sato suggested, however," T'Pol went on, "that you might benefit from extra tutoring sessions with a native speaker."
Trip felt his grin widen. "Hmmmm," he pondered. "Can you think of anyone who might fit that bill?"
T'Pol gave him a sidelong glance, one eyebrow raised. "Obviously," she replied blandly. "I can also see that I will have to broaden my sphere of interaction if I am ever to master Earth humor."
It took Trip a moment to realize that T'Pol had just made another joke. She was teasing him! His jaw dropped, and he gave an exaggerated squawk of indignation. "Ouch, T'Pol. That hurt."
They continued to plod along the corridor in amiable silence. Ordinarily, Trip would have been frustrated at being forced to travel so slowly. Now it seemed like a little slice of heaven!
Suddenly, however, the door to his quarters loomed in the distance. Ah, shit, he thought. Wouldn't ya know it. Just when things are getting fun.
Would she accept if he invited her in? Before he could phrase the question, she spoke up again.
"Lieutenant Sato also suggested that I explain how certain Vulcan words have multiple meanings."
"I—huh?" The subject seemed to come out of left field, puzzling the engineer. He was saved from trying to form an intelligible answer by having to open the door to his quarters—no easy task with two heavily bandaged hands.
"The word t'hai'la, for example," T'Pol continued, preceding him into his quarters. Trip said a silent, "Yes!" She obviously intended to continue their conversation inside!
"T'hai'la?" he prodded helpfully, when T'Pol paused. "It has more than one meaning?" When she nodded, eyeing him thoughtfully, he felt a sense of foreboding.
Shit! Had he used a word wrong again? Geez, he hoped he hadn't called her something worse than fat this time!
"Uhm, what else does it mean?" he asked in trepidation. "It's not bad, is it?"
"I do not believe so," she responded enigmatically, increasing his nervousness.
"Aren't ya gonna tell me what else it means?" Trip finally asked, unable to bear the charged silence any longer.
"No." Before he could protest or ask why, she continued. "I will show you."
And with that, she stepped forward and put a lip-lock on him that nearly caused his knees to give out. He only kept himself upright by holding onto her for dear life.
Finally, she pulled back, leaving him gasping. He tried to respond nonchalantly. "Well...I...uh...I guess I won't be usin' that word with Malcolm or the captain, then," he mumbled hoarsely. "But..."
"Yes, t'hai'la?" she murmured, stepping close again.
"If that's 't'hai'la,' then what's 'ashal-veh?'"
"This is 'ashal-veh,'" she whispered, demonstrating.
Trip couldn't see much of a difference between the two. But both were nice words.
Reeeeally nice words.
Maybe he'd have to get her to demonstrate both of them until he figured out the difference. A delighted laugh bubbled up from his chest, causing them to break apart again.
T'Pol stayed in his arms this time, but raised an eyebrow.
"Okay," Trip said, unable to stop grinning. "What about 'ashayam?'"
Of the three words, Trip definitely liked the definition of ashayam best, but he decided that he'd withhold final judgment until he had more evidence on which to base a conclusion.
"You know, t'hai'la," he murmured into her hair after she had thoroughly defined ashayam for him, "I'm going to need a lot of practice before I can get these words right."
"As I said earlier, ashayam," T'Pol responded. "I am the obvious person to tutor you."
And she proceeded with the lesson.