Trip Tucker felt guilty for the way he'd been avoiding Kamea. The truth was, she scared him. Her explanation about her operation and her demonstration of her abilities had inspired the fear of God in him, and so he'd developed excuses to avoid her. He tried not to be obvious about it. He was polite if he passed her in the corridor or bumped into her in the mess hall, but he didn't seek her out, even though he was dying to talk engineering with her. He thought that Enterprise could do with some of the upgrades she'd given her own ship, but as much as he wanted her opinion, he was afraid to talk to her.
It had seemed like a good idea at first, until he realized that everyone else had the same intention. He rarely ever saw Kamea outside of her quarters unless she was going to meals, which she ate alone, tucked in a back corner of the mess hall. He suspected that she was avoiding the crew as much as they were avoiding her. He figured that she would be used to such behavior, but that still didn't make it right. And then he remembered the way he had treated T'Pol, years ago, when they were just getting to know each other. He could barely stand to be in the same room with her, and she'd somehow become his closest friend. Kamea deserved that same opportunity.
After three days, he decided it was time to extend the hand of friendship. While he was on duty on the bridge, he did a scan of the ship, expecting to find Kamea in her quarters. But the scan revealed that she was in the launch bay. When his shift was over, he headed down, using the trip in the turbo lift to plan out what he was going to say.
When he walked into the bay, he was momentarily taken aback by the sight that greeted his eyes. Kamea sat Indian-style on the floor, the pieces of her ship scattered around her. She was fitting the pieces together, obviously beginning to rebuild. She hummed softly to herself as she worked, shaking her head back and forth to the tune.
After a few moments, she began to sing. "The injector's connected to the fuel cell. The fuel cell's connected to the warp coil. The warp coil's connected to the engine. The engine's connected to the… Damn. I always mess up that part."
He raised an eyebrow. He'd never heard a Vulcan sing before. Or swear. She wasn't dressed like a Vulcan either. T'Pol wore those skintight catsuits that hugged every curve and drove him wild; they left little to the imagination, and he sometimes found it hard to concentrate because he'd be staring at her. Kamea, however, was wearing a pair of jeans that was covered in assorted stains and a tank top that looked as though she had once used it to clean off engine parts. Her hair was pulled back with a ribbon and clearly showed her Vulcan ears.
"I assume this is your handiwork, Commander?" she asked without turning around.
He started, slightly ashamed that she'd known he was there. "How'd you know it was me?"
She shrugged, her back still to him. She brought the part she was working on up to her eye level, then tightened something on it. "Every person has a very distinct scent. You smell like oil, sugar, and testosterone." She turned to face him, one eyebrow lifted. "A very interesting combination."
"Cap'n wanted us to take apart your ship," he said, walking over to her. He carefully stepped among the discarded parts. "He wanted to see if we could figure out your modifications."
She pushed a PADD toward him with her bare foot. "And I suppose asking for the specs was too much effort?"
He picked up the PADD and scrolled through the information. It was fairly detailed. He considered himself a good engineer, but there was stuff in her log that he had never even imagined. He whistled as he read a particularly interesting passage. "Wow, you figured out a way to milk more out of the warp field?"
She nodded, still fiddling with the part, which he realized was a plasma injector. He was momentarily surprised that she'd understood what he said and had to remind himself that she had grown up on Earth.
"Yes," she said. "If you cycle the firing of the nacelles rather than firing them all at once, you can coast on the momentum created and maintain warp for longer periods of time. You also save the nacelles undue wear and tear. They'll last longer, and ultimately increase your speed as a result."
He whistled again, impressed. He definitely had to give her a tour of the engine room later. She probably had some good ideas. "How'd you ever figure that out?"
She looked up at him. "I didn't. I stole it from the Vulcans." She returned to the injector, tightening another screw. "I didn't always travel in this," she said, gesturing at the scattered engine parts. "My first ship was my father's shuttle pod."
He furrowed his brow. "What happened to it?"
She grabbed the soldering iron, then put it back down. "Too conspicuous. It was almost a century old, after all. There have been quite a number of technological advancements since he left Vulcan."
He set the PADD down and watched her work. He marveled at how effectively she could multi-task the repairs she was doing and maintain a conversation with him. "So how long have you been usin' this ship?"
"About two years," she said. "It took me three to even get it space-worthy. When I found it, it was in a sorry state. I was lucky it still worked at all. I never would have gotten off Altara if the engine hadn't fired. The Altarans aren't exactly what I'd call technologically advanced."
They sat in silence for a while. Trip watched her as she grabbed one of the warp coils and fitted the injector effortlessly into it. Then she reached for the soldering iron, fastening the injector securely in place. She really seemed to know what she was doing, but he'd already gathered that she was a gifted engineer. He cleared his throat. "You want some help puttin' your ship back together?"
She looked at him. He thought he could detect a flicker of amusement in her eyes. "That would be acceptable," she said. "Since it is because of you that it is in pieces to begin with."
He grinned. He liked her; he'd never known a Vulcan with such an outright sense of humor. Ambassador V'Lar was more playful than most Vulcans, and T'Pol began telling jokes – or the Vulcan equivalent of jokes – once she became more comfortable on Enterprise. But Kamea had demonstrated her sense of humor right from the start with that crack about the Spanish Inquisition. Of course, she wasn't entirely Vulcan, which probably explained it.
Trip picked up the nearest part – a nacelle – and pulled the toolbox closer. After several minutes, he glanced at her and said, "Y'know, if you wanted to, you could help me in engineerin' for a while. It'll be good to have an extra pair of hands down there, especially hands as capable as yours."
He caught the trace hint of a smile, but it was quickly gone. He prided himself on his ability to read the seemingly stoic Vulcan face. "I'd be honored, Commander. I've been anxious to examine the engines since I learned where I was. Enterprise was still under construction when I left Earth; I never thought I'd ever be aboard her."
"Trip," he said.
She raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"You're not Starfleet," he said. "You don't hafta call me 'Commander' all the time."
She shook her head slowly. "I was merely using the term as a sign of respect."
He swelled with pride at that. He never thought he'd live to see the day that a Vulcan acknowledged having respect for a human – well, except T'Pol. But Trip was fast learning that T'Pol proved the exception to every rule. "Respect noted," he said. "But you can call me Trip. Everyone does."
The second eyebrow joined the first. "Why?"
He shrugged, not wanting to relate the story of his nickname. "It's just a nickname. You got a nickname?"
She narrowed her eyes in thought. "My mother used to call me haole."
He scrunched up his forehead, wondering if the term was Hawaiian or Vulcan. He'd been meaning to learn Vulcan, actually. T'Pol had taught him a few phrases on their trip to Vulcan, but not much, and he mixed the words up anyway. "What's it mean?"
"Centuries ago, it meant 'foreigner'," she said, engrossed with the warp coil. "But it is now used to refer to blondes." She ran her fingers through her hair to punctuate her statement.
He stopped tightening a screw on the nacelle and looked at her in shock. He had expected more of a term of endearment from her mother, at least; after all, she had been human. His shock dissolved into a disarming smile. "Not much of a nickname."
She stared at him, one eyebrow cocked. "Neither is Trip. Hand me the flux couplet."
A/N:Again, not an engineer, so I'm sure none of my engineering stuff will even make sense.
Stole the idea for cycling the nacelles from a story by Zane Grey I found on Trip/T'Polers, because there is no way I would have been able to pull something like that out of my butt.