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Hoshi had not had an easy time convincing T'Pol to help. The Vulcan Commander thought, of course, that it was illogical to offer someone help if he didn't ask for it in the first place. Hoshi had countered that it was illogical to withhold help if someone was able to give it. The impasse had seemed insurmountable until surprisingly T'Pol had conceded that Hoshi's reasoning was acceptable, and that she would help Lieutenant Reed if his problem had not already resolved on its own.
The next obstacle had been convincing T'Pol that she shouldn't tell Malcolm that this was a planned thing; the Vulcan's rational mind couldn't see why it was more likely Lieutenant Reed would accept help if it appeared to be a spontaneous act. How do you explain the intricate Reed feelings to someone who doesn't want to acknowledge emotions?
"Just trust me, Commander, I know Lieutenant Reed," Hoshi had finally told her. T'Pol had raised her eyebrows but said nothing, and Hoshi had taken that as a silent agreement.
So here Hoshi was, in her quarters, pacing and wondering when Trip would tell her if plan B had been successful or not.
"Trip to Hoshi," a flat voice called through the comm. system.
She hurried to answer. "So, did Chef's creation work?" she enquired outright, eager to know.
"Nah, it looked like it had, for a moment, but it didn't," Trip's annoyed voice said. "I already alerted T'Pol; she's on an intercept course right now to implement plan C," he added.
"Well, let's hope she fares better," Hoshi replied with a sigh.
"I wouldn't count on it," Trip commented bleakly. "Somehow I can't picture Malcolm goin' through T'Pol's concentration exercises."
"Why not?" Hoshi asked in surprise. "The man is a master at concentrating. When he gets into something you'd think he's taken leave of his body."
"Yeah, but I can't see him getting' concentrated on anythin' with T'Pol in his quarters," Trip commented, amusement clear in his voice.
Hoshi felt a twinge of…
"Well, you'd better start reviewin' those breathin' remedies," Trip's voice continued, interrupting her musings. "'Cause I'm pretty sure you'll need to execute plan D."
Malcolm had left Trip and made his desolate way to his quarters, resigned to a hellish night of hiccupping. He was in front of his door, ready to open it, when he saw T'Pol approaching from the opposite direction. "Commander," he acknowledged her, nodding as she came closer.
"Lieutenant," T'Pol said in a tone that made Malcolm turn back to her. "Has your singultus resolved itself?"
"My what?"
"Your singultus," T'Pol repeated calmly.
Latin, first declination. Malcolm scanned his brain for those residual notions of the language he was sure were packed away somewhere. Must have forgotten the access code, he sighed inwardly.
"I presume you're re-- referring to my hiccup, Commander," he finally replied. "If that's the case, you -- already have your answer," he added bleakly.
"Have you attempted to cure it?" T'Pol enquired, raising her eyebrows.
Malcolm lowered his hand, which was already hovering around the command button of his door. "Uhm, I don't be--lieve in the so-called 'home remedies', like drinking ups-- upside-down and the like," he said with a smirk.
"I agree. Such… cures are mostly ineffective," T'Pol concurred.
"I'll just have to be pa-- patient," Malcolm replied tiredly, raising his hand to the door command again.
"Lieutenant."
T'Pol seemed to be on a mission to prevent him from entering his quarters.
"Yes, Commander?"
"Your case appears to be quite persistent."
You don't say. You are all so very perspicacious tonight.
"Ind -- eed. I've been… well, singulting since this morning."
Malcolm raised his hand again, quickly pressed the button, making the door swish open, and took a resolute step inside his quarters, turning to bid his superior officer good night.
"I may be able to be of assistance," T'Pol said, in her flat tone.
Malcolm blinked a couple of times. "Wh-- what kind of assistance?" he asked warily.
"Meditation. It is known to be effective in curing singultus," T'Pol answered, holding her hands behind her back and looking at him with her big, dark brown eyes. "May I come inside your quarters?" she asked as her eyebrows went up again.
"Ah, yes, of course," Malcolm stuttered, caught off balance.
T'Pol crossed the threshold and the door swished closed, and Malcolm was suddenly aware of how small his quarters were. He took a couple of steps back to put a safe distance between himself and the Vulcan lady – always put some distance between yourself and the opposite sex, especially if beautiful, especially if in your own quarters, he reminded himself.
"I'm not, uhm, sure I und-- understand what you have in mind," Malcolm said, feeling terribly self-conscious.
"Singultus often responds to psychosomatic cures centred on relaxation and concentration," T'Pol explained. "I can guide you through a few exercises that may have the desired effect.
Under Malcolm's concerned eyes, T'Pol knelt on the floor, sitting back on her heels.
"Please lower the lights and kneel in front of me, Lieutenant," she requested.
Malcolm swallowed. He felt trapped. This was not going to work, he just knew it. But he didn't want to be impolite with T'Pol by refusing her help, so he cleared his throat and did as asked, dimming the light just a little.
"Now close your eyes, Mr. Reed," T'Pol said, after he had knelt down before her.
Malcolm reluctantly did so. He didn't like keeping his eyes closed when somebody – anybody – was around. His security officer's instincts rebelled and his muscles automatically tensed. He felt as taut as a violin string about to break.
"Now concentrate," T'Pol's monotone voice said. Silence stretched. "Imagine your diaphragm. Can you see it?"
Malcolm paused. "Actually, no, I can't," he answered hesitantly.
"Take a deep breath and shut out any other image. Just see your diaphragm, Lieutenant."
"Begging your pardon, Com--mander, I can't. I don't have the faintest idea of what my – well, any – dia--phragm looks like," Malcolm explained nervously.
They both opened their eyes and looked at each other for a moment. T'Pol raised her eyebrows.
"We shall try a different approach, then," she eventually said. "Close your eyes again." There was a pause. "Imagine air rushing into your lungs. Can you see it?"
A frustrated snort escaped from Malcolm's throat. "Commander, you can't see air."
They opened their eyes again. T'Pol raised her eyebrows even higher.
"Quite logical," she replied after a moment.
Malcolm's face twitched into a faint, uneasy smile.
"Lieutenant, you are too tense. You cannot concentrate if you are not relaxed," T'Pol said, and Malcolm's eyes were inexorably drawn to her full lips forming the words. "Please close your eyes again and relax your body."
With an effort Malcolm raised his gaze from T'Pol's mouth to her eyes. "Well, Commander, ac--tually… I seriously doubt I can re-- relax my body if my eyes are closed," he said, pursing his lips.
"What is the reason, Lieutenant?"
"B-- because of my training. I am trained to be on the alert at all -- times."
"I do not pose any threat, Mr. Reed," T'Pol commented.
"I know that, Commander. My mind knows -- that, but my instincts are honed to anticipate tr-- trouble," Malcolm insisted, wishing she would desist and leave.
"Then I shall help you relax," T'Pol dispassionately replied. "Please disrobe."
Malcolm's eyes went wide. "That… that… is n-- not necessary, T'Pol… Commander," he stammered. "I… it's… definitely not appro-- appropriate, and…"
"Lieutenant," T'Pol interrupted him. "I am going to give you some Vulcan neuropressure," she said matter-of-factly.
Malcolm felt his face go purple at warp speed. "Ah, well, I… I wasn't sug--gesting, I mean… it's just that…"
"Please remove your T-shirt, Lieutenant," T'Pol instructed, calmly interrupting for the second time in a row his senseless babbling.
Please God, this would be a good time to send some terribly hostile alien species.
Malcolm closed his gaping mouth and self-consciously wiggled out of his T-shirt, feeling utterly embarrassed, and an idiot for feeling so, and utterly irritated that it was quite plain that he felt so.
"Now close your eyes," T'Pol told him again. "But first please turn around."
Malcolm cleared his throat and crossed his arms over his bare chest. "With all due re--spect, Commander, I will never be relaxed half naked, with my -- eyes closed and my back to someone, in a semi-dark room," he sputtered.
T'Pol looked her usual unfazed self. "You will, when I stimulate your neuro nodes."
"My what?" Malcolm cried out.
"Your neuro nodes. I apply pressure to a spot near your fifth vertebra," T'Pol patiently explained. "Please turn around."
"Oh." Malcolm looked at her for a moment; then turned without a word, wanting this to end as soon as possible.
"I shall now touch your back," T'Pol forewarned him.
T'Pol's hand compressed a spot near his spine and Malcolm was surprised to feel his tension begin to ease out of his body. A feeling of well-being swept over him.
Hmm, so this is the famous Vulcan neuropressure that Trip has been receiving, the old fox…
A blaring sound suddenly cut through the silence. 'Red alert, all hands to stations.'
"Bloody Hell!"
Malcolm jumped to his feet and launched himself onto the door.
"Sorry, Com--mander," he called over his shoulder as he triggered it open. "It appears we're ne-- needed on the bridge."
He took a step into the corridor but came to an abrupt halt when he noticed the wide-eyed stares of the crewmen rushing past. He turned and saw T'Pol beside him, holding his T shirt.
"Lieutenant. I believe it would be advisable for you to put this back on."
TBC