I do have a soft spot for Star Trek Enterprise. Something about its '00s futurism sensibilities appeals to me. Like futures based on the Shuttle and the ISS, where the driving force of where we go is where science leads us, and where curiosity urges us to explore. All of Star Trek has that to an extend but the early setting gives starfleet the feel of, on an interstellar scale, a kid trying to make a phone out of tin cans and string and flipping over every cool rock they find to see what bugs are under it. Those are the instincts I want to lead the future.
I am glad that Saavik and T'pol were never revealed to be half-romulan. The extended universe and the fandom have taken these ideas for truth, but it feeds into an attitude the franchise itself is sometimes guilty of: that the rationality of Vulcans is due to their biology.
"Four-and-a-Half Vulcans" is a major culprit here, but even back to the Original show, because Spock is half-human, he is more susceptible to emtions. Yet, it was Surak who taught Vulcans how to be rational. If the "primordial" vulcan were more passionate and violent, why does being a "pure" vulcan (an ugly expression) make one less emotional?
I love how ungraceful T'Pol looks. Like she doesn't know how to stand. Perpetually slightly uncomfortable. Eyes wide like a prey animal seconds away from biting hard enough to draw blood.
"You are aware about our reservations regarding physical touch outside of martial bonds."
"Well, yeah, obviously," Trip mutters, no heat to his words.
Fingers of his left hand continue dancing over her bare back in an abstract pattern, which—he can tell—should be driving her insane, but she really enjoys it, and she's pretending it doesn't make her a little pissy to like it so much.
He smirks to himself, aware she's not going to see it from the position laying on his chest, but he's pretty sure the satisfaction is going to loop back to her through the bond.
"So what about physical touch from spouses?"
T'Pol takes a calculated pause before she answers, as off-handedly as Vulcans get. "You also know that it's customary for Vulcan couples to reside together for at least a year."
"And why is that?" Trip feels warmth bubbling in his chest, right below where her cheek reside.
In the equivalent of her sly tone, T'Pol replies, "There's a proverb in Vulcan — some take a year to learn how to be together, some need a year to learn how to be apart."
"Sooo if we were on Vulcan... we could have a year just to ourselves, to, y'know..." He draws infinite loops on her skin, trying to underline his salacious intentions.
It's amazing how her fond exasperation flows through their connection.
"It means that all couples require time for learning different skills." But the palm she rests next to her face smooths the skin underneath in a caress telling him something else entirely.
"Yeah, learnin' how to stop goin' at it like wild sehlats," he chuckles, pinching her side just because he can.
This got a little angsty, but you know I'm always rooting for them, even in the most messed-up circumstances... with a big ol Reset button looming over them, like this Twilight diversion. (Earth's gone, but Travis Mayweather lives in this one)
Trip took greater care than usual getting ready, shaving and dressing like he was donning armour. He tried to ignore the anxious churning of his stomach as he awaited T’Pol’s arrival. Forget butterflies, it was more like a cloud of agitated bats had taken up residence in his guts. The usual pang in his heart at remembering none of them would see bats or butterflies again was lost somewhat in the overall hum of his nerves.
T’Pol had sounded serious when she asked to meet with him, which obviously wasn’t unusual, but actually accepting Travis and Hoshi’s standing offer to stay with Captain Archer and give her a break for a day or two? That was certainly out of the ordinary.
The last time she was on Enterprise must have been… his birthday. Thirty-seven, though he felt a lot older this morning.
He lifted the mug she had given him off the shelf and turned it over in his hands, running his thumb reverently over the smooth green glaze. T’Pol had explained that Jonathan insisted she bring a gift for Trip’s birthday dinner, but he recognised her thoughtful handiwork. Pleasant to hold and beautiful to look at, just the right size and shape for his hands, delicate yet sturdy; it was a perfect gift. Carefully, he placed it back on the shelf and poured his coffee into a plain black mug from the mess hall.
T’Pol had given him no indication of the subject, only that she wanted to talk in person. Sometimes Trip missed being naively optimistic enough to anticipate anything other than bad news. He knew Soval hadn’t talked her into returning to Vulcan. Maybe something had happened with Jon. Could he be getting worse?
More likely, she just wanted to break things off. Not that they were together in any real sense. They were friends and spoke frequently, but he lived shipboard and she stayed planetside. They had quietly maintained a sexual relationship for the past couple of years, ever since one blazing argument had yielded to another type of passion. He didn’t need or want more than that. Their lives were too complicated for anything else.
“Captain?” Ensign Reilly’s voice came over the comm. Commander T’Pol is here to see you.”
“Damn it,” Trip mumbled. He’d been so stuck in his own head he’d stood her up at the transporter pad.
“Be right there!” he said as he hurried out the door.
Trip found that he still half-expected to see T’Pol in uniform whenever they met, but instead she wore a burgundy top and plain black trousers. Her shoulder length hair was tied back with a scarf that matched the deep red of her top. It really suited her.
“Captain Tucker,” she greeted him.
“Hey,” Trip responded with a small smile before leading her to the most neutral territory he could think of, the captain’s mess.
“You want some breakfast?” he asked once the door closed behind them.
Her nose crinkled slightly, “No, thank you.”
Trip nodded, feeling a bit awkward. “Here, uh, have a seat,” he said, pulling her chair out and then sitting down beside her. “You look good,” he said. It was true — she was always beautiful— but on closer inspection she actually looked rather pale to him.
T’Pol lifted the end of her scarf and fingered the embroidery there so it caught the light. “Ms Kelly has convinced me to teach her and others some needlework skills.”
Trip smiled a little. That tracked. Janelle was always trying to bring more colour and beauty into the world, bless her.
They weren't great at small talk.
“So,” he got right to it, “what did you want to talk about, T’Pol?”
“I saw Phlox two days ago to discuss some … unusual symptoms I’ve been having,” she said quietly.
Pure panic lit within him. His mind raced through terrible scenarios. Maybe the Pa’Nar was back or she’d developed some fast-acting Vulcan cancer or something. After losing his family and Earth and so much more the last few years, Trip honestly didn’t know how he was going to keep getting out of bed in the morning if he lost her too.
“Are you ok?” he asked, his face pinched in concern.
T’Pol looked him in the eye and said plainly, “I’m pregnant.”
The last time Trip had been this shocked was when the Shakespeare had showed up unexpectedly, months after they’d given up hope of tracking down any other surviving Earth vessels, with her entire crew, plus several dozen refugees and an extensive seed catalogue. Liz Cutler had sobbed over forty-seven species of daisies.
His mouth hung open for a few seconds before he blurted out, “How? I mean, we’re not even… We can’t–!”
“Apparently we can,” she said, her brows lifting slightly.
Ah, that dry Vulcan wit. Trip could almost laugh, he was so relieved she hadn’t told him she was dying. “Is it… okay? I mean, are you okay?”
T’Pol tilted her head, eyeing him warily. He could tell she was trying to decide exactly what or how much to tell him. He held back an annoyed sigh and waited her out.
“It is at an early stage of development, but Phlox believes the embryo is viable. However, I will require medical intervention in order to safely… remain pregnant.”
He was glad he was sitting down as that settled over him.
“And is that what you want to do?” he asked carefully, his voice catching in his throat slightly.
She sat up so stiff and straight it reminded him of the first time they met. “I have not yet made a decision. I thought it was appropriate to inform you of the situation first.”
Trip nodded slowly. “Obviously this isn’t gonna work, with me here and you there,” he murmured, trying to work out what the hell they were going to do.
T’Pol shifted. The movement caught his eye and suddenly he really saw her clearly. The emotional weight she was carrying, the way she was physically braced for his reaction… this was an unpleasant formality before she decided whether to endure a miscarriage or abortion or take on parenting a half-human child on her own on top of her other responsibilities.
Trip rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. They’d made such a mess of things. He’d made such a mess of things. He wasn’t only hurting himself by holding back.
“Stand up,” he said, a little more brusquely than intended.
T’Pol looked startled, but she hid it quickly. “I will leave you to consider this information.”
“No, T’Pol, that’s not— I’m not asking you to leave. Just stand up. Please?” he added gently.
They both stood and Trip immediately wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against his chest. After a moment, T’Pol relaxed her posture slightly, tucking her face into the crook of his neck and bringing a hand up to grip his shoulder. He closed his eyes and rested his cheek against her hair. She was ok. They could figure out whatever – or whomever – came next. He tried to say so, but his throat was too tight.
As the first hot tears escaped his lashes, T’Pol stiffened again. “I’m sorry. Had I known this was a possibility, I would have taken measures to prevent it.”
Trip shook his head and held her tighter, unable to speak as he wept for the doors of possibility permanently closed to him and for those that may just be opening.
“I’m sorry,” Trip said with a sniffle as he finally released her. “Sorry for breaking down.” He turned his face away, wiping at his eyes in embarrassment.
T’Pol looked up at him sadly, “You don’t have to hide your emotions from me, Trip.”
He huffed a derisive sound that was almost a laugh. “I think I’ve been trying to hide them from myself,” he admitted.
She gazed at him with sympathy in her eyes.
Trip blew out a breath. “You wanted to get my opinion, right? I mean, you came here to ask what I think about the possibility of you having my baby…”
“Trip, you don’t need to–”
He cut her off with a look. “As far as I’m concerned, this is the best news I’ve heard in years.”
T’Pol frowned slightly and he could hear the puzzled disbelief in her tone. ”I don’t understand how that could possibly be true. You have made it incredibly clear on several occasions that you don’t wish to have children.”
“Well, yeah,” he sighed, “I did say that and maybe it’s still a terrible idea, but … well, for one thing, since the Xindi civil war, we’re no longer being hunted to extinction, so having kids seems a little less crazy.” He pressed his lips together and looked up at the ceiling as though the next words might arrive by divine intervention.
“And, you know… I needed Hoshi and Janelle to stop trying to set me up with a wife, and I needed you to stop trying to convince me to procreate for the good of humanity.”
T’Pol looked poised to take up the old argument out of habit. Trip tapped her ear. “How’s that for genetic diversity, eh?” He swallowed a smile at the Vulcan equivalent of a scowl on her face.
“Trip,” she sighed.
“If we have a kid, I'm going to love them, and after … everything, I didn’t want to risk loving anyone again,” he finished, a little choked up again.
“That’s why you preferred to have a sexual relationship without an emotional attachment,” she acknowledged.
“Yeah,” he agreed, rolling his tongue along the inside of his cheek and shaking his head, “but I don’t really think that’s working for me.”
“I understand,” T’Pol said quietly, looking away.
He grabbed her hand and looked at her intently, “Do you understand, T’Pol?”
Her eyes widened. Trip released his grip on her hand and rested the backs of his fingers against her cheek tenderly. “Because I think maybe this isn’t working for you either. Pretending there isn't an emotional attachment here.”
T’Pol didn’t answer verbally, but she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch.
“You’re gonna stick around for a while?” he checked. “So we can talk about what to do about,” his eyes flickered to her abdomen and then back up to her face, “all of this?”
She nodded hesitantly.
“Good. Because suddenly I’m starving — and anyway, I promised Travis I wouldn't let you go home before tomorrow night. He worries about you, you know.”
Some of the sparkle returned to T’Pol’s eyes as she raised an eyebrow at that, “Travis worries about me?”
A lopsided smile pulled one corner of Trip’s mouth up, “Yeah, he does.”
boxers and a house robe. the thinking man's pajamas. the boxers say "i have worryingly low standards for what pizza i will eat" but the robe says "i have read at least one book"
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