Communication, Dissemination, Obfuscation

My first and only ST fic of any kind. Definitely Trip/T'Pol friendly. A little AU in places for liberties taken.

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One

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Trip popped an eye open, assessing the damage. The tiny clock on the far desk broadcast diminutive figures through the darkness, informing him it was fast approaching five a.m.

He pulled his dangling arm from over the side of the bunk and rolled onto his back. He dismissed the whimsical fantasies of stolen moments with a certain fellow officer, the misty slivers of wishful thinking that crept up on him more and more frequently these days. And always more alluring when he was trapped in that magical place between sleeping and waking, where everything was possible and nothing was frowned upon.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and lifted his head from the pillow, slapping it back down and pushing it forcefully into the softness, trying to pretend there was a possibility of going back to sleep.

His eyes sank closed and he sighed. He listened to the steady thrumming of the warp engines, letting the monotonous sound comfort him and dismiss his flighty thoughts as inappropriate for wakened officers. He concentrated, doing his best to push all To Do Lists, worries and nagging wishes out of his head, to simply allow himself to sleep.

He was failing miserably. He shifted irritably onto his right side, stretching out and yawning. Another slap of his head into the pillow to persuade it to magically make him drop off later, and he realised he was about to go the next three hours before his shift started staring at the inside of his eyelids.

Something mellow, curious, stealthy swept over him and he lifted his head ever so slightly from the pillow. It was a strange, relaxing kind of fog, almost as if he were watching himself try to sleep and letting himself be amused at how he worked himself up over trying not to work himself up. He felt his head settle back down gradually and found all of his muscles releasing their tension as if it were coolant gas from a broken valve. He just went with it, willing to get another few hours' sleep at any cost.

His lulled brain flickered with images; strong, small hands on his shoulder, a glimpse of blue silk.

His eyes snapped open. All he saw was the wall adjoining his bed.

He frowned, gave a huff of which an Aldebarren cave bear would have been proud, and closed his eyes again.

And there she was, her delicate fingers pinching lightly, making his tensions ease.

Fine, he thought, his patience at a very neat end, if it helps me sleep, where's the harm in a little innocent wishful thinkin'?

Her hands smoothed down his left, exposed arm, manipulating in that calm, practised way of neuropressure. He felt his frown inch into a small, private smile. The fingers began to work in small circles, less commanding and more teasing. One hand disappeared, the remaining one sliding up to his tricep. He twitched slightly as it stroked the edge, tickling the fine hairs rather playfully. Suddenly the blissful feeling of floating halfway between waking and dreaming suited his mood and the needs of his subconscious very well.

The missing hand touched at the top of his ear gently, gliding down the edge to the lobe. Automatically, his little smile widened and he actually shivered slightly in amusement or enjoyment, he didn't care which.

Suddenly he smelt the hot, exotic scent of a spice he had only encountered once before. His dreamy smile froze in confusion before something equally hot and infused with tempting desert spices touched at his ear. Definitely soft and wet, it ran down the edge before something harder gripped the lobe with a fierce tenderness.

Wait - what?

His eyes crashed open. He shot upright on his bunk. He scrabbled round, his back pressed against the wall, hearing himself panting in… fright? Panic? Shock? Something… else?

He hurried on his hands and knees to the end of his bunk, reaching out and slapping the button for the lights. He squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden brightness before confirming he was alone in his quarters.

"I'll be damned," he grumped on a sigh. He pushed both hands over his face, wiping away the feelings as best he could. "Just me…"

But I felt her, his mind interrupted with petulance. She touched me. I smelt her. How can you smell someone who's not here?

The comm beeped suddenly.

"This is Archer," came the clipped sounds of the captain. "We have a situation. All senior officers report to the bridge."

Trip made a strangled sound in his throat before letting himself fall flat on the bunk in exasperation.

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T'Pol sat at her desk, her back ramrod straight, her blue pyjamas enough to keep her warm on a starship with such a controlled environment. She paused, cleared her mind, and looked back at her terminal and the log entry therein. She allowed herself to lean back in her chair slightly, re-reading it patiently.

'As a Vulcan, today I was a success. While I sometimes have trouble concentrating my mind and focusing on the suppression of certain emotions, I judge I have performed with satisfaction during today's work cycle. I deem it useful to record my progress here, to remind myself that I am most capable of that which Vulcans sometimes take for granted - until they are forced to work with humans. Evidence as follows:

'Times I suppressed the urge to angrily remonstrate Crewman Joiner for repeatedly stating the obvious: three.

'Times I suppressed the urge to break the isolitic converter remote for refusing to work in my hands: one.

'Times I suppressed the urge to simply render the garrulous crewman in sickbay unconscious with only my thumb and finger: two.

'Times I suppressed the desire to touch Commander Tucker's smile while working with him in Engineering: sixty-eight.

'Times I suppressed the feeling of pride at the incredible achievement at that last feat: two.

'I am driven to question why I appreciate the Commander's smile and generally sunny attitude while he works, since it is not needed and therefore a waste of energy to regale me with what he presumes to be funny anecdotes, or attempts to induce the first 'Vulcan smile'. I have come up with a tentative hypothesis: his smile - were I human I would call it 'engaging' - is everything I cannot be.

'I appreciate that he misunderstands my silence at his apparently amusing jibes and his catalogue of 'knock-knock jokes'. I understand that he finds my logical summations of his lack of results versus amount of effort expended exasperating. However, I believe he has a perverse enjoyment of our verbal conflicts, and on several occasions he has surprised me by endeavouring to counter my arguments with a satisfactory attempt at logic. It is these moments I need to suppress the strongest emotions, as I find his efforts to 'amuse me' most agreeable. When he imparts information he judges to be secretive, the cunning expression in his eyes--'

She leaned forward and tabbed the controls, deleting the last three words. She considered for a moment before pressing a few keys.

'-- the cunning expression his face displays is a more than satisfactory remuneration for working such long hours in Engineering. While I have never directly acceded this fact, when he performs his 'I am correct and we both acknowledge that you are aware of it' manoeuvre - namely, putting his hands on his hips, his tongue in his cheek and letting his eyes twinkle like--'

She leaned forward again, once more removing the last few words, chiding herself for her slip. She typed in replacement words and sat back, reading on.

'--letting his eyes communicate his desire for mischief, it can be extremely hard not to acknowledge the impulse to surprise him with a facial expression and what he would no doubt term my own 'streak of devilment'. I shock myself with these truths, but I must record them and also my achievement in suppressing all I feel when working by his side. That is my victory today, that is my exemplary performance as a Vulcan; I am satisfied with my strength today.'

She tilted her head, considered the log in its entirety, and then nodded to herself. She tabbed the 'save and store' function, encrypted it with her personal code, and got up from the chair.

She turned and blew out the three candles, crossing in the welcome darkness to her bunk and sliding on. She pulled the single sheet over her and stretched out on her back, taking a deep breath. She let it out slowly, calming her heart rate and feeling herself relax into sleep.

Images appeared, broken and scattered, in a way that was a little disquieting for a Vulcan used to order. Blue eyes over a wide, teasing smile, a blue uniform with a red command stripe: they floated past, tugging at her memories, dancing just enough out of reach to irritate her.

She opened her eyes to the ceiling of her cabin, knowing she had become tense. She began a slow rhythm to her breathing, aiding her relaxation again.

Another image; a dirty, used hand holding her arm to steady her, the familiar sensation of electric as skin, human skin driven by red blood, had slid over her own. She shivered slightly, enjoying the feel of the Starfleet uniform that squeezed past her in the Mess Hall, the not entirely disagreeable scent of a male human who had been working with grease and metal for an entire shift, the feeling of safety in the company of a human prepared to try and understand more than just his warp engines.

The images, the feelings, turned to cargo bays and Ferengi, regulation blue Starfleet underwear, the Mess Hall and conversation, regulation blue Starfleet underwear, mediation and neuropressure, regulation blue Starfleet underwear, candles and late night engineering work, regulation blue Starfleet underwear, regulation blue Starfleet underwear, regulation blue Starfleet underwear - regulation blue Starfleet underwear--

Her eyes sprang open and she stared at the ceiling as if it owed her a new meditation cushion.

She pushed all her thoughts aside, prepared to try again. She regulated her breathing, chastised her temperature and heart rate for acting out of the norm, and settled down again. She slowly drifted off into a light, comfortable sleep, her hands slipping from over her chest to her sides.

New images and sensations came; irritability, the desperation to get to sleep before the alarm clock sounded, the irony of working herself up over trying not to work herself up, the draw of soft, lulling thoughts of another… She saw an arm, a muscular, warm limb, and put her hands to it gently. She began to knead the tension from it in small circles, wanting, desiring, to drain away all the troubles. Her fingers felt the pressure bleed away from the muscles beneath her touch and she felt satisfaction in her technique. She let her right hand wander, daring to set it to the top edge of the rounded ear.

What is it about a rounded ear? she let herself muse. Is it because I have so seldom touched one? A novelty?

Her fingers slid down the edge, amused and rewarded by the touch, by the knowledge it was making the owner smile. She bent down slowly, regarding the face turned away from her, judging the human expression to be one of comfort and amusement. She paused before a fleeting memory, a night in her quarters 'experimenting' with a certain male human, came to mind. He had touched her ears so gently, had done something she had never realised would have set fire to her blood.

She leaned her face down, wanting to try it for herself. Would he feel the same fire? Would it ignite the same passion in her when she performed it on someone else?

There is only one way to find out.

She leaned down to the side of his face, her acute Vulcan sense of smell picking up the soap from four hours ago, the shampoo washed out of his hair that morning, the cotton taint to his skin from his Starfleet uniform. Again the image of regulation blue Starfleet underwear came to mind but she blotted out all thoughts.

The experiment must be objective, she reasoned.

She bent closer and studied the round ear, her nose so close as to almost touch it. She felt her mouth open, felt her tongue slide down and over the human skin keenly.

She processed her own reactions calmly, noting with some intrigue that while it did not quite elicit the same response as his experiment on her own ear, the reaction it provoked in him did indeed make the whole process worthwhile. She ran her tongue down the hot, pinkish skin, smelling the difference in the minute wisp of sweat and the male chemicals that came with it. She restrained herself from rolling him toward her on his back and finding other things against which to apply her tongue. Instead she forced herself to simply let her teeth play with the earlobe, firmly but appreciatively.

A spark flared in her head. She gasped in surprise and feeling, rising from his face and scuttling back slightly. She realised he was gone; she was alone, on her back, and watching the ceiling of her bunk, her breath coming in fast, heavy pulls and her pulse unacceptably rapid for a sleeping Vulcan.

She sat up cautiously, regarding her quarters with a critical eye. She calmed herself, inspected her surroundings, and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

This required meditation and inflection.

What it got was summarily interrupted, as the comm beeped at her rather rudely, considering she had a very, very heavy weight on her mind.

"This is Archer," said the grumpy voice. "We have a situation. All senior officers report to the bridge."

T'Pol gave her room one last look before simply shucking her pyjamas and pulling on a clean uniform. She picked up a PADD she had been meaning to return to the bridge in the morning, and stepped out of her room.

Her cleansing meditation would have to wait.

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As Trip stepped out of the turbolift and onto the bridge he heard someone talking over the comm, but the eyes of five officers were looking at him, as if surprised. Four pairs of eyes softened in solidarity caused by understanding how unwelcome the call to the bridge had been in the wee hours.

One pair of large hazel eyes appraised him with customary dispassion. His own gaze met all but the last as he heard the Captain talking.

"Hoshi - pause it for a second." Archer turned and looked at Trip, apparently unamused.

Trip straightened unconsciously, trying to work out how everyone else had arrived before him.

"Good of you to join us," the Captain grumped.

Trip cleared his throat quietly and nodded his acknowledgement of the rebuke. He noticed Hoshi's sympathetic face turned his way and wondered how tired he actually looked.

"Hoshi," the captain asked briskly, his tone a blatant demonstration of just how much he had not enjoyed being pulled out of his own bed. "Play the message again from the beginning, please."

"Aye, Captain." She swung her chair back to her console and pressed buttons.

A female voice echoed round the bridge, sounding harried and scared.

"Please - if there's anyone out there that can hear this, hear me, please find us. We're drifting, we have no power. I think life support will give us four more days, then we give ourselves over to the Prophets. We have no engines and no engineer anyway. Please - anyone - please find us. We need help."

The message stopped abruptly. The bridge was quiet for a long moment.

Finally Archer turned and looked at his communications officer. "Can you tell where it's coming from?"

"I can, sir… It's a distress beacon," she havered. "Yes - definitely a beacon." She pressed buttons. "It's only a day old, sir."

"Can you tell how far away we are?"

"It's fifteen hundred AUs, sir," she sighed with worry. "We're barely picking it up."

"Travis - at warp three, how long would it take to get there?" Archer asked quickly.

"Warp three…" He pressed buttons and nodded. "Eight hours, sir."

"Good. We can hope it's still close to whatever ship sent it out." He turned now to his chief engineer, who was still wearing an expression that suggested he was worrying the bridge carpet might jump up and bite him. "Trip - think you can get your team ready to work on whatever we find at the other end?"

Trip looked up quickly and waved helpless hands out wide. "We'll be standing by. Any idea what species that voice is? Might give us a head start with researchin' engines and the like."

Archer turned and looked at his communications officer again. "Hoshi?"

"The message came through the translator, but…" She leaned over her console, pressing and reading. "Running a match with the Vulcan database now, sir. And… it's Bajoran, sir."

"Bajoran?" he queried.

His science officer looked up from her station. "Vulcans have encountered them before, Captain. According to the database, they are an enlightened, peaceful race. I have little doubt they are simply in distress. Obfuscation is not part of their nature."

Archer nodded. "Sounds good." He sat down in his large chair, nodding to himself. "Travis, set a course for that beacon. Warp three. I want to get to it, and them, in plenty of time before their life support fails."

"Aye sir," Travis nodded grimly.

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