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TV Shows » StarTrek: Enterprise » Holism

Author: Seacook

Rated: T - English - General - Reviews: 8 - Published: 12-01-10 - Updated: 12-01-10

id:6520805

Just a little one-shot that poured out while I was stalled on the other stories. If I've got Malcolm's ex-girlfriend's name wrong let me know...
All the usual disclaimers apply: do not own, not making profit, etc. Rated "T" only because I thought some of the language and one situation might be off-putting to some—nothing graphic, I promise!

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"The whole is greater than the sum of its parts."
— Aristotle

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With Rochelle it was the eyes.

Maybe that was why none of his relationships had ever fully blossomed. With each woman there'd been a particular part of them that had been, to him, stunningly attractive. Always a part, never the whole.

Well that wasn't true. The women were all attractive, each in their own way. Their personalities had been as alluring and disparate as their physical features. And he had genuinely loved being with them. But for whatever reason his mind always seemed to pluck a single feature from them, and that became the focal point. Perhaps they had each in their turn come to subconsciously sense that about him and rebelled against it. He could hardly blame them if that had been the case. After all, how would he have felt if they had selected from him a solitary physical attribute that made him appealing? A single part of him, rather than the whole…

As if he'd ever allowed any of them to know him in his entirety. No, he'd never been able to allow any of them to see the whole, making them settle for only a part of him. He'd tried, God knew he'd tried…but when it came down to it, he simply couldn't do it. And, being unable to share his entire self with any of them, he'd been unable to allow himself to fully appreciate them in their entirety. Hell, he'd even reduced T'Pol to a single, wholly inappropriate attribute despite her many attractive qualities. Being drunk at the time was no damned excuse—she deserved more respect than that. They all did.

What a shallow sod he was. He took a brief survey of his surroundings: the bar was an out-of-the-way place, almost always sparsely populated. That's why he'd chosen it over places like the 602 Club. God, he doubted he'd be able to set foot in there again for a good long while, knowing now what he did about Trip and Ruby. Taking another long drag from his near-empty glass he motioned to the dark-haired waitress for a refill and pondered, as she brought the drink to his back-corner booth and offered a small smile before turning away, whether her fiancé did the same sort of thing to her. (He'd noticed the ring, small but tasteful, when she set down the fresh beer.)

He had, after all, known a good many men who would without shame tick off their favorite 'part' of a woman—they'd declare a preference for a particular hair color or length, or slender shoulders, eye color or shape…as the list went on, it got more crass. One fellow he'd known had jokingly called himself a 'cattleman' because of his affinity for women's calves. 'Cattleman' had a friend irreverently referred to as Donkeyboy due to his attraction to, um, bums. Well, he called them bums...Cattleman and Donkeyboy had used far cruder vernacular.

So did that mean that all men were as screwed up as he was? He took momentary solace in the fact that unlike his counterparts, he didn't seek out one particular feature in all women but rather saw something different in each one. It seemed a tad vulgar to have a mental 'shopping list' of physical features in mind when looking for a date. But wasn't it equally vulgar to spot and fixate on a particular feature once you met someone? He settled on a compromise of sorts, deciding that although he was screwed up, he was screwed up in a different way from other men. 'I've either had too much to drink or not nearly enough.' That realization didn't keep him from finishing his beer nor did it keep him from ordering another.

Okay, so it was a given that he was screwed up when it came to women. Perhaps to a different degree than other men, but screwed up nonetheless. The question now became, was there a way for him to become unscrewed? Wait, that didn't sound quite right…

The hell of it, he decided, was that there was no one he felt comfortable enough to talk through it with. Discussing women with his father had never been an option—the very thought of it made him shudder—and discussing them with friends, classmates, and bar-buddies had only gotten him the observations of 'Cattleman', 'Donkeyboy', and their ilk, which had not been the least bit reassuring. His botched, drunken discussion with Trip about women (well, one particular woman) hadn't gone at all well; there wasn't enough Kentucky bourbon on the planet to prompt him to again broach the subject of women with Mr. Tucker. Maybe Travis? 'I think not.' What about Hoshi, or maybe T'Pol? 'Most definitely no, and oh my god HELL no,' in that order. Now he knew he'd had too much to drink—next thing, he'd be considering having a chummy sit-down with the Captain to discuss this 'girl problem' over breakfast. His list of potential confidantes spent, he decided that not only was he screwed up but also thoroughly screwed.

"Everything okay, mister?"

"Hm? What?" He looked up at the barmaid—or maybe matron was a more apt description, with this woman being a little stockier and older than the one who'd brought his previous drink. This one held onto his fresh beer instead of putting it on the table.

"Just wondering if you're okay. You were kind of muttering to yourself…something about getting screwed?" She gave him a dubious look that even in his besotted state he recognized as his being sized up: she was deciding how big a risk he might be and choosing whether to cut him off and pile him into a cab or have the bouncer toss him out on his arse.

He cast a glance around her and caught sight of his previous server, who was watching nervously from behind the bar. Oh bloody hell, if he'd been talking to himself aloud it was little wonder they'd grown uneasy. "No, no…I'm fine. No trouble," he tried unsuccessfully to reassure the matron. The drunken slur in his voice wasn't helping his case. "I was just…just trying to work out a bit of a problem I've got." Seeing the doubt lingering in her eyes he plowed ahead. "I wasn't talking about getting screwed…it was more about being screwed up. Sorry for any confusion. Didn't even realize I'd said anything aloud. Sorry."

With decades of experience she weighed his words and body language before visibly relaxing. She gave the girl behind the bar a reassuring nod then turned her attention back to him, placing the full glass on the table and gathering the empty one. Before walking away she leaned over. "Y'know," she confided, "I've been a bartender a long time. Gotten pretty good at listening to people's problems. I'll be behind the bar if you need an ear." Heading back to the bar she stopped and faced him again. "Plus, I'd enjoy listening to you. Never really been able to resist a man with an accent."

He returned her smile. "Even if the man with an accent is screwed up?" he slurred jovially.

"Honey, in my opinion everybody's screwed up one way or another. Besides, the screwed up ones are usually the most fun to be with." She tossed him a wink and settled back in behind the bar, the younger woman resuming her rounds and clearing vacated tables.

Sipping at his beer more slowly—this really had to be his last—he considered the bartender's offer. Maybe it would help to talk to someone he didn't know. God knew he couldn't talk to anyone he did know. He looked over at the bar and watched the last patron there settle up her bill and leave, an antique bell over the door ringing farewell. Most of the other tables and booths were empty now, too. One young couple across the way—were they even old enough to be in a bar?—was snogging in their booth and oblivious to anything around them. 'Ah, young love…you poor dumb sod, you.'

The bell chimed again, announcing a new arrival. He watched as the dainty redheaded woman approached the barmaid from behind, quietly surprising the waitress with a gentle tap on the shoulder. Their embrace was brief but passionate; when they parted the bartender motioned them to a table near the bar and took drinks to them. It took a few seconds for it to register with him that the redhead was the fiancé. So that answered that question…it seemed quite unlikely that the redhead and barmaid would objectify one another. Women just didn't do that sort of thing.

The bartender was alone at her post now. Casting caution to the wind he rose, taking a moment to steady himself before fetching his glass and heading over to her. What the hell, he might as well take her up on her offer. Maybe she could tell him why blokes were so often so stupidly shallow and why women didn't home in on a single feature of a person. He'd just settled comfortably onto the stool and taken another sip of his beer when what she'd said to him fully sunk in, and he almost choked on the drink. He couldn't help laughing aloud at the epiphany…

'Never really been able to resist a man with an accent.' Damn. Women did do that sort of thing, it would seem. He spared a look at the happily engaged couple, the barmaid running her fingers adoringly through the redhead's hair and the redhead staring lovingly into her fiancé's eyes. His words on the shuttlepod came back once more: "with her it was the eyes."

Maybe the bartender had been right—maybe everybody was screwed up. And if everybody was screwed up and picking sections of their loves to focus on, maybe being screwed up was normal after all and Aristotle had it backwards. He motioned to the bartender, silently ordering one more beer. As she approached he realized that she had a marvelously attractive...