Ravel

Ravel

By Sue
E-MAIL: susieqla@yahoo.com
RATING: G
CODES: T'/Tu Friendship/Humor/Angst
SPOILERs: The Expanse
ARCHIVE: Yes, unnecessary to ask.
DISCLAIMER: Enterprise is the property of Paramount.
No profit is being made.
SUMMARY: House of Tucker Fanfiction Challenge submission.

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"...Give yourself permission to experience new things. You decided to come with us for a reason, so make the most of it..."

Archer's words echoed in her mind as she eyed the tangle of stringy 'al dente' pasta drenched in bright red sauce piled on her plate. At Chef's request, after he had played up the fact that 'spaghetti pomodori a la fresca' was one of his specialties, T’Pol had acquiesced to giving it a try, not wanting to appear inconsiderate. But now that this odd meal sat before her, she questioned the logic behind her decision. The first dilemma: how to get the strands from the plate to her mouth without dropping any? She had observed crew members negotiate various pasta-based meals involving this variety of pasta that resembled worms, and secretly marveled at their skill. Winding pasta around the tines of a fork and not letting any unravel while guiding it into one's mouth required some finesse. She had no such finesse. This was her first spaghetti dinner, and she doubted that she would be a proficient twirler; lacking previous experience would make it evident.

With that thought firmly in mind, she took up her fork, poising it above the aromatic mound of semolina of the finest quality. Inwardly, she frowned; dealing with plomeek soup was so much easier. Why did she always take the captain at his word?

She was being watched, and she wasn't any the wiser about it. Trip sniggered behind a partially-clenched hand when he saw that T'Pol had twisted too much spaghetti around her fork and the huge build-up had slid off before reaching her mouth. Her lower lip was looking very hard line right now. This could be interesting, he thought to himself, realizing that not much amused him these days as they roamed the Expanse trying to locate the elusive Xindi. His thirst for vengeance was a full-time preoccupation, and at first he hadn't paid the Sub-commander much attention.

This impromptu comic relief, however, was too good to ignore.

Regrouping, T'Pol tackled her pasta again. This time, a less bulky wad of spaghetti was nearly to her mouth. She was concentration incarnate, but the forkful slipped off and fell right into her lap anyway. Stoic to the last, T'Pol lay her fork down, breathed in deeply, and strove not to glare noticeably at the impossible repast. She'd make her apologies to Chef, having decided to make soup her meal, end of discussion.

"Looks like you could use a few pointers. Y'mind?"

All the buzzy wisps of commingled conversations in the crowded mess hall seemed to fade into the background right then and there. T'Pol looked up into the grinning face of the Commander whose face radiated accommodation. Trying hard not to sound as taken aback as she couldn't help but feel, she replied with cool detachment, "No thank you, Commander. Pointers won't be necessary." Vaguely she wondered if he were making her ears the subject of jesting, yet again. Would he never adopt a maturer attitude? "I--"

He cut her off as he slid in beside her into the free-form booth. There was plenty of room; it wasn't as if he was crowding her any, but T'Pol instinctively inched away from his leg which had inadvertently bumped against hers. She blinked, an impulse away from leaving him where he sat, but she rejected the idea just as she had rejected having soup instead, moments ago. 'Spaghetti pomodori a la fresca,' some slippery starch, wasn't besting her, so she stayed put.

"Just a casual observation, Sub-commander...you could use a little help with your spaghet'."

As he continued speaking, T'Pol realized that, aside from communicating while on duty, this was the first time in a long while that the Commander had spoken with her along non-work related lines. Ever since the tragic death of his sister, along with those thousands of others, he no longer went out of his way to lend himself to anyone in social settings. He was aloof, remote, barely there unless the topic swerved to meting out justice to the Xindi; he and the captain spoke at length on the subject. Then, and only then, was he truly there with a feral vengeance. Retribution had become his mistress.

It dawned on her, as he continued talking, that she had missed the camaraderie and interesting rapport that they had often shared on a regular basis. She missed his unpredictability along with the jocular disposition that used to underpin most of the things he said or did. He was a somber man, and she often wondered if the homespun version of the man whom she had first met were lurking just beneath the surface of the choleric, edgier version. As gamely as she tried, she could not bring herself to accept the retooled variation of his darker self.

"No fear," he recommended with a twinkle in his eye. She marveled that it was back, and how intently his eyes shone. "Show it who's boss."

"How exactly?" T'Pol encouraged, gauging that she hadn't sounded overly obliging. "Why should I be fearful of a plate of denatured grain? It is illogical." Her eyes widened when he laughed heartily, and she added it to her list of things she missed about him. If he wanted to help her, that was fine, but she didn't want him reading more into her invitation than was necessary. She wasn't completely sure whether they were still friends; a real friend didn't shut the other out, even during the most difficult times. It was possible that the captain, in an effort to sell her on the idea of forging human friendships, had overstated his case.

"Allow me to demonstrate." So offering, Trip donned her fork, plunged it into the spaghetti and began winding it around. He made sure he wasn't wending too much pasta as just enough spaghetti fit compactly about the fork. "See... it's all in the wrist action. With a little patience and practice, there's nothin' to it. Now you give it a whirl."

Why did he make it look no more difficult than opening and closing one's mouth? Following through, T'Pol accepted the fork from his hand under the sanctioning of his lopsided smile. She closed some of the gap between them by edging in a bit closer.

"That's right...easy. No need to wind every strand in hailin' distance. Snag just enough, not too much, now." Nodding with a tug on his chin, he congratulated, "That'll do, yeah, that's fine. Go for it."

His enthusiasm was infectious, so she watched herself. T'Pol lifted the fork to her mouth even slower for this attempt, with Trip nodding more assertively the higher the fork rose.

"I think you're gonna make it this time..."

And just as it appeared as though the goal of getting the spaghetti into her mouth without losing any was attainable, the laden fork nipped the corner of her mouth and another tempting, shifting helping landed in her lap. At this rate, she judged, she'd starve. Having soup instead gained greater yardage. Her trying to look blasé was a cover-up; the clumsy swipe she took at her leg to brush the mess off was a sure sign that she was anything but. T'Pol mumbled something unrecognizable, maligning herself in Vulcan.

As though he'd read her mind, Trip blurted, "Hey, it's okay, it's okay. Rome wasn't built in a day."

"Rome wasn't built with spaghetti," T'Pol said huffily, and Trip chuckled. "Are humans born with the ability to eat this food?"

"Nope. It's an acquired skill, although some folks have natural talent. Aw, you'll get the hang."

Looking as deadpan as ever, she welcomed his optimism but dryly remarked, "From your mouth to my plate, Commander."

While salvaging her fork, Trip looked expectant. "Would ya object to a little hands on instruction?"

Arching an eyebrow, T'Pol waited half a beat before commenting. "Meaning?"

"Like this..." As he finished tucking the fork into her hand, he molded his to fit around hers. "Relax this." The light jiggle he gave her rigid hand almost made the fork fall out of it. "This'll give ya the feel of how much twistin' to do."

"Comman...der, I don't think--"

"Right. Don't for once. Let your instincts take over. Y'wanna eat spaghetti the authentic *I*talian way, don'tcha?"

"As opposed to what?" T'Pol asked evenly, and then wryly, "eating with my fingers?"

This time the chuckle was deep in his throat. "It won't come to that. Just like it won't come to cuttin' it up with a knife."

Instantly, T'Pol thought the use of a knife was an inspired idea and wondered why using one hadn't occurred to her from the outset. "That is logical. I'm going to get a one." Before she could stand, she felt his hand clench hers.

"No--you're not. Where's the challenge in it?" In the next breath, he told her to pick up her soup spoon. When she demanded to know why she should, Trip countered, "Always full of questions." She stared at him as though he was accusing her of something malicious. Referring to the spoon he ordered, "Hold it steady," as he guided her hand holding the fork to the pasta where the spoon waited to intercept. "So far so good..." With his hand governing hers, they assiduously twirled the spaghetti as a team, using the spoon for better control over the slippy mass of thin noodles. "We've got it aced, sure 'nough," Trip glibly crowed. "Nothin' beats a try." With a gentle squeeze of her hand, he indicated that no further twirling was necessary. "Ya did great!"

"Owed to your practiced hand."

"Now for the trickiest part..."

"Placing the spaghetti into my mouth." Her grip on the fork slackened. She had never spent so much time with a meal, having never imagined how much skill was involved with this type of pasta.

"We've got it covered." Trip began to raise her hand along with the fork, and when she gave him an odd look, he inquired, "What?"

"You're not going to feed me, Commander."

Sincerely, he replied, "It had crossed m'mind, but I guess that'd be pushin' it some, huh?"

"Considering the number of times the spaghetti has never made it further than my lap, perhaps your thought has merit..."

"I'm willin' if you are." Already, his hand was moving hers into position.

"I must inform you that this is very unVulcan-like but...very well, proceed."

"So's eatin' spaghetti, but you're givin' it a try, now open wide--here it comes," Trip stated confidently, with a few chuckles toggled on as well for good measure. When the fork had a more than fair chance of reaching her mouth, he eased up on his grip of her hand, eventually taking it away, and allowed her to 'fly solo.' Alert to some strands raveling, he caught the wriggling four before they fell to her lap just as the fork went into her mouth. "One down, now you're on your way."

Pleased with her accomplishment, although looking as removed from the here and the now as ever, T'Pol dove her fork into the spaghetti; the deft twirls she gave the fork reflected that she had learned from him. "Chef is a credit to his profession," she admitted and stopped twirling, judging that what was on the fork was enough, going by Tucker's standard. It traveled to, and entered her mouth without a single spaghetti strand lost. "This food is very good."

"You're a fast learner."

"Learning is greatly facilitated by an effective teacher."

Trip clutched the middle of his chest, bunching up the fabric of his uniform, looking stricken with bugged-out eyes. "A compliment. Why, T'Pol this is so sudden," he teased. "Out an' out appreciation." They were having a real influence on her, he thought, and said with a playful glint in his eyes, "You like this chow, huh?"

"Chow?"

"The spaghetti...food."

"Its flavor is pleasurable. It would seem that good food puts the crew in a better frame of mind."

Nodding, Trip agreed. "Yeah, it works wonders for me."

She digested those words thoughtfully and noted that something she couldn't identify, something hard, drained some of the mirth away from his face as well as his bearing. She sensed he had placed some distance between them. "What is it, Commander?"

At length, after heaving a sigh, he replied, "M'baby sister used to love spaghetti. Spaghetti marinara was her favorite pasta dish; the saucier it was, the better she liked it." Pausing, he shifted in his seat, looking adrift, T'Pol judged. "When she graduated from high school, I, apart from the family, wanted to take her to some place real special. We wound up goin' to Guiseppi's, a nice little restaurant by the water. We went there anytime we had somethin' important t'celebrate...like she gettin' her degree...me, gettin' my commission..." Heaving a belabored sigh, his eyes grew glassy and he sniffed several times.

T'Pol waited, surprised that she could almost feel his sadness, and then decided to cast calculation to the wind. "Why haven't you allowed yourself to grieve as others of the crew have for the slain? She was your sister. Grieving isn't wrong; your feelings need an outlet."

With a searing look of surprise, Trip exclaimed, "That's almost blasphemy comin' from you, Sub-commander." His curt tone was a knee jerk reaction. "What d'ya want me t'do? Mope around in sackcloth day in, day out?" He met her gaze levelly, but not giving much breath to his words, he answered, "Maybe I'm scared..." The sound of his voice was husky as though it carried baggage.

How little he really understands us, T'Pol silently evaluated. "You, Commander? Scared?" It was as though someone else were talking. She didn't attribute to him knowing the meaning of that word. He was brave, almost to a fault; his volatility went hand in hand with his courage.

He shut his eyes and continued speaking. "Don't think it's impossible. Hell, yeah. Scared. Scared I won't be able to stop grievin' once I start. And this inn't the time to wallow in a world of hurt with the unfinished business we've gotta take care of. I need my head clear...for Lizzy's sake."

"Commander--"

"Go on--finish your supper." He rose to leave without preamble, and before T'Pol could respond, he moved off. For no apparent reason, when he stood less than half a meter from the doors, he stopped advancing, hesitating, as though he needed to attend to some unfinished business first.

T'Pol took advantage of her window of opportunity whose duration was at best small. "Commander Tucker..." Trip only seemed to realize that she was at his side, speaking to him, when she spoke a second time. "Commander--"

Shaking his head as though trying to clear it, he mumbled, "I, I'm sorry...can't. Better if I'm by myself; not fit company..."

"Solitude lacking purpose yields nothing beneficial." She considered how the look in his eyes, a befuddled cry for help, said more than any words he might form. "I may be able to offer a better alternative. One far more telic."

Trip winced as the imaginary flange at the end of those words whipped past him, just missing. He viewed her with coolly appraising eyes. "A better alternative," he echoed hollowly, almost mocking. "Like what? Become you?"

"Meditation."

Shaking his head decisively, he said, "Not what I'm into, not by a mile." He thought he saw the faintest etch of frown lines mar her flawless brow, but he had to have been mistaken; she'd never slip like that. He knew her well enough, or so he thought. She struck her patent hands behind her back, crossed at the wrists pose. "Appreciate the offer, but no thanks. Stayin' mad at the world--or more specifically--mad at *their* world that destroyed part of ours—is the only thing that's keepin' me sane. I plan on keepin' my anger stoked so when we catch up with these bastards it'll be their turn not knowin' what hit 'em." His voice shook harder when he said, "Destroyed the one person who really understood me!" With his voice shaking, his vow was a sob. "I'll make 'em pay..."

"That is your choice. I only wish to help you cope with your loss. I can help you, Commander, as you have helped me in many ways since I joined this crew. Allow me...to help you honor your sister. Through meditation, you will find peace; it is a bridge which leads to great healing. Trust me, and I will show you."

His eyes widened, but he hesitated, unsure of what to make of her unsolicited offer in response to his unuttered cry for help. "T'Pol...I don't kno—what makes you think you can do anythin' for me?"

"Do you trust me?"

His throat ached with the strain of how tight it felt. *Why did she want to help him?* She had more affinity with Porthos than with him. He nodded anyway, not altogether sure that trust was enough. Trusting her had little to do with how much he ached down to the very core of his soul.

T'Pol said nothing more; instead, she acted upon the suggestion that he had made several minutes ago by trusting her instincts. She saw in his eyes his need, raw and urgent.

"What do I do?"

T'Pol glanced at the doors that were opening, admitting Hoshi along with Ensign Joyce Garnett, in Ergometrics. Returning their greeting, T'Pol turned her unreadable face back to the Commander; waiting for his decision tempered her patience. "Consider..."

"This meditation...how long does it take?"

"As long as it takes," T'Pol answered succinctly. "Are you ready to proceed?" She moved closer to the doors that were opening and closing rapidly, considering that it was the height of the dinner hour.

He shrugged, but even that seemed half-hearted. Responding sluggishly, as though needing more time to think it over before rushing into something he could regret later, Trip said, "Okay, only...one thing though...if y'see you're not gettin' anywhere with me, we call it quits an' you won't mention me and meditation in the same breath ever again. Understood?"

Waiting by the doors, waiting for him, she was reluctant to admit that he would be a sizeable challenge. That made her even more determined to succeed. "Yes, Commander. Just as I intend to order another spaghetti meal for dinner, tomorrow."

He looked at her pointedly for what felt like an entire watch before grinning, in spite of the heebie-jeebies he felt as he embarked upon his first session of meditation with the manipulative...was that the best word? It seemed to put things in the right perspective, he decided. The manipulative woman, a devoted disciple of Surak, walking beside him who hadn't given up on their friendship the way he almost had. She wasn't too bad twirling spaghetti around a fork, either.

Curious, and desperate to find some sort of relief, no matter how questionable, he was on his way to her Spartan room, with eyes wide open...

"T'Pol...T'Pol...? T'Pol!"

"Yes, Commander, I am here." Gradually, the ruminative woman opened her eyes to find the human, who seemed agitated, staring at her with concentrated intensity. She removed her fingers from the palms of his hands, covertly awed by the muscularity of his fleshy thumb stems. "How do you feel?"

"I saw her--I saw Lizzy--we spoke! She told me not to worry, that she's all right. SHE'S ALIVE!" His smile was enormous, spanning his entire face. "ALIVE--my God!"" Tears that had welled up pricked, then trickled from the corners of his eyes that were all too willing to unburden themselves. "She was even prettier than I remembered. She looked the happiest I've ever known her to be. SHE DIDN'T DIE!" Blinking quickly, Trip asked in a hushed voice, "I wasn't dreamin', was I?"

Calmly, in a low, level voice, T'Pol said credibly, "No, Commander, you weren't dreaming. Your sister did not die. The presence of the link, although weak, established due to the strong bond shared between you, would substantiates the fact that she did indeed survive. May the knowledge bring you peace, and facilitate the restoration of your emotional balance, Commander. Perhaps once Earth's communications have been completely restored you could contact her by conventional means."

Waves of joy rolled off of him. "God--just to know that she's alive--safe! It's better 'n coaxin' warp five-point-two, give or take, outta the engines!" He braided his fingers behind his neck and let his mind drift while T'Pol remained absolutely still, just watching him. The meditation had been aborted before its true completion, but she could see that he'd had enough for this initial session. His elation of discovery had dissolved his concentration. When his eyes refocused on her again, he said, "Thank you. I'll never forget you did this for me." Sighing, with a wistful look on his face, he couldn't take his eyes off her. "There really is somethin' to this meditation thing after all. Maybe you could explain it better to me one day."

"One receives what one contributes to the exercise," T'Pol stated as though she had transformed into the essence of Surak himself. Although being human, you are a very spiritual man."

"Think I could give it another try, sometime?"

"Would tomorrow evening suit you?" She rose from her seated position as Trip had, taking his cue from her that it was time he be on his way.

"It'd suit me just fine." Hesitating before leaving her quarters, he waited at the door, then turned to her. "How's about after having that spaghetti dinner together? Some lagsagne'd hit the spot, and it's my particular pasta favorite, case you were wonderin'... Lizzy's too. Less chance of it slippin' off the fork, and gettin' more of it into your mouth." Speaking about Lizzy as still being part of the present felt soul-stirringly wonderful, he thought, reeling.

"Yes, Commander, I will join you."

His manner altered, and the glut of words he chose to mince through, suggested that something unrelated to their getting together for a meal shaped his confession. "See...it wasn't easy...acceptin' her death--the whole manner in which she died; I plain refused to; I shutdown, and I might've stayed that way. It's not that I wanted to shut everybody out...just didn't want anyone in my face, buttin' their nose in, despite how well-meanin'. I had no choice. Maybe this is hard for ya to understand, T'Pol, but I hurt so much and not knowin' how to deal with it, I went kinda nuts. I thought it'd be better to shut everyone out 'stead of inflictin' my pain on others, like I did Travis and Malcolm every time they reached out. Jon too. I'm sorry I pushed you away, all those times, I really am. I guess havin' no emotions has its advantages sometimes; you don't bruise or bleed as easy."

She was willing to save a candid discussion of what suppression of emotions realistically entailed for another, more appropriate occasion. She could see the extent of the emotional toll he had weathered alone. Resting, not debating, was what he needed. "I understand, Mister Tucker. No explanation is required."

Before turning to leave, he took firm holds of her wrists, squeezing them. "You're one hell of a cheerer-upper, with or without emotions. Pleasant dreams. Thanks to you, mine won't be nightmares. Till tomorrow, then. 'Night, Sub-commander." He released her, smiled contentedly before going, and then left without looking back.

Did emotions kept under constant repression weaken or strengthen? Surak had written many treatises on the ambiguous subject. T'Pol normally resisted the urge to speculate, but she pondered the cumulative effect her living among humans was having on her. She returned to the comfort of the cushion to resume meditating. While she controlled her breathing, her mind melded with the luminosity of the open flame.

They had never ceased being friends. She welcomed that thought as her mind filled with the insights and perceptions that the Commander's mind held. He possessed a fascinating mind, and she looked ahead with eager anticipation to exploring more of it. Breathing deeper, T'Pol renewed.

The End...

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A handful of people have made comments

Are you planning a sequel? I hope so. I want to know how you are going to explain Lizzie's survival. I hope it wasn't subterfuge on T'Pol's part.

This was absolutely fabulous! I utterly adored this story. Thought it was wonderful to have T'Pol's unfamiliarity with eating spaghetti as the trigger to bring Trip out of his emotional impasse and back into the world of the living. I don't think for a nanosecond that T'Pol was deceiving Trip through any kind of subterfuge, well meaning or otherwise. She really does want what is best for him and was being a true friend. Please write more! Thanks a million, Ali D :~)

I hope T'Pol can get the spaghetti stains out of her catsuit! I'd definitely like to know how Lizzie survived. It's enough to make you wonder if the Xindi's plot is deeper than we think.

I laughed through the entire spaghetti scene. Very nice.
So Lizzy's alive? I, too, hope T'Pol do something.
Sequel, please?

Thank all of you so much for the kind comments. I beg your indulgence, this one was purely AU fic since it would be nice if Lizzie missed getting vaporized in canon. I can't wait for season 3 and the proposed Trip and T'Pol 'getting to know each other better' promised interaction...