Body and Katra

Chapter Two--Never and Always Touching and Touched

Disclaimer: See Prolouge

A/N: Thank you to Eian and Honeybee for beta services; thank you to my readers for your patience.

The first thing Trip became acutely aware of was the sensation that the side of his head had been blown off. He tried to raise a hand to see if it was still there, but lacked the strength and motivation.. He decided the fact that he was only wishing he was dead was evidence enough.  He didn't remember much about the night before. He wasn't sure he wanted to.

 The second thing that entered his awareness was the fact he wasn't in his own quarters. 

 Trip inhaled deeply.  He didn't realize just how much he'd missed the way her sheets smelled.  The last time he had occasion to be in them was under much different circumstances.  A pang of regret squeezed his chest as he thought about how much he missed that, too.

 His train of thought was interrupted by the hiss of a hypospray against his neck.  With a grunt, he tentatively opened an eye. T'Pol's quarters were mercifully dim.

 “For pain and nausea,” she said coolly.

 “How did I get here?” Trip asked hoarsely, scrubbing a hand against the sand in his eyes.

 “I carried you,” she answered matter-of-factly.  “Doctor Phlox insisted you be monitored. It was either here or sickbay.”

 He snorted at the mental image that evoked, though he never doubted her for a moment. Painful shards of memories slowly returned. His mouth tasted like something furry had crawled inside and died. He frowned, a hazy image coming a little clearer. “Did I puke on you last night?”

 “I'm afraid you did.”

 It figured. He squeezed his eyes shut. It still hurt.

 A sudden panic gripped him.  He lifted the covers to see he was shirtless and  stripped down to his Starfleet blues. “Did we ...?”

 “You were in no condition,” T'Pol deadpanned wearily.

 Trip was unsure whether to be relieved or humiliated.  Maybe a little of both.

 Before Trip could say much of anything else, T'Pol handed him a a neatly folded pair of sweat pants and a tee shirt, topped by a toiletries bag he recognized as his own.  T'Pol had either been busy through the night, or she'd had some help.  “We have much to discuss,” she said in a near-whisper. “Perhaps you would like to freshen up first.”

 Trip nodded, kicking the covers away as he took the burden from T'Pol.  He stood, staring at her for a moment.  He searched for the words to thank her for pulling him out from the bottom of that bottle, though none he found were adequate, possibly because part of him wouldn't have blamed her if she'd left him in that bar to drown in it. Without a word, he finally turned toward the bathroom. 

“For a couple of people who have so much talking to do,” Trip said, draining his coffee cup, “we're awfully quiet.”

 In an attempt to clear the cobwebs and give Phlox's hangover antidote a chance to work, Trip had spent longer than usual in the shower, just letting the hot water beat down on him. When he emerged, clean, teeth brushed, and wearing the loose, comfortable clothes T'Pol had procured for him, breakfast was waiting on a tray amidst the meditation pillows on the floor.  T'Pol had already been picking at a plate of fruit and toast, and some kind of tofu thing he didn't even want to know anything about. 

 He sat awkwardly, his damaged arm back in its sling. He lifted the cover off his plate to discover his favorite hangover breakfast: dry toast, eggs scrambled hard, and Tabasco, offset by a carafe of black coffee. Though he'd only been hung over in T'Pol's presence once, maybe twice over the years, Trip knew he shouldn't have been surprised by this. Attention to detail was always her thing. He used to chalk it up to that Vulcan propensity for anal-retentiveness. It had taken him way too long to realize she'd been showing that she cared the best way she knew how.

 Small talk became necessary, so he wouldn't have to feel like a jerk in silence.

 She met his uncertain gaze. “Where would you like to begin?”

 Trip resisted the urge to say “I don't know” as he fidgeted with his uneaten crust.  It was that kind of dodging of the issues that had landed them here in the first place.  With a deep breath, he said, “Look ... I'm not gonna pretend to know what this is, or where we're going.  But I'm gonna stick around and figure it out.” He paused, not sure what else to say. “All I know is I'm not happy if you're not around.”  There. He'd said it.

 “The bond will manifest itself that way,” T'Pol replied.

 “Are you gonna do that every time?”  At her inclined eyebrow, he continued, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. “Blame the bond whenever we feel something for each other?”

 “You misunderstand,” T'Pol replied quietly. “Our 'feelings' fuel the bond. Not the other way around.”

Trip blinked. “I'm listening.”

“There is much that is still unknown about the subject of our telepathic abilities, since the malevolent influences on Vulcan society date back further than we were aware,” T'Pol began slowly. “Surak appears to have had much to say on the subjects of marriage and sexuality, but the Kir'Shara is still being studied and translated. Various interpretations of Surak's message are being examined as scholars debate the nuances of how our language has evolved over the centuries.”

Trip nodded, encouraging her to continue. She had his undivided attention. Even the mental image of a wizened Vulcan man handing out sex advice couldn't compete with her.

“Mother once told me of a deep connection she felt with my father,” she went on, shifting her gaze away from him.  “I had assumed she was referring to the affection most mated couples were expected to develop over time. In retrospect, I believe she was speaking of something deeper, something more profound...”

Trip was stunned by the vulnerability he saw in her hazel eyes when she finally turned them back to him.

“... because of what I have experienced with you.”

 Trip wanted to reach for her, gather her in his arms, but held back, afraid of doing the wrong thing.  Instead, he said, “You think your parents had this bond?”

 “When Vulcans mate, they do so for life,” T'Pol reminded him. “From an evolutionary standpoint, a telepathic bond would guarantee this.”

 “Are we married?” Trip blurted, surprised by his own directness.

 T'Pol averted her eyes again, seeming to brace herself.  “It would seem so.”

 Trip digested this information with a smirk. “I always knew I'd elope. I just figured it would involve a beach...or waking up in a bath tub in Vegas...or a shotgun.”  He pushed his tongue into his cheek as he thought. “So that's it? I 'mate' with you once, and we've got a bond?”

 She regarded him icily. “Mating is much more complex to a Vulcan than mere intercourse.” At his regretful wince, she continued more softly.        “Our initial sexual encounter no doubt facilitated the bond, but I believe it began long before that.  Preliminary findings on the Kir'Shara indicate that telepathic mate bonds were forged during ancient marriage rites. Certain elements of modern weddings make more sense within this context.”

 Frowning, Trip recalled painful memories of the day T'Pol married Koss, the only frame of reference he had for a Vulcan wedding. Pushing the thought away, he asked, “What about accidents? Like us?”

 T'Pol stiffened. “There's little documentation, though 'accident' would hardly seem the appropriate word, since apparently both parties must be open to it.”

 Trip opened his mouth and closed it again. He fought down the urge to argue, to tell her there was no way he could be open to something he didn't even know was possible, that the neuropressure must've relaxed him to the point of being suggestible, that--

 Except he knew damn well that would be a lie. Whether he'd admitted it or not, Trip Tucker had been in love with T'Pol for much longer than he'd even been aware. It may not have been love at first sight, but in retrospect, it was obvious as early as that first mission to take Klaang back to his homeworld that Trip needed her around. The Vulcan who had been a tough nut to crack eventually became the one person he could tell anything to.

 Except for how he felt about her.

 “So that thing in the bar last night ...” he said, seeming to randomly change subjects, but not really, in his own human way,”... before I fell into that guy? What was that? Was that the bond?”

 T'Pol lowered her eyes again.  “You tend to isolate yourself during periods of profound grief,” she said, a hint of sadness creeping into her voice. “I didn't know how else to help you. My judgment was in error.”

 “Do it again.”

 T'Pol's gaze flashed a brief look of surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

 Trip scooted around the dishes to sit beside her. “Do it again,” he repeated.

 “Given your reaction last night, I don't think--”

 He placed a hand over hers. “Please.” At her further reluctance, he pressed, “I was caught off guard last night. I didn't know what was happening. I'm ready for it this time.” It occurred to him then that he had no real idea if he was ready, or what exactly he was supposed to be ready for, but he chased the thought away, gambling he could sway T'Pol if he remained confident.

 She didn't speak. The only indication he had that she'd given in was the buzz resonating within his skull becoming louder. It was something he usually felt more than heard, but now it was a hundred church choirs humming the same chord. After a moment of that, there was an abrupt sense of Otherness, a feeling of being two places at once—no, the feeling of two objects occupying the same space. Both, and neither, maybe.  He swayed, vertigo overtaking him. He was glad to be seated on the floor. It wouldn't be far to fall.

 “The disorientation may subside if you close your eyes,” T'Pol suggested.

 Trip obeyed, squeezing her hand in an effort to remain anchored to reality. It wasn't unpleasant. Just...weird. “If we have a bond, why can't I feel this all the time?”

 “I've been diligent in keeping my barriers up,” she explained.”I didn't want to force anything on you that you may not want.”

 Trip opened his eyes to find her gaze locked on him. “Was I ever going to get a say in that?”

 T'Pol looked away.

 He released her hand to turn her face back toward him with a caress.  “We're going to have to start trusting each other sometime.” Trip winced as another wave of dizziness overtook him. He felt the presence in his mind begin to withdraw. “Don't you dare hold back on me,” he said through gritted teeth, struggling against the sensation that the floor was dropping out from under him. The hum returned to its previous intensity. “Is there more?”

 Again, he received no direct answer. The Other inside him swelled.  The hum became a literal ringing in his ears as he was overtaken by anticipation, anxiety—any of a number of feelings that were his and at once foreign. Blurs of color began to take shape.  He looked down at his daughter, but the arms that held her were not his. It was like being kicked in the stomach as waves of regret washed over him and mingled with his own.

 Another image formed. He was looking at himself. Desire, frustration, rejection, doubt—

 Loneliness.

 His heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. The assumptions. The things never said. The future she longed for but denied herself, simply by not asking for it.

 She'd been afraid to ask for it.

 A ragged breath escaped his lips. He didn't know when he'd started trembling.

 “This was unwise ...”T'Pol murmured.

 “No!” Trip pleaded frantically, pulling her close with his good arm. “Don't take it away.” Overwhelmed by her emotions, hot tears streamed down his cheeks. He faced the fact that he'd shut her down at crucial times, as much as he'd blamed her for the same. T'Pol's misery squeezed his chest like a giant fist—grief over the loss of their daughter, despair over perceived rejection, of being denied that which she wanted so badly against all reason. 

 He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. “Why didn't you tell me?”

 T'Pol gently brushed a hand over his cheeks to dry them. “I could ask you the same,” she murmured.

 Trip hung his head, bringing it to rest against hers. He'd convinced her of his unwillingness to commit by simply not giving her reason to believe otherwise. Words said against the bond in the heat of the moment—words he'd never meant, words she'd taken to heart. Goddammit, he'd been such an ass! He cursed himself for not manning up sooner, for not just putting it out there and telling her what he wanted. “I'm scared, T'Pol,” he admitted. “I don't know how to be a Vulcan husband. I just know I wanna be the guy that makes you happy.”

 A stab of fear filled the hum as she answered. “I cannot behave as a human wife. I am concerned about the possibility that I will disappoint you, that later you will grow frustrated and resent a situation that is unchangeable.”

 With the fear came clarity. He'd left her once, when he'd tried to escape to Columbia. She believed he could do it again.

 “It's already unchangeable,” he murmured, dipping his head to lightly brush his lips against hers. “You're stuck with me. I'm not goin' anywhere, if that's what you're worried about. But you have to tell me. I can't guess.” Trip searched her eyes, bracing himself for crushing disappointment. He knew it wouldn't be easy for T'Pol. This was going to be an ongoing challenge for them: T'Pol learning to verbalize the things a Vulcan husband would take for granted, Trip not jumping to conclusions whenever she didn't show what she was feeling. “T'Pol, do you want to be married to me?”

 Her voice broke a little, but her gaze never wavered. “Yes.”

 Relief surged through the hum, coursing in both directions. The loss of their daughter was as paralyzing as ever, and Trip wanted nothing more than to remove any doubt that he'd let T'Pol go through it alone. He hadn't needed their telepathic connection to know that the bond between mother and daughter had quickly become unbreakable; now there was a gaping hole within T'Pol where Elizabeth had been, tender and raw and bleeding, and Trip was at a loss for a way to close it. He could only fold himself around her and kiss her again.

 T'Pol pressed closer into him, hands sliding around to ensnare him. The kiss that began as a gesture of comfort and support combusted in a flash of heat as her mouth opened to deepen it.

 The hum swelled within his head again as he delighted in the familiar coppery taste of her tongue. He felt himself harden instantly. Even sweatpants were painfully tight as she moved to straddle him.  He broke away from her only long enough to free himself of the sling. T'Pol caught the bottom of his shirt and helped him to gently pull it over his head, careful of his injured shoulder.

 Trip's mouth met hers again, and she was already undoing the clasps on her meditation robe. It took only a shrug and her naked, bronze body was clinging to him. His hands went immediately to cup her breasts and caress her most intimate of places.

 T'Pol wrestled him to the floor. She had little patience for foreplay. She lay there on her back, chest heaving with desire, flushed with jade, eyes pleading with him, and he understood: she needed him, and she needed him to make her feel it, make her feel anything other than her own pain.

 He needed the same thing. He needed T'Pol to dull the ache inside.

 “Please,” she rasped shakily.

 Trip squirmed out of his sweats, lowered himself over her.

 She cried out as he entered her sharply. He couldn't stop to savor their reunion. Relentlessly, he pounded into her, harder and harder, each stroke punctuated by his grunt or her whimper, crescendoing into strangled screams of release and anguish as he spilled into her quivering body.

 Trip rolled away from her almost immediately, hands covering his eyes. As much as he loved the woman beside him, their daughter was still gone. It was still unfair. The part of him that died with her wasn't coming back.

 He felt T'Pol's hand caress his chest in slow circles as she snuggled in closer, attempting to console the inconsolable.