Missing Scenes from Season Three - Extinction

SPOILERS: “Extinction,” and it may not make sense without it.

DISCLAIMER: Star Trek belongs to CBS/Paramount.  “Extinction” was written by André Bormanis.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: You may just recognize elements from some recent discussions in the forum.  Thank as always to my reviewers. 

“I will be there momentarily,” T’Pol told the captain, with a glance at Tucker.  He’d finally returned for a session, and now this.  She wondered what could possibly require her presence at this hour of the night that didn’t also require a tactical alert, but then the captain had – perhaps understandably – become a bit less respectful of his officers’ personal time during this mission.

 “Duty calls,” Tucker said, and reached for his shoes.  “You’d better get dressed, unless you plan to go see him in your pj’s.”

She felt oddly reluctant to let him go, now that he had finally shown up.  “You may stay here until I return if you wish,” she said.  She went to her wardrobe for a fresh cat suit.  “You could practice your breathing while focusing on the candle.  It is a simple form of meditation that you may find beneficial.”

“That’s all right.  Who knows how long he’s going to need you.”  He scowled a little as he looked for his shirt, then shrugged into it.  “And I wore a new shirt and everything,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow.  Peaches and a new shirt.  Tucker had put some effort into the evening.  He had even arrived on time.  “It is a more pleasing color and design than many others I have seen you wear.”

He grinned.  “Thank you.  Now don’t forget to finish that peach.”

“Perhaps in the morning,” she said, cat suit in hand. 

Apparently realizing she was waiting for him to leave, he headed for the door, but paused briefly to add, “You can take the peel off if it bothers you.  Some people don’t like it.  I don’t mind a little fuzz, myself.”

He was out the door before she could reply.  The flavor of the peach had been pleasant, but the peel had indeed added a discordant element.  She also didn’t appreciate that juice had immediately threatened to run down her chin.  Perhaps Chef would be willing to prepare it for her to consume in a way that would be more appropriate for a Vulcan.

She zipped up her suit.  She certainly hoped the captain had a good reason for breaking up Commander Tucker’s much-needed neuro-pressure session.

After their return from the Loque'eque planet and an ultimately amicable parting with the aliens who had tried to enforce quarantine so brutally, the captain gave her and Lieutenant Sato the day off.  Although she did not generally feel the need for ‘comp time,’ as the Humans called it, in this case T’Pol welcomed it.  Although the virus had not fully transformed her, it had caused debilitating weakness and frayed her emotional control.  It had also left her skin itching, and the cream Phlox had given her for that was so appallingly reminiscent of organic decomposition that she simply refused to use it.  Indeed, she regretted even opening it.

But there was another smell, a more pleasant one, combating the reek of Phlox’s potion.  Finally realizing its source, she stared down now at the small black dish that sat open on her desk.

Of course.  Tucker had apologized in the shuttle pod up to Enterprise for entering her quarters and “stealing” her peach for the DNA it would have on it.

Couldn’t he have at least closed the lid to preserve the stasis for the two remaining fruits?  But perhaps he’d had more important priorities at the time.  And the smell was welcome at this point, at least, so she left it open.  She put a hand up to scratch her face, then pulled it back, determined to resist the urge. 

Her comm chimed.  “Tucker to T’Pol.”

“Yes, Commander?”

“I was wondering if you might like some of that neuro-pressure for yourself at some point today.  That couldn’t have been pleasant down there.”

She hesitated.  He was the one who needed help, not her.  But that was perhaps not entirely true at the moment.  There were nodes appropriate for treating the stomach and even the skin that were difficult for her to press properly.  “That would be acceptable, Commander, when you have time.”

“I have time now,” Tucker said.  “I’d better come over before something else can interrupt us.”

She had already changed into looser clothing, though not her pajamas, so she prepared for him by lighting candles.  It gave neuro-pressure an appropriately serene quality, removed from their day-to-day life aboard ship -- though it was not, unfortunately, enough to prevent day-to-day life from intruding on their sessions.

He came in with another peach in his hand.  “Thought I’d better replace the one I took to Phlox,” he said.  “Assuming you like them, anyway.”

“I did find the flavor pleasing,” she said, and added it to the bowl, closing it properly and putting it away.    

“So is that bothering you as much as it’s bothering Malcolm?” he asked, grimacing in commiseration as he fingered the spot on his own face that corresponded to one of the rashes left on hers as the alien bumps receded.

“It is quite irritating,” she admitted.  “But I believe the Khavorta posture may help reduce the itching.”

“Is that the neck one?  I’m sure we’ll have better luck with it on you.  Vulcans wouldn’t be ticklish, I bet.”

“It is a simple matter of breathing properly.” 

“Simple for you, maybe.  So tell me what to do.” 

He followed her direction to apply pressure below her ears.  He focused on her neck as she instructed him, raising his gaze occasionally to check her reaction.  She noticed, not for the first time, how strikingly blue his eyes were. 

“That okay?” he asked. 

“Hold it a little longer,” she said, and closed her eyes to escape the disturbing intensity of his gaze.  “That’s it.”  She opened her eyes to find his still resting on her.

He turned a little pink.  “What’s next?”

“Shall we attempt it on you again?”

“Won’t work,” he said, his tone definitive.  “I’m too wired.”

“Wired?”

“Jumpy.  Punchy.  Too much coffee.  Plus I have a bridge shift later.”  His blush intensified.  “Let’s just focus on you today, okay?”

“That was not my intent in accepting your offer.”

“Come on, T’Pol.  Sauce for the goose and all.”

“Sauce for the goose?”

“This way I’ll feel less guilty keeping you up at some ungodly hour next time it’s my turn.”

“There is no logic in feeling guilty.  You require assistance and I am willing to provide it.  Furthermore, Vulcans do not require as much sleep as . . .”

“Look, just humor me, okay?”

“Very well,” she said.  “There are nodes that help with digestion on either side of the sixteenth vertebrae.”  She turned away from him and lifted her shirt over her head, noticing his sudden intake of breath as she did so.  As far as she could determine, bare backs were not considered particularly risqué in modern human society, but perhaps the knowledge that her breasts were now naked had shaken him.  She knew that had sexual connotations in Commander Tucker’s North American culture, though it was more accepted in others -- and considered extremely taboo in still others.  Earth’s cultures were remarkably diverse for a space-faring species, which was perhaps an indicator of how quickly they had leapt beyond their own orbit. 

Vulcans did not generally uncover their skin to any great degree either, of course, but that was because of climate and tradition rather than irrational inhibitions.  If only to protect his sensibilities, however, she crossed her arms over her chest and cupped her breasts protectively.

He found the spot and pressed with three fingers on each hand as she instructed.  “Thank you,” she said, after a few moments.  “That will help.”

“Anything else?” he said.  “What about that one to improve your sleep patterns?”

“Very well,” she said, and guided him to the appropriate nodes further up her back.

That didn’t take long either, especially since he now understood how hard he needed to press, and that he wouldn’t push her off her bunk in doing so.  It was most agreeable to feel the tension of recent days release and she couldn’t quite contain a pleased sigh. 

“Guess you really like that,” he said.

“It is an agreeable sensation,” she said.  “Thank you.”  She tugged her shirt back over her head.

“That’s it?  Either you’re easy or I’m hard.”

“You do pose something of a challenge,” she said.  “Since we have time left, perhaps we could finish the session Captain Archer interrupted.”

“I don’t know . . . I really can’t afford to get sleepy right now.”

“I am certain that you will be able to maintain a waking state if duty requires it.”

He sighed.  “All right.”  He stood up and removed his shirt – he was back to one she considered less than aesthetically pleasing this time – and removed his shoes.  “Can I ask you a question?” he said, as he turned to lie down on her bench.

In her experience that question from Humans generally presaged a more intrusive question.  “What is it?” She rubbed her hands briskly together, just in case they were cold.  It was interesting that he had transferred from her bunk to the bench.  Perhaps there was yet another Human taboo involved in lying down on her bed.

“What’s up with all the candles?”

“The captain gave me permission to use them, as you know.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t light them the first time we did this.”

“It didn’t occur to me to do so that time.”

“Well . . . if I didn’t know better, I’d think the ambiance was kind of . . . romantic.”

Was he once again suggesting that she was making sexual overtures?  Why this insistence on something so utterly unlikely?  But perhaps Human males were not entirely capable of controlling their response to potentially sexual situations – such as her removal of her shirt.  He was not, after all, the only crewman who sometimes manifested physical signs of sexual interest in her.  “Candlelight and pleasant aromas help to establish a serene, meditative environment,” she said.  “The purpose of neuro-pressure is to relax and heal.  However, I will extinguish them if you feel that would be more appropriate.”

“No, no – I like ’em.  I just wondered.  Agh!  Are you trying to kill me?” 

She quickly lessened the pressure she was exerting on his latissimus dorsi.  “Deep, regular breaths,” she reminded him.  “Some pressure is necessary if you are to receive any benefit.”

“Okay, okay!” he said, and started breathing more carefully.  She increased the pressure more gradually this time.  Did all Humans store this much tension in their body, or was he unusual?  It took a good ten minutes to begin to sense some release, and that was just in one muscle group.

He sighed in apparent contentment.  “Even if you do kill me, what a way to go.”

“I don’t believe that you are in any actual danger,” she said, moving her attentions further down his spine. 

He moaned, apparently in pleasure.  “I’m in danger of getting addicted to this.”

She lifted her fingers from his back.  “We can stop at any time.”

“Please don’t.” 

“Then I would suggest less talking and more breathing,” she said, and he acquiesced. 

As she worked, she considered his mention of addiction.  There was certainly something oddly pleasing in eliciting such obvious pleasure from him, even if for him it seemed to be strangely confused with fears of mortality – or perhaps that was just another one of Tucker’s perplexing figures of speech.  It was surprisingly rewarding simply to have this close physical contact with another being, especially when the rest of one’s life was generally so devoid of touch or intimacy. 

Of course, it helped that Tucker was someone she found attractive and generally enjoyable to converse with.  She suspected she would not quite so willingly help another member of the crew in this way.

So perhaps there was some danger in this – perhaps either or both of them could develop a psychological dependence on this practice.   That could become rather awkward.

But then, if Ambassador Soval was correct, they had little chance of surviving this mission into the Expanse.

T’Pol did not entirely accept that, but she had too much respect for her old mentor to totally discount his point of view. 

In any case, at present she was prepared to live dangerously.