Missing Scenes from Season Three - Doctor s Orders

SPOILERS: "Doctor's Orders" and "Harbinger" and it will make little sense without them.

DISCLAIMER: All things Star Trek belong to CBS/Paramount.  "Doctor's Orders" was written by Chris Black.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:  Okay, I'm into territory where there is at least one reference in canon that suggests I may be wrong, but this one reference contradicts other suggestions in canon, as well as various date stamps that also don't really make sense if you start trying to work them out.  So ... in the fine tradition of fanfic (and arguably the show itself), I'm just going to do what the hell I want to do.    Thank you as always, reviewers and beta justTrip'n.

T'Pol was pleased when Commander Tucker showed up for neuro-pressure as usual, despite his obviously disgruntled reaction to her use of "exploration" to characterize their encounter two nights earlier.

Apparently that had not been the best possible choice of words.

However, she was not sure how she should have characterized their encounter.  He had taken some pains during the evening to clarify that what they were about to do would not constitute a serious commitment, or pose a risk to their day-to-day working relationship.  (As a superior officer, she should have been pleased to note this serious consideration of the possible consequences of his actions, although she had not, in fact, welcomed his hesitation at the time.)

Unfortunately, it appeared that his concerns about their working relationship had been valid.  Indeed, she was just beginning to realize how valid.  She had barely been able to concentrate on her job for the last 36 hours.  Instead she had frequently caught herself brooding over her relationship with him and whether it had been irreparably damaged.

So it was a comfort, at least, that he had come.  She was calmed by the feel of his skin under her fingertips and the smell of his body so close at hand.  But his muscles were extremely tense, stubbornly refusing to respond to her efforts, and he was also quite silent.  "You aren't saying much tonight," she said, consciously quoting his own words back to him.

"What do you want me to say?"

Was he being intentionally obtuse?  "I understood conversation to be a generally spontaneous exchange of information and opinions, rather than an exercise in fulfilling someone else's expectations."

He sighed heavily.  "I just don't know what to say anymore."

Overwhelmed by a sudden sense of futility, she let her hands drop from his back. 

He turned around to face her.  "T'Pol, I don't know what the hell is going on here."

"I don't, either. And I have no relevant experience to draw on.  You, however ..."

"What?" he snapped.

"You have been in a number of sexual relationships.  Perhaps if you could tell me what is generally expected..."

He stared at her.  "Are you saying this is a relationship, then?  I thought that was just an 'exploration'."

If he didn't know, how was she supposed to?  "Commander--"

"Trip!"

"Trip. You expressed some concern that having sexual relations would interfere in our working relationship."

He nodded impatiently.  "And ...?" 

"And I understood that to mean that we should not let that happen."

His face screwed up in confusion.  "So ... what are you saying?  That yesterday at breakfast ... you were ... trying to keep that from happening by ... what?  By being unbelievably cold and detached about the whole thing?"   

She got up and walked to the window.  "Vulcans are by nature somewhat cold and detached," she said, over the most peculiar sensation of a lump in her throat.  Vulcans did not cry either, despite the fear and grief her Trellium-affected brain was currently flooding her with.  She took a deep breath and stared out at into space, trying to regain her control. The cultural chasm between them had never seemed wider or more impassable.

In the window, his bare-chested reflection loomed behind her.  She flushed in anticipation, but he stopped short and said, "Look. I don't understand. I just don't. What do you want from me?"

Was there any point in telling him?  He'd said they should just forget it ever happened.  Presumably this meant that for him that was possible, perhaps even desirable. 

Just as it ought to be for her.  She turned around, and said, "I don't want to lose our working relationship ... or your friendship."

His expression softened.  "I don't either.  Especially not when I've finally gotten you to call me Trip." 

"Perhaps the more useful question is what you want from me." She suddenly noticed the vivid purple bruise where his neck met his collar bone, and put out her hand to touch it gently.

He watched her.  "You gave me a hickey."

"Is it painful?"

"Nah," he said, still watching her intently. 

They were so close.  She could feel attraction humming between them like a strong magnetic force. 

Was she the only one perceiving this?  Why didn't he kiss her?   If he were Vulcan, he'd know she was his. 

But Trip was not Vulcan.  And this was probably exactly the reason she had felt it would be safe to have sexual relations with him.  She was not his.  She swallowed.  "You didn't answer my question.  What do you want from me?"

"I ... " He stopped and sighed.  "Okay, so obviously there's this thing between us, now.  I don't know, maybe there always was.  But it looks like it's going to some serious time and effort to thrash it all out and ... well, you're Vulcan, I'm Human, so is there any future in it?"  He paused for a moment, as if waiting for the answer that didn't come, then continued, "Or are you going to continue to suggest this is just, I don't know, some sort of weird sexual anthropology hobby you've suddenly taken up?"  He paced across the room and back.  "Not to mention, thinking about all this is really, really ..."  He threw his hands in the air.  "... distracting!  I can't think straight.  I can barely focus on my job."

She watched him and tried to determine which of the questions he had just asked he actually wanted answers to.  She certainly did not intend to take up sexual anthropology as a hobby, but she doubted that he seriously thought she might.  (Was there even such a field of study?)  As to whether there was any future in their relationship ... clearly not, if one logically considered it.  They could never have children, for one, and she knew he would want that. But given the dire nature of their mission, thinking about the "future" also struck her as irrationally optimistic. 

"T'Pol?" he prompted her.

Perhaps it would be safest to strike a note of commonality.  "I apologize.  I am experiencing significant difficulties with concentration as well."

That elicited a smile from him.  "That's nice to know, actually."

She swallowed.  She could not tell him about the Trellium-D, but she could perhaps hint that she was not functioning in a normal way.  "I believe the Expanse may be taking a toll on my emotional control."

He blinked, suddenly all concern.  "Have you seen Phlox about it?"

"Not yet."

"Maybe you should."

She didn't respond. 

"Look," he said, with a heavy sigh.  "This is a very important mission.  THE most important mission.  And this ... whatever the hell it is ... is obviously distracting both of us.  I don't know.  Maybe we should just stick with what we already know we can handle.  For now."

"And Corporal Cole?"

His voice deepened with obvious displeasure. "What about her?"

"Perhaps you will feel you can more easily handle a sexual relationship with her."

He had the most peculiar expression on his face now.  "Yeah, maybe once this hickey you planted on me disappears.  And if we're not together, then that wouldn't really be any of your business, would it?"

Her initial reaction to his words - something approaching panic - was greatly tempered when she noticed the glint of amusement in his eyes.  He was intentionally provoking her.  "I suppose not," she said coolly.

He smirked.  "So are we going to finish this neuro-pressure session tonight, or not?"

"Perhaps if you would resume the proper posture ..."

He lifted his eyebrows, then turned and went back to the bench. 

She found the correct position on his vertebrae and pressed.  This time his muscles released under her pressure.

In truth, she wasn't sure what had just happened, or where they now stood in relation to each other. 

But he was still here.

x x x

As Phlox awakened each member of the crew in turn, the mess hall quickly filled with hungry, dehydrated humans.  The doctor had left gallons of electrolyte drink out on a table along with some disposable cups and a bin of graham crackers, but he had not attempted to prepare anything more substantial.

As someone from a species that had evolved on a desert planet, T'Pol was much less affected by lack of hydration.  Chef, however, would no doubt be suffering from his four days without food and water.  So she went into the galley. "How can I help?" she asked.

"This isn't your post, ma'am," Chef said grimly, even as he pulled food out of stasis.

The steward assisting Chef chose that moment to sink to the floor in a near-faint.  T'Pol detailed one of the sturdier-looking crewmen in the mess hall to provide electrolyte fluids to him in the captain's mess until Phlox could return. 

"Okay, fine, you're hired," Chef said, and told her what to do.

T'Pol spent the next hour filling the ship's beverage dispenser with various ingredients, ferrying platters to and from the long tables at which large buffets were served, sanitizing dishes, and trying to ignore the repulsive smell of cooking meat.

Captain Archer checked in with her quickly while grabbing a cup of coffee and a breakfast to go.  "How's everyone doing?" he asked.

"The crew appears to be extremely hungry and thirsty," she said.

Archer grinned.  "Guess you're in the right place, then.  I'll be on the bridge."

Commander Tucker would be in engineering, no doubt.  She had felt the thrum of the impulse drive engaging and disengaging a couple of times already.  She hoped he had had the foresight to drink something before beginning duty.

Finally, as she stepped out of the galley with a large platter of blueberry pancakes for the table, he was there, looking rather pale, and surveying the various foodstuffs.  He looked up and smiled as she put the fresh platter out.  "When did you join the galley staff?"

"There was a sudden vacancy."

"Have you eaten yet?"

"No."

"Come join me."

"If Chef gives me permission," she said, somewhat ironically, and surveyed the table for emptying platters.  Of course: the bacon and the sausage.  She was carefully using utensils to combine the remains of both so that she could take back an empty platter when she noticed Amanda Cole sidle up next to Trip, who was still loading his plate. 

"Hungry?" the MACO asked.

"Yep," he said.

"I guess from now on I should only get Vulcan neuro-pressure from actual Vulcans."

"Sorry.  You should have told me you were having headaches."

"I didn't realize they were connected.  Anyway, I'm sure we could think of something else to do together."

T'Pol sucked in her breath.  Corporal Cole's meaning was startlingly clear.  She felt her heart begin to pound, and a strange buzzing filled her head. 

Although he was some distance down the table, Trip suddenly looked up and over at her, his eyes wide.

Then he turned back to Cole and said, "You know, Amanda, I don't think that's going to work out anytime soon.  Phlox may have saved all our butts with the warp drive, but I'm going to be realigning the coils for days.  I won't have much time for anything else."

"Oh," Cole said, her tone clipped.  "I see."

"Yeah," Trip said.  "What can I say?  I'm sorry."  He shot another glance down the table at T'Pol, who merely raised an eyebrow and left with her platter, her equanimity suddenly restored.

She told Chef she was going to eat, and ladled herself a bowl of plomeek broth. 

Tucker was now sitting at an empty table - Cole, she noticed, had left the room - and she joined him.

He finished chewing a mouthful of food and said, "So is Corporal Cole safe from your vengeance now?"

"Excuse me?"

"For a moment there I thought you might be about to kill her."

She lifted a disapproving eyebrow.  This was hardly a conversation for the mess hall.

He gave her a long sardonic stare, which she met with a blank one of her own.  "Okay," he said finally.  "So let me tell you what our doctor did to my engines."