Honeymoon Evening

By Asso

Rating: PG

Genres: romance


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Chapter 1

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PART 1- The Dinner


I have followed my inspiration!

So, after the "morning", here is he "evening" of the Honeymoon Vacation of our couple.

I ask people who would have preferred a little bit of HOT LOVE to forgive me.

Here, again, there is No HOT LOVE. (But it will arrive, it will arrive, I swear!)

And please . . . All of you who will be so kind as to read this fic . . . be gentle about my narcissism. In this story you have . . . well . . . perhaps the perfect definition of the word.

But anyway, this fic, in my opinion, is . . . . agreeable.

(Well, you see, I am also modest.)


I hope you enjoy it!


You can read this story even if you haven’t read my other fics, but I suggest you read the others, especially Destiny NC17 (for violence, no sex, Honeymoon NC17, Honeymoon Morning, and, last, Ulysees complete the painting but they are not essential for understanding the present fic. If you decide to follow my suggestion everything will be . . more logical.

Rating: PG Genre: Romance, yet once again sweet . . . very, very sweet.

Summary: CAUTION! There is an Old Italian waiter, a snoop, who is just snoopy enough, no more. (I told you: MY NARCISSISM!)

Spoilers: Please, don't be angry! Always the same story: all and nothing. Many suggestions stolen here and there.

Disclaimer: Star Trek: Enterprise is owned by Paramount, not me. No infringement intended, no profit made.

Notes: The words in italics between (*___*) represent the thoughts (By now this is a refrain!).

Thanks (much thanks): To justTrip’n for helping me express myself in a language that is not my first language and for her immense patience, her ability to read my thoughts, and her endless sweetness (By now this, too, is a refrain!).

A special thank to enterprikayak. Envious of Linda, I wanted some images in my story too, and I asked enterprikayak for help, aware of her abilities. And she wanted to assist me, with great results, in my opinion! Another suggestion: Look at the images and subtitles, before to read the story. They will be useful.

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20:30 P.M. - Dinner Time
Trip and T'Pol are in "Lungarno Corsini", in Florence.
They are in front of the palace (look at the pointer) where the restaurant is that Trip has chosen as the best for their first honeymoon dinner.
Behind their shoulders there is Arno river.
To their right side is the "Ponte Vecchio".


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This is Arno with “Ponte Vecchio” view.


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This morning they woke up here.


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And T’Pol saw this from the veranda.


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After they their hotel, where did they go?
To Florence, obviously!
And there they wandered round town, hand in hand, nibbling a little bit of pizza (strictly vegetarian) and seeing a little bit of what the place has to offer.


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Approximately at six o'clock in the evening they get back to their hotel, in order to dress for the dinner (and, honestly, T’Pol’s dress is very . . . remarkable!)
And now they are here, in front of the restaurant’s entrance, both looking up at it. Both slightly . . . frightened.


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Now they are inside.
The maître welcomes them.


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The maître guides them up along the stairs.


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He brings them to their booked table in the Dinner Room.
The maître gives them the menu.

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A very nice romantic and . . . private dinner!
Well, maybe not exactly private, to tell the true.
But what the eye sees not, the heart does not rue.
So, for both you, Commander T'Pol and Commander Tucker, this will forever be your romantic, intimate . . . Honeymoon Dinner!

Scene One

"Bistecca alla fiorentina?" "Yes, sir?”

"Well... how about it? How is this . . . bistecca alla fiorentina?" “Oh sir, it is one of the favourite dishes of the Italian cuisine of Tuscany. It consists of a t-bone steak, traditionally taken from the Chianina breed of cattle, grilled over a wood fire, and seasoned with salt, black pepper, and olive oil. It is invariably served very rare, sometimes garnished with lemon wedges, like we do here. And following Tuscan tradition, Tuscan beans is served as the usual side dish.”

“Well that sure sounds appetize’n!”

“Oh yes, sir! Undoubtedly whoever loves meat appreciates it very much.”

“Mmmh … I’ll bet! And… and here we are in Tuscany…”

“Of course, sir. The breeds of cattle are certainly different one from another and the Chianina, they say, is the basis of the peculiar taste of this dish, especially if a great red wine accompanies it. For example a DOCG Brunello of Montalcino-riserva, if, for the wine, you want to remain in Tuscany; or a Barolo or a Barbaresco, if you appreciate the excellence of the great wines of Piedmont.”

“Oh yes, . . . certainly . . . of course . . .”

“Do you want me to have this dish made for you, sir? Or for madam, if she appreciates it? Or for both?”

“Oh . . . well . . . I . . . I think . . . well, I think . . .”

The lady interjects, “If you would really like to eat this bistecca alla fiorentina, then you should do so.”

The lady is speaking with a quiet and composed tone, and also, if truth be told, it seems to me that there is a certain vein of restrained amusement, in the way she pronounces her words.

“Oh but . . . you . . . I . . . I was thinking that . . . well . . . “

I remain silent, while I am waiting for and looking at the couple, trying to not make too obvious my interest and my curiosity.

“Certainly, if you would were to ask my opinion, I would point out how much healthier you have become as of late. Undoubtedly our . . . peculiar . . . present situation requires your optimal physical condition. If after a long abstinence, you were to resume the consumption of animal flesh, optimality might be sacrificed. To be honest, I would regret that . . . very much.”

Again that tone in the lady's words, even if I am not capable of understanding exactly what they mean.

Well,—I smile to myself–perhaps her tone is a bit . . . allusive? The manners, the attitudes and the gestures of this couple are, well, . . . precisely those of a couple.

Yes. I am sure.

I observe the man as he slightly blushes and rolls his eyes, pretending annoyance, but openly smiling.

It's so. This is a veritable couple. Or, better yet, a true couple in true love.

I have had this job such a long time and I’ve observed such a great number of people seeking love, here, in this place.

This couple is not seeking. This couple has it.

There is a sweetness, a tenderness, a secret complicity, even if, I don’t know . . . I feel something strange.

And nevertheless . . . nevertheless . . . it is clear and manifest they are in love. And in bliss.

I believe . . . I believe . . .

I glance at the lady’s small, thin hand, and notice it displays a strange but splendid ring, matching that on the mans big hand, which she now takes in hers.

Yes, I am sure!

Those are wedding rings.

And this is their honeymoon!

It's so.

Ah, well! In that case, what a lucky man!

Surely he is handsome, although I’m not the best judge. Tall, athletic, with a smile engaging and roguish, and two blue eyes lively and naughty, seemingly created to seduce maidens and damsels; elegant in his dark blue suit.

But she . . .

Rarely . . . very rarely, have my eyes enjoyed the sight of a woman so beautiful!

A body small, but, for Pete's sake, how well made! So... ahem... curvaceous and buxom!!

A narrow waist; hips, well-shaped and generous. A pair of legs extend beneath a short dress, reaching just above the knees, which allows them to be appreciated for all they their worth... and, by Jove, they are worth a lot! The sight of those legs, as she was crossing them—showing some extra thigh in the process— before hiding them under the table, was . . . amazing.

Her dress is dark blue, like the suit of the man, fitted and strapless, and clinging to her in all the right places, nipped in to nothing at her already tiny waist, and showing off her bronzed, toned shoulders—bare like the arms, smooth and well rounded.

The large and plunging neckline of the dress allows one to catch a tempting glimpse of her magnificent bosom, which, rising and swelling at every breath, and is inevitably taking every poor man like me to forbidden thoughts.

But it is the face that is the loveliest and most charming part of this marvellous woman, who, moving or motionless, transpires an ineffable grace.

Holding her regal head up, upright with majestic bearing, in so proud and so noble way as to appear almost disdainful, like a veritable queen, she delights the eyes with the sight of a beautiful, wonderful face.

A crop of straight and jet-black hair, long enough and adjusted with a coiffure to hide partially the forehead and the cheeks and totally the ears, frames a perfect oval, where, shining and bewitching are two large chocolate eyes with long eyelashes, crowned by delicious eyebrows, delightfully and perfectly accurate.

The eyes surmount a little cute nose under which a wonderful, perfect, swollen, and red mouth is showing two marvellous lips, plump and mellow and, surely . . . fragrant and soft . . .

A weird complexion, bronzed and seductive, which accentuates the skin's silky and velvety appearance . . .

A strange expression, apparently blank and immovable, but actually intense and vivid in the sparkle of the eyes. All that gives her an attitude, an aura, distant, remote, but not cold . . . Rather it is an aura superbly regal, almost mesmerizing, which furthers her glamour.

And the ears certainly, if they could be seen, would be . . .

“Maître? Hey, maître ... “

(*Oh, blast it! Once more, I’ve fallen into the trap! To hell with my Italian heritage and to hell also with my poor father, whose genes have made me so. I am exactly like him! A pair of large female eyes, a pair of legs such as these . . . and I am lost! *)

I almost startle, seeing the man watching me with a puzzled and inquisitive look. Luckily my expertise with the public allows me to conceal my embarrassment and recover quickly.

“I am very sorry, sir! I am aware that you were speaking with me, but at the same time the chief cook was suddenly telling me of several pressing problems.”—I point at the little device on my right ear—“I am no longer a young man, and my ability to pay attention to two things in parallel is not the same as in days passed. I would be very grateful if you would kind enough to repeat.” I am crossing my fingers behind me, hoping my white lie will get me by.

The man looks at me a little uncertain. Then his blue eyes sparkle, a flash of amusement, suddenly understanding the reason for my lack of focus. He takes a glance at the woman, who has remained absolutely quiet and composed, as if the material world does not even affect her. He turns his eyes on me, openly smiling with kindness and—(*oh yes*)— with male pride. “That’s fine. I was asking you for something special to eat, something particular to the area, and . . . without meat.”

The temptation is too strong, and I can’t resist answering a little playfully. “Of course, sir. Tuscany has many choices of vegetarian dishes, tasty and also... both substantial and light, of the sort I imagine the lady and you would both like.” I am smiling innocently, sounding just a bit allusive with these words.

The man’s eyes sparkle brighter, while he gives a soft chuckle. The woman is maintaining the same statuesque posture, the raising of one of her eyebrows as her only gesture; but I can see a slight shining of amusement in her dark eyes.

“Okay! So, we are waiting for your suggestions.”

“Yes sir. I would like propose first the ribollita.

"Rib… ribollita?”

“Exactly, sir. It's a very traditional Tuscan dish. Ribollita means reboiled. To tell the truth, an authentic ribollita takes 3 days to prepare. On the first day, minestrone is made. On the second day, the soup is layered with bread and thin slices of red onion and baked. On the third day, it is all reboiled for the ribollita. And here we can make it, because it is our pleasure to offer our residents the best of the culinary Tuscan tradition. This soup is full of fresh vegetable flavour and has such a nice mix of texture, soft from the beans and the bread, and slight crunch, from the celery and carrots. It feels hearty and satisfying without being too heavy or fattening. Really, really good, and it does have the very essence of the kinds of food you have to eat when you're in Tuscany.”

The man gives a sidelong glance at the lady, who simply nods.

“All right. And then?”

“Pappa al Pomodoro.”


“Pappa al Pomodoro.”

“But . . . pappa . . . isn’t that for babies?”

“Ordinarily it’s so, sir, but this isn’t true for our Pappa al Pomodoro. Despite the somewhat mushy appearance, it is a very flavourful dish. Also this is a soup, a tomato base thickened with bread chunks, flavoured with basil, garlic and tarragon. The bread soaks up all the moisture in the soup, resulting in a thick mushy consistency that has a lot of flavor. And since a whole loaf of bread is packed in there, along with some good vegetables, it makes a reasonable light dinner when some protein is added alongside, such as chicken, or sausages. Of course, in your case, this protein could be some cheese, if you agree. For example just a small taste of Pienza ewe milk's cheese, very good with a drop of honey, or better, of honey of Castiglione of Orcia, and absolutely delicious if accompanied by an equally very good Montepulciano Noble-Wine.”

This time the glance isn’t so sidelong. And maybe it's slightly worried too, and . . . well, pleading?

Another solemn nod. But . . . I am sure . . . the shine of the eyes became brighter and it seems to me that the hint of a thin smile is curling her lips, making her even more beautiful, if possible.

(*What wonderful a woman, and this air of nobility and of mystery . . . No, stop! Don’t go there again!*)

“OK. We’ll have that.” The man now appears clearly pleased. “Go on, . . . please.”

“Yes sir. May I suggest for the ribollita a rosé of the Central-Etruria hills? Its taste, fresh and full-bodied, lively and dry, with low alcoholic-strenght, will accent the flavour of the ribollita.”

A glance, once more. Once more, such a fascinating, mysterious smile/non-smile, on the face and in the eyes of the lady; an assent.

“Sure. Sounds wonderful.”

“I am pleased, you agree, sir. In the end, may I suggest for dessert . . .”

“No.” He cuts me off.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” I am perplexed by the unexpected interruption.

“Well . . . I . . . we . . . excuse me, but . . .”

“Yes, sir?”

“Well… uh… we would like a specific dessert.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Pecan pie!”

“Pecan pie, sir?”

“Pecan pie. Oh, we know it’s not typical of Tuscany, or anything . . .” He looks to the lady, smiling warmly. “But we have our good reasons.”

I could swear the lady, too, is smiling, joyously, in return, even if her lips don't make the slightest move.

“A’ course, if you don't have pecan pie . . .”

“Oh certainly we have it, sir. It is a point of honour for us offer our guests, who come from around the world, whatever they are pleased to have. At the dinner’s end, pecan pie will be served, accompanied, if you wish, by a glass of Vin Santo of Chianti, a raisin wine, just right for dessert.”

Another glance. Another twinkling, sparkling, flashing, smiling/non-smiling look of the lady.

“May I, sir?”

“You may.”

"Very well, sir. Madam, sir; please let me go, so that your orders are prepared.” – Meanwhile, I light the candle in the middle of the table, so than its feeble and flickering glimmer might create an atmosphere more intimate and romantic; I am sure it will be appreciated. “I would also like to offer to you as hors-d'oeuvre a small slice of Fettunta. I am pleased to offer it on the house, with a sip of bubbly white Elba. The Fettunta is a very ancient dish of Italy, a dish of the poor, of the peasants. It is a rustic slice of Tuscan bread without salt, toasted in an oven or on a plate. When the bread is warm and crisp, the surface is rubbed with a clove of garlic and then seasoned with extra-virgin olive oil, salt and pepper. I am sure you will fancy it.”

Again. A glance. A smiling/non-smiling look. An imperceptible nod.

“That would be great.”

“I am glad, sir. Madam, sir.”

I acknowledge them with a slight nod of my head, then turn to complete my job.

But I am intrigued, fascinated by this couple.

I am an Old Italian waiter, a snoop, . . . but just to a point!

And I am curious.

Scene Two

(*Okay, here it is perfect.*)

These ancient houses preserve a lot of secrets.

This old building has them too: secrets as hidden places, from which it is possible to hear and to watch, concealed form the sight of those who can be spied on.

The ancient owners had their good reasons, just as I do.

I suppress a twinge of guilt.

It is not too virtuous what I am doing—observing this couple, while hidden in the shade.

But the temptation is too strong; these two are intriguing and captivating; and too . . . strange and . . . lovely. (*Goddamn my male heart*); I admit it is the woman.

And then, who knows? From their conversation, perhaps, I can learn something useful—something to make their Honeymoon more pleasant, . . . if my supposition is correct.

With this last thought, with which I attempt to hush my sense of guilt, I open the panel through which I can secretly hear and watch this couple.

I begin my "observation."

The hors-d'oeuvres are already on the table and they are alone.

The woman is speaking.

What a sensual voice!


“Thank you”

“For what?”

“My wishes are granted. You have given up your desire to taste the bistecca alla fiorentina”

“Honey, my whims are no match for your logic, . . .”

“You always joke.”

"My hunger for meat in’t noth’n next to my hunger for you.”

“Stop it, Trip . . . ”


(*Trip? This tells me something . . .*)


“Sorry darling. Just teas’n.”

“I appreciate your humour, though it is a bit . . .”



“You’re right, babe. Though it’s often useful, like just now . . .”

“What you mean?”

“Well, if I didn’t have a sense of humour, I might be bothered by how that waiter was looking at you.”




“Oh, but I . . .”

“And I might be concerned about the way all the men are looking at you.”


(*Oh, how I understand you, sir… and other men too! *)


“You are jealous?”

“Yes . . . I’m jealous.”


(*You have good reasons, sir! A woman so gorgeous!*


“Jealousy is illogical and . . .”

“Honey. You’re sure you want to go there? People in glass houses . . .”


(*What does he mean? And why this gently mocking tone?*)


“Perhaps I’ll overlook this one human weakness . . .”


(*The lady sounds slightly embarrassed, but maybe also amused.*)


“But, believe me, Ashayam . . .”


(*A… Ashayam? *)

The lady’s voice became low and tender, while she leans towards the man and delicately takes his large right fist, which is resting on the table, with both her pretty little hands.


“You have no reason to be jealous, because, and you well know it, I am only yours!”


(*Oh my God! *)

A slightly foolish smile is plastered on his face. The man is flushing visibly, even at the faint glimmer of the candle’s flame, clearly both embarrassed and delighted by the lady’s words.

I imagine what kind of foolish grin would be plastered on my face if a woman like this would speak this way to me!

With his free hand, the man grasps the glass of bubbly white Elba and, bringing it to his mouth, drinks a sip, with the clear purpose of pulling himself together.

Then, putting the glass down on the table, he speaks with husky voice, staring at the woman.


“Hon, I love you more than I dare admit! You are my life!”


(*Oh damn! *) – Goddamn my sentimentalism! I feel my heart sink and my eyes are suddenly moist. - (*That’s Amore!,*) The man speaks again, lifting this glass.


“A toast, darling, to our Honeymoon!”


(*Ahhhh! I was right! *)

Her left hand still on his right, on the table, the woman grasps her glass with the right, and also lifts it. Their eyes meet. With the sweetest voice, she too speaks:


“To our Honeymoon, T’hai’la!”


(*T . . . T . . . T’h . . . ai’la? What was that word before? A . . . Ash . . . Ashayam, yes. And now this . . . T’hai’ . . . T’hai’la. What do they mean? I . . . I want to know! *)

My thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of my wait staff, who take away the dishes, by now empty, and then serve the ribollita with the rosé. I can’t help but notice that woman’s beauty also charms them.

They leave and the couple is alone again.


“It’s good!”

“Yes, T’hai’la. It is.”

“Hon, You seem more and more human-like, . . . no offense.”

“Because I enjoy this food? It isn’t the first time I have tried something new. You have been a good teacher.”

“And you have been a good student, and not only about food.”

“Are you trying to say . . . ?”

“I believe Hoshi would be pleased with your choice of clothes.”


(*Hoshi . . . Again a name that call up something in me . . . Hoshi, Hoshi . . . Hoshi S . . . Sa . . . Hoshi Sato! Yes, it’s so! But when and where did I hear it? *)


“And what about you?”

“Darling, you are gorgeous. No, you are radiant! I mean, . . . wow.”

“I am pleased you appreciate my attire. It would be regrettable, if I were to wear such uncomfortable . . . high-heeled shoes and . . . bare my shoulders and my legs . . . without making you glad.”

“You do it to make me happy?”

“Yes, of course. Why do you ask? Surely you know I want to be enjoyed by you.”





“But . . .”





“ . . . But I feel something is annoying you. I feel it clearly in the bond.”


(*Bond? *)


“Maybe you enjoy my dress, but find it a little too… daring? I was thinking this attire, according with Hoshi's advice, was the right thing to put on for our first Honeymoon dinner, in a place like this.”

“Hon, I already told you; your attire is perfect, spectacular; I love it.”


(*Me too. Thanks, Hoshi! Whoever you are. *)


“Well then, what is it? Ashayam, what is bothering you?”

“Never mind, Hon.”

“T’hai’la, please!”


(*Don’t you hear her, stubborn man? She said “Please”! Ladies mustn't be displeased! You . . oh ...Shit! Just now!*)

While talking, they finished eating their ribollita, and I believe they thoroughly enjoyed it, considering their empty dishes. And, judging by their emptied glasses, the wine, too, seems to have been welcome. — (*Good*).

My waiters, who have been discretely watching, appear immediately as the pair finishes this course to clear away the plates and to serve the Pappa al Pomodoro, with the cheese, the honey and the right wine, the Montepulciano Noble-Wine—and to interrupt the conversation just when it was about to get interesting! (*Shit, shit and yet again, shit!*)

Once more my waiters go away. I hope that now that my couple, yes, my couple is alone again, something might develop from what has begun . . .

Yes! It’s so! Fortunately, it is not only the man who is stubborn. The lady seems to be equally capable!


“This is good too. Isn’t it, sweetheart?!”

“Don't try to evade me, T’hai’la. I know you’re annoyed, and frankly I don't understand why you hesitate to share your troubles with me, your bond-mate”


(*Again another of these strange terms.*)




I look at the man.

Plainly ill at ease, he is rolling his tongue alongside the inside of his cheek, a gesture that stirs up something in me, a vague memory. I have seen this gesture . . . this man!


“No. You are shielding your thoughts from me. Why do you do that? I am your bond-mate. I am… very displeased by this action.”

“Hon, please…”


(*You are shielding your thoughts from me?!? *)




(*Trip… Trip, Trip, Trip, Trip… TRIP! Oh, but… yes! *)

The woman has stopped eating. Once again she takes the man’s hand in both of hers. In fact, she seizes it, with force, gazing into his eyes, worried and . . . well . . . nearly pleading.

And . . . Commander Charles Tucker the Third, . . . he’s called Trip. Now I remember and know exactly who this man is, even with slightly darker hair and the moustache— Commander Tucker, Senior Officer and Chief Engineer of Enterprise, hero of the war against Xindi, explorer of space, is lowering his look, shamefaced in front of his wife.

And perhaps I am beginning to understand who his wife is.

Suddenly I recall the words of my wife, when we and our friends were talking over the events of the Xindi war, at its end.

The government revealed what had happened in the Expanse, and the Enterprise crewmen were celebrated everywhere as true heroes.

The interviews followed one after another, transmitted across the globe. And, across the whole world, people were talking, finally free from fear, and debating . . .

One of the matters discussed was why this one particular Vulcan had been at our side, fighting for us on Enterprise, while others of her species had declined to come to the aid of our imperilled planet.

“She is a spy!” — “I don't trust her!” —– “Perhaps the Captain's mistress . . .” — “But how can that be? She is Vulcan!” — “Yeah! An alien like the Xindi!” . . .

I smile to myself, remembering those comments . . . and remembering the words of my wife.

I can’t know for sure . . . But one fact is certain . . . When this Commander, this... what is his nickname? . . . ah yes, Trip . . . When this Trip is speaking from the screens, laughing his beautiful laugh . . . well, she is always there, her arms clasped together at the small of her back, raising her eyebrow at him, as Vulcans do when they are rebuking someone or expressing disapproval. . . But, in any case, she is standing nearby and . . . always watching him.

It is a lady's voice that calls back me to the present.


“Trip! This is our Honeymoon. You wanted this and convinced me to do it with you, with my human husband.”


(*With her . . . human . . . husband! So . . . I believe I am right! My wife was right!*)


“You promised we would enjoy this Honeymoon, and… you have been right. I a quite pleased with our Honeymoon, and I don’t want anything to ruin it, to infringe on our . . . joy, not even slightly!”


(*My Good! What a love! What a love in these words! *)




(*T’Pol! . . . So, it’s quite true! I was right!*)


“Ashayam, I beg you, please share your troubles and your thoughts with me, like we share our life.”


(*T’Pol of Vulcan. This is the woman who is speaking in this way… so… passionately… to her man. To her… human husband.*)




(*T’Pol of Vulcan. The Vulcan First Officer of the Enterprise. The Vulcan female loved and hated because of whom she is; an alien, like the Xindi, who is serving on a human vessel. The Vulcan . . . “witch,” as many call her, haughty, distant and cold, like all Vulcans are. Yes, she has bewitched this remarkable man. It is something like my wife suspected, what the urban legend has us murmuring! It seems this legend is NOT a legend at all! Except that this . . . “witch” . . . is the same woman I see speaking and acting so lovingly to her man! *)


“T’Pol… I… I can’t!”

“You must, Ashayam! You are my bond-mate. You are . . . my husband. I am your wife! Nothing can, nothing must be hidden between us!”


(*Ashayam. Bond-mate. T’hai’la. I don’t know the meaning of these words, even if now I can guess it; but by now the puzzle pieces are falling in place. They are Vulcan words, and, I am sure, connected with… love! *)


“T’Pol… ”


The Commander lifts his eyes to look into those of his . . . wife. His voice is a sigh.


“T’Pol… It’s your…hairdo!”

“My hairdo?


(*Her hairdo? *)



“Don’t you enjoy my hairdo?”


Are you crazy, man? She is magnificent!*)


“Hon, your hair could be long, short, frizzy, smooth, blond, black, or any which way you want! My soul would just see you, the wonderful, brilliant T’Pol, who I love.”



(*Oh! *)


“But . . .”





“Those . . .”


The man is squeezing the woman’s hand, while speaking plaintive and sad.


“Those . . . beautiful pointed ears!”


(*Pointed ears? Oh, but certainly! She is Vulcan! *)


“What to you mean to say?”

“Darling, your hair cut was contrived to hide your ears, it was designed to hide what you are . . .”


The Commander’s voice now grows angry.


“… in order to hide what we are . . . a mixed-species couple in love.

“T’hai’la . . .”

“Oh, I know what you want to say! It would be too risky, illogical. We would be sticking our necks out!”


“Yes, we supposedly destroyed those f*@%ing Terra Primers, but there still could be some stupid, unpredictable bigot, even hidden in this place, or some dangerous zealot, sympathizing with those who caused our pain . . . with Elizabeth. Or who nearly caused my death and your madness when . . . ”

“T’hai’la NO!”




Abruptly the man stops speaking at the choked exclamation of the woman.

(*Elizabeth . . . Oh, I remember perfectly! She was the baby girl created by those child abusers, the Terra Primers, as the Commander said. The child who died . . . Oh my God! She was their daughter!)

I look at the couple with a knot in my throat.

These two suffered in the past because of Human bigots and now they are concealing themselves for fear. Fear of what? Certainly there are many bigots and I realize a Vulcan–Human couple would be unwelcome in many homes. But, fear . . . Why? What did the Commander want to say? What happened that was so frightening that his wife doesn't want it repeated?


I don’t want to remember!”


(*Oh my God! She is trembling! A Vulcan who trembles! *)


“Hon! Please, forgive me!”


The man now is pressing the woman’s hands with both of his, staring at her with a very worried look, and she . . . —(*Oh damn it! *)— she is clearly holding back tears!


“Honey, darling, sweetheart! Please, no! No! No! I am here, alive, with you!”


The woman shakes her head, shutting her eyes, like she wants to blot out something horrible from her mind. Then she lifts her eyelids, looking at her husband and speaking with—(*yes! Just so! *)—with a tearful voice.


“Never again do I want to live moments like those! Never again! And if it is so important for you that we openly live our relationship everywhere we go, also here on Earth, then I will cut the tips of my ears . . .”


“… in order to openly and safely be your spouse, as you want!”



(*NO! *)


“YES! And . . .”

“Enough, T’Pol!”


(*YES! Enough!*)

I am sweating! Just so! I am sweating! A love like this has to be hidden from eyes of world! In order to prevent the reoccurrence of terrible things—whatever it was that happened. And I don’t care to imagine what might have happened.

But we perpetrated these things! WE, Humans!

I feel ashamed!

I feel abashed at the harm we humans did to these two, even if I do not know exactly what sorts of crimes they suffered.

And my shame is swelling at the thought that I only became aware of this by spying, as a furtive thief in the night; taking possession of secrets not mine, that I have no title to.

But, I did it, so now I understand.

Now I know what may lie hidden within the hearts of Vulcans, behind their wintry masks.

I look at this woman, marvellous and passionate.

(*Behind your mask, sweet lady!*)




The man is speaking again, his voice unsteady with pain, a pain also revealed in his eyes. Pain and . . . shame, like—I know— are in mine as well.

He forcefully squeezes the woman’s hands.


“T’Pol! No. You’re not the problem I don’t want to hear this crazy talk. I’m sorry I criticized your hair. It was stupid. Don’t even think . . . not even remotely . . . of doing anything like what you said! I love you heart and soul; I am madly in love with you; I love everything about you—as a whole; your mind, your soul, your body; from your beautiful little feet to those marvellous . . . marvellous! . . . tips of your ears! And I want to spread it around, I want to shout to the universe my love for you; my happiness because you have chosen me; my pride because you are mine! I want to scream at the world: Look here, y’all! This woman, this gorgeous, wonderful woman, lovely and smart, unique and incomparable, the most beautiful woman of the universe… this woman... is ... my wife!”



Now I can feel it perfectly! I have tears in my eyes and there is a lump in my throat. Because my emotions have been stirred too much. I am overcome with emotion!


“But instead, NO! Oh sure. Our superiors have consented to let us marry. But they did it reluctantly, only after the Captain and Soval pulled some strings!”


(*Soval! The Vulcan Ambassador!*)


“And I had to sit there and listen while they dictated policy about our personal lives: ‘Commander, you have to understand. It is better if the knowledge of your wedding isn’t made public.’”


Now the Commander is sardonic, mimicking a certain pompous official. This comes off amusing, despite the emotion of the moment.


“Trip, the Admiral was only . . . ”


I was right! And the lady also seems amused, if I'm not mistaken. This man is really incredible! How many emotions and feelings he is capable of arousing, one after other, and even simultaneously! I think I can understand why the Vulcan heart of this woman is beating for him. It would be difficult for any woman to turn a deaf ear to such a man. It is obvious this generalization extends even to the Vulcan females. Moreover, Vulcan ears are noted for their keen hearing. And, *I smile*, these peculiar pointed ears are central to this entire story . . .


“I can still hear the Admiral’s words: ‘As you know. Your situation is delicate. Of course our secret is already compromised, as your crewmates already believe you were. . .living as man and wife . . . on Enterprise. But otherwise your marriage should be revealed on a “need to know” basis. This applies both on Earth and on Vulcan. In fact, not only your marriage, but the romantic relationship itself must be hidden. Only some people will be told and Starfleet High Command shall decide whom.”

“Ashayam, the Admiral was right. ”

“I know. And I know you and I must be grateful to him for allowing a Honeymoon. But… it’s sad.”


“It’s sad that people must hide when they would want to shout their joy at the sky.”

“Ashayam . . .”

“And it’s sad . . . that it is women and men of my species who have driven us to this.”

“Ashayam, please . . .”

“It’s sad… and I ashamed that humans, humans like me, prefer to be ignorant . . . If they even bothered to spent time with a Vulcan . . . they’d learn . . . how wonderful some Vulcans can be . . . how wonderful YOU are.


“Sometimes I’m ashamed of this species!”

“Trip! NO!”


(*I feel the same shame, Commander. I feel shame and endless sadness for a love so splendid and . . . so forbidden.*)


“I . . .”



(*Oh boy!*) Now the woman is completely leaning towards the Commander, her body practically over the table, stretching out her arm to tenderly lay a hand on his cheek, utterly forgetful of the place and her Vulcan-being.


Ashayam, your species has given birth to you!


Her voice is soft and firm.


“If Earth never gives me anything else, my T’hai’la, it gave me you. So, I must be forever indebted to your world.”


I withdraw suddenly and quickly. I am overwhelmed. I no longer can withstand this talk, this scene.

I rest my back against the wall, leaning my head backwards on it and shutting my eyes.

Suddenly I realize I am taking possession of something extremely intimate, something that belongs to them and only to them.

I saw the inner face, hidden, secret and private, of a woman in love. The face that only her man has the right to know.

But I wanted to know, and now I know.

I now share the sensations and the feelings of a very deep love, greater and stronger than everyone and everything; capable of nullifying the chasm between two distant races, the space between two distant worlds.

I now know the splendour of a love that evidently had dared to exist and to persist despite everyone and everything.

A love tinged with soft gloom, because it must be only a soft murmuring, whereas it should be a shout, a melodious song, of pride and of joy, sung at the top of the lungs, strong and clear and powerful, in the sun, in the air, in the wind.

But it is a murmuring, which is capable of deafening you, if you are capable of hearing it. As did I.

Now it's too late.

Now I know.

And now . . . I want to know more . . .

I must know more.

I straighten, a slightly false smile on my face.

By now I cannot stop.

And I don’t want to.

Because I’ve become an addict to this couple, to their love.

I want to, I must continue my . . . observation.


“Honey . . .”


The man's voice is a whisper.

His left hand is placed now on the right hand of the woman, which is still on his cheek.


“Stop it, T’hai’la, please. Stop it!”


I have never heard a woman’s voice more burdened with affection, with devotion, with pure love than the voice of this woman as she is saying these words.

She resumes her composure, settling back to her chair, her hand reluctantly relinquishing the cheek of the man.

She lays her hands in her lap and remains silent for a while, her head lowered like her eyes, almost like a shy girl, slightly abashed—I think of the very passionate tone and emotional behaviour I’ve witnessed—not exactly appropriate for a Vulcan, as we all know.

Then she raises her look, to gaze intently at her man.


“I understand your desires. And, believe me Ashayam, your desires are my desires . . .”


Her voice is barely audible, slightly . . . quavering.


“But . . .”


She shuts her eyes slowly.


“But . . .”


Her eyes, again open, are soft, moist as the eyes of a gazelle.


“Vulcans also have needs . . .”


The man is as immobile as a statue, a white, frozen waxwork, totally hanging on her lips.


“And . . . I . . . need you . . .”


(*May God strike me dead!*)


“I couldn't even imagine my life without you!”


(*May God strike me dead! Twice!*)


“Someone, someone you know very well, told me I would feel this way one day, and they were right.”


The Commander nods, lightly. Then he stretches out both his hands on the table, the palms up and the Vulcan without hesitancy puts her own hands into his, to let him tenderly squeeze them.

The gaze between them is a burning flame, which dims the candlelight.


“Our . . . worst enemies . . . were destroyed, I know.”


The woman continues to speak, with a voice now quieter and firmer, gripping hands with her man, who is carefully listening.


“Lieutenant Reed . . .”


(*Lieutenant Reed… This evening is evening of legendary names.*)


“ . . . Malcolm . . . unearthed them, one at a time, as he had been swearing. But . . .”


Now there is quaver in her voice, again; again her eyes are shutting.


“But . . . I perfectly remember the words of their leader, when . . .”

“T’Pol . . .”

“ . . . when he was proclaiming his deadly hatred for you . . .”

T’Pol . . .


(*Vulcans don’t feel fear. The whole universe knows it. So, why now is her voice plainly betraying fear? *)


“…when he was shouting that his spirit, their spirit, wouldn't die, wouldn't find peace . . . until . . .”



(*That’s is NOT fear! That’s is TERROR! *)


. . . until your death!”


That’s is nearly a shriek choked with panic!





(*My God! MY GOD! *) - Her eyes are wide, her hands are spasmodically clenching his!


I…” “That never will happen, because . . .


Now the man speaks firmly, with certainty and . . . (*yes!*) . . . authority! tightening his grip round his wife’s hands.


“. . . because you are my destiny!


The Vulcan holds her breath, and so do I.


I already told you that . . . once!


She is motionless, her gaze locked to his.


“That you are my destiny . . . not death.


I can’t entirely understand! But I understand well enough that they are sharing something deep and intimate and transcendent.

The tension is tangible. But then the Commander’s features soften.

He smiles, sweetly, reaching out to stroke the woman’s cheek.


“Enough, sweetheart! We’ve had too much emotion for one evening. Must be the wine. We should stop. This isn’t good for you!”


Never I will forget this sight.

The Vulcan female, eyes shut, is brushing her cheek against the fingertips of her love, with a dreamy expression!




She says this word in a small voice.


“I can control all my emotions . . . with your help. Except for one . . .”


She slowly opens her eyes, still manifestly relishing the touch of his fingers.


“. . . The one I don’t care to control . . .


This most passionate declaration of love, said without saying anything. Nearly heartbreaking in its softness.

I cannot remove my gaze from these two, staring one at other, hands again entangled, lost in their dream of love.

He, Human.

She, Vulcan.

So close one to other . . .

So linked one with the other . . .

So deeply, passionately fond of one another . . .

And . . .

And . . .

. . .Slowly, an idea is forming in my mind.

How much I would like to find a way to show these two they are not alone; not wrong. That they are not an anomaly . . . an ugly thing . . . that has to be concealed.

How much I would like to find a way to let them know that people do exist who would rejoice at their wedding, be happy for them in their happiness.

(*How much I would like to find a way to make you aware, sweet Vulcan Lady, that here on Earth there are people capable of noticing the beauty of your soul!*)

How much I would like to be able to do something!

I . . .

I hear the man softly chuckling, as if clearing his throat.

Still fondly watching his wife, he attempts a teasing tone, evidently to slacken the taut emotion of the moment. For the Vulcan’s sake, but maybe for his own.


“Well, babe, I’m glad. I was beginning to worry that your . . . extraordinary expressiveness tonight . . . was the fault of the wine.”

“Don’t joke, Ashayam, please . . .”


Gripping his hand tightly, the woman is fixing her eyes to his with an intensity I ever could have believed of a Vulcan.

And softly, lowly . . . pleading . . . she repeats.


“Don’t joke about this!”


The Commander opens his mouth halfway, as to say something—then closes his lips. He tenderly looks up, reciprocating her grip. At last he speaks.


“OK, my love! I won’t tease anymore! And, frankly, I no longer care to talk of this other nonsense, which I’ve already banished from my brain!”


Her hands still in his, the woman deliciously raises an eyebrow, creating, together with her inquiring look, the most delightful sight you might ever see. The Commander’s voice now is serious and deep:


“One person. Nobody. A hundred thousand . . . What does it matter who or how many other people know? The important thing . . . it's us! You and me!

Yes . . . my Ashayam . . . You and me!”


But . . . Vulcans . . . are said to be emotionless. Their faces are always deadpan; their voices, monotonous and dull. Logic and the self-control are their imperative, . . . we all know that.

So, in this case, how is it that one unique and simple word—that “YES”, so quietly uttered—is capable of suggesting such rich and powerful feelings?

Acceptance, total and joyous, proud and absolute. And delight… yes… delight… All this, and more, it is clearly resounding in that word!

And this incredibly lucky man, is continuing to speak, his eyes eagerly drinking in his sweetheart.


“The important thing, T’Pol, is we are here, together.

“Yes, Ashayam.”

“The important thing is that we are together.”

“I agree.”

“The really important thing is that we are married and this is our Honeymoon!.”


“And that you have, and forever will have, my heart!


. . . And the really important thing is that . . .”

“You have and forever will have . . . mine!”


By now I am not even paying attention to the moisture in my eyes. I wipe them, unconsciously, and silently blow my nose.

Vulcans claim they don’t feel emotions, anxiety, or . . . love . . . But they lie! Apparently they are capable of a great deal of love, with their . . . T’hai’la or . . . Ashayam,—if I am guessing the meaning of these terms.

(*Like I see in this case, Sweet Vulcan lady. You display passion here in this place, descretely, while hiding from the curious! But if you display such passion with your lover while you and he are truly alone, without fear and without restraints . . . well then, Commander Charles “Trip” Tucker, the Third!, you are the luckiest man in the galaxy *)

But the lady continues:


The really important thing, my T’hai’la . . . my Ashayam . . . my beloved . . . my . . . husband, is our . . . is our . . .

“ . . . love.”


And so the Human finishes for her, uttering the word a Vulcan might not be able to pull from her soul into the open air. But surely its intimate essence blazes like a red-hot flame in her heart.

(* . . . in both your hearts . . .*)


“But then, Thylia,. . . I believe, eventually, most of our friends and allies will be aware of our marriage, in spite of Starfleet orders.”


This time it is the Commander who is raising his eyebrow, fixing a puzzled look at his Vulcan wife. Though her voice is teasing, he is sitting absolutely composed, her forearms politely placed upon the table.


“In my experience, no love can remain a secret once Hoshi knows of it.”


A fish. That’s the Commander face. And mine.


“You . . . you are joking!?!”

“Vulcans don’t joke.”

“Oh sure, T’Pol! You don't joke, just like your ears are ‘exactly like those of every other Vulcan’!” **


(*Wonders never cease.*) At this bantering, the woman's cheeks tone slightly to emerald green. She is blushing according to the color of her blood!


“Don't mind me, darling. I’m a rascal. But you like that about me. Don't you?


Now the Commander winks impishly, adding,


“It would be illogical to deny it.”


The Vulcan gives a heavy sigh.


“Just as I have learned humour from you, there is hope that you may master the wisdom of Surak, even if…”

“Even if?”


(*Even if? *).


“. . . . it is a truly desperate undertaking!”


The man’s laugh is like thunder, and I must restrain myself from joining him. This proves all the more difficult given the sight of these two: he openly laughing and she sitting absolutely composed, deadpan, both eyebrows now raised, watching quietly, but with a sparkle in her eyes more eloquent than any laugh.

Finally he recovers and looks to his mate, clearly amused and—well—pleased.


“Oh darling, these jokes are okay, . . . but your delivery is perfect! And don’t worry. I think a little of Surak’s logic has rubbed off on me.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Well, for example, I am convinced it would be most logical to get back to our food before it gets completely cold. If we don’t appear to be eating it, the maître come ask if we’re all right, . . . and grab another opportunity to admire you.”


(*Yes, Commander. You really are a rascal. But . . . you are right!*)

His wife watches him, eyes amused, and I am sure her lips are curling up in a hint of a smile.

Then she nods lightly and both return to their dinner, in silent companionship.

Well . . .

And now I believe I have seen and heard enough and, frankly, I don't think anything else (*ahem*) . . . important . . . will transpire.

My observation is ended.

Slowly I close the panel and start unrolling the thread of my thoughts.

Tonight a universe was disclosed to me. An universe of love, whose existence I never suspected. Beautiful. Tender. Sweet. Deep.

Hidden! Forbidden!

This last, the fault of a handful of rouge Humans, with rotting minds, whose ridiculous ideas could take root and destroy the wonderful dream of these two!

And, maybe, more!

It is unfair!

Oh certainly . . .

I know I can’t change anything.

And nevertheless, . . . perhaps something may be done . . .

A sign . . .

Something . . . I don’t know…

(*Something to make you both conscious that Humans are capable of noticing and understanding the loftiness and greatness of a true love . . . ! *)

A sign of friendship, of nearness . . . a sign to make them aware they are not alone.

I don’t know . . .

Maybe . . . something distinctively our own, that comes from Humans . . . but might become hers . . .

A sort of gift, whose meaning is clear to both, without needing words . . . A gift which says, “I understood and I am here, with you, Commander Tucker, and . . . with you, sweet T’Pol of Vulcan, Queen of Love!

What was I thinking of . . . ?

Maybe . . .

Ah, yes!

(* . . .This love should be a melodious song, of pride and of joy, sung at the top of the lungs, strong and clear and powerful… in the sun, in the air, in the wind . . .*)

In the sun, in the air, in the wind . . .

Perhaps . . . also in the night?

Maybe . . . maybe . . .

Well . . . Mmmh . . . (* . . .Something that is our own that may also be hers . . . A gift that is customary here to give a woman in love . . . *)

Mmmh…Commanders… I am an Old Italian waiter, a snoop, but just to a point.

So, I am curious.

Oh yes!

But I am also an Old Italian sentimental waiter; and also an heir of Macchiavelli and of . . . Verdi, and Rossini, and Vivaldi, and Puccini, and Bellini, and Mascagni, and . . .

Machiavelli already got what he needed tonight, even if he will probably want something yet. (I may need something Machiavellian in order to carry out my plan.)

I smile, a mischievous sneer.

(*I am sorry, Commander. I need to know something else. And, for that, I must converse with you . . .and bring desert . . . and, yes, . . . admire your wife. *)

Honeymoon Evening
End of Part 1

I just don't know what this Old waiter plans to do!
Wagers will be accepted!
If we looked for a moral in this story, well...
Maybe the moral is this: Watch out for meddling waiters in Italy.
But... don't worry . They are discreet, too.
And, after all, I don't believe they could do anything bad.
Quite the reverse!
Especially if … well… they are inspied by pair of large female eyes (chocolate-coloured, if you wish, but it works as well with blue, green, black . . or purple) and a pair of legs such as… those!

** This is a reference to my story ”Honeymoon Morning”.


Thanks, Ezinma88. Your comments are welcome. I am displeased you not totally enjoyed Honeymoon Evening (also because its incomplete reading will make you less understanding the sequel), but, I promise, I will try to be a little less sugary-sweet. However I am unsure. You must understand: my Italian-being.:p
Asso! Your last Honeymoon offering was dripping in sentimentality, yet beautifully written and containing such tender imagery... In short, I thoroughly enjoyed it (Few people can pull off such stories, btw ;)). However, I cannot say the same for Honeymoon Evening. That's partly because I haven't finished reading it. And, frankly, I don't think I will. I've tried several times, but there's too much sugary-sweetness for me. And that's saying A LOT! I'm usually the first in line for fluffy-stories. Oh well, can't win them all I suppose. And, hey, from the comments below it seems that I'm in the minority. Anyway, I look forward to your next story with
Black 'n Blue, I'm as sentimentally challenged as you I expect, so that's why it's fun to work Asso. I would never dare go so far myself. And thanks Asso, it was fun. I appreciate the originality and you do make me want get to Italy one day. :D
Eeeyouch! Again. I am not qualified to comment.If this was about people knocking each other around, I could offer something substantive. If you were, describing an alien environment, I could say something worth reading. But this? I am speechless. This is miles over my head. I don't do emotions. In a fight like this, I am unarmed. All I can do is bow in respect.
My satisfaction and my authentic delight for the posted comments are very great. This, not only because, obviously, the fact that people have praises is pleasant; but also and above all because the true pleasure of writing is, now I know this, not only the writing, but also the knowledge that there are persons taking pleasure from what you write. And since all this couldn't have been possible without that person (justTrip'n) that I consider much more than my "personal" beta, please... allow me to greet her warmly. with gratitude and respect.:D And, regarding the color of the eyes of T’Pol, Evalyn, well, who knows that one day Trip will notice that. It's worth thinking over that.;)
Lovely story! "A love tinged with soft gloom, because it must be only a soft murmuring, whereas it should be a shout, a melodious song, of pride and of joy, sung at the top of the lungs, strong and clear and powerful, in the sun, in the air, in the wind." [u]This is a wonderfully descriptive sentence.[/u] I really liked the way you blended serious subjects into a romantic dinner, even bringing in Terra Prime and Elizabeth. I'm looking forward to Part 2.
Asso, I love the flow of this story, unique and mesmerizing. The photos are lovely too, I want to go there! The waiter's thoughts are a good approach for a story. I like the first person, stream-of-consciousness viewpoint which is not often used. We should have more stories form this viewpoint. And all of a sudden I am hungry - the descriptions of the food are making me so. The old house with ancient secrets - how intriging. Okay, now what are they having for breakfast tomorrow morning? :p
beautiful Asso! an interesting perspective this time - the inner thoughts of an observer - i am interested to see what the waiter does for them.
Asso - your stories keep getting better and better! Favorite lines: This is a veritable couple. Or, better yet, a true couple in true love. This couple is not seeking. This couple has it. *sigh* so romantic! And - [b]“T’Pol… It’s your…hairdo!”[/b]- I laughed when I read it.Of course this was before you explained why it bothered him. I can't wait for the next installment. :)
Because I’ve become an addict to this couple, to their love that how i feel too.. can't wait for you next chapter just beautiful
Very romantic story so far. Just one comment - her eyes are not brown, more of a medium greenish-gray. I'm not sure why she gives the [i]impression[/i] of brown eyes so strongly; I didn't realize it myself, assuming she had brown eyes, until some other fan corrected someone else on this.
Italy. I really have to start checking for typos before I click "Post Comment." Anyway, once again, very nice. And yes, the formatting was helpful when reading this, [b]justTrip'n.[/b]
[b]Asso[/b], this is your best story so far! (Um, well, of the ones I've read, because I don't read NC-17.) Very good emotion! But if I ever go to Itlay, I might need to watch out for those waiters.:p
I hope you people appreciate the formatting. It wasn't easy.

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