Above

Summary: Missing scene from “Kir’Shara.”

A/N: The March nature challenge prompted me to dig up and finish this. It was originally inspired by Escriba who noted that Trip was hardly ever there for important moments in T’Pol’s life on screen.

T’Pol sat in front of a lone candle, legs crossed, attempting to visualize the turmoil within her as a sandstorm. She was above the chaos and emotion. She was in control, as the wind controlled the sand.

She was not deceiving herself.

Before she could begin anew her door chimed. Standing and blowing out the candle, she opened the door. Trip was standing outside, sympathy evident all over his face. “Come in,” she said, unwilling to accept condolences in the corridor.

“Tushah nash-veh k\'odular,” he said softly. His pronunciation was slow, uneven and hesitant, and he had addressed her as multiple persons of honored status, but the gesture was comforting nevertheless. For a moment T’Pol found herself unable to speak.

“Was that wrong? I meant to say I’m sorry about your mom. ”

She nodded. “Thank you. I understood, but I was… surprised.”

“Well, I thought it might be nice in your own language. Or somethin’ like your own language, anyway.” Indeed it was, although the effect of his effort on her already fragile emotional state was not something T’Pol was inclined to confess. “You know,” continued Trip, “I think you get a lot of your spunk from your mom.”

Before her return to Vulcan, she would have dismissed the statement as absurd. Now she considered his words for a moment. “Perhaps,” she concluded aloud, “my mother and I were more similar than I previously realized.” She wished that her mother was still alive to further explore the possibility.

Trip gave her a sad smile. “I know you probably wanna be alone to meditate an’ all, but I just want you to know, I’m here if you need anything.”

He really was a remarkable man. T’Pol could admit, if only to herself, that her treatment of Trip had been unfair. That had never been her intent, but it did not alter the resultant outcome. Yet he still came to her, having learned to offer his condolences in her native language, offering his unconditional friendship.

“Thank you.”

He nodded and left, wisely refraining from unnecessary words.

T’Pol resumed her position in front of the candle and relit it. The image of her mother’s death came to mind, unbidden and undesired. She was above the chaos and emotion. It held no power over her. Every sandstorm, no matter how powerful and destructive, was finite. One needed simply to rise above it. So it was with emotions. Her mother had been right; T’Pol had never been particularly adept at navigating the strong currents of her emotions. Sandstorms were imprecise, but scientific. Grief was far more precise and considerably less scientific. It refused logic.

She was not above the chaos and emotion. But in time, she would be.

End