The Expanse - J.M. Dillard [72]
“I don’t know,” he replied at last. “You could always ask the Captain to give you a field commission ... Make you a Starfleet officer ... Commander T’Pol ... That’s not too different than sub-commander.”
T’Pol’s dark eyes, rendered exotic by high, upward-slanting cheekbones, regarded him intently for a moment. She seemed to be waiting for something. After another uncomfortable moment, she said, “I’ll consider that. Thank you.”
He expected her to rise, to dismiss him. When she did not, he shifted his weight a bit nervously in the chair.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked.
This was getting weirder by the minute. “Thanks,” Trip said, “but it might keep me up. The doctor just gave me a sedative.” It was a pretty broad hint that it was time for him to leave, but instead, she took it as a conversation opener.
“You’re having trouble sleeping as well?”
He looked at her in honest surprise. “I never would’ve pegged you as an insomniac.”
She gave a short nod. “I believe the Expanse has been disrupting my REM patterns.”
“Probably nothing a good hypospray won’t cure.” There. Now they both had an excuse to leave her quarters.
But she had an answer for that, too. “Vulcan science teaches us to prompt our bodies to create their own medicines.”
“So why’re you still having trouble sleeping?”
“The neural nodes that need to be stimulated are difficult to reach.” She rose and turned her back to him; the robe slipped from her shoulders. “Perhaps you could help me.”
Trip became aware his mouth had dropped open, and immediately closed it. The thought that she was coming on to him returned full force. “I really don’t know if I can—”
Before he could make his escape, she knelt in front of his chair, facing away from him. “Three centimeters on either side of the fifth vertebra,” she stated expectantly as she unbuttoned her pajama top; she lowered it, exposing her back to him.
Trip felt himself flush all the way to his hairline.
“You can apply considerable pressure,” T’Pol said, waiting.
Trip hesitated. Maybe this was on the level; maybe she had just needed someone to perform this Vulcan technique on her. But if that was the case, why hadn’t she simply gone to Phlox? And why come up with the phony dilemma about her rank?
He decided to go along with it anyway. He ran a finger along the bare skin covering her spine, and drew in a silent breath. He had never touched a Vulcan before; he hadn’t known their skin was so warm. He began to murmur, “I’m not sure which of these is ...”
“Right there,” T’Pol said.
Trip touched the spot again to confirm it. “Right here.” He placed his thumbs on either side of her spine and gently pressed.
“A little closer together,” T’Pol directed.
Trip shifted his thumbs in closer.
“Harder,” she said.
He pressed harder. He expected her to buckle slightly against the pressure, but she held her ground; she was very strong.
“Harder,” she insisted.
“If I push much harder,” he protested, “I’ll knock you over.”
She said nothing, so he pressed harder—and she didn’t budge so much as a millimeter.
“Just like that,” she said. “Please continue ...”
Trip complied. After a beat, she let go a deep breath—almost a moan—and Trip felt her body relax. He felt himself blush again at the sound; this was getting way too personal.
T’Pol turned slowly to face him. “That was far more effective than a hypospray.” She pulled up her pajama top and began to button it.
“Glad to be of assistance,” Trip said, in his best Boy Scout, ours-is-a-platonic-relationship manner.
T’Pol stood. “It would be only fair for me to return the favor.” She paused, then said flatly, “Please disrobe.”
That was the final straw; Trip was on his feet in a flash. “I’m really flattered, Sub-Commander—it’s okay to call you Sub-Commander, right? And don’t think that under different circumstances I wouldn’t jump at the chance to—”
T’Pol interrupted, an expression of disbelief on her face. “Are you implying that I’m making sexual advances?”
Maybe he’d misunderstood: Right. Just misunderstood.