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Number Theory

Disclaimer: Enterprise doesn’t belong to me, I make no money from writing this, more’s the pity. If I did own it then I wouldn’t have cancelled it after only four series.

Rating: 15

Genre: Romance/Mystery

Archive: yes, just ask first.

Spoilers: Pretty much everything

Pairing: T/T'P

Summary: Trip and T’Pol welcome people from across the galaxy to a special event on Deep Space One, but nothing ever goes smoothly for this pair.

AN: This is the sequel to Desert Rose, A Thousand Years and Postcards from Deep Space One. I can’t promise updates will be particularly regular for this one.

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T’Pol was going to kill him. Which was actually fine by him, because at the moment Captain Tucker would rather have been dead than face what was about to happen. Several important Vulcans were arriving at the docking port about now, and he wasn’t there to greet them with his bond mate. He had somehow managed to forget the time and had been working on the new runabout that had been dropped off on Deep Space One earlier in the week. He was covered in engine oil from head to toe and he now had a choice: he could go and take a shower, change his uniform and be late, or he could arrive at the docking port in a dirty uniform, smelling of engines. Yes, T’Pol was going to kill him.

The problem was that he’d got rather used to T’Pol reminding him about this sort of thing by telepathic contact across their bond and she hadn’t been able to do that recently. Unfortunately for him, Junior was causing more interference across the bond the further T’Pol’s pregnancy progressed. This was actually great news, because it meant that their baby was healthy and getting stronger every day, but it was a pain in the ass as far as their telepathy was concerned.

He decided that he just couldn’t turn up covered in oil. He could already see in his mind the disapprovingly wrinkled noses, if he was to offend their sensitive Vulcan noses. T’Pol might be used to his smell, but he doubted the other Vulcans had ever had much contact with humans. He ducked into their quarters, already pulling open the fastenings of his uniform almost before the door slid shut behind him, whilst trying simultaneously to undo his boots. He continued through into the bathroom, whacking on the shower with a hastily freed hand so that it was ready for him to jump into once he’d tugged off his clothes.

He was maintaining a telepathic litany of “sorry, sorry, sorry, I’ll be there as soon as I can,” just in case T’Pol’s link to him came back. He caught a mental flash of the Vulcans arriving at the docking port in their ceremonial robes.

“Damn,” said Trip, to the empty room. He redoubled his efforts to get clean, dropping his dirty clothes on the bathroom floor and leaping into the shower. He squirted shampoo on his hair and rubbed vigorously, using the soap suds over his body to get the dirt off. He rinsed off in record time and shut off the shower, realising that in his haste he had forgotten to get a clean towel. He got out of the shower, dripping wet and stumbled into the bedroom to the closet where the towels were kept, leaving a trail of damp footprints behind him across the carpet.

He grabbed a clean uniform and threw it on, as rapidly as he could. He exited his quarters, once again fully clothed, in record time and walked as quickly as he could down to the docking port. He would have run, but he didn’t want to undo all his work by arriving sweaty and out of breath. He came down the corridor, just in time to run into the gaggle of Vulcans as they left the docking port area. T’Pol was leading the group. She was wearing her dress maternity uniform, which Trip knew she disliked, and gave him a steely glare as he approached. It was about the closest she ever came to looking pissed off.

He fell in beside her. “I’m sorry, T’Pol.”

“Apologies are not necessary,” said T’Pol, quietly terse and right by his ear so that their guests could not hear her. “Your timely presence at the docking port was.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“And I said apologies were not necessary. Now, protocol demands that I introduce you to my family.” T’Pol turned around to face the Vulcans who were filing out of the docking port. There were quite a few of them, rather more than Trip was expecting. She spoke in Vulcan and despite all of Trip’s studies in this area, he barely understood her. It sounded rather more ornate than the usual spoken language.

It was something like “allow me to present to you my betrothed bond mate, Captain Charles Tucker III” but there was rather more to it than that. He was finding it more and more frustrating that their bond was malfunctioning, because normally T’Pol’s mind would have been automatically translating it for him.

Of course one of the Vulcans, an elderly lady, then replied in Vulcan, which he had even less hope of understanding. He heard the word “human” so he guessed it was something like:

“You didn’t tell us that he was a human. What the hell are you thinking?” But he couldn’t be sure. He could barely read T’Pol let alone other Vulcans. T’Pol replied and he hoped that she was saying:

“It doesn’t matter that he’s a human. I love him.” But to be honest he had no idea. They could have been talking about the arrangements for their quarters.

Trip cleared his throat. The elderly Vulcan lady who had spoken gave him a look that would have frozen water on a sunny day. Then held out a hand towards him in a very human gesture of greeting. It looked like she wanted to shake hands with him.

“Captain Tucker, it is enlightening to meet you,” said the Vulcan. “My name is T’Sela. I am, in your parlance, T’Pol’s Great Aunt.”

Trip did the only polite thing that he could do and shook the Vulcan’s waiting hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Ma’am.”

T’Sela withdrew her hand after a perfunctory shake. “I have given you my name, Captain. There is no need for any honorifics.”

Trip smiled. “T’Sela it is then.”

“T’Sela is the current head of my family,” said T’Pol.

“In modern Vulcan society the title is not one that means much, however in the past family heads had considerable responsibilities for the affairs of the family. It is still traditional that we should attend any important events within the family.” T’Sela turned to the small party of Vulcans behind her. “I shall give you the names of the rest of the family members.”

The Vulcans fell into a line so that T’Sela could go along and introduce everyone. Bizarrely each Vulcan held out a hand ready to be shaken in much the same way that T’Sela had done. Trip had been all ready with the usual Vulcan hand salute, but he guessed they’d been reading up on human customs.

“I introduce T’Enri, who is T’Pol’s third cousin, and her bond mate, Sakon. Their children T’Laren, T’Vel and T’Pan. My son Stavin, T’Pol’s second cousin, and his bond mate T’Len, and their child Salok. Kanik, T’Pol’s maternal uncle, and his bond mate, T’Prill, and their children, T’Pol’s cousins, Sarenk and T’Kol. T’Kol’s bond mate Tokkan and children, T’Pala, and Skav. Sarenk’s bond mate T’Faren and their child T’Han.”

Trip knew that he didn’t stand a hope in hell of remembering all these names but he was certainly going to at least try. He counted seventeen Vulcans in the group, all of different ages. The youngest was the person he had been introduced to last, T’Han, and was still a babe in arms. T’Sela was definitely the oldest. He shook everyone’s hand except T’Han’s and that was because she was asleep and encapsulated in a soft cloth carrying device that her mother had wrapped around her body. Trip decided that it was probably against some sort of Vulcan code to tell T’Han’s parents that their daughter was as cute as a button, even if it was an accurate description.

“I wasn’t expecting your entire family to come,” said Trip to T’Pol.

“This is not my entire family, merely the ones who were available to make the journey to Deep Space One,” said T’Pol.

“Oh,” said Trip, at a loss for anything else to say. “Well, welcome to Deep Space One everybody. It’s nice to have you all here for our wedding.”

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To be continued...

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