“Okay,” her companion said. “Let’s get the tent up and then we can get you back to normal.” T’Pol raised an eyebrow at the teasing she could hear in his voice and he smiled. “It’s simple self-preservation, darlin’,” he stated brightly. “I don’t want you to break my hand ‘cause I screwed up a neuropressure posture.”
“Yes,” T’Pol deadpanned. “That would be bad.” She opened her bag. “Who would wash our cooking utensils then?” she added. Trip laughed.
It was a wonderful sound.
T’Pol was beautiful when she meditated.
He knew that he shouldn’t stare, that it was both impolite and more than a little creepy, but Trip simply wasn’t able to tear his eyes away from the Vulcan woman as she sat quietly, her eyes closed and an expression of peace on her face. Light from the rising sun bathed her fac
