New Fic: Worrywart
Worrywart
Fandom: Star Trek Enterprise
Rated: PG
Category: Angst, Implied Trip/T’Pol (TnT).
Season: Four.
Spoilers: Affliction.
Summary: For Phlox, sometimes the injury speaks louder than the patient.
Word Count: 499
Disclaimer: Why bicker about who owns what? Can’t we all just live long and prosper?
Note: This one is for sonria. Just because.
xxx
Phlox turned his patient’s hand over with his own.
“Doesn’t look too bad,” he said. “A few cycles with the regenerator and you’ll be good as new.”
“Thank you, doctor,” said T’Pol, her usual cool demeanor in place.
“Oh, you’re quite welcome,” answered Phlox. He turned, grabbed an instrument off his tray, and began to tend the hand in question. A nasty laceration split the knuckle of the first finger and extended over the back of T’Pol’s right hand. Phlox was nearly cheerful as he mended the torn tissue in silence. Eventually, he grew tired of the quiet, however, and spoke up.
“So, how did this happen, Commander?”
T’Pol regarded the doctor stonily.
“The plasma torch I was using malfunctioned.”
Phlox turned and exchanged tools, then addressed T’Pol again.
“Ah, that explains the small metal fragments in the wound. I have already removed them, but I wondered where they came from. Perhaps Commander Kelby should check over that torch.”
“I have already turned the instrument in to engineering,” said T’Pol.
Her answer was as cool as always, but the slight stiffening of the muscles under his fingers told Phlox that he had hit a nerve. A very slight grin lit his features, but because his head was bent low over her hand, T’Pol didn’t notice.
Good thing, too, thought Phlox. If she saw me smile, she might realize that I’m fully aware these shavings aren’t from any plasma torch.
Phlox wisely finished his work in silence, then dismissed T’Pol with as small a smirk as he could manage.
“Good as new, Commander.”
T’Pol flexed her hand. She found it satisfactory and slid off the biobed.
“Thank you, Doctor,” she said. Then she calmly left the infirmary.
No, thank you, Commander, thought Phlox, allowing his grin to grow to Denobulan proportions as his patient disappeared.
A moment later, he sat hunched over his scanner. When the composition results for the metal fragments he’d removed from T’Pol’s wound came up, his smile grew sad.
The screen said exactly what he’d expected.
Bulkhead, crew quarters, NX-01.
Phlox shook his head and sighed.
As delighted as he was to validate his long-held personal theory about the occasional dishonesty of Vulcans (and not just terrorist whack-job Vulcans), the results still saddened him overall. He’d known T’Pol had punched a wall from the moment he’d seen her wound. After all, he’d treated enough Starfleet Academy cadets on Earth to know a fighting injury when he saw one, and he’d seen enough Vulcans bend the truth to not be shocked when T’Pol told him a truly tall tale.
Still, he was hoping the plasma torch story was true. That way, he could have kept believing in the supposed honor of the Vulcan race, and more importantly, he could have continued to tell himself that T’Pol was fine with the fact that Commander Tucker had just left for Columbia.
Now, damn his completeness, he could only wonder about Vulcans in general, and worry over one in particular.
Fandom: Star Trek Enterprise
Rated: PG
Category: Angst, Implied Trip/T’Pol (TnT).
Season: Four.
Spoilers: Affliction.
Summary: For Phlox, sometimes the injury speaks louder than the patient.
Word Count: 499
Disclaimer: Why bicker about who owns what? Can’t we all just live long and prosper?
Note: This one is for sonria. Just because.
xxx
Phlox turned his patient’s hand over with his own.
“Doesn’t look too bad,” he said. “A few cycles with the regenerator and you’ll be good as new.”
“Thank you, doctor,” said T’Pol, her usual cool demeanor in place.
“Oh, you’re quite welcome,” answered Phlox. He turned, grabbed an instrument off his tray, and began to tend the hand in question. A nasty laceration split the knuckle of the first finger and extended over the back of T’Pol’s right hand. Phlox was nearly cheerful as he mended the torn tissue in silence. Eventually, he grew tired of the quiet, however, and spoke up.
“So, how did this happen, Commander?”
T’Pol regarded the doctor stonily.
“The plasma torch I was using malfunctioned.”
Phlox turned and exchanged tools, then addressed T’Pol again.
“Ah, that explains the small metal fragments in the wound. I have already removed them, but I wondered where they came from. Perhaps Commander Kelby should check over that torch.”
“I have already turned the instrument in to engineering,” said T’Pol.
Her answer was as cool as always, but the slight stiffening of the muscles under his fingers told Phlox that he had hit a nerve. A very slight grin lit his features, but because his head was bent low over her hand, T’Pol didn’t notice.
Good thing, too, thought Phlox. If she saw me smile, she might realize that I’m fully aware these shavings aren’t from any plasma torch.
Phlox wisely finished his work in silence, then dismissed T’Pol with as small a smirk as he could manage.
“Good as new, Commander.”
T’Pol flexed her hand. She found it satisfactory and slid off the biobed.
“Thank you, Doctor,” she said. Then she calmly left the infirmary.
No, thank you, Commander, thought Phlox, allowing his grin to grow to Denobulan proportions as his patient disappeared.
A moment later, he sat hunched over his scanner. When the composition results for the metal fragments he’d removed from T’Pol’s wound came up, his smile grew sad.
The screen said exactly what he’d expected.
Bulkhead, crew quarters, NX-01.
Phlox shook his head and sighed.
As delighted as he was to validate his long-held personal theory about the occasional dishonesty of Vulcans (and not just terrorist whack-job Vulcans), the results still saddened him overall. He’d known T’Pol had punched a wall from the moment he’d seen her wound. After all, he’d treated enough Starfleet Academy cadets on Earth to know a fighting injury when he saw one, and he’d seen enough Vulcans bend the truth to not be shocked when T’Pol told him a truly tall tale.
Still, he was hoping the plasma torch story was true. That way, he could have kept believing in the supposed honor of the Vulcan race, and more importantly, he could have continued to tell himself that T’Pol was fine with the fact that Commander Tucker had just left for Columbia.
Now, damn his completeness, he could only wonder about Vulcans in general, and worry over one in particular.