#I'm playing fast and loose with her characterization since there is SO little in canon--one TOS ep and then obviously she isn't even

[enterprisetrampstamp]

The Martinstown WIP Part 2

Part 1

This is Part 2 of what is likely to be a nice, long t’pura fic once I’ve banged it out. It’s a bizarre length and actual amount of plot by my standards, so I’m in want of comments and breaking my usual rules to post sections of it before it’s fully complete. Please, holler at your ambiguously gendered author with any #thoughts you have!

***

“For Pete's sake,” Kevin says, as T’Pring calmly sweeps the pot of assorted trinkets and other random items that they’ve been betting from the center of the table to join the rest of the pile in front of her. “Who invited the Vulcan?”

She blinks, pausing in her movements. “This is a weekly poker game.”

Kevin’s face does something complicated. “Yes, but--”

“I was not invited,” T’Pring tells him. “None of us were invited. This is a recreational activity intended to facilitate the formation of strong bonds amongst the crew; it occurs during a pre-established, recurring timeslot.”

“It’s a figure of speech,” Kevin tries, eyes roving about the table as he attempts to find a sympathetic face. (He does not. The most sympathetic among them, Cristobal, fell asleep nearly an hour earlier. A thin blanket has been draped across his shoulders, and his gentle snores undergird their conversation.)

T'Pring continues to gaze at Kevin. “I do not understand," she says.

“Except that you do.” Kevin sets his hand flat on the table, fingers spread wide and his eyebrows rising, as he attempts to keep his voice calm. “I’ve been on this ship for nearly two years, so I know you, and I know that you know what figures of speech are, and I know, and you know, that you are trying to fuck with me.”

“I am a Vulcan,” T’Pring says, managing to convey an air of vast insult without modulating her voice or altering her expression. “I do not ‘try to fuck with’ people.”

"No," Pinga agrees. Her eyes glitter with amusement, and she brushes a strand of her thick dark hair- shot through with streaks of grey- back over her shoulder. "You do not try to fuck with people."

The corner of T'Pring's mouth raises, momentarily and minutely, into a smile. She inclines her head, stating solemnly, "I accept your compliment as intended."

Laughter runs around the table.

“I’m going to cry.” Kevin runs a hand over his face, his own laughter a little fraught and helpless. “I’m--Lainey, I am, literally, I’m going to cry.”

“You can’t cry; you already bet your handkerchief.” Lainey snickers as he groans, leaning forward to thunk his forehead lightly against the table. She reaches out to pat his shoulder, and where it should be sympathetic, instead it is mildly condescending.

Such is the way of younger siblings, or so T'Pring has been led to assume.

She finishes collecting her winnings. It all means little to her, of course, but most of it means little to any of them, and what items may be missed by their original owners usually find their way back to them before the end of the night. The collection of material goods is not the point of this activity--regardless of whether or not T'Pring excels at it.

“I shall provide you the opportunity to win it back,” she tells Kevin magnanimously, picking the handkerchief out to toss into the center of the table as the ante.

The rest of the table follows suit; Lainey selects a battery to add to the pot, then reaches across her brother to grab a piece of candy from his pile. Elina adds a pack of saltine crackers, and Pinga- who has been playing for Cristobal since she herself ran out of items a couple of hands earlier- raids his pockets for the little slip of fabric he uses to clean his glasses, before ruffling his hair fondly and adjusting the blanket about his shoulders.

"How motherly," Elina teases, the words warm and taunting in her thick Georgian accent, and Pinga doesn't even look over at her.

"Bite me, grease monkey."

Cristobal snuffles in his sleep.

"Whatever," Kevin says, voice muffled. "Thanks, T'Pring. You're a real mensch."

She tilts her head slightly in agreement. "It is only logical, as I have no need of a handkerchief."

"Naturally."

T'Pring glances up as the door slides, silently, open on the far end of the kitchen. Their captain pauses on the threshold; not in need of their service but simply to observe, and so she returns her attention to the human bonding ritual of mild teasing and humiliation.

"Yes," she says. "It is in fact natural that Vulcans do not cry."

(This is not, strictly, an accurate statement; Vulcans are capable of tears, although they are rarely shed due to the obdurate cultural norms requiring mastery of their emotional expressions. But T'Pring has become fluent in the human usage of hyperbole for humorous purposes, as well as a great many other things which would scandalize even the most progressive members of her homeworld's society.)

(If only there were more of her people left to be scandalized.)

Kevin makes a noise which can only be classified as "pathetic", and groans out, "Please stop."

"Take pity on him, beta," Fatima says, one hip propped against the doorframe and her arms crossed over her chest. "He's too delicate for your sledgehammer of a sense of humor."

"Is that an order, Captain?" T'Pring asks calmly, as she collects the cards. It is her turn to deal. She considers employing sleight of hand in order to provide Kevin the necessary cards to regain his handkerchief, but it has been approximately 4.786 Terran years since she was last able to effectively avert suspicion by calling upon her species' reputation for integrity, and Elina is remarkably observant for a human.

Of course--

The ability to cheat is why they use a physical deck of cards, as opposed to the holo-capabilities of the glass table upon which they currently play. She meets Elina's warm hazel eyes across the table, a smirk hiding somewhere in the darkness of her own, and shuffles the deck with a sharp, crisp noise.

Fatima does not smile, but there is something in the twist of her lips that implies amusement. "Consider it a firm suggestion," she says, her tone dry.

"Very well." T'Pring turns her shoulders away from the table to face her, one slanted eyebrow rising slightly. "Do you wish to join us?"

"Hm." The captain pushes away from the door, shoving up the sleeves of her shirt and squinting as she moves to lean over the table. "Is there anything worth winning left?" she asks, poking at the modest pile of objects next to Lainey's elbow.

"Is there ever anything worth winning?" Elina holds up a primitive- and cheap- ink pen from her own pile. "I have no paper to use this on."

"Because the washers you brought are so much more practical," Pinga mutters.

"Don't be rude, bebia."

"I'll show you rude, tiguaq--"

Fatima clicks her tongue. "Behave," she admonishes, even as her hand sneaks out for a piece of chocolate out of T'Pring's winnings.

T'Pring, quick as a snake, smacks her hand away. "Behave," she echoes.

Despite the gloves- thin, dark purple leather- which she has long adopted as a method of protecting the crew from the brunt of her telepathy and vice versa, she catches the barest glimpse of her captain's playful shock and ire.

"Insubordination," Fatima says, with a side-eyed glare as she rubs her stinging knuckles. "I could have you court martialed."

"Given that we both have no brig, and that I am the member of this crew most often called upon to serve the role of a security officer--" T'Pring shuffles the cards with another crisp crack-- "I believe your Terran phrase is, 'I should like to see you try.'"

Fatima sighs. "You were so sweet when we met."

T'Pring pauses in her movements to stare at her. "I was not," she says, her blank face once more conveying an air of grave insult.

"No," Elina agrees. "She's always been a prideful twat; she used to just hide it behind Vulcan stoicism and words that none of us could understand."

"Now I am a strong independent woman who openly speaks her mind," T'Pring says, in a tone that could almost pass for dry.

Lainey shoves her glass in the air, cheering, "L'Chaim!"

T'Pring raises that piece of chocolate between her index and middle fingers, a glitter of amusement somewhere deep in those dark eyes, and agrees: "L'Chaim."