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Story Notes:

Star Trek Enterprise is the property of CBS/Paramount.

"21 Questions" is the property of Aftermath, Interscope, and Shady Records.

This story is a labor of love and no infringement is intended. In fact, it is my sincere hope that upon reading it, readers will be inclined to spend money on Enterprise merchandise and buy some 50 Cent mp3s, 'cause that's the way we roll around here.

No portions of 50 Cent's lyrics were actually used in the story; they merely served as the inspiration.

Trip stretched, sighed contentedly, and snuggled into the warm form under the covers next to him. He was blissfully oblivious to the stars streaking past T'Pol's window. He was sweaty, sore, and exhausted.

In short, he felt awesome.

"If I didn't know any better," he drawled, "I'd swear it's not exactly my mind you love me for."

Her eyebrow went up. He could tell from the slight change in her head's position on his shoulder. "Your intelligence is one of your greatest attributes," T'Pol answered somewhat wearily. "Unfortunately, your reckless, intractable nature frequently overshadows your high mental capacity."

Trip grimaced, eyes shifting in her general direction. "Thanks," he said dryly. "Seriously, though. Would you love me if I was butt-ugly or something?"

"'Ugly' is not a word I would ascribe to your posterior."

He gave a self-congratulatory smile but said, "You're dodging the question."

T'Pol heaved a small sigh of resignation. "Attraction is the manifestation of the biological urge to seek a genetically sound mate in order to produce the best possible offspring."

"So...that'd be a no?"

"It means your question is irrelevant, since you are here."

"Well, what if I was poor?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You know. What if I wasn't an engineer on a starship? What if I was just the guy flipping burgers – or dishing up soup at the plomeek stand on the corner somewhere on Vulcan?" The game was amusing him.

"There are no plomeek stands on Vulcan."

"There are in San Francisco."

"You didn't say San Francisco."

"Does it matter?"

"This is what I was referring to when I mentioned your intractable nature."

"No love for a poor man, huh?"

"Your question is illogical," T'Pol answered tightly. "Were you a plomeek vendor, it is doubtful that I would have occasion to become further acquainted with you once our transaction was concluded – assuming I would even purchase plomeek from a street vendor in the face of dubious sanitation standards, which I would not."

Trip feigned indignance. "Hey, I run a clean place."

T'Pol ignored him. "You know wealth is of little consequence to me."

"I know," Trip answered tenderly. A beat, then, "So...what if I did something awful and they sent me to prison? Would you answer my letters?" He laughed, then continued suggestively, "Show up for conjugal visits?"

T'Pol finally lifted her head to look him in the eye. "Are you unwell? You normally sleep after we have relations. Perhaps you should see Phlox."

"There's just some things a man's gotta know," he answered. "I'm not sick. I'm just curious."

T'Pol did little to conceal her doubts. "It's uncharacteristic of you to ask so many questions."

Trip gave her a reassuring squeeze, and she lowered her head back down to his shoulder.

"It's not that many questions," he quietly protested. "Now about that conjugal visit..."

Another weary sigh. Trip thought she was going to ignore him. Until –

"What is the nature of your crime?"

 

 

 

 

Chapter End Notes:

END

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