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I.
you and i
we used each other's shoulder
In her dreams this is all so simple.
The Xindi attack Earth and Enterprise fights back. The Xindi realise the logic of peace and humanity prevails. The Expanse is destroyed and Enterprise returns home and Starfleet, pleased beyond words, welcomes its crew home with sincere thanks for all that they have done in the fulfilment of their duties. There are no repairs needed, no deaths to report... and no silence to their hails.
In her dreams time is still a universal constant, an unchanging variable. It is not altered or affected in ways that defy logical explanation: it simply, linearly, exists. What has been, has been; what will be, will be; and never will the has been be changed arbitrarily to a what if. There are no what ifs. The Vulcan Science Directorate has proven conclusively that such speculation is illogical and (in her dreams) she has no reason to doubt them.
In her dreams she is still perfectly Vulcan and Captain Archer is still very much alive and there are no consequences, long term or otherwise, to her Trellium addiction. She has not realised that she is irrationally drawn to an irrational man, has not allowed that man any power (of any kind) over her, and she certainly does not need his help in recovering her emotional control. (In her dreams, she has never become addicted and lost control in the first place.)
In her dreams... she doesn't dream.
While they wait for the away teams to complete their initial surveys on Earth, Lieutenant Reed takes the bridge. She tries to refuse (she is captain now and she has a responsibility to the rest of the crew to be here) but her thoughts (her emotions) are starting to fracture and the chance to meditate is desirous.
"I'll contact you immediately if the situation changes," Reed promises, in the privacy of the Captain's ready room, as she reluctantly concedes to leaving for a couple of hours. When she continues to linger, he subtly edges her towards the turbolift before she can completely change her mind.
Once in her quarters, however, her mind refuses to clear. She lights a candle and kneels but her thoughts flicker in concert with the flame and relief seems unattainable. She finds herself contemplating the contents of cargo hold one and when a chime sounds, welcomes the distraction almost gladly. "Come."
"Hey."
Commander Tucker. Trip. She watches him circle around and kneel opposite her, the candle between them.
"I couldn't sleep," he says, and then grimaces. "Correction -- I don't want to sleep." He glances at her, at the candle, and then her again. "How're you holding up?" She looks at him and he nods. "Right." A pause as he sighs and rubs his palms on his thighs. "Want to talk?"
"I need to meditate." The strength in her voice, the lack of emotion, is gratifying and nodding again, Trip shifts... but does not rise. She watches his eyes close, and his shoulders roll back in an attempt to relax, and realises he's taken her dismissal as an invitation.
Her mouth opens, a clearer phrasing on her lips -- please leave -- and then closes again, silent, as she realises that she had, possibly, intended it as such. She draws in a shaky breath -- so much for her strength -- and shuts her eyes and does not open them again until she feels his hand on her shoulder; a fleeting touch.
"Thanks," he says, and leaves her quarters.
It's morning.
The next time it is she who seeks him out. Their communications throughout the day have been varied and frequent as the away teams return and report but, despite that, she has seen him little. The mess hall is quiet, almost empty, and he sits at one of the far tables, a line of PADDs before him.
"Here," she says, by way of greeting, as she hands him a mug and sits opposite.
"Thanks." His smile is a tired ghost and she's surprised he can display one at all. "Anythin'?"
She shakes her head and sips at her tea.
"Yeah, me either."
The exchange is pointless -- they are both well aware that they would have contacted each other immediately had they found something, found anything -- but necessary, somehow. She critiques him over the rim of her mug and frowns. "You are tired."
"I'm okay." His free hand hovers above one PADD, then another. He picks up a third and studies it more closely.
"Meditation is not a recommended substitute for sleep," she says. Her disapproval is clear, her concern not as much. She tells herself that's progress.
But he says, "good," surprising her, "'cause I was wonderin' whether to tell you that I fell asleep last night."
Her eyebrow arches and he shrugs a little before turning back to his PADDs.
"Hey, I'm just glad I didn't kick over the candle or somethin'." Another flashing smile. "Or snore."
His confession is unnerving and she leaves before he can possibly reveal more. We are not supposed to be so easily compatible, she thinks. We are not supposed to be anything at all.
Unfortunately, neither admonishment comforts her.
She visits with Phlox, and works late, and holds onto the Captain's book until the feel of it, the scent of it, is ingrained into her very being. He has been gone for three days now and she still feels his absence as sharply, as painfully, as when Lieutenant Reed first revealed his fate. Her candle burns out and she does not light another. The cargo holds have never seemed more accessible.
Trip's quarters are dark and quiet. When she slips under the covers beside him, he rouses somewhat and drapes an arm around her waist; pulls her close. He is sleepy and warm and his nose brushes against her nape as he sighs.
"Mmm..." he murmurs, "T'Pol..."
She shudders but does not believe for a moment that he is truly conscious. Their journey, she knows, is far from over and she can remember all too clearly his irritation the last time she became excessively emotional in his presence. She thinks it was foolish to come and fears that when he wakes properly he will not be pleased to find her here, in his bed, without invitation. She knows she should leave.
Then his leg slides between hers and the universe simply fades away. Her eyes close.
She wakes alone, and late, and knows she will have to rush to make it on time to the command centre for the senior staff's morning meeting.
"Hello, Subcommander."
And not so alone then, after all. She pushes up from the mattress with far less poise than she would like and stares at the unexpected visitor. "Crewman Daniels."
"Ma'am." He nods politely, hands clasped behind his back as he stands in the middle of the room. "I would have been here sooner but," he looks around uncomfortably, "I didn't realise you'd changed quarters."
"I haven't."
Another nod, even quicker this time. "Of course."
She frowns and changes the subject. "Is there a reason you're here, Crewman?"
"Yes." His relief at the change palpable, he drops to a crouch near the bed. Instinctively, she arches away. "Jonathon needs your help."
She flinches. "Captain Archer," she says, voice just a little unsteady, "is dead."
Daniels smiles. "Since you once thought the same thing about me, Subcommander, I don't think we should hold it against him." His expression turns intense. "Tell me -- what do you know about temporal disturbances?"
The morning passes in a blur of scientific impossibilities and after lunch she and Lieutenant Reed traverse the ship, itemising what they need and want but don't have. It's a list that seems to grow exponentially every hour and he leaves her in cargo hold one, promising miracles. She watches him go, envying his easy optimism.
Then she's alone again and wandering through the hold on instinct, stopping only when the familiar crates come into sight. If only, she thinks. Because life is so much easier when she can blame everything undesirous on the Trellium.
"Careful there." His entrance silent, he stands behind her, close but not touching. When he speaks, she can feel his breath on her neck. "We've still enough left to give you a nasty turn."
She doubts she would find it unpleasant. "Did you want something, Commander?"
His shadow nods. "Got those figures you requested." She quarter-turns and accepts the offered PADD. "You know it'll take a miracle to pull this off, right?"
"With no other viable options, Daniels' proposal is our most logical course of action at this time." She pauses and thinks of Lieutenant Reed, of Phlox. "We must hope for the best."
"Right." He nods towards the exit with an 'after you' gesture. Reluctantly, she leaves the crates. "So... and don't take this the wrong way or anythin'... but you bein' there, this mornin', in my quarters..."
They've reached the turbo lift; her spine stiffens. "I apologise."
"Don't." At her look, he smiles a little. "It was nice. Confusin'... but nice."
"Commander -- " The lift arrives and she enters automatically, unsure when he does not follow.
"I gotta get back to Engineerin'," he says, reading her expression. "But dinner tonight?"
"I cannot." Ensign Sato has requested her assistance and she is behind in her own duties as Science Officer.
"Later then?" When she does not reply, he frowns. "We should talk," he reminds her.
And she hasn't forgotten but, "I'm sorry." The door hisses shut.
And another slides open, his arrival following Ensign Sato's departure so smoothly that she wonders if she had, in fact, scheduled time with him after all.
"Look, I know you said you were busy but -- "
"I am."
Pushing past him, she exits the command centre, unsurprised when he falls into step beside her. After a moment or two, he reaches out to take the assortment of PADDs from her hands, and she frowns a little, but does not protest. Some battles are not worth fighting.
At her quarters, he follows her in without invitation and stacks the PADDs on her desk.
"Thank you," she says, remaining at the door.
A smile. "You're welcome."
She opens the door again and waits expectantly for his departure. "I have work to do," she reminds him.
"I know." Without looking her way, he moves to sit on her bed.
Her arms cross. "Commander," she says, as he retrieves a PADD of his own and turns it on, "I do not have time for -- "
"I can wait."
Irritation is a powerful motivator, pettiness even better, and though she'll never admit to having allowed either of them influence her behaviour, it's approaching two-hundred before she finally turns off her screen.
"Finished?"
She looks at him, reclining on her bed, the PADD long discarded, and hates that they can work and not-work together so well. Doesn't he realise that this is not supposed to be easy? Can't he see that this is not what she's supposed to want?
"No."
When she stands he reaches out and touches her hand and, unprotesting, she twists and turns and descends. Her knees straddle his hips, her fingers claim his clavicle. Trapezius... Stemocleidomastoid... there; instinctively she finds the pressure points.
"Look, I just want to talk," he says, his hands on her waist, "but if you ask me to go, I will."
And she knows he will but she's beginning to think that her other self was right. That while she can imagine her life in many ways, in none of them can she now picture him out of it. She's not so sure she wants to. "I cannot." She shifts in his grip until his fingers are positioned correctly and feels him harden beneath her.
"This is not -- " He exhales raggedly. "T'Pol, I didn't come here for this."
She rocks slowly; finds a rhythm. Forgets all about the possibility of neuropressure. "And if I did?"
He groans and tightens his grip and flips them over, settling between her legs. "Talk," he says. "We still have to talk." His groin brushes hers; her back arches. "Just talk to me, T'Pol. Just tell me what you want."
If only, she thinks. "I don't know what I want." Her hands link behind his head and her leg curls around his waist. They grind slowly against each other. Deliberately. She wishes they were naked.
He swears and drops his head, his mouth on her neck. "Then anythin'. I don't care. Tell me somethin'."
She tells him not to stop.
Lieutenant Reed has impeccable timing. "Reed to T'Pol."
They part breathlessly, Trip slapping at the comm link above her head. "T'Pol here," she says.
"It's time, Subcommander."
"Understood." Trip pulls away in a manner that does extreme things to her equilibrium. She shudders. "I'm on my way."
They play with Time and Reality like they are tangible things, able to be reshaped and reworked at their whim. This thread they cut and that one they save and this one they wind round and around the earth until something more familiar, more real, shows up on their sensors. The sun goes supernova and Time slips sideways and frontways and backways and Reality is every-which-way and...
... it doesn't matter. it doesn't matter. it doesn't make any difference whatsoever because she is Vulcan and this is all just an impossibility and Vulcans don't believe in alternate realities and time travel and altered timelines and this is all just irrelevant because Lorian said he'd see them soon and he never arrived, never left, was never born and...
... now there's Mayweather at the helm and now there's someone else and the wormhole forms and the wormhole never existed and there's a portal over here and a portal over there and Daniels is shouting "no!" and Daniels is shouting "yes!" and Commander Sato's firing torpedoes and it's not fair. it's not fair. it's not fair...
... and Trip's on the bridge, Trip's in engineering, Trip's standing right beside her, holding her hand, and there are consoles exploding and Ambassador Soval is laughing and the Xindi have wiped out Earth and Porthos is in the Captain's chair eating cheese and humanity was never in any danger at all and Phlox is standing above her, Trellium D in hand, and...
"Is it over?" asks a voice; she thinks it's Ensign Mayweather. "Did we do it?"
And Ensign Sato says, "we're being hailed," and then grins. "It's Starfleet!"
She stares at the sun and watches it burn. "We did."
Later, in the Captain's ready room, she sits at the desk while Trip stares out the window.
"Well, ten points to Daniels." A Human reference. She doesn't bother to respond. "But it still doesn't seem right."
Her fingers touch the edge of the Captain's screen, of his keypad. This allusion she understands. "No. It doesn't."
She watches the console's chronometer; counts the seconds of each minute. Earlier, time had been everything and now... now it just passes. She will never understand what they did today.
"Do Vulcans believe in Heaven?"
She turns in her chair and watches him watch Earth. "Ap-Lau," she says eventually. "It means a place of eternal peace."
He smiles. "Sounds nice." He looks over at her and raises an eyebrow. "Think they'd let Jon in?"
She arches her own in response. "He is a competent negotiator."
He laughs.
"Bridge to T'Pol."
She activates the comm. "Go ahead, Ensign."
"I've Admiral Forrest for you again."
"Put him through." As she faces the console, Trip moves closer.
"He's, uh," Sato coughs. "He's requesting you take it out here. On the bridge."
Her gaze meets Trip's and the perplexity on his features is something she can relate to easily. "Very well." Closing the channel, she follows Trip out the door. Once near the Captain's chair, she laces her hands behind her back and nods to Sato. "Admiral Forrest," she says, as the viewscreen flickers to life. "What can we do for you?"
"Subcommander." After nodding briefly to them all, the Admiral's grin widens considerably. She thinks she's never seen it so vibrant before. "I believe we have something of yours..."
There's movement off-screen and then, suddenly, on. Somebody on the bridge gasps -- she's not sure who -- and she stumbles back a step, realising only then that the Commander is behind her. His hands find her shoulders, gripping tightly.
"Captain!"
II.
you and i had our sights set on something
Captain Archer reunites with them at Jupiter Station, bringing with him a tale as implausible as their own (regardless of her own experiences in Detroit 2004, she is outwardly sceptical that he and Daniels, with the help of Enterprise, actually travelled back to 1944) and a new mission. They will leave again as soon as the repairs and upgrades are completed.
Ambassador Soval petitions for her time relentlessly but, with the exception of her initial report about their mission in the Expanse (a duty she does not, and would never, avoid), she refuses his summons for an immediate return to Earth. Her loyalty is to Captain Archer now and she follows him almost everywhere, conscious of the emotional reasoning behind such actions and yet nevertheless unwilling to check it. She has grieved for him twice now and does not intend to allow it to happen again.
The remaining Trellium D has been taken away for study by their leading scientists. She tells herself quite firmly that that's a good thing.
"How're you doin'?" asks Trip on their third night at drydock. They're outside the temporary quarters designated to Captain Archer for their stay, awaiting his appearance, and Trip's hand brushes hers lightly as they stand there.
"I am well." She thinks he looks tired and says as much.
"Yeah, maybe a little. Was up all night with the dock crews, runnin' through the repairs." He leans back against a bulkhead with a sigh, a weary smile sent her way. "Lot of work to be done before we ship out again."
She nods and looks out the window; watches a shuttlepod weave a path over Enterprise's hull. "Will you be taking leave before our departure?" All crew have been given leave for the duration of the repair schedule but she is conscious that few of the senior staff have accepted.
"Nah, not really. Too much to do up here, you know? I'm thinkin' a few days, maybe, on Earth before we go again, but apart from that..." He shrugs and she finds his response unsurprising. His dedication to his work has always been unquestionable. "What about you? Still goin' to Vulcan?"
She shakes her head. "There is insufficient time." She does not add, and I am needed here. Her role as Captain Archer's shadow, she knows, is entirely self-appointed. Her gaze shifts to his reflection and finds him watching her. She stares back.
"The other night," he says eventually, "in your quarters. I just want you to know that I didn't mean -- "
Archer's door slides open and the Captain smiles as he finds them waiting. "Ah, good. You're both here." He gestures down the corridor. "Shall we?"
Nodding, she turns from the window and then stops as Trip's fingers wrap around her forearm.
"Tomorrow night," says Trip quietly. "Dinner?"
"Yes."
Her prompt reply surprises them both and he lets go of her arm. The Captain, already several feet away, pauses and turns back.
"You two coming?" he asks, and with a quick nod, Trip steps around her.
"Right behind you, Captain," he says.
"T'Pol?"
"Yes, Captain." She follows.
That she knows the exact extent of the Commander's delay (one hour and fifty-two minutes) yet is, nevertheless, still waiting for him is almost as galling as her disappointment at the thought that she will not be seeing him this evening after all.
It's been four days since they saved Earth and it is utterly illogical, she knows, to miss someone she still sees every day. To mind his absence even as she passes him in a corridor, or listens to him discussing repairs with Captain Archer.
She blames herself entirely. She should never have encouraged their habit of seeking out each other's company (usually for reasons she does not like to dwell on) upon leaving the Expanse. Should never have substituted one addiction for another.
The soft chirp of her communicator interrupts her thoughts and she retrieves it quickly. "T'Pol here," she says.
"I'm sorry to disturb you," says the Captain, "but I was wondering if you could -- "
From the corner of her eye, she sees the Commander finally appear. He's hurrying towards her, his features contrite. When he realises she's watching him, he smiles sheepishly. Illogically, her pulse quickens.
" -- T'Pol? T'Pol?"
With a start, she turns back to the communicator. "I'm sorry, Captain," she says. She opens her mouth to tell him she's on her way. "Can it wait until morning?"
She's not sure who's more surprised by the question, the Captain or herself -- certainly that wasn't what she had intended to say -- but before she can retract it, Archer says, "of course." She thinks he sounds amused. "I'll see you then. Archer out."
She folds the communicator away as Trip reaches her side. "Hey," he says, a little out of breath. His hair is damp and she has an irrational urge to run her fingers through it.
"You're late."
"And terribly sorry about it. I was out on the hull and -- "
She interrupts before she can stop herself. "I waited."
Silence. Nervously, she meets his gaze, transfixed when he slowly raises a hand. His fingers brush softly against her cheek. He smiles.
"I've missed you too."
For reasons she's not sure she wants to understand, they decide against eating in the drydock's messhall and instead take their meals to one of the observation decks. It's empty at this late hour, and dark, and they sit on the floor beneath the large window, their plates in their laps. She tries not to think about how uncivilised they must appear.
Characteristically, Trip talks throughout the entirety of the meal, informing her of his repair schedule and the proposed improvements for the warp core and the plans he has for Enterprise's systems in general. She is already aware of most of what he tells her but these conversations of theirs have never been about the content anyway.
When they've finished eating, she stands at the window and stares at the stars. This part of the station faces away from the planet and Enterprise and it's only now that she realises how much she's missed an uninterrupted vista of stars and stars alone.
"You look like you're light years away," Trip says, breaking a silence she hadn't even known was present. He's lounging on the floor still, their discarded plates pushed aside. "Somethin' on your mind?"
Too much, she thinks. Looking at him, she settles on something inconsequential. "I am wondering when we will be interrupted."
He chuckles. "Yeah, we do have a habit for invitin' distractions, don't we?" She watches him glance around the room briefly. "No one's here, though." He fixes her with a speculative look. "And I won't answer my comm, if you don't answer yours..."
"Agreed." She turns back to the stars and decides not to think about how irresponsible this is.
"Hmm. Y'know... three years ago you'd have ripped me a new one for even suggestin' such a thing," he says, thoughtfully. "Now look at you."
"People change." She regrets using the Human cliche the moment it passes her lips.
"You once said otherwise about Vulcans."
How can he remember something she said almost three years ago while others of his species, within the space of a few hours, can forget what they had for breakfast? (The Captain had pancakes.) "Has Lieutenant Reed finished his modification proposals for the tactical systems?"
"Why're you changin' the subject?"
"I am not."
"You are too." He sounds amused. "A little personal evolution isn't necessarily a bad thing, y'know."
By rote, she answers. "Vulcans do not -- "
He snorts, loudly. "Sure you do. Don't lie."
She bristles and cannot for the life of her recall why she'd thought she missed him. He's irritating and intolerable. Human. She should have attended to the Captain. "If you believe I am incapable of honesty," she says icily, "then perhaps you would prefer alternate company." She starts for the door.
"Whoa, whoa... hold up there." Quicker than she would have expected, he's on his feet and grabbing at her arm, halting her exit. "I never said that and you know it."
Her reaction to his comment was irrational: this she knows. Taking a few steps away, she tries to regain her control.
"Hey..." He follows, of course; standing much too close. "You okay?"
She glares at him, knowing full well that to reply positively will only reinforce the opinion that she is being dishonest. Is that why he asked? "No." Her admission is grudging but, when she looks up, his concern appears less so. Instantly she regrets her tone. "I apologise," she mutters.
"S'ok." He's silent for a moment, then hesitant, "last week was pretty rough -- losin' the Captain, findin' Earth all screwed up just when we thought we'd saved it..." She nods once in tacit agreement and he grimaces. "I'm sorry for takin' advantage."
Startled, her gaze meets his. "You did not." Her denial is instinctive, automatic. The truth.
He turns away. "Yeah, I did."
"Commander..." She reaches out to him, as she has so many times of late, and his shoulder is warm beneath her palm. "Trip..." He looks at her. "If I had not desired your company, I would have said so."
"Maybe you tried and I just didn't listen."
"I believe my wishes were adequately expressed and heard." The changes in his expression inform her he is remembering their last night spent together. She tells herself not to look away. "You have done nothing which necessitates an apology."
Her emphasis does not escape him. Cautiously, he raises a hand to her own shoulder, forming a tentative embrace. "Neither have you."
She is not so sure. "I was... emotional..." She prides herself on being able to admit that, despite its damning nature.
"A little, yeah." He smiles slightly. "But not as bad as before."
She flinches and hates herself for the tremor that suddenly appears under her words. "You find my emotions... unpleasant?" Her other self had led her to believe that he would be willing to help her regain a sense of balance, of control. If he considers her being emotional distasteful then...
"Didn't say that." His rebuke is firm and his free hand brushes her hip lightly. "I just meant it was nicer than havin' you scream at me." He ducks his head a little in an attempt to catch her eyes. "There's nothin' wrong with needin' a little comfort now and then."
"And if I need more than... comfort?" She cannot look at him. Can hardly breathe.
His hand leaves her shoulder for her chin, forcing her to look up. "Name me one time where I've turned you down." Her mouth opens. "Unrelated to work." Reluctantly she closes it again and he nods, clearly satisfied. "I said I'd help and I meant it."
Pedant, she can't help but point out, "you said you'd listen."
His fingers smooth across her jawline and anchor in the curve of her neck. He shrugs. "Can't I do both?"
They talk, for awhile, about insignificant things. She has never warmed to the idea of small talk, despite the Captain's urging that she do so, and yet, somehow, this is... different. The Commander has always been an engaging (if illogical) conversationalist and (despite his frequent, and sometimes loud, disagreements) she thinks he seems genuinely interested in her opinions. A dozen or so topics are broached but none intensively and, while she feels that this is an extremely inefficient way of conversing, the experience as a whole is not altogether unsatisfying.
Vulcan and Earth, but not their families. (Despite a couple of specific instances, they have always avoided discussing their kin. She is not sure why.) Engineering versus Science, but not Enterprise. (He seems reluctant to discuss their work in any specific way and she does not necessarily mind. For too long they have been defined by their roles as First Officer and Chief Engineer and it is refreshing to remember that they are more than the sum of their careers.)
"Tell me somethin'," he asks her, echoing that other night. He's on the floor again, head propped up on his hand, and she sits near him, cross-legged. They are close enough to touch, but don't. "Tell me somethin' I don't already know."
Her eyebrow arches. "About micro-singularities?" They have been discussing what he calls her holy grail and she has already told him everything she can. To say anything more would be purely speculative and she will not do that.
He smiles. "About yourself."
Not entirely comfortable with the idea, she takes her time in answering. Eventually, however, she tells him of that long ago night in San Francisco. Of the fog, and the people (Humans), and of leaving the Compound without permission and discovering the musical chaos that is Jazz. She tells him of the feelings the music stirred within her, and of being unnerved by the intensity of it all.
The look he gives her when she finishes talking is unsettling; makes her feel vulnerable and denuded. Exposed. "But did you like it?" he asks curiously.
Her lips thin at the question and for just a moment she thinks of Tolaris. "They were... intense..." she repeats haltingly.
He shakes his head. "Nah, I meant the music -- the Jazz. Did you like it?"
She's never been asked this before and she finds it hard to mask her surprise. "You do not wish to know how it made me feel?"
"Well, sure, if you want to tell me." His shrug is easy-going. "But that's hardly a conversational requirement, right?"
She will never understand this man. Ever. "The music was syncopated and the rhythm peculiar. It lacked precision and talent."
"But..." he encourages her, and the fact that he knows she is not finished, apparently knows her so well, is somewhat irritating.
She acquiesces reluctantly. "However, it was not entirely... unpleasant."
He laughs. "High praise, indeed," he teases.
She glares.
Her irritation does not last, of course; their interactions over the past three years having long since settled into a pattern of provocation and (eventual) conciliation. They continue to talk, the subjects becoming more and more random as their voices get quieter, the pauses longer, and eventually he simply drifts off to sleep. She does not take offence (it's late, and he has been working hard on the repairs), just closes her eyes and meditates.
"Hey." His quiet utterance rouses her a little while later and she finds him blinking at her, his features soft with sleep. "Quarters?"
The implication is subtle (and desirable) but she has to refuse. "No." It was one thing, on Enterprise, to be seen in such an intimate location (at such a late hour) by the rest of the crew, the only repercussion being (usually harmless) gossip. On a drydock where they are little more than guests? Entirely inappropriate.
She does, however, lie down beside him, mimicking his position. She's careful to maintain a small distance.
"Jon goes to Earth tomorrow," he says.
"Yes." There is no need for the Captain to remain on Jupiter Station now that repairs have begun. Any decisions that require his input can just as readily be obtained through subspace channels.
"And you with him?"
"Yes."
His eyes are already closing again, his voice drowsy. "I'll miss you."
It is a sentiment she too easily returns. "Yes."
Silence. Just when she is sure he has fallen asleep once more, is about to follow the same path herself, he speaks. "One day you're gonna tell me why you've got these emotions now." It is not a question.
She answers anyway. "Yes."
III.
can't help feeling nothing more than sadness
If Captain Archer is aware that she did not spend her last night on drydock alone, he makes no comment about it during their journey to Earth. Instead he engages her in discussions about the possible ramifications of their mission and the resulting Xindi peace treaty. She tries to avoid conjecture as much as possible but the topic invites little else and she is grateful when they finally reach San Francisco.
They are separated almost immediately upon arrival, much to her displeasure, but there is little she can do about it. They have responsibilities to their governments, to protocol, and she cannot fight logic. As she follows Ambassador Soval and the others from the terminal, she reminds herself quite firmly that little can happen to Archer here, sequestered in meetings and debriefings, on a planet that is no longer at war.
(It is a consolation that works provided she does not remember Elizabeth Tucker and the seven million others who perished last year. Earth had not been at war then either.)
"I am reassured to see you whole," says Ambassador Soval, as they approach the vehicle that will deliver them to the Vulcan Consulate. It is, perhaps, the closest approximation to personal concern he has ever shown her and she is careful not to reveal how very un-whole she feels.
"Thank you, Ambassador."
As they enter the vehicle, she dismisses the thought that, regardless of responsibility and duty and protocol... she should have stayed on drydock.
She had found it disconcerting to live on Earth the first time. Surrounded by Humans more times than not... despite her curiosity (and the brief occasions she had pandered to it) she had kept to the compound and consulate and avoided all but the most necessary contact.
This time, she has no such reluctance.
Her days are spent with Captain Archer as they prepare for their new mission. She thinks, sometimes, that he is aware of her preference for his company (the list of matters he feels they need to discuss consistently fails to shorten) but he never mentions it directly and for that she is grateful.
At night she returns to her assigned quarters at the Vulcan complex. Her room there is small, but serviceable, and though she has set out her candles and belongings, she has to remind herself daily not to think of it as empty. Five nights and a series of neuropressure sessions does not imply permanency (of any kind) and she would do well to remember that too.
Dr Phlox calls regularly and, while she is still reluctant to discuss the consequences of her addiction in any great detail, she reassures him each time that she is doing well.
It is not a completely inaccurate assessment.
"Well, that'll about do it, I think."
Lowering her PADD, she watches as the Captain leans back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. "As you wish," she agrees. "I'll finish compiling these figures this evening and send them to Admiral Forrest."
"No hurry."
Nodding, she begins to gather her belongings, looking up briefly to find the Captain staring at her, an expression of curiosity on his features.
"So..." he says slowly, "any plans for the weekend?"
She nods. "Yes. Ambassador Soval has requested clarification on my report about the Expanse."
"Again? What is that -- the fourth time he's asked as much?"
"Fifth," she says. "I failed to properly describe the condition of the Seleya."
"You wrote almost a terabyte's worth more than the rest of us combined, T'Pol." The Captain's surprise turns to amusement quickly. "I find it hard to believe you failed to describe anything."
"Nevertheless," she says. "The Ambassador has asked for elaboration."
The Captain grins. "Anyone ever tell you you work too hard?"
Frequently. "Yes." Her belongings in hand, she rises to leave. "Good evening, Captain."
In the place of a similar farewell, the Captain says, "I'm going away this weekend." She is almost to the door. "Mountain retreat... maybe some climbing." A subtle pause. "Would you like to join me?"
For a moment she considers the idea. Really considers it.
"I must amend my report to Ambassador Soval."
And if the Captain is surprised by her response, he does not show it. "Another time then." She inclines her head. "Goodnight, T'Pol."
"Captain."
Despite the absence of physical nearness, she and Commander Tucker have nevertheless fallen into the habit of conversing every evening. It is only logical after all that, as First Officer, she remain informed of all progress.
And if she should find some comfort in hearing his voice, in seeing his features on the other side of a viewscreen... well, that's certainly nothing that needs mentioning.
Ever.
"Yeah, what?"
The snapped words and turned-away posture hardly make for an auspicious greeting. Her eyebrow arches. "Commander?"
Looking up at the sound of her voice, the glare on his features fades as he blinks at her. "Oh, it's you. Sorry, T'Pol."
A rote apology. She is unimpressed. "If I have called at an inappropriate time..." she starts, and he interrupts her quickly.
"No, no, it's okay. I'm just..." With a series of very Human hand gestures, obviously meant to signify frustration, he exhales loudly and then smiles brightly. "Hi."
She inclines her head ever so slightly. "Commander," she says.
And for no reason that she can possibly ascertain, his smile dims slightly. "Right."
She frowns. "Is something the matter?"
For a moment she thinks he will evade the question entirely but then his shoulders drop and a hand rises to scrub at his face. He looks tired. "Yeah... no... hell, I don't know." A far from reassuring response. "I'm just havin' a bad day, I guess."
"Is there anything I can do?" The grin he produces warms her in a completely emotional way and, quickly, she tries to lessen the lack of professionalism he has obviously read in her offer. "If there is a problem with the repairs, I would be happy to..."
And this time, when his smile fades, she cannot question that she is somehow the cause.
"Why'd you call me, T'Pol?"
The question, redundant even by Human standards, surprises her. "You are keeping me apprised of the repairs," she says, faltering just a little when his lips thin.
"That all? That the only reason?"
It is the only reason she can admit to. "Yes."
He scoffs, and the exclamation sounds bitter. Sounds harsh. "You wanna know what Humans find intimate, T'Pol?" he asks then, unexpectedly, and numerous replies come to mind but he doesn't allow her time to voice even one of them. "Honesty."
The tone, the anger underlying his words... how did this conversation get so obscure so quickly? "Commander -- ?"
The viewscreen goes dead.
She is still sitting there when Captain Archer calls. It has been two hours since her (confusing and extremely illogical) conversation with Trip and, despite her best efforts, she has not been able to make sense of it.
Wanting only to check some of the afternoon's figures one last time before he goes away, the Captain doesn't talk for very long. She waits for him to ask her to accompany him on his trip again -- wants him to ask her again -- but he doesn't offer and she lacks the words to invite herself. She is not used to wanting an escape and her sudden desire for one is discomforting.
She hasn't slept well since before the Expanse and this night is no exception. Her rest poor, she dreams too much and when morning arrives, packs a small bag anyway.
Florida is cool and uninviting, with a brisk wind that numbs her fingers and cheeks and makes her long for Vulcan robes and a desert sun. Leaving the shuttle terminal, she decides against procuring a ground vehicle and instead walks, the lower gravity invigorating. It has been too long since her last away mission and she has forgotten what it feels like to be amidst the unfamiliar.
Pulling the folds of her cloak tighter around her body, she heads into the wind.
There are few monuments near the trench, which surprises her at first -- she is expecting flags and memorials, like those near the remaining city centre, with flowers and photos and mementos scattered alongside the rent -- until she sees the size of it. The scope.
Some things, she realises, are just too immense, too vast, to put a flag over.
For a long time she stands near the edge, hands lightly resting on the fence that has been erected along the lips of the gash. The wind is stronger here, gusting through the trench and lifting to whip the edges of her cloak against her legs.
She wonders if, one day, the Humans will recover this section of their continent. If they will fill it in and rebuild what was lost. She tries to picture what this land looked like last year, before the Xindi, and what it could look like, years from now, and cannot. She realises then that she's not sure she wants to. Is not sure she wants this emptiness to be erased.
This is why they fought the Xindi after all. This is why she was initially exposed to Trellium D and why Commander Tucker and her developed a new understanding of each other and why she twice grieved for the Captain. This is why so many died and so many were changed and what might have happened to Vulcan had they not succeeded.
This is the reason and, selfishly, she does not want that to disappear.
Her thoughts disturbing, it is a long time before she can bring herself to leave.
An obelisk, the carved stone reaching perhaps six feet, or maybe seven, into the air draws her attention when she finally makes her way back towards the city centre. Dusk has fallen, the hours having passed swiftly as she stood in quasi-meditation at the trench's edge, and the pillar stands in stark relief against the fading horizon.
Boasting a simple plaque that identifies only what has happened here and an unending scroll of names, the Vulcan in her cannot help but appreciate its simplicity. This monument is understated, and powerful, and just like the trench itself, she finds herself transfixed.
Seven million, ten thousand, five hundred and forty-eight people died when the Xindi cut a swath between Florida and Venezuela and this memorial bears every name. She cannot turn away.
It is late when she finally returns to San Francisco and her console is beeping as she enters her quarters at the Consulate. "T'Pol," she answers, activating the viewscreen as she places her bag on the floor and takes a seat.
"Where the hell have you been!"
The vehement greeting surprises her but habit schools her expression and she looks up to meet Commander Tucker's gaze evenly. "Commander?"
"I've been tryin' to reach you for two days! Why the hell haven't you returned any of my comms?"
"I have been away from the Consulate," she says, surreptitiously checking the backlog of communiques waiting for her. Over ninety-percent of the identity markers are the Commander's -- she refuses to feel pleased about that. "Is there a problem with Enterprise?"
"What? No. Are you okay? Did somethin' happen? Is anythin' wrong?" The questions fly fast and thick and the Commander's concern is palpable.
"There is nothing wrong," she says. "Was there something in particular you needed?"
"You mean apart from needin' to apologise for bein' an ass the other night and takin' my bad mood out on you? No, nothing particular." A lopsided grin accompanies the mild sarcasm and for a moment she debates asking him for an explanation -- she still does not understand what happened during their previous conversation -- before deciding it doesn't really matter.
Inclining her head, she says instead, "apology accepted," and is somehow reassured when his smile widens.
"Great," he says. There is a moment of silence and, characteristically, it is the Commander who breaks it. "So... weekend away, huh?" She says nothing. "You sure everythin's okay?" Despite the lightness to his tone, she can still detect a trace of concern.
And it occurs to her then that there will never be a right time for them. Never be a perfect opportunity, be it for conversation or something else entirely. They are far too skilled at miscommunication and it is inevitable that, with her recent emotional experimentation, the frequency of such will only increase over time.
She thinks of Florida and the illogical turn her thoughts had taken in regards to the devastation there -- of her desire for a physical justification of her actions and choices -- and knows that those misunderstandings will not be the only things to escalate as she continues to favour emotion over logic.
And she also knows that, having willingly chosen to open herself up to her feelings, she must now live with that choice. Must find an equilibrium between them and logic. A balance.
But she cannot do so alone... and he has already offered to help. Logic, she knows, dictates that she should accept.
So she straightens her spine and squares her shoulders and says, without warning, without forethought, "whilst in the Expanse, I became addicted to Trellium D."
And, instantly, that hint of concern disappears as his smile solidifies. "Define addicted," he says, clearly amused.
"To become compulsively, physiologically and psychologically dependent on a habit-forming substance."
As her words sink in, the smile on his features slowly fades. It takes all her strength not to sever the comm. "Ok," he says after a moment, "ok." She waits for an outburst, a condemnation, and is surprised when he exhales and meets her gaze and offers neither. "Talk to me?"
IV.
only choice to face it the best i can
Fifteen months after the Xindi proved that Earth is no more impregnable than any other world, Jupiter Station declares Enterprise once again fit for service. Their flag vessel has been repaired and refurbished, its systems upgraded with the latest technologies.
"Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful."
Their gear safely stored in the rear of the craft, she claims her usual seat and nods. "The repair crews have done an admirable job." She watches the Captain watch Enterprise, the spacedocked vessel dwindling in size as they make their way back to Earth.
"Without a doubt." Finally looking away, Archer double-checks the controls. "Remind me to send Starfleet a series of commendations."
"Yes, Captain."
As they arc away from the spacedock and Earth fills the viewscreen, she finds herself studying the approaching planet. Blue and green and so completely unlike Vulcan; the differences between their planets never fails to affect her. Absently, she watches a storm front inch across the lower east coast of Australia.
"Heard from Trip lately?"
She frowns. "Commander Tucker is currently on leave." She does not add, as you well know. "Been visiting his parents, hasn't he? In Michigan?"
"Mississippi." Another fact the Captain is already aware of. Briefly she wonders if he somehow managed to hit his head while they were on spacedock.
"Right."
San Francisco contacts them then to confirm their flight path and, while the Captain is busy, she watches Africa drift past.
"So... still coming tonight?"
With a start she realises that the Captain has finished conversing with the air traffic controller. "I'm sorry?"
"The staff get-together at the 602 Club. I was asking if you were still planning to attend."
"I am."
"Great!" He adjusts their trajectory slightly. "Trip bringing you?"
"I do not believe I need assistance in locating the establishment."
"Of course not." She thinks she can hear laughter in his tone.
They are contacted again by Earth then to confirm their landing details and, minutes later, she watches him guide their craft through the stratosphere and troposphere. Their landing is flawless and she says as much.
"Thanks." She nods absently as she leaves her seat and finds their bags, passing him his. "So I guess I'll see you both at the party, then?"
Both? Her gaze snaps to his.
Archer smiles and touches her shoulder. "I've been focused, T'Pol -- not blind." He pulls away and heads for the hatch, glancing back only once. "Lorian was a good man," he says, winking at her. "Be a shame if he were an only child."
Speechless, she watches him exit the craft.
While she is not due to return to Enterprise until Sunday evening, she sees no reason to leave things until the last minute. Packing all but what she will need for the next two days, she organises for the rest of her belongings to be transferred back to the ship. Doing so leaves her quarters bare but she is used to the emptiness now.
She finishes the last of her paperwork for the High Command, the first of her paperwork for Starfleet (she will be Commander T'Pol now -- her assignment having been approved earlier in the week), and writes to her mother. When there is nothing else left to do, she changes and leaves.
She has a party to attend.
He is waiting for her outside the compound, lounging against a low wall. When she approaches, he straightens and meets her halfway.
"Hey." His smile is beautiful -- she wonders if he knows how much so.
"You're early."
"Couldn't wait." He nods towards the street. "Ready?"
"Yes."
People are staring at her, at them; veering noticeably away from their path. She watches a group of people cross the street to avoid having to brush past her.
"Ignore them."
Aware of the current xenophobia on this planet, she has taken care over the past month to avoid drawing unnecessary attention to herself. A man walks past, her superior hearing clearly understanding his mumbled insult; tonight, however, she has apparently failed in this effort.
Then she looks down at her outfit, at the robe she is wearing over her usual suit (the weather forecast had been cool), and realises her mistake. "I should not have worn this."
"You look great." His appreciation is warm and generous; despite her concern, she lets it distract her.
"How are your parents?"
"Fine." He pauses. "A little curious as to why a Vulcan Science Officer would want to talk to me every evenin'..." He catches her quick look and smiles. "So I told 'em that you were also the ship's First Officer and it was your duty to keep track of the senior staff. Dad said you must be very conscientious."
"You could have told them the truth."
"That you're not conscientious?"
"That I missed you." She says it quietly and is a little surprised to realise how not unnerving it is to admit that. Her feelings for Trip are still (sometimes) confusing and still (undeniably) intense... but no longer frightening. No longer seem... wrong. They're simply a part of who she is.
"Hmm." His shoulder brushes hers as they turn a corner. "So I was thinkin'... the next time we have leave?"
"Yes?" She watches a Human couple walking ahead of them. They are holding hands and she cannot help but wonder what it is like to be so intimate in public.
"We spend it together."
"Agreed."
The 602 Club is all but overwhelming.
"Think of it as a way to study human behaviour," Trip says, a hand hovering near the small of her back as he guides her through the room. "There's no better place than a bar to see us as we are, T'Pol."
Resisting the urge to slow her steps until his hand can actually press against her, she critiques the room as they navigate the crowd, unimpressed by his endorsement. "Ensign Phillips is dancing on a tabletop."
"Which is entertainin' and, for Ensign Phillips, a source of exercise." Finding a relatively uncrowded area near the partition that separates the restrooms from the rest of the Club, Trip halts and surveys the room himself.
"His behaviour is conduct unbecoming."
Laughing, he looks down at her, his expression amused. "Well, I never said it'd be good behaviour."
He leaves her briefly to visit the bar and returns with a small glass of beer for her and a larger one for himself.
"Like it?" he asks, watching her carefully as she sips at the beverage.
"Not particularly."
He laughs. "Want me to get you something else?"
She has no desire to sample the range of products available, an experiment she knows he would find endlessly amusing. "No. Thank you."
"As you like."
He leaves her again and again, his attention frequently captured by members of his Engineering crew, but she does not necessarily mind. There is Doctor Phlox to talk to, and Ensigns Sato and Mayweather, Lieutenant Reed and Corporal McKenzie. The evening passes quickly.
She can see the Captain across the room, laughing and talking and socialising with his crew, his easy-going demeanour a welcome change from the single-minded determination he had adopted in the Expanse. As she watches him, Trip finds her again and hands her a glass of water.
"Thank you," she says. The Captain's parting words from earlier are echoing in her mind and she looks at Trip curiously. "What was Lorian like?"
"Lorian?" He blinks, obviously surprised by the unexpected query. "Well, uh, he was smart, and, uh, easy to talk to. A nice guy and a pretty fair Captain from what I could tell."
"He shot you with a phase pistol," she says dryly.
"Your influence, obviously," he retorts. He shrugs. "He smiled though, and said he'd even been known to tell a joke once and awhile."
"Your influence," she echoes.
"Yeah." Silence, for a moment. Then, "I think we were real proud of him."
The best of both of them... "I wish -- " The words catch in her throat and, resolutely, she forces them out. "I wish I had taken the time to know him better."
"Maybe one day," he says, carefully not looking at her, "you will."
"People are beginning to leave." As she voices the observation, she shifts and leans back against the partition, somewhat comforted when he follows her movements and angles towards her. They have spoken very little since she mentioned Lorian.
"Looks like." He gives her a soft smile.
Looking to the right, to the rest of the Club, she's further reassured when it appears their change in stance has gone unnoticed by the celebrating masses. Perhaps, if anonymity is the result, the Human practice of over-indulgence is not so bad after all.
He leans in even closer. "So," he says, "glad you came?" His voice is low, almost a whisper, and she shivers as his breath drifts across her neck.
"The evening has been satisfactory." Her hand rises and finds his arm close to hers; her fingers curl around his elbow.
In retaliation, his hand slips past the folds of her robe, fingers resting on her waist. She tightens her grip and anchors him there. "Just satisfactory?" he asks.
"The crew seems to be enjoying themselves." His thumb brushes the curve of her hipbone and her respiration increases.
"Well, there's a lot to be said for a bar tab." When his lips touch the point of her ear, the Club fades from existence.
She turns slightly and kisses him. Hard and quick.
Pulling back, she watches his pupils dilate as she licks her lips. "Christ," he says, breath uneven, "the things you do to me..."
She feels far from composed herself and the way he is looking at her (like she is water and oxygen and everything he needs to survive) does little to help. "I must concur."
Letting go of her hip, he finds her hand and tugs slightly. She follows willingly.
She has no desire for the night to end just yet, for their time together to be over, so she says nothing when they pass the Consulate and fail to even pause. The streets are mostly empty at this hour, their pace easy, and every so often he looks at her and smiles but doesn't say anything. She doesn't mind -- the lack of conversation is peaceful after the cacophony of the Club.
Her hand is still in his, their fingers tangled. She decides she likes it.
The terminal is quiet, but not empty, and she tries not to look too surprised as Trip procures a shuttle. This is not what she expected.
"Academy's full to the rafters with new recruits, thanks to the Xindi and us," he says, as she watches him go through the pre-flight routines. "And I've never been too fond of hotelin' it here in the city."
She looks out the viewscreen, at the stars waiting for them. "Enterprise?" she surmises.
He smiles and engages the engines. "Let's go home."
It is refreshing to be on Enterprise once again and she cannot fault the Commander's decision to return. She has missed this. Missed the freedom she has here, the acceptance and respect she has earned. Here she is Commander T'Pol, science officer and Archer's first, and here nobody even looks twice to see her walking the hallways with a Human, with Commander Tucker.
In the turbolift they stand too close and his shoulder brushes hers. She tries not to assume anything.
"I guess I could give you a tour, show you all the improvements and modifications," Trip suggests, tone light as they make their way along B deck.
She has spent the past three days aboard the spacedock, going over the refit with Captain Archer, and there will be time enough on Monday, when they officially return to duty, to see the little that remains. "No."
"What about the mess hall? We could see if Chef's stocked up the galley...?"
She is not hungry. "No."
"Engineerin'? The bridge? The observation deck?" She stops in the middle of a corridor and simply looks at him until he sighs heavily. "Fine," he says. Taking a step to the side, he blindly palms a door lock. "Quarters?"
"Yes."
For all her poise there is a moment of uncertainty as she precedes him into his quarters (familiar and unchanged -- no modifications here) and she cannot help but doubt herself. Is this what she really wants?
Then the door hisses shut and she turns instinctively at the sound, watching as he moves closer until they're near enough to touch. Until she can detect, hiding behind his smile, a trace of apprehension to mirror her own. It is strangely reassuring.
"Trip." She doesn't know what else to say.
"T'Pol."
And then he's in her arms, and she is in his, and nothing else matters. She finds it hard, suddenly, to remember that anything ever did.
The kiss is soft, and gentle, and reminds her somewhat of the goodbye she gave Sim, all those months ago. The Commander's touch, however, is wholly his own and she presses closer, eager for more.
"We should probably take it easy," he says, their lips parting just enough for speech. "Take our time and do this right."
"Agreed." Her fingers locate the hem of his shirt and ascend; his slide the robe from her shoulders.
"No need to rush, after all." She steps out of her shoes and, when they kiss, there's a subtle addition to the difference in their height before he toes off his own. "We've still got two full days before we go back on duty."
"Fifty-three hours." She unfastens his pants but lets him remove them as she slips out of her suit.
"Right. Plenty of time." His lips slant over hers as they move towards his bed and he sits suddenly when the backs of his knees find the edge, pulling her onto his lap as he descends. She shifts, trying to get comfortable, and then abandons the idea of comfort as more interesting sensations result from her movements. In response, his right hand flies to her hip and grips hard in an attempt to still her; his left finds the wetness between her thighs.
"Easy," he repeats, as she rocks into his touch and licks along his collarbone and neck until she can reach his lips again. When she palms him, he curses into her mouth.
They part to breathe and she answers, "yes."
"Slow..." His hand smoothes a path from hip to breast, thumb circling her nipple.
She bites her lip, and then his. "Yes."
Her hand has settled into a sharp rhythm, her other arm wrapping around his neck and holding their bodies close. "God," he says, panting into her neck, "now."
"Yes."
She takes him inside of her and, while it doesn't feel like completeness or home or any other similar Human notions, it does feel like release, like letting go and giving in and not being afraid of the fall.
Her eyes close as he tips back onto the bed, bringing her with him, and she concentrates on the push and pull of his body and hers, on each thrust and every stroke. They roll and turn and move and his hips jerk uncontrollably when her fingernails ladder his spine, her own breathing hitching as he nips the point of her ear. When his mouth finds her neck and her fingers bite into his forearms, she thinks she can hear the syllables of her name in his ragged breathing.
"Trip," she replies softly, pressing his name into the curve of his neck. He shudders and she says it again. "Trip."
Then they're falling, and he's catching her, and she was right because it's not like coming home but it is like finding peace and that, she decides, feels like love.
He sleeps, and she doesn't, and when he stirs in the starlight, his arms tighten around her instinctively. She likes that. A lot.
"Can't sleep?" The words are whispered, muffled against the curve of her shoulder, and she shivers.
"I do not wish to."
Pulling away just enough to look at her, he blinks in the darkness. "Somethin' wrong?" he asks, and the concern is his voice (though unnecessary) warms her. She thinks that, if she were Human, she would smile.
Vulcan, she kisses him instead. "No."
In her dreams, she's never this happy.
The End
