A/N: Hey there fellow shippers! As I mentioned in the description, this fic takes place immediately after the events of Damage (3x19), so there are some pretty major spoilers in here if you've only just started watching the show. I guess you could say there's some fluff in here, but overall it's pretty angsty and it deals with some heavy stuff. Anyway, enjoy. This is the first fic that I'm posting on here (and I really rushed to get it done) so be nice, haha. I may rewrite this later if I decide I don't like it.

Night had fallen once again on the Enterprise.

Of course, there was no sun to creep in through the crew's windows every morning, and the darkness surrounding the ship no longer bothered those on board. But out here in a dangerous region of space, with impaired engines, with pieces of the hull plating gone, leaving the Enterprise exposed—these past few hours seemed lonelier than usual.

All over the ship, lights flickered on and off and bits of debris littered the floors. Some areas of the walls had been scorched; some were completely obliterated, exposing (often damaged) wires and circuitry. Engineers found themselves working around the clock in the gloom of the corridors, on the Bridge, in crew quarters, absolutely everywhere, just trying to repair the vessel that was falling apart around them. Some crewmembers were still updating damage reports, noting that they'd found something else of importance. Those with any training in medicine were assigned to Dr. Phlox's sickbay to assist him. The least fortunate, however, were tasked with recovering the dead.

The crew complement was fairly small, and it had dwindled in size since the Enterprise had left spacedock several months ago, but it consisted of loyal, hardworking men and women who were willing to pitch in and take on an extra shift or two whenever necessary. Each and every crewman who had the ability was doing his or her part to repair the ship—except for one.

T'Pol stood alone in her quarters, holding a nearly empty mug of tea in her hands and staring out her window at the stars, tiny pinpricks of light in the distance. She would have preferred remaining on duty for the time being, but Phlox had already informed the captain that his first officer was ill, and he had given her some time off to rest. Although in this case, "ill" meant that she was experiencing withdrawal from trellium, which she had been habitually injecting into her bloodstream for the past three months.

She had renounced the drug a short while ago, but the sensation of freedom that she had expected was not present. In fact, she felt empty, as though she had lost something. Phlox had told her the feeling would pass with time, but as she paced back and forth over the floor, she wondered if she had the patience to wait for that day. Her primary reason for giving it up was not that it was the logical thing to do, nor was it guilt, even. She had stopped using it mainly because she was risking her life in more ways than one, as she'd learned in the cargo bay.

Now what?

Her perception of reality had changed since the Reptilians' attack. Every little sound was amplified, and the darkness, which she usually found peaceful and comforting, now created an eerie atmosphere. It seemed likely that her withdrawal was the cause, but maybe it was simply the crumbling ship or the absence of the engines' hum. Either way, it bothered her. But what bothered her more was the thought of what would happen when Phlox's medication wore off. She dreaded the return of the trembling, the dizziness, and the mood fluctuations that had plagued her prior to her visit to Sickbay. She was already starting to develop a slight headache, as if her body were trying to warn her of what lay ahead. Sleep would be difficult tonight, but rest was certainly possible. If she could lie down and close her eyes for a while, or maybe even take a short nap, would that change anything? It couldn't hurt, could it?

Rest certainly seemed like the best option. T'Pol gently placed the mug down on the floor. Trying not to step on any of the debris scattered across the room, she made her way over to her bed and climbed in, but just as she was starting to get comfortable underneath the blankets, a quiet beep outside the room pierced the silence, telling her that she had a visitor. In all probability, the doctor had come to check on her again, but she somehow felt as though she knew it was someone else—a "hunch" or a "gut feeling", she'd heard others call it—and that someone was not Phlox.

She pushed herself up into a sitting position—slowly in order to avoid making her headache any worse—and crossed her legs. Even here, in her quarters, she sat with her back straight as if she were waiting to receive orders from the captain. "Come in," she said, her voice cracking on the very edge of the last word.

Her suspicions were confirmed when the door slid open and she saw Trip standing there, looking somewhat taken aback—most likely because the door mechanism was still functional. Large patches of dust covered his uniform, dulling its once vibrant blue color to a grayish hue. His unkempt hair was caked with the stuff. A sheen of sweat covering his face was visible from where she lay, as well as a small scrape located just underneath his right cheekbone. Unlike her, he hadn't had the luxury of a shower yet, and he was envious.

"Oh, I—I'm sorry, is this a bad time?" he asked.

She paused before answering. He could have indeed chosen a better time. After all, having him come waltzing in like this only to catch her at her weakest—curled up in bed wearing her nightclothes, trying to get some rest despite the multitude of thoughts rattling around in her head. But then again, now that the doctor had gone, some company might be helpful. Perhaps this was as good a time as any.

"No," she told him, and he stepped over the threshold and into her room. "Although if you came here for another neuro-pressure session, I can't perform one. I'm…ill."

"With the ship in this condition, sleep is the last thing on my mind," he sighed. "Is it all right if I close the door?"

"I suppose so."

He pressed a button on the panel beside him, and with a swishing noise, the door slid shut. "What do you know; one of the few things on the damn ship that actually work," he muttered, stepping forward gingerly. "Anyway, I came here because…I wanted to apologize for acting out the other day. You know, before the attack. I shouldn't have questioned you like that." As he approached the side of her bed, he stopped and sat down on the carpeting beneath him, leaning back against the wall.

"Your reaction was understandable. The chances of anything positive coming out of my original plan were minimal." T'Pol relaxed her posture. Her tone was flat and her language was formal as always, but something seemed…off.

"That's not the only reason I came to see you," he admitted. A few strands of his messy hair had begun to droop, just barely touching his forehead. He nonchalantly brushed them away with his hand. "I also came because…I heard you weren't feeling well." His eyes fell to the floor.

At the sound of the last few words, T'Pol raised her head and turned to look at him, giving him that familiar glare he knew so well. "Where did you hear that?" she asked bitterly.

It was then that her façade seemed to melt away. The moment he looked up at her, he knew something was indeed wrong. It wasn't the expression she wore, nor was it that the hair she usually kept so neat looked like it had been neglected. It wasn't even the faint glow from the light directly above her bed that illuminated her face while leaving the rest of her body cloaked in shadow. At first, he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, but after a few seconds, it hit him.

It was her eyes. They were bloodshot, as though she had not slept in days, with a pair of dark circles resting underneath them. The fires of confidence that normally burned within these hazel orbs had been extinguished and replaced by a dull tiredness, signaling that she was another less obvious casualty of the Expanse.

"There are eighty—" He tried to answer her question, but a painful realization silenced him momentarily. "Sixty…sixty people on board this ship," he corrected himself in a rather low voice, his mind suddenly brought back to the recent battle. A lump started to form in his throat. "No secrets here."

T'Pol surmised that Trip had heard something from Dr. Phlox, but in actuality, the news had come from the captain. Phlox would not have been able to divulge much information without violating regulations. On the other hand, Archer had seen his first officer's trembling hands, her spontaneous outbursts, and her errant behavior, which he had casually mentioned to his friend as the two men surveyed the corridors of the damaged Enterprise. Despite the closed-knit environment on board, it seemed unlikely that he knew of what had happened between his two highest-ranking officers, but if he did, he was entirely too preoccupied with repairs to care.

Still trying to ignore her headache, T'Pol took a deep breath before speaking again. "I'm not certain that spending your time here with me is a good idea," she choked. One unfavorable word could have her snapping at him like a madwoman, and she wanted neither to hurt him nor to have yet another person watch her lose her temper.

But of course, how could Trip know that? To him, it seemed like she simply wanted to avoid him, and he was hardly surprised. The situation was significantly uncomfortable for them both, considering what had happened the last time he'd come to visit her in her quarters this late at night.

Yet somehow, despite the awkwardness, the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a slight smile. "Not contagious, are you?" he teased, placing a hand on the side of her mattress.

"No," she told him. "It's not anything you could contract." Normally, his ability to find humor even in the darkest of times would have annoyed her, but tonight she found it comforting. She wished she could tell him the nature of her illness—that it was the farthest thing from contagious, and that the symptoms she was experiencing now were repercussions for her behavior over the past three months. She longed to confide in someone who wouldn't start scanning her with a medical tricorder when she needed to talk.

But then again, maybe the urge to discuss her problems with someone was an effect of the trellium itself.

"Well, that's good. You'll be okay though, right?" Trip asked, his smile fading. Without even realizing it, he'd started to run his index finger along some of the wrinkles in the fabric. It was nice, of course, to stop and rest for a moment, but it felt strange to keep his hands idle when the ship needed engineers more than ever.

Before she even gathered enough strength to answer, T'Pol realized that this question wasn't even something she had bothered to ask the doctor. Withdrawal from other substances could be dangerous, but her faith in Phlox's judgment kept her from worrying. If he felt he had kept her under observation long enough, he had most likely kept her under observation long enough. If treated and monitored, her physical symptoms would fade. What did worry her, however, was the idea of permanent synaptic damage—and the loss of control over her emotions. "I believe so," she replied, not wanting Trip to worry. "Although I fail to understand your concern." She shifted slightly, allowing her hand to dangle over the side of the bed.

However, she hadn't noticed his hand in approximately the same place, and their fingers suddenly brushed against each other, startling the two officers and causing something to stir in both of them. Each waited for the other to pull their hand away, but neither of them did.

"The Enterprise wouldn't be much of a starship without its first officer," he said, a touch of warmth in his voice letting her know that his concern was far beyond professional. The first time he'd seen her after the attack, he'd been so relieved she was alive that it'd taken him everything he had not to rush over and pull her into his arms, but instead he had been forced to stay calm like everyone else. He decided to take a risk and took her hand into his own. He'd expected her to resist, but instead she complied with his actions, slipping her fingers into the spaces between his. Still, she refused to make eye contact with him. Here they were, in such close proximity to each other, trying to brush it off as if it were nothing when in fact it was all they could think about.

It hardly took them long to realize this was the closest contact they'd had with each other since that perfect hour they'd spent here together a while ago. He couldn't have known that touching another's hand was considered to be far more intimate in her culture than in his, but she enjoyed it—and she had no wish complicate things further, so she left the subject alone. And all of a sudden, the darkness didn't seem so unwelcoming anymore.

"Has Dr. Phlox treated the laceration on your face yet?" she inquired, trying to turn the conversation to a subject that was easier for her to discuss.

Trip's response was automatic, much like a reflex. "Are you kidding? He wouldn't even let me get back to work without getting a good look at it," he chuckled, shaking his head. "That's Phlox for you. I'm surprised I didn't see you in Sickbay. He's always fussing over the senior officers."

Then you were simply in Sickbay at the wrong time. "He does put a great deal of effort into treating his patients," T'Pol commented in a quiet voice.

Neither of them said anything else, but what was there to be said? For a short period of time, there existed a bond between the two, a sense of understanding. Ironically, they seemed to communicate most effectively through silence. They weren't arguing, they weren't awkwardly dancing around the idea of what their relationship meant, and they weren't trying to feign detachment. Here they were, and just isolated enough from the rest of the crew. Nothing outside the darkened room was of any importance. There was no Expanse, no Xindi, no weapon—no trellium, even. Just the two of them. Alone.

Perhaps this was all they needed right now.

Without moving his head at all, Trip gave in to temptation and looked over at T'Pol, who had closed her eyes. Despite the fact that she was far from herself, he found her presence calming, although he knew not whether she was trying to reassure him or draw her own comfort from him. Even though he knew something was wrong, he dared not ask what it was because she had not brought it up. If she didn't want to discuss it now, so be it. Lately he had grown increasingly worrisome when it came to her welfare—his opposition to her attempt to negotiate with the Xindi and the panic that flooded his mind when he lost contact with the Bridge during the battle were both proof of that. And she seemed to represent everything he could not have.

You're deceptive, you're unbelievably stubborn, and you're the most confusing person I've ever met. And yet I still give enough of a damn about you to come and visit you when I should be on duty, he thought.

"I should get back to work," he said, letting his gaze drift away from her and breaking their momentary connection. "I think it's safe to say that the ship needs me right now." Slowly, he pulled his hand away, and their fingertips met with the cool air of the room once again.

For a second or two, she wanted to protest, but common sense stopped her. The ship needs him more than you do.

"A reasonable decision," she remarked. The sooner the ship was repaired, the sooner the mission could continue.

"Do you, ah…need anything? Like…" He noticed the mug on the floor and picked it up. "I don't know, a refill, maybe? I can't guarantee that the resequencer will be working, but I guess I could at least try." He doubted that it would, as the mess hall had been completely trashed. Looking inside, he saw that there was still a bit of tea left, and he gently started to swirl the mug around in his hand, even if it served no purpose other than to keep his bored fingers occupied.

"I appreciate the offer, but I don't require anything at the moment," she told him. "Although if you could return that to the galley…" she trailed off, her eyelids beginning to droop.

"Sure thing," he said, his accent emerging on the end of his sentence and grabbing her attention. "Although there is something else I came here to tell you. Before we left some trellium on the other ship…" He paused, trying to push the thought of the stranded vessel out of his mind. "We took an inventory, and some of it was missing."

T'Pol's stomach lurched. How could he have known? Phlox had promised to maintain confidentiality! She knew relatively little about Starfleet's medical program, but a breach of privacy had to be considered unacceptable—despite how open humans were with each other. The doctor wouldn't have risked it.

Had Trip spotted her in the cargo bay?

That was a frightening thought indeed. Whether or not he'd seen anything, the important thing to do now, she realized, was to maintain her composure despite her racing pulse and the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. "Continue," she prompted.

"I don't know if it was destroyed in the attack, or if we counted wrong, or if we just haven't found it yet," he explained, "but we might have an open container of trellium on board, so in case we do…just watch out, is all."

A wave of relief washed over her. If she were human, and if the situation at hand were less grim, she might have laughed at the irony. Instead, however, she maintained her sullen expression and answered, "If it starts to affect me, I will know."

"Yeah. I figured you might," he said as he pushed himself up off the ground and brushed himself off. "Oh, and…I'm sorry about dragging all this dirt into your room. That's probably the last thing you need right now." He flicked a piece of rubble off his shoulder and started to make his way over to the door.

"It makes little difference," she assured him, racking her brain trying to come up with something else to say. After a few seconds, she blurted out, "Good luck with the repairs."

Trip stopped on his way to the door and turned to face her again. "Thanks," he said, surprised by her choice of words. Keeping his eyes on her, he took a few more steps towards the door, pressed the button on the panel that opened it, and added, "Well, goodnight...I guess I'll see you around."

She responded with a single nod of her head, and as she watched him walk back out into the corridor with the empty mug in hand, he shot her a brief half-smile. Then he closed the door, and although she could no longer see him, she found herself listening to the faint echoes of his footsteps in the hall until those disappeared as well. Now he really was gone.

It was a few seconds before T'Pol realized that she was still staring at the door even after Trip had left. When she came back to reality, the silence was not as ominous as it had been before, and she had forgotten her headache entirely. She could find no practical reason for it, but his visit had given her a renewed sense of hope. For all she knew, it could have just been the remaining trellium in her bloodstream, but she had a feeling that somehow, despite the odds, everything would be fine. She would recover, the Enterprise's mission would succeed, and life would return to normal, as unlikely as those things were.

She gradually lowered herself back down onto the mattress and pulled the blankets up to her chin. The effect he had on her was remarkable—more so than she cared to admit. As short as his visit had been, she was grateful. Should the feeling be gone in the morning, well, she would deal with that when the time came.

Even when the world around her grew blurry and she started to drift off, his parting words still lingered in her ears.

I guess I'll see you around.