Author's Note: I don't own them; I'm not sure the converse is true. I do this for love, not money.

This story contains mild spoilers for Star Trek: Enterprise Season One, Episode 17, "Fusion". It's not necessary to watch the episode to follow the storyline, but it would provide an enhanced understanding.

I'm giving this an M rating, to be safe. There are sexual themes (but no actual sex) in this story. If those aren't your thing, this isn't the story for you.

Cowled is a prequel of sorts to my previously published story, Arachnid Nebula, although each is a stand-alone.

I greatly appreciate comments, constructive criticism, opinions, and any input that will enhance the reader's experience!

For those who came here after reading my Blogging from A-Z Boldly Going vignettes, thank you! That vote of confidence means a lot!

There are references to two pieces of head-canon in this story. Since I haven't yet specifically explained them, I'll give a summary:

As a baby, while seated upon the lap of her meditating mother, T'Pol was drawn to the candle's flame. Despite warnings nearly all Vulcan infants heeded, she reached two fingers into the flame, and bears very faint scars as the result of this, along with something of a reputation for impulsive behavior. She, however, found a power and knowledge deeper than logic in the experience, and bears the scars without regret.

During the time after her resignation from the Ministry of Security, and before her assignment to the Seleya, T'Pol spent some time alone within the Forge. While there, she walked the desert at night, beneath T'Khut in full phase - a dangerous time. She came upon a tikkin plant, the rarest of all Vulcan flora. It lives its entire life cycle in only moments, and produces a single fruit. If the nectars of this fruit are ingested, the subject will be altered as the chemical compounds it contains subtly shift the cellular structure. Ancient legends hold that those who take the nectars are more likely to live non-traditional lives, to see possibilities where others see risk, to find forms of logic and knowing not obvious to others.

With little time to decide or reflect upon the decision, T'Pol allows the fruit to fall into her hand and drinks the nectars.

OK, I think that takes care of all the business...

Cowled

The slender young woman inhaled deeply, attempting with moderate success to calm herself as she approached her target. The business establishment was now just beyond visual range, if she remembered correctly from her only other illicit venture into San Francisco. It was possible that she was mistaken; she had been agitated, and therefore distracted by the risk, the fog, and by the unaccustomed Terran clothing that had served as disguise.

There had been changes, in the five weeks and three days since.

T'Pol now found the cowl and clothing comforting, if not precisely comfortable. The long fitted jacket and snug leggings, worn over her insulating bodysuit, provided added warmth as Earth's northern hemisphere tilted away from its sun. The requisite cowl still hampered peripheral vision by nearly five degrees in either direction, and further muffled sounds already distorted by the ambient water vapor her desert-evolved ears were not efficient at deciphering. However, it also disguised the fact that the pinnae of those ears ended in points.

On this world, that fact was an instant identifier. She had encountered thirty-two members of the indigenous species during her cowled explorations, however, and only one had recognized her as Vulcan.

"Trip."

The whisper was involuntary, startling her into halting her forward progress. None of the four other people on this tertiary street seemed concerned by her behavior. Perhaps they hadn't heard her. Human ears were adapted for this climate, but their acuity was considerably limited in comparison to the typical Vulcan auditory range.

Still, caution was well advised. T'Pol stepped to the side, turning toward the window of a shop across the street from the one she wished to visit; Terrans seemed inclined to use these spaces as a means of advertising. There was a display containing various implements apparently intended for cooking in this window, as there had been worn and aged print books in the booksellers'.

T'Pol could see the store, approximately a hundred meters from where she stood. If she was to find the information she sought, it would be in an establishment such as the one she saw reflected in the glass, and this was the only one she knew within walking distance of the Consulate.

The window also revealed her own reflection, and it was that which kept her immobile. There was something in her own bearing that she didn't recognize; something not precisely Vulcan in her expression -an intensity such as she had seen on the human faces around her.

Why had she come here? Was she motivated by logic, or emotion?

Her future had been determined in childhood. There was no need in that future for her to be here.

Five weeks and three days of intense meditation had not erased the compulsion to understand what she had imagined she felt, in the mind of the one human who had known her for what she was. Logic couldn't explain it, but, as she touched the faint scars upon her trembling fingers, memories of flames, rich nectars, and blue Terran eyes supplanted T'Pol's logic.

Delaying was far less logical than wearing the cowl. T'Pol had only a limited time, and even that was uncertain. If she was discovered beyond the grounds of the Consulate without official business and an experienced escort, she wouldn't be allowed another opportunity. It was likely she would be sent back to Vulcan, to an assignment that offered less to dissuade her from logical protocols.

The young woman inhaled deeply, held the breath a moment, then exhaled slowly and completely. On the next inhalation, she turned, walked to the markings that indicated a safe place to cross the street, and proceeded to the bookseller's, opening the door without hesitation and stepping into dimness. A small device, something like Mother's gong, but smaller and lighter, produced a metallic chiming. It was too loud for T'Pol's preference, and that proved another benefit of the cowl; muffled sounds were something she would gratefully accept, on this world.

"I'll be right with you, dear." An elderly human woman spoke from a ladder that reached to the tops of shelves that stretched nearly to the ceiling, approximately four meters high. "I'm afraid you've caught me doing my giraffe impressions again."

"There is no need to hasten." She wondered what the woman had meant by "giraffe impressions", but presumed it would alert the bookseller to her alienness, should she ask for clarification. Instead, she examined the books in the window, and filed the phrase in her memory; perhaps there would be an opportunity to explore it further at a later point in time.

In a moment, the woman began a careful descent from the ladder, a cloth in one hand. "It gets a bit dusty up top," she said, as she stepped onto the floor."Now then, how may I help you today?"

T'Pol struggled to detach herself from the agitation caused by the words she had rehearsed. "I'm seeking a book on human sexuality – there is one particular act I'm researching. It would benefit me greatly if you can procure a volume which contains detailed illustrations."

The woman nodded. "Our human sexuality section is extensive. That's probably not surprising to a researcher. Let me take you to it." She turned away, clearly intending to lead her customer to the proper area of the store.

"I would prefer that you select an appropriate volume. My culture prevents my exploring beyond what is required in the course of my research." It wasn't precisely a lie; Vulcans were not encouraged to interact with humans, and she was currently engaged in a violation of protocol.

The woman nodded. "I see. Pardon me; I ought to have known by your head covering. If you will tell me what act you're researching, then?"

"I don't know the name of the act. Perhaps I could describe it." This was something she'd anticipated; however, anticipating it didn't make it comfortable to do so. Fortunately, the human woman didn't seem to find it unusual that T'Pol placed her focus on the books in the window.

"Ah, I see," the woman said, when she'd finished as clinical a description of what she'd felt in Trip's mind when she ate the Terran fruit. "Yes, that's a very popular act; I have several volumes that might meet your needs. Do you have a language preference?"

"The illustrations are far more relevant for my purposes than the text; if necessary, I can obtain a translation." There was no need to reveal that she couldn't read any of this world's languages.

Another nod. The woman was accepting and professional; T'Pol was illogically grateful for this agreeable circumstance. She turned back to the window display, and looked outside. Daylight was beginning to fade. It was her intention to return to the Consulate once it was fully night. Most of those at the Consulate would be in their chambers for their last meal and meditation before returning to work for several more hours.

She stiffened into sudden immobility. Ambassador Soval and a human in Starfleet uniform were walking toward the store from the direction opposite that she had approached from. As she watched, her superior paused, lifting his head, then looking toward the store.

Had he seen her? Could he? The lighting in the store had seemed dim when she first entered, but it was darker outside now than it had been then. It was possible that he could, and that she would be discovered here, in clear violation of established protocol.

Her career on this world would be ended, and she would have no further opportunity to explore, to learn more of this species.

To encounter the man named Trip again.

She drew cautiously back into the space between two shelves, but kept her eyes trained on the window, and the door beside it. Illogically, she was both grateful for and restricted by the cowl. Breathing had become unaccountably difficult.

Soval remained as he was for a moment, lifting one hand slightly, perhaps in response to a question from his human companion. Then, slowly and deliberately, he began to walk again.

"Here you are, dear. I hope you don't mind that I took the liberty of marking the appropriate pages for you. It seems like maybe you're a little – uncomfortable – with the subject matter." The woman came back from the rear of the store, carrying a large book bound in what appeared to be cured animal hide. The scent was unpleasant, but that was hardly relevant, if it contained the information T'Pol sought.

"You are quite perceptive." T'Pol met the human woman's eyes for a moment. "Are the illustrations clear?"

"Very clear, and perfect to the last detail. Exquisite, really." A slight pause, as she held the volume out to T'Pol. "We have a private viewing area where you won't be disturbed, if you'd like to examine it to make sure it's what you were looking for."

"No. That won't be necessary. As long as the details are accurate, it will be sufficient for my purposes." She reached into one of the pockets of the jacket and removed the credit chit. "What is the cost of this volume?"

It would be illogical to hope that the book was within her price range. If it was not, she might be forced to go into the viewing area to obtain the information she sought. The chit had been procured with considerable difficulty, using her connections within the Ministry of Security. She could neither add to its value, nor obtain another. If it were discovered that she held this one, it would be confiscated, and she remanded to the High Command; only with special dispensation were Vulcans permitted to engage in trade with humans.

"It's a very old book in fine condition, dear, as I'm sure you can see, and many people collect versions of the Kama Sutra. However, this one is in the original Sanskrit, and it's been here two years. You're the first person who's shown any interest in it, and it tickles me to be helping a scientist with her research."

T'Pol was uncertain that she understood the point of this explanation. She was certain that she didn't know the correct human social protocol for this situation. She waited.

The woman smiled. "Thought you wouldn't be interested in haggling. All right then. I paid three hundred credits for it. I might need to have my head examined, but I'm going to let you have it at cost."

"That wouldn't be fair to you. Would you find four hundred fifty credits are fair price?"

The human stared at her, and T'Pol thought that perhaps she had surprised the bookseller. "Well, that's the first time anyone's ever talked the price up. If you're sure, that's more than fair, dear. Would you like me to wrap it discreetly for you? A young woman as lovely as you carrying this book might draw the kind of attention you probably don't want from strangers."

Again, T'Pol wasn't certain that she understood the woman's contextual meaning, but she could address the question. "Yes, that would be most helpful." She remembered a phrase she'd heard at the restaurant. "Thank you."

The bookseller set about the process of charging the credit chit, then wrapping the volume securely in brown paper. As her hands moved with certainty, she looked up at T'Pol. "Would you mind my asking what type of research you're involved in, dear? I'm something of a science buff, myself, in my spare time."

"I'm not comfortable discussing the nature of my research," she said. It would be unwise to admit to anyone that she was a Vulcan who had, against all logic, shared in the thoughts and emotions of a human male, and that five weeks and three days of meditation had done nothing but exacerbate her need to understand the incomprehensible and thoroughly illogical sexual act he'd imagined performing with her.

"Well, that's a pity, but I suppose I understand. Please visit again, if you need more information."

T'Pol took the offered package, and thanked the woman again. It was growing quite dark outside; they had passed the terminus into night. She went outside, finding it agreeable that she wouldn't be required to delay her return to the Consulate.

There was still a lingering trace of Ambassador Soval and his human companion on the walkway, but it was clear that they had continued on. She availed herself of a different route for her return, to minimize the chances that she would be noticed or remarked upon.

Fifteen Terran-standard minutes later, she had slipped back into her own small chamber, and was sitting on her floor cushion. The book, still wrapped, rested on the low meditation table before her.

She was shaking. What she had done was foolish and illogical. What she possessed carried such an enormity of emotional significance that she couldn't bring herself to touch it, now that she had set it there.

But her fingers trembled, as they had when she touched the flame as an infant, as they had when she stood beneath T'Khut, and waited for the rarest of all Vulcan fruit to drop into her hand.

As they had when a blue-eyed human named Trip had awakened some strange, illogical, inexorable longing within her.