for Beatrice_Otter.
A Vulcan's heart is set lower than a human's, deep within the chest cavity and protected by a ribcage with twice the density and a thick layer of cartilage. Trip was taught, along with every other senior officer on Enterprise in a hastily-arranged 'First Aid for Vulcans' crash course the week before they left drydock, to search for their pulse by pressing his palm against the inside of their knee, where a major vein sits closest to the surface, in the vulnerable joint between thigh and shin. Don't even bother trying to find a heartbeat, the doctor had advised them - you won't be able to feel it through their ribcage, and you'll offend them mortally in the process. The t'plak h'or'Val'na vein - the closest equivalent in human biology being the femoral artery - is more accessible, but also more vulnerable. Even a minor injury to this area of the knee can carry the risk of serious blood loss and death - one of very few physical weaknesses in a Vulcan's physiology.
An Achilles heel. A Vulcan's knee, Trip had quipped at the time. Nobody had really found it all that funny.
It never bothers him the way he'd thought it would, all those years ago when he would resentfully watch her from across the bridge, eyeing the curve of her shoulder or the delicate point of her ear, attracted despite himself. Vulcans' hearts beat much faster, he knew that. He knew their natural body temperature was much lower, too. They have a ridged bone on their lower spine that makes their back much harder than a human's - like a shell crab, Trip had thought. Two sets of eyelids. Their nailbeds are calcified, and their teeth, fingers, and toes are regenerative. Trip could catalogue all these differences the way he could list off the parts of a jet engine off the top of his head: committed to memory routinely, a safety checklist he tucked away between other emergency protocols and first aid procedures. T'Pol's skin is so cold sometimes, pressed against him in bed, that it jolts him awake. She doesn't dream, and when she sleeps - true sleep, instead of light meditation, which she only needs about once a week - her breath slows so much that to any other human eye, she'd look dead.
It doesn't bother him. Trip is perpetually sunburnt, impatient with his disabilities, his hands and face always swollen from the blistering wind that batters the coast of the Voroth Sea. Lotion and salves work, medicine works better, but there's nothing better than the press of T'Pol's hands, cool and dry against his cheeks.
Before they'd left Earth for perhaps the last time, Dr. Phlox had given him a dog-eared copy of a Vulcan medical text that'd obviously been pilfered from some academic library - heavily redacted by some overzealous censor, and re-annotated in Phlox's own careful hand. Information he'd painfully collected over the course of years, from colleagues and observations and a few confidences he'd painstakingly maintained.
"You know by now, of course, how extremely private Vulcans are, especially when it comes to their own weaknesses," Phlox had said. "None of this information is available through traditional medical databases; the Vulcan High Command would never hear of it. But this," he'd patted the book with a proud, fond hand, "this is as accurate a source you'll ever find. I daresay it helped me save the Subcommander's life many, many times over the course of our mission."
"I can't take this," Trip protested. "I can't imagine T'Pol will be the last Vulcan you'll ever treat."
"Not to worry, I know this inside and out by now. I have a feeling you'll need it more than I." Phlox smiled kindly.
"I thought I was the one on medical discharge," Trip quipped. "She'll be the one takin' care of me."
Phlox just patted Trip's arm, almost condescendingly. The closest he ever got to such a scornful emotion, anyway. "You'll have plenty of opportunities to return the favor, I'm sure."
Well. As wedding gifts go, they'd certainly done worse.
'T'Pol' is an Anglicized version of her actual name, which is unpronounceable by humans. And even her Vulcan name is just an approximation - a verbalization of her actual, true name, which is not even really a word, since it's a telepathic one given to her by her mother, who as far as Trip can tell was the Vulcan equivalent of one of those New Age crystal chakra moms who are always going on and on about auras and past lives and walking around barefoot in public.
("I do not know what a 'chakra' is," T'Pol says, flatly.
"Well, neither do I, but it sorta sounds like your mom, doesn't it," Trip replies.)
The closest thing Trip can come up with to describe it - T'Pol's real name, the…sense of herself that she holds in her head - is a sound: a clear, copper bell, vibrating with a teeth-jittering tone in a large, open space. Sometimes when she's meditating, Trip can hear it in the back of his head, even when he's far away, occupied with something else. Just a faint pressure, the suggestion of noise, enough to make him turn his head and question if it's in his head, and if so - whether he was imagining it or not, just because he wanted to hear it again.
Like the bells at church, Trip thinks. Those hand bells the chorus would play around Christmas - Lizzie and that mouthy little friend of hers, with the nose piercing, wrapped in blue robes, playing O Come All Ye Faithful on the steps below the pulpit. Or the clean, even tone of the computer on the Academy campus that announced the end of a safety drill. When she's tired, it sounds more like a fork hitting the side of a champagne flute - scraping ever so slightly, a bit messier than when she's at her best. A synthesizer, sometimes, that little bell tone beneath the drum beat of his mama's favorite pop song. Maybe that's what her heart would sound like, Trip thinks. If he could ever hear it beat in real life.
"All Vulcans have true names, yes," T'Pol explains. "Our children develop much slower than humans. It takes at least ten years before a Vulcan infant will learn to speak out loud; until then, most of their communication is telepathic. A bond is formed between the mother and child at birth, and with the father later on, once the child's eyelids develop enough to allow them to open their eyes."
"And when does that happen?" Trip asks, thinking of Elizabeth's oh-so-normal, human, blinking eyes.
"Approximately two years." T'Pol tilts her head, hearing the thought before Trip can speak it. "I am speaking of full-blooded Vulcan children, Trip."
"I know," Trip says. "I'm just wonderin'."
She blinks, her chin trembling slightly. "You're thinking of Elizabeth."
"Yeah. Aren't you?" Trip doesn't wait for an answer. "Did you give her a true name, too?"
"No." Trip doesn't have time to feel hurt by the blunt negative, watching T'Pol's face melt slightly, her expression dipping into the softer, more vulnerable space that she never shows to anyone else. It's like an expression without expression, Trip's always thought. Like she goes all fuzzy around the edges. "I did not give birth to her. I have never given birth to any child, so I am not familiar with the experience, but...my mother told me many times that it was a profound thing. Something I would only understand once it happened to me."
"My mama used to say the same thing, too," Trip says. "In not so many words."
T'Pol is silent for a long, sad second. Trip watches the side of her face, waiting. "I would have given her one," she finally says. "But I wished for you to be involved. So I waited."
And missed my chance, Trip hears. He opens his arms for her, and she steps in smoothly, her chin coming to rest against the open plane of his shoulder.
Outside their little house, the sun is just starting to set. T'Kuht can always be seen from this area of Vulcan, so close to the equator, but on clear nights like tonight you can also see the asteroid belt that orbits the planet as well - what looks like a faint ring of dust, circling the sky. The Voroth Sea is mineral-rich, brackish, full of a species of algae the Vulcans call sposhan-svai, that makes the water look dark purple. Trip could never blink and forget where he was, with a view like that out of his kitchen window, that's for sure.
"Can I have a true name?" he asks, after a minute.
"Your true name is Charles," T'Pol says mildly.
"You know what I mean."
A minute trembling in her shoulder, a tell that the question has discomfited her, in some way. "I am not your mother."
"Damn, T'Pol, that's not what I mean - "
"You misunderstand me." He can feel a faint tugging, like she's attempting to communicate through the bond. It never works that well when they're not in the white space, though. Trip's had trouble getting in the right state of mind since the injury. "It would be as if...I cannot think of an equivalent in your culture. It is something distinctly parental. Between lovers it would be...distasteful."
"Ah." Trip can maybe think of one or two examples, but then again - nothing is truly off-limits when it comes to sex. At least as far as humans are concerned. "Well what do you think of, when you think of me?"
T'Pol lifts her chin slightly, moving her hand so that her fingers make contact with the bare skin of his wrist. Trip closes his eyes against a gasp as their minds connect, and suddenly feels -
- metal grinding against metal, sand in the groove of a windowsill, sawdust shavings, an orange peel against the sweating lip of a martini glass, green silk warmed by sun, cracked leather stirrup with worn-in grooves -
"Damn," Trip says again, jerking back a little to catch his breath. T'Pol holds herself very still, frozen against his chest, waiting for him to settle back in again. And settle he does. "Damn. Okay."
"Apologies. I have yet to meditate today; my control is less than ideal."
Trip just shakes his head and kisses her, trying to convey his own feelings with his - much more limited - mental abilities. The ashy snuff of a candle that's just been extinguished - saltwater in the back of his throat - copper pennies - Pecan shortbread - the green smear against the wooden cutting board after she's been chopping herbs for his breakfast -
"I understand, k'diwa," T'Pol says, gently pulling away from his kiss. "You need not worry for your ability to express yourself. I can sense your intentions even when our minds are not in contact."
"Ever heard of the saying 'speak now, or forever hold your peace'?"
"Yes," T'Pol replies. "A traditional inclusion in Western Terran wedding ceremonies, adapted from the practice of marriage banns in medieval times. I fail to see how it is relevant to our current conversation."
"It isn't," Trip says with a grin. T'Pol levels him with a look. "It just turns me on when go all 'textbook' on me."
"Indeed," T'Pol says flatly.
K'Lan-ne, where they live, is a seaside city, the capital of the island continent of Xir'tan. Smack dab between the Voroth and Thanar Seas, with the Strait of Ha'za on the northern edge that connects them, Xir'tan is both the smallest continent and the most sparsely populated. Before they arrived, Trip had been exceedingly wary of the reactions most people in ShiKahr had when informed of their destination - by Vulcan standards, they might as well have been horrified.
"It is seismologically unstable," T'Pol had explained. "K'Lan-ne is the only settlement large enough to be called a 'city,' and it is still very small by Earth standards. Most Vulcans who live there only do so for professional reasons - the land is rich in mineral resources. Many quarries operate near the kil'Hvath mountain range, and K'Lan-ne's biggest industry is the harvesting and sale of ugel-morap - a type of coral that thrives in the nutrient-rich reefs."
"So it's not a vacation spot," Trip had clarified.
"I have never known a Vulcan to take a vacation," T'Pol said. (A blatant lie if Trip ever heard one, but he'd let her have it.)
So Trip had been picturing something between a barren industrial sector and Mount Doom from Lord of the Rings - but in reality, K'Lan-ne is actually rather breathtaking, tucked in a cove between the sea and a low mountain range. The weather is mild, and the temperature sits at a comfortable twenty-six degrees (comfortable for him, anyway - and mildly chilly for T'Pol). The earthquakes are frequent, but minor, and nothing that can't be weathered with a little caution and preparation. The locals are private - like most Vulcans - but distantly, oddly friendly, in the most subtle manner possible - much like T'Les had been, in her way. Trip teaches mechanical engineering and basic antimatter physics at a local trade academy four days a week, and the other three - mostly he surfs.
T'Pol's not a fan of such a dangerous pastime, but over the last year, she's learned to pick her battles. She'd never admit such a thing out loud, but she enjoys the filtered adrenaline rush she gets through their bond - she's always in such a frisky mood whenever he comes back.
The sea air does him good, at any rate. Trip will walk with a limp for the rest of his life, and active Starfleet service is definitely out. But a year and a half ago, when he could barely make it to the restroom without a nurse to help him stand up, he never could have pictured himself where he's at now - his scars seem to fade bit by bit every day, his lung capacity is triple what it was after the explosion. His hair's grown back - he's even got a beard - and his dexterity is almost what it once was. It'll be a long time before he'd trust himself to stick his hands in a warp core again, but at least the possibility is there, which is more than he'd hoped for, those dark days after the accident.
He'd never thought such a place like this could exist on Vulcan. It's still a desert, make no mistake - but the atmosphere is thicker here, much closer to Earth's than anywhere else. And so far away from the politics of ShiKahr, Trip's found that nobody really gives a shit about him one way or the other - beyond his abilities to teach their children how to put an engine together, anyway. Another thing they could never have on Earth: privacy.
It took Trip almost a month to realize that T'Pol has effectively moved them to the Vulcan equivalent of Florida - and he'd be damned if that isn't a more effective declaration of love than anything she could ever actually say.
"Your family would be gratified by your progress," T'Pol agrees. "If you ever gave them permission to visit, that is."
"Aw, come on," Trip complains, stretching out on the long, futon-like cushion that he's been reliably informed is the Vulcan take on a couch. (Much more comfy than it looks, to his surprise.) "I thought one of the upsides to marrying outside my species would be that you'd be on my side when it came to in-laws."
"Your brother-in-law left another message while you were in class today," T'Pol says.
Trip frowns. His brother and his husband were the most supportive out of any of his family members, after Elizabeth's death and the media circus that followed her funeral. If you could call a condolence card and a few phone calls 'supportive.' "They feel guilty."
"Perhaps. Regardless of the emotion behind their gestures, it is illogical to allow the current state of things to continue, especially as it grieves you so."
Trip sighs. "I'm still angry, though. Where's the logic in reaching back when I know I'll make it worse?"
"Just because you feel anger does not mean you are compelled to act upon it," T'Pol says with an arched eyebrow.
"You do me credit, wife," Trip says in Vulcan, a ceremonial phrase that he loves to tease her with. To his pleasure, her face twitches in visible annoyance - her lips pursing ever so slightly against a sharp retort. He grins. "I saw that."
"You attempt to change the subject," T'Pol says stonily. "Do you think to hide away here for the rest of your life? Or do you simply mean to hide me?"
"What? No!" Trip sits up, looking at her and fully seeing her finally, having only paid scant attention since the beginning of this conversation. To his dismay, he notices the stiffness in her neck, feels the beginning of distress leaking through to his side of the bond, and abruptly realizes that maybe she's a bit more invested in this argument than he'd previously thought. "T'Pol, you know that's not true. It's got nothing to do with you and me."
"On the contrary - the source of your disagreement with your family has everything to do with your relationship with me," T'Pol counters. "Considering the source of their displeasure is our marriage, I do not see how you could argue otherwise."
"It's not that simple," Trip says, sitting up to mirror her position on the cushion. Their knees graze, their legs folded beneath them in a parody of meditation. "I'm not ashamed of you. I'm protective." T'Pol's eyes glimmer, and her head tilts, just a little. "You were upset by their disapproval."
"Of course I was," T'Pol says, her voice much quieter than before. "It is natural, when rejected by your spouse's family."
Trip reaches out and gently touches her cheek, tracing the sharp cheekbone that still stands out a little too gauntly, for his taste. T'Pol still has a habit of neglecting her own health, especially in times of stress - something Trip can't believe he didn't notice earlier. It was a harsh wake up call, to realize that as well as he knew her, he still didn't pay much attention to her - at least not until after Elizabeth died. "I don't want you to have to put up with people who make you feel that way. Especially not in your own house."
"This is our house, Trip," T'Pol says, "and my emotions are under control. Much moreso than they've ever been before."
Trip finishes his caress with a tap on the very tip of her nose, which she barely reacts to, other than a slight twitch of her hands. "I love my family," he tells her, lowering his hand to his knee. T'Pol reaches out and meets it before it falls completely, pressing their palms together lightly, a lazy approximation of a Vulcan kiss that she favors more than the traditional ozh'esta. "But you're my wife. I can put you first because you need me to, and because - well, they're the ones who screwed up. So the burden is theirs to fix it."
"Is that not what Noah and Benjamin are attempting to do?" T'Pol asks softly.
"I guess." Trip lets the silence lapse, thinking of his brothers. He hasn't seen Ben since the funeral - not in person, anyway - but his husband Noah was the first one to visit in the infirmary after the explosion, and the only one who even attempted to be friendly to T'Pol. Those awful weeks in the San Francisco hospital, when his mother refused to even look at T'Pol, let alone address her directly - Noah had been the one to always smooth it over, to broach the awkward silences with chit chat specifically designed to engage her in the conversation. Yeah, he guesses - maybe Noah and Ben deserve a little more credit.
Deep down, Trip knows they were just scared. Losing Lizzie was a terrible blow for his parents, but they'd clearly been out of their depth completely when faced with the existence of Elizabeth. The changes in Trip himself, too, had to have been terrifying, and he hadn't exactly done much to accommodate - resentful of their fear and uncertainty, furiously angry at Terra Prime and longing for an outlet, he'd been belligerent and stubborn, going against the advice T'Pol had given him to go easy, and - well, anyone could've predicted the blow up that followed, probably. There's a part of him that feels justified in it, though - grieving for his daughter, he can't have been expected to play ambassador at the same time, could he? What is family even for, if you can't rely on them to support you when you most desperately need it? And what kind of family were they now, that they could close ranks against a woman their son loved?
Grief does terrible things to people; Trip knows this. On Vulcan, the death of a child is considered an unspeakable event, something so terrible that most people won't even refer to it out loud, using euphemisms instead. A tradition that dates back to the time of Surak - one that survived even the corrupt era of the now-defunct High Command - involves the planting of flowers outside the grieving couple's house, something that usually is done by a family member or close friend. Since T'Pol and Trip had nobody who fit that description on Vulcan, they were blown away completely to discover a garden bed of flowers outside their apartment in ShiKahr, the very first morning after their arrival. To this day, they still don't know who it was that planted them.
The same thing occurred on the first morning in K'Lan-ne. The set up of their house is such that it's hard to get a good look at the garden from inside the house - not many windows on the south side, due to the sun - but every week or so, Trip notices that the flowers have been tended to, and as the season has deepened into summer, more blooms have appeared. Someone is attending to it regularly, that's for sure, and he suspects the same thing would have happened in ShiKahr had they stayed longer, despite how uncomfortable most people were with their presence there. That Vulcans who don't even like him are capable of such respectful, unobtrusive sympathy - despite all their claims of detachment and austerity - is a damning condemnation of the reception they'd received on Earth.
"'A bridge untended to will inevitably collapse,'" T'Pol quotes, gentle in her sympathy.
"Is that the Kir'Shara?"
"No. A philosophical text by a scholar that predates Surak," T'Pol says. "V'Ras, daughter of Llail. I studied her writings extensively."
Trip smiles fondly. "Your favorite, huh?"
"Vulcans do not have favorites," T'Pol lies blithely.
"Uh huh," Trip says.
Trip tries to stay objective in his classes, but inevitably there's always one or two of the kids that stand out. This term, it's a young girl named T'Shaai, who often stays well past the allotted class time to work on her projects, and doesn't even seem to notice the other students leaving. Trip usually has to cut her off himself, even though he tries to stay as long as he can, not wanting to interrupt her.
He has a mix of ages in this class, an introduction to extractive metallurgy, so he usually tries to adapt each project to their skill level. T'Shaai took to it instantly, though, and Trip found himself scrambling to come up with things to sufficiently challenge her, and he finally had to settle for more and more complex puzzles, for lack of anything better. Right now, she's been attempting to analyze a sample of polyduranide alloy in order to identify its separate components - a bit of a trick question, since Trip had salvaged it from one of his old baseball bats from Earth, and so there's definitely a few metals in there that she won't be familiar with. Trip's certain she'll rise to the occasion, though.
T'Shaai's father is a chemist, one of the senior scientists at the technetium mine in K'Lan-ne. He's pretty friendly, as Vulcans go.
"Instructor Tucker." Velkak raises a ta'al in greeting. "It is gratifying to find you well."
"Likewise, and didn't I say you could call me 'Trip'?" Trip makes the ta'al as well, almost as natural as a local by now.
"Indeed you did," Velkak says.
Trip smirks at him. "T'Shaai's still working," he says, cocking a thumb towards the lab behind him. "Seemed like she might've been onto something; didn't want to interrupt her."
"I apologize once more for the imposition on your time," Velkak says.
"No need to apologize. Gives me time to work on this damned grading," Trip says, splaying a hand over the stacks of papers on his desk. He'd only taught at Starfleet Academy for two semesters during his grad studies, but even then he'd known teaching was a task only undertaken by the bravest and most resilient of people. Now teaching Vulcans - that's a whole other story. Some days Trip can't believe they put up with him. "Really, it's no trouble."
Velkak looks faintly skeptical, but inclines his head in acknowledgment. His robes are streaked with the silt from the walking paths through the city - they've been battered by rain for weeks now, and half the city is scrambling to prepare for possible flooding. T'Pol herself is currently helping down at the main administrative building, assisting with the preparation efforts for the farms and ranches that sit well below the floodplain of the tributaries that run through the Southern half of the cities.
"My daughter speaks highly of your class, and in particular her current assignment," Velkak says. "She has expressed desire to continue pursuing courses in engineering."
"Well, I sure hope you mean that as a compliment," Trip says.
"I do. It is gratifying to my mate and I to see her so engaged with her studies." Velkak hesitates, ever so slightly. "It was not always the case."
Trip chews on his lip, considering his response. He's still shaky with the niceties, sometimes. And T'Pol's warned him half a dozen times to be cautious around the parents; seems Vulcans can be just as stubborn and prideful about their kids as humans. "She's an excellent student. I've never seen anyone with such focus." To put it lightly, he thinks. "Perhaps she needed time to find the subject that caught her interest?"
"Indeed," Velkak says, and hesitates again. Trip stands a little bit straighter, a little disconcerted. "Our family is familiar with yours socially. My father studied under T'Les at the Science Academy in ShiKahr."
"I'm aware," Trip says, a little wary. T'Pol had warned him about that too - T'Les had been well connected and very prominent, as scholars go. Since her death, her reputation has bordered on infamous, due to her association with the Syrannites - the political group that now controls Vulcan's government. It's hard to find a place on the planet where they wouldn't run into someone who knew her.
"My mate has also encountered yours in a professional capacity. She speaks well of Subcommander T'Pol," Velkak continues. "It would honor us to host you both for the Tal-Shanar observance in two weeks' time."
Trip goggles at him for a second, thrown for a loop. "I - you honor us with your invitation," he manages. "I will have to...speak with my wife. I mean, my mate. I'm not sure if...she has plans for that yet."
"That seems wise," Velkak says, and Trip nearly chokes on air. Was that a joke? Velkak inclines his head once more, his expression as serene as ever. "You may let me know of your answer when I collect T'Shaai from tomorrow's class."
"Sure," Trip says, still gobsmacked. "That's - yeah, that'll work."
Velkak raises another ta'al. "I will collect her now."
"Okay," Trip says dumbly, and watches him glide into the lab, completely unruffled, of course. Trip stares at the stack of papers left to grade with unseeing eyes. T'Pol's going to think I'm playing a prank on her, he thinks.
However. "It is not unexpected," is her unexpected response. "You have developed a mentorship with their daughter; his family is familiar with mine. It is the polite thing to develop social ties with us."
"Okaaay," Trip says slowly, watching her cut into her food with deliberate, more-controlled-than-usual movements, "on paper, maybe. I kinda thought we were still persona non grata with the locals, though."
"This is a more liberal area than ShiKahr," T'Pol points out. "It was one of the main reasons why I chose this city."
"You mentioned, but - I'm human," Trip says.
"Yes," T'Pol says dryly. "I am aware."
Trip snorts.
"ShiKahr is not representative of the entire planet. Our experience there was heightened because of the political situation between Earth and Vulcan as it presently stands."
"I know that. I just figured - "
T'Pol raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to finish. When he doesn't, she continues. "Most likely, it is your presence that is smoothing our way moreso than mine. You are talented and charismatic, and you are a teacher who is well-liked among your students. Many beings in this region are probably curious as well, having never met a human before." She takes a delicate sip of tea. "I would remind you that I am not as skilled as you are in social situations."
"You were a spy," Trip says incredulously. "'Unskilled' isn't the word I'd use."
"Exactly. I am more suited for...different environments."
Trip leans hard against the table, still struggling with the lower height of Vulcan furniture. Everything is at least half a foot lower than what he's used to, probably because Vulcans have longer arms - and a flair for the dramatic. He's not about to admit defeat yet, though - especially not now that it looks like they're gonna be entertaining guests. "That's a funny way of saying you're not good at small talk, darlin'."
"Vulcans do not engage in 'small talk.'"
"Oh, yes they do," Trip says with a laugh. "You really are bad at it, huh?"
T'Pol spears a piece of flatroot and pointedly does not reply.
"So you don't mind? Spending Tal-Shanar with them?"
"It would be agreeable to me. As long as you do not mind, either." T'Pol hesitates. "You and I have not observed Tal-Shanar in the traditional way together."
"We did last year - sorta," Trip argues. "I know I was still laid up, but - that roasted dish you made, in the sand fire at the beach, the uh - kahri-torrafee - "
"Kahri-torrafeiaca," T'Pol supplies.
"Right. And the meditation afterward, wasn't that it?"
"Part of it," T'Pol says. "I came up with an approximation of the ceremony to accommodate your limited mobility at the time. A traditional Tal-Shanar observance is much longer, and includes several exercises that you would consider physically draining."
"What kinda exercises?" Trip asks, wary. "This isn't like that hike thing you told me about where they fast for five days and camp in the desert, right?"
"No," T'Pol says. "They are breathing exercises involved in heavy meditation." She hesitates again. "Part of the reason why the observance is practiced in community with other Vulcan families or couples is the risk factor involved. It is safer in groups."
"Breathing exercises," Trip repeats blankly. "Like…"
"Depriving yourself of oxygen in increasingly large increments in order to reach an altered, spiritual state," T'Pol says.
Trip sets down his fork carefully. "Honestly," he says, "I shoulda seen that one coming."
"We do not have to attend," T'Pol says, her eyes on her meal.
"You would do it on your own, wouldn't you?" T'Pol nods slightly. "Then we should go. They already know I'm human, right? They probably don't expect the same level of…" Trip waves his hand vaguely, too smart by now to use words like 'crazy' or 'intense' to refer to her religion. Not that she'd call it "religion," but that's pretty much what it is. "Skill."
"It would please me to see you make some friends, as well," T'Pol says.
"Hey," Trip says, "I've got friends."
"Friends on Vulcan," T'Pol says. "Your students do not count. They are children and are obligated to spend time in your company."
"Ouch," Trip says, laughing again.
Every morning, Trip wakes up and goes through a series of stretches prescribed to him by a physical therapist whose sole lot in life is to make him miserable. T'Pol often meditates through this, having adapted to a longer, more human-like sleep (or rather - meditation, most of the time) cycle during her time on Enterprise. Trip had expected her to snap right to the 26-hour day on Vulcan, but to his surprise, she's been having the hardest time adjusting back.
Trip, on the other hand, likes this whole "sleep for five hours, get up, sleep another five, stay up until dark" thing. What this means is that they're often at opposites - one asleep while the other is awake - but somehow it works out. They always spend a few hours in bed at the same time, although when it happens - and what they're doing in bed - varies.
The little clicking, croaking noises T'Pol makes when she actually sleeps, though, instead of just meditation - a Vulcan snore - sort of remind him of the anhinga birds that use to roost by the lake near where he grew up. It's impossibly cute, and if he ever lets on that he thinks so, he's sure she'll find some weird meditative way to stop making them.
It's been almost two years since they left Earth. Trip used to spend these mornings scrolling through holo-news, his eyes sharp for news of the Romulan War, the ongoing trials of Terra Prime members, Starfleet updates...now, though, mostly he sticks to the Vulcan holonet. Crop predictions, weather pattern analysis, dry scientific breakthroughs. He's almost certain T'Pau's government is making an effort to keep normal citizens' daily newsfeed as boring as possible, but he finds himself...not caring all that much.
Sometimes, Jon calls, though. Promoted to a desk, early morning in K'Lan-ne usually lines up with mid to late evening in San Francisco, and his old friend is nothing if not a creature of habit.
"Can't believe you didn't pass out," Jon says. "Eighteen minutes? Isn't the current record for a human something like twenty-two?"
"It was more like seventeen and some change," Trip says. "Remember they dosed me with triox right before, and this bond with T'Pol - she's pretty sure it has a physical effect, too."
Jon just shakes his head, incredulity tinged with a bit of amazement. "So did you reach an altered, spiritual state?"
"I guess. I mean," Trip laughs, "I definitely saw a few things."
"I would be surprised if you didn't. Eighteen minutes!" Jon tilts back in his chair, his head dipping out of frame for a brief moment. "How long did T'Pol manage?"
"Forty-three." Jon nearly falls out of his chair. "I know. Woulda scared the shit out of me, if she hadn't warned me first. I couldn't feel her at all, towards the end of it."
A slightly discomfited expression flits across Jon's face, as it does every time Trip references the telepathic ins and outs of his marriage. Trip's pretty good at not taking it personally, by now. "Well, she's always been a bit of an overachiever."
Trip snorts. "Tell me about it."
A chime sounds somewhere on Jon's end of the call, and his chin jerks, his gaze moving off-screen for a brief moment. "Sorry, Trip," he says, reaching out to switch the alert off on the monitor, "forgot to turn the don't disturb setting on."
"You can take it if it's important," Trip offers.
"Nah. If it were really important they'd knock on my door." Jon shoots a dark look at his surroundings - one of the shabbiest Admiral offices Trip has ever seen. He'd made a point to be as obvious as possible about his resentment, trying to make it clear that he'd rather be out in the sky, leading a ship against the Romulans. Never let it be said that Jonathan Archer is above being petty. "If I'm gonna work until sundown then I at least get a dinner break, damn it. Besides, you still haven't told me about T'Pol's appointment went."
Trip takes a deep breath. "Good. The doc thinks it might be possible within the next couple of months, so long as T'Pol doesn't get sick or anything."
"Wow." Jon's face clears into an expression of genuine awe. "So by Christmas...you could be a father again."
"More like New Year," Trip says, rubbing his neck. "Vulcan pregnancies are eleven months, not nine."
"Right. I forgot." Jon blinks. "Have you told your folks yet? That you're trying, I mean."
"Yeah. Dad took it alright...my mom less so, but at least she's tryin'." Trip sighs. "Noah and Ben are coming to visit."
"Trip! That's great!"
"Melissa still won't even talk to us, though." Trip shakes off the melancholy. "Well. I suspect she'll come around eventually, once she realizes how cute our kid is gonna be. I'm saving up the guilt trip for the baby shower."
Jon grimaces sympathetically. "Terra Prime is still a loud voice around here," he says soberly. "We do what we can, but...the war doesn't help." He visibly shakes off the mood, his grin growing. "Maybe ask T'Pol how she feels about a press tour? A cute half-Vulcan baby might do us wonders in the PR department."
"Don't even joke about that, Jon," Trip says with a groan. "I still get shivers thinking about that holonet interview they roped us into, after the Federation ceremony."
Jon laughs out loud. "It was romantic," he insists.
"Maybe by your standards," Trip says. A gesture of goodwill on their part, and an attempt to keep the rising xenophobic sentiment on Earth under control, Trip and T'Pol had consented to a televised interview on behalf of the Federation, not long after the charter was first signed. This was the early days of Trip's recovery from the explosion, so he hadn't looked his best, but even worse was the way the reporter had goaded them into admitting they were married on global broadcast. Not Trip's fondest memory.
"Feel how you want about it, but that interview bought us a lot of ground," Jon argues. "People still talk about it. It humanized T'Pol quite a bit." He grimaces. "Hypothetically speaking."
"If we do manage to get pregnant then we're off-limits for good," Trip says firmly. "And you can tell whatever Federation big shot you'd like about that - Commander Tucker and Subcommander T'Pol are retired."
"I know, I know." Jon holds up his hands. "I'm just saying. It's been two years since you left, Trip. And almost four, since Elizabeth." His face softens. "You might have more friends here than you think."
Trip hopes so. But then again, Malcolm still sends T'Pol those coded updates from his new posting out there on the front lines, which are hardly encouraging. And Hoshi Sato has made a full time job out of campaigning against Terra Prime and its ideals - a politician in her own right now, she's running for office in her new home district, the United State of Australasia. She's considered a long-shot, radical candidate - mostly due to her extreme left-leaning ideals about diplomacy towards the Romulans, and domestic integration with alien cultures.
"Change don't happen overnight, Jon," Trip says, "and we'd just as well stay out of it. Especially once we have a family." It's taken him a long time to change the word "if" to a more inevitable "once," in that sentence. "We have diplomatic immunity here on Vulcan, too."
"Good 'ol T'Pau," Jon agrees. He smiles. "I didn't mean to turn this into a political debate. I'm so excited for you, Trip - honest."
"Thanks."
"You and T'Pol - you were always meant to be parents, I think," Jon says, his expression growing distant. "I think about him a lot, you know. Lorian."
Trip's heart contracts. "Yeah. Me too."
Jon sighs, a sad smile spreading across his face. "Maybe you're about to see him again."
Trip's been working very, very hard not to get his hopes up. "Maybe," he says, hearing the raw emotion leaking through in his voice, despite his best efforts. "To be honest, Jon, I'd be happy with anyone, so long as they're healthy." His voice cracks.
Jon's face is as earnest as he's ever seen it. "From your lips to God's ears," he says.
"T'Mir would be an acceptable name to me," T'Pol says.
"After your foremother?" Trip asks. He grins, nudging her bare shoulder with his chin. "That's sweet."
"It is not. It is simply a sign of respect towards my ancestor."
"You big softie, you," Trip teases, pulling her closer. Their legs tangle together beneath the sheets, the soft glow from the monitoring station the only source of light in the room. On the security feed, the little bundle of cells that will eventually become their son or daughter is floating gently in a gestation laboratory pod - not the most romantic of settings, but a beautiful sight nonetheless. T'Pol has taken to leaving it on almost all the time - an overly sentimental gesture Trip likes to needle her about.
"You share my opinions on this practice. We named Elizabeth for your sister, by your suggestion."
"Yeah, but that's a human thing. You're the one always telling me that you don't feel this or that or anything else - "
"I tire of this conversation," T'Pol says abruptly, turning in his hold. "Would you like to copulate now?"
Trip sputters. "Hey," he says, pushing her back a little. "Remember that conversation we had about easing into it?"
"Ah. Yes." T'Pol pauses. "I am gratified by the feelings of sexual desire I sense from you across the bond. It pleases me to know that you are attracted to me, and I suspect that you will continue to feel this way even once I am pregnant, and my body begins to change. However, I would like to take advantage of my current dexterity while I still possess it. Would you like to copulate now?"
Trip laughs. "A little better," he says, and leans in for a kiss. Her mouth still tastes of almonds - the teeth-cleaning devices they use always leave that lingering taste on her tongue. "Dexterity, huh?"
"I shall endeavor to impress you," T'Pol says. "Even after all these years, I believe I am still capable."
"Darlin'," Trip says, wrapping her up in his arms, "that's a hell of an understatement."
If T'Pol were human, she would smile. But she's not, and she doesn't - and Trip finds himself thankful, even still. With his hands wrapped around her waist, and their minds connected, he can feel her heart beating - not with his hands, but somewhere deeper inside. Parted from me and never parting, never and always touching and touched. Trip's a lucky bastard.
"K'diwa," T'Pol murmurs, glancing over at the monitor. "Perhaps we should turn that off."
"Yeah," Trip says, reaching out, "we'll traumatize her enough once she gets here, I'm sure."