Unleashed
By Laura Schiller
Based on: Star Trek: Enterprise
Copyright: Paramount
/
Admiral Jonathan Archer, veteran of the Xindi and Romulan Wars and key figure in the founding of the United Federation of Planets, was widely regarded as the hero of the age. There would be – and in fact already were – books written about him, praising his leadership, his charisma, and his cool head in a crisis.
T'Pol doubted, however, that any of those books would show him like this.
"Milady! Heel!" Jon shouted, clinging to the leash of a tall, lanky grey dog that was towing him through the grass with surprising strength. His sun-streaked hair was ruffled and his cheeks pink from the speed of his walk. His T-shirt, jeans and sneakers had grass stains on them, as if the dog had tripped him up at least once. He was smiling.
He looked good, she thought. Healthier compared to the war years, which had understandably worn him down. Handsome, even, though that was an illogical concern. Still, the warmth of his smile called an answering warmth from inside her as he and his new pet came closer.
"Hi, T'Pol," Jon called, letting go of the leash with one hand, only to be jerked forward and almost lose his balance. The dog jumped up at T'Pol's legs, tail wagging, yipping at the top of its voice. "Milady, get down!"
Milady obeyed, although she didn't stop barking, and danced in place as if meeting a Vulcan was the greatest discovery she had made in all her short life.
"Hello, Jon."
They hadn't used titles, at his request, since they'd stopped serving on Enterprise.
"You'll have to excuse her," said Jon. "I got her from the animal shelter. She's mostly greyhound and all mischief."
"Perhaps," she teased, "Calling her by a title gave her the impression that she is in command."
"Oh, that." He shrugged, stepping sideways. "I named her after another Three Musketeers character. Seemed fitting at the time, but you're right – a little too fitting, maybe. Lady de Winter didn't let anything stand in her way."
"Nonetheless, you seem to enjoy being a dog owner again. It suits you."
Porthos had died peacefully of old age a few years ago. T'Pol missed his soft fur, his sweet, easy-going nature and even his cheese habit, although she would not say as much out loud.
"Thanks." He looked down at the sleek silver-gray animal with a smile softened by memories, not all of them happy. "She could never replace Porthos, but I wouldn't want her to. I like her the way she is, stubborn streak and all. Besides … it's nice having someone to come home to."
T'Pol, who had no one to come home to, not even a dog, looked away. But she couldn't feel lonely for long with companions like these, or on a day like this.
Golden Gate Park was bright with sunshine and flowers at this time of year, petals floating on its many tree-lined lakes. Seeing so much water and green plant life didn't shock her anymore, but it still filled her with a certain sense of wonder. The noise level – birds singing, buskers playing musical instruments, an advertising jingle from an ice cream cart, children and animals squabbling or playing and their parents calling them to order, a yoga coach loudly talking her class through a sun salutation, and the buzz of distant traffic – was less wondrous, but she was used to that by now. What the humans felt as summer heat was a gentle warmth for her, and the casual sweater and slacks she wore kept her comfortable. She had squeezed herself into enough tight or stiff uniforms to last a lifetime.
Trip would have enjoyed this place, she thought. He would have fished in the lakes, biked along the trails and argued with her about the nutritional value of ice cream. Their daughter would have enjoyed it too, if she had survived. She would be ten now, about the age of that blonde girl in the pink dress, playing Frisbee with her parents and their golden retriever.
It never stopped hurting, the thought of them. But she had grown around that hurt like a tree around a lightning scar, and by now, she wouldn't want it taken away. She refused to let grief stop her from living her life. That was the last thing Trip would have wanted.
She strolled with Jon and Milady along the gravel paths, talking about their careers. She was a professor of astronomy at Starfleet Academy, and ran Vulcan language and meditation lessons in her spare time for any cadets interested. (She was still surprised by how many showed up.) He was currently part of treaty negotiations with the Romulans, so much of his work was classified, but trying to earn the trust of the most paranoid people in the Alpha Quadrant was a problem to which she could sincerely relate.
"It's like herding cats," said Jon.
"Or dogs?"
"Some dogs, anyway," he agreed, pulling the leash up short to stop Milady sticking her nose into a baby's stroller. Fortunately, the woman pushing the stroller only laughed.
"While my lessons may not have as much political impact, they can be challenging as well," T'Pol agreed. "Every year, I get at least one cadet who asks me whether Vulcan hands are erogenous zones, and if so, how I go about my daily life without constant overstimulation. I mostly ignore them."
Jon's eyebrows shot up in revolted disbelief. "And the admissions board lets them in? My God, what's Starfleet coming to?"
"I seem to recall at least one member of Starfleet who used to nickname Ambassador Soval "Pointy" behind his back. If he could change his mind about Vulcans, so might these cadets."
Jon laughed and punched her lightly on the shoulder. "You'll never let me live that down, will you?"
"As your former first officer and current friend, I consider it my duty to keep you humble."
"Do not roll in that, I just washed you yesterday!" Jon called after Milady, who was sniffing a pile of something brown and foul-smelling by the banks of a lake. "Looks like you've got an ally in that cause, T'Pol. Nothing keeps you humble like being followed home by the smell of … I don't even wanna know."
"Milady, come," T'Pol ordered.
The dog, willful as always, didn't come back directly. She came in a circle, scampering around the two taller beings at the end of her leash, which tangled itself up around their legs.
T'Pol gasped.
Jon swore.
With a massive splash, they fell sideways into the lake.
/
They hauled themselves out, dripping and sputtering, wet leaves and dirt sticking to their clothes. T'Pol's hair, which she now wore long and tied in a ponytail, was plastered to her back. Droplets of water rolled down her face. Her clothes clung to her.
"You okay?" were the first words Jon could manage after coughing up the lake water he'd inhaled.
"Yes. Are you?"
"Fine."
He'd meant only to help her to her feet. He had overridden his Vulcan shipmate's touch taboo more than once in the years they'd served together, but never without a sound, logical reason. Except for that one time, the hug before the Federation's founding ceremony, only days after Trip's funeral; there had been nothing logical about that. But since then, he'd managed to be respectful and professional at all times, never to put his hands on her again – until now.
Now he was holding her, one hand at the small of her back, the other at her elbow, radiating heat like a small star.
He wasn't letting go.
She wasn't pulling away.
There was water everywhere – on the ends of her hair, her eyelashes, her lips …
"Hey, are you guys okay?" came an excited young woman's voice, followed by an equally excited volley of barks from Milady. "I got your dog here, let me just – oh my God. Professor T'Pol? Admiral Archer? Is that really you?"
The speaker was small, slim, dark-skinned, wearing her hair in a short afro, and dressed in a Starfleet cadet's uniform. Her eyes shone with a high-strung blend of awe and amusement as she held the greyhound's waterlogged leash out to Jon.
"Thanks, Cadet," said Jon, taking hold of the leash with both hands and trying to sound dignified in spite of how ridiculous he must look. "I'd better keep hold of this one before she tosses anyone else into the water."
The Cadet snorted. Jon politely endured Milady licking his face to make sure he was okay after his drenching.
"Admiral," said T'Pol, as calmly and politely as if they were at a dinner party, "Allow me to present Cadet Angela Burnham, one of my students."
Burnham said something in thickly accented Vulcan that must have conveyed respect, because T'Pol nodded graciously in return and replied in the same language. Switching back to English, the cadet added, "Admiral, I just wanna say thank you. For everything you've done for this planet. This galaxy. I'd shake your hand if they weren't both occupied right now."
Jon, who didn't feel at all worthy of being thanked but knew it would be rude to protest, shared a rueful look with T'Pol. He gave one of the stock answers he had prepared for moments like this: "It was nothing but our duty, Cadet. You'll learn that when it's your turn to serve."
"I hope so, sir." Instead of shaking Jon's hand, since he was still holding the leash Burnham reached down to scratch Milady's ears, including the greyhound in her reverence for the owner. "Wow, she's gorgeous. Does she belong to both of you?"
"That animal is not mine," said T'Pol, folding her arms and shivering from the cold water.
"Okay … " Burnham suppressed the smile beginning to form, but her eyes still sparkled with mischief. "I, um, I should get back to my friends."
She gestured over her shoulder to a group of cadets sitting on picnic blankets under a tree, sunbathing, drinking soda, and trying not to stare too obviously at their friend and the waterlogged strangers. It must have been that short week between their last exam and their graduation ceremony. They were snatching as much free time as they could before their first duty assignments. Jon envied them a little. He also hoped, from the bottom of his heart, that they wouldn't have to go through another war.
"Can I take a picture?" The young woman whipped her communicator out of her pocket. "Please? They're never gonna believe me - "
"No," said Jon and T'Pol in unison, and in matching tones of command.
"Of course not. Sorry." Burnham ducked her head in an apologetic way as she stuffed the communicator back into her pocket. "I didn't mean … "
"You are dismissed, Cadet," said T'Pol, firmly but not unkindly. "Live long and prosper."
"Peace and long life, Professor. Admiral."
With a final ta'al for T'Pol, a nod for Jon, and a pat of Milady's head, the cadet went bounding away over the grass and back to her friends. Jon suspected he heard her giggle, but he couldn't be certain.
"Why would she assume we share ownership of your dog?" asked T'Pol, in that wry, incredulous, I-will-never-understand-humans tone she still sometimes used even after serving with them for several decades.
"I think she was asking if we were a couple."
"Indeed?" T'Pol looked so astonished at the sheer possibility that he felt like he'd been dunked into the lake all over again.
"Just wait," he joked, "Tomorrow it'll be all over the subspace network that you and I are having a wild secret affair."
He'd only meant to lighten the awkwardness of the moment. If he had said that to Hoshi (or even to Erica, after finding out they made much better friends than lovers) they could have laughed and put it behind them. T'Pol's face, however, became so perfectly neutral even by Vulcan standards that his smile froze and he felt like an idiot.
Did he have to joke about the scandalous nature of human-Vulcan relations after what she and Trip had gone through at the hands of Terra Prime?
She was Trip's widow, for God's sake. Never mind that they hadn't been married; surely a Vulcan mating bond was even more sacred than that. Not to mention the memory of a lost child.
Trip had died saving his captain's life. It would be wrong to take advantage of that sacrifice by making a play for the woman he'd loved.
(Besides, much as he hated to admit it, there was a primitive caveman side of him that objected for less noble reasons. He had been the elder of the two friends, the first to do everything from learning to sail to joining Starfleet, and he didn't want to come second to Trip in this, of all things.)
He reminded himself, for the millionth time, that he had no business even thinking about T'Pol that way. Before he could apologize though, or change the subject, or say anything at all, Milady abruptly put an end to his train of thought by jumping out of his arms and taking off after a squirrel.
"You gotta be kidding me!"
Diving after the end of her trailing leash, calling the dog by all the Terran and non-Terran swear words he knew, he didn't see that T'Pol had cracked a tiny smile.
/
Some time later, T'Pol curled up in an armchair in Jon's house, wearing a too-large water polo jersey, sweatpants and socks, all borrowed from him. She had taken the elastic out of her hair to let it dry faster after the shower she had taken to wash off the dirty lake water. Long hair might be warmer on her ears and the back of her neck in Earth's chilly climate, but it was rather inconvenient at times. She felt clean, but somehow defenseless, as if the close-fitting outfits she normally wore were armor that she had shed. Jon's clothes smelled like him; that too had a disarming effect.
The house, an inheritance from the late Henry Archer, was a two-storey building on a quiet, tree-lined street in the suburbs of San Francisco. Traces of Jon's father were everywhere: ships in bottles sitting on bookshelves, a blueprint of the Warp Five engine framed on a wall, and a photo of the engineer standing next to Ambassador Soval (both looking uncomfortable), among other things. Jon's mother, literature professor Sally Archer, was a more subtle presence, but between the mathematical and military history texts, T'Pol spotted several well-worn volumes by Terran poets such as Homer, Yeats and Rossetti. Also, she doubted either of the men had planted those white peonies in the front garden.
Jon himself, of course, was everywhere: in photos as a little boy, a teenager, a cadet, an officer, surrounded by family, friends, shipmates; in the pencil drawings of ships named Enterprise he had brought back from his ready room; in the yellow water polo ball by the door; in Milady's chew toys scattered on the carpet; most of all in his scent.
Milady was, quite literally, in the doghouse; T'Pol now knew where that particular English idiom came from. Jon had tied the greyhound up and lectured her in the same tone he used to speak to insubordinate crewmen. It didn't seem to impress her because, tired out after a full day of mischief, she had fallen fast asleep.
The house and garden were beautiful, bright and airy, as clean as they could be with a busy bachelor and an energetic dog living there. The place was really too large for just one person. T'Pol wondered if Jon ever felt lonely, surrounded by empty rooms and the faces of people who were gone.
Their old crew had scattered in every direction. Dr. Phlox still sent long, chatty messages from his family estate on Denobula. Mayweather, who was most at home in space, was serving on one of the new Warp Seven starships; so was Reed, whose protective nature had only grown stronger since Trip's death. They saw Sato most often, as she was T'Pol's colleague at the Academy, teaching xenolinguistics and working on improvements to the universal translator. None of them had forgotten their shipmates, but the odd subspace communication or even a few minutes talking over coffee at the faculty lounge could not replace the day-to-day closeness the crew had once shared.
T'Pol would never have expected to miss living in each other's pockets the way they had on Enterprise, but she did.
Jon stepped out of the refresher, fully dressed in fresh clothes (of course; what had she been expecting, a towel around the waist? This was not the Decon chamber) and flattening down his blow-dried hair.
"You look … " He paused in the doorframe, his eyes wide. "Excuse me. It's just ... you look nice with your hair like that. "
"Thank you."
He busied himself getting cold drinks for them both, unusually clumsy for such a confident man. She hadn't seen him so flustered in more than a decade.
A small hope that had been hiding in the back of her mind suddenly made itself known.
He had been so careful with her since Trip's death and the decommissioning of Enterprise. After that one embrace, so strong it had felt like all that stopped her from falling to pieces, he'd never once touched her again. Even as he'd offered her the use of his first name, met her off-duty and in civilian clothes, and showed her all his favorite places on Earth, he had always kept her politely at arm's length. She had assumed that was only the natural consequence of not having to rescue each other from constant danger anymore, or perhaps he'd found it painful to spend time with her because she reminded him of Trip. Might there be another reason, though?
Those feelings he had once confessed to her … could he possibly still have them?
The irrepressible v'tosh'katur side of her was dizzy with fear and exhilaration: a pilot returning to the helm after her first crash, knowing just how dangerous it could be. The traditional Vulcan, however, was already calculating flight paths. If only she could be certain …
"Jon?"
"Yeah?" He sat down in the armchair diagonal to hers and handed her a glass of unsweetened iced tea, keeping the sugared version for himself. They had known each other so long they didn't even need to ask about each other's preferred drinks, which made it all the stranger to feel so uncertain about such a vital question for them both.
"Do you remember … " She quirked an eyebrow at him in lieu of a smile. " … the last time one of your canines misbehaved in such a spectacular manner?"
Jon chuckled. "As if I could forget. Poor Porthos, bless his soul, had no idea how sacred those trees were."
"You were most concerned about him when he fell ill, as I recall." Remembering the gentle beagle trapped in a quarantine container gave her a pang she hadn't allowed herself to feel back then.
He took a long swig of his iced tea and grimaced, as if his remembered humiliation spoiled the flavor. "Yeah, so much I almost ruined negotiations for technology we really needed. If you hadn't given me the verbal ass-kicking I deserved … "
"You would still have remembered your duty. I know that now."
"I'm glad one of us does." He toasted her with his glass with a shrug that was half self-deprecating humor and half gratitude. "To diplomacy. Even when it involves body paint and beaded braids in my hair. God, those guys were obnoxious – but at least their plasma injector worked."
She inclined her head and clinked glasses with him, even though the Kreetassans were the last thing she wanted to talk about. Her mind raced, thinking of ways to make her confession and discarding them again. Her first relationship with a human man had begun in a haze of anger, jealousy and Trellium-D. She was determined to do better the second time around.
"Do you remember what you told me after the ritual?"
He did. She saw it immediately in the way his gray eyes flashed before he looked away. Anyone else, however, would have only seen the casual shrug and the way he leaned back in his armchair, sipping his iced tea as if he didn't have a care in the world.
"I remember apologizing," he said. "Is there a point to this? You're not asking me to take off my shirt and cut down a tree for what Milady did earlier, are you? C'mon, it was just a bit of water."
"No." She felt herself blushing. "You told me there was … friction … between us. I confess to being curious whether it still exists."
Jon's face hardened, even as he tried to keep up the pretense of being casual. She hadn't meant to hurt him, but it was too late to take the words back.
"As I recall," he drawled, "You said I shouldn't allow myself to be attracted to you. So I really don't see why you're bringing this up now."
"As I recall," she said, very softly to counteract the loud thumping of her heart, "I said 'we', not 'you'. The reason being that you were my direct superior … a reason which no longer applies."
"T'Pol … " He lifted his head and leaned forward, fixing those Terran-rainstorm eyes on her with an intensity he normally kept for the most beautiful of Starfleet's new discoveries. "What are you saying? I thought … that day, I thought you were just being polite." He cracked another rueful smile. "I thought that was a euphemism for 'back off, creepy human, before I write to Soval to get a transfer."
He had thought that all these years? Again, she thought of Trip and all the times she hadn't been honest with him, even with a telepathic link between them. Not this time.
"If you must know," she said, "It was a euphemism for 'I care about you in ways no First Officer should, and it frightens me'."
It still frightened her, in some ways more than ever. But if there was anything the Xindi mission had taught her, it was how to face her fears.
"So even back then, you already - ?" Jon shook his head, joy and confusion flashing across his face, followed by – of all things – a hint of indignation. "I thought it was Trip," he said. "What about him? He was your mate."
He glanced at one of the pictures on the mantelpiece: younger versions of himself and Trip on the deck of a sailboat, drenched in sunshine. Trip was holding up two fingers over Jon's head, grinning, while Jon held the tiller steady. Whoever had held the camera must have been standing on the dock. Both men were smiling as if the photographer were a mutual friend. Robinson perhaps?
Trust Jon to still be loyal to Trip's memory, even at the expense of his own happiness. No wonder he had never told her how he felt.
"Trip will always be a part of me," she said, "But so are you. He is my past, and you … you, Jonathan Archer, are the future I would choose."
She looked away from the photograph and into the eyes of the man in front of her, stood up, and held out her hands.
He pulled her into his arms without another word.
On Enterprise, they had rarely touched each other without some emergency as an excuse. This was no emergency, but it felt like one. When he held her, her knees became weak. When he slowly leaned down, she felt like she might run out of oxygen if he didn't kiss her right now. No uniforms between them, only soft cotton and denim, but it still felt like too much.
"Wait," she said, catching her breath as she pulled back, her hands still on his shoulders. "There are things we need to discuss. I should tell you everything I know about mating bonds, so you can make an informed decision - "
"Yes, you should. Later." Jon kissed the sensitive spot on the side of her neck in a way that made it surprisingly difficult to concentrate.
"And we should … we should decide on what degree of privacy to use - "
"If it were up to me, I'd tell the whole world," he murmured into her ear, "And to hell with anyone who didn't like it. But I'll leave that up to your discretion."
T'Pol nodded. The last thing they needed was another xenophobic terrorist group taking exception to her choice of partner. There was only one distraction left to address before she could give herself up to kissing.
"Jon?"
"Mmm?"
She pushed him away gently. "Your dog seems to be emitting a Red Alert klaxon in the backyard."
He stopped to listen, and it was true – even with limited human hearing, Milady's high-pitched howls carried clearly through the glass doors. Her nap hadn't lasted long, and she was protesting her confinement to the doghouse at the top of her lungs.
"Aw, c'mon," said Jon. "She's been in there long enough."
He headed for the doors and stepped out into the garden, which was warm from the afternoon heat and fragrant with grass and flowers. Milady's pitch and volume increased sharply at the sight of her master. She pulled at her tether as far as it could reach.
T'Pol followed. "I knew it," she teased. "You always were a forgiving commander."
"Hey, I owe her." Jon bent down to unclip Milady's tether. "For one of the best days of my life."
The greyhound jumped up to lick his face, making him laugh. He rubbed her sleek sides and scratched her ears, then looked up at T'Pol, his gray eyes so bright with joy that her own eyes stung a little. When Milady bounded over to include her master's friend in her demonstrations, T'Pol took the opportunity to crouch down and hide her face.
Trip, ashayam, if you could see us, would you understand? Would you forgive is for finding joy in a world without you? But whether he would or not, it was up to them, the living, to decide.
Sol's light touched her face like a wisp of golden hair as she wiped her tears away.
/