Habits
By Laura Schiller
Based on Star Trek: Enterprise
Copyright: Paramount
One morning during the fourth year of Enterprise's voyage, shortly after their defeat of the Xindi and accidental detour into the Second World War, Jonathan Archer noticed something strange about T'Pol.
She came by his ready room to drop off a report and, as usual, Porthos got up from his beanbag seat and bounded up to her, whining for attention. Jon waited for her to give the dog that look of typically Vulcan disgust, that look that had irritated him so much the first time they met and now only amused him. Careful, Commander, he'd say. He got into my cheese sandwich this morning. Or, Have you had your nasal numbing agent lately?
But instead, T'Pol crouched down and ran both hands along the beagle's smooth, spotted fur. Looking serious as ever, she murmured something in low, throaty Vulcan which must have been the equivalent of Good boy.
Jon's jaw dropped. Thankfully, she didn't notice.
"You seem to be gaining weight," she added in English, still speaking to the dog. "Your master should exercise you more often."
Porthos' tail wagged frantically. He put his paws up on T'Pol's knees and licked her face, and she didn't bat an eyelash.
"Tell him if he didn't beg for so many treats from the crew, he'd be in better shape," Jon teased, unable to keep the grin off his face. "I had no idea you two were on speaking terms."
She lowered her head to scratch Porthos' floppy ears and to hide a blush – unsuccessfully, as he could still see the olive tinge creeping up her neck.
"I find it unexpectedly soothing," she said. "Spending time with him, I mean. It became a habit while you were … "
She looked up from her position on the floor, and for a moment he saw untold depths of pain in her hazel eyes.
" … while I was temporarily in command," she finished, straightening up and putting her hands behind her back with a visible effort at self-control.
He guessed that she was thinking about the time he had gone to blow up the Xindi weapon, and himself with it.
The Expanse had changed her, torn holes in her protective force field to reveal startling flashes of her true self. Jon had to admit he found her easier to talk to now, more approachable – more human, though that was the wrong word – but he would have gladly had the old T'Pol back if that meant she were spared the horrors of that mission.
He didn't even know the whole truth. She had never told him what it had been like for her, left in command of a battered Enterprise with her captain on a suicide mission. I don't want you to die! she had all but shouted at him just before he left. It's not necessary! But it had been necessary. He would do it again if he had to.
He could picture Porthos lying alone in this very room, curling up with his nose on his front paws, the way he often did when waiting for his master to come back. And he could picture T'Pol reaching out a tentative hand to the small alien creature, regardless of smells or shed fur, because she knew what loneliness felt like.
How strong she was. He knew perfectly well that the Xindi mission had hardened him, ground his explorer's joy in flying through uncharted space down to a soldier's stubborn sense of duty. But she had come back more open and compassionate than she went.
It still amazed him. She amazed him.
"Yeah, that dog does more good on this ship than any Starfleet counselor," he said, deliberately casual, before that stinging sensation in his eyes could develop any further. "Takes up less space, too. Don't you, boy?"
Porthos glanced up at his master with a smug canine grin.
"Although he did cause at least one diplomatic incident," T'Pol pointed out, raising an eyebrow.
"C'mon, that was one time." It was Jon's turn to blush, and hope she couldn't guess why. "You're never gonna let me live that down, are you?"
"It was a memorable occasion, Captain."
Was she referring to his foolish sulking fit, the Kreetassans' obnoxiousness, the weird ritual of penance he had to go through, or the fact that he'd been within inches of confessing his love?
There was something on her face that was dangerously close to a smile.
"Dismissed, Commander," he said, more sternly than he meant to, and watched her gently remove Porthos' nails from the fabric of her trousers before walking out the door.
The beagle let out a sound between a whine and a sigh. He fixed his big brown eyes on the closed door, as if waiting for her to come back through it any second.
"I know, buddy," said Jon. "I know."