In Sugar Creek, months passed. Trip knew that it was a dream, but it was apparently the most sustained dream in history, and a mostly pleasant one. If only because of the sheer passage of time he began to accept it as his daily existence.

He'd tried everything he could think of to wake himself out of this new reality. He'd tried splashing cold water in his face. He'd fooled with the device, which he'd found inside the house. He'd tried through sheer mental concentration to imagine himself back into the engineering lab with T'Pol. He'd tried meditation. He'd even tried reaching out through the bond, not that he'd ever had any control over that. But it was as if the bond no longer existed at all; this T'Pol was utterly blank to him that way, and the old T'Pol might as well have disappeared from the universe for all he could feel of her. Which was kind of a relief, really.

Each morning he woke in a tiny upstairs gable bedroom with a beautiful and willing Vulcan woman next to him, and each day he worked their little homestead. They had fields of sugar cane and strawberries to tend as their money crops, as well as their own vegetables and livestock. At night before he fell asleep, when Trip often thought a little harder about things, he might wonder why they did so well farming when neither had started out knowing anything about it. He was still handy, even without modern tools, so he sometimes traded mechanical work for other goods and services in town, where the people were kind and seemed utterly lacking in curiosity or suspicion.

In fact, Sugar Creek appeared to be immune to all the crises of its time, from killing frosts to epidemics, from racial violence to the war clouds that were presumably gathering in Europe. Europe might as well not exist, for in Sugar Creek there were no books or newspapers, no radio, not even silent movies. Hell, it didn't even have mosquitoes. That was another thing Trip brooded about at night sometimes. That and the way his wife always, after only a token effort at debate, agreed with him.

"You know, I'm bored," Trip confessed one evening over dinner. "Aren't you bored? You're hardly using all your skills and talents here."

"Is that a commentary on my cooking?"

"Of course not, darlin'. Your cooking is wonderful."

A skeptical eyebrow went up. "Vulcans are never bored."

"Well, humans are. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I would kill for a good novel. Or even a newspaper. Or some music. I don't understand why they don't exist here. There's just nothing to take your mind off strawberries and sugar cane."

"I could take your mind off them."

He smirked. "I know that." Though the truth was they had settled into a bit of a routine even in bed. Not that it was anything he found dull or unpleasant: she always seemed to know exactly what he would like, and to thoroughly enjoy anything he did for her. At any rate, that was how it seemed. Sex without any mental contact was pretty much the same educated guesswork it had ever been with any human woman, but he wasn't complaining. At least he got to have it pretty regularly.

She tilted her head and regarded him appraisingly. "I would have expected you to wish for something more technical than a novel. The latest warp research, for example."

"That seems pretty pie in the sky from where we're sitting."

"Perhaps you should take this opportunity to do some writing of your own. You know more about warp engines in actual practice than any other engineer in Starfleet. Why not get some of that knowledge down in a form that can be shared?"

"Shared? With whom?"

"With me, for now. I am not an engineer, but I would appreciate the opportunity to learn something more sophisticated than this environment can provide. And if we ever get back, you could share it with other Starfleet engineers."

Trip eyed her askance. "These people don't even have calculators. I don't think my math is quite up to the job without a computer to help me out. And I doubt even you can solve warp equations in your head."

"I may have a solution to that problem," T'Pol said. She reached up to one of the kitchen shelves and pulled down the alien device. "I have discovered that it can record, and that it is voice-capable," she added, and handed it to him. "I have also developed some fluency with the language, if you need to have something read back to you."

"When did you do all that?" he asked, amazed and a little miffed. The device had resisted all his efforts to make it work all this time, but now it was humming with life. "Maybe we can get it to take us back."

"It is worth trying," T'Pol said, but her tone did not suggest she held out any hope.

"Maybe instead of fussing with warp equations I could use it to record what's going on here. That might come in more useful to someone someday."

"If that will resolve your boredom, it seems like a logical plan," she said. She got up and started clearing the table. He looked at her, surprised to realize that she was annoyed with him. That almost never happened.

"How did you like the chicken?" she asked, as she cleared his plate.

"It was excellent, thank you." T'Pol was still vegetarian, but cooked whatever he wanted, merely wrinkling her nose to demonstrate her lack of enthusiasm. He found it odd that she was so eager to embrace local custom and cook all the meals herself, especially since it meant dealing with raw meat – and not reprocessed protein either, but the real thing.

But of course she wasn't really T'Pol, was she? She was just his self-indulgent Technicolor dream version of her.

Maybe he was actually dead and this was heaven? His own version of paradise?

"You know, I miss Enterprise," he said.

She gazed at him with those soft brown eyes. "I don't."

x x x

T'Pol stared down at Tucker where he lay on the bio-bed, his eyes darting rapidly behind closed lids, tiny hints of expression crossing his face. Five days had passed. He was still mostly contented in this dream state of his, but she was beginning to sense a certain restlessness and discomfort too. Phlox was keeping him hydrated via intravenous fluids, but he had suggested they would soon need to introduce a stomach tube, and T'Pol could see the weight loss that concerned Phlox in Tucker's increasingly gaunt face. For the first time she seriously considered the possibility that he might die if they did not find a way to remove him from the hold of the device. The thought was intolerable. She reached out to his face, stretching her fingers towards the contact points.

"What are you doing?" Phlox demanded.

She jerked her hands back. "We've waited long enough."

"I tend to agree," Phlox said, "But that doesn't mean you should just initiate a mind meld willy-nilly. The captain will want to be informed. And I want you to eat a good meal first. You've been neglecting yourself, and we don't know what might happen. This thing might grab hold of you too."

His points were logical, but it was difficult to force herself to walk out of sickbay to the mess hall, and even harder to force herself to eat. She had a sense of urgency about reaching Trip now, although she wasn't sure why; Phlox did not seem to feel he was in any immediate danger. But how could she eat when he could not? An illogical feeling. Still, if T'Pol had learned anything it was that the bond she shared with Commander Tucker was not rational.

She had been so full of grief and rage after what those people had done to their child that she'd wanted to kill. Paxton, of course, and his comrades. Sometimes herself. Sometimes even Trip. She found it unnerving that he could even think about having another child. It was obvious that any child of theirs would have to cope with vicious enemies – far beyond the simple ostracism her mother had warned her about. And that alone was bad enough. With the exception of Soval, who had exhibited genuine compassion for both of them, her Vulcan colleagues had eyed her with renewed disgust as she stood next to the human father of her child at that memorial service. She'd wanted to kill them too.

And then Tucker had introduced her to his family with such pride and hope, and she could not help but notice the wariness with which his parents met her. They knew she was alien. They knew she had hurt him. They seemed to know before she did that she was going to hurt him again.

Which she did. She'd shut him out of her life while she nursed her own wounds, because she didn't know any other way to do it, and because she was afraid of her own rage and sorrow. When she'd finally felt strong enough to tentatively reach out again, he had retreated into a self-protective shell of his own.

She couldn't blame him. What was to stop her from behaving any differently the next time some trauma struck? The only aspect of this situation that gave her any hope was the bond that still existed. Because of that she knew that somewhere, buried in amongst all the anger and frustration and distrust, he still harbored an ember of longing for her.

But it was fading. Finally she realized exactly the source of her current apprehension, and it didn't just concern his feelings for her. In some far deeper way Trip was giving up.

x x x

The first hint that something bad could ever happen in Sugar Creek came one morning when Trip found it hard to get out of bed, and even harder to get any work done in the fields. Walking back to the house felt like traversing that desert with Jon. After that, his energy level was never the same. The local doctor wasn't sure what the problem was, but guessed it was a wasting disease of some kind. T'Pol shouldered all the farm work without complaint, and he did what he could around the house, but was forced to take frequent rests.

After awhile he realized that everyone around him assumed he had begun a slow decline towards an inevitable death, and eventually he had to agree that they were probably right.

He supposed there were worse things. At least he felt comfortable and cared for and loved. T'Pol was as gentle and attentive as could have ever wished. As long as he had to spend so much time lying around, he started to work in earnest on the warp manual she had suggested, partly because it was something to do, and partly because it seemed to please her. There was little else he could do for her these days.

He was working on it that evening after dinner, lying on the old settee on the back porch, enjoying the cooler breezes of the evening, when he heard her ask, "What are you working on?"

He squinted in confusion. T'Pol stood there before him in one of her Enterprise cat suits – the red one, an old favorite of his. She looked so much her severe old self, he felt his stomach give a little lurch of nervousness. And excitement. Damn, but those old cat suits had been sexy. "Where'd you get that?"

She just raised her eyebrow and regarded him, evidently puzzled.

"Don't tell me you made it yourself?" he said. "And what'd you do to your hair?"

"Commander?"

"Commander? I guess it's safe enough to let the ears show back here in the dark like this. What's this about?" He pulled himself up with a little groan and patted the cushions next to him, a signal to her to join him. "Are you trying to cheer me up?"

She remained standing. "Do you require cheering up?"

He stared at her for a moment. Something definitely wasn't right here. "T'Pol. What's going on?"

"This is a mind meld."

He stared at her. "Excuse me?"

Her voice softened. "I am in your mind."

He chuckled and shook his head as if to clear it. "You're not making any sense, darlin'."

"I don't understand it myself," T'Pol said. "This is not like anything I've ever experienced during a mind meld." She eyed the ratty old settee dubiously, then carefully sat down next to him and turned her attention back to him. He was struck by the subtle coppery aroma of her.

It seemed like something he had forgotten. But how was that possible when he slept with this woman every night? He studied her carefully, looking for more discrepancies. This T'Pol seemed skinnier, almost anorexic, and there were dark smudges under her eyes. He wanted to run his hands down her skin, to compare the feel of this woman to his wife, but some instinct stopped him.

Which was enough to tell him that something was very, very wrong.

"Perhaps if you could tell me what you are working on," she said.

"You're the one who asked me to do it," he said defensively.

She just looked gravely at him. "May I?"

He handed the device over to her.

She peered down at the screen. "Are these warp equations?" Her voice had risen.

"You're the one who suggested I keep my hand in!"

"Don't you realize this is the same device we found on the alien buoy?"

"What the hell am I supposed to use? You got a spare PADD stowed somewhere that I don't know about?"

"Commander—"

"Stop calling me that!"

She looked at him. "Trip. You must stop working on anything related to warp drive or any other sensitive systems immediately."

"Why?"

"I believe an alien force of some kind is attempting to access your specialized knowledge. It appears that all of this is part of an elaborate fiction designed to lower your resistance to sharing classified information."

Trip went still. "Explain."

She gestured around her. "At this moment you are lying comatose in sickbay." Her voice turned urgent. "It's been five-point-two days. Your vital signs are weakening. Dr. Phlox feels your life may be at risk."

"That can't be right. We've been here over ten years," he said. "Ten mostly happy years. This is just like Old T'Pol. She always waited to do anything until it was way, way, way too late."

"Old T'Pol?"

He just shook his head. He didn't have to explain anything to this one anymore.

She reached out a hand and laid it on his arm. "Trip, this is not real."

He shrank away from her. "Don't touch me."

"Trip! Have I ever lied to you?"

"Yes. All the time." Funny how those old hurts could flare up again just as fresh as they had ever been.

She swallowed, but persevered. "You can't stay here. If you do you'll die. You have to come back with me."

"Where were you ten years ago when it might have made a difference?" With supreme effort, he staggered to his feet and stumbled into the house, slamming the door behind him. "T'Pol?" he called. "Honey?" But his T'Pol didn't answer. He climbed the stairs to their bedroom, gasping for breath, and threw himself onto the old feather bed. It didn't smell like T'Pol. It didn't smell like anything. Even the sprig of orange blossoms sitting on the bedside table had lost its heavy sweetness.

She'd gone and ruined everything. Again.