A/N: Yes, I'm back. My long absence is long, and has various reasons, one being moving cross-country and re-entering the halls of education. University to be exact. That's right, at the ripe old age of 35 I've gone back to school. It's fun, too. I'll try to bring you a chapter a week, but what with studies and all I can't make any real promises. Sorry (shuffles feet in embarrassment).

Disclaimer: I own none of the Enterprise characters. Only the crew of the Heronas and various characters introduced in these fics. I make no money off of this, so please don't sue me, Paramount.

…

…

Betazed, Beta Velonna.

Offices of Dr Herelus Castor.

T'Pol opened her eyes and frowned. Her head felt...thick. As if it had been wrapped in over-cooked plomeek soup. An interesting simile, though perhaps a tad emotional.

She could hear distant voices as if through a thick fog, one of the voices buzzing slightly in the back of her head in a strange form of reverberation, but above all she could sense what she could not sense any longer.

The bond, however erratic and fleeting it had been lately, was gone.

She felt herself shiver as if with cold, trying to make sense of this sudden lack of sensation. There was some discomfort. The thought of the bond being entirely missing was...disturbing in its implications.

The voices ceased, and she heard footsteps. She was alone, trapped in an alien room. Trip was nowhere to be found. Waves of unfamiliar emotions boiled close to the surface, she had to stop them, get back to her mate, she had to-

"Calm down! I'm right here, T'Pol, right here. Easy, easy now."

She grasped onto his arms in sheer desperation, unable to speak for fear of saying something she would regret, doing something violent to him again. Last time the result was a mild concussion. She did not particularly relish the thought of doing worse to him.

the two of them in the showers, her hands around his throat, squeezing crushing killing

T'Pol blinked as Trip wrapped both his arms tightly around her. "Shhh, easy now...I'm not going anywhere."

She closed her eyes.

…

The doctor himself was a portly little man, no taller than herself. He appeared entirely human apart from his eyes which were a pure black on white, characteristic of his species, and his bedside manner left abundantly much to be desired. She'd met Vulcan physicians with more warmth.

"Oh, the barbarism...I can see attempts at self-regeneration, helped along with some kind of neural mind-to-mind interface that repaired the worst, most obvious injuries, but this is just appalling, the sheer amount of stress inflicted...heavens, I haven't seen long-term damage like this since I aided in the recovery of those Andorian POW's...no, stay still. The numbing agent mutes the neural synapses active in your bond, it helps me in diagnosing, but moving around causes anomalies, so don't."

Mutes?

The doctor smirked self-importantly. "Certainly. Did you believe it was gone? We should be so lucky. No, I have been informed in no uncertain terms that the two of you wish your bond repaired, which is trickier than simply removing it and letting your brain heal. Honestly, the brute force approach used by some species when approaching the extra-sensory is so nauseatingly clumsy...how your species ever survived the past couple of centuries is a mystery."

His voice was beginning to grate on her ears. He also smelled vaguely like captain Archer's canine, though not as agreeable. Perhaps she should let him know how her species survived when logic failed them...

Blue eyes stared into hers, full of concern. "Whoa, don't do that."

Trip? The bond?

The doctor consulted some form of unfamiliar scans of her cranium taken at some point she did not remember. He didn't even bother turning around to answer her unspoken question. "No, he simply noticed your body language. I assume you meant me harm. That would be ill advised, since I know exactly how to heal you."

They both became still. Trip was the first to speak. "...you do?"

"Vulcans are...quite intriguing, as a species. Did you know they might be the only known species, to date, who can re-arrange their own biology by pure force of will? Humans have a similar, limited phenomenon known as bio-feedback, but where some humans may train themselves to ignore pain or fold and bend their bodies, Vulcans actually alter parts of their own genome as well. Archaeological digs from the time of their civil war has yielded some hotle debated evidence that only a mere thousand years ago, the people of Vulcan were slightly different genetically and physically from their modern day descendants. More pronounced brow ridges on their skulls to the point where they were visible through the epidermis, slightly differently shaped cerebral cavities, more prominent amygdalas..."

Trip glanced down at T'Pol. When he attempted to extricate himself from her grip, she held on even more firmly, though she didn't show any visible change in her features. Finally he seemed to give up and let her hold on tightly. "Could you get to the point, doc?"

"Oh. Oh! Certainly. The point, as you put it, is that it appears Vulcans can alter their own biological functions somewhat within a few generations. It is a trait that is quite useful in a hostile environment such as their home world, and they have even ritualized some of this in their older traditions. Unfortunately, they're not so adaptive as to be able to handle three physically draining and damaging changes to their body chemistry and brain architecture at once."

"...I beg your pardon?"

Doctor Castor smiled that annoying, smug smile again. "My dear boy, she's undergone three rather traumatic alterations to her own brain in the past five years alone, did none of you even once consider that this might have harmful repercussions in the long run? Frankly, I'm surprised she's not a drooling vegetable at this point."

For the first time in the conversation, T'Pol reacted somewhat normally. She frowned, and stared at some vaguely defined point on the wall, and then asked in a low voice, "The first alteration would be the Pa'nar syndrome I suffered from, the second my prolonged exposure to Trellium-D...but what third alteration are you speaking of?"

The doctor stared at her, then at Trip, then at her again. "Your telepathic bond, of course! Clumsy as it is. You both broadcast every single emotion and thought at one another as if using shortwave radio, and frankly it's rather tiring to shield myself from it. It's the true reason I gave you synaptic dampers, to be honest. Do you have any idea how mind-numbingly painful it is to have to put up with that sort of nonsense?"

He sighed. "I swear, it's like talking to a mind-blind...look, the combination of an unstable, damaged bond in combination with previous damage from that toxic mineral and that horrendously clumsy earlier mental intrusion simply combined to cause a degenerative condition. The reason your esteemed Denobulan fellow couldn't help you is because very few people listen to us Betazed when it comes to matters that touch onto the extrasensory talents and how they relate to biology.

"We've been an openly, dominantly telepathic society for thousands upon thousands of years, and we've experienced pretty much every possible variation on things that can go wrong with telepathy by now. All I had to do to solve your little problem was dust off my old freshman medical lexicons. Volume one."

For the first time in weeks, her bond-mate's face lost the light frown it had possessed. "Y'mean...you can fix it? Fix her?"

"Why, certainly. A few weeks of regenerative treatments, a basic tune-up of her latent telepathic gifts to fix the cross-wired frequencies you two seem to have...your brain is far simpler, it'll take me about three hours and a mild curative to fix you...but your first officer is going to have to stay with us for a little while. Not long, just a few days. Plenty of bed rest in an isolated chamber, a few mild analgesics for any pain, and no visitors."

Trip looked at T'Pol, smiling. Relief was blatant on his face, and she reached up with one hand to see if the expression was real. It had been so long since he had that smile. "I gotta say, that's the best news I heard in a long time. Wait, my brain? What's wrong with my-"

"Oh, dear. The reason you keep getting her headaches and keep having confused dreams is because you're out of tune with one another. Looks like a fairly clumsily removed telepathic block scrambled your patterns but good. It's easy enough to mend, of course." Doctor Castor grinned, and suddenly he wasn't quite so odious any more. "Though I will require three things-"

"Name it. Anything."

"Don't be so swift to agree, captain Tucker. Firstly, a sample of your cerebral fluids. Don't worry, the procedure is quite painless, though you may have a faint itch for a few days after. Second, while your own damage is fairly easy to repair with that primitive human brain of yours, hers is more extensive and complicated. As mentioned earlier she will require a brief period of convalescence."

They waited. Then T'Pol wet her tongue and rasped out the question they both had. "The third?"

"My fee. Have you ever heard of gold-pressed latinum?"

…

…

USS Heronas, Dog's Watch (0200-0800 Hours ship's time).

"...in small shifts of two crewmen at a time. At no time is the command crew to be at less than three. But that should be about it. Lord knows you've all deserved some R&R."

"Yessir. I'll get right on it." Sue Gordon nodded to the captain as the comms closed, resisting the urge to yawn. She hated this shift. Mankind was not meant to be awake this early. They were meant to sleep on silk sheets and soft pillows and be served breakfast in bed by some hunky man wearing only a loin cloth.

Unfortunately for her it was daytime planetside, which meant she was in charge of explaining shore leave rules according to the dossier Nessler had pulled up on a padd. She smirked at the cramped notes in the margins. Even when he wrote he was laconic.

'If blatantly mind-read, raise concerns with nearest constable. Wears black uniform with red sash. Do not accept offers for visiting weddings.'

Weddings? What was so weird about...she pulled up the file, and blushed. Oh. Definitely an unusual...culture.

Well, no time like the present. Ride that wave when it came, and whatever other clichés she could think of. She cleared her throat and activated the shipwide comms. Time to tell the crew they were getting some well-deserved shore leave...

…

The shuttle banked, and Trip resisted the urge to vomit with some difficulty. The 'cure' for him had involved swallowing some things that had tasted vaguely like licorice going down and much like week-old rotten beef stew coming up, and come up it did. Repeatedly. Then a round in some device where he had to sit still for ten minutes without moving while something blinking made a full circle around the old noggin, and then bam, done.

The headache was gone, though. The bond as well, but the doc had said it was only temporary. Muted, not gone.

God, I hope so. I hate...

He frowned. No, no throwing up right now. Apparently he was done for the moment.

...I hate not knowing.

He watched the shuttlebay doors open as the craft slowed, and sighed. Maybe some day transporting would be as easy as pie, just set the coordinates and go there in an instant. That day would be far off. Hell, even with the projected technology curve the Daystrom Institute was handing out to engineers fleet-wide, it'd be at least a century and a half or more before transporting would be a thing of no major import. Some were claiming that transporting greater distances would be even further off, but then, some people had claimed mankind would never be able to travel faster than 50 miles per hour without dying horribly.

Hell, people had said faster-than-light travel was impossible without messing up causality. Showed what they knew.

Still, the thought of being able to keep shuttles in their bay unless they were absolutely needed was an attractive one. Even if the last time he got involved in transporter experiments the whole thing had ended badly. Unfortunately, installing a transporter on the Heronas meant clearing space somehow, and they were short on that as it was. For one thing, the guest quarters would have to be shrunk down to size, which removed about half the purpose of the whole ship. He'd sent a few refit designs to Starfleet already, focused on a few score square meters of extra room to toy with, but the process would be slow going. Especially during wartime.

The docking clamps latched on, and re-pressurizing, decontamination and security scans proceeded. It'd be five minutes before they could leave the pod. He stared out the small port window and compared the whole thing to the olden days with the Enterprise when they'd just walked right out, not even thinking about decon unless the environment they came from was unknown. That was before the Xindi. Add in the later occurrences of Romulan-hired spies and Starfleet had definite cause to go over the safety routines again.

And he was thinking about anything and everything except for what was worrying him.

Okay. Thinking about it, then. So the combination of seven years of slowly added-to neural trauma had finally taken its toll. She could have died, or worse, be left brainless and vegetative for the rest of her life. And some smarmy Betazoid said he could fix it in a few days, a few weeks at worst. Where everyone else had thrown up their hands in defeat or not even noticed anything was seriously wrong, this guy said it was no biggie. Just take a few aspirin and call him in the morning.

He frowned as he remembered the way she'd been acting, so very unlike herself. To most who didn't know her she would probably still seem unemotional, perhaps a little distracted, but to him it had been like watching a wounded animal with her heart on her sleeve...it was uncanny, and frightening, and he realized that what he really hoped for, no, what he wanted more than anything in the world was not the nervous, fidgeting little thing the brain damage was turning her into, no, he wanted the strong woman she ought to be. He didn't want an overtly emotional person who had to depend on him for even her basic safety, he wanted the arrogant, headstrong, intelligent and logical being he had fallen in love with.

Part of it was a kind of jealousy, he supposed. With the bond, only he knew how she truly felt about anything, since she displayed no outward emotion whatsoever when she was truly herself.

...okay, the eyebrows were a dead giveaway, but only if you knew Vulcans. People really had no clue how many things they could express with a simple little tilt or a faint frown.

He blinked. "What?"

"I said we're clear to depart the shuttle, sir."

Trip poked his tongue into his cheek thoughtfully, then nodded. "Right."

…

"So what are we doing here anyway?"

Eddie Sawyer cricked her neck. Sleeping regular hours again was taking its toll on her patience. People who had normal 24-hour day rhythms really had no concept of what altering that rhythm did to a person. Now that she had eight-hour sleep periods again, she was having more trouble simply getting back into gear than she did actually staying awake two days at a time before. Once you flipped the clock or stretched it, getting back to a routine the body was built for was sort of complicated, and required a lot of home remedies.

Warm milk was right out. She was lactose intolerant. "Officially we're gonna wait here a while to pick up and ferry five medical research scientists to a conference on Denobula. Once there we'll pick up whoever Starfleet picked for our own resident sawbones, and then we have a charting mission in the area Boomers call Route 666. That should be fun."

She waited patiently.

"...and unofficially?"

Ah. Wong had turned out to be such a gossip, once he'd come out of his spiky shell.

"Unofficially, we're probably here because the captain had to carry our first officer off the ship yesterday and is leaving her on the planet below for some unplanned forced R&R. But you didn't hear that from me and if you squeal I will make your life a living hell."

"Perish the thought." Wong fell silent for a while. "So did he carry her in a fireman's carry or-"

She snorted. "Lord above, Wong, you're never gonna let that one go? Seriously, you really think they're some kind of...what, a couple? You are so off your rocker."

"Hey, you're the one who thinks she was with Archer. Last I heard he was seen making doe-eyes at commodore Hernandez, before and after her promotion."

"Pshyeah, right. As if."

"I also heard our chief engineer is probably having something going on with our very own nails-chewing MACO CO...or rather, the other way around."

Her ears perked up. "...really? Well, well, well..."

Which was the precise moment Nessler chose to sit down at their table humming something unfamiliar. "...it's an open smile, on a friendly shore..."

"Nessler."

"Wong. Sawyer. Coffee." He waved the mug at them, then in a complete deadpan continued. "Table. Chairs."

"Very funny." Eddie leaned back, glaring at the comms officer.

He shrugged, sipped his coffee, and didn't say a word as he merely sat and listened while the conversation became more and more random as more crew members arrived for their final mess hall meal before leave.

…

…

Betazed, Beta Velonna.

Clinic of Dr Herelus Castor.

Her dreams were strange and sometimes involved sehlats dancing in a choreographed big production of a Busby Berkeley routine that she only recognized because Trip had insisted she watch one of his films once. She rarely remembered her dreams in the first place, Vulcans seldom did, a cause for the common misconception among many of them that they did not dream at all. These intruded on her waking, though, and spoke volumes of her neural pathways shutting down and firing up again as the various curatives did their work on her system.

There had been a sweat lodge, first. Or something very much akin to it. The temperature had been warm even for a Vulcan, enough to set the air itself trembling and enough to cook various foodstuffs. Once tests showed any harmful levels of hormones, endorphins and other substances - naturally occurring but perhaps normally in smaller quantities - had lowered, she was given another set of curatives, then a cranial scan, then exposed to a device that looked similar to the dermal regenerator the Denobulans had shared with Earth but instead made her scalp feel numb while her mind briefly 'went on the fritz' as Trip would put it, and finally another round in the sweat lodge, more curatives, and then she was at last allowed to retreat to the isolation chamber.

Which locked from the inside, possibly to alleviate any privacy concerns patients might have due to the process being mentally draining and emotionally invasive. There was an emergency override, but only the lead physician could initiate it.

She managed to meditate for a full half hour, then slept four hours, and woke rested and relaxed, and quite in control of herself. Which, naturally, was where the physician had her go through another round of the treatment. The faint hint of irritation she allowed herself to display was a good reminder that it was all quite necessary.

…

On the second night, her dreams turned truly odd. Gone were the kaleidoscopic sehlats in perfect formation, replaced instead by cramped, darkened corridors where a great Beast was stalking her, following, dragging its claws against the floor like savage blades, drawing sparks where they touched metal.

It wasn't until she reached a turbolift that never opened, would never open, that she realized she was going to die here, that she was on the Heronas and she was alone and the Beast rose above her and the voice was so familiar, so horrifyingly familiar, and-

-T'Pol.-

She blinked her eyes open, finding that there was moisture on her cheeks. Not tears. Vulcan tear ducts did not truly allow for tears, since the secondary eyelids were the main shield for their eyes from drying or grit to the corneas. They simply did not produce enough tear fluid, though there were exceptions, as with all things.

It was sweat.

She frowned, sat up, and took note to remember the dream. Something unsettling about it suggested it was somehow important, and much more so than she might have pretended when she was younger and more foolish.

Then she lay back down, rolled over and went back to sleep.

…

…

Betazed, Beta Velonna.

Sazaerinian Markets.

"Holy...okay, this is too neat."

Crewman Jonsson turned to where Crewman Li was holding up some kind of glass painting. "Oh, right, exciting. So did you see any place where we could grab a bite to eat, or-"

"No, seriously, check this out. It's a...what was it called?"

The salesman smiled. "Psionically reactive material."

"Right. It reacts to thoughts and emotions, right?"

"Oh, yes. They say with enough practice you can paint entire mindscapes with it. Only fifty florints."

"How much is that in United Earth credits? Never mind. Jonsson, will you quit thinking with your stomach? We're on an alien world with tons of neat stuff, and you're focusing on, what, where the nearest shish-ka-bob stand is?"

The portly crewman didn't seem to be listening, instead he frowned and stared at the dark space between two nearby buildings. "There's something weird in that alley..."

"Yes, it's called garbage. Now, these pearls, do they-"

He ignored her, heading over to where he had seen something pale against the darkness of the shadows caused by the buildings, frowning. Reaching the alley he stared into it, wondering if maybe he was making the classic movie mistake of walking into the poorly lit cellar alone and armed only with a flashlight. Only, he didn't have a flashlight.

When he saw what was stuffed into where the surprisingly neat garbage dumpsters stood, he promptly turned around to throw up.

…

…

USS Heronas, In Orbit, Betazed, Beta Velonna.

The desk comms was bleeping.

Trip rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and mused the benefits of rest on a weary mind. He certainly felt better... "Yeah?"

"Captain, we have a call from planetside...local authorities have apparently detained two crew members for questioning."

Great. Wonderful. Spectacular.

"I'll be right there."

…

He had to pause once to comb his hair before seating himself in the captain's seat, but fortunately the Betazoid face on the other end seemed to care little that the human captain looked a bit disheveled.

"Captain...Tockir?"

"Tucker. Speaking?"

The Betazoid nodded. "I'm First Magistrate Sevasto Pallas, the head of local law enforcement. First let me waylay any fears that you might have for your crewmen, they are not suspected of anything. It appears they stumbled upon a crime scene, and we have conducted an interrogation. It was strictly legal, using no unauthorized mind-reading or emotion detection, and they will be released into your custody shortly." The man hesitated, then gave him an apologetic look. "Unfortunately, their incident has unveiled a great embarrassment of ours, something only our local media has so far acknowledged..."

Trip resisted the urge to rub the bridge of his nose, and merely nodded in apparent commiseration. "...and you want us to keep it on the down low. We can do that, on a couple of terms..."

…

"Why'd you name the shuttlepod 'Lucian'?"

Crewman Michelle Henry shrugged, removing the stenciled cut-out she had used to spray-paint the new designation on their one and only transport. "Because 'A True History' cracked me the hell up when I was a kid?"

Crewman Bing raised an eyebrow, almost Vulcan-like. "A true what?"

She sighed. "Honestly, nobody gets a classical education these days. Look it up. 'A True History', by Lucian. Considered by some to be one of the first science fiction stories, also a very funny satire."

He smirked. "Sure. When you promise to read Kevan Sarko's latest."

"I refuse to read that claptrap. Just because an Andorian painter in antiquity got drunk off of too much ice-wine and added an extra moon as a joke on a still life doesn't mean there's some ancient conspiracy to keep a sacred bloodline of Andorian kings hidden from the galaxy. That kind of thing is just ridiculous. Worst part is all those nuts who think it's true, too."

He crouched down by the landing gear. "You really should. It's junk, sure, but junk novels can be a lot of fun. It's an old tradition, really. Did you know the second-highest selling book of the 14th century - after the original Gutenberg bible, of course - was the equivalent of a pornographic dime novel? Not to mention Roman bath-house graffiti. You're the classically educated one, you should know that stuff."

She went to stow away the gear, then returned to the docking berth. "I wish Jonsson was back. He's a total anorak, but he keeps the place clean." To her mild annoyance, Bing was ignoring her. "Hello? Carter?"

"...the rear cargo hatch has been tampered with. Did they park in a bad neighborhood or something?"

Crouching down next to him, she inspected the damage. Apparently the hatch had been bent twice, the second time to mask the damage. "Huh. Doesn't look like it was done with tools. No scuff marks. Weird. Well, scan it, report it and let's get back to work. Ask maintenance to send someone to repair it."

He chuckled. "Down here, we are the maintenance. You fetch the tools and a replacement hatch, I'll write it up and do the repairs. Deal?"

"Deal."

…

…

Sol System, Earth. San Francisco.

Interplanetary Affairs Ministry, UEG.

"Ambassador? I wasn't expecting you today..." Martin Soeder held out a hand, showing the slim, blue-skinned Andorian ambassador to a seat.

The ambassador, Dufelas, smiled politely and seated herself...itself...damn, what was the name of the...ah, whatever,. Andorians didn't really care if you put their specific gender in one of the more common two. "I'm quite aware of that, and I apologize if my appearance here is in any way inconveniencing you. But I do believe I have an idea that may see you through the day with a smile."

Soeder leaned back. "No inconvenience, really. For all our claims to be approaching allies in these war-times, we've had so little success on the diplomatic end that we're frankly not having much to do lately. The Romulans certainly don't want to talk to us. The nuclear assaults on colonies and boomer convoys have shown us that much."

"Yes..." Dufelas pursed her lips thoughtfully. "It occurs to me that the current state of the Coalition is somewhat...fractured."

He almost barked a laugh at that. Fractured was the diplomatic way of saying it had almost cracked wide open long before it had a chance to become a reality. It was still there on paper, but in truth it was Earth against the Romulans alone. Andoria was busy patrolling their borders for increased Orion piracy and Klingon raiders, the Tellarites were busy with the same as well as occasional skirmishes with some barely known species calling themselves Carashans or something similar, and Coridan had shut down their borders entirely for fear of further attacks from the Romulans.

As for the Vulcans, they were quite busy with some kind of internal political purge. Their shield technology had helped, as would the new engine modifications brought on by the experimental Buran-class ships, but the Romulans didn't fight fair. Hit and run tactics, nuclear bombarding of civilian outposts from orbit, sabotage, funding Orion pirate and slaver cartels and Klingon rogue elements...it was more of a hot and cold war both, with no clear frontlines, no real battles apart from the occasional failed or successful ambush, and through it all that stony silence to all overtures for any kind of response from the enemy.

Thank Buddha the Rommies hadn't figured out cloaking devices for ships yet. If they ever did...

He shuddered. "I think we can both agree to that, ambassador. So what brings you here, then? Ah, where are my manners, would you like some refreshments?"

She shook her head. "No, thank you, but I appreciate the offer. No, I am here on an, ah, informal mission, so to speak, speaking on behalf of...civilians."

Soeder frowned. "Civilians?"

"Oh, yes. Sometimes purges in military structure and naval command circles result in highly skilled individuals being left alone and adrift in the blizzards of unemployment. Naturally, such people would be a waste to squander..."

He blinked. Was she saying..?

"...and so, a small group of such people came to our offices on Andoria to request that I speak with your government about possibly finding something for them to do. We're quite out of positions for them, and our budget is meager these days..."

Slowly, a smile grew impossible to contain. "I..." he stifled a chuckle, "I see. Well now, that certainly is a sin. And, you know, I'm not sure but I think the UEC has asked for civilian contractors to replace all those young men and women leaving the cargo trade to volunteer for Starfleet, and I bet they'd have little trouble accepting such people to help them with, say, beefing up armament, engines, shields, that sort of thing?"

Dufelas raised both eyebrows, and her antennae stood up straight as well. Her smile was both genuine and quite devious. "What a coincidence! Many of these civilians happen to be skilled in such things! My, what a fortuitous way of things..."

Both were grinning now. "Yes. Very fortuitous. And who knows, if some of them gain Earth citizenship, they might even be able to join Starfleet. And if the upgrades are useful, who knows, they might find their way into use by ships-of-the-line as well..."

She fluttered her lashes and put her hand over where he assumed her heart was. "Oh, that would just be splendid! You know, perhaps I should take you up on this offer for refreshments, such a grand occasion must call for celebration, does it not?"

He bit his lip to keep down the laughter. "Oh, yes. Most definitely..."

It occurred to him that an old Andorian saying was Never break fast with an ally until his blade is sheathed. Well, his blade was sheathed. And so was hers. Now he just had to convince Starfleet that these Andorian 'civilian observers' were an asset to be used, not a means to land spies in the fleet...

…

…

Betazed, Beta Velonna.

Clinic of Dr Herelus Castor.

Doctor Castor was tapping his finger idly against his padd and it was beginning to greatly irritate the patient who sat and awaited his attention.

T'Pol raised an eyebrow at the man and glanced at the finger rapping out a faintly off-beat rhythm on the edge of the device as he viewed her initial results.

It would take very little pressure to break the finger in a way that would not leave it impossible to heal. The problem with that was that not only was it a highly unworthy thought to have, it would also risk his skill as a doctor and surgeon, and logically that was harmful to herself as well.

It was also a sign that she was quite the ways from being cured.

Finally he set the padd down and smiled at her. "Well, now. Since you're Vulcan I suppose I can dispense with the usual platitudes and vagaries, and get right down to details. Yes? Good. Your neural pathways are healing nicely at a four-percent ratio, I expect full recovery in a few weeks, as projected at the start. Your convalescence here will be done by the day after tomorrow, and you will be able to return to minor duties for the rest of your healing period.

"There's an increase in your latent telepathic centers, as expected, once we take you off your medication you may find the bond slightly sturdier and easy to access." Castor rubbed the side of his nose, those black on white eyes of his inscrutable. Strange that such an emotionally volatile species, moreso than humans, could be so difficult to read. "Now. How do you feel? The truth. I may not be legally allowed to read your mind, but I can certainly sense your emotional state. However, I wish to hear it in your own words."

The words were not easily come by. Rarely did she speak of such things other than with priests, and, she was ashamed to admit, all too little with Trip. But if the process was helping as he said it was, then why not? "I feel...abandoned. Angry. Resentful. Frustrated."

He nodded. "And do you consider those emotions negative?"

She raised her eyebrow again. "I fail to understand the meaning of putting value judgments on emotional responses."

"That's not quite what I meant. I am aware that your species has...something of an impulse control problem in their natural state, perhaps useful in a primitive culture but not so much in one capable of traveling the stars. And in such a basic state, all emotions are fairly negative. Love becomes obsession, hatred becomes naked rage, joy becomes mania...which you control through your clinging to logic and reason to the point where that becomes your basic state. however, you are not in your basic state."

"That is fairly obvious, considering my presence here."

"Quite, quite." He chuckled. "In any case, for the record, and don't worry, we don't keep permanent records unless the patient wishes to share hers with other physicians off-world...would you mind telling me of the first signs that you were developing a bond with Mr Tucker?"

T'Pol flinched, slightly, but recovered just as quickly. "...that may pose some difficulty. I am not entirely certain just exactly when those signs began."

"I see. I was under the impression that Vulcans generally have the equivalent of the proverbial eidetic memory?"

"Fact and sensory memories are very clear, generally, yes. Childhood memories often prove more difficult."

He made a note on the padd, then nodded. "I see. Emotional memories, then?"

She felt her cheeks heat slightly. "I..."

"Relax, commander. Doctor-patient privilege is quite safe even among us telepaths. I simply put mnemonic blockers on all personal details, not even the most powerful telepath can extract them without my permission. Not without killing me." His smile faded. "You have to understand that among a species of telepaths and empaths, we of the medical professions take our vows extremely seriously."

She mulled it over. In truth, the doctor already knew much of her emotional state, which meant that any shame found in revealing such personal details was moot. Still, sixty years of cultural indoctrination did not go away overnight. There was an actual physical sensation of pain in her lower abdomen as she slowly gathered the courage to speak of it out loud. "We are...not as skilled with emotional memories. But I would say my first conscious memory of having...amorous...inclinations towards Trip-"

"Interesting."

She narrowed her eyes with barely concealed frustration at him. "Please do not interrupt. I am finding this quite difficult as it is."

"A thousand pardons, commander, I just found it telling that in his presence you constantly refer to him as captain Tucker, but you just used his personal nickname instead."

"I see. However, if you would refrain from further interruptions, perhaps I may continue?"

"By all means, continue."

T'Pol took a surreptitious deep breath. Then she told him.

All of it.

It took quite some time before she was finished, and she found the more she told, the more at peace she felt. The doctor didn't judge, didn't frown, he merely listened and occasionally motioned for her to keep going.

Finally, she was done. She felt...empty. In a most satisfactory manner.

Doctor Castor mulled over the information, and then nodded. "Interesting. I wish to ask your permission to use a fairly debated technique sometimes used by your own species, though rarely. You will be given a temporary neural suppressor which dampens conscious control of your equivalent of the amygdala. It will, in essence, bring out every single suppressed emotion you have."

She felt her cheek twitch slightly. How to put this... "What would be the usefulness of such a technique?"

The Betazed doctor shrugged, spreading his hands in supplication. "It is a temporary state. The suppressor is active for only an hour, and the attempt would be made in a sturdily insulated padded chamber with little chance for you to injure yourself or your surroundings. If you wish we can even supply you with a straitjacket. As for the usefulness, it is - how do the humans put it - ah, yes. 'letting off steam'. Vulcans do so extremely rarely, I believe? Yes, quite. In short, all the piled up stress and anger and frustration would be let loose, temporarily. Naturally, any such treatment will be done later, once your regeneration is within safe parameters and cannot be halted. It would also allow you to practice, once the suppressor has worked for a little while, your emotional control."

His argument was logical. But she did not yet consider herself stable enough to make such a decision. "May I think about it?"

"Certainly."

…

To Be Continued...

…

A/N (2): The problems you get from altering your day-rhythm is something I can verify with my very own past experiences. Turning the clock around or going without sleep for a couple days (it's so much fun with deadlines when you're an artist and a customer keeps asking for something more soul-deadening each and every motherflipping time you present him with what he asked for last time...what, me bitter?) can very easily set your body in a sort of downward spiral that often ends with total body collapse. Add to this that once you try to start on the path to regular hours, the body simply will. Not. Cooperate. At least not at first.

The many nights I've gone without sleep entirely just because my body got used to sleeping on a 26-4 rhythm (26 hours awake, 4 hours sleep) are numerous. And no, that's not really enough sleep deprivation to get hallucinations. That takes a lot more to start up (and yes, that's also from personal experience).

Humans really aren't all that well-designed, when you stop to think about it...

Oh, and the Betazed names I do by mangling various Greco-Roman references and names, much like they did on the TV-shows.