Twenty-three thirty.

An hour and a half he'd been lying here, staring into the dark; going through all the routines he'd ever known for courting elusive slumber, and still he was wakeful.

Damn, memories were merciless. He could remember every moment, every touch, every sigh. Even in absence his body quivered to the touch of hers.

…'facilitating my exploration of Human sexuality'.

With a muttered curse that was close to a whimper, he turned on to his other side for what felt like the hundredth time. An experiment. A goddamn experiment.

A lab rat.

… She'd moaned, deep in her throat. Her skin was so hot, stained olive with arousal. She'd tasted different, spicy, intoxicating.

... 'my exploration of Human sexuality'.

"NO!"

He sat up, shaking, and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. Would the memories ever become less vivid? Would he ever be able to forget, ever be able to exorcise the ghost of someone who'd only ever existed in his own head?

His lover….

Pain and anger made him reckless.

Something had happened between them, something more than sex. Something had changed. She knew it. Those coy little questions when he'd returned, asking about having trouble sleeping when he was aboard Columbia . Then about daydreams – daydreams with 'intense auditory and visual sensations' about her.

Yeah, been gettin' a few of those, honey. Just another of those male hormone things you found out about with your 'experiment'. I wouldn't worry your sweet little head about it.

So what the hell was she getting at?

He threw himself back on the bunk, trying to concentrate. That feeling he'd had, that weird sensation of being – somewhere else. Somewhere she was, and she hadn't been any too pleased by his arrival, since she was apparently trying to meditate.

Well, maybe he could do it again. On purpose, this time. And if it worked, maybe he could have a little fun. Rile her up a bit. Find out what the hell was going on.

And if she didn't like it?

Tough!

=/\=

He actually didn't expect it to work.

So it was a surprise when he opened his eyes on the boring white space, and there she was.

But she wasn't looking like she had last time, neat and composed and gorgeous and downright exasperating. She looked tired and disheveled, and if she'd been human he'd have thought she wasn't far off the verge of tears. So of course he forgot all about trying to rile her, and had to remind himself that rushing forward to take her in his arms was totally out of order, because heck, he was just a lab rat in her little experiment, her 'exploration of Human sexuality'.

"Everything okay here?" he asked uneasily.

She straightened up. "Yes. I appreciate your concern, but it is unnecessary."

She was different. Really different. Distracted. And that wasn't T'Pol, so he was immediately concerned and curious. "Mind tellin' me what's going on?"

"It is … private. Nothing that should concern you." But at that moment a spasm crossed her face that was the sort of thing you'd expect to see if someone had been stuck with a knife, and she was far too slow in wiping the grimace of pain away.

"What the heck's going on?" he shouted, jumping off the bunk.

"Nothing," she panted. "Stay away. The – the situation is – under control."

The hell it is! He tore himself back into the real world. Whatever was happening, she wasn't safe, and he'd be damned if he was going to sit here while god-knew-what was going on.

He'd stripped off to get into bed, but snatched up a pair of sweat pants and his boots and pulled them on even as he tumbled out of the door. Part of his brain yelled at him that he should call up Security but he couldn't spare the time; it was too important that he get there now, and he pelted down the corridors, knocking aside anyone who couldn't get out of the way fast enough.

As soon as he reached her door he slammed in the override code and the instant the door had slid wide enough to admit him he darted through, expecting – well, he didn't know what he was expecting.

But whatever he had been expecting, it had definitely not been to find T'Pol pinning Malcolm Reed to the floor. The Brit's face was contorted and he was thrashing around in a panic, but although it was clearly an effort, she was managing to hold him down.

"You came here of your own accord, Mister Reed," she was saying almost into his face. "You wanted this."

Trip came to a halt as though he'd run into a brick wall, unable to believe what he was seeing. 'You wanted this'?

What the – what the fuck?

"You slimy, treacherous little asshole!" he yelled, lunging forward. In that moment the Brig wasn't good enough for Reed; nothing short of an airlock would have done.

He should have expected it; hadn't it been Malcolm who'd first held up the mental mirror in which he saw an attractive woman reflected? Malcolm hadn't seen her as a Vulcan first and a woman second, as he and Jon had done. But after the sonofabitch had pretended friendship, had learned as much as he had done about how Trip felt – after he'd commiserated with the agonies of falling in love with the one woman on the ship who couldn't return it – what the fuck had he come here for? And he couldn't even take a refusal. T'Pol had actually had to resort to fighting him off!

Bastard!

The impact of his boot on Reed's ribs was everything he'd never got the chance to deliver to the Xindi. He had his foot back to deliver another when T'Pol lunged at him, grabbed the ankle of the leg he was standing on and yanked on it – hard. Inevitably he overbalanced, but was no sooner on the floor than he wrenched himself around to have another go at the would-be rapist, who was now trying desperately to protect his injured side.

His fist made contact with the side of the Brit's face with a force that was enough to knock his head sideways and slam it into the floor. "Keep your filthy goddamn hands to yourself next time!" he roared, preparing to deliver another punch if the recipient so much as squeaked. "You'll be off this ship so fast your damned feet won't touch the floor, you little bastard!"

"TRIP!" T'Pol's grip on his shoulders as she pushed him away was hard enough to hurt – a great deal. "Stop! Leave him alone!"

"What the hell for?" he yelled, trying to get loose. "And what the hell's he doin' here anyway? Another of your little 'research projects'?"

Close up, her eyes were a blaze of rage. "He is here at my invitation. He is participating in a course of mental and emotional therapy, sanctioned by the captain."

The icy fury of her voice cut through the red haze like a knife. He felt the shreds of it falling away, and clutched at the remnants to protect himself from the knowledge of what he'd done, what he'd said. "But you – I saw you fightin' with him–"

"An outcome that was predictable, and for which I was fully prepared," she answered coldly. "The damage to Mister Reed is deep-seated, and treatment at this depth often precipitates a violent reaction. I had the situation completely under control until you intervened."

"'Damage'?" he said almost soundlessly. His gaze traveled to Malcolm, who was lying still on the decking, arms clasped protectively around his side, and a bruise already discoloring his cheekbone. Far worse than that, however, was the way the gray eyes were staring fixedly at nothing, as though he were already dead.

"I have told you everything you need to know, Commander. Now kindly leave. I will have to escort the lieutenant to Sickbay, and then I will need to file a report to the captain."

The last remnants of his jealous rage fell into the icy, inescapable pool of realization.

This would probably be the end of his career. But right at that moment, that was the last thing he gave a damn about.

He had to try a couple of times before he could get the word out. "Malcolm–"

No reply. Not even a glance. With the Vulcan's gentle help, Reed got himself up to his knees and managed to stand, hunched over where his left arm was clamped around his ribcage. His face was sheet-white, and there was blood on it.

Without a word, the two of them left the cabin.


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