'Not that big a deal.'

Vulcans don't seethe.

Vulcans. Do. Not. Seethe.

So Sub-Commander T'Pol was therefore not seething when she walked to the mess hall after watching Commander Tucker's blue-clad back disappear jauntily down the corridor after he'd disposed of their 'relationship' with those five words that reduced to an utter triviality the reasons why he'd caused absolute chaos among two starships' personnel. Not to mention in her mind. And, on that one unforgettable occasion, in regions further south.

She selected a salad as usual, and sat down with it at a vacant table. For some reason the crack of the stick of celery as it snapped in half was deeply satisfying. Likewise the breadstick. She didn't care for them all that much, but there were several on her plate. She dug her fork into her tomato with such inappropriate force that the prongs went straight through it and skidded on the plate beneath it with a shriek.

'Three days ago.' He'd known for three days!

Another stick of celery went the way of the first.

'Say that you want me to come back.' After he'd already told Captain Hernandez three days ago that he'd changed his mind!

The danger to Enterprise several days ago as the ship went in search of the kidnapped Doctor Phlox had brought Columbia speeding in pursuit. Klingons had boarded Enterprise and loaded sub-routines into the computer that would have resulted in an overload to the warp core, but they hadn't bargained for the sister-ship new out of Spacedock, which had raced to the rescue.

From her place in Engineering she'd waited with a wildly-beating heart while Trip had made that desperate and dangerous traverse between his new ship and his old one. He'd been the only man with the expertise to save the Enterprise in the bare few minutes they had left before the warp core breached. His safety and their lives had depended on a man who had been discovered to be a traitor, whose motives were a mystery and who had been released from the brig solely because he was the only man on board who had trained in the maneuver. Lieutenant Reed had been Trip's friend, or at least he had seemed to be; but everything they had ever believed about him had now been called into question, and she had sensed the captain's rage and despair that he had to place the very survival of his ship into a pair of hands he could no longer trust.

In this at least the lieutenant had not failed them. Thanks to the superb flying of the two helmsmen, the accuracy of the tactical officer's shooting and, most of all, to the insane courage of the man who had actually made that crossing, the situation had been resolved. The Klingon sub-routines and the subsequent purging had caused considerable disruption to the ship's systems, however, and Captain Hernandez had generously agreed to lend her chief engineer back to his old ship until the repairs had been effected to his satisfaction. Trip could not have been left in any doubt about how much he had been missed, to judge by how warmly he was welcomed back; once the crisis had been resolved he had gone to the brig to speak to Lieutenant Reed, who had been returned to it once his part in events was over, but any gladness the lieutenant might have felt at the wanderer's return was necessarily muted by the circumstances. Superficially, at least, the surveillance recordings provided no evidence of any emotional attachment between them other than as the friends she had always thought them to be.

After that, the Commander had slotted back into his own place as though he had never left it. Understandably this had caused some friction between himself and Lieutenant Kelby, whose promotion was now called into question, but that was an issue which Tucker was perfectly capable of resolving by himself.

Knowing that his return was temporary, she'd had to exercise all the self-control of which she was capable to stop her eyes from following him every moment they were in the same room, to keep herself from storing up every word and every glance as food for a famished future.

Logic dictated that there was no evidence for the existence of a Deity, but at times she'd even found herself wishing that some such entity actually existed. It would have been a comfort to have been able to pray that the return to his own ship, his own staff, his friends (and her, her mind whispered guiltily) might work a miracle, might change his mind. At times during the past she'd heard others make reference to his obstinacy. Would he be blind enough, angry enough, hurt enough, to hold his course, even if he realized that he'd made a terrible mistake?

For it was a mistake. The existence of the bond proved that. Whether he understood it or not, whether he liked it or not, whether he wanted it or not, there was a tie between them that could not be dissolved without enormous trauma to both of them. She'd wanted to talk to him about it, to explain what had happened, but events had conspired to prevent them having the opportunity for much more than the commonplaces of duty. There had been a couple of brief exchanges between them (more like the cautious preliminaries of a pair of scorpions than anything else) during which she'd first made tentative inquiries to establish whether he was feeling any effects from the mating bond, and then later explained its existence. His reaction had hardly been one of unalloyed delight. It certainly had not indicated his regarding it as something important enough to influence his plans for his future.

But the bond had had its uses – it had saved him from being overcome by the pheromones secreted by the Orion women whom the captain had (with arrant foolishness, in her opinion) brought on board ship. No doubt Captain Archer had indeed had a duty to investigate an offer that might – if it had proved to be true – been of huge benefit to Starfleet. But his professed inability to refuse the gift of what had to all intents and purposes been three scantily-clad slave girls, had rung more than a little hollow. She had also been astonished that Lieutenant Reed, who had been released from his captivity and restored to duty by that time, and who could usually be relied upon to have more sense in matters of security, had not at least made representations on the wisdom of making their 'guests' change into less provocative attire.

Subsequent events had proved that the folly of both men had a physiological cause; they were not to blame for their inability to resist the pheromones that had wreaked havoc with every man on the ship – except Trip. Nevertheless, she had been quite unable to suppress a twinge of proprietorial pride in the way her bond-mate at least had retained his senses. Had it not been entirely inappropriate, she would actually have applauded when he shot the lieutenant, the captain, and Ensign Mayweather in a laudably cool and professional manner, a manner of which Lieutenant Reed would probably have approved rather more had he not personally been one of the recipients.

Altogether the entire affair had proved that Trip's restored presence on board was of vital importance to the continued wellbeing and safety of the ship. That was both logical and obvious. At least, it was to her. Until the effects of the pheromones wore off, she could place little reliance upon Captain Archer's good sense (and she was at a loss to understand why he had ever approved the transfer in the first place, though his 'good sense' in even ordinary circumstances had never been wholly reliable). Absurdities such as pride, of which he had an abundance, might prevent Archer from coming to that self-evident conclusion, or even from acting upon it if he did. As the days passed, and no move was made to return Trip to his new ship, her anxiety had mounted daily.

And now this.

Three days!

Doubtless no general announcement had been made because the official transfer procedure had yet to be completed, but now she came to think carefully, for the past day or two the captain had borne a certain air of what she could only describe as intense, if secret, smug self-satisfaction. She'd put it down to his sudden acquisition of three sexually attractive, available and extremely willing female 'guests', but it seemed that that hadn't been his only reason. Possibly this tied in with his restoration of Lieutenant Reed to his post; no amount of jubilation over a prodigal Trip's return would have induced him to offer a general amnesty, but he must have satisfied himself that the lieutenant's conduct had not been as heinous as it had appeared, and that henceforward the Englishman would give him his unconditional loyalty. He now had his command staff restored, the ship (as he saw it) set to rights, the Orion saboteurs disposed of and the unpleasantnesses of the past couple of weeks consigned to history.

But ... three days!

The sub-commander came back to herself and found that her plate was a sea of snapped breadsticks and celery.

THREE DAYS!

But Vulcans don't seethe.

Of course they don't.

So she wasn't.