ACT THREE

For what seemed like the millionth time, Sergeant Scott Reynolds wondered why he ever joined the MACOs.

He flexed the fingers of his right hand, feeling only a minor twinge of pain shoot through the broken arm; the auto-splint that Commander T'Pol had attached was doing its job well, immobilizing the fractured bones while injecting a trace painkiller at necessary intervals. What should have been a lancing fire through his arm was little more than a dull ache, easily ignored if circumstances demanded it; Scott only wished he could say the same for Corporal El-Hamadi or Lieutenant Reyes. Both were sedated, sleeping the sleep of the heavily medicated, and had been moved - albeit carefully - to the pull-down casualty beds that had been recently installed in the shuttlepod. El-Hamadi wasn't in any real serious danger - both legs broken, a broken pelvis and a moderate concussion - but Reyes was not in good shape at all; suffering from multiple spinal fractures, she had extensive internal damage, damage that was well beyond Commander T'Pol's skill to deal with. The Vulcan herself was dealing with broken ribs, a broken leg, and a mild concussion, though one could hardly tell from her outward reaction.

Despite their grim situation, it was a little amusing that Commander Tucker was suffering from nothing more than a mild headache.

Tucker's bad luck on away missions was fast becoming legendary - Sergeant Cole called it the 'Tucker Syndrome' - and had become a running joke among the MACOs and Security personnel alike on Enterprise; it was not uncommon for anyone assigned to such a duty with the chief engineer to officially request hazardous duty pay before heading out. Reynolds himself had made a joke to Styles about updating their wills once Lieutenant Mackenzie assigned them to this mission. At the time, it had been pretty funny; the entire team had shared a good laugh.

Scott wasn't laughing any more.

Instead, he found himself wondering why he'd ever signed up in the first place. He'd never wanted to be a soldier while growing up, never wanted to learn a dozen ways to kill a man with a spork or a hundred ways to disarm a pissed-off Klingon without getting your head ripped off in the process. The idea of firing a rifle with intent to kill had been repugnant to him and was at complete odds with everything his mom had ever taught him. He'd wanted nothing more than to get his doctorate in History - with a focus on the Eugenics Wars and how they still influenced Terran politics and Human relations with galactic neighbors - before maybe accepting a teaching position. Nothing had prepared him for the blind rage he'd experienced when Florida was hit, when his best friends were incinerated while on vacation in the Keys. A vacation he was supposed to be on.

So he signed up.

A month later, he came out of his mental fog and realized where he was and what he had done. He had no idea how MACO HQ had failed to notice his Masters in Terran History or the fact that he was fluent in both Andorian and Vulcan when they assigned him to the infantry; although he knew it sounded arrogant, him as a ground pounder just seemed like a waste. How he'd gotten himself assigned to Enterprise despite having just graduated Boot had been a complete mystery, one that bothered him until Major Hayes informed him that he'd personally requested him; the major, he learned, had served with Dwight Reynolds and had been personally asked to look out for him. Scott hadn't even known his dad had been in the military.

The clank of boots on metal drew his attention away from El-Hamadi's vitals as Commander Tucker stomped in, his jumpsuit streaked with grease and other filth that could only come from an engine. His face was creased in a frown but he gave Scott a cautious guy nod - little more than a sharp incline of the head - as he made his way to where Commander T'Pol sat; she didn't even wrinkle her nose at his approach, which, to Reynold's mind, was more than a little surprising - everyone knew about the nose of female Vulcans.

"Engine's fine; just needed to clear a fuel misfeed," Tucker announced as he ran his fingers through his hair, leaving strands of it sticking up in odd ways. He shot a grim look at the structural damage. "That damned hole is gonna cause some problems, though."

"In what way?" the Vulcan science officer asked, studying the engineer with a cool expression. She was a picture of unmoving poise.

"It's a meter-six wide, meter-two tall and we don't have the supplies to patch it up properly." Tucker rubbed his right temple, leaving behind a smear of grease; for a moment, it looked like T'Pol was going to reach out and wipe the mess away. "I might be able to salvage enough spare junk for a temporary fix, enough to get us back into space but I don't trust..." He trailed off, frowning at the hole. For long seconds, he said nothing, chewing on his lip in an expression that was clearly one of thought.

"Commander?" T'Pol's voice was soft, totally at odds with her usual no-nonsense manner. When Tucker failed to respond, she tried again. "Trip?" Reynolds blinked in surprise at her use of the commander's nickname.

"Huh? Oh, sorry. I was thinkin'."

"Be careful," T'Pol said with the closest thing to a smile that Scott had ever seen on her face. "You are currently uninjured; we would not wish to change that." Reynolds shook his head in absolute surprise; a Vulcan teasing someone; if he hadn't seen it himself, he would have doubted it possible. Commander Tucker gave her a grin.

"That concussion is sure improvin' your sense of humor, darlin'," he drawled as he nodded toward the damage. "I was thinkin' I could rig up one of those force screens you and Malcolm have been goin' on about, maybe use it to increase the integrity of the patch."

"Then we should get to work." She shifted in her seat, clearly intent on standing and joining him.

"Oh, no you don't," Commander Tucker responded sharply, his head snapping around so he could give the Vulcan a flat stare. "You're stayin' in here, in that chair, until we break orbit." Commander T'Pol's expression became, if possible, even blanker than ever before but Scott could recognize annoyance when he saw it.

"The repairs will go quicker with my aid," she told the engineer but he frowned, crossed his arms. There was a hint of steel in his stance, a resolute quality that made it clear he would not be swayed. Reynolds concentrated on stillness, wondered if they were even still aware of his presence. He doubted it. It wasn't like they gave him any chance to make a discreet exit.

"Not if I'm worried about you," Tucker replied. "And not if your broken ribs puncture a lung or something. I can have the Professor give me a hand while you concentrate on gettin' the comms back up." Scott felt a flash of surprise; he hadn't expected the Commander to be aware of the stupid nickname the MACOs on Enterprise had given him. The Vulcan rolled her eyes - a Human expression that seemed out of place on her normally stoic face - and started to argue the point but Tucker interrupted. "Please, T'Pol. For me." He made a discreet hand gesture, one that Scott knew he wasn't meant to see.

Or recognize.

T'Pol said nothing for a long moment, merely studied him with an unblinking gaze that revealed no hint of her thoughts. Finally, she responded, reaching out and touching Tucker's fingers with her own. Reynolds turned away and busied himself with checking Lieutenant Reyes' condition, partly out of respect for the intimate gesture but primarily to conceal his shock. He knew more about Vulcan customs than most Humans; his favorite instructor at the University of Oklahoma had been a visiting Vulcan named T'Run and she had responded to his absolute fascination with her culture by explaining many things. He'd even seen her initiate the finger caress with her mate and had eventually worked up the courage to ask them about it.

Armed with that sort of knowledge, he'd taken the gossip about the two Commanders for what it was: rumor and innuendo. It made a sad sort of sense that everyone would be so interested in the nature of their relationship; T'Pol was ... well, she was an alien and simply because of that became a source of endless speculation. Sure, she and Tucker were nearly always in each other's company and obviously worked well together but that was hardly a basis for romantic involvement. And besides, T'Run's explanation of Vulcan physiology made casual relationships simply unfeasible. He had simply thought theirs was a complicated friendship, the nature of which no one really understood but them. Boy, had he been wrong.

"As you wish, beloved," T'Pol responded softly in her native tongue. The acoustics on the shuttlepod were amazing; despite his attempt to not eavesdrop, the words drifted right to him. "I would not wish to be ... distracting to you." Now that he knew what to listen for, Scott could hear the smile in her voice.

"Too late for that," Tucker grinned back at her, also in Vulcan; it was interesting to hear, Vulcan spoken with a southern twang. He spoke again, louder this time and in English. "Hey Professor, you know how to weld?"

"Not really, sir," Reynolds replied. He wondered if he should reveal his knowledge; it wasn't much of a surprise that neither of them would think he understood Vulcan. He was, after all, just a glorified grunt and T'Pol's native tongue was a difficult one to master. "Never had a reason to learn." The engineer gave him an amused look.

"No time like the present. Grab the gear and we'll get to work." Tucker started toward the rear of the shuttlepod, pausing only long enough to glance back at T'Pol. "Now remember, no distractions." She gave him another unreadable look complete with raised eyebrow and, as he led Scott out of the shuttlepod, Tucker was grinning. The sound of a woman's wet cough followed them from the shuttlepod and Reynolds glumly concluded that Lieutenant Reyes, who he had thought didn't have the strength to cough, must be getting worse.

They were running out of time.