Rating: PG
Disclaimer: This world is not mine.
Enme had been returned to his familiar, cramped quarters on Enterprise. He paced in the small room, not quite knowing what to do with himself. His feet now recognized the familiar vibrations of the warp drive, and he knew that within the week they would arrive at Hirku station. In the meantime, just like everyone else on the ship, he had time on his hands.
He had spent the previous two days, before their departure, giving the humans all the military intelligence he could, including tactical information he was sure they hadn't gotten from him while he was drugged. The spymaster, Reed, had admitted that they only obtained information they had asked for, and Enme knew plenty of things that humans wouldn't have known to ask for.
Enme snickered. In the wake of his father's murder, he had no qualms about joining the humans against The Empire. A major defeat for the new regime, led by Bala's father, would no doubt topple their government. Toppling that government was now his only purpose in life. At least officially, it was his only purpose.
Personally, Enme had another obsession. He wanted to find and rescue Ravel. She had been a loyal servant to their family since her graduation from the academy. In fact, it was Enme who had recommended her to his father. In doing her that honor, he had unknowingly sealed her fate. He had to rescue her.
Enme closed his eyes and thought of his father, now dead. He thought of his two brothers, now probably dead. He had barely had time to grieve these last few days. Now, he had a few hours to kill, he could at least honor his family with a makeshift grieving ritual.
Enme lit a candle, provided by one of the guards for his "Vulcan" meditation. He also retrieved a knife that he had taken from the mess hall that day. Since his defection he was still guarded, but Captain Tucker had given him permission to eat in the mess hall, visit the gym and walk around the decks, provided he had a security escort.
Enme sat down in front of the candle and began to chant in Ancient Romulan. The words evoked memories of his mother's funeral, nearly two decades earlier. Then, there had been hundreds of mourners packed into a grand temple in the main square of Romulus's capital city. His father and brothers had been there, chanting as they burned her body. Now, he mourned his father and brothers alone in a tiny cabin on a human starship, light years away from the Fatherworld.
Enme reached a key part of the ritual. He took the knife and cut across his palm. He continued to chant as he wiped green blood across each cheek. He clasped his hands together to stop the bleeding and continued to chant for nearly an hour.
The chime on the door rang.
Enme opened his eyes.
"Come in," he said.
T'Pol appeared in the doorway, carrying several parcels.
"Are you all right, Enme?" she asked as she entered and placed the parcels on the bunk.
She leaned down to examine his face, to see if he was wounded.
"Yes, don't fear I've done anything rash. My desire for death was never very strong. I was just engaging in the Romulan chant of mourning. The ritual involves painting oneself with blood. I suppose you probably find that rather primitive."
T'Pol nodded.
"It is primitive. Vulcans before the time of awaking engaged in such practices," she said in her monotone.
Enme sighed.
"How do Vulcans mourn the dead?"
T'Pol went to the bathroom and retrieved a wet washcloth. She knelt beside her brother.
"We have extensive rituals, as well as a funeral dirge," she replied, "Is it appropriate to remove the blood from your face? Or are you required to wear the dried blood longer?"
Enme took the washcloth and wiped his face.
"Thankfully, it isn't required to stay. I hate the smell of my own blood," he replied.
"I am sorry about your father and the rest of your family," she said.
"They were your family, too. I'm sorry you never knew my two full brothers. As annoyed I was with them most of the time, they had their qualities."
T'Pol remained silent.
"Would you like to tell me about them?" she asked.
"Yes," he said, "but it seems you have come bearing gifts. May I ask what is in the parcels?"
She nodded.
"They are Vulcan-style clothes. I thought you would be tired of the jumpsuits we've been giving you. And, since the majority of the crew believes you are a Vulcan assigned to assist us in intelligence gathering — it makes sense that you begin dressing like a Vulcan."
Enme raised his eyebrow.
"Our quartermaster made the clothes based on scans in the ship's database. Both Admiral Archer and Captain Tucker have told me that his work rarely needs adjustment. However, he said that if you need additional tailoring, he'd be happy to accommodate you."
"We shall see," said Enme, as he examined some of the robes and other garments made by the quartermaster.
"I have a few hours before my shift begins," said T'Pol, "Perhaps we could have tea in the mess hall and you could tell me about your brothers — our brothers."
"I'd like that. Although, I confess, I'm still not accustomed to the new freedom I've been given," said Enme.
He grabbed some of his new clothes and headed into the small bathroom. He shut the door as he changed, but he could hear her voice.
"Both Lt. Commander Reed and Captain Tucker have stated that they are willing to remove your guard, if you prove yourself loyal. There would still be areas of the ship that would be off limits — including Engineering and The Bridge, but I thought you would want to know that."
Enme laughed.
"My people would have thrown someone in my position out an airlock, intelligence value or not."
He emerged from the bathroom, in a black Vulcan-style suit with red trip on the collar and pockets.
"You wear that well," she said.
"Shall we?" he said.
"Yes," she said, "Perhaps we should stop in sickbay and Phlox can treat your hand."
"Very well," said Enme.
*****
Later that night, Malcolm rang the chime on Hoshi's door. She answered it, wearing her civilian clothes and smiled at him. Malcolm could also some rather enticing Brazilian-Japanese food as he walked into the door, carrying a bottle of French wine he had obtained on the station.
"I can't believe Chef lets you use the galley," said Malcolm, "I think you are the only one he allows that particular privilege."
Hoshi grinned.
"That's surely true," said Hoshi, "He hated it when Admiral Archer used to go down there and likes it even worse when Captain Tucker is in there — says that the galley is like sickbay, one of the few places where the Captain is not in charge."
Malcolm put the bottle of wine on the small table that Hoshi had set for their date.
"Does that have a real cork?" asked Hoshi, impressed. Only the oldest, best wineries used non-synthetic corks.
"It does. It's a 2151 Burgundy, supposedly a very good year."
She dug out an old-fashioned cork screw from a drawer. She handed it to Malcolm so he could open the bottle.
"Well, that was a very good year," said Hoshi, "It's the year this ship launched. . .and the year we met."
Malcolm smiled. It seemed like a thousand years ago, not just over five. He remembered briefly how many had thought a tactical officer would be unnecessary on a ship of exploration. Now, Enterprise was a ship of war. If it weren't a ship of war, he wouldn't be about to do what he was about to do. If it weren't a ship of war, he'd be content as things were. But on a ship of war, one couldn't afford to dither around and wait for perfection.
"Time passes quickly when you're out here," sighed Malcolm.
They sat down and began to talk about their recent work.
"I've listened to the exchange between Enme and Ravel several times," said Hoshi, "I'll tell you something I didn't put in my report. I think he's in love with her."
Malcolm sipped on his wine. He'd read the text in translation. Their exchange had appeared passionate, but he knew better than to apply human cultural norms to Romulan words.
"Are you sure?"
She nodded.
"It's all in the intonation. Half-way through the conversation, when he starts telling her to escape, the inflections change from professional to personal. And as near as I can figure, the inflections are very personal. My guess is that he was in love with her before this all started. I'm not sure they were involved. . .my guess is it was an unrequited thing."
Malcolm nodded. He thought briefly of his earlier jealously, which now seemed like a mere blip in his relationship with Hoshi. Between her therapy sessions and their spending the night together two or three times a week, he wasn't worried that Hoshi didn't love him. He knew that she did. And he loved her back. More so than he had ever loved anyone.
"That means has a strong motive for wanting to save her. Stronger than family honor. I mean, I tend to believe that most humanoid species love. It's just basic evolution. Even Vulcans love, just look at T'Pol. Vulcans don't admit to be capable of love — but they clearly are capable."
"Romulans definitely embrace the concept of passionate, romantic love," said Hoshi, "but it's a little dark. Their literature is filled with stories that make Romeo & Juliet look like they got a happy ending. One poem I read was about a woman who kills her lover to prevent him being forced to marry another. And he's grateful for it. Another was about a pair who murder his family in order to be together. And the reader is supposed side with them."
Malcolm laughed, though there was bitterness in it.
"And we're fighting a war against these people. And I'm sure it's going to be a long one. . .especially since the government has apparently been taken over by hardliners. Enme says that this new family is notoriously brutal even by Romulan standards."
Hoshi closed her eyes. Part of her wanted off the ship and back to Earth, though she understood the folly of such a sentiment. If all the best people didn't give everything they had to the war effort, Earth wouldn't be any more safe than the ship.
Malcolm seemed to sense the direction of her thoughts. He pulled something from his pocket.
"I was going to save this for the dessert course," he said, "but what the hell?"
He pushed the little box toward her. Her mouth dropped open. Malcolm had several times declared his serious intentions toward her, but she was clearly surprised.
"Open it," he said.
She did, and there was a platinum ring, with a red mars-stone in the center and surrounded by shimmering blue stones that Hoshi recognized as Andorian gems of some kind.
"Red really suits you," he said "and so I got this. But if you'd like something else. . .just let me know."
Malcolm sighed, longing for the days when engagement rings were always diamonds. Those days must have been much simpler. Now, engagement rings were whatever stone the bride liked.
"No. . .no. It's beautiful," said Hoshi, slipping the ring on her hand.
"So," he said, "I'll take that as a yes."
"Did I not say yes?" said Hoshi.
Malcolm shook his head. He took her hands in his across the table.
"But then again, I didn't officially ask. Hoshi, I can't imagine my life without you. The two of us going from friends to lovers is the best thing that's ever happened to me. If we must face this war, I want to face it together. So, will you be my bride?"
Hoshi looked down at the ring.
"Yes," she said, "I will."
The two of them grinned at each other, unsure what to do next. In the movies, couples always embraced passionately. But Malcolm was starving.
"Good," he said, "It's settled, then."
He leaned over the small table and kissed her forehead. Then, he briefly kissed her on the lips before sitting back down.
"Now," he said, "I'm going to eat before this gets cold."
Hoshi nodded. Then, she felt his leg under the table wrap around hers. And she too started in on her soup.
****
T'Pol arrived home to her quarters to find Trip in bed reading a PADD. She carried a plate with a slice of pecan pie and a cup of coffee. As Captain, protocol dictated that Trip keep his visits to the mess hall to a minimum and instead have the stewards bring him what he wanted in his private mess or in the Ready Room. However, the stewards hadn't yet mastered making coffee just the way he liked it, and worse, he had twice missed Chef's pecan pie because the stewards didn't know that it was the new Captain's favorite.
"Is that what I think it is?" said Trip.
"It was the last piece," said T'Pol, "I took the liberty of bringing it to you. Plus Dark Roast Coffee, Black. Without caffeine, given the lateness of the hour."
She sat next to him. He took coffee and placed it on the nightstand. Then, he took the pie and had a bite.
"I thought you didn't like it when I ate food in bed," he said.
"I'm making an exception," she said.
He put another piece on the fork and fed it to her.
"I just got a report from the joint chiefs," said Trip, "seems The Columbia got into a firefight with a couple of drones and took heavy damage. They made it to Hirku station and are getting patched up. In addition to searching for Ravel, we've been asked to lend Captain Hernandez and her crew a hand."
"Were there any casualties?" asked T'Pol.
"No fatalities as of yet, but that may change. Twenty-two Wounded. Six critically," said Trip, grimly.
T'Pol snuggled up against Trip, and she thought of the brutal massacre that had befallen her brother's family — her family, though she did not know them as such. Romulans were not a merciful people.
"They were fortunate," she said, "It could have been much worse."
"Malcolm says your brother has been very helpful, and that he thinks this Ravel will cooperate as well. I hope so. It seems we need all the help we can get."
"Nevertheless," said T'Pol, "The Columbia is in tact, and none of her crew is dead. The Romulans may be formidable enemies, but so are humans. And Vulcans. And Tellarites. And Andorians. Together, we will stop them."