She was so lost. Trip could feel it – even more, since Jon died. She was afraid, hurting, searching – and she needed help. Help she was trying desperately to ask for, even though it wasn't part of her culture.
He wondered again what had happened to her. She seemed to think she'd done something unforgivable. Was it Azati Prime? He remembered what Malcolm had said. She'd been all but frozen during the battle. She couldn't have been expecting that. They'd thought the Captain was dead, then, too. Given her reaction to that news today, Trip had a better idea why she'd been hiding in the Ready Room, and why she'd been about to run off to face the Xindi all alone.
He was getting the idea that when Vulcans fell apart, they didn't make a lot of noise about it. Typical. It was probably classified. It made him want to strangle Surak, or whoever the hell it was who'd locked her into a straitjacket that didn't fit right.
T'Pol was still staring at the tears on her fingers. It was like she couldn't get further than that in her own mind.
"Want me to help you to bed and tuck you in?"
"Bed?" Her voice was hollow and broken.
"You look like you're about ready to collapse- thought maybe you'd be more comfortable in bed."
Her gaze met his, her eyes catching the light from her candles. They were full of feelings he couldn't decipher.
"I won't sleep, any more than I have." She sighed, swallowed, looked away and then back at him. No. Trip - I must speak to you." It was barely a whisper. She started to use the wall to lever herself up; he caught her hands as he got up and helped her. She seemed like she was on the edge of some unnamed cliff, teetering. She made for her meditation table, already arranged with cushions on either side. There was a stone box and two scanners on top of it, with her candle. Trip kept hold of her elbow; she didn't seem very steady. She got to the cushion facing the door and settled herself, gesturing to the other side of the table. "Please, sit."
Trip sat. I'm gonna keep my mouth shut, this time. Her eyes had gone off to the left again, and her lips were trembling.
Time stretched out. The things she needed to say filled up the space between them. She seemed stuck, not knowing how to say them.
"This box is beautiful," he said, when he couldn't stand the quiet anymore. Slowly, he reached out to touch it, watching her, ready to stop if she said to. She followed the motion, tense, poised for something. The stone was cool and smooth. Trip stroked it slowly. T'Pol's fingers darted out, captured his with that kissing Vulcan touch, but there was something desperate in the way she clutched, and in her eyes. She was quivering again.
The box had something to do with this.
Slowly, shakily, she moved their hands to open the hinged lid.
Inside was her Vulcan hypospray - the one she'd told him once held her contraceptives. Pieces fell into place, their clicks deafening in their implications.
"Good lord, T'Pol - you're pregnant, aren't you?"