A/N: Welcome back! Many thanks for the feedback and support. We're going slightly off the rails, but rest assured, we will find our way back.
See first chapter for content disclaimers.
Let Me Take You Out
Chapter Three
By the time they ascended the grand marble staircase into a towering white atrium, Hoshi was desperate to make the universal translator work.
The captain was depending on her to make this first contact a success - as much as she wanted to chalk their recent triumphs to growing experience, she knew that nothing could get accomplished if the two parties didn't understand each other. Sure, she could force the computer to pour over classic literary works for days, but nothing could replace the experience gained by real life conversation, lest she confuse a simple phrase like take my hand with take my life.
Fortunately, they had yet to experience such dire straits, though accidentally forcing Archer to tell the B'Saari heads of state that T'Pol was subordinate to him in an entirely different way pretty much ranked up there as one of the most embarrassing moments of her life. Hoshi knew her cheeks were flushed and her ears were burning, but she didn't dare look up at her captain, lest her shame burn out of control. She hardly even afforded him an apologetic glance before surging after the crowd, though now, it was all she could do to keep up.
Whatever hope she had of salvaging the situation was lost the second they crossed over the threshold. The ceiling was high and lofted, interspersed with stone columns and slanted skylights that bathed her in sunlight from every direction. It was unbearably loud, and just from the acoustics, her keen ear could tell that they were on the ground floor, surrounded by many levels adjoined by winding staircases encircling the perimeter. Save for a few meters to all sides of them, the lobby was standing room only, filled with B'Saari pushing and jostling for purchase through the crowd. Nallim and Veela's guards were struggling to stand their ground, but they didn't look perturbed in the slightest, having a quiet conversation all the while their constituents were screaming the most foul obscenities imaginable.
Hoshi winced, reaching up to turn down the volume on her headset, then took a massive leap forward, landing an outstretched hand on Malcolm's arm. He jumped about a foot in the air, cast a frantic glance in her direction, then gestured for her to get in front of him between the captain and the sub-commander.
The next few seconds were colored by total, unreasoning panic; she felt his hand on the small of her back, between the shoulders, then she was surrounded, with little to do but listen to the screams and try to avoid being trampled.
There were two very vocal contingents - those clearly in support of their heads of state, and those opposed, with little separation in between. The UT was still clipped to her front pocket, and as they moved, they caught little snippets of words, from corrupt to evil to fight to win, all up until a hidden panel opened in the wall and they were forced through, seemingly cut off from the rest of civilization by a hatch sliding shut behind them.
Breathless and disoriented, Hoshi finally locked eyes with the captain, terrified beyond belief. The B'Saari were forging ahead of them, but they soon realized their guests were unmoving and doubled back, not doing well enough to hide their unease.
"We're up for reelection soon," Nallim explained, and it was clear he hadn't expected such a display, that their every attempt to hold back the public had been unsuccessful. At that moment, their every illusion that they'd touched down in a veritable Eden shattered, and just in case they needed the reminder that even their most prosperous allies had something to hide, it was all over their faces, from their terse frowns to their equally unsmiling eyes. "Recent debates with challengers from our party have turned contentious."
From what they'd just seen, that was the understatement of the century, but Archer hardly reacted at all. Among the junior officers, it was a bit of a running joke that he and Sub-Commander T'Pol were pretty even-keeled during a firefight while utter chaos erupted below decks; now was so exception, as he was determined to show that they were unaffected by this sudden display of instability.
"Politics is a dirty business wherever you go," he remarked, and the B'Saari nodded sagely before turning and continuing their procession down the dimly lit corridor, ignoring the shouts and cat-calls in the distance.
Malcolm was very clearly contemplating forcing them to turn back, though a particularly stern look from T'Pol silenced his doubts. It was then Hoshi realized that while their science officer was already thinking about reporting this back to the High Command to use as leverage in their trade negotiations, the captain was considering bridging the great divide, relating to them through some anecdote about Terran history. Whatever the case may be, Hoshi presumed that her line of thinking was more like that of their tactical officer, who kept glancing furtively from left to right, gauging their best opportunity to escape.
It didn't come nearly soon enough.
The swell of the music reached them first, all lush strings and soaring brass, followed by the roar of conversation and clink of glassware coming together. The strides of their hosts were remarkably slower now, their smiles more natural and relaxed, and finally, when it at last seemed like they had hit a dead end, a narrow section of the wall slid away from them and she understood why.
The ballroom was built differently than the atrium, though it was no less sunny and airy, with countless windows thrown open to the mid-afternoon breeze. Above their heads, the ceiling struck a curious chord between a greenhouse and a geodesic dome, twisting and warping the clouds until they were nothing but distant trails of mist. Windchimes were anchored to the support beams, each one longer than any man was tall, serving as the perfect accompaniment to the musicians nestled in the far corner of the room. Long metallic tables anchored the walls, and all around, the other guests were dressed to the nines, swilling some sort of bubbly concoction out of crystal goblets.
There was little doubt about it now - they were presently surrounded by the ranks of the ruling elite, and if the wary, bemused looks sent their way were any indication, the prime ministers weren't very welcome. Hoshi experienced a split second of crippling self-consciousness before letting it all out in a ragged exhale, releasing the vice-like grip she'd been maintaining on the UT and passing it into Archer's waiting hands.
"Come with me." Veela cut through the din with almost unbearable intensity, and the minute she said it, Hoshi knew that invitation wasn't meant for anyone else. "There's some very important people I need to introduce to you."
"Shipbuilders?"
"Scientists," she corrected with a smile, all the while her other head began glancing around furtively, apparently trying to single out someone in particular. "Colleagues of your doctor's from the Interspecies Medical Exchange."
The fact that Phlox hadn't been invited to this reception spoke volumes, and their resident Denobulan hadn't been too pleased about that. Now, short of grabbing hold of Archer's arm and rooting him in place, there was little to do to prevent the inevitable.
"Try to behave yourselves," Jonathan warned, a certain twinkle in his eye, and then he was gone, gesturing for the two ladies to lead the way. For one long moment, Hoshi and Malcolm watched them go, wondering if they also felt that they were losing control of the situation. For all they knew, they could be surrounded by dangerous dissidents, or leaders of opposing regimes who might want to bring harm to their hosts. Malcolm was so tightly wound that she could almost feel him vibrating in place, ready to react at a moment's notice. She almost didn't realize she was in the same predicament until Nallim began to speak again, exchanging a few furtive words with an aide who passed him a PADD before disappearing back into the crowd.
He grumbled to himself for a good long while before Hoshi located her spare translator and Malcolm all but snatched it out of her hands, offering him a none too convincing smile. Still, Nallim stashed his treasure before his heads turned toward them one by one, meeting his challenge with confidence.
"Trouble in paradise?"
"You can say that. A speech we planned to give to the public this evening has been moved up."
"By necessity?"
"By preference," he corrected him sternly, just as the other head interrupted with a smile. "Veela and I would like to show you all the splendor that our home has to offer."
"I have no doubt we're going to see it." Several lawmen were whispering around them now, enough for Hoshi to realize that something was afoot. Her gut was twisted in knots, as she recognized that their dauntless, endlessly self-sacrificial tactical officer had basically guaranteed that conflict was inevitable.
Her communicator felt heavy in her pocket, and she almost excused herself to call up to the ship, to let Commander Tucker know to have backup ready, when she felt a warm hand come to rest in the corner of her elbow. Freezing every muscle to avoid flinching, she chose one of Nallim's heads and returned his smile, determined to hold her own.
"Would you care to dance, Ensign? It's been so long since I've had a new partner."
Over the course of just a few seconds, the atmosphere in the room had shifted - somewhere, a musician was playing a tune on a lute-like instrument that her brain could only place as a vaguely medieval, and guests were starting to pair off, forming little clusters all around the dance floor. His hand had progressed from her forearm to her palm with such speed that Hoshi realized he didn't intend to take no for an answer. Outwardly, Nallim was friendly and pleasant, but there was a certain intensity behind his eyes, as if the second they left, he would jump right back into fighting for his life.
And Hoshi absolutely did not intend to be caught in the crossfire.
"What about your wife?"
He nodded towards Veela's retreating back; a nurse was emerging from the shadows holding a small boy, whose fraught expression seemed to indicate that a squall was imminent. Squirming and wiggling, he tried his best to worm his way out of his nanny's arms, only to find himself in his mother's embrace, burying his face into her shoulder and whimpering. Archer and T'Pol stood a short distance away, heads bent together as they conversed furtively. Undoubtedly they were experiencing some of the same suspicions, and that was reassuring.
"I'll save her a dance, don't you worry."
"I don't know - I'm pretty out of practice."
Suddenly Malcolm was at her side, nudging her gently, nodding towards the center of the floor. Go ahead, that gesture said, I've got your back.
Though they weren't close as friends or even as colleagues, Hoshi didn't doubt his sincerity, and knew his eyes would be on her the entire time. Malcolm was nothing if not observant, and so she allowed herself to be led onto the floor in the capable hands of the most odd-looking dance partner she'd had in her life.
Overall, the dance was simple, a modified box step with plenty of dips and turns, anchoring at the elbow and rotating in a circle. For the longest time, neither of them said anything, and she allowed herself to get lost in the motions, all the while staring Nallim down, daring him to speak first.
Finally he did, drawing her closer with a hand placed squarely at the center of her back. "You're tense, Miss Sato."
"Call me Hoshi, please." Her request felt entirely disingenuous, because she didn't trust him as far as she could throw him. At such proximity, she could feel his pulse thrumming away in his wrist, and she wondered if it was just her imagination, or if the man with two faces was just as nervous as she was. "How long have you and Veela been in control of the government?"
"Ten of your years," he replied simply, effortlessly turning her in a wide arc, allowing her the opportunity to watch Malcolm's expression cloud darker by the second.
"Does there always need to be two?"
"Pardon me?"
"I mean, what happens if one of you has to step down?"
He released her suddenly, looking down upon her as if he'd been stung. From across the room, Malcolm instantly locked onto the motion and took a step forward, almost colliding headlong with a servant carrying a tray high above his head, causing something sticky and foul-smelling to rain down from them on high. He huffed and dabbed at his uniform, mumbling his apologies, which seemed to go unheard. In fact, the waiter didn't seem to react at all, just bent down, retrieved his serving dish, and made a beeline towards the kitchen, moving unnaturally fast.
Confused, he watched him go, which was apparently amusing to an older woman lingering nearby. One of her heads, outfitted with a jeweled diadem and mirrored sunglasses, bent forward to whisper conspiratorially, confirming his suspicions: "The waiters are holographic. They're not programmed to speak."
That revelation all but knocked the wind out of him, and as the nearest servant swept past, he briefly reached out to tap his arm, intensely surprised to find that his fingers phased through the plane of his shirt sleeve. It seemed impossible; they all looked so real, and even the Xyrillians, the only other species they'd encountered that were just as technologically advanced as the B'Saari, had yet to create such faithful recreations of living, breathing people. It raised the question why any one of the hundreds of citizens crammed into the compound weren't serving them, and further still, who was encoding their behavior at all.
At least they hadn't been compelled to place their hands in buckets of shiny pebbles...yet.
On the opposite side of the ballroom, Archer and T'Pol were indeed arguing, the former insisting that they needed to stick it out and see how the evening progressed. By contrast, she was concerned that their narrow window of opportunity was closing, that they would benefit from returning to the ship and making a call to the High Command, who just might have some additional intel they might find useful.
"What could Soval have to tell us that can't be found in the database?"
T'Pol carefully mulled her words, lacking the wherewithal to explain the intricacies of the Ministry of Security and her history as an operative within. Her human colleagues certainly were friendly, sometimes to their detriment, seeing as they often failed to see the truth even when it was directly in front of their noses. She had lost count of how many times Archer ignored her advice in favor of helping the down and out, letting his curiosity be to their detriment. It was intensely frustrating, yet oddly endearing, this altruism that seemed to hold Starfleet together by a thread.
"They are obviously using us as a distraction. Tensions are high, and I can tell..." She paused, consciously redirecting her thoughts, and reached out to rest her palm on the table, studying the nametags holding their seats to either side of their hosts. There was just no way to convey how the hostility in the room was swelling out of control, though she was sure he felt it, because it was the same sense of foreboding they'd both experienced when they were being shot down over the slums by Coridanite rebels only a few months ago. To go back further, it felt like standing on the ridge overlooking her childhood home, watching as a sandstorm approached on the horizon.
Her first instinct when faced with trouble was to retreat, to evaluate their options and then take the logical next step. His was the exact opposite, and though she did admire his ceaseless bravado at times, now, she knew it could only lead them to destruction.
"There's a bunch of men standing in the corner watching us," Archer mumbled, reaching over across her line of sight to retrieve the two glasses which had been placed in front of the prime ministers' seats. A servant had set them down and filled them in silence before disappearing back into the crowd, and he suddenly needed somewhere to put his hands, to cut the tension before they aroused further suspicion. Once T'Pol accepted his offering, he dropped his voice to a whisper, using the physical barrier to hide his words from any keen lip readers across the way. "I believe that Nallim and Veela are in trouble."
Her reply was so quiet that he was almost entirely sure he'd misheard it: "As are we."
Archer bit his tongue against whatever denial he wanted to offer, and then they drank together steadily to a count of three, only setting their glasses aside when they were interrupted by their host, who at the moment was balancing a very grumpy infant on her hip. He had to admit - though the twin heads were a little unsettling to see on a child so small, he was very adorable, and said as much emphatically, eliciting a warm smile from Veela.
"Allow me," T'Pol said smoothly, holding out her hands. The prime minister looked a little wary, but passed him over anyway. Together they watched as the baby settled in her embrace, resting his cheek against her collarbone as his cries diminished to whimpers. It only took a few more seconds until he was smiling again, and he even hazarded a giggle before his mother intervened.
"I have heard that Vulcans are touch telepaths, but never before have I seen this in person," she confessed. "You're a natural, Sub-Commander."
So she was. A warm sensation was growing in Jonathan's chest, and he couldn't help but study his first officer anew. Among other things, he was well aware of her talents as a scientist and a mediator, but for the first time, he saw her as a nurturer, as a caregiver, as a goddess of benevolence from which all things good and bright and beautiful flowed.
And when their eyes locked, something shifted and shattered between them, so much so that the second T'Pol passed the child back over to Veela, he knew that there was no turning back.
Suddenly he was intent on resuming their conversation elsewhere, and it seemed that T'Pol was in agreement. For the first time since they had met, she seemed nervous and flighty, as though she was looking for an out, one he was all too willing to provide.
The next thing Malcolm and Hoshi knew, their commanding officers were making a beeline for the hallway, disappearing before they could even begin to give chase.
Jonathan wasn't sure what came over him - there were a couple dozen partygoers in the corridors, but he could think of nothing else but the woman at his side. He kept stealing glances at her, at the lovely greenish blush spreading across her cheeks, at the delicate bones in her wrist and her slender fingers, which were intertwined together fiercely as she turned them over and over. It was a purely unconscious expression of her unrest, and though he had no hopes of controlling his own, he knew she could tell how fast he was breathing, how frantically his heart was pounding. They were almost out of earshot now, but they couldn't rest, not until they were alone.
T'Pol came to a dead stop in the middle of a deserted side hallway, and he paused along with her, allowing his hands to rest at his sides. It took a minute, an hour, a millennium, but eventually he felt her thumb teasing the side of his palm, drawing circles until the little sparks of electricity racing up his arms turned into a raging inferno.
"Do you trust me yet?"
The question clearly took her aback, and for the first time since they left the ballroom, they locked eyes. Jonathan realized then that her pupils were blown and her eyelids were fluttering erratically; at that instant, he wasn't sure she could articulate her thoughts into Standard, let alone a coherent sentence.
Speaking her next words into existence felt like lifting a massive weight off her shoulders, but once it was out, she couldn't take it back. "More than I trust anyone."
He turned to her, searching for the right thing to say, because he knew that this was wrong, that this was inappropriate, that they'd been drugged or poisoned or worse. But he had no time to redirect, for in the next second her hand was coming out to grasp the lapel of his uniform and she was dragging him into the nearest maintenance closet with her superior Vulcan strength, which he suddenly lacked the willpower to resist.
The hatch closing behind them felt like the impact of a stun grenade, and in the narrow space surrounded by cleaning implements, Jonathan tried his best to put some distance between them. But it was all of such little use when she was embracing him, resting her chin on his shoulder and peppering little butterfly kisses up the curve of his neck. At this proximity, her hair was impossibly soft and her scent was instantly alluring, something warm, something spicy, something her. T'Pol had been utterly intoxicating to him since the moment she came aboard, and there was no point in denying it any longer.
That didn't stop his morality from intervening, however, and he leaned back, desperately trying to put the brakes on whatever was unfolding before it was too late. Gasping, chest heaving, he insisted: "You're not yourself, T'Pol."
She seemed bewildered by that, so much so that she had to act. Her middle and index fingers on one hand rose to trace the curve of his lips, and he wasn't sure how, but he was immediately exposed to the depths of her psyche, from her carefully maintained exterior to the emotions she strived so hard to keep in check, but felt just as deeply as any human. Her respect for him, the rapport, trust and love that existed between them, could no longer be ignored, and even before she spoke, Jonathan knew that there was no part of her that didn't want this.
He knew that she had likely never been embraced in this way, so he moved slowly, fully wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting her off the floor as he pressed his lips to hers.
(to be continued)