Chapter Five
"I'm positively horrified that you were the victim of this" the Eldest of the First House of Betazed waved a feather fan in front of her face in a very distracted manner. "Really, I'm surprised you're taking this so casually."
"Slip-ups are completely understandable in the early stages of interspecies contact." Jon was for the first time in the position of having to accept an apology instead of making one. "Really, the Sub-Commander wasn't at all upset over the issue. She just said he was curious. It's perfectly understandable."
Privately Jon didn't like the idea of psychic eavesdropping at all. There was nothing his human, non-telepathic, crew could do to dissuade one of these Betazed's if they got it in their head to do something. Nevertheless, the entire government was walking on eggshells around him, acting as if he was going to fly off the handle at the drop of a hat.
On the other hand, maybe it wasn't him they were worried about. He'd noticed that they were giving T'Pol a wider and wider berth as time progressed. Whether that was a reflection of the Betazed feelings towards the Vulcans or their worrying about the Vulcan tendency to get selectively offended he didn't know but it was beginning to become damn annoying.
He also got the distinct impression they were treating him like a Vulcan captain, or Commander rather, wide diplomatic circles and a marked deference for his opinion. It was vaguely upsetting, but at the same time flattering. He could completely understand where Vulcans came from in their interspecies relations.
If everywhere they went they were deferred to and respected, he could really understand how it would be difficult not to become the slightest bit arrogant over time and, if not arrogant, then to completely not comprehend why someone wouldn't want their guidance.
He didn't really think that Vulcans set out to be arrogant, domineering know-it-alls. They were the best, the brightest, the most technologically and biologically gifted. Truth told, there was simply no comparison. Vulcans were just Vulcan, the phrase had so much meaning, and it took so much for granted. They were just so damn single minded…
Point in case, Archer sighed mentally, while the Eldest dragged him around the social rounds of the crème de la crème of Betazed society, his stubborn, obstinate, wilful second in command. Every single bloody day they had been on the planet she'd gone if not all day, then at the very least for the morning, to the damn Neurological institute. Moreover, every single solitary day she showed up to lunch an absolute wreck, mentally, emotionally just drained.
Would she stop going? No. Would she accept that putting additional strain on her mental control would lead to outbursts that are more emotional? No. Would she ease up on herself and accept that shit just happens? No. Of course, she wouldn't do any of that. She was Vulcan. There were standards in her life. It was getting to the point that lunch was as emotionally draining for him as working at the Institute was for her.
"…don't you agree Captain?" the question penetrated his woolgathering, mechanically he looked at who said it, but for the absolute life of him he couldn't come up with the topic of conversation.
"Yeah," he agreed, crossing his toes and gambling, "Of course"
"Indeed, I think it's the finest of all…" the Eldest he was seated with rattled on. He resisted the urge to check his watch. This was not what he wanted to be doing. However, he was not just a military man, he was a diplomat and scholar, or at least he tried to pass as one. Making nice was part of the job description.
"Excuse me dearest, may I steal back the Captain for a moment?" the First-Daughter returned from wherever she'd disappeared to when the party started. "Just a moment then love, I'm afraid we've a bit of business to deal with."
She grabbed his dinner jacket firmly, almost the way he'd grabbed T'Pol on their first frantic trip through the open air market. He careened past dignitaries and nobility; barely missed knocking over a vase he was sure was older than Western Civilization. She slid back the partition in the ballroom, where he, the First Minister, and T'Pol had that vaguely disturbing first meeting.
After they got to the garden, she dragged him a good way out, on the opposite side of the fishpond, before releasing his arm and glancing about furtively.
"You mind explaining what's going on?" asked Jon.
"At the risk of sounding like some sort of criminal Captain, I just want you to know that your worrying, about whatever it is you're worrying about, is giving me a headache from across the room." She sat in the artfully decorated, carefully placed garden bench. "Now I know you've not had the best experience with telepathy on this planet, but honestly if your mind doesn't stop running in circles I'm not the only one who's going to start picking it up, shielding or no."
"My worrying?" he repeated in amazement.
"You're the only non-Betazed in the room, I'm sure it's you." She looked at him beseechingly, "Please, I know you're not likely to go confide in a complete stranger like myself, but please if there's anything I can do… just to make it stop"
He looked at the very dignified woman in front of him rubbing her temples, seemingly in pain. "You mean my worrying is giving you a headache?"
"Oh yes," she shook her head, "Now mind you I'm a bit more sensitive than the average Betazed. But you're projecting quite forcefully Captain."
"Projecting?" he repeated dumbly.
"You don't have the foggiest idea what I'm saying do you?" She said matter-of-factly, "I'm not trying to pry. Really. But if you don't get a handle on things quickly, I'm not the only one who's going to hear it."
"Thanks for the advice" Jon replied slowly, "I'll try to …keep it to myself."
"I'll make your excuses to the gathering" she got up quickly, and then paused to turn and look at him with a silhouetted face "I know it's not my place to say anything, but… It really does concern me that you are not comfortable here. My people do not make a habit of scaring away visitors."
"And my people aren't accustomed to telepathy." Jon replied, "But I'm sure we can get past that"
"Not accustomed?" she said, sounding perplexed, "You've been allied exclusively with a race of telepaths for over a century. How is it that you're not accustomed to telepathy?"
"They're Vulcan," Jon protested, praying that she'd understand the meaning of the phrase.
Say what you will about their foreign policy or perceived distain but Vulcans had rules. They had standards. There were limits to the things they would do and things that they would do but go no further, bar nothing. You could sit down to a negotiating table or dinner table and find the exact same thing. Logic. Control. Discipline. There was a certain amount of reassurance in that familiarity, especially knowing their telepathic privacy.
"But we're not," she said softly, "Please don't judge us by their standards. We are two different cultures, with different traditions and a different way of life. And frankly I don't know anyone but a Vulcan who could ever hope to meet Vulcan standards."
"I understand" Jon replied, "I'll try, and I'll make sure my crew tries as well…" he trailed off for a second.
"…But you're not telepaths, and it's harder for you to accept. I…" she gave him a friendly smile, "can understand that."
"Thank you" Jon said, returning the smile, "and good night First-Daughter."
"Good night" she ghosted out of the garden, returning to the sound and light of the gathering. Jon stood there for a second, trying to come to terms with what he just heard. Then made his way slowly to the guest wing of the great villa, where he, T'Pol, Dr. Phlox, and ostensibly Trip and Hoshi were staying.
Phlox had almost moved in to the laboratory in the Neurological institute, his room stood empty. Trip and Hoshi had stayed in the southern continent for the week; they'd taken an invitation from the first-daughter's daughter. So essentially, it was just him and T'Pol.
He walked into the darkened hall, which led into a large, comfortably appointed sitting room. There was a small lamp lit on the corner table. He smiled. T'Pol left him a light. She always did. As soon as conceivably possible, his yanked his tie out and undid the first few buttons of his dress shirt. He shed the coat, tie, and kicked off his shoes; then sat and removed his socks and unbuttoned the stiffly starched shirt.
Porthos came over and nuzzled his master's hand, looking to be petted. After the disaster with the 'sacred trees' Jon had been somewhat apprehensive of taking him to inhabited systems. Just in case. However, after the first day here, the canine had inexplicably shown up one night when he came back to the rooms. Malcolm, whom he'd left in charge, had answered his summons slightly puzzled.
"The Sub-Commander ordered to have him sent, sir, seeing as there were no…ah, sacred trees." When he'd tried to thank her, she barely glanced up from her padd and told him bluntly, that there was nothing in the garden that would be irrevocably damaged if it were to be 'watered'. Therefore it was only logical to have 'the creature' brought planetside.
He got up to head to his room, but then paused and picked up his laundry that had been scattered, imagining her sardonic eyebrow if she woke in the morning and found his clothing lying about. He hung it haphazardly off furniture in the bedroom provided to him, then padded, barefoot, down the hall and knocked on her door.
It had become something of a habit, for him to knock and check on her before going to his own room. She was usually meditating or reading but he'd come in, say about five words about his day, then sit with her. They didn't talk, not really, but he'd come to find it relaxing. Since she normally wasn't shy about telling people to mind their own business, he figured T'Pol was enjoying it as well, albeit quietly.
"Come in" she said after the first knock. There really was only one person who'd knock on her door at this time of night. He entered, and heard a slight, scritch, scritch, whoosh as she ignited her lighter. In the faint illumination he could see that she was sitting on the bed, knees pulled up to chest, in the pitch black.
She put the flame to the wick of a taper, half way melted, on the bedside table. The glow washed over the room, giving scant illumination, but allowing him to navigate without knocking into things. He walked to the foot of her bed. It was large, what a human would refer to as a four-poster. The candlelight was stronger here and gave her face a very innocent, very young look.
"Good evening" she cocked her head slightly in greeting. As if receiving him in her bed, dressed in her nightclothes, was a regular occurrence.
"Good evening, T'Pol." He wondered what in the world was running through her mind as she sat, alone, in the dark, not sleeping, for blanket and sheet both still tucked firmly into the mattress. "I'm sorry if I woke you"
"I wasn't sleeping," she confirmed his thought of her solitude. Porthos jumped right up onto her sheets, something Jon thought he had trained out of him, and settled into a fuzzy ball at T'Pol's feet.
"I'm worried about you." Jon said suddenly, thinking as an afterthought she'd appreciate his being straightforward. He sat on the edge of the bed and began to relay the conversation with the First-Daughter.
"…she thought I was preoccupied with the telepathy issue. That I was worried about them." He explained, stroking Porthos as a kind of nervous habit, not quite looking her in the face, "But I'm not. I'm worried about you."
She let her knees drop, crossing her ankles into a lotus position. Her head bowed slightly, and then she looked him directly. He couldn't read anything in her face. Porthos stood up and climbed onto her lap. Jon made a move to get him off the bed, but T'Pol placed a gentle hand on his arm.
"It doesn't bother me." She said softly, "He's been my company these past few nights."
"You're not sleeping" it wasn't so much a question as an observation.
"No" she agreed, "I'm not."
"Why?"
She didn't answer him. He tried to read something in her face, but failed. It was a blank stare. He did something that a week ago he would never have even dreamt of doing. He took her chin, softly and impossibly gently, and tilted it up.
"You wake up in the night. For any reason. The dog barks, you're thirsty, you have a nightmare…." She flinched ever so slightly and his suspicion was confirmed, "Come to me. I don't care what time it is. I'm right down the hall."
She didn't respond again, but Jon felt his message had got through. He smiled at her, and picked Porthos up off her lap. She frowned, but he offered her his hand. Puzzled she accepted it and got up off the bed. He reached over and pulled the blanket and sheet from the mattress.
"Let me tuck you in"
"Tuck me in?' she turned the phrase into a question.
"Yup" he motioned at her to get in the turned back blankets. She did, albeit still slightly bemused. He leaned over her and tucked the blankets around her, just as he would his niece and nephews.
He hesitated before leaning down to kiss the crown of her head. She stiffened as he leaned in, so he stopped short and said simply, "Sleep well T'Pol"
Porthos hopped back up onto the bed, curling into a ball at her feet. As he left the room, Jon took one look back at his Sub-Commander in the oversized bed with his dog, and felt the strongest ever pull to just drag off his undershirt and crawl in beside her.
She would never consent to something like that. She was Vulcan. He was Human. She was probably old enough to be his mother. They came from as opposite places as night and day. Nevertheless, for the moment he just saw a woman he cared for deeply. Moreover, for the moment it was enough.