TWO STEPS BACK - CHAPTER 2/5
AUTHOR: darrah
SPOILERS: Twilight; Xindi.
SUMMARY: This is an experiment in speculation. After "Twilight" ends, Archer wakes up in Sickbay to his old reality, his memory fractured, his life at a crossroads, his ship and world threatened, and his friendships strained. As the weeks pass in the expanse, he realizes two things – his center of gravity has shifted from his self to another; and that the phrase "tomorrow is another day" is a sop for the weak.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. I only play with them.
ARCHIVE: Please keep headers intact and tell me where.
FEEDBACK: PG-13 for this chapter.
CATEGORY: A/TP, some T/TP.
NOTES: This is my first ENT story and was originally written and posted in mid-December 2003, prior to Image in the Sand and Damage Revisited. The triad of Archer, T'Pol and Trip fascinates me: oh the possibilities, the nuances, the pathos! So here I am, with my little contribution to their dynamic. Please be honest in your comments. I'm here to learn. One more thing, if you hate triangles, be patient, give this a try. You might like it, you never know! If you hate it, send me hate-mail. I can take it. I'm a big girl. :)
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: Grateful thanks to Monica for her encouragement and being there for me when I needed the support. This story wouldn't be writing itself if she hadn't urged me on.
The title of this chapter is from the Walt Whitman poem. Ever since Season Three began, this poem has been circling my brain; Scott Bakula's inspired portrayal of Jonathan Archer has driven this story from the start. So I dedicate this story to him and his creation.
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Chapter Two: Oh
Captain! My Captain!
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When the night's quiet and you don't care anymore
And your eyes are tired and there's someone at your door
And you realize you wanna let go
And the weak lies and the cold wall you embrace
Eat at your insides and leave you face to face with
Streets of fire...
I'm wandering, a loser down these tracks
I'm dying, but girl I can't go back
'Cause in the darkness I hear somebody call my name
And when you realize how they tricked you this time
And it's all lies but I'm strung out on the wire
In these streets of fire...
I live now, only with strangers
I talk to only strangers
I walk with angels that have no place
Streets of fire...
From "Streets of Fire"; Bruce Springsteen; Darkness on the Edge of Town.
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The objects of Archer's dilemma were, at that moment, supremely content. Trip Tucker was tucked into an upside down version of the yoga cobra position, Vulcan style. T'Pol was behind him, her fingers playing over nerve endings on his back that screamed with pleasure and pain. Trip winced a little. At times, this got to be too much: one of the reasons he wore slightly thicker than regulation, corded slacks. Although they hindered movement... they did hinder… umm… movement.
The thing was… Trip wasn't sure what exactly was happening here. These neuropressure sessions were incredibly helpful, the upshot being that he slept like a baby later on at night. Well, most of it, anyways. But while they lasted, they were far from relaxing. For one thing, T'Pol always wore her silky pajama thing. Just how many of these did she own, for god's sakes? The other was that, well... she didn't exactly help the problem.
Trip closed his eyes and felt a silly giggle somewhere in his chest as T'Pol's fingers lightly probed the small of his back. He heard her murmur something as he flinched a little. He wasn't just ticklish on the soles of his feet and she was fast finding that out.
"Are you alright?" She asked.
"Yeah, yeah... go on. I'm okay." He wiggled his shoulders a bit, trying to lessen the tension in his muscles and distract the nerve endings in his lower back.
"You can come out of this posture now, Commander."
"Oh, okay... what next?"
"The menitu-shaayaara." She said. "Fold your arms and put them above your head."
He did as he was told, surrendering to her ministrations. Two weeks ago, they had decided to continue these sessions indefinitely and as needed. The main reason was that they were turning out to be mutually beneficial. Apparently, T'Pol slept better too these days. At least that was what she had told Dr. Phlox. If true, then they were probably the only two people on the ship who slept well these days. He also liked the fact that, since these sessions began, T'Pol and he seemed to argue less; their conversations had become less one-upping, less challenging, more casual, if not friendly. He liked that. He knew that T'Pol had no complaints either. Vulcans abhorred personal conflict; his experience with his teacher had taught him that. But he didn't really know whether she did, as well. Something told him that she had actually liked sparring with him. There had always been a spark in her eyes when they would argue. And he had to admit… every once in a while, he'd get turned on by the turn of her head, the arch of her neck, the icy-green fire in her eyes.
Geez... he was only a man for pete's sakes. And T'Pol was a beautiful woman. A beautiful Vulcan woman. One that he could easily get used to.
Anyway!
He'd always liked a good fight. Ever since the schoolyard bullies would get on top of him and pummel him, he'd fought and clawed his way through the world. But, in the end, his wits had always won out. He knew that his wits had gotten him where he was now; and that his wits were what Jonathan Archer needed on this mission. Jon Archer... who had been the closest he'd ever had to a big brother. And a best friend.
So he needed his wits about him right now.
"T'Pol—" he said.
"—Don't speak, Commander," T'Pol's voice was low but firm.
"Okay, but remind me to ask you something before I go… actually," he thought a bit. "Two things. I got two things to talk about."
He felt rather than saw her eyebrow raising itself.
"It's important," he reasoned. "And with everything that's been happening, I'm more than likely to forget my train of thought."
Slowly, breathing in unison, they both came out of their respective positions and he followed T'Pol's lead in sitting up in the meditative pose. The candle burned between them and Trip drew in a deep breath. He could hear his pulse in his ears, heavy and throbbing, slowing down by notches. He felt the by now familiar sense of calm and contentment envelop him. She sat beside him and he stole a look at her profile. Serene and perfect. She was like a stone statue during these moments: delicately built, with staggeringly beautiful angles and curves at just the right places. The reddish-gold hue of the candle played around the shadows of her face, her throat. Her eyes were half closed and her mouth slightly open.
Trip swallowed.
"T'Pol, are there other levels of neuropressure?"
Her eyes flew open. She half-turned toward him.
"I don't understand."
"I mean, does neuropressure work to alleviate stress on all levels? Or just a few?"
She looked at him steadily, her eyelashes hiding her pupils from the glow of the candle.
"Do you feel that your stress levels have been reduced?"
A logical question.
He smiled a little. Then sobered.
"Well, yeah. But I was wondering. I mean, I sleep better at night these days... but..."
She had turned fully toward him now, her face a strange mixture of quiet curiosity. Vulcans not curious, my ass, he thought. By the way, he asked himself, shouldn't curiosity be an emotion?
"Well, I sleep better nowadays, but I still... dream... of my sister." He swallowed again. Nightmares are still dreams, right? "And when I wake up, it ain't pretty."
He saw her give a tiny sigh.
"Commander, grief is something that Vulcan neuropressure cannot completely alleviate. So we are only treating your symptoms here. Not the—"
"—The cause. I know." They'd said the last few words together.
Not the cause. He knew that. Not the be-all and end-all.
But what if it was just the beginning?
Hmm… better not think too hard about that.
She kept looking at him but he couldn't return her gaze. He didn't want this to go down a failure on her part. God knows how she would take it; even with her logic and all, she held herself accountable in strange ways. She often took responsibility where none was warranted. He stretched his neck and looked down at the pattern of the rug underneath them. Something pulled at his guts. But he didn't say anything.
After a beat, she continued.
"I would suggest that you do talk to someone who can help you with the sorrow and pain you harbor inside," she said, her voice low, almost soft. "Otherwise, this is just a temporary measure."
Yes, she did understand, after all. He bit his lower lip, hard.
"But there's no one..." He stopped, still not looking at her. "And I've already talked to Phlox, remember? He sent me to you."
He turned to look at her. She was staring at the flame. And her face was unreadable.
He shrugged again, and got up off the floor.
"Well, I'll see you tomorrow morning, T'Pol. Thanks for the..."
Trip put his shirt on and sat down on the edge of her bed to pull on his shoes. His head was hurting a bit already. Weird. All that work and here he was in pain. Again.
Still facing the candle, she glanced back at him.
"What was the other thing, Commander?"
"Wha...? Oh! Yeah." He sat down again, on the bed.
God, why'd he do these things to himself? They made life so much more complicated. He could have just said "I need to speak of only one thing" and that would be that. End of story.
She was looking at him in silence, her hands folded in her lap – the picture of patience.
"Well..." Trip hesitated a bit. Then dove in. Always the best way, he knew.
"It's kinda related," he said. "Have you talked to the Captain lately?"
Her face was in the shadows now, the dancing lights of the flame behind her.
"About what… Commander?"
"...'Bout stuff." Trip knew very well he could be treading on dangerous ground here. Those two… god only knew – and probably most of the crew – that Jon and T'Pol hadn't the easiest relationship ever. As far as he knew, they'd never been close. And yet, there was something between them… when they looked at each other on the bridge, during dinner and meetings… something Trip hadn't yet dared to probe or define.
And now it seems they were even farther apart from each other than they'd ever been.
T'Pol sat in silence and just looked at him. He noticed she hadn't blinked for a full minute.
"Well, he's... well... I've been to speak with him. That didn't pan out too well. Since then, I've been meaning to... but I've been kinda busy."
"We've all been busy, Commander. There's no need to apologize."
"No, I'm not apologizing. I'm...just... tryin' to figure out some stuff..."
He took a breath and forged ahead.
"T'Pol, why don't you ask the Cap'n to take part in these sessions?"
"NO!" She said, almost immediately. Almost, he thought, as if in reflex.
Trip blinked, feeling a bit stunned at the vehemence of her reaction. Recovering, he looked closely at her. Her face had gone slack. He saw her stiffen even more than usual as her hands curled into fists in her lap.
Trip held his breath. Uh-oh. What now? He was startled. Did that sound a little too vehement for a Vulcan? He saw her take a deep breath, as if fighting for some sort of control. Then she turned back to the flame. He saw her throat working. He thought her cheeks had darkened a bit but couldn't be sure. The light was too low. But she didn't say anything else.
For a moment or two, Trip just sat and looked at her. No emotions, huh?
The silence lengthened.
Finally, he couldn't take it any more.
"No? Okay. But why not? Look, if I needed it… if I benefited from it, then anybody could. Especially..." he shrugged.
He saw T'Pol take a quick little breath. Her eyes looked dark, very dark, from where he sat.
"Do you mean for him to join in these sessions, Commander? With us?"
"No... no! Egads. No!" Did she think him a complete nincompoop or what?
Geez… that'd be totally awkward. He couldn't do neuropressure with T'Pol and Jon! The very thought made him cringe with embarrassment.
"I meant, why don't you ask him if he would like to have these sessions? I mean... with you..." He finished, lamely. And wished he was anywhere else. His stupid mouth. Always where it shouldn't be.
She was silent for a minute. "Don't you think Dr. Phlox would be the better judge of that?"
"Why? T'Pol, don't tell me you haven't seen what's been happening to the Captain? I mean, he won't even go ten feet near the hatch of Sickbay unless he absolutely has to. Phlox can't even get a glance at him edgewise, much less prescribe anything. The Captain just won't even go near him!"
Suddenly, Trip had to get it all out. He knew that much.
"... And then it's like he holds the door hinges open with those shoulders of his so they can't close. Geez... he goes in there and stands... like this... with his back to Phlox! He talks to the doctor with his back to Sickbay, can you believe it! Like he's gonna fly out any second. Even this time... yesterday morning... when he came to... he was tryin' to get out of there really fast. You told me that, right? Phlox said he watched Rosemary's Baby on the vid and had his dinner and then he was tryin' to sneak out of there late at night. Phlox had to sedate him and hold him down. And it was a good bit of sedative 'cos then he slept like a baby all day today."
T'Pol stayed silent. So he kept talking.
"He's workin' too hard. I swear he's obsessed with this mission. He's gettin' pissed off at anyone and everyone. He's losin' weight... he's not eating, you and I both know that... and I just know he ain't getting any sleep. Malcolm said he found him in the Command Center one morning with his head cradled in his arms, sleeping like a baby. He doesn't even go to bed in his quarters. And he yells at the Bridge crew! No one knows that better than you, T'Pol! Heck… he even comes down to Engineering and bugs the hell outta everybody there. I swear he's so on edge these days... he's like a... a... man teetering on a..."
T'Pol raised a hand.
"Commander, I don't think we should be talking about the Captain like this." She began to get up, and bent down to push the candle on the meditating table a little to the side.
With a swift, feathery movement of her fingers, she extinguished the flame, stood and faced him.
Trip opened his mouth to protest but the look on T'Pol's face made him take a breath. She knew. She had to know.
"But... but you know... right?"
"Yes, I've seen the Captain. And yes, I've noticed his problem. But I cannot help him."
"And why not? You're his first officer!" He realized too late that he had raised his voice a bit.
T'Pol raised her hand again. He felt sheepish but defiant.
"No." Then she looked at him intently. "But maybe you should."
"Me!"
"Yes, you're his best friend on this ship, am I correct?"
"Well... yes."
"Well, then, maybe you should find out what can be done to alleviate his pain." T'Pol went and stood by the door.
Trip took the hint and got up to stand in front of her. Something was bothering her but he couldn't pin it down.
"T'Pol..." he said, "we could both go. As a team. I mean, we are both his—"
"—Commander, this is the last time I am telling you this."
She had interrupted him. Trip felt his chest tighten a bit at her expression. Her face was hard. And closed.
"No, I don't think I can help the Captain. I don't think he will accept my help."
Trip could not help but stare. He felt like he was going to explode. He had to know.
"But why the hell not!"
Silence.
Something HAD happened! But what?
"T'Pol! What... happened?"
She kept looking at him. "What do you mean?"
"I mean... did anything... happen between you two... to... I mean anything that I don't already know about?" He knew he was perhaps probing a bit too hard even for his own comfort. But he couldn't help it. It was as if he knew there would be no other good enough moment to find out. "T'Pol, come on… you can tell me. What the hell happened for you to be... umm... reactin' this way? I mean, you used to be able to talk to him about stuff and now..." His voice faded at her expression.
Trip knew he was floundering. Guessing. Poking. Prodding. All hateful things that Vulcans probably detested as much as they detested Humans. Yeah.
But he had to know. "You two used to be close... umm… I mean..."
He saw her face tighten, but she remained calm.
"Commander, I am telling you that I cannot help him. I think, instead, that you can. I think he would welcome your... help."
She then did something that made Trip gasp. She stepped close to him and put her right hand flat on his chest. Lightly. Gently.
"Commander," she said, her voice low; lower and harsher than he had ever heard before. "If you are his true friend, I implore you to go to him. I implore you to find out what he needs. And if you count him as yours, then talk to him about your sister, as well. Perhaps that is what you both need."
She took her hand away and he began to breathe. She held his eyes for a moment. Then she keyed the hatch open and, after a second, he stepped through.
T'Pol sat down on the floor heavily. She re-lit the candle and took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Again. And again. She focused on the flame and brought her palms close, shielding it from its surrounding space so that it threw its light, hot and radiant, on her face. She realized her hands were trembling slightly.
"Maiya... seisha... toi..." Her breath was coming in soft gasps and she knew her pulse was erratic. "Maiya... wani yorosha... kohlinu..."
Methodically, she brought her body under control. First, the extraneous symptoms, then the deeper, more agitated nerve endings.
"Asha... asha... kae... itisha mori... kohlinu..." she tried to slide deeper into the meditative state, her eyelids drooping, her back hunching slightly, and her neck arching upward. Her breathing was still rapid, and she shook her head slightly, as if trying to free herself.
"E... asha seisha wani toi... wani toi..."
Suddenly, with an almost guttural moan, she threw her arm out, knocking the candle over. Gasping, she acted quickly and righted the holder and blew out the flame, probably bypassing dire events.
Walking to the bed, she sat down on it and brought her head down on her hands. Her body trembled and she gasped once, twice.
"Computer, turn off lights." Even her voice was hoarse.
What is happening to me! It is not time! Not yet... not yet!
T'Pol lay down on her narrow bed and embraced the pillow with both arms, her knees around her hands. The soft, cushiony, lower edge of the pillow burrowed between her thighs, shooting a sudden, pleasurable sensation through her groin. She gasped and closed her eyes. Her body called to her, asking for her answer... a permission she refused to surrender.
Her lips moved in the silence of the room. "Toi... toi... seisha wani toi..." the rhythm of the chant calmed her, filled her heat with its honeyed essence. Her eyes closed and the lines of her body became softer, rounder. Her lips parted and a moan escaped, her palms smoothing the satiny feel of the pillow, her hips moving in tiny circles, her back arching up, up.
Suddenly, she jerked awake, her eyes widening as she looked down at herself. She threw the pillow across the room and got up and walked, with almost jerky steps, to the washroom tucked behind the living area. Turning on the faucet at the sink, she splashed her face with ice-cold water. After drying her face, she looked at her reflection. It showed nothing but a greenish tinge to her skin and late-night puffiness under her eyes. But, as she leaned closer, her hot breath steamed the mirror, and her pupils burned with a fire she knew she could not control.
T'Pol walked out of the washroom and over to the meditation table. She lit the lone candle and adjusted its direction. She stared at the flame for a few moments, then walked over to her bed and lay down on it. No pillow. No cover.
Still staring at the flame, she let her body curl into a fetal position, and brought her right arm up to cradle her head. As her lids began to droop, she murmured again. "toi... toi... seisha wani toi... seisha wani toi... Jonathan... seisha wani toi..."
Somewhere deep in the inner recesses of her mind, she realized it was too late to take his name back.
Trip Tucker waited.
It was 0130 hours and a part of him hoped that Jon was fast asleep. He'd stopped by his own quarters and realized that the Captain had been released by Phlox because Porthos was gone. So he'd trudged over to the galley and ordered two glasses of milk, picked up one pecan pie and a slice of strawberry shortcake and, before his brain could process his cowardice into his limbs, had made a beeline for the Captain's quarters.
So he was now waiting. One chime. Two chimes. Three chimes. He guessed Jon was, after all, sleeping. That was good, wasn't it? Jon needed his sleep. He... their talk... could wait. A part of him was disappointed. The part that missed those late night tête-à-têtes, the slightly oiled guy talk sessions.
But the part of him that was relieved actually rejoiced in yet another reprieve of sorts as he looked wryly at the tray full of milk and cake. Not exactly an ensemble to get oiled in, huh! Oh well. Might as well go home and polish this stuff off. He had missed dinner tonight.
Jonathan Archer lay in bed listening to his door chime. Once, twice, thrice. Porthos, poor thing, slept on. Some guard dog you are.
The chime rang again. Two more times.
Go away! Please.
He knew if Porthos didn't wake up, he was home-free. Thankfully, his dog was too tired to do anything but perk an ear. After some time, Archer heard the swish of soft shoes fading away.
And he realized he didn't have the slightest inclination to get up and check whose back was disappearing through the corridor after chiming his door at two in the morning.
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TBC