TWO STEPS BACK - CHAPTER 3/5
AUTHOR: darrah
SPOILERS: Twilight; North Star; Similitude; Shipment; First Flight; Impulse; and possible spoilers for Damage.
RECOMMENDATION: It might help to read the first two chapters to this story.
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
A/N: The title of this chapter is taken from a line in Keats' "Ode to a Nightingale".
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Chapter Three: Of Perilous
Seas
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Everybody's got a secret, Sonny
Something that they just can't face
Some folks spend their whole lives trying to keep it
They carry it with them every step that they take
Till some day they just cut it loose
Cut it loose or let it drag 'em down
Where no one asks any questions, or looks too long in your face
In the darkness on the edge of town
From "Darkness on the Edge of Town"; Bruce Springsteen; Title Track.
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Ship's Night is a misnomer. It is always night on the Enterprise. People don't really sleep in a ship that is traveling at several times the speed of light. Those who do keep time, cheat it, bend it, perhaps even break it. The laws of deep space migrate stealthily into a ship's environment, and sneak into pre-established patterns of existence. As hours accumulate into days, then months, then years, the ship's crew loses any erstwhile awareness of the concept. Like gravity, time on a spaceship assumes an amorphous, phantom presence, forcing the crew to accept it, revel in it… enabling an immediate and necessary adaptation to nature's unpredictability.
"Exactly how far... has it... evolved?"
Archer woke, this time in his own bed, sweating and kicking at the distended belly of some phantom demon. Gaining awareness in a military second, he kicked the covers out from the tangle under his thighs and sat up, his head in his hands; his heart was pounding and his body was taut and ready...
He took a few deep breaths. It was no use. This was the same dream he had had two nights ago in Sickbay. Phlox was wrong. He was going nuts.
But how could it be so real... so incredibly, indelibly tangible? The scariest thing was that it wasn't as if he dreamed the same thing every night. They were almost cinema vérité – hard to dismiss as just dreams. Different acts of the same scenario played before his closed lids every time he slept. And when he awoke, it was as if he knew the next time would be a natural progression to where he had left off.
"Seisha wani toi... Jonathan... seisha wani toi..."
A sound akin to a growl escaped his lips. Arghh... damn it all to hell.
Taking off the drenched t-shirt, he threw it across the room, lay back down and stretched – splaying his back and buttocks flat against the surface of the bed.
He thought of the Xindi. Of Degra. Of Gralik. They still hadn't been able to track the plant on the Xindi ship. He wondered what Gralik's plans were for the moment when Degra and his cohorts came storming in. Would they simply torture him until he told them about the Enterprise? Or would yet another person lose his life because of his near misses and inept bungling? Yet another death on these bloody hands of his?
He looked down at his hands. They looked pale, the skin pearlescent with a sheen of sweat.
A sense of disquiet sat – heavy and crushing – upon his shoulders. The weight of the world.
The ship hummed, moving him inexorably to a fate signed and sealed; awaiting delivery.
"Less than six thousand left alive..."
He bit his lower lip and felt bitter-salty liquid oozing around the tip of his tongue.
A starship captain. Finally. How much had he hankered for this? How hard had he prepared for this? He had dreamed, lived, and breathed this moment all his life. And now it had arrived: his proving ground.
This should have been what he'd been obsessed about all those years. God only knew it was all he'd thought about when awake. Yet, now, when the stars outside his window sped by, and his childhood memories faded to black, he dreamed different dreams... of limpid green eyes gazing at him under sharply arching brows... of a low, liquid voice chanting spells of seductive harmony... of a future that couldn't have been... shouldn't have been...
The rustle of the sheets underneath his bare back tickled his vertebrae. Blood rushed south and his body responded automatically – fervid, primed. He swore softly. He needed a shower; a nice, long, cold shower.
He got off the bed and bent down to check on Porthos. Poor old boy. What an existence he had chosen for his loyal little beagle. No field to frolic in. No little kids to play with. Not even a mate to call his own.
In the darkness, he walked to the temperature control panel and turned the dial downward, then stepped into the bathroom. He slipped out of his pajama bottoms and turned the spray to warm, then cool. The water hit him with the force of a gale and he gasped at the sharp pain on his upper back.
In his dreams she was always there – hovering, watchful, quiet. And her smile... he remembered his astonishment the first time he saw it. She had thrown her arms out and twirled about in the middle of a semi-circular bed of freshly planted sunflowers. Astounded, he had laughed as he strode up to her and opened his arms and wiggled his fingers. She had stopped and looked back at him, her eyes teasing, asking. He'd waited. She had smiled again, but this time there was a hint of the temptress in the curve of the luscious lips. As she'd stepped closer, he'd felt her hands on his shoulders, around his back, her fingers skimming his temples. Her face was a study in tenderness: older, wiser, quieter... closer than ever before. He had breathed in her light, woodsy scent. It floated around her hair and her skin and pervaded his senses with a curious diffidence yet proprietary flavor. In the dream, he would find her scent everywhere – on their clothes hanging in the makeshift closet, in the twin towels hanging on the bathroom rack, in the pine pantry he had made for her. It hadn't been a luxurious existence – the two of them playing house. Rather, it had been cozy, domestic: with "his and hers" items in the bathroom neatly separated on the left and right sides of the rack; Left for his, right for hers. They even slept the same way... left for him and right for her.
The dream wasn't enveloped in thrill. Their little shack was gray, spartan, jury-rigged; replete with moments filled with tender sorrow, wild hope, and despair. Always despair. It followed hope as, at the end of each day, darkness follows light.
Every night, before he went to sleep, his body spooning hers, he heard her softly whispered words: "Sleep now, Jonathan… seisha wani toi... seisha wani toi... tomorrow is another day."
And, for him, the tomorrows always ended in oblivion.
Archer shook his head and soaped up. The words kept repeating themselves in his dreams. He knew not what they meant but they spoke to him of something deeper, longer, sweeter than any experience he had ever known. And, deep in his gut, he responded, as he always did.
You're getting sentimental in your old age, boy. She isn't smiling at you. Not now. Not today. Maybe not ever.
The dreams didn't supersede reality. After all, he knew that if he called her at her cabin-comm this minute, it might not be her voice that answered, but that of his Chief Engineer. And for the life of him, he could not look either of them in the eye. So he had stayed silent, watching, waiting to see if either of them mentioned anything to him. So far, nothing.
Which was just as well.
He shut off the water, grabbed a towel and rubbed his body until it hurt. The skin on his shoulder looked slightly red and bruised but he ignored it. It should heal. In time. All wounds did. Didn't they? The fistfight at the Human-Skagaran colony had yielded a bruised rib and a couple of sprains. Not bad for a forty-two year-old, huh? These old fists still packed a mean punch. But Phlox had been warning him, as of late, to take it easy, to let the MACOs and Reed's team handle most of the physical stuff. But it had felt good – the screaming gash of a bullet wound tearing at his muscles and tendons and leaving him gasping with shock. At least it had hurt. At least he could feel something. That was all he needed right now. To feel something. Anything.
He walked out of the bathroom and pulled on his uniform. Porthos was snoring. Archer smiled and pulled the mini blanket over the beagle and tucked him in. He retrieved a bowl and poured some water into it from the jug on his desk, leaving it by the side of his sleeping dog. The timepiece on his desk confirmed 0430 hours. Good. This would yield some quiet time to himself. An early raid to the galley for a cup of coffee and then a couple of hours in the Command Center would yield some focus, he thought, and let himself out the hatch.
The baby was actually quite beautiful. A tuft of blonde hair rose from an egg-shaped skull. Saucer-shaped blue eyes were fringed with sandy lashes and a button nose looked askance at cuddlers and cooers alike. Babysitters abounded on the Enterprise, especially with roughly eighty people volunteering their services. There was a surfeit of care for the child.
Phlox was in ecstasy. He felt he was learning something new every day. He had had no idea Humans liked to handle infants so very much. They were indeed an exceptionally demonstrative species – physically as well as emotionally. Human infants also seemed to be open, barring some initial discomfort, to physical affection. The kind of fawning and patting Sim was suffering by the hour would have made a Denobulan child break out in several rashes. Yet, it seemed the infant looked forward to these sessions as soon as he opened his eyes at dawn.
After the first day, Phlox never saw Archer or T'Pol in Sickbay. And, after Hoshi briefed him in detail about a particularly slow day up at the Bridge, he came to the conclusion that the Captain as well as the Subcommander must be avoiding the boy. But there was time yet, of that he was sure.
"Hmmm..." Phlox thought.
Hoshi had also mentioned that the two seemed to be avoiding each other, but that was an entirely different can of worms – one he might attempt to pry open later, much later.
By the third day, little Sim had grown substantially and so had his mind. He was inquisitive, agile, with higher than average retention ability. He loved his treks to the bowels of the ship – picking up slang and idioms, hanging around bemused crewmen, swapping "kiddie" toilet jokes with the younger ones. Phlox kept a sharp eye on his whereabouts – making sure Sim did not overstep any bounds, making sure that he did not infringe upon crew protocol or ship operations. But with his busy schedule while trying to coordinate Trip's care, he had difficulty following the boy's education, and asked Hoshi and Reed to oversee most of it. To their credit, the two officers fell into their new responsibilities with zeal. As he grew, Sim accompanied them to different areas of the ship during much of their off hours and quickly developed a liking for Engineering and Tactical. One night, he wheedled Reed into smuggling him onto the Bridge while the Captain was off duty and in his quarters. When Phlox got wind of it, he could not help but smile at the audacity of the ruse. The boy was already imprinted with the joie-de-vivre and people skills of Trip Tucker, not to mention his accent and inclinations.
The only friends he hadn't made yet were the Captain and T'Pol. But the Subcommander was innately reserved around people, so Phlox decided to let nature take its course.
Archer, Phlox noticed, stayed far away from Sickbay and avoided coming into contact with the boy to the extent of escaping into the Captain's Mess whenever Sim happened to be in the mess hall. This almost deliberate act of evasion seemed to be one that most of the crew on the ship noticed, ignored, and excused. Sim, however, seemed to have an inordinate amount of interest in the Captain – showering Phlox, Hoshi and Reed with questions about the Captain. What was he like? What did he do on the Bridge? What was his Ready Room like? Why was he the only Captain of the ship? Did he know about Sim? If so, why did he not come and play with him? Reed suspected hero worship. Phlox concurred.
The next day, on Phlox's urging, the Captain took Sim to his own quarters to play with his pet quadruped, and then told him of his fate. To the bemusement of both men, the boy took the news rather stoically, segueing nonchalantly into a session with Archer's model spacecraft. Or, perhaps, Phlox surmised, that is how Human children faced adversity – by immersing themselves in their toys and gadgets. It certainly seemed to be the way of some Human adults.
At night, he closed up shop (except for emergencies) and stayed with Sim as his fast-developing body underwent frightening (but fascinating to Phlox) changes. But his patient was tight-lipped and in control. Never did he scream or yell out, even deep in the throes of the lancing pain that racked his body.
One night, the Captain came by and rang the chime at the sickbay doors. Phlox keyed him in and the two sat silently, watching Sim's transformation. Rather, it was Archer who watched the boy; Phlox watched his Captain. It seemed to him that Archer had undergone a transformation of his own lately. Deeply engraved lines alongside the corners of his mouth cut into sunken, sallow cheeks and his mouth was a thin gash. As he became aware of Phlox's gaze, Archer turned dark, brooding eyes, in what was almost a skeletal face, to him. Phlox felt a bit stunned as he stared at what seemed a drastically changed man.
"What are you looking at, Doctor?"
Phlox knew he couldn't prevaricate even if he wanted to.
"Captain, I think it's high time for that physical you promised me a while ago."
"What... right now!"
"Of course not. Tomorrow morning at 1100? Or you can choose the most convenient time. I am always here."
"Give me a few days, Phlox. There is just too much happening right now." Archer settled back in his chair. "What's... Sim's status?"
Phlox missed very little, especially not a significant pause in speech.
"He is doing fine. He's in a lot of pain right now—"
"—Is he awake?"
"Barely. He isn't aware of us. The pain is too much for his conscious mind to apprehend anything else."
Phlox watched Archer's face carefully. It wasn't easy for this man to hide his feelings. But somehow, the sense and sensibility that made up the essence of Jonathan Archer had been buried deep beneath the surface. Now, his face held a bleak, pinched look that almost frightened the doctor. Phlox thought, his heart clenching in sympathy, this Human's face had once delighted and intrigued him as the antithesis of the Vulcan persona. At any moment, a myriad of expressions flitted across it, the thoughts warring underneath as colorful as the stained glass affixed to the high windows of their famous, steepled churches.
But ever since the attack on Earth...
Phlox shook his head. It wasn't going to be easy.
Archer was sitting quietly, staring down at Sim. The boy's body, spent with the effort of its growth, had stopped writhing and was now still. Phlox got up and fetched a container of steaming water filled with healing herbs and a washcloth. Setting it down on the trolley beside him, he began to lave Sim's arms and chest. Within a few seconds he saw Sim's eyelids grow heavy and his breathing deepen.
"I guess he is... I assume this happens every night?" The Captain's voice was low, and a bit hoarse.
"Yes, until he achieves an age of decelerated growth... probably in a day or so... at which point he should reach the stage resembling a Human in his early twenties. It should be less traumatic then."
Archer didn't answer. His face was blank, his eyes without expression.
Phlox tried another tack.
"Captain, when do you go to bed at night?"
Archer looked at him then.
"Is that a hint?"
Phlox considered lying. "Well... "
"Actually, Phlox... it's true. I can't sleep too well these days. But don't you think that's normal for what's been happening?"
"Is it, Captain? What exactly has been happening?"
Archer gave him a look that almost reminded Phlox of another night, spent in Sickbay.
"Don't start, Doctor."
Phlox spread his hands, palms up. Well, at least he is talking, he thought. That should be a good sign.
"Well, it's not that I'm not sleepy. But I can't go to bed. It's easier for me to fall asleep while I am otherwise engaged." Archer shrugged and looked at Phlox, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. The Denobulan thought he saw the old Archer peek out for a second.
"You mean, you can only go to sleep if you're doing something else other than trying to sleep?"
"Essentially, yes."
"Hmm..."
Phlox got up and collected his container and washcloth.
"In that case, Captain. You can do me a huge favor."
"What?"
"I need to feed my pets."
Archer kept looking at him and Phlox could swear that his face was actually anticipatory.
"You want me to feed your pets?"
"No, no! I shall do that. However, I would ask you to sit here with Sim until I finish. In case he does wake up. Sometimes he does. Then if somebody is not with him, he feels a bit disoriented."
"Sure," Archer's face had settled. "I can just sit here, no problem."
"Thank you, Captain."
Phlox left them there and pulled the curtain in a semi-circle around the area. His pets were a little fidgety and he apologized in hushed tones for the delay. After feeding them, he checked on Trip Tucker's status. No change, for better or worse. Tiptoeing around, Phlox began to set up for the next morning, including the prerequisite tests for the Captain's physical.
After half an hour, he heard light snores and peeked around the curtain to see the Captain sound asleep, his body slumped in his chair, his head turned toward Sim. In sleep, the lines of his face had softened and Phlox finally saw the man as he once was – open, vulnerable, at ease with the world and what it had to offer.
Fetching a pillow and a sheet, Phlox covered the Captain with the latter and pushed the former under his neck, adjusting his head so it wouldn't loll to the side. Wouldn't do for him to wake up with a crick in his neck!
Then he retired to his office and began to catch up on a pile of correspondence from his wives and children.
The hours passed peacefully. Even his pets slept without a sound.
Around 0500, Phlox got up, stretched, and went to check on his guests.
They were both in deep sleep. Archer's right hand lay, palm open and down, on Sim's shoulder. Sim slept peacefully now, his body relaxed, his profile just a few hours away from that of the Enterprise's Chief Engineer.
Phlox went back to his letters.
When he drew Sim's curtain back in the morning, the chair was empty. Sim slept on.
T'Pol stayed in Engineering as much as she could. The Bridge was a place of tension at the moment. Even Hoshi and Reed seemed to want to stay away. They did their jobs and escaped, alive, to the mess hall, where everyone breathed freely. Hoshi had, in fact, approached T'Pol late that evening, as the mess hall emptied of its talkative denizens.
"Subcommander, may I speak with you a moment?"
"Yes, Ensign, what is it?"
"Ma'am, is everything alright with the Captain?"
T'Pol looked down at her mug of tea, then at Hoshi. The muscles in the woman's face were taut. She gave the ensign a second look. Was that grief on her face? Or fatigue?
"Why would he not be alright, Ensign? Is there a problem?"
"No, I mean... ever since Trip..." Hoshi's throat worked as she swallowed.
"Yes?"
"... I mean, ever since it happened, he's been so hard to deal with."
As Hoshi spoke, her voice rose a bit, reflecting her agitation.
"Subcommander, we are all suffering, we are all sad. But the Captain... I wish... I wish you would speak with him."
She'd had this conversation before. And she hadn't listened to Trip Tucker then.
T'Pol felt a churning deep inside her gut. If they only knew how hard it was to remain calm with eighty-one of them bombarding her with their numerous struggles...
No matter. It was better to face it head on. If a collision was a given, it was better to be prepared for it than be mowed under.
"Ensign, don't be concerned. I will speak with the Captain."
She saw the enormous relief flood Sato's face and almost allowed herself to smile. She had known that a First Officer's job on a Human ship would be difficult, but it rendered rewards when performed correctly.
"Engineering to Subcommander T'Pol."
She pressed the button at the comm and answered Lt. Sharma in Engineering.
"Subcommander, we are getting started in a half an hour. Please come down at your earliest convenience."
The sigh almost escaped her lips. She would need to meditate tonight. On the double, as Commander Tucker was used to saying to his minions in Engineering.
She decided she would sit for a minute longer and finish her tea.
The Captain...
She exhaled lightly, the sound echoing in the emptiness of the room. There were eighty-one other people on this ship. So why did it always come back to the two of them?
And, of course, Hoshi may not know about it, but she had tried. She had tried talk to him, eight days ago, in his ready room.
A voice, deep inside, had told T'Pol that this wasn't just a duty she was performing. She had known, even then, that the mending of his disconnect was as fundamental to her own well-being as it was to his. But she hadn't suspected just how much it would cost her; how much it would cost their relationship.
Before his accident, Trip Tucker had wanted her to talk to his Captain, his friend, mainly because he could not. She had thwarted him at the time. But try as she might, she could not shrug off her own charge in the matter. And telling herself that she was doing it for the Commander proved to be of ephemeral comfort, though convenient.
Then the accident happened, and the Doctor had called her to Sickbay and told her of the Captain's decision regarding the making of Sim. He had seemed uncomfortable, and had asked her to speak with the Captain, that is, if she felt it necessary. He had been worried about Jonathan Archer's part in the process, about his perhaps too quickly arrived at decision; but most of all, he was worried about their commanding officer.
He had also assured her that it was the only way possible to save Trip.
So she had tried – after overseeing initial efforts at damage control in Engineering – to get through to Jonathan Archer, not realizing the extent of the tear in the fabric of their dynamic. Not realizing that, somewhere down the line, each encounter between them had assumed a defining, tumultuous cast, marking time and creating irreparable fissures in the memory of the two years they had spent together on this ship.
Eight days ago, she had walked into his Ready Room. And she had thought she was prepared for what was to come...
UnVulcan though it may have been, she was infinitely happy she did not have to testify about feeling emotions back on her home planet, ever. She knew enough to label the shiver clutching at her insides as apprehension as she had walked in, faced him, handed him the piece of the magnetic particle, and explained its significance.
Outwardly, she gave no sign of her inner agitation. But stepping through the hatch, she had immediately felt his remove. He was totally unreachable; the simmer inside him barely contained.
He prowled, as he always did. Like a Terran tiger, caged.
"... Do what you have to do, but we need to get those engines back online."
He had barely glanced at her, but when he did, the breath caught in her throat, the indifference... or was it hatred... in his burning eyes rendering her helpless, paralyzed with indecision.
She had almost left then; after all, he had already turned away, dismissing her in the set of his shoulders as he sat down at his desk.
But she had stood by the hatch, looking down, carefully forming the words in her mind, weighing his possible responses.
Preparing for battle.
She had gone with every intention of asking Jonathan Archer the reasons for his turmoil, and also, his decision regarding Sim and Trip Tucker. She had gone prepared to do battle; as they had, many times before. She had also gone to help him, just as he had helped her – countless times. She had estimated an uphill effort and had garnered all her strength. She had pulled the cloak of Vulcan logic solidly around her, her face cool and her manner collected. But, deep within, she felt an uncertainty, and the quake of the uninitiated.
It unsettled her. Was she afraid? Vulcans were never afraid. Fear was an emotion; a crippling, negative one, at that. And whom would she fear? She knew, probably better than anyone, that this man could not – would not hurt her. Over and above all his traits, it was his sense of moral decency that she had been exposed to first. And she knew him to be, first and foremost, a gentle, kind man.
But his behavior in the past few weeks had grown increasingly erratic, unpredictable. And she seemed to be the focal point of its newest incarnation. She was used to his volatility. That, curiously, hadn't been a problem between them. She could handle a volatile Jonathan Archer. She could handle most volatile Humans. They were mostly predictable in their emotional outbursts. But what she could not handle was withdrawal of an extent to which he was subjecting her, as well as his closest associated within his crew complement. It concerned her; plagued her, even. And it made her withdraw from him as well, a cloak of formality enveloping them in the past few weeks.
However, aside from the rest, what she hadn't expected was the intense sense of... betrayal... this distance he had created would awaken within her. In the days this crew had spent in the Expanse, huddled together in one ship, turning to each other in comfort and crises, she had realized that she had been traveling deeper and deeper into virgin, uncharted territory within herself as the ship traveled farther and farther away from her own world.
But why had she chosen this path? Why had she stayed with the Enterprise? With him?
Ambassador Soval, as much as their relationship had allowed, had been relentless in his pursuit of a truth she was unable, perhaps unwilling, to surrender. She had not said a word to him. Neither had she sent any explanation to her family or to the Vulcan Central Command.
Her silence had owed itself to the fact that she simply did not know why, except that this was the only path for her to tread. For her – there was no other.
Soval had erected an argument that bordered on the emotional. He had almost railed at her, accusing her of contamination, of almost criminal neglect of her duties and priorities. She had not been concerned. She had weighed and measured all the possibilities, had decided she could not accept a "no" as an answer, before going to the Captain's ready room to ask him to allow her to stay.
And he had understood, without a word, in the end.
So here she was, her accomplishments frittered, her past but a vague memory, and her future uncertain.
Then the Seleya had loomed over them, its promise of dark and tempting depths her undoing. She had not asked for the key, yet it had been handed to her. At first, she had been deathly afraid, some deep-seated fear of the unknown paralyzing her resolve. But as time went by, she had known exactly what to do, and had done it, methodically and knowingly. Her gradual undoing had felt exhilarating: the blood singing in her ear, the drumbeat of her pulse a deafening choir. She had felt it roll over her and unseat her completely, irrevocably. Soon, she had not been able to stop the flow.
It was only after she had begun to lose total control that she noticed that the chasm between them had grown to such enormous proportions. Too late had she realized that she found it unbridgeable. Even if she had wanted, she could not have asked him for his help. He was no longer her friend, her bolster. He was now the savior of his kind. And that was all he knew and lived.
And now, despite all her efforts, they were both too far gone in their respective paths of self-immolation.
It was already too late.
She had also realized that – moments after his accident – this was what Trip Tucker had tried to tell her that night… before she had, politely but unceremoniously, ousted him from her quarters. He had missed it too. He had lost it as well – his own special bond with his Captain, his friend. He had obviously not been able to "get to the Captain" either – as he once put it. And now he was in a coma, his life hanging in the balance, dependent on Jonathan Archer's decision.
T'Pol knew regret was an emotion. But, at the moment, not giving into it seemed almost criminal.
It was not as if he wasn't aware at all. Since they had been in the Expanse with their less-than-meager quantity of Trellium-D sitting in Cargo Bay One, she had noticed that the captain had begun to keep a close eye on her behavior on the Bridge and in staff meetings. She knew she had to be careful. Any behavior at all out of the ordinary, and she knew he would be sending her to Phlox for a checkup. He had told her as much after the incident on the Seleya. So she'd become adept at subterfuge. It was easy to hide in a sea of roiling, semi-traumatized Humans. All she had to do was keep up on her meditation each night, and the days would prove easier to handle. The nights, though, were another matter altogether. She preferred not to think of the dreams, so she resorted to the only way to fast oblivion.
Still, there were moments of lucidity when she demurred – doubt assailing her resolve. Just where was she going, when there was no clear path ahead of her, no clear resolution?
At times, when she felt his eyes on her, and looked up before he could look away, she would detect a mix of expressions on his face that made her breathing a little erratic. He would not say anything, but she could feel questions crowding the air between them.
During these times, she could almost believe in the moments they had spent sitting together in a shuttlepod – looking, companionably, at what he had termed "the divine fireworks". She remembered how she had almost reveled in his physical presence – almost drinking in that curiously seductive and yet surprising strength of resolve he owned like no other. He was very… male, she had decided in a moment of unaccustomed female instinct. She hadn't been used to thinking in that manner about any man – Vulcan or Human. But he'd succeeded in arousing reactions in her she was barely beginning to detect, much less analyze. He had moved back a little to let her look over his shoulder, and she had felt the soft tickle of his hair under her chin, the brush of his right shoulder on her left arm. And she had astonished herself by not moving away, by staying within his personal space. Something inside her had rejoiced in the nearness of him and had refused to allow her to withdraw back into her ordered, pristine, Vulcan world. Something within her had wanted to jump. So she had reached out, grasped the possibilities and had not looked back.
That day, back in her quarters, she had meditated for a long time.
The fireworks had been astounding; but even more intoxicating had been the brief cadence of silent, lucid harmony between them... a harmony that Vulcans valued above all, sought in their lives, prized in their bondmates.
As they had forged deeper into the Expanse, she had come to realize that, over the years, these very moments she had spent with Jonathan Archer had started her on the path of a self-discovery she had yet to comprehend. He had fired her exploration but now he was gone… enveloped in his own brand of singular discovery, he had left her behind.
"Regarding the Lyssarian procedure Dr. Phlox proposed..." She had asked as she looked steadily at him.
When she had first begun to question him, he would not even face her. He had sat there, at his desk, hunched over a report, and while she talked, he had looked sideways: at her feet, at the floor, anywhere but her face. And now his eyes were on his monitor, evading her gaze.
"... If we weren't in the Expanse maybe my decision would be different..."
He had looked up at her then.
"... But, we've got to complete this mission."
His jaw was set and there was a defiance in his posture, even sitting down, that thwarted any effort to contradict.
"Earth needs Enterprise. Enterprise needs Trip..."
Then he turned away from her. Again.
"It's as simple as that."
No, not really.
But T'Pol knew better than to continue that line of questioning. In all her dealings with this man, she had never seen him this way. He was like an oyster, curled into its shell. And no amount of coaxing would bring it out.
But she had to try. One last time.
"Captain, was it necessary to make a simbiot? Would it not have been easier to synthesize the genetic material instead?"
Jonathan Archer sat back in his chair and ran a hand over his face, then his head. His hair stuck out every which way and she tamped down a sudden, completely uncharacteristic desire to smooth it down. Her palms itched with the need and she gripped the particle harder.
"Yes," his voice was soft, his words slow, almost reasoning, as if with a child. "But, apparently, it wasn't possible for Phlox to be that selective with the Human genetic code. It was untried and without precedent, so to be on the safe side, he went the whole hog."
At her raised eyebrow, he shrugged.
"He had to do the whole thing. Go the whole route."
She nodded.
"But you realize that the simbiot may grow to be a Human being, with all your sensibilities—"
"—You mean all of Trip's sensibilities?"
"...Yes."
She saw his eyes narrow suddenly, the look on his face intent. Then he looked up at her suddenly. She detected something in his gaze. Was it... curiosity? Derision? Surprise? Despite daily practice these past two years, she felt inept at reading the complexity of the various expressions on his face at any given moment.
His next words were slow. Drawn out. "Yes... he may have those... but he won't be Trip. I need Trip. Just Trip. We all do, Subcommander."
She looked down at the magnetic particle she held in her hands.
"I see," she said, and turned to go.
Suddenly, he pushed off the chair and, with a single stride, stood in front of her, barring her way to the hatch.
"Do you?"
Startled, she felt rather than saw his body, coiled as if a serpent's, invade her personal space, and looked up at him. His eyes were intent on hers, but his face was still closed, his eyelids hooded over darkened irises. He reached out and, gently, loosened the object from her hands, and half turning, dropped it on his desk. Turning back to her, he tilted his head, looking down at her.
"Just what do you see, T'Pol?"
Not "Subcommander" as it had been of late.
His voice was soft, almost inaudible, menacing. Suddenly, she felt out of her depth, unsure… young. Silence was the best policy, she told herself, over and over again. But she wanted more than mere acceptance of her fate. She knew that as well as she knew herself.
"Tell me, T'Pol. What do you really see?" He repeated, taking another step, his voice rough, the words a bit slurred. But he was not drunk, she knew that. She swayed a little, but stood her ground, a strange sense of readiness invading every tissue, every fiber in her body.
He stood with his shoulder almost touching her hair, and she felt the coarseness of his uniform brushing against the skin of her jaw. She could hear her own pulse thudding, the blood rushing about, the nerve-endings quivering in anticipation. She knew all she had to do was take one short, simple step, and the distance between them would end. One small step and the walls would crumble. She felt as if she was drunk; though she had never been, in her entire life. Until now. So this was what it felt like. This was the beginning and the ending. The giving and the receiving...
She looked up at him, and suddenly, his gaze was too piercing, all-seeing, all-knowing. His lips were slightly parted and she felt the soft fan of his breath on her face, mingling, blending with her own. She drew in a shuddering breath, inhaling his scent. His green eyes had darkened to a pitch black. She saw his chest rise and fall and knew her body was responding, softening in the age-old manner of the ancient mating call, relishing in his surging presence. Her eyelids drooped a bit and she arched her throat, waiting as he leaned in...
He blinked suddenly and jerked his head back. Disoriented and a bit stunned, she tried to take a step back, and found herself stumbling. He caught her arm, steadying her. She gasped at his touch but did not move. They stared at each other and she saw a muscle move in his jaw. He slid his hand down her arm and held her hand in his, turned it, palm up, in his own. And they both looked down, in silence, at her clenched fist.
She heard him take a sharp breath as he let go of her hand and stepped back. She knew he was looking at her but she could not return his gaze. Her neck was hot, her chest was tight and her body was trembling in some kind of private delight. The newness, the strangeness of what had just happened had shaken her to the core. This man aroused in her cravings that were beyond her understanding and control. But try as she might, she could not forswear her own complicity.
Suddenly, he swiveled around and faced the viewport, putting both his hands on it, and bending his head to touch his forehead to the glass. She stood there, unmoving, her eyes on the floor, her fists to her side, her breathing shallow, the silence between them eloquent in the length of its choosing.
The room was quiet: no comm-call, no ship-wide alert, no weapons fire to disturb their stillness; the hum of the ship beneath their feet a reminder of their relationship – the only one possible, the only one accepted and acceptable.
His back, stiff and ramrod-straight, spoke volumes.
"You are dismissed, Subcommander."
The words, spoken in a low tone, didn't register at first. She looked up then. And, for a full second, unbridled anger blazed in her eyes. But control reasserted itself in the next, and she turned, keyed the hatch open and stepped through to the Bridge.
She was aware of the slightly astonished gazes of her crewmates as she almost rushed past Reed's station to the lift. Thankfully, it did not make her wait and she stepped into it and watched the doors close as her body collapsed backward against the cool support of the back wall.
T'Pol deposited her unfinished mug of tea in the replicator and asked for a glass of iced water.
Her mind was in turmoil and her body in frenzy. Somewhere deep inside, she felt astonishment. For the first time in her existence, her body had betrayed her completely, that night, with him. The memory triggered, yet again, a chain of reactions in her body she still could not control: confusion, anger, fear, even sloth. All on the negative spectrum of humanoid existence. All playing havoc with her self-control, her efficiency. She could not understand... did not want to understand... what was happening to her. Analyses would prove fruitless in search of the unknowable, she knew that much from her readings of Surak.
When temptation strikes, when balance flees – harness stamina, gather energy, refuse laxity. Now, every evening, she repeated these directives, over and over again. Until some semblance of sleep claimed her.
She knew this could not last long without perhaps irreparable damage. But try as she might, she could not seem to deep-meditate. As a result, her sleep patterns had changed, her control was remiss and she was dreaming all night, every night. She had meditated on the possible side effects of her illness. But she was sure that it was not the cause of this... this malady. Whatever it was... it had come to her in the stealth of night, when she had been vulnerable and unresisting of its tempting, seductive allure. It had come from nowhere and upended her balance. And now it lay in wait – in the cool shadows of her subconscious, stoking the embers, biding time.
T'Pol's hands shook as she grasped the narrow glass, and drank thirstily. She put it down with a clang inside the replicator.
Enough!
She needed to be in Engineering as of fifteen minutes ago. Tomorrow was Sim's last day, and he would be waiting with Lt. Sharma in Engineering, eager to do her bidding. She could not disappoint him. He was a child of many moods and talents. Much like his older, all-too Human mirror image.
She strode down to the lift, punched in the code to Engineering and waited. Later, tonight, meditation was the first order of the day, on the double.
---
TBC