Nothing but Time

Consequences

Before stepping inside the quarters Lorian shared with his mother, he took a deep breath – something he'd learned that Vulcans do when they're nervous, although Vulcans would never call it that. Nervous was an emotion.

Throwing back his shoulders and stifling feeling, he strolled inside and received exactly the sort of welcome he'd expected.

Rising steadily from her chair, leaving a steaming cup of tea on the side table, T'Pol was almost startled.

"What happened to you?"

"I believed you were aware that Captain Archer," he began – he couldn't make himself say Jon, "and I boxed."

She knew that was the plan, but by the concern in her eyes, he could tell she didn't expect him to sport any bruises, welts, cuts or other physical damage from the activity. A hand tentatively reached up to touch a contusion on his cheek and then before it could caress his skin, it fell limply to her side.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yes."

"I suppose he won?" she asked, with more contempt than he expected.

"No." His eyes met hers. "I did."

Surprise winkled her brow. "Where is he?"

"Sickbay."

Her eyes widened with concern.

"He has two broken ribs and a broken nose."

Lorian was already two steps ahead. "He's fine, Mother."

More to herself than anyone, she said, "I did caution him against this." Looking into her son's eyes, she said more carefully and pointedly, "I also cautioned you against this."

He expected this as well. With more of a sigh than he wanted to let escape his lips, he trudged over to a chair to sit down.

"Captain Archer said he wanted us to live with him."

T'Pol licked her lips and walked back to her chair and her mug of tea. It seemed this wasn't the discussion she wanted to have; she wanted to get to the bottom of the fight, but he was unprepared to let that happen.

"Yes," she answered.

"Is this what you want?" he asked.

"It seems like the next logical step."

His mother never could answer a straight question – a charge that his father had leveled against her many times, sometimes with amusement.

"And what about the one after that?" he asked. "What's the next logical step?"

Blinking slowly, she turned away.

"Marriage?" he asked, after waiting more than a full minute in silence.

"Perhaps."

"You said you love him -- yes?" Maybe a 'yes' or 'no' question would prompt her to give him a plain answer.

"Yes," she said after a moment's hesitation.

"Love is an emotion," he said, stiffly. "Vulcans don't feel emotion."

"They feel emotion, but they choose to suppress it," she countered. "Vulcans even feel love. I felt that emotion for your father. I feel it for you."

Lorian stared into her eyes and whispered, "Vulcans have no word for love, no thought of it or knowledge. I know, being Vulcan that emotions are difficult to sort through and understand. Many of our emotions are more powerful, more demanding. And yet – love is an emotion that seems almost out of reach."

T'Pol acknowledged Vulcans had trouble naming a feeling and assigning it a word with it. The tickling in her stomach as a child didn't have a name until she was introduced to the Kolinahr; afterward, she determined it was happiness. But, living until her mid-eighties allowed her to discern many of her own emotions; though it was rarely easy. One feeling was facile to pinpoint: being around Jonathan made her happy, well … possibly not right now after he'd injured her son.

"I can accept you had love for Father."

That was peculiar. "Why your father and not Jonathan?"

"You married Dad. He always indicated it was beyond logical, and yet logical. Marriage indicated a commitment to feelings."

"I have many of the same feelings for Jonathan that I had for your father."

"No, or else you would marry him."

T'Pol's brow furrowed. She would … maybe … if her son felt differently.

"Why are you insistent that I don't love him?"

"Why are you so insistent that you do?"

They were at an impasse. T'Pol felt love – the subtle skip of her heart when Jonathan was entered the room, the silly painful ache when he left and the lust that spread throughout her body when she saw him, like after when he'd finished working out at the gym. It was the same way she needed Trip – the same longing, the same yearning. This feeling, the one that languished around her body was definitely love.

Lorian was certain his mother, who'd never really loved anyone, could never feel anything for the man or really anyone else. On rare occasions, she admitted she loved him or his father, it seemed implausible she could feel that way about the captain, especially in such a short time. More likely it was loneliness and friendship with the illusion of lust.

"What are you going to gain by living with him?" he asked.

That not only silenced her, it either stumped her or the words she wanted to say were too complicated to express. Studying her son, she opened her mouth and hesitated again.

"I want to be with him," she said in a hushed voice. It wasn't about sex, although she had to admit that was a small part of it; it was the feeling of waking up next to him every morning with his arm around her middle just like she'd experienced on the rare times she'd been able to be with him. Having him with her was … comforting and indulgent, like sipping a glass of champagne.

With worry shining in her eyes, she seemed to search her son to see if those words pained him.

"Then why the hesitation about marriage?" he asked, doing his best to be logical. "Vulcans remarry."

"I have no answers for you."

Sighing, the boy decided if his mother wanted to live with Archer so badly, she could do so on her own.

"You don't need me to live with you," he said. "I could continue to live in this room. Here."

Staring at her own feet, she whispered, "No. It's important to me we are together."

"Why?" he asked. "It's not logical."

"You're my son. I … care for you."

'Care?' the boy thought. 'Was it so easy to admit love for Archer and not for your own son?'

In his mind he decided that he and his mother would never be able to have the warm relationship Toru and Mrs. Hoshi Hayes had. It wouldn't be the kind of love that Mrs. Mayweather gave her son or the type Mrs. Phlox showed on Xan, Zeke and Sigmund. It was a pity that their relationship would never be loving; maybe that's why he was punishing her with his decision.

It was a difficult conversation – no, that was an understatement. It was an impossible conversation that had Archer dancing faster than he did while boxing with T'Pol's son.

It had started badly. She'd come to his room, asked his children to leave momentarily and then lit into him – Vulcanly of course, but Archer got the idea: she was mad.

"What possessed you two to fight so brutally?" she asked, her voice straining.

His mouth hung open, waiting to answer, without getting the opportunity.

"I've seen you and Trip box before. Neither of you damaged each other," she said.

"You're –" he began to say.

"But this? Why? Why would harm a sixteen-year old boy? Why would you harm my son?"

He'd known this moment was coming and could only sit still as her somewhat stoic tongue lashed out for ten minutes – leveling accusations and mal intent, and assigning shameful pride to his actions. Each word slapped against his ego and heart, punishing him for his mistakes. And granted, slamming punches against Lorian was a mistake.

As she continued on her quiet tirade, excuses built up in his brain, including childish ones like, 'He started it!' But, rather than utter those words, he waited silently until she finished. After all, he was a father himself – he should've known better; if Malcolm had pummeled Henry, the tactical officer would feel his wrath. In Archer's code of ethics, a parent's primary responsibility was to protect his or her children. If T'Pol hadn't been pissed off, he would've been disappointed in her.

More importantly -- Lorian was his godson; when he agreed to the title of godfather, he'd in his mind sworn protection and love. Guarding Lorian was important – it was vital. Now, he had to admit he failed that oath. That also meant he'd failed T'Pol.

After pacing around the room, speaking harshly to him (which was rare) and giving him more than one cold stare, she paused to allow him to speak in his own defense and was satisfied when he didn't have one.

"You're right. I'm sorry," he whispered.

Eying the floor, she nodded her head. Because she'd known the man such a long time, she understood how difficult admitting he was wrong was – not that it made the circumstances any better.

"I didn't mean to hurt him, and I'm sure he didn't mean to hurt me," Archer said. That last part was mostly true, Lorian probably didn't set out to kick his ass; Lorian had just let his anger get the better of him, and truth be told so had he.

"I know," she said weakly. "I believed you two would fight out your aggression, but …."

It was clear she hadn't expected to see her son injured.

"Is he okay?" he asked.

Glancing over the bluish, purple smudge that ran over his nose and under his green eyes, she raised an eyebrow. "Better than you."

He smirked, hopeful that she was over her anger. The response it elicited was not what he anticipated: narrowed eyes; he let his half smile fall. She was over much of her anger, but certainly not all of it.

"What happened?" she asked.

Going into as much detail as he could, he explained the events. If a Vulcan could cringe, he would've seen her do so several times over. Instead, she seemed to stop breathing for a moment and then filled her lungs to capacity, letting air audibly rush into her nose. When everything that needed to be said was uttered, T'Pol was clear on what happened and let her mind ruminate over the situation.

Waiting for something to be said, Archer decided to give into the hush that fell over the room and fought the instinct to let a few words fill the void.

"He needs more time," she finally delivered, unraveling her hands.

Archer could only nod in agreement.

"Are you okay with us?" he asked.

That matter deserved serious consideration. She was disappointed in Jonathan in a way she'd never been, or hadn't been since possibly the first year she served with him. She'd never expected such emotionality from him; it was unfathomable to her that he would do something to her son.

"You said father and sons sometimes come to blows?" she asked.

He furrowed his brow. "Sometimes. That's right."

"But, you are not his father."

"No," he said, agreeing. "But, maybe I'm as close to one, right now, as he's got."

With a mouth twitch, he could tell she agreed with that statement, though she said nothing.

"So, what happens next?" he asked.

The answer was simple, but complicated to explain to him. T'Pol loved her son, though it was hard to say, mostly because the young man was more Vulcan than he'd wanted to admit … and so was she. There'd been a few times during his life, where the words sprang to her lips and as she nearly spoke them aloud, she'd spy his tiny Vulcan ears and think back on her own parents beliefs – rigid logic was the only thing Vulcan children should be made to understand. It always stopped her mouth, but usually allowed her to stroke the child's hair. Vulcans expressing love to those who didn't welcome it was never uncomplicated.

T'Pol also loved Jonathan; saying it to him was easier because he rewarded it, welcoming her words with open arms, smiling eyes, caresses and always the affirmation he felt the same way. When she'd first let those words fall from her lips, his mouth met hers in a crushing kiss, as if she'd said something that he'd been waiting to hear most of his life. The experience still left what she'd heard humans call "butterflies" in her stomach.

No matter how she felt about either man, she was a mother and mothers care for their sons first and foremost. Lorian didn't want to be part of the Archer family, and thus she wouldn't subject him to it. And if she had to choose between her son and her lover, she would doggedly choose her son every time.

"Perhaps we should let our relationship cool," she said.

The words traveled along his spine and seemingly punched him in the kidneys; those words wounded him. With downcast eyes, he nodded and wondered what that "cool" meant, but felt there wasn't more he could ask or should at that point.

The problem was, he couldn't disagree. If his children had volunteered that they didn't want T'Pol in their lives, he would probably sacrifice his feelings, hoping his children would change their minds and love T'Pol secretly and privately as he'd done for years, trying not to show it. It was obvious T'Pol was trying to do the same for her son.

Very timidly, she added, "That does not change the way I feel about you."

"I understand," he said.

Tiredly, with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, he shuffled behind her to the door. As he leaned against it, she touched his face -- a gentle caress.

"I hope you do understand," she whispered, letting her lips graze his cheek.

As she slipped out of his quarters and whisked down the hall with her typical grace, Archer stared after her. Without giving much intention to the action, his eyes shot over toward his room where in his dresser a ring in a box sat in the bottom of his sock drawer. He'd purchased it two months ago … maybe even three … waiting for the right moment to ask her to be his wife. It seemed that day would have to wait a little longer, if not indefinitely.

With a sigh, he wondered if the reason he wanted her to move in was so she could accidentally come across it in the everyday happenstance of living. It wasn't like him to be so cowardly, but it was just like him to protect himself from feeling pain.

It didn't always work.

Two Months Later

One of the scariest moments ever to face the crew came on them quickly and without warning. Denobulans aged elegantly, just as Phlox had done. White tinged his hair, wrinkles sprouted around his iridescent eyes and his colorful spots darkened to nearly tan. Each day that passed made the man look more and more like Albert Einstein – smart, odd and lovable. That's why it was nearly impossible to imagine that the doctor would fall ill.

Since Trip's death, Archer had wondered darkly who would be next. It was scientific fact that people died; no one lived forever, but he never expected Phlox's health to decline or to do so suddenly and without provocation.

Phlox had a Denobulan version of a heart attack late one night. In a panic, Amanda had raced him into Sickbay and stayed by his side, leaving Zara to take care of the fiver younger children, with some of the adults helping out as much as possible, and promoted Lizel to chief physician to tend to her father. Just as he had taken a turn for the better, Lizel confirmed he'd been stricken with pneumonia – an ailment that had been wiped out before WWIII … and the cure along with it. That's when she'd called Archer proclaiming she didn't think he had long to live.

When the captain entered, he noticed right away how pale and thin his friend seemed stretched over the biobed. The most telling symptom of death was the stench in the air; it reminded him of his father, just days before the end. Slowly, Archer's boots clapped against the deck plating and he leaned over to look into the eyes of the Denobulan.

"I never expected to be on this side," Phlox murmured as he attempted to smile.

"I think you just need some rest. You're not as young as you used to be." After giving a small smile, he clarified, "Well, I guess none of us are."

"I've instructed Lizel on the vaccinations to give and who's up for their annual physical," Phlox said. "I've documented everything."

Archer shook his head. "You're supposed to relax."

Lizel wandered closer to the two men, hypospray in hand. "It's no good," she mentioned. "He won't listen to his doctor."

"Doctors always make the worst patients," Archer teased, hoping to ease the tension.

The fact that Phlox didn't come back with a good-natured barb, but blinked slowly reinforced things were dire. Archer trusted Lizel, especially since she'd begun working with Phlox going over the crew's medical needs, but was worried – she'd only been involved in the program roughly six months. That was hardly enough time to understand all the crew's medical nuances and needs.

It wasn't just his position that made him irreplaceable; everyone loved Phlox. Hoshi had come by at least once a day to check on him, T'Pol had brought the man tea as often as possible, Mayweather checked in from time to time, Reed made excuses to drop by … nearly every crewman had hovered around the man willing him to continue. It's why today was so painful.

"My daughter thinks I won't make it," Phlox said, quietly. It wasn't a joke.

Lizel hid a sniffle, provided a hypospray and said, "I didn't say that, Pop."

"I doubt you'd give in so easily, Doc," Archer said with encouragement.

Silence fell over the room; Phlox wished to disagree, but felt something had been on his chest for years, demons and secrets needed to be revealed before the end. He thought it'd be easier on everyone now.

"One of the hardest tasks of being a doctor is keeping secrets, even those you want to tell." Turning his head toward the door he admitted, "I've had so many."

It'd been a long time since Phlox and he had spoken of T'Pol's trellium addiction. A long time ago, that secret had caused Archer to break into a shouting match with the doctor, arguing that the captain should know everything that happens to the crew. It had been the same argument he'd had with the man when T'Pol was suffering with Pa'nar, except more angry and explosive, forcing them both to avoid each other for a few weeks.

"I've already forgiven you," Archer said with confusion, misunderstanding the doctor's motives.

"You knew about Trip?" Phlox asked.

Archer took a step back. "I –"

"I should've known he'd tell you and Malcolm. I'm sorry there wasn't more I could do for him."

"Doc …?"

"Isn't it amazing that modern technology and science can cure so many ailments and yet some cancers are still impossible to treat? Even simple diseases seem can't be treated."

"What?"

"Trip's cancer, T'Pol's trellium, my pneumonia."

"Trip was sick?"

With a sigh, Phlox watched the ceiling. It was evident he didn't mean to divulge so much, and yet he hoped to get everything he possibly could off his chest; in the long it would help the relationship Archer might have with T'Pol … at least some day. With resolve, the man continued, eager to speak the words aloud that would ultimately give his soul – at least what it meant to a Denobulan – rest.

"The tumor in his brain that was inoperable. I'd given him seven months to live – that was roughly six years even before his shuttle exploded. I wouldn't have thought he'd live so long. I guess there's something to be said for happiness staving off disease."

Heavy with emotion, Archer grabbed at the bed. "I don't understand. He would've died anyway?"

None of this made any sense. Everything that Archer had come to understand and hold true for the last few years since Trip's death were up for discussion and debate. His mind reeled and his heart thumped against his chest.

"He didn't want anyone to know. I encouraged him to open up to T'Pol, but he said he couldn't utter the words … especially when he looked at his child. It's funny, now's the first time I can understand why."

Archer's hand wrapped around the physician's without reluctance. He wrestled with the information a little, but focused primarily on his friend. Hubris was the captain's strength … and weakness; it was the kind that made it easy to believe the universe and all the forces in it bent to his will. Sometimes, from the crew's perspective, it certainly seemed he was winning against the universe, but they didn't know the things that really mattered never came to light. Now, he summoned that hubris and begged Phlox not to die. No one was ready for that to happen, not Amanda, not his six children and certainly not the crew.

Phlox's eyes fluttered close and his chest rose and fell just enough to make Archer sigh in relief; the physician wasn't dead yet.

Dropping his hand carefully he watched over him for a moment and thought about the night he'd played poker with Malcolm, Travis and Trip and how at the end of the evening, Trip had become somewhat emotional, accusing him of being in love T'Pol before Trip and she ever married. The engineer had asked … almost begged to be forgiven. If Trip knew six years in advance, he probably knew the night of the poker party … and maybe that had even spurred his need to be absolved.

Strangely enough, it was Trip's words after Esilia's funeral that had always been the most puzzling … but it was starting to make sense.

"Jon, I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am. I'm sure she wishes she could be here with you – with Henry and Elyssa. I'm sure she loved you all very much," Trip whispered as the crew dispersed and Archer hung near the area where his wife's body had been launched into space in the vessel of a torpedo.

It was difficult to know how he felt, the only thing he could hear other than his racing heart was the crying of his two children who clung to him. Henry had buried his face against his own tiny hands and sniffled almost rhythmically. Maybe even worse than missing his wife, it hurt to know his children were suffering.

Archer gave a weak nod, resting his hand on his daughter's hair as her wet nose and eyes stained his pant leg with unbridled tears.

"I can't imagine having to leave your family," Trip said, letting a few tears run down his face. I'm sure she never thought this would happen. I'm sure she never wanted to go away."

Dragging his eyes off the floor, he stared at his friend. He'd seen Trip cry before, but he didn't expect tears to gush from his eyes like water streaming out of a cracked dam.

As the two stared at each other, there was something like a spark of realization. The recognition of what, though? Maybe the truth was simple: Trip knew that Esilia wouldn't be able to carry another child and hid the information from him. The very idea seemed to set ablaze an anger that swelled within him.

"I wish she'd told me," Archer heard himself say, without trying to form the words.

The remark was dripping with all the things he hadn't meant to divulge – spite, bitterness and remorse, but it was all the feelings he'd been bottling up since Phlox gingerly draped the white sheet over Esilia's expressionless face.

"Don't be angry. I'm sure she did what she thought was best," Trip said. As if there were more to the man's words, the engineer placed an unsteady hand on his shoulder.

The words and movement were so tender that Elyssa wailed with more fervor, forcing her to muffle her sniffles into his leg. Archer's thoughts derailed as he picked up his daughter and held her to his chest, still wrapping an arm around his son.

"Do you need help?" T'Pol asked, joining them finally after talking quietly and patiently to her son. Archer had seen the two out of the corner of his eye as she crouched down, dried Lorian's eyes and undoubtedly explained loss.

"No," Archer said. "I think we're all pretty tired."


"You can come to us any time you need," Trip said.

Resolutely, he gave a sharp nod and stiffly led his children out the door.

After making small talk with his children, listening to them opening up and reeling off their pain and confusion, he carried them into their bed -- tucking them in, giving them a kiss, and promising to leave the light on just a little. When that was done, he forced his body into the bed he'd shared with his wife for five years and smelled her pillow. It was everything he could do to prevent water from forming in his eyes.

For years Archer'd assumed Trip knew, but now … he wondered if Trip never knew about Esilia's condition. Maybe the man was saying all the things he'd want someone to say to T'Pol and Lorian, knowing his own mortality was close at hand.

It brought into clarity many confusing conversations throughout the years, and gave him a peculiar peace of mind.

Terrified to watch the doctor die, Archer looked down at Phlox until he noticed the doctor's filled his lungs with air and exhaled again. With a patient sigh, he recalled he sometimes stared at his children – just to make sure they were only asleep. It was something he'd done ever since Henry was born; it was important to see his little boy bat his resting eyes in a dream or catch him stirring gently.

Walking over, Lizel stroked her father's hair gently, wrapping the soft white hair around her fingers thoughtfully.

"I've always wanted to be like him, Captain," she whispered.

A lump formed readily in his throat as he watched on – father and daughter.

"Whatever it takes to save him –" Archer said, letting his words trail off.

"I'll let you know," she said.

Archer reluctantly left the medical facility, praying for miracle with every step he took toward the Bridge. He didn't want to see disappointment when he arrived; he'd be able to see the quiet desperation on T'Pol's face or the crushing defeat in Hoshi's – he'd rather face the Xindi than disappointment from his crew.

When he stepped out of the turbolift, he didn't respond. Instead, he climbed glumly into his chair and stared ahead at the view screen. As he did so, he surmised dying quickly was easier than slowly – being in pain all the time – and hoped Phlox wasn't suffering. Those thoughts led to less happy ones: Trip was probably feeling the same way. Did he plan his own death so carefully that no one would ever know, or was it a coincidence of fate that he was taken in an instant? Neither answer was particularly cheerful, and certainly neither would cause anyone to love Trip any more or any less.

Maybe if Phlox had to go, he'd go quickly and painlessly, too.

"Dr. Phlox?" T'Pol finally asked.

"Lizel doesn't know," he lied. Lying in this case would be better for everyone.

Leaving her station, the science officer crossed in front of his chair and asked quietly, "May I see you in your Ready Room?"

Gazing into her eyes, he hardened a little, hoping to give her the indication he wasn't ready to talk. Unfortunately, she seemed resolute – she wasn't willing to back down, not this time.

The two moved over the Bridge and entered his small office. As soon as he collapsed into his chair, she watched him expectantly.

"He's near death, isn't he?"

"I don't know, T'Pol."

Crossing her arms and folding them over her chest, as if to hug herself, she gave a little frown. Two months ago her relationship with Archer hadn't just cooled it had nearly come to an end. And yet, the two continued to let their eyes linger on each other as if they were longing to be in each other's arms. When she was in his Ready Room, it was always hardest to accept that she had asked to put their relationship on hiatus until Lorian accepted him … if Lorian accepted him.

"Lizel doesn't have enough training to become a doctor," she said.

"He's not dead yet," he said.

Stalking closer to his desk, her eyes shifted down to him. "Jonathan …."

It was always hardest when she used his first name to treat her like he once did – as a friend rather than a woman. Hurt reflected in her eyes and he knew she was aware of how serious Phlox's condition was. He yearned to comfort her—wrap his arms around her and hold her to him … even if a Vulcan claimed didn't need the reassurance; he knew she did.

"What?" he asked.

"He does not have long to live. I've already spoken to Lizel."

Wearily, he made his way to stand next to her – allowing him room to pace or hug her, whichever happened first. Throwing his eyes to the floor, he shrugged.

"You don't know for sure."

"I would speculate it's a matter of days," she said.

Meeting her eyes, he said in such a hushed tone it barely came out. "Seems that way."

His hands found her shoulders, just like they always had when bad news was delivered, and instead of feeling her stiffen, she relaxed. It prompted him touch her cheek and stroke it gently.

"I'm sorry," he said. He uttered the words for many reasons.

"As am I," she whispered.

"There's still a chance," he said obstinately.

Ever so slightly, her cheek rubbed against his hand, nuzzling it. The act took him by surprise only because it'd been so long since either had admitted their feelings or since they'd touched. Like electricity, his body tingled and he fought the urge to kiss her passionately, settling on allowing his lips to graze her temple and his hands to hold her back, pressing her against him.

After a few minutes passed, T'Pol confessed, "Phlox told me this morning."

Holding his breath, he waited to hear more.

"He told me about Trip," she said.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again into her hair.

The two held each other for close to ten minutes without any words spoken between them, him comforting her and her permitting him to do so. And then the Vulcan withdrew by millimeters and the captain let her go back to her station back and to her life. As the door shut, Archer took a deep breath and fell into the rhythm of an abnormal day, trying not to ponder about her or their interaction.