When Reed walked out of Sickbay with Archer, the captain realized for the first time since he'd found T'Pol how disgusting he was; he'd gone three days and six hours without a shower or shave. It'd been nearly two days since he'd slept.

Looking down at his uniform, he noticed it was blanketed in dust, sweat and green blood. Her blood was on his hands, where he touched her forehead to brush away a stray hair, and lingered under his fingernails -- when he'd clutched her to his chest.

As the rounded the corner near his quarters, Reed broke the silence and stirred the captain from his dark musings.

"Let me know if you need anything, sir."

"Thanks," he agreed. Reed didn't need to head in this direction to get to the Bridge. "I appreciate it."

Reed gave a sad smile. "No trouble, really."

With a nod, Archer slid into his room and thudded into his chair, staring into nothingness with the lights off. Porthos, who must've guessed his owner's mood, hunkered down on his feet without whining or demanding attention.

Like an automaton, Archer slipped out of his clothes, stood under the nozzle and scrubbed himself clean, shaved and put on a clean uniform. Doing so made him feel more like he was in command – both of his emotions and of the situation. It also made him more presentable to give bad news.

Denying his begging eyes sleep, he looked up information about T'Pol's parents on the computer. Their names flittered across the screen along with their location. Somehow he guessed getting in touch with them wouldn't be easy.

He'd recalled her talking about her family only once, but it was enough to warrant dismay.

Enterprise was on its way back to Earth for a late-fall holiday, one that just happened to coincide with Thanksgiving. The crew was eager to visit family and friends, which was why Trip rattled on about his relatives – brother, second cousins, aunts, uncles. It was clear the family was close-knit, most of them living within 50 miles of each other, and had been close – distance-wise and relationship-wise ­– as long as any of the Tuckers could remember.

Archer stabbed at the pasta on his plate and noticed T'Pol looking down at hers.

With a grin, Trip leaned in. "I know Vulcans don't celebrate Thanksgiving, but maybe you could go back to your family on Vulcan? Hell, we could probably even drop you off."

Without gazing up, she said, "My family does not recognize me."

The engineer screwed up his face. "Whaddaya mean – 'doesn't recognize' you?"

"I mean – they no longer call me their daughter … as the High Command no longer calls me a Vulcan."

Setting his fork down, the captain spoke, startled at the news; she'd never mentioned it before. "Why not?"

"I chose Enterprise and humans over my assignment. My resignation was an embarrassment to the High Command, which has never tolerated disobedience. My withdrawal a slight to my family's name."

Trip stabbed at the air with his fork to make a point. "Family's supposed to stick together … be there through thick and thin. My dad always says: the one group of people who have to take you in … who can't turn you away … no matter what … is your family."

"Not everyone feels that way, Trip," T'Pol said.

As silence threatened to fill the air, Archer spoke. "That doesn't seem right."

She was quiet, so he countered her family's position. "Well, you still have family. Us. Enterprise."

Trip nodded, a grin. "Yup."

"You could always come to Earth with us …," Archer said. He'd been hoping to invite her anyway, but wondered how it might seem.

"I have a project I would like to conduct," she said. "And I cannot eat … turkey."

Both Trip and Archer exchanged glances. The captain was about to disagree, when she clarified a point.

"You consider me family?"

The little Vulcan blinked her eyes and then ducked her head down to sip her tea.

Giving a warm smile, Archer agreed. "Absolutely."

"Then perhaps the human saying is true: one cannot choose one's relatives." A playful glint sparkled in her eye.

Trip shook his head. "Yeah, well. You could be stuck with my Uncle Ben. Let's just say, he ain't up on his table manners."

Her parent's information – their names and location - wasn't enough. Unlike Earth, that had numbers and names attached to every form of communication where humans eagerly waited for contact, Vulcan's methods of communication were meant to protect privacy. No Vulcan tapped their foot hoping a relative would call. Rather, they passed their communication codes to only those they wanted to speak with.

Archer wasn't surprised the codes that T'Pol had provided when she'd first come aboard Enterprise didn't work. It was clear: they'd cut off communication from T'Pol.

Sighing, he knew his job – one he abhorred – was going to be more difficult. His first attempt was through the Vulcan consulate. The bowl-haired, dark-eyed man stared at the screen and denied any access to what he classified "private information."

He then tried the Vulcan Central Information– what the Vulcans designated as a library. That didn't work either. Soval's office had no answers, and neither did the Vulcan High Command or even the Ministry of Defense, where T'Pol once served. One dead end led to another and before long, three hours had passed with nothing. As he was about to make another feeble attempt to talk with someone who looked like they'd rather scrub toilets than answer his questions, a communiqué came through. It was the admiral again, and by the furrowed brow he was sporting, he was agitated.

He explained, despite the mess on Tellar, the Vulcans were getting jumpy enough to bug Starfleet about Archer's pestering. By contacting various groups and outlets, the captain was stirring up trouble.

"They won't want to see her," Forrest's said.

He'd guessed as much.

"I'll talk to them." At least talk with them.

Forrest leaned forward. "What are you going to do when you reach them?"

Archer frowned. "I don't know, Admiral. I'd probably tell them that their daughter was one of the finest officer's I've ever served with and that being her … friend … has been a distinct pleasure and privilege. I'd probably tell them that … that without her help, without the choices she made, Earth would've been destroyed … and my entire race along with it."

The admiral drew his lips together and glanced down.

"I owe her a lot, sir."

Forrest took a deep breath. "Why don't you leave it alone for now."

When he was about to protest, the admiral interrupted. "I'll see what I can do."

"Aye, sir."

Fifteen minutes later Archer had the codes and punched them into the system. A man with cold, stern eyes answered the link. Something about him reminded Archer vaguely of T'Pol – perhaps his large, curious eyes or thin frame. In general, the man looked much sharper, with a bird-like nose and pointed chin, than his daughter. His bland, emotionless face waited before speaking.

"My name is Jonathan Archer, captain of the Starfleet ship Enterprise."

"I know who you are."

His voice was just as cold and distant as his appearance. Jonathan nodded at the information, rather than fire back with a quip.

"I'm afraid, there's no easy way to say this, but your daughter … she's been badly injured in an attack. My doctor's doing everything he can with her right now, but there's no certainty that she'll pull through."

The man's face was still.

"Even if she lives, things may not be the same for her … life may not be the same."

Quiet.

"I thought it best if I told you this myself ... as her captain and friend."

Silence.

"I'm sorry to you and your family."

Without another word, the man delivered four words without emotion or thanks. "I have no daughter."

The viewscreen in Archer's cabin faded to black.

Admiral Forrest contacted Archer once more, telling him the instructions: members of his crew had been assigned to assist in the operations (Phlox's name had conveniently been left off the list). Enterprise was ordered to hang in orbit around the planet for at least the next week. The man also, very quietly, asked to be kept apprised of T'Pol's condition.

For six days life aboard Enterprise was unusual, but everything happened as if it were routine. Archer's appearances on the bridge were mostly for formal events – times when "the captain" was needed. For example, he had taken his post, although wouldn't sit in his chair, as the ship had approached Tellar, had fallen into an orbit, when the assigned crew had begun transporting down and finally as they'd checked in. He'd wander back once every three hours, the communication interval, to determine the crew's progress. And, if more was needed, he hung around to resolve issues.

That was the extent of his role on the bridge.

Trip filled in as captain the times Archer wasn't at his post. When Trip wasn't playing captain, he'd visit T'Pol himself as Engineering was undergoing routine maintenance – something his right hand woman, Hess, could do.

While in Sickbay, Trip would sometimes hold T'Pol's hand and apologize for leaving her alone with the "Salan bastards." He sometimes tried to fill the space with humor – even though the patient was unconscious. And more than anything, he made promises that if she got better, he'd stop giving her a hard time and even let her eat meals in peace and quiet.

It wasn't just Trip that had dropped by; pretty much everyone did.

The captain was no exception. Jonathan nervously paced around the medical facility, telling his first officer – debriefing her – of the events of the day (none of which she could hear), particularly the progress with the epidemic. And when the briefing was over, he talked softly to her about various things or read a book quietly at her side, glancing up now and then as if he'd imagined that she stirred.

Phlox was busy. Things with T'Pol were touch and go. His job had been difficult – flushing her system of poison, healing her bones and repairing her internal organs had taken incredible skill and time. When he'd done everything he could to stabilize her, he eventually tried to reconstruct her ears. But, the skin and the nerves around were too delicate even for his expert hands. In the end, he gave up – leaving each ear looking as if it were snipped down the middle showing something like two points on each ear.

After this surgery and when the skin had been revealed, Phlox puckered his brow at the work. "I hope she forgives me."

Archer's fingers delicately stroked her left ear. "You can barely tell."

Phlox noticed, but decided to let the comment stand. "At least she's making progress."

Archer gave a hopeful grin.

"I wouldn't be surprised if she wakes up within the next two days," Phlox said.

Although Archer heard the same thing two days ago, he smiled all the same and mumbled a few words. "I think she will, too."

It was like a fog. Floating in and out of existence, she heard familiar voices – people she'd known once a long time ago speaking to her. Some sounded close, whispering in her ear – promises, optimism, concern and care.

It wasn't the words spoken to her that finally roused her. What finally jolted her from her deep sleep was her hand, one that was only now healing, was being crushed in a desperate grip by large, strong fingers. Her bones ached at the grasp.

For a moment, T'Pol thought back to her torture and wondered whether she should keep her eyes shut, pretending to be asleep or dead. It could be them; they'd done worse.

They won't bother me if I am no longer alive, she reasoned, keeping her lids closed.

And then a voice came into clarity. It was the captain's. And she remembered, fuzzily, that he had rescued her … liberated her from peril. She recalled him, Trip and Lt. Reed coming to her aid before she blacked out.

It's safe.

Taking a gasp for air, she opened her eyes, fighting through the thin veil that kept her still. As she did, she noticed the hand that grasped hers before loosened as another hand wound around hers in comfort.

"T'Pol," he said. Dressed in his uniform, and wearing what she determined was a one-day beard, he beamed brilliantly down at her. A tear leaked from his eye as his right hand stroked hers.

"Captain, you're crying."

His smile widened, but he didn't stop. Instead, he blinked another free and it cascaded down his cheek.

"I don't understand why," she said.

"I know you don't." he said.

Confusion set over her features – a combination of the drugs she was under, the pain she could feel (including the aching her hand where it was clenched) and a reaction to his response.

Moving his right hand away from hers, he gently stroked her cheek. "We've missed you."

Phlox joined her side as the captain stepped away. "How are you feeling?" the doctor asked.

Blinking, a frown worked itself blatantly onto her mouth. "I don't know."

The doctor gave a nod. "I can imagine. I know you won't admit it, but I'm sure you're in pain."

Taking his hypo, not willing to wait for a response, he shot it into her neck. Phlox covered many of the injuries she'd undergone, leaving out a few that deserved privacy, and she listened to each one, finding a certain detachment to it. After a few minutes of silence, and watching both the doctor and captain glance at each other, Archer talked to her about her parents.

He sat down on the bed. "We were worried about you. We were so worried … that ... I ... tried to contact your parents to tell them …. I'm sorry if I –"

"You spoke to my father?"

"I had to try. A week ago you almost weren't here with us anymore. Anyone's family deserves to know."

"And what did he say? … Captain, please, what did he say?"

"That… he had no daughter."

Her eyes fell to the floor across the room. "I, would have expected that, but thank you, anyway."

"I'm sorry," he said. He looked down at the covers and fiddled with them between his finger and thumb.

"Yes."

Phlox fussed over her for a minute, checking her with a scanner. "It will take some time for you to recover, but you should be able to leave Sickbay soon."

T'Pol swallowed.

"You … and I should probably discuss a few particulars of your condition," Phlox said. His eyes went to Archer as if asking him to leave. And the captain responded.

"I'll come back in a little while," Archer said.

The two nodded. Before he stepped through the portal on his way back to the bridge, she said two words.

"Thank you."

A smile filled with warmth shone over his entire face and twinkled in his watery eyes. "Get some rest."

When he left, Phlox went through the gruesome description of her injuries and the memories of her time on Salanacon flitted to her brain. When he'd finished explaining all the consequences of her problems – the fact she may never walk fully, be able to take a deep breath, eat solid foods and more – she listened to him say one of the most disturbing things he could … at least to one of her kind.

"Most Vulcans enter a healing trance."

She knew the next words. They did.

"You did not."

Death had gripped her and threatened to drag her down into its icy darkness, smothering her there in lifelessness. The void beckoned her – an invitation to end her pain and suffering. One step closer to the chilly blackness and she would not have recovered. It seemed welcoming.

"It … appeared as if you'd given up," he said.

It was difficult to say, but she felt the words already on her lips. "I was in such agony."

The physician grimaced and worked his hands gingerly around his patient's. "I know the pain is still there, but it will vanish one day soon."

Her gaze was unconvinced, so he spoke again. "All of it, T'Pol."

With that, the physician covered some of the details about her capture -- memories she'd wanted to avoid or repress. The recollection brought back the smell of soured breath and rotting flesh. It brought to mind how she'd tasted her own blood and Ral's rancid lips.

Her spine tingled and bile worked its way to her throat, nearly choking her.

"It'll take some time to register everything. It'll take a while to recuperate."

Recovery seemed like a long road, something much more challenging than actually living through the events on the planet.

"You'll feel better."

Somehow the Vulcan doubted that was true.

TBC