While T'Pol's eyes were closed and her breaths were deep, Archer brought her personal items to set them carefully in a chair that he'd occupied as much as he could, but less often than he'd wanted. The contents consisted of a meditation candle, a lighter, a PADD full of information she was in the middle of reading (new theories about the existence of worm holes and how they form) and a change of clothes.
When he'd gathered them, he'd made sure to keep from riffling through her things – despite his curiosity. He'd thought it was really the only thing he could do to help, at least at this time.
After folding her garment into a neat bundle, placing a PADD on top, and then the candle and lighter, he afforded himself the luxury of watching her sleep. For each breath she took, he thought … cursed … about what would've happened if he hadn't arrived when he did. He pondered the idea if luck hadn't been on his side, which thankfully it often was, and he hadn't seen a flash in his peripheral vision what would've become of her.
There were more disturbing thoughts: would she have been better off if he hadn't been so lucky? The injuries that Phlox described seemed almost too numerous to write down and categorize, let alone heal.
Who knew how long it would take her to regain the use of her limbs? Phlox told him that she wouldn't be able to walk for months … it's why he put through the order for some supplies, including a wheelchair. She took her food intravenously, unable to eat having had her the lining of her esophagus and stomach nearly eaten away. Her fingers wouldn't be able to swirl the knob on the scanner or nab a mug handle for weeks.
Far more alarming was the mental anguish she must be suffering. Archer reckoned it was probably too much to bear … although she'd never said so and probably never would. The fearful eyes when he touched her just a day ago, despite accepting his hand on her shoulder a million times before for the past few years, told him of the trauma she'd endured. And even in her sleep, she wrestled with the sheets and mumbled. He even heard his own name called, as if she'd been waiting for him to free her. It troubled him; he hadn't come nearly soon enough. Caring for his crew was his paramount concern – something he took seriously. It was a duty he treasured. This time, to his shame and regret, he let T'Pol down.
Possibly even more damning than her wounds and state of mind was the way her own people and her own family treated her.
He'd put through a few calls before orbiting Vulcan to see if there was a doctor who could treat her. The call had been just as fruitless as the one to her father, proving T'Pol right about the Vulcans. He'd received a voice as bland, toneless as her father, and an answer that seemed just as curt. It didn't matter what he bargained or negotiated, they flat out she "is no longer welcome on Vulcan" and would "await trial for her refusal to follow orders and serve her planet." Archer hadn't minded ending the call with a sneer and a "Go to hell." And it'd given him some satisfaction to see the uppity man with pointed ears flush, as if angered, before ending the call.
"Even the humans aren't crazy about her," he admitted.
A hero from The Expanse, a woman who'd forsaken everything to stop his planet from being destroyed, wasn't cherished by humans as she should've been. They hadn't clapped nearly loudly enough as her named was read at the ceremony honoring Enterprise. Admirals from Starfleet hadn't thanked or praised her enough for her that fete or her outstanding work as his science and first officer. People barely knew her name, and to them she was only "the Vulcan."
The Salans, the Andorians … the woman under his command was abused, mistreated, unloved and unappreciated by seemingly everyone in the universe without reason or rationality.
Instead of feeling justified rage, he felt something akin to sorrow. It was impossible that others didn't love T'Pol as much as the humans, the quadruped and the Denobulan on Enterprise did. Unfathomable.
They were the only ones who knew how to appreciate her, and even in Archer's own estimation they didn't nearly enough. He hadn't at least; he was sure of that.
"T'Pol," he whispered. The words were barely spoken; he knew how sensitive her ears were … even tattered and gnarled as they were now.
Closing his eyes, he recalled when he'd found her, he'd made promises to himself and to her – silent ones.
He'd sworn that he wouldn't let anything happen to her again. No more away missions, unless she was under his supervision. No more putting her life on the line to rescue him. Her safety was his mission.
He'd also vowed that the little Vulcan under his command knew how much Enterprise cared about her. And he'd told himself, sternly, that he'd make sure she knew how much he appreciated her – her work, her friendship … everything. Everyday.
"You mean a lot to us."
Again, almost as a reflux, his hand drifted near her forehead, but before it touched her skin, it fell back to his side.
Maybe it was the air that flittered past her; T'Pol opened her eyes – almost in a flash and gulped. A little startled himself, Archer gave a small jump.
"Sorry," he said. The words slipped easily out of his mouth, especially when he saw the same fear in her eyes he saw the other day.
Sitting up, hair slightly askew and eyes narrowed, she turned to him. "Where am I?"
He frowned. "Sickbay."
"How long have I slept?"
"I don't know. I got here just a few minutes ago."
Phlox, who'd been working in the connecting lab, wandered into the room. "Captain, you're still here?"
Archer furrowed his brow with confusion, as the doctor continued.
"It was so quiet, I assumed you'd already left."
Phlox had excused himself to the next room when he brought her things to her. Mutely, he questioned whether he'd been there longer than a few minutes.
"How are you feeling?" Phlox asked to his patient.
T'Pol exhaled deeply and then gazed up, her eyes glassy. "Fine."
Phlox was about to correct her, when she made an observation. "Did you bring these things, Captain?"
"Yeah … I thought you might need them."
"Thank you."
He smiled. Settling the sheets around her, she stared ahead.
"Perhaps I was too … hasty," she said.
Archer waited, straining for patience, as she took her time to find the right words.
"Perhaps …. It was a generous offer to allow me to return to Vulcan."
Just as he was about to correct her, explaining how her own planet would rather let her die than give her aid, she continued.
"Especially since you went to the trouble to—"
He closed his eyes and cursed under his breath. "T'Pol, we left orbit five hours ago."
She straightened. "I see. I did not respond quickly enough."
"No. No, it wasn't that. They … you were right about their reaction."
Phlox's mouth turned down, even though Archer knew the Denobulan was aware of the situation. The doctor had already started using his connections for medical advice and assistance with his patient, assuming the Vulcans wouldn't lend a hand.
"Oh," she said.
Archer took her belongings off the chair in order to sit next to her. "I'm not giving up. I'm looking into other options, and so is Phlox. He's already spoken with some physicians back on Denobula to assist with –"
The Vulcan fiddled with the sheets, wringing them in her hands. "It's not my wounds. My …."
Leaning closer, he asked, "How can I help?"
"I don't know."
"I have some training in Vulcan—" Phlox began.
She shook her head. "Doctor, you're an excellent physician, but you aren't a Vulcan priest trained since childhood in the art of suppressing emotions."
His blue eyes, which hadn't twinkled since the time she awoke, dulled even more. "That's true."
"I'm sorry, T'Pol. I tried," Archer said. Actually, he'd done more than that – he'd called every captain in Starfleet that owed him a favor (and even those that didn't) to get T'Pol on Vulcan.
She gave a weak nod. "Perhaps …. Time alone …."
"Of course," Archer said. Just as he was about to stand, she halted him with her voice.
"Not now. I meant later."
"Oh," he said.
Her eyes meandered over to Phlox and the doctor suddenly spoke up. "I have some things to do in the lab. If you'll excuse me."
When the doctor left the two, he sat in quiet – waiting for her to say something – until the hum of the lights and the low beep of her monitor finally prompted him to action.
"Did you need me for something?" he asked.
"I wanted to ask you …"
He hung on her words.
"You know everything that happened on Salanacon … don't you?"
There was no mistaking; he knew exactly what she meant. It didn't make his answer any easier, and he was slow to give up the information. "Phlox told me in confidence."
"I … suspected that you knew."
He shifted, squirming as if his entire gender were to blame. "If you'd feel more comfortable talking to a woman --"
"Talking?"
"People sometimes need to express their feelings about events, including the painful ones."
"Vulcans," she said. The word sprang from her lips with disgust. "Vulcans suppress these emotions and repress events. It's called the –"
"The Fullara, I remember."
"Yes." She licked her lips and stared back at her hands.
She'd need a priest, which caused him to frown. "I'm sorry. I did everything I could. If you can think of another way --"
Withering eyes looked at him and her lips trembled – quivering so slightly he almost missed it. "I know."
With exasperation, he grabbed the back of his neck and bowed his head. As if to jolt him from his own musings, she spoke.
"The status of the ship?"
"It's fine, T'Pol." He leaned his elbows on his knees. "Listen, I still don't –"
"Good." She paused. "It appears Trip blames himself for … what happened. Could you speak with him?"
He straightened. "Of course."
The two were quiet as he watched over her. She was on the verge of saying something, so he raised his brows, encouraging her to continue.
"Captain, do you ever think about … why things happen?"
He stared on with confusion.
"I hear humans sometimes believe in destiny – events that are fated. These events are predestined to challenge one, as if there is some reason."
Stuttering his steps, he kept from reaching out to stroke her hand and explaining that no human thinks the pain she'd been through is "Divine Providence" and he'd never believed the axiom "What does not kill us makes us stronger." In his mind that was utter bullshit.
"I believe the Salans were testing me. They were challenging my thoughts about what it means to be Vulcan."
Archer's eyes became a little glassy, and he shook his head.
"I failed that test."
In his mind, he imagined what any being with sentiency would do if tortured: cry out, beg … anything to save their life and prevent further pain. Even her species.
"You weren't being tested."
She didn't respond.
"And even if you were, you didn't fail," he countered. "The fact you're alive, talking to me, is proof of that."
Although she didn't argue, it was clear she disagreed.
"T'Pol—"
"May I have the PADD you brought me before you leave?" she asked.
It was his cue to go, one which he decided – against better judgment – to abide. He nodded and bent over, to hand her the information. After spying it, she raised an eyebrow.
"The information I've been studying about worm holes." Her voice had only a tinge of surprise.
He gave a small smile. "Yeah."
"Thank you again."
"Let me know if you need anything."
She nodded, though he guessed she probably wouldn't. With one more glance behind his shoulder, he left her to her solitude.