Two days after her first and most terrifying memory, Dr. Phlox during his daily visit announced that her condition was improving and that maybe – maybe – within a months she might be able to walk with some support. He praised her for having done her physical therapy (exercises that he'd deemed would strengthen her muscles) and indicated, gently, how thankful he was that she'd worked through some of her memories. T'Pol was thankful that despite not having conveyed all the details of her recollections that the doctor understood she was beginning to work through her issues. It somehow gave her faith that she was doing the right thing.
In between Phlox's daily visits, she spent a great deal of her time alone, looking out at the trees from the back porch. On several occasions Archer had offered to take her to the beach – so she could see the rumbling of the water and feel it against her skin; each time she'd been tempted to accept, but had declined. Although she felt more comfortable in his presence, it was difficult to imagine being out in the waters relying on his strength to keep her standing.
Memories indeed flowed back slowly, creeping into her mind sparked by the smallest coincidences – a smell, a sound and sometimes something she couldn't quite put her finger on. Carefully, she'd unwrapped each recollection – examining it as if to study and dissect it. Through the process, she'd learned that disassociating memories was the greatest challenge and thus far her finest achievement. Rather than become unnerved and frightened at every single terrifying image, she'd gained a cool acceptance to the information in front of her as if she were only watching the events unfold rather than participating in them … at least with the majority of the memories.
She exuded the same scientific detachment and curiosity about her housemate, Captain Archer. When she'd dated Tucker briefly, she found it strange that the human would whistle or hum when he was happy. Now, studying Archer, she found it was a common human trait; every morning the captain hummed quietly to himself – as if he was completely unaware of this habit – as he made his breakfast. She couldn't quite determine whether the ritual was because he was happy, or began to make himself so.
That wasn't the only thing she scrutinized; she also cataloged his afternoon customs. After coming home from the beach, he'd toss his towel on the floor (a source of small irritation to her), grab a book or PADD and lay out on the couch to read. Although she stared at him merely a few feet away, he never seemed to notice – totally engrossed in the story - he'd even chuckle or give a low query at the sentence or word he read.
The most interesting part of his afternoon ritual was how he approached reading; every day he did precisely the same thing. Examining him, she watched his eyes crinkle at the book, to smile or think, and a hand dodge through his hair - now past regulation length, curling slightly at the ends. Stretching out his lean and muscular body, he stayed in his swim trunks and left his chest bare while he cradled the book to him, resting against his fur-covered stomach. His long, hairy legs rubbed against each other, as if he enjoyed the feel of his own skin or was overcome by an itch. And occasionally his hairy feet and toes flexed, cracking and popping to his deaf ears.
Something about this ceremony fascinated her. Perhaps it was the utter devotion to performing the exact same movements every day, despite his intentions to do so. Perhaps it was because she found comfort, though she would never call it that, in the vision of him casually lingering on the couch to relax or hearing the low rumble of his laugh at the mirth the book brought. There was yet another reason, and it was the most troublesome: looking at him dressed in slightly less than he would wear in Decon made her wonder about her romantic future.
Will I ever feel comfortable with a man again?
It wasn't necessarily this man; she'd known the captain as a friend and the relationship was most rewarding in that state. She was more concerned about her future. Logically, she deduced, she would be caught in a predicament with a man at some point in the future – one that might lead to intimacy. Given what happened, would she ever want a man to see her naked or want to feel him touch her bare skin … even in the fires of Pon Farr?
No.
During the ordeal on Salanacon, many things had been stripped from her – dignity, logic, self-importance …. Among the things she now found missing were basic necessities – the will to eat, the need for shelter and sleep and the need for sex. Fortunately, Vulcans sexuality was hushed and forbidden. But, even as a woman, she had to recognize that part of her identity was her sexuality; that personality traits that was now displaced. Worse, it was an albatross around her neck and made her question her every movement and motive.
It was difficult for her to shower and see her own form naked. It was difficult to brush her hair in the mirror and see her misshapen ears. She shied from any activity that would show her reflection and tried to deny looking at her nude form – in any way at any time. Ignoring the scars from her injuries – both mental and physical – was easiest.
On the fifth day, when Phlox took her vital signs, she decided to announce what she'd been thinking.
"I won't need your services again until next week," she said.
"Next week?" Phlox asked. The overextended smile on his face took up his entire face.
"Yes. I've decided to stay."
It didn't make sense to take her insecurities elsewhere and she felt a certain comfort in being in the company of her captain, though they only saw each other for dinner.
The doctor agreed right away, provided additional physical therapy and was about to leave when the Vulcan asked for a favor.
"Could you ask Chef to send more coffee?" she asked.
The doctor nodded, without making any comments about how the captain was the only one in the house who drank caffeine, transporting back to the ship.
From Archer's point of view, the week was spent as if he was really on vacation. He poured through stories he wanted to read or re-read either draped on the sofa or lying on the loamy sand of the beach. Naps were taken during the day, something he hadn't done since his childhood, giving way to the most spectacular Technicolor dreams. Every day he swam in the refreshing waters of the ocean – usually around lunchtime – kicking and splashing in the sea without a companion. He warmed his skin under the rays of the single shining sun, sometimes watching the clouds drift by and imagining them to be either people he knew or mythical creatures from Earth's lore.
It was peaceful, but – if he was honest with himself – it was a little lonely. Nearly every minute of the day, except ten minutes around almost every meal, was spent by himself. Knowing T'Pol needed to rest and recuperate, he tried giving her a wide birth and the space she needed to do so, despite him wanting to chat it up with her or take her with him to the beach or the various discoveries he'd found. And although as an only child he'd occupy himself for days without much interaction, he'd gotten used to a ship crowded with more than eighty people who all demanded his attention. Sure, they mostly sought approvals or commands, but still there was human contact.
Some days to keep his mind and body engaged, he went for a run, whizzing past new sites and sounds – occasionally stopping or slowing to see more detail or talk with locals; the captain found out he didn't like to just explore the universe with all its mysteries, he enjoyed the adventure of the unknown even on land. Every now and again, during that week, he bumped into his guide – the woman with the tattoo along her face and the raven hair.
On the fifth day, covered with sweat and sensing a sharp tingling in his legs that reminded him he'd covered more than seven miles, he saw El'ani. The woman tipped her wrist, waving him over to her and he decided to end his exercise for the day and head toward her.
When he got there, she produced an enchanting smile, one that made him give on in return.
"Your friend is getting better?" she asked. Actually, the statement sounded as if she already knew.
"Yes."
Nodding to a small hut, only a few feet away, she led him inside. It was vacant except for two benches and a mat, as if it were used for what humans might find as a place to picnic. Stepping inside, he saw the guide kneel on the mat and light something that looked like incense.
"I thank Tomoreh then," she said.
With continued curiosity, Archer stared on.
She said, "He is the god of dreams and memories. I've been asking him to help your friend to counsel her."
She turned to the captain and spoke again. "Blow out this stick."
Leaning carefully over, he pursed his lips and huffed, sending a spiral of smoke into the air. The scent of the incense was heady and almost immediately he felt dizzy.
"She's undergone so much," he said.
He made his way over to the bench until the light-headedness passed.
"You wouldn't be here unless she was very important to you," she said.
Glancing up, he didn't answer.
Staring out the open portal that led back outside, he shook his head to himself. Long ago, he'd made the decision to admire her from afar, showing her how he felt by being a devoted friend and unyielding captain. With his duties and responsibilities, it was easy, most days, to hide his deeper feelings or pretended they didn't exist. Most days.
Most days didn't include when he'd caught her and Trip out in the corridor kissing and whispering. Most days didn't include retrieving her from Salanacon. The emotions both events caused were wildly different, but generated from the same source.
Love.
Trip and T'Pol in the hallway. When he'd heard an ensign in passing gossip about her and Trip, jealousy had itched every nerve ending and had forced his heart to thunder in his chest as if it would explode in his ears. It'd donned on him later what he'd felt: although he'd loved her (which was somewhat surprising to him) he'd believed she'd never return a human's feelings, and that it hadn't been appropriate to bring them up in the first place. T'Pol apparently could return those emotions and did, it just wasn't for him, it was for Trip. The revelation had been a blow to his ego, but more importantly had quieted the poet in his soul, the one locked behind the mantle of captain. Burying his feelings deeper, trying to root them out completely, he carried on as if the event never happened - that the information that had come to light had actually never surfaced.
Salanacon. That façade had all come crashing around him the moment he'd learned that she was lost on Salanacon. When the news had been delivered, he'd remembered feeling nauseous and yet sparked into action; his gut knew almost immediately something was wrong, horribly so. After he'd transported to the planet, he'd been steadfast that he wasn't going to leave her, despite the orders he received from Forrest to help the Tellarites. Starfleet could drag him in front of whatever tribunal they'd convened and strip him of his bars in a dramatic court martial, and he'd walk out satiated knowing she was safe. He'd reckon to his dismay, he'd even let thousands of Tellarites lay in the streets dying, waiting for Enterprise and a vaccine, before he'd leave her. That thought frightened him, a reminder of why he couldn't reveal his feelings in the first place or let them get in the way.
Each day had grown more precarious. His team had been exhausted, and if he let himself, he'd be as well. Staying up for seventy-two hours had taken a toll on their mental and physical well-being, not that Reed or Trip complained. When all hope had been lost - the moment where his actions as captain and his feelings as a human had waged war and the man was on the verge of destruction – he'd spied her out of the corner of his eye. Moving faster than he'd thought his feet could carry him he'd scrambled through the town without a plan, without backup and without remembering to unholster his phase pistol. Scurrying to draw his weapon, he'd shot blindly at whatever was between him and the huddled, shriveling mass in front of him that had been covered in green blood, without heed to the setting of his gun. Bodies, he hadn't been sure how many, had fallen and lay strewn on the street; a few even ran away from the chaos. Rather than doggedly track down the culprits, he'd cradled her in his arms, rubbed her cheek as he'd wanted to for ages and had gingerly removed his communicator from a zipped pocket to demand immediate transport.
Since then, he'd been trying to do whatever was needed to revive her and help her discover the woman she once was; he was the link to tie her to the present and the past. The challenge wasn't easy, the events on the planet didn't just scar her fragile ears, it marred her emotionally turning her from the confident Vulcan who strode down the halls to a timid one who looked around every corner.
The guide eventually caught his eye and nodded. "Dreams are the beginning and end of the universe."
Furrowing his brow, he waited for more.
"We have been dreamed into existence." A hand waved into the air and with it a swirl of smoke followed. "If you hold onto your dreams, and believe in them, they may come true."
For a moment he wondered if they were still talking about T'Pol and her recovery, or whether referred to his feelings.
El'ani stood carefully and walked to him.
"Will you run tomorrow?" she asked. The way she said it made it seem like she didn't understand it was a form of exercise.
He shrugged. "Probably."
"You always seem in a hurry."
"It's exercise."
Smiling, she said the words again. "You always seem in a hurry."
Taking the information in stride, he decided to walk home, taking the circuitous route. He needed to think about her words, and more importantly, he needed to purge whatever thoughts lay in his mind for T'Pol. The way he showed his care for her was through friendship, he reminded himself. Friendship.
At dinner on the sixth evening of their stay, Jonathan – as he normally would – prepared their meal and brought it to the table for her. It was a pasta dish and he'd spent a little more time preparing it – even using a recipe – than he wanted to admit. But, he decided, it was their last night together on this planet; their meal tonight should be memorable.
T'Pol twirled her fork in her hand and tucked into it with appreciation. The two hadn't spoken since Dr. Phlox's visit, and the captain if anything was always eager to hear her condition.
"Dr. Phlox thinks I'm making progress," she said.
He smiled genuinely. "Good."
"I appreciate all the time you've given me to myself."
"I can be a good house guest." At her almost unperceivable frown – the towels he left laying around the place after his beach trips - he revised his statement. "I can be a good house guest most of the time."
"I've asked Dr. Phlox to only come once a week."
He paused, dangling his fork in midair. They were scheduled to leave tomorrow.
"I was … I was hoping you would stay," she said.
"Why?" he asked. During her five-day recuperation, she'd needed very little from him.
"Your presence is companionable."
"We haven't really spent that much time together."
"I don't feel you are an intrusion. And when we are together, your presence is welcome."
Before he could answer, she spoke again.
"I have an additional request," she said.
He waited.
"I'd like you to meditate with me. I need your help unlocking certain memories."
"How?"
"Meditation. Just sitting with you will help me recall events. And yet, having you near will remind me that I'm safe. Can you do this?"
He didn't answer.
"I'd like to start something that's more intensive – nightly meditation."
"I don't think--"
"I've come so far. Reviewing the last set of memories will help me understand."
"I don't think you should push it."
"I will be careful."
"I don't know."
"Please."
That was really all she needed to do, ask him with a vulnerable voice and with wide brown eyes. Actually, it was all she ever needed to do. Reaching a single hand to cup his shoulder, he found himself agreeing before he was ready. The woman nodded and then turned back to her dinner.
"We can begin tomorrow, if that is amenable."
Swallowing deeply, he nodded.
"Good."
"Our guide asked about you today."
"She did?"
"They have a god who they believe has dreamed everyone into existence." He produced a tiny smile. "She's been praying for you to this god."
"Do humans pray?" she asked.
"Some," he said. Suddenly, he felt confusion cross his features. "Vulcans?"
"When we are desperate."
Her delivery felt ominous and painful, as if she herself had prayed and begged during the worst of her tortures. Before he could comment or provide any comfort, she excused herself by placing her napkin onto the table.
"Thank you for dinner."
With that, she wheeled into her room and shut the door.