Archer watched her sit on the edge of his bed and tuck a strand of hair behind a mangled ear – as if she wasn't self conscious about the scarring as much any more, at least in front of him. Her blue pajamas cut off at the midriff, exposing her stomach, but he didn't have trouble keeping his eyes on hers even at the sleepy hour she'd awakened him.
He asked her a question that could very well change their relationship forever, only because he couldn't stop it from falling out of his mouth. It was intended to be only a thought, but when he heard his voice mimic that notion, he went numb.
"Am I wasting my time, with you, or is there any chance you could feel the same way?"
That hadn't been the inquiry he'd wanted to make at all and for a moment he panicked wondering if he should further explain himself. His lack of patience, which is what he'd chalked it up to, got the better of him. Something in him wanted to know now finally … finally after all this time.
She began to breathe more deeply and her gaze fell away from his.
For a moment – for this first time since being a young adult – the rumbling in his chest stopped and time stood still. Everything could be lost in a single second with a one word. Everything could be lost if he waited for her to respond. He couldn't allow that to happen, not after all this time.
Timidly, he placed his thumb and the crook of his index finger at her chin and brought her lips to his. When their lips touched he felt electricity, a connection. And as his eyes opened he felt giddy that her lips sought his out in return. Somehow he knew she wouldn't turn him away once their mouths and tongues mingled; he at last understood the feelings that had fermented deep inside of him all these years were returned. All of them. And they had been for some time.
As the two eventually slid down to the bed, caressing each other with their mouths, tongues and hands, drunk with love, he felt elation.
Elation.
Blinking slowly, he caught his breath and steadied his pulse as he remembered the dream. It wasn't just the thrill of kissing T'Pol, there was much more to his vision, now that he was focusing on it – wild images, some of it was in the third person, but the colors were vivid. Everything felt so real.
During some part, and on further reflection he wasn't certain now that he was awake, he'd envisioned his father was alive and met T'Pol. The two chatted, as if they'd known each other for some time, about starships and warp drives. His mother, somehow joined the conversation even if she looked a little out of place – in her overalls with dirt smeared on her cheek. He wasn't sure if he was there or not, and if he was he couldn't be certain if he was a grown man or a child. Whatever he was, if he was even there, his mom cooed over her, fixing meals and poking fun of her son. And his father had looked upon her with admiration, as if tickled by her – her grace, eloquence, curiosity and beauty.
As he sat up, pondering his night vision, it began to fade until the only sensation he could remember was having T'Pol pressed against him. He could only recall the touching of their lips – tender and full of promise.
Running his fingers through his hair, he blew out a long, steady breath.
Closing his eyes to purge the memory, he heard her scuffle below – pots and pans clanged together. Flashing his eyes open, he realized how late he'd slept. It was already 1013, well past the time he typically arose.
That was enough to shake him from his bemusement, chasing away any glow he felt from his dreams.
Some nurse I am!
Scrambling, he stumbled to put on a shirt and pants, hastily throwing them on and headed quickly downstairs. His pants were zipped, but his shirt whipped precariously behind him as his fingers fumbled to button it. As soon as he reached the bottom, he blew out a sigh.
"I'm so sorry I'm late," he said.
The confusion in her eyes made him pause and stop buttoning the shirt that still almost draped off of him.
"Why? You're on vacation," she said.
"I usually cook breakfast."
"You said yourself I could perform the task."
Stupefied, all he could do was watch her, mouth agape. As she wheeled around, she pointed half-way up his chest.
"You've buttoned your shirt incorrectly," she said.
Looking down, he frowned and re-buttoned it. "Did you try to wake me?"
"Why would I?" she asked. "I could hear you snoring, I knew you were still asleep."
"You could hear me snoring?" he asked, apologetic.
"I can most nights."
Wincing, he fell into a seat at the table. "Do I keep you up?"
"No."
"You should tell me if it bothers you."
Looking back over her shoulder only for a moment, she gave the smallest of shrugs – and looking almost human doing so. "It hasn't troubled me. There's a certain comfort to it."
After pausing for a few minutes, she spoke again. "It'll take a few minutes. You can shower in the meantime … if you wish."
Nodding, he headed up the stairs. As he prepared for a shower, he reminded himself that the silly notion of remembering a kiss in a dream was just that: childish. He'd had dreams about her before, most of them focused on finding an enemy that didn't exist or taking some kind of adventure. Lately, he'd had dreams about Salanacon, that he couldn't retrieve T'Pol from the planet and somehow – through whatever set of circumstances existed in that night world – he'd had to leave her, kicking and screaming as his officers dragged him away. Worse, some of his nightmares involved knowing she was being tortured and being completely unable to stop it. One even involved him having to watch her as she screamed and fought against her captors. He'd awakened in a cold sweat from that one, his body shaking.
This vision was at least pleasant. He'd had so few of those lately.
Putting all thoughts out of his head, he let the water run over him easing away worries, problems and strife. Priming his brain to focus on trivial matters, he found himself wondering what happened next to the characters in his book or whether he'd run today.
Drying off, stepping into some fresh clothes, he headed back downstairs, singing quietly to himself, and stopped half-way down shocked at what he spied. He had a clear view of the kitchen and saw the Vulcan wheel around with agility and poise; he knew right away the only thing binding her to her wheelchair was trepidation. Her feet even helped her scoot along the floor to carry her to a destination more quickly.
His crept cautiously to her, but his ankles must've popped - or perhaps her Vulcan hearing noted him cross the room - because she immediately spoke.
"You're staring," she said.
He sighed. "T'Pol, I … it doesn't seem like you need that contraption."
Immediately she halted her actions. Like a toddler giving up a security blanket, she shook her head vigorously.
"I'm not ready," she said.
Suddenly, he got in his mind to convince her. "You are."
"No."
He stepped closer to you. "You are. I saw your feet help carry you across the floor."
"It's not the same as standing," she said.
Finding the voice he used when he wielded orders, the one she was bound to obey, he spoke a little more firmly. "You've asked a lot of me. I'm just asking this one thing."
An eyebrow poked up, a curious one, which he always took as a good sign.
"Come on, T'Pol," he said.
Ignoring him, she placed a spoon in the pot and stirred it. But, he wasn't about to give up. He closed the final distance and stood at her side, his eyes locked on her.
"I'll be right here. I won't let you fall."
She didn't answer.
"Please," he said, more softly.
He sheepishly ducked down, a gesture he hoped looked desperate enough – like Porthos waiting for a piece of cheese. Her response was to hang her head against her chest in defeat and he smiled knowing it was her undoing. Clutching her hands firmly around the arms of her chair, she pushed her body up in one fail swoop – her arms shaking at the strain. Reflex made her straighten her spine and she let go for a second, almost without intention, while her mouth fell ajar as if she hadn't expected to stand. The moment she realized she wasn't going to fall, that she could actually stand upright, her face gave way to awe. It brought a twinkle to her eye and was reflected by the man who was stationed and ready in case she wobbled.
"I'm standing," she said, her voice quivering only slightly.
A wild grin spread across his face. "Yes, you are."
"I didn't think I could."
His grin widened.
Marveling at her own feet and ankles, she stared down with something nearing delight.
"Take a step toward me," he said.
"What?" she asked. As soon as the question formed on her lips, she felt her balance falter and she fell into his arms. At once, he eased her back into her seat, feeling her heart pound with what he guessed was courage (at standing) and fright (at walking).
"You know what the first rule of climbing is," he said.
She shifted in her seat, as if even the moment supporting her own weight had hurt her once broken legs and ankles.
"No."
"Never look down."
Knitting her brows together, she shook her head.
He said, "It means once you realize your own mortality, chances are pretty good you'll become nervous and screw up."
Before she could respond, he leaned in a little closer. "You did great. Maybe from today on, we can keep trying."
"Keep trying?"
"Yeah. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again."
She nodded.
"If you wanted to start swimming, it might help," he said.
The woman's lips flattened. "Swimming?"
"On Earth, physical trainers use it as a way to work muscles without the strain of gravity." When she didn't respond, he spoke again. "When I was a freshman in high school, I played football. After a knee injury and corrective surgery, I began swimming to retrain it. Though … I never wanted to return to football. Swimming kinda sucked me in."
She didn't respond.
"You could come with me today, if you like," he said. "It'd be great. We could sit back under the sun and read and --"
"I'll consider it."
He could tell from the tone in her voice she didn't mean it. As he was about to inquire further, she wheeled herself over to the stove and kept busy.
"If you're worried about me touching you--" he said.
She didn't respond, but he could tell that wasn't the problem.
"T'Pol?" he asked.
"What?" she said.
The moment between them was gone, almost like the dream he had earlier that morning. Instead of feeling the warmth of his friend, he felt her retreat and wither. Something he said must've triggered it, but he'd be damned if he knew exactly what it was.
"Our meal is ready," she said.
He gave a slight frown. "Need help carrying it to the table?"
"I believe I'd like to eat mine on the back porch."
Disappointed, he watched her serve herself and wheel away, shutting the bedroom door behind her. He sighed.
------
T'Pol spent the remainder of her day alone, staring out into the backyard. She heard, at one point, Archer gather his things together and leave as he did every day for the beach. For a moment, she thought about changing her mind and agreeing to go with him. But, two things kept her from volunteering to accompany him, besides her sheer stubbornness: the thought of dressing in a bathing suit, exposing skin that had been bruised and scarred and the fear that the effort would actually help.
The second objection was in direct conflict with the desire to walk again soon. It was perplexing to have both contradictory feelings. She didn't want to stay an invalid, dependent on others to carry or wheel her around, but something bothered her about standing on her own limbs. Most likely it was that the process of placing one foot in front of another would be painful and slow.
Setting aside those thoughts, she let the sunshine spread across her face.
After the week, she'd come to remember many things. Not everything came to light, but there was one period of time on Salanacon when she blacked out. The events around those had been especially disturbing. Before she meditated with Archer tonight, she wanted to jolt her own memory to see if there was more she could uncover.
Closing her eyes, enjoying the warmth on her skin, she tried to relax as she let the images of the cave and Ral come to her. She could see a purple figure leaned over her with a malicious smile.
"You blacked out," he said.
Shaking, she realized her stomach felt weak as if on the verge of nausea. The smell that covered her and the feeling that crept around her insides caused her to become sick suddenly.
He continued to speak, as if boasting or bragging about her as a conquest … as if she was only now paying for the violence done to his people. What brought her back to him was a comment he made, a snarl dangling on his lips.
"I saw a tear trickle out of your eye, Vulcan. Very satisfying."
T'Pol shook herself and focused on that incident, trying to detach herself, as she had when reviewing almost every other event including when her ears where cut away from her.
Ral's red eyes had watched her as he'd begun to disrobe, noting her disgust or fear. Her eyes had slipped shut to meditate and chant ancient words that Surak had long ago whispered.
He drew closer still, caressing her cheek.
"Please don't," she whispered.
Strands of her hair brushed through his fingertips and fell limply around her head. His mouth found her ear and he nibbled on it as if he were a lover.
"If you keep your eyes on me, I won't let the others harm you," he whispered.
She shivered.
"All you have to do is keep your eyes on me."
"No," she said.
"You people think you're so much better than we are. You've been telling us what to do for centuries. And the one time we ask for your help, you aren't there for us."
She shook her head and tried to form the ancient words in her mind.
"We asked for help, you didn't give it to us. We asked for technology, you didn't give it to us. And when constructed something to save our planet, your people demanded we stop."
She spoke, her voice shivering. "What you'd created would kill many innocent--"
"Innocent people like my father? He died because of you and your … people."
When her eyes opened to stare at him, she saw her captain wielding the same angry glare he had when he'd threatened her in Starfleet Medical. Instead of coolly retracting from his emotional outburst, she heard herself gasp.
"No," she said aloud. Her eyes flung open and her breath caught in her throat.
Every time she thought about this particular event, she thought about Archer as if the two were connected.
She'd weighed the similarities between Ral and Captain Archer before. There were many, as ludicrous as the notion seemed on the surface.
Ral's family had been torn apart – his father murdered - because the Vulcans refused to act. The hatred in the young Salan, as he watched his father tumble to the ground during the Rodaran attack must've been seething for years, waiting for an opportunity to manifest itself.
Jonathan Archer's father, she'd learned, died of a genetic disease completely unrelated to any foreign attack. But, Henry Archer never had the chance to see his engine work and fly, or his son follow in his footsteps. Apparently, according to the records she'd seen from Soval, Henry had been close for years, but the Vulcans had placed more "red tape" around the effort, making it nearly impossible – no matter his engineering skill – for him to accomplish the feat.
Henry's son must've known that; it's what sparked his disgust at the Vulcan High Command, possibly to Soval in particular. Although the Vulcans saw they were holding back the technology until it was completely safe, and a single human life wouldn't be lost; T'Pol could understand the other side of the equation. Humans gave their lives for adventure constantly. The will to achieve was part of what made them the species they were. The history of space flight itself, Russian and American, had been fraught with disasters, but humans willingly risked their lives in the endeavor. Earthlings even remembered the names of those astronauts, scientists and ships that had perished in the flight, but more than that, they recalled and reveled in the dream. Archer and his fellow humans envisioned a limitless existence where they could travel amongst the stars and join the exploration.
It was a misunderstanding that kept the Vulcans from allowing them to continue down that path. Vulcans valued logic above all other things, and reason led them to believe life was more important. Meddling, even to ensure lives were saved, was seen by humans as preventing them from achieving their destiny.
Strangely, T'Pol understood that Archer was aware of how the Vulcans felt on the matter. To some degree, he was justified in being angry that the Vulcans weren't willing to comprehend how the Earthlings must feel.
T'Pol sighed and stared at the backyard, the trees were swaying gently in the breeze.
There were other similarities between Ral and Archer.
Ral was a leader among his people. Although he'd never divulged his status or position, she gathered he had weight with the community. The way he carried himself – despite being short in stature, he stood tall and upright - and the way he spoke – a loud, rumbling voice that commanded those around him – reminded her of the captain. His eyes, red and beady though they were, demanded respect from those around him and they were steeled as if wearing the mantle of authority.
Salans followed Ral blindly, no matter what he told them; they would do his bidding as if their lives depended on that order. And when they spoke to him, he considered their opinions silently as if he had final say.
Archer, as captain of the Enterprise, demanded and earned respect. The way he marched down the corridors of the ship, his broad shoulders and chin poised as if no man would question him, demonstrated assurance. Trip used to tease that he walked as if he owned the ship, as if it were in his personal name.
The captain's eyes held intensity and sometimes just with a glance, he could make men crumble. During occasional disagreements between Archer and Reed, she watched the Brit – a man who wouldn't cave easily - tremble sometimes at a single look from his commander.
Disrupting the analysis, a memory flittered across her brain, and like an annoying fly, she swatted it away. It unsettled her. It was too unnerving to review by herself. Something about this particular feeling compelled her to hold this recollection at bay.
There will be time to reveal what's troubling me later. I need to prepare first.
As she heard Archer enter the front door, she wheeled out to meet him. His hair was still damp and his body held beads of water.
"Your swim was longer today."
"I tried a sport they call Go-aloo; it's kinda like surfing, but on a much smaller board, and for some reason the object is to get knocked off by large waves. I didn't have much trouble at that."
He grinned as she furrowed her brows. Humans, no matter how much time she spent on Enterprise, never ceased to amaze her with pursuit and amusement at trivial matters.
"I'd like you to come by my room tonight at 1900 hours," she said.
"After dinner?" he asked.
She could understand his puzzlement, dinner was typically served at 1900.
"I will not be taking dinner. The process we will go through tonight will be easier without it."
As he was about to pepper with her questions, she rolled away to save her energy for the hours of meditation it would take to be ready for tonight.
------
T'Pol, after spending hours on her bed, finally dragged herself from it to light candles and prepare for Archer's arrival. Waiting for him to arrive, stretched out over the floor – her legs tucked neatly to the side – her robe fanned out mostly covering her. A small scar along her calf almost caused a frown to form on her face. Rather than give in, she leaned over and covered it, keeping it from her own gaze.
I cannot be afraid of what is uncovered, she reminded herself. This is an exploration.
A quiet knock on the door, brought her back into the moment and she called him in.
"Enter."
Nervously stepping in, he gave a half-smile and then for some unknown reason shut the door behind him. Giving a light cough and then stepping from one foot to the other, he finally asked for instruction.
"Do you want me to sit?"
"Yes," she said.
Crouching, he clumsily let his body crumple to the ground. After switching positions a few times, she intervened.
"You should be comfortable."
Nodding, he gave one last shift until he was sitting Indian style across from her and when she knew he was settled her eyes slipped closed.
"What do I do next?" he asked.
"Think about Salanacon and be here for me if I need you."
"Of course."
It was times like this she thought of the candle – the glistening flame dancing in the air when sparked to life and then remaining still, despite its glow.
Taking deep breaths, she relaxed into her thoughts and let the events come back to her slowly, even the painful memories she'd shooed away earlier.
She imagined herself to be in the cave, where it was dark and dank. Envisioning the water dripping slowly from the walls, falling in pools of condensation, she heard them echo with a "ka-plop." A faint whisper, men who hid themselves behind others, could barely be heard. And finally above all the sounds, there was Ral's voice. The Salan language mimicked something like Spanish or French, it had a certain softness to it with few guttural words. His particular voice was low and although he spoke in Vulcan, his accent cut through with the seduction of his planet's tongue.
And then she saw. The barely flickering torches that lit the cave and cast shadows onto nearly everything, giving them a more gloomy and mysterious quality. The men behind, all of varying heights and sizes, appeared as waves of gray. There were a few henchmen, those who commanded more respect, every once in a while she saw one of them poke through the crowds to speak with Ral.
Ral.
She saw him - his dark purple skin and red beady eyes. His smile was crooked, mostly around his lips, though his teeth were straight and polished. For a Salan, she was certain some would consider him handsome although she found him displeasing to the eye.
Perhaps it was the odor. The smell of decay and death lingered around her nostrils as if that was his breath. When he whispered into her face, she took in the sour stench and tried to nonchalantly turn her nose without showing her disapproval.
Ral drew close, caressing her cheek, sliding his long purple fingers along her face. The look on his face was lusty and the crooked grew larger.
"Please don't," she whispered. His touch, and what it might mean, terrified her much more than him breaking her limbs.
Strands of her hair brushed through his fingertips and fell limply around her head. His mouth found her ear and he nibbled on it as if he were a lover – his tongue slid along the slope of it and his teeth gingerly caught her earlobe.
"If you keep your eyes on me, I won't let the others harm you," he whispered into her ear.
She shivered.
"All you have to do is keep your eyes on me."
"No," she said. Ancient words hummed in her mind.
Removing some of his clothing, which caused the shadows behind him to hoot with laughter and approval, he stalked closer to her.
"You don't like the way I look?" he asked.
She didn't comment.
"Of course. Your kind is only attracted to their own."
Intent on keeping silent about her preferences, which had gone outside her own race – like the feelings she once had for Trip - she bit her lip.
"Your people think you're so much better than we are."
"No," she whispered.
"You've been telling us what to do for centuries."
His lips fell along her throat and she felt a sharp prick in her arm. The swimming in her head lead her to believe it was either a muscle relaxant or a depressant to calm her.
"The one time we ask for your help, you aren't there for us," he said.
She shook her head. The sound – the water dripping off the walls – became louder and she strained to hear what Ral had to say.
"We asked for help, you didn't give it to us. We asked for technology, you didn't give it to us. And when we constructed something, your people demanded we stop."
She spoke, her voice shivering as cold suddenly gripped her body. "Many lives would be lost--"
"And so you let us suffer," he said. "Innocent people like my father."
"There were other choices," she whispered, slurring a little. "There are now. If you release me--"
"You don't get to decide, Vulcan. This is not your galaxy! You do not rule us all!"
"Please, Ral, listen to reason. Right now, you're volatile." The words slipped from her mouth, but her tongue had trouble forming the words.
"Volatile! You have no idea how much I'm restraining myself from knocking you on your ass right now."
Suddenly, T'Pol's eyes drooped. Through a foggy haze of delusion, she saw her captain above her kissing angrily at her lips and begin freeing her shoulders of her clothes. As her eyes fluttered back into her head, she heard herself say a few words.
"Captain?"
His tongue flicked out at her mouth as she struggled below him for a moment.
"Vulcans never understand that it is our anger that makes us who we are. It helps us carry on, even after we've lost everything else that's important."
"I know there are other emotions you carry. I've seen them."
The image softened and she imagined her leaning above her smiling, instead of angry, as he'd been before. The two were fully clothed – he in a gray shirt and sweat pants – and she wearing her pajamas. It was late at night, and she was sitting on her bed with the light faintly glowing behind her.
"Oh?" he asked, crouching down.
"Yes. I've seen compassion."
"Is that all?" he teased.
The whole feeling of everything between them felt like conversations they had when they'd just started to become friends. And for an instant, T'Pol recognized this was an illusion. Just as the pain of reality threatened to settle in, Archer took her hand.
"Hey, keep talking to me," he said.
"I'm unsure what to say."
"To be fair, I think you're the one who called me here."
"Yes," she whispered. She stroked his cheek, tenderly. "May I call you by your first name?" she asked.
"I wish you would."
"Jonathan," she said, marveling at how alien the word sounded. "I think you know why you're here."
"I suppose I do," he said sadly.
"I need your help."
"I know. We're trying."
"I'm frightened. Vulcans … Vulcans don't feel afraid." A tear worked itself to her eye and then fell down her cheek. He caught it on his finger and examined it.
"T'Pol," he whispered. "It's okay. It's normal to be scared."
She bit her lip. For a moment, she felt drawn back to the woman who was in a cave - as if the creature torturing her had also reached for her tear. Just as her vision started to fade, Archer friend reached for her hand.
"Keep your eyes on me. I won't leave you."
The Vulcan slowly opened her eyes and the flood of memories came back to her. Although everything didn't come to light, she knew she could explore some of it without falling apart. It certainly would be something she'd investigate for the next few weeks.
"T'Pol?"
She noticed her captain across from her staring on in worry. Leaning forward, he caught her arm cautiously.
"We've been here for hours. I was about ready to--"
She didn't comment.
"You don't look well, maybe I should contact Phlox?"
"No," she said. Her eyes traveled to his hand still wrapped around her arm, which at her gaze fell away.
"What can I do?"
"Would you help me to the bathroom?" she asked. The lunging in her stomach wouldn't permit her to ease into her chair and then casually wheel to the room.
Slipping his arms around her, he carried her there and she asked him to sit her in front of sink where at least she could lean against the porcelain. As if understanding her dilemma, he turned on the faucet and gratefully, she placed her hands under the water and splashed her face. Her tummy settled and with long, slow breaths she regained a little of the calm she had before.
"You all right?" he asked.
"They gave me a drug … something that made me believe … that you were my attacker … at least at first."
Splashing cold water on her face again, she shivered at the notion. The Salans had meant to deal her a psychological blow. Odd that she conjured his face as a beacon to ignore the events around her. It hadn't been Surak's ancient words inscribed in the Kir'Shara that helped her; it was the captain.
Seeing him and associating him, loosely, with the trauma on Salanacon certainly made it understandable why she had issues with him – why she would shy from his touch or smell the cave for moments at a time when he passed by – even if his presence assisted her.
Glancing up in the mirror, she saw her captain had gone ash-colored and his eyes were becoming a little watery, without the tears managing to spill over.
"Captain?" she whispered.
"I don't …." he said, hoarsely. He shook his head as if unable to speak.
"Obviously, it wasn't you."
He nodded, although the horror on his face hadn't subsided. Without thinking, she reached out to grab his hand.
"Seeing you … it assisted me."
He furrowed his brow.
"Your friendship. I clung to it even in my darkest hours like a tether that binds a boat to land. It helped me think about other things than what happened there. You helped me."
He was still stupefied, and she wasn't sure she could blame him; she was struck a little speechless, too.
"Could you help me to my bed?" she asked.
Swinging her in his arms, he took her to where she asked and she settled back. Feeling a little exhausted, she realized tonight was a breakthrough and she also realized it would be nice to have Archer there meditating with her every night, if it wasn't too much to ask.
"Will you come again tomorrow?"
He didn't answer, but tried to search for the words and T'Pol realized the fact he was her attacker at one point was unnerving him a little.
"May I call you by your first name?" she asked. It was an odd request, one she'd never made before and something she could only remembering doing once before.
He looked and nodded to her.
"Jonathan, on Salanacon, you saved me more than once. And seeing into the past … it makes me realize the only association between you and what happened is that I conjured up your image to help me because I was … because I was frightened."
Relief spread over his face, but he still seemed a little confused. There was probably a lot to clear up, but she could do that another night.
"You are my closest friend," she whispered.
"You mean a lot to me, too," he said. A faint smile drifted onto his face.
"I think there is much more to discuss, but perhaps we can save that for another night?"
He nodded.
"Thank you," she said. "I have been saying that frequently these days."
"That's what captains are for."
As he started to turn around and leave, she thought about correcting him. Although she understood that Vulcan and humans captains were dissimilar, she didn't believe for one moment other Starfleet captains would've volunteered so much of their time to one particular crewmen. Instead of bringing it to his attention, she silently thought that perhaps she'd have the honor of helping the captain one day. In fact, she'd make a point of it.
TBC
-----
A/N: Nope, not a psychology major, but thank you! (I think.) Neil Gaiman, a fabulous science fiction/fantasy/horror author, has wrote a little ditty to his friends now known as "The Writer's Prayer." There are many points, but my favorite is him asking to be able to tell the truth in a way that's meaningful and powerful, and yet with the truth in mind tell lies.
I did some research via the web about fear and recovery and some of the signs. I'm glad it comes across through T'Pol's actions.
Telaka, considering this was your story, you should take more credit! (Thank you.)
Rose, how many fics am I writing at once? I'm not sure I know either. "Price on His Head" and "Picking Up the Pieces" I believe are the only two I have other than this one, and this one is nearly wrapped up. There's "Some Rules," which begs an ending, but …. It's raining more here, I may get to it.
All, I have one more tough chapter ahead (next one) and then the "falling action." So, I lied, we'll have two more chapters. (Sorry, Goshabyn!) The next one will likely be this length.