Chapter 6

AU for the end of "Damage" and the first half of "The Forgotten"

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"There is still a great deal of residual Trellium in your system," Dr. Phlox said to T'Pol, his eyes on the sickbay scanning screen. "Why would you do this?"

Trip, standing near T'Pol, watched as she averted her eyes. In the last half-hour as Phlox examined her, the trembling in her hands had increased.

T'Pol glanced at Trip briefly before she straightened her spine and met the doctor's concerned gaze directly. She told him nearly the same story she'd told Trip, only leaving out the more private details of their relationship.

When she finished, Phlox looked at her for a long moment. "You know that trellium is lethal to Vulcans. Your neural pathways can't withstand prolonged exposure."

T'Pol was quiet for a while before responding. "I thought its effects would be minimal if taken in small doses."

Dr. Phlox pinned her with a direct but not unkind stare. "It's not," he said bluntly. "The trellium has had a cumulative effect. It will not be easy to counteract, if it is even possible."

Her eyes widened. "You cannot help me?"

Phlox's expression softened. "I did not say that. I am simply pointing out that a full recovery may not be achievable. But I can treat your symptoms."

Reaching for a hypospray, Phlox injected the medicine into T'Pol's vein. "This will significantly subdue the withdrawal symptoms. But they will return."

Trip remained quiet and still throughout this exchange. He was glad she was willing to be here, but he still felt uneasy. Not much time had passed since their trip to the cargo bay; he was still reeling under the weight of all he'd discovered since then.

Phlox turned to him after putting the hypospray back onto the nearby tray. "You knew about this, Commander Tucker?"

Trip bristled a little and shifted uncomfortably. Phlox's tone couldn't be called accusatory, but the question stirred up more than a small amount of guilt. "Not until yesterday," Trip finally answered grimly without elaborating. Phlox frowned but didn't press him for more information.

Berating himself had come easy as he'd stood alongside T'Pol, watching Phlox's usually cheerful face become serious and then concerned as he reviewed the results of her scans. For a month, Trip had been connected to T'Pol's mind, observing her emotions as they spun out of control. He couldn't help but feel as though he should've noticed.

Phlox turned back to T'Pol. "The hypospray I just gave you will help only for a few days. This will be difficult. And it won't happen overnight."

"I understand," she acknowledged softly, but a thread of determination gave it strength. She stood. "Thank you, doctor."

"Return at the first sign of problems," he advised.

T'Pol hesitated when Trip didn't move to follow her.

"I have to talk to Phlox about somethin' else," Trip said. "I'll see you later."

She hesitated, but after a long look, nodded and left.

Trip stared at the closed door for a few seconds before addressing Phlox.

"You think she's gonna be okay?"

Phlox frowned again. "She will improve," he said. "But she will need a lot of support."

"I agree. I'm just not sure how much good I can do."

"Support comes in many forms, not the least of which is your willingness to accompany her here. I assume you were the one to persuade her?"

Trip nodded. "Took awhile, though."

"I can imagine," Phlox said with a sigh. "Just take it slowly. Be open. Ask her what will help."

Trip looked around, suddenly aware that they were having this private conversation in the midst of a very busy sickbay. They'd been talking quietly, but it still made him uneasy.

"You got a few minutes to talk in your office, Doc?"

Phlox raised his eyebrows in surprise, but the expression was quickly replaced by a warm smile. "Of course."

The doctor's office was a bit messier than the last time Trip had been inside. But sickbay had been slow then, routine cases only. Phlox now had nearly every biobed full of casualties from the Xindi attack. It made sense that he'd have a few extra teacups and a leftover plate or two stacked amongst the Padds and other medical paraphernalia.

Phlox moved a sweater off a chair in front of his desk, gesturing for Trip to sit.

"How familiar are you with Vulcans?" Trip said after they both settled.

Phlox seemed taken aback. "That's a broad question, Mr. Tucker. Medically? Culturally? Socially?"

"I'm talkin' about their emotional abilities. I know they suppress them, but how similar are they to us? Humans and Denobulans seem to be pretty comparable in that area."

"I would agree. Nearly everything I learned in my human psychology residency was application of the same learning I'd had on Denobula." He paused, thinking. "Vulcans are different."

"I'd gathered that," Trip said dryly, a touch of irritation creeping into his voice.

Phlox laughed. "I don't mean to be obtuse. Just collecting my thoughts. I have access to some research, and of course my own notes on the topic." He picked up a Padd and accessed the file he wanted. His fingers brushed the screen as he scrolled through the text.

Finally, he set it down and sighed. "Unfortunately, Vulcan considers personal matters, including accessing and suppression of emotions, sacrosanct. There is very little published data on the subject, and certainly not any openly available peer-reviewed studies. However," he continued with a satisfied smile, "one of my colleagues, a Dr. Kol, was quite verbose and willing to share much about his culture in the name of science. Much of my knowledge comes from him."

He paused, his jovial demeanor turning more serious as he saw the look on Trip's face. "What specifically do you want to know?"

Trip took a deep breath, afraid to put his thoughts into words. On the way here to sickbay with T'Pol, a thought had struck him, and he just couldn't shake it. But saying it out loud felt like giving it power.

Still, he couldn't bear to leave the question unasked.

"You think they're capable of love?"

Phlox blinked, surprised, before his features softened into an expression of caring and sympathy.

"Yes. Most definitely."

Muscles Trip didn't know were tense suddenly relaxed. "You're sure?"

"Dr. Kol and I had several discussions on this topic. I think what we—humans, Denobulans, and Vulcans—define as love is essentially the same. But how we come by it, and how we express it, varies greatly."

"Meaning what?"

Phlox shrugged. "Just like other humanoids, Vulcans are diverse. Generalities are a poor substitute for individual accounts. How one Vulcan falls in love or shows love may be very close to a particular human experience. For others, it may be vastly different."

Trip shifted in his seat, frustrated by such a vague answer. "Maybe I'm not asking this right."

"What is your specific concern with regard to Commander T'Pol?" Phlox asked.

Trip appreciated that Phlox was cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

"The trellium let her experience emotions she couldn't before, right?"

Phlox cocked his head as if only partially agreeing. "If my understanding of Vulcans is correct, those emotions always existed within her. The trellium merely lifted a lifetime of suppression, easing access to them."

Trip hesitated. He needed to ask the question, but so much hinged on Phlox's answer. "So bein' with me—her feelings for me—are they all because of the trellium?"

Phlox's stare grew intense. "Did she express feelings of love to you?"

"Not in so many words. She said she was attracted to me. Said I was important to her."

Phlox frowned.

"Yeah," Trip said with a humorless laugh. "Not exactly professing her undying love."

"Is that what you wanted?"

Trip smiled, this time more truthfully. "No. I'd've balked a bit at that, I think."

Phlox smiled back. "Still, what she said is very personal. It is more than most Vulcans will express."

"It's just—" Trip paused and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. "I'm going to be there for her. Be her friend. Be support for her as she tries to get past this trellium addiction. I'm committed to that."

He stopped, thinking. It wasn't so much that he wanted T'Pol to love him. Hell, he couldn't make heads or tails of his own feelings at the moment; he had no idea what he wanted. But the fact remained that as each day passed, he was growing more deeply connected to her, fused to her, so much so that being without her was starting to seem impossible. If her love—real love—was impossible, he needed to find a way to keep from fully tumbling over that edge himself. He couldn't keep running down this road if all that lay at the end was a dead-end cliff of heartbreak.

"She will need you," Phlox said softly, breaking into Trip's thoughts.

"And I'm happy to support her," Trip said. "But it's a whole different ball game if her feelin's are mostly chemical, not really hers as she'd naturally have 'em, you know?"

"I understand." Phlox let silence fall, giving Trip some time to think. "It sounds like you feel as though this relationship is one-sided, with all the genuine emotion on your side."

"That about sums it up, I guess."

Phlox let silence fall, considering. After a moment, he asked, "Earlier you were concerned that this connection is forcing you to behave or think differently. Are you concerned that your connection with her is manufacturing feelings in you?"

Trip blinked in surprise. "I hadn't thought of that." He paused, considering. "I guess not. I was attracted to her before this. I respected her, liked her as a person."

He stopped, suddenly feeling vulnerable, as though finding the words to describe what he felt was the same as poking at a still-healing wound.

"The new connection has made me more aware of her. But I don't think it's forcin' me to feel things. It's just made my feelings for her stronger. Instead of just respectin' her, I admire the hell out of what she's facin' and tryin' to overcome. Instead of just feelin' bad for her, I'm feelin' bad with her. I feel a need to be her partner, by her side the whole way, not just her friend. And my desire for her has intensified along with all that." He took a deep breath before continuing. "But I'm tryin' to keep those feelings from gettin' any stronger."

"Why?"

"I'm not sure this connection is good. For either one of us."

Phlox raised his eyebrows. "How so?"

"It's just—" Trip stopped, rubbing his jaw in frustration as he tried to find the words to articulate his fears. "I can sense she needs to do this herself. Needs to overcome it herself. I can't do it for her."

"Yes," Phlox acknowledged. "But she will need support. A good deal of it."

"I get that, believe me," Trip said. "I'm just havin' a hard time compartmentalizin' it all. One one hand is a selfless desire to help her. On the other hand is my own…I don't know—" Trip searched for the word. "Obsession with her, I guess."

Phlox seemed surprised. "You're certain that's the right term?"

Trip threw his hands up in frustration. "I'm not sure what else to call it. This connection is deep, and it's gettin' deeper, and my feelin's are along for the ride. It's happenin' whether I want it to or not. I've tried to fight it, believe me. It hasn't worked." He caught Phlox's eyes. "Everything I do seems anchored to her."

"Did you ever consider that you might simply be in love with her?" Phlox's voice was gentle, compassionate.

Trip looked away. "I'm not sure I know what love is, really. I've had girlfriends. But this, with her—it's different. Intense." He looked back. "But bein' in love? I don't know."

Phlox looked thoughtful. "I'm afraid no one can answer that but you. And only time, and continued interaction with T'Pol, will help you determine the truth."

Trip sighed. "Look, I'm not what's important here. She is. Overcoming this trellium addiction is the only thing that matters. Because of that, stayin' close to her feels right, even if it might be a sacrifice of my own feelin's, long term. If she doesn't want me, I mean."

Phlox started to answer, then stopped before seeming to reconsider his words. "I think you may wish to consider discussing your concerns with T'Pol." Trip stiffened at the suggestion, and Phlox raised his hand in a placating gesture. "At least think about it. Even with your mental connection to her, your view is limited to your interpretations. Only she can truly describe the extent and authenticity of her own emotions."

That was not a conversation Trip felt ready for. "She's got enough on her plate right now."

"She has a right to know, Mr. Tucker," Phlox admonished him gently. "Besides, your telepathic connection with her could be beneficial." His smile turned encouraging. "Perhaps even an avenue for treatment, if you can influence her in the same way you believe she has influenced you."

Trip thought about the times he touched her and she calmed, or when he pushed the energy glow in his mind toward hers and she had a physical response as a result. "Maybe. But I don't think tellin' her is the right idea. Not yet."

Dr. Phlox frowned. "Why not?"

"She's unstable. Volatile. I think she needs to get her feet back under her again before she can handle thinkin' about whether or not she's stuck with me."

Phlox was quiet for so long that Trip looked up again. The Denobulan's stare was intense. Speculative. "She trusted you enough to reveal her greatest weakness, Mr. Tucker," he said quietly. "I don't think she'll see it as being 'stuck' with you."

Trip shrugged, feeling uncomfortable, suddenly desperate to end this conversation. "It's just not the right time, Doc. She's got too much to deal with. I'm not about to give her more than she can handle."

Phlox sighed in resignation. "Very well," he suggested. "But after I have analyzed the data from your neural monitor, it will become necessary to inform her. The only hindrance at this point is the fact that I have not determined the nature of your connection."

Trip raised his fingers to his ear and briefly swept them across the small bump where the monitor lay beneath his skin. "You're going to take a look at it soon?"

Phlox nodded. "It's been quite busy in sickbay of late, but in a few days, I will be able to review the data. You did report your symptoms have intensified. Have you noticed any other differences?"

"I can sense her from farther away," Trip said, thinking. "But I'm not sure there's anything else."

"Very well. I will study the results of the data and get back to you as soon as possible."

"Thanks, Doc." Trip stood and Phlox followed suit. "I appreciate you listenin' to me. I know I've been a bit of a nervous Nellie lately."

"Not without cause, Commander," Phlox said cheerfully. "We will continue to monitor the situation. In the meantime, I suggest focusing not on your worries, but instead on how you might provide support for T'Pol. She has a difficult battle ahead of her."

Trip nodded. "That's great advice. Thanks again."

"Anytime," Phlox said, and walked him to the door.

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Trip blinked once, rubbed his eyes, and then blinked again. The EPS grid in front of him wavered like heat wafting off asphalt on a Tallahassee summer afternoon.

He cleared his throat and took a deep breath, hoping that the extra oxygen would help keep him awake. He gripped the wrench a little tighter.

"Need some help, Sir?"

Crewman O'Connell's voice came from behind him, a little too damn cheerful for Trip's patience.

"Where have you been, Crewman?" Trip said, voice gravelly from lack of sleep.

O'Connell's spine snapped beyond straight as he assumed a position of attention in front of his commanding officer. "Lieutenant Kelby asked me to assist him with the starboard side bulkhead on D deck, sir."

Trip grunted and stood, coming over to O'Connell and getting a little closer than was comfortable. "Whose got a higher rank, O'Connell, Lieutenant Kelby or me?"

O'Connell's eyes slid over to Trip for a split second before snapping back to the wall in front of him. "You, sir."

"Then when I give an order, you'd better damn well follow it. I don't care what he told you. Is that clear?"

"Y-yes sir."

Trip's voice became a raspy growl. "What was that?"

"Yes sir!" O'Connell barked out with academy-precise diction.

"Good. Then get to it," Trip snapped, and held up the wrench. "This EPS grid ain't gonna miraculously repair itself."

When O'Connell stuck his hand out to grab it, Trip slapped it into his palm with enough force to sting. O'Connell flinched, but grabbed the tool and dropped to his haunches in front of the open access panel, looking earnest and just a tad bit desperate.

Trip stood by, arms crossed, and felt a perverse satisfaction zip through him. He relished this opportunity to let off a little steam. Guilt beckoned at his treatment of the kid, but Trip ruthlessly smothered it. The last few days had been anything but easy.

Since he'd left sickbay after talking to Phlox, Trip had been determined to compartmentalize. He'd shoved his confusion over his feelings for T'Pol to one side and did his best to only concentrate on supporting her. Being there for her as she battled both withdrawal and her unpredictable emotions.

Trouble was, he still had a job to do. The ship was flying, but barely. The stolen warp coil had proven effective, but the impulse engines, the EPS grid, the hull plating, the weapons, even the artificial gravity had needed repair. Trip's small team had been running ragged, knowing that they had to get everything done as quickly as possible.

They'd rendezvoused with Degra's ship just a few hours before, and being in such close proximity to Xindi, even friendly ones, made Trip antsy. Captain Archer was convinced Degra wasn't leading them into a trap, but Trip uneasy with the chances they were taking, being here so vulnerable. A hull with barely 70% integrity wasn't going to last long in another battle. And if they couldn't shoot back, then this whole exercise was pointless.

In the last two days, he'd run himself and his crew ragged, doing everything he could to minimize their weaknesses. He felt like they'd barely made a dent, and they were already here, Xindi onboard and being ferried around by Captain Archer, demanding proof that Earth and humans weren't their enemy.

All this meant that ship's repairs, and not his worry for T'Pol, had had to take precedence. He'd accepted it, begrudgingly. He'd taken to try to match his schedule to hers, as much as he could allow, but the urgent situation aboard ship meant that routines and schedules were damn near impossible. He'd caught up to her once in the mess hall and another time in a briefing, but they'd had no time to talk. He'd had to settle for a quick visual assessment, but she appeared to be managing fairly well.

With so little to go on, Trip needed something else to further assuage his uneasiness. Trip checked on her presence in his mind a few times an hour, reassuring himself that she was surviving. Making headway on her own. More often than not, her glow was right where he'd left it, steadier and brighter than he'd seen it before, and the warmth of her presence reassured him.

Occasionally he'd discover that she was flickering, fading back into that feather-like flutter. He knew that meant she'd hit a bump in the road. In those moments, he had to steel himself against dropping everything and running to her. But every time it had happened, he'd been elbow-deep into a repair, a reminder that the ship took priority.

So he did what he could. He'd pause for a second, breathe deeply, and push his own presence up against hers until the glow returned, a signal that she had pushed past a momentary difficulty.

But none of that mental connection could fulfill the ache he felt, a bone-deep demand that he see her face-to-face, talk to her, touch her, hold her. He couldn't tell if she craved him in the same way he craved her. His own emotions, his own need, overpowered anything he could sense from her except those fleeting moments of struggle.

The only way to find out if they were anywhere close to the same page was to carve out some time to spend together. He doubted T'Pol would admit it, but they both needed it. They needed each other.

But the ship's scars tugged him away from her, again and again.

A cascade of sparks and then a burst of flames erupted beside him, jerking Trip out of his thoughts. O'Connell fell backward onto the deck, the EPS grid flaring in front of him. Trip grabbed an extinguisher and doused the fire.

The second Trip saw O'Connell was relatively uninjured, his ire exploded. "What the hell are you doing, O'Connell?"

"I'm sorry sir! I tried—"

"Forget it! Get your ass back up to D deck and report to Lieutenant Kelby. You've done enough damage—ship's already fallin' apart."

"Yes, sir," O'Connell said, not meeting his eyes, and took off down the corridor.

"Sanchez!" Trip called out.

Ensign Sanchez popped her head around the bend in the corridor where she'd been working on a faulty door.

"You and Peterson 'bout done yet?"

"Yes, sir. Just fitting the cover back on the access panel now."

"Good. Get over here when you're done and clean up O'Connell's mess."

"Yes, sir," Sanchez said, and disappeared around the corner again.

Trip leaned down and picked up the wrench O'Connell had dropped, slamming it back into the toolbox with more force than was necessary.

"A minute of your time, Commander?"

Trip looked up. T'Pol stood beside him, her face impassive. He stood. "Sure."

She gestured in front of her. "Accompany me to engineering?"

He nodded and they took off down the corridor.

"You were quite hard on Crewman O'Connell."

Her tone was more observant than accusatory.

Trip grunted. "Damn kid's in over his head."

T'Pol shot him a sideways glance. "You are usually quite patient with the more inexperienced crew."

"This isn't the time to be babyin' them."

"I agree that inexperienced crewmen shouldn't receive preferential treatment," T'Pol said, "but intimidation is not the most effective method to inspire excellence and efficiency."

Trip glared at the back of her head, but knew she had a point. "Yeah, so what are you suggesting, Commander?" he bit out.

She paused in the middle of the corridor and looked at him, eyebrow arched. "Patient instruction has always been your most valuable tool."

He frowned. "I've got barely a thimble full of patience at the moment."

Her eyebrow arched a bit higher before she turned and continued down the corridor. "I've noticed."

He gritted his teeth. "So what? I'm not allowed to have a short fuse? This ship has got more holes than Swiss cheese. Cut me some slack."

T'Pol stopped abruptly. "You are not yourself," she said bluntly.

"Look who's talkin'," Trip snapped back. When she stiffened, he sighed. "Sorry. I know. I've been burnin' the candle at both ends."

At her confused expression, Trip translated the idiom. "I'm a little tired."

Her posture relaxed. "When did you last sleep?"

Trip looked at the ceiling. "I got a coupla winks a few hours after we left sickbay."

T'Pol blinked at him. "That was two days ago."

Trip shrugged. "Then I guess it's been two days."

"Go to your quarters. Get some sleep," T'Pol said, and resumed her stride toward Engineering.

"I'd love to," Trip said, trailing behind her. "Believe me. But I don't have time."

She glanced back. "I could order you."

"I wouldn't follow it," he said bluntly. "You'd have to forcibly confine me. There are too many repairs left, and I can't afford to waste time sleepin'." In front of him, debris from a broken panel littered the corridor. He kicked it viciously. "Or any time to be writin' letters."

"Letters?"

Trip tersely recounted his most recent assignment. A day earlier, Trip had been called to Captain Archer's ready room, but he'd never expected this request. Archer had asked him to write a condolence letter to the parents of Crewman Jane Taylor, one of his engineering crew who'd been killed in the attack.

As he stood in front of the captain, frustration churned in his gut. "I'll get Rostov to write it. He—"

"I asked you to do it," Archer said. His voice was strong, but quiet and determined.

"Captain, I've got more repairs than I can possibly get to. I don't have time for this—"

"It's an order, Trip. Get it done." Archer held up a Padd.

Trip flinched, but took the Padd. "Yes, sir."

He'd left the Captain's ready room feeling equal parts dread and irritation. And everything since then just seemed to pile on. Twenty six hours later, he hadn't been able to write a word, and the duty weighed on him heavily.

Trip watched T'Pol's back as she strode purposefully down the corridor in front of him. He wondered: did Vulcans write condolence letters? What must they sound like, from a race for which empathy was a foreign concept?

He'd written a few of these letters before. They were difficult in the best of times. But now? When the ship was barely holding together? When he'd lost more than one good engineer? When, for all he knew, T'Pol was hangin' on to her sanity and her sobriety by her fingernails?

No, this letter might be the stressor that broke him.

"I haven't been able to write a single word," Trip admitted to T'Pol as he finished filling her in. He kicked another piece of debris down the corridor in front of him, watching as it ricocheted off the walls with a semi-satisfying thunk.

"Crewman Taylor's family will appreciate the gesture," T'Pol said quietly as they turned a corner.

Trip's frustration and guilt swelled. "I know, but—" He and T'Pol staggered as the deck rocked. "Damn it! What is it now?" he groaned, and took off running down the corridor toward Engineering.

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An auxiliary coolant leak on E deck had led to a fire in a corridor, badly burning one of Trip's engineers. The domino effect it had set in motion had taken the new warp coil off-line, and four hours later, Trip was in Engineering, finally figuring out what had caused the problem.

Ensign Chen stood in front of the terminal, scrutinizing the results of the diagnostic tests they'd run. He'd been standing there for awhile, but Trip knew once he took a glance over his shoulder what Chen had missed.

"Look!" Trip jabbed a finger at a read-out on the corner of the screen. "It was a microfracture. Right there."

"I did a pressure test first, sir, but—"

"Not good enough," Trip bit back. "Jameson's in sickbay. And you're responsible."

Chen blanched. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry sir."

"Save it for Jameson. Test the whole system again. Now!"

"Aye, sir!" Chen turned back to the panel, jaw clenching.

Trip spun away, leaving Chen behind before he bit the man's head off again. He knew it wasn't really Chen's fault—crises were popping up right and left as they tried to get damaged systems back online. It could have happened to any of them. Microfractures were especially hard to detect.

"Commander?"

Trip paused only slightly at Phlox's voice behind him. He didn't have time for this.

"I'm kinda swamped right now, Doc."

"I can see that. But I've heard you haven't slept in more than 48 hours."

Trip glanced back at Phlox who was trailing behind him as he strode down the corridor. "T'Pol say somethin' to you?"

Phlox dipped his head in acknowledgement. "She is concerned about you."

Frowning, Trip turned his inner sight toward her presence in his mind. He was surprised to find her presence up against his this time, instead of him pushing towards her. He realized that her proximity was the only reason he hadn't completely unloaded on Chen a few minutes earlier.

Odd that he hadn't realized it. Still, it didn't change the fact that the ship was still in bad shape, and he was the one in charge of plugging the holes.

"I'll have to thank her for carin', but I don't have time to take a break."

"And if you collapse from exhaustion? We'll be much worse off then, Mr. Tucker."

Trip didn't stop, just waved over his shoulder in an attempt to dismiss Phlox. "Thanks for your concern, Doc. But I've got things to do."

"I don't think so, Commander."

Trip stopped and turned to face him. "What?"

"I'm relieving you of duty."

Trip's mouth dropped open. "You can't do that!"

"I assure you, I can." Not even a hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Phlox's mouth. Trip had never seen him so serious.

"I'm fine!"

Phlox raised an eyebrow. "One of the many benefits of that neural monitor you're wearing is that it records exceptionally accurate data."

Trip's eyes narrowed. "You're not supposed to be lookin' for exhaustion."

Phlox shrugged. "I look at all the data. And yours is approaching critical. Six hours of sleep, Commander. And then you can return to duty."

"That's not going to happen. If I sleep for six hours, there won't be a ship left for me to fix when I come back." He paused. "I could maybe do two."

"Six. I can't be any clearer."

Trip grimaced. "How about four?"

Phlox stared him down before nodding once. "You have a deal. But no less."

"Fine," Trip said through clenched teeth.

The comm panel nearby crackled to life, and then, "Captain Archer to Dr. Phlox."

His eyes on Trip, Phlox stepped over to the panel. "Phlox here, Captain."

"I need you in sickbay."

"Understood. I'm on my way." Phlox closed the comm link and stood still, arms crossed in front of him.

Trip waited for Phlox to walk away. When he didn't, he crossed his own arms. He nodded his head toward the comm panel. "The Cap'n needs you."

Phlox nodded tersely but didn't move. "I am well aware."

Trip slumped his shoulders. "Fine. I'll go."

"Four hours, Mr. Tucker. Not a minute less."

"I got it," Trip grumbled, and walked away toward his quarters, his boots pounding the deck a little harder than necessary.

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Trip's eyelids felt like sandpaper when they popped open an immeasurable amount of time later. He'd fallen into his bunk, hadn't even pulled off his dirty uniform, when he'd entered his cabin.

He rolled over, every muscle protesting, and tried to blink away the discomfort in his eyes. Reaching up a hand that felt like lead, he tapped the computer access near his bed.

"Computer, time?"

The panel lit up, displaying the answer: 0400.

Trip closed the link. That meant he'd slept for about three and a half hours. Good enough.

Trip sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bunk, groaning. A weight of responsibility settled on him, but he pushed past it and stood, stretching, back popping.

Where to start? Trip considered. If he didn't want Phlox on his case about not getting a full four hours, he should probably stick around crew quarters for another 30 minutes at least. He knew Phlox could probably tell when he woke up by the data from this damn neural monitor, but he doubted the doctor was scrutinizing it that closely.

His eyes settled on the Padd still sitting on his desk. He still needed to write this letter for Crewman Taylor's parents. Might as well make a stab at it. Get it over with.

He winced at the callousness of his thoughts. Picking up the padd, he turned it on. "Computer, open a new mail."

The computer beeped its compliance.

"Begin dictation. 'To Whom It May Concern—'" Trip took a deep breath, paused, and then his mind went blank.

"Computer, delete. End dictation."

The computer beeped again. Trip rubbed his eyes and yawned, desperate for inspiration to strike him. He let his mind wander to Taylor, what he remembered about her.

She'd been a damn good engineer.

She'd died when the section that housed her crew quarters had decompressed. He lifted the Padd and opened the work orders. There it was—the bulkhead in the section with her quarters had been repaired yesterday. He sighed. It had been the section Kelby had repaired with O'Connell's help.

A twinge of guilt surfaced again at his treatment of O'Connell. He'd have to apologize to the kid sometime soon. T'Pol was right—it wasn't his style to be so gruff. And he didn't want to beat the kid into submission, verbally or otherwise.

Trip set the Padd back down on his desk and left his quarters, heading for the turbolift. Her quarters were on D deck, starboard side. All the junior officers were quartered there; Taylor had been in her cabin, alone, her bunkmate on duty, when the Xindi weapon had struck, decompressing her quarters almost instantaneously.

Flinching, Trip pushed back the image his imagination had conjured at the thought of her death. The turbolift doors opened, and Trip turned left, then left again, heading toward the line of junior officer's quarters that ringed the outer edge of the ship.

Debris littered the hallway. Fallen struts and broken panels lay in scattered piles like scrapyard refuse. He wove his way through the mess, reaching Taylor's quarters, using a little elbow grease to pry open her door and step inside.

It didn't take long to find evidence she'd lived here. A photo lay on her desk, glass shattered. She was smiling in it, arms locked around two other women about her age as they squinted in the sunshine and laughed at the camera. Sorrow and guilt surged within him.

"What are you doing here, sir?"

Trip whipped around at the voice. Crewman Taylor stood there, her face lit up by a glow coming from some unknown origin. She was pretty, he thought. Fresh-faced. At the beginning of what would have been a wonderful life—

Trip's eyes widened. "You're here."

Crewman Taylor smiled. "Yes, sir."

"But you're dead."

She shrugged. "Can I help you with something?"

Trip blinked, suddenly unable to process. Was he dreaming? Seeing a ghost?

At the moment, it didn't seem important to know.

Taylor's eyes narrowed in scrutiny. "Do you need help writing the letter to my parents?"

Trip gaped at her. "How did you know?"

She shrugged again. "What's taking you so long? Captain Archer asked you to write it a few days ago."

Wincing, Trip looked away. "I got as far as 'To Whom It May Concern—'"

Taylor frowned. "That's it? It doesn't have to be long."

Trip couldn't answer.

"You can't think of anything to write, can you?" Taylor finally said, her voice sounding pained. "You knew me for three years, Sir."

"You don't have to call me Sir. You're dead."

She acted like she hadn't heard him. "You asked me to be on your team. You pulled me off the Saratoga, even though it made my captain pretty angry."

Trip smiled, remembering. "You were worth it."

Taylor stepped closer, desperation in her eyes. "Please, Sir. Remember the best about me. You said I'd be a great Chief Engineer one day."

"You will—" Trip stopped, swallowed. "You would have been."

Her eyes filled with tears. "Then tell my parents that. Please. Tell them about how well I did my job. How much you liked me. How much everyone liked me."

Taylor's eyes were swallowing him whole. Trip stepped around her, desperate to leave, and escaped to the corridor, breathing heavily.

She, or her ghost, didn't follow.

"Have you forgotten about me, too?"

A moan escaped Trip as he recognized the voice. Lizzy.

Need overcame his self-preservation, and Trip turned to see his little sister, Lizzy, standing in Crewman Taylor's doorway. She was wearing Taylor's uniform, her hair arranged in the same way, but there was no mistaking those wild blonde curls and her vivid blue eyes.

She stepped closer. Trip backed up, pressing himself against the wall.

"You have, haven't you?" she whispered. "You've forgotten me. You promised, big brother. You promised to take care of me."

"I know!" Trip said, his voice breaking. He leaned forward, reaching for her, but she flinched back. "It's my fault. If I hadn't been out here—if the Xindi hadn't thought we were a threat—"

"Yes," Lizzy said, but not harshly. "I didn't have to die. But I did. And you had one job, Trip. To remember me. To honor me."

"To avenge you." Trip said, crying now.

"I don't want that," Lizzy said, tears tracking down her cheeks. "I just want you to remember me. Never forget what I meant to you."

"What you mean to me, not meant," he corrected. "I haven't forgotten you."

"You forgot her," she said, and motioned to Crewman Taylor, who had come up to stand beside her. "We are the same, she and I."

"No!"

"Yes. Her family grieves like mine. You're forgetting me when you forget her."

"Will you forget me, too?"

The voice came from down the corridor, and Trip saw T'Pol standing in the shadows. He couldn't make out her features.

"But you're alive," he said feebly.

"For now," she said, and moved into the light. It was T'Pol, but the version of her she must've been in her nightmare. Her beautiful features were damaged, green lesions marring the entire left side of her face, snaking down into the collar of her jumpsuit.

"This is a dream," Trip said, pushing back against the wall again. "You're not like this—you're not—"

"I will be," T'Pol said. "This is what I will become. I can't heal without you. You're avoiding me." She stepped closer. "You're forgetting me."

"You're forgetting me," Lizzy moved closer.

"You're forgetting me," Taylor stepped forward, reaching toward him.

And then all three surrounded him, hands reaching, needing him, and the guilt overwhelmed, closing over his mouth, his eyes, his head, and he drowned.

.

.

Trip shot up in his bunk, gasping. His hands clenched at empty air, reaching for T'Pol, Lizzy, even Crewman Taylor.

God, his heart was breaking. He took a shuddering breath, and sobs threatened to overwhelm him.

He lurched off the bed, crying out, punching his locker with so much force it left a dent. Anger surged, mixing with the grief, whipping each into a frothing frenzy.

This was why he hadn't wanted to sleep. Damn Phlox and his concern to hell. He didn't need this. Pressure sat behind his chest wall, all that grief and anger churning like a geyser about to erupt.

He turned, pacing, trying to breathe through it, trying to calm himself. Minutes later, his agitation only growing, Trip stumbled, white streaks like lightning crossing his vision.

T'Pol.

Like before, Trip instinctively knew what was happening: T'Pol was in the throes of a nightmare herself. Grateful to focus on something beside his own grief and anger, he turned his thoughts inward, toward her. Her presence lay there, pulsing, writhing. He rushed towards her, but this time, instead of being reassured by his presence, instead of melding with him, she pushed herself farther away, flattening her glow into a sparking sheet against the wall of his mind.

She was afraid of him.

Trip couldn't breathe. What was different? Why would she be afraid of him?

A horrible thought suddenly occurred to him: had his nightmare ignited hers? His grief, his anger, amplified her own pain?

God, the guilt was crushing him. He sank to his knees with the weight of it.

Dream Lizzy had been right. He'd forgotten her. Forgotten Crewman Taylor. Forgotten T'Pol. He couldn't help Lizzy and Taylor, not anymore. But he could help T'Pol.

Trip pushed to his feet, staggering toward the door. T'Pol was right down the corridor, and he felt like a zombie, mindless but for his need to soothe her and in doing so, himself. He opened her cabin and stumbled inside.

Her bed, its sheets and blankets tangled, was empty.

He found her in the shower, tucked into a corner on the floor, her knees pulled up to her chest. She was keening quietly, a sound that broke his heart. Steam wafted around her as she rocked on the floor.

"T'Pol?"

Her eyes lifted to his, and the brokenness in them broke him. She pried one hand away from her knees and reached trembling fingers toward him.

It was all the encouragement he needed. Trip toed off his socks, unzipped his uniform, pulling his undershirt off and letting his pants slide low on his hips. In an instant, he was beside her on the floor, pulling her away from the wall and wrapping her in his arms. His uniform pants were soaked in seconds, but he dismissed the discomfort, letting the hot water pound down on them, and held her close, his chest to her back, skin against skin, his hands gripping her firmly.

She pressed her forehead against the curve of his neck, clutching at him like he would save her from drowning in her misery. Her breaths were shuddery, and Trip realized his own were too. They were both crying, cleansing whatever despair had been festering within them, alone.

Eventually they quieted, breathing slowing, the longer they stayed connected.

Trip cautiously checked inside his mind. Only one glow existed now, and he discovered with astonishment that it was both of them, so tightly woven together that he could no longer distinguish between his glow and hers.

"You okay?" he finally said, voice roughened by exhaustion and emotional release.

"Yes," she said, and pulled back slightly.

She looked up at him, and Trip was struck by the intimacy of the moment. He was suddenly glad he'd had the presence of mind to keep his uniform pants on. They were soaked, but they at least provided a layer between him and T'Pol's soft, warm skin.

T'Pol looked like she was going to start questioning him, but panic seized him. He wasn't ready to explain their connection.

"I'll give you some privacy," he said, pulling away from her and standing, holding his soaking pants up before the weight of the water pulled them down.

"There are towels beside the door," she said softly.

Trip nodded and slipped out. He bypassed the towels as he dripped on her floor, heading toward the door, away from her tempting presence and back to his own quarters.

.

.

A/N: This chapter took a turn I wasn't really planning, but I'm going with it. A few notes:

1. I have found the website CX-1 really helpful. It has blueprints of the Enterprise NX-O1. I haven't researched to determine if they're actually affiliated with the show's creators, but the plans make a lot of sense and nothing in the show has contradicted what I've seen there. Understanding the ship's layout has really helped this spatially challenged fanfic writer be a little more accurate in the details.

2. I deliberately chose not to stick too close with the original plot lines for the episode, "The Forgotten." There are some A & B stories that don't involve Trip & T'Pol, or involve them in a way that will pull away from my story. So here, there is no microfracture leak that has to be fixed from the outside. So no EV suits for Trip, even in the next chapter (I don't think).

Thanks so much to everyone who has been reading and reviewing this story! I know I'm slow on the updates, but I want to get it right, and real life hasn't been too forgiving lately. I can make a promise to update eventually, just not when.