Chapter 8
A/U for "E2"
A/N: This chapter got L-O-N-G, but you've had to wait a long time for it. So here ya go.
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Anger had many shades.
T'Pol considered this new awareness as she stared at her meditation candles, the golden flames surrounding her. She'd spent the past hour at her computer terminal, running the calculations for the upcoming trip through the subspace corridor for the tenth time. She did not need to—her calculations had been precise and accurate the first time.
This type of task, however, gave her a sense of calm. The rote and repetitive nature, the inputs, the sequencing, the balance of the calculations, and the brief second the computer considered the complex math were soothing. Predictable.
Certain.
Nothing in her life had felt certain in quite some time. Nothing except her anger.
As it had simmered beneath the surface of her mind all day, T'Pol had reluctantly admitted she needed to confront it. She'd chosen this spot in front of her meditation candles for one specific purpose: their familiar glow brought some measure of peace and clarity. It was an appropriate setting for introspection, as uncomfortable as that introspection might be.
Anger might have been her primary emotion these past several days, but she was not naïve enough to think its genesis was so recent.
T'Pol's experimentation with trellium had had its roots in logic. Flawed logic, she had come to realize, but logic nonetheless. When she had made the decision to purposefully engage in chemical alteration of her mind, it had been a calculated risk. Deliberate, with all probabilities carefully weighed and measured.
She had severely miscalculated; that much was obvious. Long-term damage to her neural pathways was an outcome she hadn't foreseen, and with it came the frustrating inability to sufficiently suppress her emotions.
At first, the emotions she'd experienced had been intriguing, not to mention enticing and addicting. Happiness, satisfaction, pride, and even desire—those she had basked in, like a person long-denied the sun. Those emotions suffused her, buoying her to an energy and vitality she had never before experienced.
But T'Pol had come to understand through much adversity that emotion was not one-dimensional. This Xindi mission had been a crucible, and she had nearly been immolated by her own uncertainty, jealousy, insecurity, fear, regret—and now, anger.
It had burned, white-hot within her mind, when Trip had revealed his deception in sickbay just four days before. Her hands had trembled, not fully from withdrawal symptoms, but also from the strain of holding herself back. She had barely kept herself from striking him, her rage had flared so brightly.
She felt exposed and vulnerable, just as she had on her shower floor after her last nightmare. There had been so many of those moments lately, the ones where he had provided the solace she needed to become grounded again, much faster than she was able to do herself. That's why his deception had brought so much pain and vulnerability. This time, she had nowhere to turn.
Less than an hour before Trip's revelation, she'd stood in the corridor with him as he cried over his sister, marveling at the fact that she'd never felt so perfectly aligned with another person in her entire life. The harmony between them had been mesmerizing, and she'd been drawn to him so fully in that moment that a physical connection had become a necessity. She had kissed him not solely as a means of comfort, but also out of her own need to be connected with him on every level.
When they had parted and the intensity dissipated, their harmony had remained. Despite her continued struggle with withdrawal symptoms, she'd felt more grounded, more complete, more supported, than she ever had before. It was as if she had finally felt, not just known, that she was not alone. For the first time, she considered what kind of true partnership they could have as lifelong mates.
The vision had been extremely compelling.
But Trip's deception had shattered all of those fledgling feelings, and her visions of their future along with them.
In truth, she had felt betrayed. Devastated. Violated. In an instant in sickbay, Trip's revelation hanging in the air, she was no longer in sickbay with him and Dr. Phlox. Instead, she was back with the V'tosh Ka'tur three years ago, with Tolaris, as he mind melded with her against her will. Tolaris had entered her mind too and taken what was not his to take. What she had not freely given.
The past had superimposed on the present, and the resultant surge of fear and anger had been powerful enough for her mind to equate Trip with Tolaris. Her closest ally had suddenly appeared to be a violent, selfish aggressor.
Now, in the calming glow of her candles, T'Pol took a deep cleansing breath. Even the memory of those emotions was enough to stir her anger yet again. These last few days had been exhausting—cycles of cresting and dissipation, over and over again.
It was a cycle she very much wished to break. She focused again on her candles, determined to reexamine facts and not be swayed yet again by emotion.
T'Pol reflected on the months prior, carefully considering each event and the emotions that had emerged. Her mind, wired to sense patterns in data, began to notice a trend that startled her: suppressed emotions from events long past had been resurfacing for months. At times of great stress they boiled up, unexpectedly triggered by new stressors.
She had not realized her mind still bore the scars from so many past traumas. Suppression had only masked the emotions, not purged them.
She ticked through them in her mind:
Her terror at hurting Trip, even in her nightmare, had unearthed the paranoia of the previous moments her emotional control had been compromised—her early onset Pon'Farr, which only Phlox knew about—and what had happened aboard the Seleya.
Captain Archer relieving her of duty at the hatchery had unearthed all previous admonitions from superior officers, embarrassment and frustration overwhelming her.
Archer's seemingly inevitable death on Azati prime had melded with her father's death, multiplying her grief.
T'Pol's lowest candle waned and broke her concentration. She rose from the floor to replace it with a new one.
Touching the new wick against an already lit flame, T'Pol placed it in the holder and resettled herself on the floor. Taking a deep breath, she anchored herself back into her analysis, back to sickbay four days ago and the most intense emotion she had experienced thus far, save one.
That other emotion was not one she was yet ready to analyze.
T'Pol organized her thoughts into neat conclusions. The intense anger in sickbay had been sparked by Trip's revelation. That, in turn, had unburied the memory of Tolaris's violation. The memory had stirred the flames of her anger until it flared into an unstoppable fury, initiating a reflex of self-protection. At the recognition of Trip's energy in her mind, she had initiated a shield to protect her psyche from his in exactly the same way she wished she had been able to do with Tolaris.
The sequence of events was perfectly clear.
This incident with Trip was an epiphany. The two events—Tolaris's violation and Trip's betrayal—were congruent, but not perfectly so. One was an imperfect reflection of the other.
It would take time and considerable effort to transect Tolaris's actions fully from Trip's. She could logically acknowledge now that Trip had not, in fact, violated her. His presence in her mind was not forced. Their sexual encounter had been mutual, and the resulting link with him was a natural outcome, even if it had been unexpected.
And yet, even after these realizations, logic continued to fail her. Knowing these facts had not significantly lessened her anger. It was instead evolving into something more subtle, but she could not, or perhaps would not, let go of it. It felt righteous. Trip had wronged her, and forgiveness seemed an impossible achievement.
Her candles wavered in front of her. She sighed, shoulders slumping. Her resolve to close him out of her life completely was wavering, too. Logic dictated that such a course of action was an unnecessary extreme, an overindulgence of her newfound emotional nature.
Yet again, her emotions were making such a clear-cut decision exceedingly difficult.
She could not deny one truth: without him, she felt incomplete. A reality she was not yet ready to accept. The wall she had erected in her mind remained firm, but she could not ignore the fact that his energy lay on the other side of it. Sometimes, she could feel his presence anyway, as if he was reaching out to her, only to retreat in defeat.
Right now, he felt so close that she checked her defenses again, just to reassure herself they were in place.
Her door chimed.
Frowning, T'Pol attempted to subdue her irritation. "Enter."
The moment the door slid open, she knew it was him. His clean pine-forest, motor-oil infused scent drifted toward her. Her back stiffened.
Her back was to the door, and Trip stood behind her, apparently hesitating to come in fully. "I'm sorry to bother you."
"What is it?" she said stiffly.
Trip shuffled slightly on his feet. "I'm having a little trouble falling asleep. I think my insomnia's come back."
Her irritation doubled. They'd barely spoken in four days—not more than duty required, and he was here for this? She turned her head slightly, but didn't look up at him.
"You're here for neuropressure."
Trip edged forward, coming more fully into her peripheral vision. He was looking at his hands, a fingernail scraping one of his calluses. "It's been weeks since our last session," he said tentatively. "We've all been under a lot of stress lately. Thought it might do us both some good."
He paused, looking at her. "Look, I know I'm not your favorite person right now. But neuropressure—that's got nothin' to do with what happened, right?"
This time she did turn and look up at him, unable to keep the disbelief from raising both of her eyebrows.
He sighed and came around to the other side of the room, sitting across from her on the other side of her candles.
"I just—I wish we could start over."
She pressed her lips together.
He searched her face, his expression worried and eager. "I really am sorry, T'Pol. So sorry. I wasn't thinkin' straight. I should've come to you the minute I sensed anything. I know that. I wish I could do it all over again."
She let the silence hang until it became uncomfortable. Trip dropped his eyes back to his hands.
In a much gruffer voice, he said, "It's been a few days, and I can't sense you anymore, and I was just hopin' that maybe—"
T'Pol watched him, and his apparent sorrow was persuasive. "You were hoping for what?"
His eyes shot to hers. "That maybe you could find a way to forgive me."
They stared at each other for a long moment, and T'Pol turned her senses inward. Her wall was still there, but she could feel him, just on the other side of it. Pressing against it. Trying to get to her—to break through.
Was he trying to manipulate her? Again? Her emotions were a riot, and she couldn't get an accurate read on his intentions. She knew she was jumping to conclusions, but the possibility—
She broke eye contact, her back stiffening. "I think we should discontinue any future neuropressure treatments."
"Why?" He had blurted it out, leaning toward her, before catching himself and pulling back.
"You've mastered most of the postures I've taught you."
"I think mastered is a bit of an overstatement," Trip said. "You said it takes a long time—years, even—to be an expert. I don't pick things up that fast."
Her irritation flared again. Why could he not be compliant, for once? He argued at every step.
"I cannot teach you any more."
Trip dropped his head in defeat, his body language clear: he knew how transparent an excuse he was making to be here. He took a deep breath, letting it out in a sigh. "Look, I just—I didn't come here just to apologize again. Or get neuropressure, even. I'm sleepin' okay, all things considered."
Somehow she knew that was a lie, but she let it go.
"I'm just worried, is all." He caught her eyes again. "I'm worried about you."
"I am not your responsibility."
Trip scoffed before he could stop himself. "I feel responsible."
She stayed silent.
"You're just—alone a lot. More than you usually are. I checked around—you're in here nearly all the time."
She felt both flattered and indignant at once. "You've been spying on me?"
His mouth curved up in a wry half smile. "Spyin'? I guess you could see it that way. If you're feelin' deliberately cantankerous."
Her eyes narrowed. "And how would you characterize it?"
"I would call it bein' a concerned friend. What I promised to be not that long ago, if you'll remember."
"The cirumstances have changed. Your support is no longer needed."
"Wanted, you mean," he said. "Needed is still accurate."
When she opened her mouth to argue back, he raised a hand and continued. "You need someone worryin' about you. If not me, then someone, at least."
"I am fine."
"You're even eatin' in here, T'Pol. That's not fine."
"The damage in the mess hall is severe. Where do you suggest I eat?"
"Now you're just getting' sassy." He said it teasingly, not really trying to irritate her.
She narrowed her eyes at him, refusing to respond.
After the silence got uncomfortable, Trip finally broke it, turning serious again. "I get why you wouldn't want my help," he conceded. When she nodded, hurt flashed across his face before he hid it. "But you do need support. This thing you're dealin' with—it's not somethin' you can do completely alone."
Reluctantly, she could admit he was correct, but there was a barrier to finding additional support. "Only you and Dr. Phlox know of my condition," she reminded him. "I do not wish to inform anyone else."
"Then talk to Phlox. Please. Don't suffer alone."
She studied him for a long time before responding. "I will seek his help if I need it."
"You mean it?"
T'Pol nodded once, sharply. His tenacity would be admirable under other circumstances. In this case, it was quite irritating.
Trip searched her face as if trying to determine if she was lying to him. After a few tense moments, he either became satisfied or he abandoned the task as futile, because he sighed again and rose to his feet.
She didn't move as he approached the door and paused.
"I won't bother you again," he said quietly. "But I am always here for you, T'Pol. If you need me—want me—" his voice broke, and he cleared his throat. "You know where to find me."
And he stepped out into the corridor, the door sliding shut behind him.
Longing to go after him arose at his departure, unbidden, before she ruthlessly smothered it.
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Trip left T'Pol's quarters with mixed feelings of anxiousness and hope. The hope was easy to explain—she hadn't kicked him out the moment he'd darkened her door. She'd actually talked to him, albeit reluctantly. Both great signs in his book.
The anxiety was a bit harder to pin down. He'd been antsy for the last four days, feeling like he was at high altitude with not quite enough oxygen. Not physically, but mentally. His mind felt thirsty for her, like his brain cells were withering away, plants without water.
He hadn't felt that great physically, either, truth be told. It was harder to get out of bed in the mornings and at night he crashed harder than usual. All day long he felt sluggish, and there were moments when his equilibrium felt off. Yesterday, he'd felt his pulse racing after just a light bit of activity. Standing up quickly left him lightheaded.
Any one of these symptoms on their own could be chalked up to a momentary glitch in his physical health, those fleeting little hiccups everyone has from time to time. But Trip was in good shape, and these things should happen over weeks or months, if at all, not days.
So Trip headed to sickbay, trying to still the anxiety that hummed beneath the surface of his thoughts.
Dr. Phlox looked surprised to see him. "Mr. Tucker! What brings you to see me?"
Trip leaned against the scanning bed and watched Phlox tidy up his instruments. Sickbay was nearly empty—a good sign that the Enterprise crew was finally recovering from the last harrowing few weeks.
"I've been feelin' kinda strange," Trip said.
Phlox paused and glanced at him before setting the last instrument back on the tray gently. He turned to face him.
"Since you were last here?"
Trip appreciated how Phlox avoided a recap of his last visit.
"Yep," Trip said with a sigh. "I wasn't gettin' great sleep at first, as you can imagine, but the last two nights were pretty decent. Still, I've been havin' some issues that can't just be tiredness."
"Go on."
Trip explained his various minor ailments. "So not much to be worried about, I guess, but considerin' the circumstances—"
Phlox nodded. "I'm glad you came. I'm still collecting data from your neural monitor," he added, "to ensure there are no long-term adverse effects. But monitoring your physical condition is prudent as well." He tapped the cushion of the scanning bed. "Hop on up here, Mr. Tucker, and we'll see what's going on."
Ten minutes later, Dr. Phlox frowned as he looked at the data. "Not alarmingly out of normal parameters," he said, flipping through data tables and graphs, "But noteworthy for a healthy man of your age."
"You think it might be temporary?" Trip asked hopefully. "Like maybe my system's just gettin' used to her blockin' me?"
Phlox looked at him, eyebrows raised. "She's blocking you?"
Trip looked sheepish. "Forgot to mention that, huh?" He explained about the mental barrier.
Phlox sighed and shook his head. "That is pertinent information." He closed the data files and turned fully to face Trip. "In answer to your question, yes. I suppose it could be your body readjusting to her absence."
"So maybe it will go away."
"It is difficult to say at this early stage. If your condition worsens, report back here immediately."
"Does it seem that dire?"
"As I said, your readings are within normal parameters, but you're borderline in some areas, particularly blood pressure and heart rate. Your blood pressure is low—still good, but on the low end. In a less dangerous job, it would be a minor irritation. But for you, working so close to dangerous equipment, climbing up ladders and crawling through tight spaces, low blood pressure could be extremely risky."
"What kinda signs am I lookin' for?"
"Dizziness, blurred vision or darkened vision, balance issues."
Trip frowned, remembering some of that happening already. "So I could pass out, fall from a catwalk, that type of thing."
Phlox nodded. "And that's just one of the possibilities. With an elevated heart rate, shortness of breath, muscle fatigue—if any one of these now minor symptoms worsens, you need to be treated immediately, if not relieved of duty until they're resolved."
Trip nodded, sliding off the scanning bed.
"Thanks for the help, Doc."
"Commander."
Trip paused halfway to the door, turning back.
"Have you tried to talk with her?" Phlox seemed to be trying to mask his concern, but Trip could see it in his eyes.
"Yeah," he said, looking away. "Before I came here. I tried to give her some space for a few days, thought that she deserved some time to cool off."
Phlox gave him a kind smile. "I think that was wise."
Trip shrugged. "Didn't have a lot of options. But I couldn't take it anymore, you know? I needed to see her. So I went there with a lame excuse. She saw right through it, of course." He smiled wryly, meeting Phlox's eyes. "But she didn't shut me down completely."
"A promising sign," Phlox said encouragingly. "You shouldn't give up."
Trip tilted his head in question. "You really think so?"
"I've done some research in the last few days. While very little data exists on Vulcan mating bonds, other telepathic species have similar bonds. In most cases, being separated from one's bondmate is difficult at best."
"So you think we're stuck together after all, huh?"
"Perhaps," he conceded. "But I would like to think that the two of you could learn to live in harmony, given enough time and effort."
"Time heals all wounds, you think?"
Phlox laughed. "Time is a poor medicine, actually. Time and treatment are a better combination."
"And the treatment here is…"
"Trying to find common ground."
Trip looked at the floor. "We'd made a lot of progress, Doc. Before, I mean."
"In what way?"
Trip didn't hold the pain back from his expression. "Leanin' on each other. Gettin' closer. She was trustin' me, and I ruined it."
"Perhaps it is a temporary setback," Phlox said gently.
"I can only hope."
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T'Pol sat in the conference room, every muscle in her body rigid. Across from her were two strangers: Lorian, the captain of the mysterious alternate Enterprise, and Karen Archer, his first officer.
She studied Lorian, knowing as he spoke that what he said was true: he was her son. Or more accurately, she reminded herself, the son of her counterpart. Her heightened emotions recognized the bond immediately—a type of latent maternal instinct, she supposed.
It wasn't quite right. Faint, a bit of dissonance, perhaps the effect of his being from a different timeline. But her connection to him was undeniable.
Those blue eyes—those she knew as well, but in another face. A face she was trying very hard not to think about.
She forced herself to return to the conversation at hand.
Lorian was addressing Captain Archer. "The subspace corridor isn't an option. If you use it, you'll be thrown back 115 years." Lorian stepped forward, determination hardening his features and adding a steely undertone to his words. "We're here for one reason: to make sure history doesn't repeat itself."
"Please explain," T'Pol interjected curtly, and Lorian's eyes met hers. His face was serious, but there was a twinkle in his eye that said he was quite familiar with her abrupt tone of voice.
Lorian launched into an efficient retelling of the other Enterprise's trip to the past.
"So you've been out here for a century," Captain Archer said, pacing at the end of the conference room table. "Just—flying around?"
"We have made good use of our time," Karen Archer added, deferentially. "We have been preparing for this mission."
T'Pol pinned Lorian with a cold stare. "Enterprise is not equipped for a journey of that length. Your fuel and provisions are not inexhaustible."
Lorian smiled at her, indulgently. "Good to see you haven't changed much, Mother."
T'Pol tightened her lips, glaring at him. "I beg your pardon?"
Lorian gave her one more affectionate look, then turned back to Archer, ignoring her question. "We got by. When we needed food and supplies, we sought out new species and traded technology for them. We brought on new crew—some from alien cultures." A meaningful glance passed between him and his first officer before he turned back to Archer and met his gaze with determination. "You gave us a mission, Captain. We did our best to achieve it."
"But you didn't. The first Xindi probe still launched, killing millions."
Archer said the words quietly, with as little accusation as possible. Still, Lorian flinched a bit at hearing it.
"We're only one vessel, Captain. We weren't invincible. But that doesn't mean our mission is over. We can help you here. Now."
Lorian stood. "We can help you get to Degra this time, at least. Together, we can stop the second attack."
T'Pol reviewed these new revelations. One glaring problem still remained. "Without travel through the corridor, making the rendezvous with Degra will be impossible."
"It's not," Karen Archer insisted. "We have access to alien propulsion technology. We can modify your injector assembly to increase your warp speed to 6.9."
T'Pol raised an eyebrow in skepticism. "The hull will not withstand such speeds."
Lorian raised his chin. "Structural integrity can be reinforced. We'll show you how."
The silence in the room became heavy as Archer weighed Lorian's words.
"Please believe me, Captain," Lorian said. "We'll do what we need to convince you."
Archer looked at him skeptically. "You're asking me to take a lot on faith here."
Lorian's irritation broke through. "This is urgent. These modifications need to be started immediately."
"I'm not just going to take your word for it." Captain Archer moved forward, and he and Lorian met, the air between them thick with tension.
"We can prove who we are, Captain," Karen Archer said quietly. "Dr. Phlox can confirm our identities if you'll allow us to go to sickbay."
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An hour later, T'Pol strode down the corridor toward the turbolift, her mind spinning. The visit to sickbay had confirmed what she already knew to be true: Trip was Lorian's father.
Phlox's answer, that he could find a way to combine Human and Vulcan genomes, was promising from a scientific standpoint, if nothing else. But from an emotional one, T'Pol had felt her mind begin to wander, imagining what a life—and parenthood—might be like with Trip.
She entertained such thoughts for mere seconds before swiftly shutting them down. His behavior had been reprehensible. How she could trust him enough to marry him, allow him in her bed again, create a child with him—all of that seemed distant. Improbable.
But the image of Trip, their child in his arms, could not be fully eradicated. It stayed there, a shadow in her mind, taunting her with the knowledge of what could have been.
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"He's what?"
Trip's eyes were wide, mouth open in disbelief. He couldn't have heard right.
Captain Archer shot him a wry smile. "He's your son, Trip. Yours and T'Pol's."
"Come on." He paused, seeing the truth all over the captain's face. "No kidding?"
Archer shook his head. Trip sank onto the bench across from the Captain's desk, his legs suddenly feeling a little weak.
"How'd that happen?"
A laugh escaped Archer before he could suppress it. "You seem a little old for the birds and the bees talk, Trip."
Trip rolled his eyes. "Not that—it's just, she and I—we're not exactly close. Lot of ground to cover between here and there, you know?"
A bit of guilt pinched Trip in that moment. Captain Archer must've been blindsided by this. He and T'Pol hadn't shared anything with him. They didn't have to—it was all entirely personal. Their friendship, their attraction, their fledgling relationship, T'Pol's struggles with Trellium, their telepathic bond—none of that was the Captain's business, at least not officially.
As a friend, though—Trip had been keeping his cards pretty close to the vest. It bothered him that the nature of their relationship as captain and second officer meant that they couldn't enjoy all the benefits of friendship. He would have loved to have Archer's advice on one or a hundred of his current problems.
But it wasn't just his story to tell.
"I'll bet that news took you by surprise," Trip said to the captain.
"You could say that," Archer said gruffly, and Trip saw something in his expression that shocked him: jealousy. It was fleeting, but definitely there.
Trip's own jealousy answered back, followed swiftly by a heavy dose of territorial anger. He tried to smother it as best he could. T'Pol was beautiful, talented, and compelling. Archer would have to be blind not to notice.
Besides, Archer had made no claims, and even in this circumstance, had voiced no disapproval. Trip needed to let it go.
Archer continued. "Lorian has a list of modifications we can make to the injector assemblies that will increase our speed. He claims it'll let us bypass the corridor and still make the meet with Degra."
Trip raised an eyebrow. "And you're goin' along with it?"
Handing him a Padd with all the information, Archer nodded. "Everything else he's said checks out. I'm still a little thrown by all this, but it seems unwise to ignore him."
"We'll get on it, then," Trip said. He skimmed the modifications on the Padd. They were intriguing. He looked closer. Genius, really. Their engines would be pushin' hot, but they could do it.
"He's waiting for you in Engineering."
Trip took a deep breath and headed toward the door. His hand on the button, he paused and turned back. "You ever feel like you're livin' in a Twilight Zone episode, Cap'n?"
Archer laughed, remembering that old show Trip had trotted out for movie night once in awhile during their early mission. "All the time, Trip. All the damn time."
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Trip studied Lorian as closely as he could without staring.
"Genetics are a funny thing," Trip said quietly.
"How's that?" Lorian said, the faint southern twang in his voice made Trip smile.
"I can see my dad in your face. It's your eyes, I think."
Lorian paused in his work and turned to face him. He studied Trip's face as well.
"I look like you, I've always thought."
"You do, don'tcha?" Trip grinned. "Handsome devil."
Lorian grinned, and Trip's eyes lit up. "You smiled!"
"I'm only half Vulcan," Lorian reminded him. "Bein' raised on a ship full of humans, and bein' half human, meant I wasn't raised with the same inhibitions most Vulcans have."
Trip let that sink in. It was good that his child had had the freedom to be himself. But still, that Vulcan side didn't come easy. "You ever have trouble controllin' your emotions?"
"Of course," Lorian said. "The Vulcan half is strong. But you and Mother both taught me what I needed to manage both parts of myself. And I figured out the rest."
"You don't look much like her," Trip said, a little sadly. "Except the ears, o'course."
Lorian smiled again. "My personality, my mannerisms—they're more similar to hers." He gestured to the toolbox. "Hand me the coil spanner?"
Trip grabbed the tool and put it into Lorian's hand.
They moved to the injector assembly and began making the adjustments, Lorian kneeling to reach the lower injectors and Trip standing beside him to access the upper.
"Did you take over as chief engineer after I retired?" Trip asked, using the spanner to adjust the settings on the first injector. "Before becoming Captain, I mean?"
Lorian looked up at him from his spot on the floor. "You know your crew. You think Rostov and Kelby would've let me leapfrog them?"
Trip laughed. "Probably not. Guess you had to earn your stripes."
Lorian grunted but didn't answer. Seemed there was a story or two there. They continued working for a few minutes more until Lorian broke the silence. "Truth be told, I learned most of what I know from your engineering logs."
Trip paused. Lorian's tone had been tentative. "Not the most exciting stuff. I hope I wasn't too busy to help you myself."
Lorian looked at him but didn't answer. He stood up and turned back to the worktable.
Trip followed him, studying his profile closely.
"You would've made time for me, if you could have." The weight of that statement hung in the air until Lorian raised his chin. "We should reinitialize the startup routine before going to warp 6."
Trip wasn't about to let it go. He reached a hand out and touched his son's forearm. Lorian stilled. "What are you holdin' back?"
Lorian wouldn't meet his eyes. "When I was fourteen—you died."
Trip suddenly felt his breath leave him. That would've made him, what, late forties? Early fifties? Either way, too young to leave a kid behind. To leave T'Pol behind.
"I'm sorry," Trip said. "That must've been tough."
"It wasn't easy," Lorian said gruffly.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there," Trip said, feeling awkward but not knowing what else to say. "What happened?"
Lorian finally met his eyes again. "We probably shouldn't talk about the future."
"Now you do sound like your mom," Trip said wryly.
The edge of Lorian's mouth quirked up. "I'm not sure it matters, anyway. Meetin' like this—we've already changed the timeline."
Trip sighed, but crossed his arms over his chest and pinned Lorian with the most fatherly stare he could muster. "Still, if it was preventable—"
Lorian's mouth stretched in a wide but wistful smile. "I haven't seen that look on your face in over 90 years." His eyes began to shine more brightly with emotion. "You were a good father, you know."
"Yeah?" Trip said longingly.
"Yeah. Strange bein' able to say that."
The moment hung there a long second, their eyes locked onto each other as a lifetime, both lived and unlived, passed between them. Trip felt drawn to him, needing not just proximity, but closeness.
Trip closed the distance and pulled Lorian into a firm hug, patting his son's back and squeezing him tight. He would've pulled back right away, but Lorian's grip was strong, and he held on.
Lorian needed this, too.
When they separated just a few moments later, Trip had to wipe his eyes. Lorian didn't, but the emotional weight of the moment was etched into his face.
"We ain't gettin' much done, are we?" Trip said with a laugh.
"We'll get there," Lorian said, and they turned back to the injector assembly.
"So, since the timeline's gonna be different now and all—" Trip said hopefully, "You mind answerin' some questions?"
Lorian paused. "About what?"
"Me and your mom. Sayin' I'm curious is like sayin' a hurricane's a bit of a breeze."
Shaking his head, Lorian resumed his work on the injector assembly. "Sure. I guess it can't hurt."
Trip grinned and lined up his questions in his mind.
.
.
Concentration was becoming difficult.
T'Pol stood in the alcove that housed the controls for hull plating, bulkheads, and all other functions related to structural integrity. Now that the older T'Pol had revealed that Warp 6.9 was too dangerous to attempt, their plans had changed. Most of the crew was working on adapting the manifolds to prevent being thrust into the past. But the plans to reinforce structural integrity still remained important. The trip through the subspace corridor was likely to be turbulent.
These controls were duplicated on the bridge, but here in the alcove there were physical connections to the technology. Being here was more efficient than being on the bridge.
Or so she had told herself. In truth, she wanted to be alone. Being with the alternate Enterprise crew was unnerving. The reminder of her supposed happy future with Trip was even more of a distraction. Its possibility was all together too alluring.
She caught her reflection in the darkened screen across from her, and grimaced. She was doing it again—staring off into space, thinking.
Thinking used to be a place of solace for her. Her mind had been orderly. Familiar. Organized and dependable. Since her trellium addiction, it routinely betrayed her, breaking her concentration and manifesting biases that tainted her analyses.
Structural integrity. That's why she was here. She turned back to the controls, reorienting herself and beginning again.
"How far along are you?"
Trip's voice came from behind her, and T'Pol had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from groaning in frustration.
"I am analyzing current structural integrity for efficiency."
Trip came up beside her, his scent again invading her space and breaking her concentration. He reviewed her data.
After a moment, he nodded and stepped back. "I'll get the hull plating assembly ready for reconfiguration."
He stepped away from her, going to the other side of the housing.
They worked in blessed silence for several minutes.
T'Pol started when Trip spoke.
"You talked to Lorian yet?"
"No," she said shortly, hoping against logic that her tone would shut down any further conversation.
Trip leaned to the side, peering at her from around the housing. "You should make time for him. He's pretty great."
T'Pol didn't answer.
Trip frowned. "It couldn't hurt. You raised a good kid."
She met his eyes. "I didn't raise him. My counterpart did. And he's over a hundred years old. That's hardly a kid."
Trip grinned. "You know he's nearly three times my age? Kinda bends the mind to think about it."
T'Pol looked back at her screen, determined to ignore him. Trip must've been finished with the preparation of the hull plating, because he moved completely out from behind the housing and leaned against the end of it, watching her.
"He told me some pretty interestin' stuff."
She tapped the keys more forcefully.
"About you and me."
Her fingers stilled.
"About our wedding." He paused. "And our honeymoon."
T'Pol closed her eyes and pulled her fingers away from the controls, clenching her hands into fists.
"Don'tcha want to know the details?"
She opened her eyes and pinned him with an irritated glare. "Those events occurred in a different timeline. It is impossible for them to reoccur in ours."
"It's not impossible," Trip said, and longing stole into his face. "Please, T'Pol, tell me it's not impossible for us to get past this."
Her hands relaxed as she studied him and the hope on his face. Her right hand twitched, and she was raising it before she realized it, reaching for him.
She snatched it back as if burned, swiftly turning away to the other control panel behind her. She reached behind her, towards him. "Hand me the flex coupler."
The tool landed gently in her palm and she yanked it away from him.
"Doesn't it spark your curiosity at all? How we could end up together?"
"No," she said ruthlessly. "Our paths have diverged. That our counterparts married is irrelevant. Our circumstances are different."
He stepped closer, and she knew without looking that he was trying to keep himself from touching her. "But they're exactly the same, T'Pol. Her Trip did what I did. Her Trip was me in sickbay, too." He paused. "And she forgave him."
T'Pol whirled around to face him. "I knew this was a mistake."
"What?"
"Continuing to associate with you beyond the bounds of our professional relationship." Her voice was trembling. "It's obvious that you cannot respect my wishes or needs."
"I've given you plenty of space," Trip said, his hurt turning into irritation. "We have to coexist, darlin'. We're co-workers. Talkin' to each other is a necessity."
Her eyes narrowed. "Our counterparts' wedding and honeymoon are hardly relevant to the reconfiguration of structural integrity."
His eyes narrowed too and he stepped forward, leaning into her face. "It's small talk, sweetheart. Nothin' special. Just shootin' the breeze." He twirled his finger in the air.
She gritted her teeth. He was needling her on purpose. They stared at each other, fire flashing in their eyes, frustration, hurt, anger, and even lust all coalescing into this charged space between them. Trip's eyes dropped to her lips, and for one small moment, she thought he would close the distance and kiss her.
She hated herself for wanting him to.
His eyes flicked up again and he leaned back, the moment passing. Her shoulders relaxed. On his next words though, her whole body tensed again.
"You know, the other me must've tried real hard to find another woman. You're an awful lot of trouble." He let that statement hang while he walked slowly toward the doorway.
"But all the other women must've been taken already." He paused and leaned against the wall, his arms crossed casually over his chest. "Can't figure out why else I would've married someone with a stubborn streak as wide as yours is."
He stood straight, dropping his arms. "I think Rostov needs some help with the port manifold. I'll head that way." He paused and turned, gesturing at her vaguely over his shoulder. "You seem to be in control here."
T'Pol watched him leave, her ears roaring with all the pent up emotion waiting to explode. When he was long gone, she put her hand over her mouth and let out a yell, half sob, half scream, and slid to the floor.
And still, she wanted to run after him.
.
.
Trip's heart was racing as he strode down the corridor. Damn it! That did not go like he had planned.
The last thing he'd intended was fighting with her. He needed to be gentle. Considerate. Show remorse. Not needle her and then nearly maul her when her sassiness just got too tempting to resist. Why was it that she was at her sexiest when she was bitin' his head off?
Trip stopped inside the turbolift and punched the buttons, trying to catch his breath. His heart was racing, faster than if he'd run ten miles. He felt lightheaded. He raised his hand, frowning when he saw the trembling there.
Leaning against the side of the lift, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, turning his thoughts inward. Her wall was still there in his mind, of course, but it seemed a bit thinner. More brittle. Her glow was pulsing on the other side of it, the same trait he'd recognized so long ago when her anger or fear was getting out of control. It wasn't visible, but still, he knew. It was like light escaping from the edges of an imperfectly sealed door.
Damn it. He'd pushed her to this. He needed to be helping her, not hurting her.
The lift door opened on D deck, and Trip got out, heading for Engineering. Maybe some old-fashioned elbow grease would kick his ass into gear.
.
.
T'Pol's feet pounded on the corridor as she raced toward sickbay, pounding out a repeating rhythm: Lorian had shot trip. Trip was unconscious. She had to see him.
In the back of her mind, she noted that her former, unemotional self would've walked sedately, unruffled. A co-worker's nonlethal injury was hardly worth a personal visit, let alone heightened concern.
This new self was terrified, and her feet could do nothing but run to Trip's side. It was happening again, a past trauma was resurfacing, and she could do nothing to stop the emotions from boiling over. This time, though, the trauma was more recent: Trip's near-fatal injury some months past.
She'd almost lost him then. She could've lost him today. Sickbay's doors slid open and she rushed inside, heart racing.
"How is he?"
Phlox was standing over a bio bed, Trip's unconscious body laid out on top of it. The doctor gestured to the monitor above the bed.
"Unstable," he admitted, "but not alarmingly so. His blood pressure is low and his heart rate is elevated. I am treating both, as well as the stun injury."
Trip's shirt was off, and T'Pol reached out, pulling the sheet down so she could see the extensive bruise that had formed as a result of the phase pistol's beam. She pulled the sheet back up slowly.
"Why is he having such a severe reaction? Stun injuries do not usually have an impact on blood pressure or heart rate."
Phlox eyed her. "Those were preexisting conditions, worsened by the physical trauma of the stun beam."
"Preexisting?"
The doctor nodded.
"Since when?"
She could see Phlox hesitating, but as always, he was prudent in his responses. "Since the last time he was in sickbay with you."
His answer revealed no real data, but Phlox knew she would draw the correct conclusions.
She did. Worry suffused her as T'Pol realized that her mental shielding had had an adverse affect on Trip's health. Why she hadn't suffered the same effects, she didn't know. Perhaps because he was human?
But determining the details wasn't important now. "Why wasn't I informed?"
Phlox's expression became less shuttered. "His vital signs were still well within acceptable ranges. We were monitoring him to see if his condition worsened. There was no need to inform you, especially not when you wished to remain distant."
Her anger flared, and this time, it wasn't directed at Trip.
It was directed at the one who'd had the temerity to shoot his own father.
Her son needed to account for his unacceptable behavior. Immediately.
.
.
Standing outside the brig, T'Pol examined Lorian's body language closely. He didn't realize yet that she was here. He looked defeated. Nearly broken. His life's mission had failed, and he felt responsible.
T'Pol had stayed back in the shadows as she watched him, needing to plan her attack, as it were, before approaching him.
She didn't have much time. Captain Archer was eager to have his turn, and she'd had to resort to emotional manipulation to get this opportunity to speak with Lorian first. The captain had been swayed by a mother's request, but the pathos would wear off soon.
Stepping forward, she moved to the security glass and into the light. She tapped lightly on the glass.
Lorian's head shot up and he looked at her, eyes widening in surprise.
"Why are you here?" he said, then added in a gruffer tone, "Coming to tell me what I did wrong?"
She ignored his questions and gestured at the control panel. "May I enter?"
Lorian sighed and shrugged. She took that as an affirmative and opened the door, coming inside.
"Why?" She asked the question quietly.
"Because none of you were listening," he said bitterly. "Earth is too important to jeopardize."
"That is not what I meant," T'Pol said. "Those answers you can give to the captain."
Lorian looked at her in surprise. "Then what are you asking?"
"Why did you shoot your father?" It felt strange to say that, to call Trip his father, as if somehow it made his status in her own future a foregone conclusion. She pushed it aside.
Lorian stayed silent.
"Please, tell me why," she repeated, not being able to keep the edge out of her voice. Anger still welled inside of her, but unlike the anger she'd had at Trip, this one was tinged with a great deal more disappointment.
"I didn't want to," Lorian finally answered, not looking at her.
"That is not an answer."
He growled in frustration. "He got in my way. This mission is too important. I didn't have a choice."
"You always have a choice."
"Damn it!" Lorian shot to his feet, pacing. "You're always that voice of reason, aren't you, mother?" he stopped, and T'Pol realized he wasn't seeing her, he was seeing her counterpart. "Would it kill you to show me a little love, too?"
"Is reason and common sense not a manifestation of love?" she said quietly, her anger dissipating as sympathy for her son's stress took over. "I did not live your mother's life, but I know myself. I show love differently than humans do. But it does not lessen its worth."
"Every time I've wanted comfort, I get a lecture. An organized list of what I could've done differently." Lorian slammed his fist against the wall before turning back to face her.
"It is comfort," T'Pol corrected him. "It is help and support so you know what to change for the next time. So you do not experience those painful emotions a second time."
His shoulders slumped. "I know she means well, but—"
"But you are too much alike."
He smiled at her tiredly. "I think you've hit the nail on the head."
"I see a lot of myself in you," T'Pol admitted. "We have not spoken much, as you know, but in the decisions you've made today—I understand them. I see the logic."
His eyes turned hopeful. "Then you know I really had no choice."
"I beg to differ," she argued, eyebrow raised.
"How so?" Lorian huffed in irritation. "What could I possibly have done differently?"
She thought about her answer carefully before saying it. "You could have trusted your emotions, and not your logic, to make this decision."
"That's rich, coming from you."
Truly, he had no idea how ironic her statement was, but T'Pol let his insolence slide. "Did you love your father? Captain Archer? Your mother?"
"Of course!"
She nodded emphatically. "Then when three people you love are telling you your conclusions are flawed, even logic dictates that you listen."
His shoulders slumped. "Well, it's too late now."
T'Pol shrugged. "As your father likes to say, hindsight is 20/20."
They let the silence hang before Lorian sat back down on the bunk, his elbows on his knees. He studied the calluses on his hands before adding, "I might've listened to Captain Archer if my mother hadn't gotten involved. Gone behind my back."
"Has it always been so contentious between you?"
"We've had our moments," Lorian said wryly. "She and dad were a balance of each other, the perfect partnership. But when we lost him, the balance never recovered. I think she became sharper, less sympathetic, without his presence in her mind."
And he bore the brunt of her grief, T'Pol realized.
"But you were an adult then. Hadn't you established behaviors you could fall back on?"
Lorian sat up, looking at her in surprise. "He didn't tell you?"
She blinked at him, puzzled. "Tell me what?"
He searched her face before continuing. "I told your Trip this morning," he paused, hesitating, and she knew he didn't want to say what came next. "My father died when I was fourteen."
T'Pol suddenly felt unsteady. She walked over to the bunk and lowered herself to sit beside Lorian.
"Fourteen?" She swallowed. "He was so young."
Lorian nodded. "She's lived over 80 years without him. It's taken its toll."
T'Pol pressed her lips together, her eyes stinging. This wasn't anger she was feeling. Not anymore. Not at Trip.
It was remorse.
Trip was right. She was stubborn. She was hanging on to this anger at him, when their bond was a foregone conclusion. She was hurting him. Hurting herself. Hurting the both of them and what they could be.
Destroying the future they could have together.
Lorian must've been able to see the emotion on her face, because he reached out and covered her clasped hands with his. "Your timeline will be different. It's diverged, now. You can live a different life with him."
She unclasped her hands and gripped his. "His death—can we stop it?"
Lorian looked at her with sympathy, squeezing her fingers before letting go. "I don't know. The way he died—it's not helpful to explain it. Just suffice it to say it was tied to those circumstances, and I have no idea if they'll repeat here. It's probably unlikely."
T'Pol nodded. The variables were diverse—there was no way to account for them all. It would truly be an exercise in futility.
She looked at him, a question suddenly burning within her. "What do you remember about me? Before he died?"
Lorian's eyes became unfocused as he remembered back. "You were my anchor," he said simply. "And his, too. I never could have embraced my Vulcan side, and the vastly different human side, if it weren't for the two of you guiding me together. You had a partnership that was beautiful."
"We weren't at odds?"
Lorian smiled. "You argued sometimes. Passionately. But it never lasted for long." He paused. "I remember thinking when I was eleven or twelve, round about when I had my first girlfriend, that you two were too much in love to ever truly be at odds with each other."
"Did you ever find a mate for yourself?"
Lorian's smile turned wry. "After an example like that, it was hard to find someone worthy. I'm still lookin'."
They sat in silence for a few minutes.
"I think part of the problem, for me, I mean, is that I don't know how my parents found such harmony with each other. Seein' Trip now, and you, you're so different. I don't know what it took to get you both to that point."
T'Pol nodded. "That is a question I am attempting to answer myself."
He gave her a half smile. "You could answer it yourself, in a way."
T'Pol raised an eyebrow at him, catching his meaning. "It would be impertinent to ask her about this."
Lorian scoffed at that. "You're askin' yourself. What's the harm in that?"
When she didn't answer, he added, "You just seem out of balance. There's no reason to be—your Trip is still alive. He brought my mother balance. I think he could do the same for you."
Outside the cell, the door opened, and the MACO guard came in.
"Captain's coming down, ma'am" he said. "Thought you'd like to know."
"Thank you, corporal." She stood and walked toward the door.
She turned back and pinned Lorian with her most motherly glare. "I hope that in the future, you'll refrain from stunning your parents."
"Yes ma'am," Lorian said, a wry smile stretching his face. "Wouldn't dream of it."
"Excellent," she said, and turned to leave, heading back toward sickbay.
There was something she needed to take care of. Immediately.
.
.
Phlox was feeding his animals when she returned to sickbay. He set the container of food aside when she entered, following her over to Trip's bed.
T'Pol looked down at him, still worried. Trip's closed eyes and pale skin remained unchanged, so much so that she had to look up at the monitor to reassure herself that he was truly out of real danger. Phlox was correct—his heart rate was high and his blood pressure was low, but still not dangerous, at least in the short term.
"Do you think—" she stopped.
Phlox waited patiently.
"If I lowered the mental barrier, do you think it would help him heal?"
"It might," Phlox said hesitantly. "But I cannot promise it. I know so little about the bond you have, and without more solid data, anything is conjecture."
She took a deep breath and turned her thoughts inward. The shield in her mind was reassuring, a reminder that she was still herself, still in control. But Trip needed her now, and she was ready to let some of her anger go.
She wasn't sure she could let go of all of it.
Reaching out, she placed her hands on Trip's chest, needing to feel him in order to remember why this was necessary. Concentrating, she slowly let the barrier fall away.
In an instant, warmth suffused her. Trip's energy glowed there in her mind, right beside her. She moved herself toward it, imagining that the two of them were melding into one ball of light, both individuals and a whole, simultaneously. The light grew stronger, and Trip's energy pulsed once, as if breathing deeply of fresh air.
T'Pol opened her eyes, looking down at him. Tired blue eyes stared back at her. For a tense moment, her worry spiked.
And then, the blue eyes wrinkled at the corners, catching the light in a sparkle.
.
.
A/N: I always thought it was interesting that Vulcans use the word suppression for emotions, as if those emotions are sort of hovering someplace, flattened like a pancake at the bottom of the psyche. The only time I've ever heard them use the word purge is with Kohlinar, which seems like a pretty rigorous process. So, I took that idea and ran with it, thinking that if T'Pol's emotions are just pressed down, they could pop back up again later, right? And so—trauma. Ain't it fun.
For reals, though—if what T'Pol's going through feels a little too close to home, I encourage you to talk to someone. I know in my own life, new stress triggers feelings from old stress, and that's just minor everyday stuff. If you have the big stuff, don't suffer with it alone. Find someone. Talk to someone. Going it alone is never the healthiest path.
A/N 2: THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU to all of you who are faithfully reading this, reviewing, and waiting patiently for updates. My RL duties will lessen in the coming weeks, and I'm hopeful I can wrap this story up with a few more chapters.