A/N: Welcome back. This chapter primarily deals with my secondary, original characters. Their relationship plays a huge role in this story. Pon farr, originally introduced in Amok Time in TOS, is revisited for only the second time in all of Trek in Voyager, Blood Fever. Also later in Enterprise, and each time the details are modified a bit from how it was introduced. My explanation and portrayal of it here is derived from the understanding from Voyager, and later the bond that developed between T'Pol and Trip in Enterprise. Explanation: Every seven years for a male. T'Pol is 66 and Phlox asks her if she has ever experienced it before, and she says no. She is not bonded to Koss until later, so I assumed it is different for unbonded females. Anyway, enjoy. Thanks for reading.
May 29, 2386
Aaron smelled her perfume, a delicate floral scent, before he heard or saw her. Her footfalls were ever silent, and had always been in all the years he had known her. This had somehow trained him to use his other senses to know when she was near. He lifted his eyes from his padd beside his uneaten sandwich, to see her soft gaze upon him, her hands clasped neatly behind her back. "May I join you, Commander?" she asked softly.
"For lunch? You don't have any food…" he said softly, one eyebrow lifting. Her hair was clipped at the base of her skull, and the long ponytail hung over her left shoulder, with thin wisps of hair framing her fine featured face. Even in her pristine uniform, she always presented with a genuinely feminine flourish, something rare amongst the other Vulcan females he had known over the years. She wore makeup better than anyone he knew, so perfectly blended it seemed a part of her, rather than something she had applied superficially. He forced his eyes back to his food, fighting the urge to examine her more closely than was appropriate. He never failed to be awestruck by her beauty.
"I am….not hungry. However, your company is all I require at this time," she replied, her voice smooth like velvet despite the dullness of her tone.
"'Require,' huh?" he teased, clicking his tongue inside his cheek to temper the grin he felt pulling at his mouth from her words. "Well, then, by all means, please sit, Doctor." He smiled ever so slightly and gestured to the empty chair across from him.
"May I ask you a question, Commander?" she asked suddenly.
He looked at her, his steady gaze an affirmation that she continue. "The difference between introversion...and 'just being shy'?" She seemed to be quoting someone, Aaron guessed, probably Commander Paris.
"Shyness can be overcome with training and discipline. Introversion, or extroversion, are innate qualities. They show on a human brain scan," he explained.
So logical, she thought as she listened to him. For a human, he was certainly unique.
"You are introverted, is that a fair assessment?" she asked softly. "You prefer solitude." It was a question, phrased like a statement.
He dropped his gaze uncomfortably. "In general, I guess that's a fair statement." He was thoughtful. "What made you ask?"
She tilted her head predictably, and he knew a longer discussion was coming. "Commander Paris, in a recent discussion, mentioned that he thought you were shy. That you would probably not attend his daughter's birthday party." She folded her arms on the table. "I asked him to define 'shy.' His explanation was, and I quote, 'He hates social gatherings.' I corrected him, saying that you are not, in fact, shy, as he defined it. You could not be his first officer if you were a shy individual. You are merely introverted, and find large gatherings of people draining at times."
"You sound like you know the difference. Why ask me?" he countered slyly.
"Shy...is a nonspecific term, and I seek clarification. I was uncertain how it applied. The more research, the better." She paused, shifting her eyes away slightly, realizing she had been too fixated on his face. "Most Vulcans are introverted, by the very nature of our cultural philosophy. But we are not shy. We do not experience discomfort solely on the nature of social interactions."
He looked thoughtful again for a moment. "You know, now that you say that, it makes sense. I can't imagine what an extroverted Vulcan would be like."
"A Romulan," she deadpanned. Was she trying to be humorous? Sometimes he caught her jokes, sometimes he realized she had been kidding hours, or even sometimes days later.
He was looking down at his food, but he smiled. She felt her face flush despite herself, the sight so rare, yet so attractive to her–his beautiful smile. He was by far the most serious human she had ever had routine interactions or communication with. The fact that the lines around his eyes creased, and his eyes warmed, showed her it was genuine mirth rather than politeness that prodded the smile.
She had perfectly memorized each line on his face, the strong curve of his jaw, the shadows that fell across his forehead under the wave of his thick dark hair. The smile turned him radiantly handsome, yet somehow emphasizing his gentle demeanor, often hidden beneath his stoic expressions. When he looked back up, he was serious again. She shifted slightly, vaguely concerned that he'd noticed how long she had been staring at him, especially when he wasn't looking.
"Have you been sleeping better? Since the meditation last week?" Her tone was conversational, but her eyes shone with concern.
"Finally, yes. Thank you, Doctor," he answered brusquely.
"You should not have neglected the practice for so long, Aaron. It helps you in many ways. Even if we do not do it together," she reprimanded.
"I know," he admitted reluctantly. "I just...I…"
"You have not told Commander Paris about your….situation, have you?" she asked. "Any of it," she added affirmatively.
He shook his head negatively, picking at his sandwich with his fingers, staying silent.
"He is your friend, is he not?" she quizzed.
"Yes, one of my best," he said so softly anyone without Vulcan ears couldn't have heard.
"Do you think he would not understand?" Her eyes pierced him, as they always did.
"It's not a question of his understanding or not. He's my commanding officer, and I'm his first officer. If he knew that I was as….troubled….as I am…." His voice trailed off. He looked up at her sharply, "If he knew….he would be required to relieve me of duty."
"You came to me for help. As your physician, what you told me, as always, remains in confidence. My recommendations for treatment were sound," she insisted.
He didn't say it aloud, trying not to be contradictory. But she had come to him, at the turning point, at his rock bottom. Then, she had recognized the recent lapse in his control, and intervened on his behalf again. All he had done was accept her help. "I was on duty intoxicated. You should have told him. It was a breach of protocol for you to have not told him," he implored, lowering his voice at the end, worried they would be overheard.
"It is my prerogative as Chief Medical Officer. You asked me for help, many years ago. I have always strived to provide you with whatever it was you required in relation to that. You having done that is always the most important step," she assured.
"But it wasn't...wasn't just that once, either. I've been hiding that from him...from everyone….for a very long time." His guilt saturated his voice.
"You did not hide it from me," she said, barely audible. He couldn't read her expression, instead trying to imply her meaning from her tone. He sensed she was attempting to justify his actions, letting him know that because she knew, he wasn't as culpable as he feared. The key factor, he knew, was that he had not been able to hide it from her. Concealment had been his intention all along–but as it turned out, in the end, there was nothing he could effectively conceal from her.
Aaron covered his face with his hand. "I never thanked you, T'Lassa." When he pulled his hand away, he saw the faint, inexplicable flush on her cheeks that he always saw whenever he called her by her given name. "The techniques you taught me, they've helped so much. I haven't slept that well since….well," he cleared his throat, uncomfortable at his memory. "A long time."
"Meditation is a lifelong practice that requires constant education. I meditate every evening before I retire. Vulcan emotional control and suppression cannot be routinely maintained without it." He looked steadily at her. "We have 'only scratched the surface.' Was that correct use of the idiom?"
He smiled again. "Yes." Then he laughed. "You're 93 years old. You've been in Starfleet around mostly humans for 70 years. Why always play dumb when it comes to human idioms?" he teased. He was completely unaware of the significance of the fact that he knew exactly how old she was, knowledge he possessed because she had told him in the past.
"Vulcans do not play dumb, Commander," she said brightly. He swore she was almost smiling, her eyes almost glowing. "I do, however, modify my speech patterns to better integrate with my crewmates. And you changed the subject, Commander."
"Maybe I did," he shot back.
"I would….enjoy….meditating with you again." Always direct, she was. It was unnerving, and refreshing at the same time.
"I think that might be nice. It's only…." His voice trailed away.
"You are afraid Commander Paris will….tease you?" she asked, one eyebrow raising on her forehead.
That got a full throated laugh from him. "We aren't in middle school."
"A fact that Commander Paris does not always remember," she drolled, the smile in her voice if not on her face.
He laughed again. "I'll give you that."
She was quiet for a stretch. "Commander Paris, your friend, would understand why you needed help."
He looked at her, his brow furrowed. "Why did I? Out of nowhere like that?" he asked. He had been well for years, since her past intervention. Until last week.
"Memory is erratic. It could have been a scent, a date on the calendar, a coincidentally similar phrase….anything that may have triggered a memory," she offered.
"Memory is one thing. But grief…" His voice caught, and he stopped.
Her voice, as she responded, was softer and gentler. "A loss as significant as you had is not healed. It is a misconception. The pain never goes away. But you learn, instead, to integrate it into the essence of your being. It changes you into something...someone else. But if something triggers a memory of the pain, it becomes as real again as the day it happened," she concluded.
He shook his head side to side, an amazed sigh escaping his lips. "I don't understand how you can speak like you do...about emotions, feelings….and be so….Vulcan." There was genuine awe and respect in his voice. Hearing his own words, worrying he could be misconstrued, he added quickly, "I didn't mean that the--"
"I understand," she interjected quickly, aiming to put him at ease. "To truly understand Vulcans, you must realize that we do have all the emotions that you do, as a human. But we must suppress them. They overwhelm us, and destroy us. For all the disdain you hear from Vulcans concerning overemotional humans, it is we who are inferior. Humans feel as deeply, and yet, are not incapacitated by them," she explained.
He looked down, away from her, feeling his eyes burning with tears he could not shed.
She sensed his reticence. "You lost your wife. The other half of yourself," she whispered.
He swallowed hard, his insides clenching as her words punched a hole through him. "She would have been 42 years old. She always used to worry about getting old...and…." He sucked in a huge, shuddering breath. "I'm sorry."
"You honor her memory when you speak of her," she said reverently. "And you just proved my point. You were thinking of her, her birthday, and became overwhelmed. The alcohol was a way of self-medicating," she told him, her tone mild with compassion.
"I guess I put it out of my mind and…." He saw the briefest of shadows cross over her face. In the tender moment, he felt he could ask her. "T'Lassa, how long has it been since your husband passed away?"
Her eyes shifted down and away briefly, before she looked back up at him. "Nine years."
"Did he die in the war as well?" he asked softly. He had always assumed, but had never had a reason to directly ask.
"He was an engineer on one of the ships on the front lines when the Dominion started exterminating the Cardassians. They were helping to evacuate refugees when the entire ship was destroyed by the Jem'Hadar," she explained, her voice dead, completely without inflection.
"I grieve with thee," he said softly, in the Vulcan traditional funerary consolation. She bowed her head slightly to acknowledge him.
As the silence stretched, she finally spoke again. "Meditation can help you center. So that a stray memory will not destroy your equilibrium. Please come meditate with me this evening," she implored.
He looked up, nodded affirmatively. "I would like that. Thank you." He thought of the hours he had spent with her, and the gap in between after he became fully functional again, a part of him having missed being around her in that way.
"If you tell Commander Paris the whole truth, he will understand. He is kind, and sympathetic, beyond his otherwise… juvenile demeanor. Trust him," she advised.
She stood, opening her mouth to speak, but caught her breath as she lost her balance on her feet, as he had seen her earlier in the briefing room. He jumped up sharply, catching her arm before she fell. "Doctor!" He regretted having touched her, but even through her uniform sleeve, she felt feverishly hot, even for a Vulcan. "T'Lassa, what's wrong?" he demanded.
"It is nothing, Commander. Please," she insisted, straightening and steadying herself.
"Doctor, this isn't--"
"Please! Commander, I am fine!" She seemed to lash out in anger, stunning him to silence.
"No, you're not, Doctor," he managed to get out. "Michaels to Infirmary," he called briskly, tapping his combadge. "Please stand by. Doctor T'Lassa is ill."
She pulled further away from his grasp, and was almost running away when he caught her from behind. She spun, both hands clenched in one fist, and chopped at him under the chin, sending him flying onto his back. She looked dismayed, worse than dismayed. Horrified, he thought with disbelieving alarm. Her face contorted in rage, her entire body shaking. "Michaels to Security. Send a detail to the Cafe," he panted, struggling to his feet.
He dabbed at the blood leaching from one side of his mouth while shifting his weight on his feet as he stood to his full height. He turned to see security stun her as she attempted to strike the armed detail. "Medical emergency. Two to beam directly to Infirmary," he called over the comm as he rushed to her supine form. "Call Commander Paris," Aaron said to one of the security team members under his breath as they both vanished.
}LS{
Aaron refused treatment with the dermal regenerator until Dr. Conlin, one of T'Lassa's associates in the Infirmary, tended to her needs. She refused to let anyone come near her, even Aaron. He had become completely unsettled, as she had seemed to morph into someone he couldn't recognize, after so profoundly connecting with her on such a deep level just moments before.
"Report," Paris called as he entered.
"We were eating lunch. She was fine. She stood up, almost fainted again like this morning. I tried to hold her up. She felt like she had a fever when I touched her. Then she got….agitated is the only word I could use. I tried to stop her, and she hit me. She also assaulted the security team that I called. She won't let Dr. Conlin, or anyone else for that matter, near her," Aaron said, rapidly and winded sounding.
Tom stayed quiet, a strange expression slowly creeping onto his face. "I think I may have an idea about what's wrong," Tom said softly. "But I need to speak to T'Lassa…alone." He reached back onto the biobed table. "Medical tricorder?" Dr. Conlin handed it to him. Aaron was confused, questioning, but he let Tom go, trusting his friend's words.
In the private room, T'Lassa lay on her side, curled into the fetal position. Even from the distance Tom stood, he could see her shaking. He raised the scanner, confirmed his suspicions that she had a fever. And the biochemical imbalance he had also believed he would find. "T'Lassa, it's Tom."
"Commander, please. You must leave," she growled.
"T'Lassa, I know what's wrong," he said.
She sat up, her eyes wide in shock. "It is not spoken of, ever, especially with non-Vulcans! How do you know?"
"I was the senior medic on Voyager with the only two Vulcans in the Delta Quadrant for seven years. It was kind of hard to keep it a secret." Sheepishly he added, "B'Elanna was involved once. It's a long story, but she almost died from pon farr."
"Both of Voyager's Vulcans were male, were they not?" she asked, her teeth almost chattering.
"Does that make a difference?" he asked.
"The mating drive, the blood fever, begins with the male. A female to whom he is bonded responds through the mating bond," she explained, each word almost making her wince as it left her lips.
"Ok. But you're not bonded, are you?" he asked plainly.
"My husband was human," she said tightly.
His eyes opened wide with shock. "T'Mira's half human?" he asked, bewildered.
"More than half human. I am not fully Vulcan. There are… a few human ancestors on my mother's side of my family," she added quickly.
"So what does that mean? I mean, for Vulcan females?" Now he was just curious.
"If we are bonded to a Vulcan male, it means we become fertile at the time of his blood fever. And we mate," she said flatly.
"So what happens when you aren't bonded to a Vulcan? What then?" he asked.
"It has been found that we become fertile at random times throughout our adult life. Sometimes it correlates with a blood fever, sometimes it does not. I have not experienced this phenomenon in 36 years," she offered.
Tom sat beside her on the biobed. "How long were you married?"
"Fifty-three years. My husband was 74 when he died," she said, close to mumbling.
"T'Mira is only ten," he said softly, the indelicate question unasked.
"Humans make love, and not just to procreate, as I'm sure you are aware," she sighed in frustration.
He was fascinated by her bluntness, her lack of unease, even as she had forbidden him from speaking of the Vulcan equivalent. "But what did you do, I mean, historically? Before Vulcans mated with non-Vulcans. What happens...when you no longer have a mate?"
"Historically, the lone bondmate perished. Brutal, but the price we pay for maintaining our logical composure," she expounded.
"You can't seriously be considering that," he asked sarcastically. When she stayed silent, he felt his worry increase. "If you think I'm going to just let you die--"
"What would you do, Commander? Offer your services? You are married." She was mocking him, he knew, in her Vulcan way.
"Both Vulcans experienced this during Voyager's journey. Neither of them died," he countered.
"What was your solution?" she asked.
"Ritual combat in one. A holographic recreation in another," he explained.
She seemed to ponder this quietly. When she spoke, her voice was so soft he had to lean into her to hear. "I lived my entire adult life married to a human male. I loved him. I know you believe Vulcans can't love. Love also isn't an emotion. It is a choice. And an action. Everything that I did, I did because I loved him. I cannot do what you are suggesting," she insisted, shaking her head vigorously.
"This will kill you, T'Lassa," he proclaimed direly. "What other choice do you have?" Tom countered.
"I cannot do what you are suggesting!" she asserted, raising her voice.
Tom sat calmly, pausing until she settled slightly before speaking again. "What about Aaron?"
Her eyes flew wide with uncontained horror. "Lt. Commander Michaels and I are friends," she hissed. She could not, would not, be the one to divulge the completeness of their association.
"Really? Is that all? Is that why he's out there ready to tackle me to get in here to make sure you're ok?" he queried.
"Commander, I don't see how that is relevant," she countered, her voice flattening.
"T'Lassa, I've seen the way you look at him," Tom said gently. "Your entire demeanor changes when you are anywhere near him," he confirmed. After a deep breath, he blurted, "You love him, don't you?"
"I am a Vulcan," she said with force, though her voice shook.
"Who's partly human. Who just explained the emotion to me perfectly. How logical is it, to deny something you know is true?" he asked.
"He still grieves for his wife," she said, raising her voice slightly, choking on the words as she fought tears.
Tom sighed. "I've known Aaron for a long time. And you're right, he does. He has. But I can't deny what I see. He's a tough nut to crack. He kept to himself for a long time. Our friendship took a long time to become what it is." With conviction, he added, "But I know, and I have for a long time, despite what he says sometimes, he would rather be with you than do just about anything."
She had actually started weeping, something he felt disturb his equilibrium substantially. "How can I ask that of him? We are not….together. And things will never be the same once--"
"Right," he said, cutting her off. "If you're lucky, they won't be. Maybe you won't be alone any more," he offered, raising both eyebrows as he silently asked for her consideration.
Her eyes were enormous when she turned her face up to him.
"T'Lassa, I know what Aaron's been through. I know about his substance abuse issues. All of it. And I know you probably saved his life by doing what you did for him," Tom told her.
"I am a doctor. It was my job to save his life," she droned.
"Your job is one thing. What you did for him went way beyond, and I think you know that," he countered.
"He doesn't….have the same feelings," she whispered, more tears collecting under her eyelashes.
"Again--I'm sure it is taking more than one person to keep him out there, when he thinks something could be happening to you. He cares about you, T'Lassa," Tom said, his voice hushed. Did Aaron love her? Tom had suspicions, but Aaron was so stoic he was very hard to read. Much harder than this Vulcan woman, who almost glowed with emotion every time she had been around his friend.
"I can't ask that of him," she insisted, her voice breaking.
"Can I tell you a secret?" he asked softly. "B'Elanna and I…we weren't together, you know, together, when that happened to her. It was a mess. We were on a seismically unstable planet with hostile natives. And she was emotionally unstable and irrational, and slowly losing her faculties. It was life and death by the end. But I resisted her, because I…well, I had feelings for her. And I didn't want that to be our first…you know," he said, flushing scarlet with embarrassment. "I didn't want her to hate me, resent me, push me further away than she already did…" He sighed, growling with frustration. "That's a story for another time. But my point," he emphasized, "my point, is that if it was the only way to keep her alive, then I would have. I would have risked her hating me forever, if it meant saving her life."
He listened to her breathing in the silence. Humming softly to himself, Tom finally asked her, "Will you at least let me tell him what's wrong? Let him decide?"
"If you tell him what's wrong, he will take it upon himself to not refuse, no matter what," she insisted.
Tom sighed. "That should tell you everything you need to know, doesn't it?"
She said nothing for a long time. She was calmer when she continued. "He was afraid to tell you. About his alcoholism. It never occurred to me, or him, that you already knew, Commander. I encouraged him to do so. I assured him you would understand," she swore.
He saw the unspoken admiration in her eyes, more apparent now that her emotional control had faltered. He smiled softly in response.
}LS{
Aaron waited in the corridor, his heart pounding in his throat. His palms were clammy and itchy. His breathing was ragged, burning in his nose. He was apprehensive, but also worried. As uneasy as he felt, he was sick on the inside with fear that somehow, behind the door, she was not alright. That he was too late, beyond the time where he could still help her. He kept rationalizing the thought--forget the fear, and focus instead on the fact that she needed him. When he did, he realized there was nothing she could ask of him that he would refuse her. She didn't answer the door on the first chime.
He had heard rumors, whispers in dark corners, about the strange mating rituals and habits of Vulcans. It had always seemed far fetched, fantastically exaggerated. How could it really be true that in the 24th century, there was this bizarre untreatable condition? But it was real, Tom had explained. He had seen it. B'Elanna had almost died from it. And now T'Lassa was dying of it too.
He rang the chime again.
"Come," he heard. It was her voice, but so broken he barely recognized it.
The door opened to darkness. The only lighting in the room was from the replicator panel on her wall. As his eyes began to adjust to the low light, he could make out various scattered objects--clothing, books, padds, and most significantly, her meditation lamp, overturned and smashed. "T'Lassa," he whispered, unable to find her in the darkness. His eyes scanned in the pitch black to her bed, the heavier darkening against the wall. He walked to the side of her bed, and immediately heard her breathing, shallow and panting, almost whimpering like a frightened animal. "I'm here," he soothed.
"Aaron…." she cried, backing further against the wall and away from him.
"Please don't be afraid. Tom told me what's been happening to you," Aaron told her. "I want to help you."
"It's too much, Aaron. I cannot ask this much of you," she insisted weepily.
Her tears frightened him, disturbed him. And the fear, the desperate concern for her gripped him. "I can't sit here and watch you die," he said firmly, reaching down and pulling her by her wrists, forward into the faint light. Her ponytail had loosened, her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders and framing her paled face. Her eyes were glazed with fever.
"Let me help you," he said more softly, releasing her, troubled that he may have hurt her.
"This is not what I wanted. It is too much to ask, Aaron," she wailed. He sensed despair in her, disquieting as anything he could imagine.
"You pulled me off the edge of the abyss. You helped me live again, when I wanted nothing but to destroy myself. I owe you my life," he insisted. "Nothing is too much." He sank down slowly to sit beside her on her bed, nearly overcome with the urge to pull her into his arms, offering her comfort, despite his acceptance that she didn't want it from him.
The pain radiated out from her as she answered him, blinding her in the moment to the depth of meaning behind his words. "The only man I have ever been with in such a way was my husband. I belonged to him. When he died, I thought I would never be that way with anyone else. That I was incapable. I had hoped this wouldn't happen again, because I knew it would mean the end of my life."
He felt cut, sliced on the inside, understanding exactly what she meant. Slowly, purpose filling his voice he said again, "If you don't let me help you, you'll die. Your daughter needs you." The emotion flooded his tone, making his voice vibrate. "And I don't know how I could live if I lost you." The last few words caught in his throat as the emotion swelled.
He felt her eyes on him, unwavering, as she absorbed what he had said. The fever persisted, but the emotion in her eyes held him transfixed. He knew she trusted him, and it calmed the worry inside him.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she called, "One quarter lights." As her cabin slowly lit up around them, he saw her blue eyes burning with a longing that stopped him dead. It was new and familiar at the same time.
His thoughts fluttered. Was this only because of her condition? Or could she just not control it, in her current state? He didn't know, couldn't understand. "I know all the reasons why you are fighting this. And I understand why. I do. But, please, let me do this for you. With you." His voice deepened on the last two words, husky with emotion. She would die without intervention, but he needed her to know he was willing to give her all himself, regardless of the situation.
His mouth was dry. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he struggled to say,
"Tell me what to do, T"Lassa." He clenched his hands into fists to keep them from shaking. His only motivation was protecting her, but he couldn't deny the way his own body had started to react with the thought of being with her the way this assistance required.
"There is no logic during this time." She said it slowly, placing her fingers against the bones in his face. Her fingertips felt scalding hot against his skin. But slowly he felt them cool, and a strange sensation that her fingers were reaching into his skull, that she would eventually touch his brain. It was the strangest feeling he had ever had. His gut instinct was to recoil, but he heard her voice, Don't be afraid. His heart skipped a beat when he realized he had heard her thoughts in his mind, like he listened to his own thoughts. Open your mind. Relax.
He didn't realize he was fighting her per se, until he understood his uneasiness must have been causing resistance. He tried to take a deep breath, and had the sensation that his breath coming into his lungs started inside her chest, and his breath leaving his lungs didn't leave completely until it reached inside her. The pain, Aaron. Show it to me. Let it go. It acts as a barrier to the connection.
I can't. His own voice echoed inside his head like a bell.
You must, she implored, with almost desperation. He felt it start to pull from inside his head like a strand of yarn. Jessica. Her face. Laughing, smiling….holding his face in her hands as she kissed him. Holding his hand at graduation. Crying tears of joy after he asked her, and she said yes. Alone with him in the dark, in their bed. The purest joy that had lived in his heart every day that he had known her.
Let it go, she asked again.
I can't watch this. I can't live this again, he lamented.
I'm here. You aren't alone. Her words gave him strength, and he unraveled more of the yarn, though it had become barbed. The war. Being separated. The death he saw every day, the agony of worrying if she was all right. The absolute vacuum that sucked all the rest of his life down into it...when he knew she was gone. Her broken body lay in the morgue on the ship, just one of hundreds. The black hole afterward, that stole all his future joy. It was a starless void, empty, and he was lost in it.
Suddenly the void began to fill. Images, moving pictures of someone else. T'Lassa, with a human male. Tim, he understood. Hundreds of hours together, talking, working, sharing. They knew each other, in a way he could only imagine. She felt his thoughts, his feelings, channeled her emotions into him and he enveloped her. She saw him laughing when he was happy, crying when he was sad, raging when he was angry. She absorbed his feelings, understood them in a way most Vulcans never could. She loved him. More than a feeling, it was part of who she was.
And then the pain as well. Waking up in the middle of the night with a knife in her brain, the abrupt severance of their bond, and she knew he was dead. She fell into the same void, lost herself, sealed herself inside a place where no one could reach her.
Until she fell through, and landed, softly, onto a field of green grass. She lay on the ground, her hair fanned out around her, Aaron breathing softly beside her, against her cheek. Her eyes were like diamonds, reflecting his face, he was so close to her. He thought what was beneath them was grass, but it yielded as he shifted, feeling almost like he was floating on a cloud. There was an invisible blanket wrapped around him, infusing his body and mind with warmth. He had no idea how he knew, yet was absolutely sure, what he was feeling was love. It came from her, and encircled them both. He was thunderstruck.
Aaron found himself looking at her, so incredibly beautiful under the sunshine. He realized he was feverish, sweating, burning, his chest aching from his ragged breathing. He was looking at her, and then he opened his eyes, to see her again, this time for real. Only her visage changed, from peaceful contentment to starving need. Her hands fell from his face down into her lap.
She kissed him. It wasn't how a first kiss usually started--hesitant, soft, gentle. No, she was hungry, starved, almost bruising him with her intensity. He would have been appropriately hesitant and calm. Until he realized it had already begun. She had passed the blood fever to him, as Tom had briefly explained how it had happened to B'Elanna in the Delta Quadrant. Newly desperate for her, he returned her fervor with his own, amazed at his own raw desire, the feelings she seemed to be awakening in him.
She no longer touched his face, but he found he still knew what she was thinking. He could hear her thoughts, knew she could hear his. When he touched her, he felt her pleasure inside himself. As she lay beside him, their flesh touching, she felt his aching longing inside her. Her needs he understood effortlessly, her ecstasy as her needs were fulfilled feeding back into him until he nearly blacked out. It built like a tidal wave, and crashed into him as reality exploded, fusing their bodies together as their minds already were. His fever blurred his memories, made the moment seem unreal, as he finally lost his battle and lost consciousness.
She felt split in half, weeping silently against his chest. She checked him, made sure he was breathing normally, scanned his face for bruises she could have caused with her fingers, worried that she had injured him in her frenzy. Without her control, she was helpless, feeling mixed emotions with an intensity unparalleled in her life. Her heart soared, even as it broke–feeling the absolute bliss of being with him, feeling the abject misery that it was temporary, that he had done this out of kindness, friendship, a reciprocated favor, that she had permanently alienated herself from him by showing him how she truly felt.
She smelled the musky scent of his exertions, mixed with his faint cologne, and the natural, inexplicable scent that was just him. She knew the memory of this moment, lying on top of him, their bodies adhered together with sweat, would never leave her, would amplify inside her mind at the slightest of memories. Pulling herself away from him was almost physically painful, but she had to. As tempting as the idea to just stay pressed against him was, she didn't trust herself. She felt that this was all manipulation of him, that she couldn't be herself, now that he knew.
The sheet was frigidly cool against her skin as she rolled away, tucking it over her body to cover herself. Like ripples on the top of a calm lake, the echoes of her pleasure remained, the ghosts of his touches still palpable on her skin. The logical half of her, smothered beneath her crazed blood fever, surfaced briefly in the internal argument. He had been able to sense her thoughts, something she had not anticipated like this. It had taken years before, when she was married, for that to develop. He had known what she wanted, and he had given it to her without a thought, without even consciously acknowledging it. It left her in awe of him, more so now than ever before.
She had experienced blood fever before. She had been married, in love with her dead husband longer than Aaron even had been alive. Nothing in her past had prepared her for this—the way being with him like that had made her feel. Able to sense his thoughts and his feelings, caught in the ever building and increasing sensations of pleasure—feeling it within him, feeling him respond to what he knew he had created in her body. It had been a very long time since either of them had been intimate with another, but she had never even imagined that it could have been this way with him.
And as amazing as that was to accept, it devastated her beyond reason in the moment, as the distance between them in the bed seemed enormous.
She rolled to her side, forcing herself to stop looking at him. He was asleep, virtually passed out. His dark hair curled slightly over his forehead, damp from sweat and sticking to his skin. Asleep, the muscles in his face were relaxed, the line of his jaw much softer. His lips were parted ever so slightly. She could still feel every place on her body where his lips had been. Looking away took all of her remaining strength.
Humans believed love came from the heart. As a Vulcan, she knew love, as an emotion or state of being, came from her brain, her ability to rationalize and think. So why could she feel it all inside her chest, torn open like a wound? Brokenheartedness, she thought. It was apt. She hated that she at last understood that notion, as never before.
