A/N: Thanks for the nice comments, everyone.
T'Pol was staying at the Sapphire – named for the crystal blue waters that it overlooked. It was an enormous old Spanish-style hotel, resplendent with tropical gardens, palm trees and fountains. She stayed there most likely because it accommodated Vulcans: it had mediation nooks in every room, candles, a quiet environment and hired staff that were mostly compliant, not overly congenial, folks. She probably also agreed to stay there because it was close to the cemetery … only three blocks.
Because it was Miami in August, his body was already beginning to sweat, and his white linen shirt – the only clean shirt left in his suitcase – clung to his body a little despite splaying open the collarless neck. As he fiddled with it, shaking it in a vain attempt create a breeze, he crossed the terracotta tile of the lobby passing black iron candelabras and crosses.
When he gazed up again, his eyes caught T'Pol. She wore something that resembled a cross between a cocktail dress and a Vulcan robe. It had a Nehru collar, with short sleeves, but instead of the hem flowing to the ground, it hit her at the ankles. The color was a deep blue, like the name of the hotel, and shiny.
It was the most unVulcan he'd ever seen her wear, but fit in with the atmosphere of the restaurant. Realizing this must be what Vulcans called informal wear, he stopped in front of her.
"Thank you for coming," she said.
"My pleasure. You look--"
She waited.
"Nice," he said.
"I have few clothing left that are unsoiled."
"I know the feeling."
With that, the two headed to the restaurant only twenty paces away in silence. The waiter, probably detecting their somber mood, put them at a table in the corner of the room – one that was darker than the rest. The candle in the middle of the table glowed with less brilliance, casting a shadow on the two.
When they sat down, both grabbed their menus, picked out their items and ordered. Unlike most women, Archer mused, T'Pol always knew what she wanted without reservations or a change of mind. It's part of what he'd always admired about her. The thought made the left side of his mouth slope up just a smidgen.
"I spent some time with Mr. and Mrs. Tucker this afternoon, after the ceremony."
He exhaled and drank his water.
"They were … pleased … about the number of people at the ceremony."
He smiled, accepting the whiskey that was offered to him by the waiter, and finally spoke.
"I was happy to see everyone there, too. I spoke with Admiral Gardner just two days ago. I had no idea he was coming."
"I assumed you'd asked him to come."
"I did. But … well, he's been busy lately."
T'Pol tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I heard about the attacks."
His eyebrows lifted. "I didn't think you had that kinda clearance." Three cargo ships attacked by an unknown ship and for unknown reasons, leaving Starfleet more questions than answers. He didn't even find out until two days ago, before he left for Miami.
And then it hit him. He sat back, holding the drink in his hand with a strange smile spreading across his face. Pride.
"Gardner offered you your own command, didn't he?" he asked.
"Yes."
Placing his elbows on the table, he leaned forward. "Congratulations, T'Pol. That's great."
Her eyes fell on the water in front of her, and she lifted it to her lips.
"You're going to accept it, aren't you?" he asked.
She remained quiet.
"T'Pol?"
After taking a long sip and setting it neatly back down, she finally lifted her eyes and stared at him.
"No."
"Listen, if it's about Trip--"
"No. I'm … uncertain about my feelings for Starfleet." She paused. "And I have been thinking about returning to my home."
"Vulcan?"
"Yes."
"Listen, during times like these it's difficult …. You shouldn't make rash decisions about your life after a traumatic event."
"I see. Like your decision to turn down a promotion?"
"That's different." Archer squirmed in his seat. "I can't see myself as admiral. I mean, I can't see myself behind a desk – pushing papers, telling captains what and where to explore. That's just not me."
"I didn't realize filing papers and giving orders were the only things Admiral Gardner did."
He narrowed his eyes and smirked at his drink; she had him, but he'd be damned if he'd admit it. So, he switched gears.
"What are you going to do on Vulcan?"
"Consider my options. Did I tell you I received a communiqué from Minister T'Pau?"
"No."
"She asked me to meet with her next Tuesday."
"Did she say what the meeting was about?"
"No," she responded.
"You're not going to meet with her … are you?"
"Captain?" she said.
"You are?" She didn't respond, so he asked again. "I guess you are. And … I think you can call me by my name, T'Pol."
Squinting her eyes, he could tell she wondered after all these years what he'd want to be called.
"Jonathan is fine," he said.
"Very well … Jonathan."
He smiled.
"Yes, she's arranged for us to talk next week."
"That's why you're going to Vulcan?"
"Not entirely."
Trying to imagine what the minister would want, he threw down the rest of his drink. Half-lidded eyes watched as she explained the cryptic note she received and what she planned on doing while on the planet. Her explanation was vague – a Vulcan ritual that is renewed as necessary … like the one given on P'Jem, but his brain echoed a word: Kolinahr.
Images of Vulcans wearing restraints, cloaked in black robes, prostrated themselves in front of priests. Their teeth gnashed, their cheeks flushed with emotion, they sometimes cried out to purge whatever remained … inner demons. It was an ancient practice Vulcans underwent to seek logic and reason … to suppress emotions. He wasn't sure how he knew that information – she certainly didn't mention it. And yet it flittered in his brain like a candle being lit for meditation.
Stopping her, he said the name of the ritual.
"The Kolinahr," he whispered.
Rather than answer, an eyebrow prodded up against her forehead and she slowly returned a few words.
"I sometimes find it … troubling what knowledge you retained from Surak's katra."
Tightly, he grinned. "Me, too." Then ducking his head, his fingers knotted his cloth napkin. "You know, we've always appreciated you just the way you are."
Her eyes fell back on the tablecloth.
"Why the sudden decision to do it?"
"The decision is hardly sudden."
"You've been thinking about this for a while?"
"Yes."
"And it's not just because Trip died?"
Her eyes level on him, and under the weight he rested his chin on his chest.
"If it is," he began, "there's nothing to be embarrassed about."
She sighed. "Jonathan, Trip and I had a … relationship."
"I know."
She nodded. "It took place many years ago, but …."
"You're confused?"
"Yes. In numerous ways. I've been planning to return to Vulcan and begin this ritual for some time …."
He knew when it probably started. "Since your mother died?"
"Yes."
"I'm sure this funeral has brought up painful memories about her."
"I would hypothesize you do know."
He sighed. "Yeah." Giving a sad smile, he crossed his legs. "There was a torrential rain the day of Dad's funeral. But, it didn't stop everyone from coming."
T'Pol was silent, and he leaned over. "You'll get through this."
"I was wondering about you," she said.
Smirking slightly, he agreed. "We'll get through this."
Dinner wore on and the two talked about everything -- old times, his speech and the press' glowing write-ups, the Federation and how the organization was going to change politics. They talked about Trip, how much he meant to them, including stories regaling exactly how much they cared for the engineer.
And they discussed the future: what would happen to everyone from Enterprise. Phlox had already accepted a position on Earth to lead Starfleet medical. Hoshi agreed to an assignment to Starfleet Central Command to decipher languages. Reed was drafted by Starfleet Security to assist with tactical procedures – like perfecting "tactical alert." Travis was still hedging between running his own cargo ship and accepting an assignment aboard the Apollo.
One thing was for sure, life wasn't standing still. Everything was moving on, whether Trip died or not.
"It's 0115," he said. His eyes apologetically met their waiter's, who obviously were on the verge of kicking him out.
"I didn't realize it was so late," she said.
He stood up and set his napkin on the table, long having paid the bill. When his mouth opened to make his exit, she stopped him.
"I have something for you," she said. "Come upstairs with me."
A little taken aback, he scratched the back of his neck and she reiterated.
"Jonathan, come upstairs. I have something for you."
The two walked in comfortable silence to her room. When they walked in, Archer took it in – it had the same Mission style décor, several cathedral-like candles to light up the room (which she did immediately on entering) and a small meditation nook.
After taking a few minutes to light every single one in the room and unveil a balcony behind a thick layer of tan curtains, she took his arm and led him to the balcony. When they walked out, he looked up at the stars. On Miami Beach, hotel signs were illegal, and the night lit up under the moonless sky – speckled with the constellations and celestial bodies he'd been gazing at since he was a child.
Orion. Cassiopeia. Ursa major and minor. Venus. Mars. And as his eyes scanned the sky, he thought about traveling among them.
"It's beautiful."
She put a small box into his hand. "You presented something to me on my promotion. I wanted you to have this when you accept the admiralty."
"I'm not --"
"I believe you will," she said. Her eyes focused back on the sky.
He opened the box and withdrew the item: a golden telescope, made probably in the 1800s, with an expanding lens like the ones he'd seen in old pirate movies while aboard Enterprise. Like an accordion, he brought it out to its fullest length and watched the heavens with a large grin. Then, contracting it to its smallest shape, he looked at her.
"This is …. I don't know what to say."
"You once told me that one of the reasons you enjoyed being captain was – you liked to show others the 'wonders of the universe.'"
"But, being admiral … I don't know about--"
"As admiral, Jonathan, you would have that opportunity on a daily basis."
"T'Pol--"
"Change is inevitable. Things cannot … and will not remain constant. You have an obligation to the future, to those who want to explore. I believe you will realize that and accept the position." Turning her head to face him, she reiterated. "It's only logical."
He was quiet. Instead of speaking, he fingered the instrument in his hand.
T'Pol continued, her voice hushed and reflective. "Enterprise's decommission, Trip's death …. Change is the only constant in the universe, whether it is hoist upon us or is something we contribute to."
The blue material in her dress blanketed in darkness, yet her face shone – as it always did.
"Will I see you again?" he asked.
She turned back to the balcony and leaned on it, facing the heavens. "I doubt we will ever lose touch."
"The Kolinahr can take months. Years."
"Yes. It has been known to take as many as twenty years."
"I know. I know you won't be able to communicate with anyone during that time."
"Yes."
"Our life spans --"
"As my friend, you will always be in my thoughts."
"I'll miss you, too." Licking his lips, he admitted to her with a soft chuckle, one meant purely for himself. "I'll miss you a lot."
She stared at him and he lowered his head.
"Listen, I better …. I have a flight tomorrow," he said.
"As do I," she said.
"Let me know when you're on Vulcan before the ritual. I mean, I … I hope you contact me."
"Of course."
He nodded. Wondering whether to hug her in a bear embrace, T'Pol held up her hand.
"Live long and prosper, Jonathan Archer."
He returned the gesture. "Peace and long life."
When both lowered their hands, he leaned over and kissed her cheek. And on righting his posture, he whispered to her.
"I'll talk with you soon."
Before either had a chance to say anything else, always hating goodbyes anyway, he turned on his heel and walked out the door. When he hit the lobby he noted with a grimace it was raining again, but this time he'd forgotten his raincoat.
TBC