A/N: ArafelSedaj, thanks for the very nice comments … but I disagree about your fic. It's great! You've captured A/T'P beautifully!

Archer got home to his apartment and threw his briefcase on the couch with a sigh. He'd had long days before, but for some reason they kept getting longer and more arduous. Porthos, who was only now starting to lame with age, hobbled up to him and the man bent down to scratch his dog behind the ears.

"Have a good day?" he asked his dog.

A bark and wagging tail let him know. It caused Archer to smile and bend down to lavish more attention on him, as the dog tried to lick at his face. Typically, his master hated it, but this time he let the little creature get his nose on the third attempt and with a chuckle left him to fill up the food and water bowl.

As Porthos devoured what was before him, the admiral rolled his head around his neck to force the tension away, giving the coffee table a passing glance. Jerking his head to attention, he looked at the table again, furrowing his brow; something was missing.

There aren't any candles.

T'Pol had strategically placed them around his living room – big, smelly red ones - to make the apartment feel more like her home. Somehow the lack of spicy, wax pillars made the admiral frown. Although he'd wrinkled his nose at them silently when she'd scattered them around his apartment – at his urging – now his lips curled down at their absence. They'd added a certain quality that his apartment had been lacking.

I wonder where she put them.

"T'Pol?" he asked the apartment. Porthos barely turned his head.

Rapping his knuckles quietly on her bedroom door, he called her name. When she didn't respond, he knocked with a little more gusto and slid the door open. The bed was made with fresh sheets, and her bags – the ones that she'd stuffed neatly into a corner – were no longer piled there.

It was vacant.

He thought about the address she'd given him.

Living in Union Square himself, he was familiar with the area. Market Street had a lot of shops and restaurants, but the blocks between 700 and 900 were residential. And then a light bulb went off.

She got an apartment.

To test his memory and see if his guess was right, he walked over to a PADD and called up the city's maps. Typing in the address, he saw that she'd chosen to live in a large skyscaper, The Monroe, about two blocks away from him.

She didn't even ask me to help her move.

He thought back to their argument today; their disagreement was no trivial matter. He'd demanded that she divulge she considered state secrets even though she'd vowed that doing so would place Vulcan in jeopardy. The two had negotiated to common ground: she hinted at Romulan involvement and he didn't push for more information. The information was a day later than he would've liked, but he didn't hold a grudge against her.

He hoped she didn't hold any against him.

I wonder if that's why she moved without telling me.

Exhaling slowly, he made his way into his room and changed clothes into something casual – jeans and a T-shirt. After looking at his reflection in the mirror, he noted how comfortable he felt.

For the past three nights, he'd been in his uniform way too long; the thing weighed him down with responsibility and duty. It encroached on friendships, demanded answers and ordered people into harm's way.

Looking at his uniform laying on his bed, he then picked it up and tossed it into the hamper with a grunt.

T'Pol put the finishing touches on her place by lighting candles around her rooms. Satisfied at the flicker against the wall, she breathed in the soothing aroma – tly'ek, a flower grown on Mt. Selaya, known for serenity.

The one-bedroom/one-bath apartment had already been fully furnished. It came with a large bed and silks draped around it like mosquito netting, as well as a deep-tub that she could practically lie down, submerging her entire body. The wall colors had been painted by the owner: deep reds with gold flecks. And earlier that day, she'd bought pillows of rich hues to place on her floor like any Vulcan home would have.

Closing her eyes, she hugged the satiny material of her robes closer to her.

Home.

A buzz frazzled her concentration. Making her way to an intercom, she leaned over.

"Yes?" she asked to the small silver device.

"It's me," Archer said, his voice echoing in the lobby.

"I'm in number 2302."

Giving her apartment one last walkthrough, as if hoping to catch something out of place, she eventually nodded with approval and then glided back into the living room to fluff the pillows before the doorbell rang.

"Hello," she said, opening the door.

He didn't smile.

"Why didn't you tell me you'd found a place?" he asked. He shrugged off his jacket and without prompting, she hung it up in a nearby closet.

"I only discovered it earlier today. And given our discussion this afternoon, I thought it best not to bring this up."

He blew out a long breath and she watched his face change expressions. "Listen, about today--"

"Jonathan, I thought we were done with that discussion."

When he was about to challenge her, she stopped him. "I meant, I think we understand one another."

"We haven't had a disagreement in a while."

"A year and two weeks to be exact."

He chuckled at the comment and finally looked around her room. Going up to the large window in the living room, he looked out at the San Francisco skyline and mindlessly rubbed the sand-colored draped between his fingers. Turning, squinting his eyes at the low lighting, thanks to the plentiful candles, he smiled.

"This place reminds me of Vulcan," he said.

"It does me as well."

She showed him around each room, watching his bemusement at the candles that surrounded the large sunken tub and the small smile that played on his lips as he curiously wandered around rooms. He opened closed doors, poked his head into nooks and crannies and finally nodded as if the place passed his inspection. It was as if no attention to detail escaped his notice.

"Do you like it?"

"Yeah, it's nice. It's definitely more … uhm … feminine than my apartment," he said.

"It makes sense that your abode is more masculine. You are a man."

The comment earned her a blank look, which made a smile form in her eyes. She got him.

She offered him something to drink and eat, but let him fix his own plate of lentils, rice and bread. The two sat Indian style on the pillows of her living room and talked about how she came by the apartment in the first place and how she'd bought it fully furnished from a Vulcan – an anthropologist – leaving the area. As the discussion wore on, the captain had stretched out propping himself up on one elbow.

"Jonathan, you're not upset are you?"

Shifting his weight, he put his head against his hand. "About what?"

"That I left your apartment."

"No. We both agreed you could stay with me until you got your bearings." He spooned a small portion of food into his mouth. "It just … seems like you were in a rush to leave."

"A rush?"

"You found a new place and moved out in less than six hours."

"Eight hours."

He pushed the food aside. "All right. Eight."

"I assure you that it had nothing to do with our conversation today."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Then why the rush?"

Leaving the spoon in her dish, she looked up at him. Although she didn't want to tell him the truth, it appeared it was the wisest thing to do; it would save him from thinking he had offended her. Slowly and deliberately, she spoke.

"Our cohabitation …. My aid suggested that several members of the Council believed the two of us have been … intimately involved," she said.

Choking, he wheezed out a: "What!"

"I believe you heard me."

"Why?"

"Because we were living together."

"We're friends."

"Staron indicated he saw me touch you."

"So?"

"I'm not defending their opinion, I'm merely indicating what Staron told me."

"That's what made you move?" His voice sounded a little incredulous.

"Yes."

As she dug into her meal, she heard Archer speak quietly. "You don't like the implication."

"No. Do you?"

"I don't care what they think. Why do you?"

"Unlike you, I need to earn their respect."

"T'Pol, I think you already have it."

"Soval had it, I do not. Not yet."

"That's not true, Gral admires you and respects you. I think the Xindi ambassador does as well."

"To represent Vulcan, I need for everyone to feel that way."

"You think living on your own will command their respect?"

"No, I think showing some independence will."

"Independence … like distancing yourself from me?"

"Perhaps. Living in my own apartment seemed like an appropriate step to take."

"Do you need any more distance?"

She quipped a brow at him, and he re-asserted himself.

"It sounds like you're asking for space."

The blank expression she gave him made him continue. "Ever since you've gotten here, we've been spending most of our time together. We lived together, worked together--"

"Is that what you wish? More time to yourself?" she asked.

"No. No, I'm happy with the way things are … but … we're not talking about me."

"Taking up my own residence should suffice for now."

"It won't hurt my feelings … if that's what concerns you."

"Of course."

Nodding, he picked up his bowl and scooped some dinner into his mouth. As a frown worked onto his face, he placed his bowl on the ground again and shoved it forward. After serving under his command for ten years, she could read him all too well: despite his words, he was disappointed that their positions encroached on their friendship. It's why she spoke up.

"Vulcans have few close friends," she whispered.

"I have few close friends, too."

"I know."

Their eyes locked – both glimmering as if full of admiration … at least hers were. And because she'd known the human across from her so well, she gathered that was the emotion he felt as well.

"I support whatever you need to do," he said.

"I know that as well."

Averting his eyes, he stared back down at his food. "Dinner was great."

The intensity of the moment was gone and she gathered her bowl and took his back to the sink to be washed later. When she returned the lazy sprawl Archer's figure had taken during their meal reverted back to sitting Indian style, and this time his spine was straight not slouched.

As she was about to comment on it, he chitchatted about trivial matters including questioning the Xindi and Tellarite ambassadors. A smile formed on his lips as he went on about another topic, one that interested him.

"I got a communication from Shran late this afternoon."

She was quiet.

"He said he'd be here tomorrow."

"Yes, Ambassador Gral announced it."

"He should be at the Council meeting by noon …."

"I heard."

Leaning toward her a little, he asked, "Did you know that Shran was working in a secret organization for the general himself?"

"That doesn't matter."

"He might be able to explain more about the gem. It was a--"

"That doesn't matter."

"T'Pol--"

She flattened her lips and he begged off the topic. He said, "I know it upsets you that he'll--"

"Jonathan, a Vulcan--"

His eyes warred with hers. "I know it upsets you. But, you're going to have to interact with him."

"I realize that."

His eyebrows crept up against his hairline.

"I realize he will be Andoria's Ambassador." She reaffirmed stubbornly. "He may be your friend, but you won't convince me that he will ever be mine."

"I'm not trying to--"

"Oh?"

Sighing, he finally agreed. "You're right. I won't bring him up."

Staring, she dared him and noticed he capitulated truly, as if he wouldn't mention the Andorian's name around her again. As she was about to debate that Shran was the reason they'd encountered the Arali, the admiral glanced down at his watch.

"It's getting late," he said.

The two stood and Archer collected his jacket from the closet, wandering into it himself.

"Thank you for coming," she said.

He gave a lopsided smile. "Next time, just tell me you're leaving. I could've at least given you a hand."

"There was very little to move," she said.

Cramming his arm through one side, T'Pol thought about something she'd heard in the Council room. It was strange that Archer hadn't brought it up.

"I heard the details about the ceremony for the Columbia. It sounds … it sounds like an appropriate way to honor them."

The plan was to read the names of the victims in the courtyard between the Federation and Starfleet campuses. Admiral Gardner and President Gral had settled on that as a way for both organizations to show their support for the Columbia, and show their regret for the loss. There were also discussions about building a fountain, something that the Federation agreed to pay for, dedicated to the Columbia.

"Yeah," he said.

When he slowly put his arm into the other sleeve, she wondered what troubled him.

"I understand Captain Hernandez's funeral is in Arizona?"

"Yeah, it's in Phoenix."

"Are you going?"

"I don't know if I can get away."

Jerking on his jacket with one final tug and then zipping it, she noticed he avoided her gaze.

"Were you invited?" she asked, softly.

With a sad smile, he sighed. "I guess there's that, too."

"Perhaps you should attend anyway."

Her hands smoothed down his collar, all catawampus, flattening it against the tan material.

"No. I'm not going to do that to Erika's family," he said.

"It could've been an oversight."

"No."

"I've heard that frequently during difficult times, humans forget--"

"You didn't see the look that Erika's mother gave me. You didn't see the pain." He stared at his feet.

T'Pol fell silent.

"I can understand it," he said.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

As she was about to open her mouth to say more on the subject, he cut her off. "You got a nice place here."

"You may come any time."

The comment sunk in, as if he understood the distance she'd been suggesting wasn't really what she wanted. The woman had few friends, and the man in front of her was no doubt her best friend.

"Thanks for dinner," he said. With that, he gave her a small peck on the cheek and left.

T'Pol slowly closed the door and watched the ground. Perhaps she could understand Erika's mother's anger, although it seemed focused at the wrong person. It should've been focused on the Orions, Arali and Romulans.

Illogical.

Swallowing deeply, as she made her way to the kitchen to wash the dishes, she wondered if her own anger about Trip's death was focused on the wrong man.

Her fingers traveled along the smooth, clay edge of the bowl. Although it had been possibly unfair to blame Shran, at least could give the perpetrator – the man who'd killed Trip - a name and a face when fury boiled her blood.

Perhaps it has been unjust, but … satisfying.

It was something she'd meditate on tonight. Perhaps resolving this would help release her from emotions like anger, self-doubt and pain.

Making her way to her bathroom, she turned the water on to fill the tub and lit the candles around it. Before slipping off her clothes, she walked to the mirror and picked up a brush – engaging in a ritual she did every night. Stopping, checking her reflection, she stared at her cheek and then let the brush glide down her hair.

TBC

A/N: Yes, next time expect to see Shran. I love that guy!