A/N: I apologize for misspellings. I have to admit, I was a bit rushed in this one, but I wanted to get something out before Thanksgiving especially since it's been more than a week. Have a safe and happy one.
----

These days Archer felt just a tad uncomfortable in his own skin. It tingled, causing the hairs on his arms, neck and legs to stand up as if chilly or nervous almost every waking minute of the day. Maybe, he admitted, it started because he'd return back to the front sooner than expected. Maybe, he confessed in the bottom of his soul, it continued because he was unsure where he stood with T'Pol.

Miranda, his doctor, had given him a clean bill of health and Starfleet had already started working on which ship to assign him to. As he waited in Union Square park wondering which vessel he'd be assigned to and whether he'd be able to stay on Earth until at least T'Pol returned from Vulcan, he spied his friend.

Mel -- her hair tied behind her, ringlets falling across her face in the breeze -- wore a beaming smile as she walked up to him. Hands in her jeans pockets, the minute she saw him, the smile transformed into a grin.

"Jon," she said.

Scooting on the bench beside him, she shoved a white bag over to him filled with caramel popcorn – hot as if it were fresh.

"You get this for me?" he asked.

"I know you like it." Digging into the bag, she grabbed a handful for herself. "It's to make up for being late."

"Nice appeasement." Grabbing into the bag, he shot a couple of kernels into his mouth. "What happened?"

"Just got back from Starfleet." Mischief in her eye, her grin brightened. "I got some good news."

"Really?"

"The Panama will take off in five days."

Happy for her, but a little sad for himself that he wouldn't be seeing her, he tried not to let the twinkle in his eyes falter. "That's great, Mel."

Stuffing her hand into the bag of sweets, her eyes met his. "I heard some other good news."

"What?"

"You're coming with me."

A laugh escaped her lungs and despite the bag between them, she threw her arms around him into a hug. As the embrace tightened, he felt his shoulders sag.

"Five days?" he asked.

Mel retreated and frowned at him. "I thought you'd want to come with me."

"T'Pol leaves in three days."

Her arm intertwined with his and she let her head fall to his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Jon."

Stretching a little to reach his arm around her shoulder, he rubbed it a few times. "It's okay. I guess I knew we'd miss each other. It's just … too bad."

"You'll see her again," she said.

"Yeah."

Breaking from his grasp, she scrutinized his face and then leaned back. "What happened to the cocky bastard who got us out of all the scrapes back at the front?"

He sighed, "We almost died."

"Yeah, but we didn't."

"Mel, we've been to a lot of funerals."

"Jon, you and I make a great pair. Thames saved your ass a few times when you needed it saved, and you saved my butt a few times. We look out for each other." And then her lips pouted by the smallest centimeter. "I asked for you to join us. I mean, we have a situation room built in and …. I'm sorry."

Grabbing her chin, he caught her eyes and for the first time really looked into them. Chocolate pools, almost like Porthos', and long dark lashes gazed up at him with adoration. They held hurt, as if she'd offended a close friend, watery and gleaming in the sunlight. Soft black tresses cascaded down her face, loosening from a ponytail, and her lips were large and coral. For a minute, just a second, he thought the woman beside him was beautiful, mainly because she reminded him of T'Pol.

"What?" she asked.

Startled at his own reaction, he backed away. "I was just thinking. I'm not eager to get back there, but I'm glad I'll be working with a friend."

"Still interested in hanging out today?" she asked. "If you're--"

Without letting her finish, he stood and held out a hand to help her up – one she took readily.

"Let's go," he said.

During the day, she chatted eagerly about the crew, indicating many from the Potomac and Thames would be aboard, listing each one of them – along with their skills - including Lt. Mayweather. She also excitedly indicated Dr. Phlox would be joining them due to a few Andorians, Tellarites and Vulcans on board. At his astonishment, she indicated the Panama was the only vessel to do so.

Walking from parks to gardens to cathedrals, they eventually found themselves in a museum, one Archer had insisted on seeing. As they made their way from painting to painting, Mel indicating Chagall was one of her favorites, she continued discussing her new assignment insisting "everything would be perfect."

One thought nagged Archer and because he knew he only had a captain's security clearance – one she shared, he waited until the two were out of the museum and heading to a coffee shop before he asked her.

"There are nuclear weapons aboard, aren't there?"

It stopped her chatter. "Yes."

His head fell and she waited until they sat down, slipping into the seat beside him.

"We'll be all right."

I hope so.

-----

The Council members gathered around the table to discuss new possible members – including all the diplomats and aides having recovered from their ordeal and conscious, even Neville Simon the Earth ambassador. Once that topic had exhausted itself, T'Pol, eyes drifting over to Skon who gazed at her expectantly, decided to broach a subject she knew would be controversial.

"I have asked Skon to join me in my return to Vulcan. In my absence, Staron will represent Vulcan."

Shran's antennae wiggled and a scowl worked across his blue face, voice incredulous he leaned against the table.

"Staron? That pi-tig? You should let Skip stay behind. Not only would he represent Vulcan better, we've all grown to at least know him and--"

The Vulcan woman closed her eyes. "I have made my decision."

Gral grunted. "Skinny, you know Blue's right. Skon--"

"I said I made my decision," she said, again.

"I'm not going to let some bowl-haired tarpig tell me how to--"

The Vulcan pushed herself from her seat, hoping to make a point and glared at her Andorian friend. "I made my decision."

"Your decision is flawed," said Shran.

She watched him silently, almost daring him to speak.

"It stinks," he added.

For the first time maybe since her bout with trellium, she found her hand trembling as she pushed a lock of hair away hoping to contain her anger. Skon stood quickly and joined her side instantly, his hand at the small of her back.

"Wreaks!" added Shran.

"I believe we understand your opinion," said Skon.

T'Pol's nose twitched and unlike other days, she could smell him – the sweat of a Vulcan male stinging her nostrils. It was the scent of sun and sand mixed with ancient spices – like runes on decrepit tapestries showcased in temples built at the time of Surak. Her eyes caught his and for the first time since he'd been her aide she felt heat. Fire.

And as soon as the emotion stirred, it vanished leaving only confusion. A conversation had continued somewhere and Shran looked at her demandingly. It was unlike her to guess, but she took a wild stab in the dark at the discussion in an attempt to continue it without alerting the others she'd lost concentration.

"You have grown accustomed to us, I'm certain you will also grow accustomed to Staron," she said.

The Andorian frowned, but remained silent and for a moment T'Pol wondered whether she should "guess" more often.

Finally the blue man stood and walked over to her, his gaze shooting from her to Skon. A finger pointed in her face and his antennae lurched forward in accusation.

"Is Archer going as well?" he asked.

"No," she said. The heat returned and her face nearly flushed at the thought of her bond mate. "He boards the Panama in a week."

"The Panama? I haven't heard of that ship. Whose ship is it?" he asked.

"Captain Vega's."

Gral stood as Shran shook his head and swiped a hand over his white hair. "Listen, T'Pol, I can stomach the snotty Vulcan aide you used to have, but you and I both know he doesn't have the skill that Skip does."

"I need Skon to assist me in persuading the Vulcan High Command to pay reparations," she said. "Skon understands his sister, Minister T'Pau, and what sways her. I want that assistance."

"I think you want more than that," he said, under his breath.

His quip didn't miss her Vulcan hearing and she found herself stepping forward toward the confrontation. "I want to repay Coridan."

"Repaying the Coridan is more important than interstellar peace? Where's the logic in that?" asked Shran.

"Why are you continuing to question my decision?" she asked.

The Andorian puffed up his chest and a sneer spread over his face. "Because, Vulcan, I think you're making an emotional choice, not a logical one. And this isn't your decision – we're a council; we make decisions together."

She narrowed her eyes. "My decision is logical. It's to the Council's benefit. I believe your concern about my relationship with Jonathan has tempered your judgment."

"Your relationship with the Pink Skin should temper your judgment," he said, accusingly. Unharnessing his child, he left the toddler to Tares and removed the equipment from his chest. "I want to talk with you in private."

She said, "This discussion is over."

Gral walked toward her. "Skinny, are you all right?"

"Fine," she said.

"This conversation isn't over," said Shran. His eyes pleaded for a minute alone and when she didn't capitulate, he shoved a finger in her direction. "As the Ambassador for Andoria, I demand you keep Skon here. He's more skilled than Staron and more likely to convince others to join our cause."

Gral grunted. "Blue is right. I'd be remiss if I didn't ask the same as the Ambassador for Tellar."

The ire that gurgled in her belly rose until it filled her mouth and burned her eyes. Stuffing her hands across her chest, she squinted at the Andorian.

"You think I want my bond mate to return to the front?" she asked. Biting her lip in an attempt to keep her emotions at bay, she eventually spoke. "Minister Soval suggested Skon come, and I agree with his decision."

"Skinny--"

"It's final," she said.

"T'Pol be reasonable and--"

"It's final," she said again.

And making excuses about nature called, she escaped to the restroom in an attempt to calm her nerves. Staring into the mirror, she watched her body shiver with frustration. While her eyes remained transfixed by her own reflection, she heard the conversation continue outside.

"The ambassador has made her decision, and I fail to see the logic in needling her about that," said Skon.

"You want to go with her. Admit it," said Shran.

"Of course. It would be agreeable to see Vulcan again."

"Huh!" huffed Shran.

"I think something's wrong with her," said Gral. "I've seen emotion from her, but never like this."

"I gotta agree with Gral," said Tares. "She seems out of sorts."

Skon lowered his voice. "She has revealed to me that her bond with the human has made it more difficult for her to control her emotions. As her friends, I would hope you would be more understanding."

"She's been bonded to Archer for months," said Gral. "And yet, she's been more affected lately."

"That is true, however, no one is aware of how a human bond may affect a Vulcan." Then with hesitation in Skon's voice, he spoke up. "There could be other reasons that may contribute to this."

And with that sentence, T'Pol lowered her head expecting the truth to surface. Months ago, she'd told Skon, the only person to know other than Archer, that she hadn't passed the Kolinahr … that she never had. Instead of gazing at her with accusation, though, he'd reminded her that many fail and indicated that it wasn't a badge of shame. When pressed, he'd told her that he'd passed, but doubted whether he'd have the same success now that his wife had perished.

It could all be revealed.

So she waited, holding her breath.

"Why do you say that?" asked Shran.

"I have my reasons," he responded.

"Cryptic like a Vulcan," said Shran.

"Perhaps," said Skon.

And she blew out a long breath, relieved. Splashing cold water on her face, she collected her thoughts and reminded herself to thank her aide thoroughly when next she had the opportunity. Deep within her mind, she also reminded herself to double, maybe even triple, her meditation.

"If I can focus on it," she said, ruefully.

For the past few nights, rather than meditate, she'd welcomed her mate's embrace – his lips and tongue twisting and dancing against hers as their two fingers glided over each other's skin. Even now that idea made her tremble.

Control.

She stared into the mirror again and then drove those notions, what she deemed were Jonathan's licentious thoughts, from her mind. Taking another long breath, she re-appeared in the small room as Shran, Gral, Skon and Tares turned their attention to her.

"What about the rest of the ambassadors – the ones in Starfleet Medical?" asked Shran. "Are we just supposed to wait for you to come back?"

T'Pol shook her head. "No, you should continue your work and request they join us."

Shran said, "Ki'ar is still settling the deal with his people. He could be here before you return."

"Then tell him how much he his help is appreciated and we will join you as soon as possible."

"What about the human ambassador?" asked Tares.

"He should be debriefed and then join us," said T'Pol.

"That guy is a ripkin," said Shran.

As they threw out more questions to her, as if hoping to settle everything once and for all, the Tellarite waddled up to her and lifted his eyes to hers.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

So many questions were wrapped up in the one, she thought: Sure that she wanted to go to Vulcan? Sure we wanted to go with Skon? Sure she wanted to fight for reparations? Sure she wanted to leave Archer – possibly never to see him again. And to each one, she had to admit she wasn't certain, but realized it was the only solution.

"I'm certain," she said.

Shran's antennae drooped and he cursed in Andorian under his breath. Gral stroked his beard and then replied.

"Very well. I'll lead the Council."

There were occasionally times T'Pol could see the benefit in hugs or other physical contact – to show affection and appreciation. If she wasn't Vulcan, she would reach down and either pat the Tellarite's head lovingly or circle her arms around his girth and squeeze him until he snorted. Because her emotions were too close to the surface, she instead felt a lump form in her throat.

"Good," she said, hoarsely. "We only have a few days to settle things. I've already begun debriefing Staron on the new responsibilities."

"Will he be able to join us?" asked Gral.

"He believes so. The Vulcan constitution is strong." Eyeing Shran, she continued, "And I hope you treat him with as much … make that more respect … than you've shown Skon or me."

The blue man rolled his eyes, a trait she was certain he'd picked up from Archer, but agreed quietly. With that, she welcomed everyone to sit back down and strategize how to bring the other ambassadors and aides, now alert in Starfleet Medical, into the fold.

-----

Archer opened the door to the apartment with the passcode he'd been given – the name of T'Pol's childhood sehlat, a completely crackable code and yet one that made the Vulcan even more endearing to him. On entry, he made a beeline to the heating unit and turned the knob down. T'Pol – a woman who was used to warm climes – occasionally jacked up the warmth a couple of notches. This, he decided, was a little hotter than usual.

"T'Pol?" he asked.

Winding from one room to another – the living room, dining room, kitchen – he eventually looked into his mind and was shocked at where she was especially given the early evening hour: in the bedroom. Immediately his heart started thumping and he entered to see her with the covers nestled around her – her shoulders, neck and face bare. The room lit only by candles -- typically only used for meditation. These candles, he knew, were lit for seduction.

"You were with Captain Vega today," she mentioned.

"I've been assigned to her ship."

"I know," said T'Pol. He could read the annoyance in her thoughts, but they vanished as quickly as they surfaced.

"I leave in a week," he said.

"I know."

Taking off his shoes and socks, ensuring they were out of the middle of the floor – a habit he'd had all his bachelor life and one he knew irritated (Vulcanly of course) T'Pol – he sat on the edge of the bed.

"The next two days is all we have," he whispered to her.

A long exhale left her mouth. "I know."

Scooting closer, he took his hand to her face and traced his knuckles down her cheek as she closed her eyes.

"I've been struggling all day," he said, "thinking about the two of us. Seems like we didn't have a lot of time together."

"I wanted more time as well," she said, opening her eyes slowly.

She slid further down on the bed until she laid flat, looking up at him. His body nearly followed, his eyes riveted to her lips, except that he knew he had something to say.

"I've been thinking about what happens next, T'Pol."

"Oh?"

"I feel like we should …." He paused gazing down into her eyes. "I think we should either decide to marry or …."

"Or?"

"I don't know," he said.

Despite wanting to press his mouth desperately to hers, he kept his distance. He whispered, "I don't know when I'll next see you."

"You'll return."

"I don't know when that will be," he said. More specifically, he didn't know if he would really return at all. The vessel he was on carried nuclear weapons – a newly crafted torpedo based on the splitting of the atom.

"You'll return," she said again.

Narrowing his eyes, he knew she could read his thoughts – all of them – and he could see hers as well. She clung dogmatically to the idea that he would return and they would settle all of this later.

"What if I ask you to marry me?"

She was silent.

"Marry me." Stretching out on the bed, his arm behind his head, he gave her a soft smile. "There's a Vulcan temple in Sausalito and we could--"

"Don't."

"What?" The smile faded.

"Don't. Both of us have … enjoyed our arrangement as-is. When you return, we can determine--"

"Look into my thoughts," he said.

"I know what's there," she said.

He frowned. "Is there anything ashal-veh, you think you'd learn about me when I return that you don't already know?"

That met with silence.

"I love you, T'Pol. I want to marry you. I know it's something that not just humans participate in, and I'm willing to go through whatever--"

"Why can't we continue as we are?"

"Because I'm ready to move on." He said, "Because I want to know that either I come back to you for a family or I don't. You asked me to wait … to allow us a courtship. I did. I can't wait any longer."

"You are putting me in a difficult situation."

He asked, "What aren't you ready for?"

She didn't have an answer, and so he closed his eyes to see into her mind. It led down one path to another – because he didn't want children.

"I want them with you," he thought. "I've changed my mind, and you know that."

"We don't know if we could have them."

"Phlox indicated it was possible, and you know that, too."

"There isn't time before you leave."

"When I return--"

She thought, "But, you don't think you will."

"Does that matter?"

"What will change if I am your wife? Will there be more affection between us? Caring?"

"I know that you'll be mine, and I'll be yours."

"We are that already. Are we not?"

"Then why are you afraid to make it official?"

"I don't have fear. I am concerned you're rushing into--"

"So, what if I am? There aren't any consequences. It should be easy – I love you, you love me. We're compatible, we share a bond, we're happy, we're --"

"Jonathan, why are you insisting we take the next step?"

Pushing himself up, he frowned. "Why are you pressuring us not to?"

He could hear the faucet drip and the clock tick across the room. There was a question to be asked, and although he thought he knew the answer, it escaped his mouth.

"Is it Skon?" he asked.

She shook her head, a sigh leaving her lips. "Of course not."

"Have I done something to --?"

"No."

"Then what is it?"

"I told you – I'm not ready."

"Why?" Sighing, he told her he'd been able to see into her mind before and she hadn't been opposed to the idea.

"I told you." As if the mood had been killed, she picked up the robe next to the bed and slipped it on.

"Why aren't you ready? What do you think you'll--"

"I'm not ready," she said more forcefully.

As he closed his eyes to see into her mind further on that issue, a steel door slammed shut and locked with no way to enter.

"Why won't you show me?" he asked.

The Vulcan left the bed marching toward the door – he knew she was irritated – so he took her arm and stared at her. A fire rushed to his fingers where their skin met. And once the heat met his hand it traveled up his arm and spread to his head and toes. The flame licked at his libido and instantly he felt like crushing his lips to hers.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Let me go," she said.

He did, slowly, the heat still simmering his insides. The real reason he'd insisted marrying her came to his mind and it frightened him a little: she would belong to him and no other man could claim her. Red coated his eyes and with dementia, he realized he would fight for her, tearing a man apart with his bear hands and spilling his blood if necessary. He would slash Skon's chest open with a lyrpa, watching green ooze down his body as he crumpled to the ground. The gong that stood aloft in solitude on her mother's family's land would be crushed if necessary when rang it to claim what was his – T'Pol.

"Jonathan?" she asked.

Through clenched teeth the reason he wanted to marry. "I don't want another man to touch you," he said. The strain in his voice, the anger ripping through his timbre, scared him a little.

She looked concerned, too. "Why do you think--?"

Grabbing her arm, he dragged her back to the bed until she fell on it. "I want you to belong to me."

"I do," she said with confusion. "In as much--"

He cut her off with a savage kiss. And when they broke apart, he felt his fingers fumble for the knot in her robe. "Tell me."

"Tell you what?" she asked. Vulnerable, wide-eyed, she stared up at him with something like shock.

"Tell me you belong to me."

"I--"

"Tell me!"

"I'm yours," she said quietly, submissively.

Almost as if he didn't control his own actions, as if responding to an ancient voice that echoed inside calling him to action, he pinned her to the bed to show dominance. And for some reason, despite being stronger than him, he noticed she allowed it.

"I want you to taste like me," he said. His lips and tongue attacked her. "I want you to smell like me."

Mouth, teeth and tongue teased her relentlessly a barely audible word came from her mouth.

"Yes," she said to him. "I belong to you."

"You should bear my name, T'Pol," he said in her ear.

"Not yet."

Yanking at her hair, his mouth punished her with a kiss believing that after he took her, she would capitulate. Unbuckling his belt, he nodded his flesh searing with a sudden fire.

"I want you to take my name so no other man can claim you."

"No other man can claim me," she told him.

"If a man tries, I'll kill him."

The words shocked him, especially because he meant them. His heart pounded at the thought of killing Skon, almost delighting in the idea of tearing him apart. A gasp left her mouth, as if she was privy to his emotions through the bond. And yet, she didn't draw back, she attacked his mouth with ferocity.

When Jon was spent, he lifted his head and saw the clock – two hours had passed. Whatever the devil had gotten into him – the voice in his head telling him to show dominance to win her -- had vanished. T'Pol glowed angelic with her hair fanned around her face and her lips barely parted in nearly reached slumber. A frown crept over his face, rather than a satisfied smile. She hadn't capitulated and the recognition strangling his heart as if to tell him that she wasn't really his and indeed another man would take her.

At that, the Vulcan's eyes slipped open and she reached her fingers around his forearm, dragging him to bed.

"I will always be yours," she whispered.

And although he didn't necessarily believe it, he slept.

----

Shran puttered around the house wearing a black apron as Jhamel wore the harness that held their son, Shras. The little boy, still too wrinkly and young to notice much about the world, had figured out one important talent – moving his antennae. They bobbled about like his mothers' – blindly.

The baby cooed and Shran had to wonder if somehow the little tike had his mother's knack for reading minds. As he was about to ponder the question out loud, he heard his daughter's footsteps pound the stairs of their Victorian house with glee. When he poked his head out the kitchen door, he saw Tallah wearing a black outfit that Jhamel sewed for her introduction to Junior Imperial Guardsmen school on Andoria – the two thinking she'd go there one day. Although it wouldn't happen, at least not any time soon, his daughter loved the gear. With a beaming smile, the girl reached for her ice pick and brandished it, slicing the air with her weapon.

"Put away your toy," said Shran, loud enough so she could hear.

"I want to show the Pink Skin the moves Tares has taught me," she said.

Sighing, he went back to cutting fish when he heard the door chime. It made Shras cry gently.

"I'll get it!" yelled his daughter.

The first to arrive were Gral and Martog. Martog wore a human style flowered dress and ruby red lipstick, something that looked ridiculous on the pig-like woman, and yet it made Shran smile. As he walked out to greet them, she leaned over and patted Tallah on the head.

"I remember when I was her age – just learning to argue," she said.

"You were never that age," said Gral.

"And yet I'm younger than you."

"Not that you look it."

The two argued for a few more minutes and Shran couldn't blame the questioning eye his daughter gave as they did so, her antennae squirming in confusion. This wasn't the way he and Jhamel, who were also in love, behaved, but the blue man had come to understand this is how Tellarites always were, especially when they were fond of someone or trying to be respectful.

After pouring an Andorian ale for Gral and attempting to fix something that Martog called a cosmopolitan (which he substituted most of the ingredients with Andorian ale) the doorbell finally rang again. Tallah screamed that she'd get it, and excitedly threw it open.

"Pink skin!" she said.

"Hey, Tallah," he said.

The man picked her up with a small grunt as she showed her pick to him. Shran was about to call attention to his Pink Skin friend to be careful, when his eyes caught T'Pol. Something about her looked radiant, as if her skin glowed. Silently, he wondered whether life with the human agreed with her or whether she was using something as simple as a new moisturizer – a human product Jhamel swore by. Or maybe it was her makeup, he thought to himself, these days it seemed she took extra pains on splashing color on her cheeks, lips and eyes. Whatever it was, he had to admit she looked good.

And as he approached the two, he saw Archer put his daughter back on the ground and stepped in front of her slightly, as if blocking her from Shran's touch. It made the Andorian's antennae whirl with confusion. That behavior, he'd never seen from his human friend.

Maybe I'm imagining it, he thought.

"I can't believe you leave for Vulcan in only three days, Skinny," said Gral.

Shran noticed Archer even blocked the Tellarite from approaching her. The pig gave a small grunt and turned to Shran, eyes squinted.

"Neither can I," she said.

"You know you don't have to leave. The Council and I already suggested--"

Jhamel appeared from nowhere, turning her blind eyes to her husband as if to put an end to that argument. "Thy'lek, perhaps we should all eat dinner."

"I wanted to show the Pink Skin and Pig my office first."

"Could you do that later?" she asked, sweetly. "Dinner is almost ready."

Shran's head fell to his chest obediently and he watched his mate give Shras to T'Pol to hold. The Vulcan brought his offspring close and gazed at it with a twinkle in her eyes, and to Shran's delight and satisfaction – so did the Pink Skin. It gave the blue man hope that perhaps children weren't out of the question.

They gathered around the table, situated by Shran's wife in what she explained was a human ritual, and then brought some of the food to the table, including a bottle for T'Pol to feed Shras.

The Aenar leaned in and began speaking of Tallah's latest achievement, when Shran cut her off.

"So, you want children, Pink Skin?" asked Shran, ignoring Gral's comment about tasting better meals out of a trough.

"It's not out of the realm of possibility," said Archer.

Leaning forward the Andorian smiled, wondering if his friend had indeed taken his advice of impregnating the Vulcan. He was about to ask when Jhamel spoke up.

"Shran made the takig," she said, pointing to the fish tails.

From there, he and Gral discussed marriage and family rituals – Tellarites delivering litters of children in bundles of seven or less at a time. And Shran discussed Andorian marriages, which often consisted of four people, coupled. Although it seemed completely understandable to him, and natural, he found himself explaining how four Andorians could couple and was about to stomp off to a padd to show them how it would occur when his wife halted that conversation. The Aenar, he told himself, were never one to mate and tell.

During the conversation, Shran kept his eye on his friends – the Pink Skin and the Vulcan. In the past, he'd witnessed something happening between the two, but it was always met with embarrassment on the human's part and denial on the Vulcan's. This time even at his table, he noted, Archer had two fingers running down the neck of his mate and his attention seemed to be focused on her. Even watching the caress made Shran uncomfortable, and he had to acknowledge that was a feat.

When Jhamel volunteered to the clear the dishes, Shran encouraged the men to retreat to his office upstairs. It took a bit of convincing for Archer to join them, his eyes tuned like laser beams to his mate.

"She'll still be here when we get back," he said.

Crimson rose to the human's cheeks and he eventually agreed.

When Shran got to the top of the stairs, he piled into the office, opening a window complaining his wife liked clean air in the house, especially with the newborn, and then passed out cigars. He was pleased each of his friends took one and lit up immediately, Gral snorting at the pleasure.

The blue man topped off glasses of ale and plopped down in between his two friends, kicking his feet out and folding his hands behind his head.

"So, what's the deal with you and T'Pol?" asked Shran.

"What do you mean?"

Gral grunted, letting a plume of smoke leave his snout. "You two were acting like two grigs in a farlat tonight."

Archer narrowed his eyes, but didn't ask for clarification. Instead, he offered what Shran considered a lame excuse.

"She's leaving in a day and--"

The Andorian swallowed his ale whole and then turned to his friend, cutting him off. "And she'll be with her aide. Alone."

Gral joined in, "Skinny's aide worries me. The two are inseparable, from the same planet, speak the same language on an alien world ….. Martog, Tares and Jhamel, the women we know think he's handsome. And the gaze he eternally gives her--"

Shran eyed his human friend and smiled – he must've had enough liquor because rather than become angry and defend him as he was prone to do, he complained a little about what he deemed "his ever-present guest."

Archer said, "I've seen the way he looks at her. Believe me, I've had plenty of opportunities. He shows up before I get up and is often around until after I go to bed," said Archer. "But, I know she only feels friendship for him."

"So, you're all right with her going to Vulcan with him?" asked Shran.

"I don't have much of a choice," he said.

Shran said, "I've heard tales of ancient practices were Vulcans fight over their females. Have you thought about challenging him?"

Archer nodded his head in confirmation, as if he knew about this and that maybe it was even still allowed.

"Nearly every day," the human grumbled.

"Have you told her?" asked Shran.

"Yes."

"What did she say?" asked Gral.

"She said it's not necessary," he said.

Archer's eyes went dark and a frown appeared on his face. That was also an emotion he'd seen before – it was the mantle he wore when he was captain, one of self-assurance, defiance and action. On further inspection, it was more the visage his friend wore when Enterprise went into the Delphic Expanse -- menacing.

"Maybe you should challenge," said Shran. "Before they leave for Vulcan together."

Gral gave a low grunt. "Be careful, I've heard Vulcans have six times the strength of a Tellarite."

"I know," said Archer. And somehow Shran got the impression he really did, as if he'd fought a Vulcan before.

The Andorian said, "You should claim her before you go back to the front."

The fire in his eyes smoldered and he plunked down his drink. "It's not that easy."

"Do humans have some sort of custom that--?" began Shran.

"No. She doesn't want to get married."

At this news, the Andorian filled his glass full of ale again, ignoring the empty one Gral had in front of him.

"She denied you?" he asked.

"Yes."

Gral reached over for the bottle and poured some for himself. "Frebak."

The blue man didn't want to ask, but it needed to be questioned. "Do you still consider yourself a couple?"

Sighing, Archer said, "Yes, I mean we'd need a priest to separate the bond between us."

"Is that what she wants – to use a priest to separate you?" asked Shran.

"No. She likes the way things are now."

"Do you want to use a priest to separate you two?" asked Gral.

"No." Archer swallowed the ale whole and then shook his head.

Shran waved his blue hand in front of the Tellarite's face. "It's Skon isn't it? She wants him."

"She says it's not about him."

"Then?" asked Shran.

"I can't see her reasoning. I just know she isn't ready."

"Why is marriage important to you?" asked Gral. "If you two enjoy everything now, then--"

The human's eyes turned a little darker. "It just is."

"He's worried Skon will take T'Pol as a mate," said Shran.

Archer bristled, and for once the Andorian knew he had him dead to rights, so he poured another glass of ale, hoping to loosen the man's tongue even more. And after the Pink Skin threw down another belt, he eyed his glass and spoke to it.

"You know, I guess I kinda assumed she would want to marry me."

Shran hung his head to his chest and wondered what the Grendal had gotten into the Vulcan. He came up with theories, letting his mind trip down each idea until he'd almost exhausted it.

Maybe she didn't really love him. Maybe she knew he would perish. Maybe she couldn't bear the pain of having him leave. Maybe she couldn't really bear the pain if something were to happen again. Maybe Skon really was an option.

T'Pol – in her own Vulcan way, Shran decided, cared about Archer – a lot. From where he sat, despite the looks she threw Skon, it appeared the Vulcan was at least smitten with the Pink Skin and he knew that Archer was madly in love with her. Not only was it written all over his face, it rang true in every interaction he had especially tonight. Thinking back, T'Pol hadn't acted anything but Vulcan – stoic.

Yet, she didn't eschew Archer's attention. Confusing.

But, they have a bond. That had to come from at least deep caring. Or maybe something else?

Because Shran was unsure what to do, he playfully slugged his friend in the arm. "Women," he muttered under his breath.

Gral snorted in agreement.

"I can't believe you leave in only four days," said Shran.

During the rest of the conversation, his Earth friend was quiet, throwing down drinks as quickly as they were poured. Even the blue man knew it would be a difficult day for the human tomorrow when he awoke to the affects of everything he'd shoved down his throat.

---

Jhamel laid her infant on the couch, resting on his stomach. Right away, the little blue boy slept and the Aenar turned to her female companions.

"I already smell cigar smoke," she said, as if to complain.

Martog shoved more appetizers down her throat and snorted. "For some reason, and I can't understand why, Gral likes what humans call cigars. Filthy!"

Tares disagreed, "They're tasty."

"Phew! Gral smells like them for days until he bathes."

"Tellarites don't bathe daily?" asked Jhamel.

"Why would we do that? A waste of water and mud."

T'Pol silently reflected that Jonathan would also stink of the substance – his breath, his clothes and his hair wreaking with the stench. She silently mused about asking him to shower – a thought that led her mind astray, when the Andorian broke her concentration.

"So, are you and Jon thinking about making something permanent?" asked Tares.

"He recently moved into my abode," said T'Pol.

"I wasn't talking about that. I meant … what do Vulcans call yat-yig amaran?"

"Marriage," she said. "Kal'i'farr."

"So, anything happening on that front?" asked Tares. She'd managed to lounge on the couch next to Jhamel, picking her nails with the ice pick that she wore on her belt as Tallah watched interested in the technique.

"No," said T'Pol.

Jhamel knitted her brow and ducked her head innocently. "It seemed it was on his mind."

The three women and Tallah gazed at T'Pol expectantly and the Vulcan sighed.

"According to human marriage traditions, apparently the male asks the female. He broached that subject with me recently."

Martog squealed, "I love spring weddings!"

"However," corrected T'Pol, "the circumstances feel rushed."

"You've know him for more than ten years," said Tares. "Only a Vulcan would think that was rushed."

"Known him as a friend for ten years, yes. Known him as a mate – less than a year."

"Why don't you want to marry him? Aren't you interested?" asked Martog. Before T'Pol could answer, she stuffed another bit of food into her mouth. "Do you find him unattractive?"

"It has nothing to do with his aesthetic appeal."

"He's got a nice ass," said Tares. As T'Pol silently scolded her, despite a placid face, Tares brought Tallah into her lap. "Well, he does."

"He physique is not in question," said T'Pol.

Jhamel pointed upstairs and suggested Tallah get to bed, a notion the girl didn't like, but followed out of respect. As the youngster headed upstairs, Tares pointed to the Vulcan.

"Doesn't he satisfy you in your mating bed?" asked Tares.

"That is not in question either," said T'Pol, her vertebrae stiffening at the question.

"You don't need to tell us anything you don't want to," said Jhamel. "But, it's just … you seem happy."

T'Pol felt a frown prickle at her mouth and almost gave way to it, before closing her eyes to imagine away the emotion. Planting both feet firmly on the floor, she eventually opened her eyes and gazed at the Aenar. This woman, she mused, always was able to read the smallest nuances – this particular knowledge she wanted to keep from revealing itself was perplexing and complex.

By denying Jonathan, she would retain her identity as a Vulcan and diffuse the emotion that bombarded her; refusing him would enable her freedom to act independently.

A trembling hand touched her temple, and she shook her head: it wasn't really about her mate's emotions; she was protecting herself from being devastated if something were to happen to him. She couldn't stand thinking he was dead again and she couldn't handle the idea that this time it was more likely.

This time, nuclear weapons were involved.

So, it is better to distance myself now?

Jhamel reached over and touched the Vulcan, a sad smile passing over her lips. "My friend, don't you think it is better to have loved deeply and affectionately now in case something happens to him?"

After scrutinizing the Aenar for a few minutes, she determined the woman hadn't been reading her thoughts, simply giving an opinion based on her intuition.

Tares asked, "Does it have anything to do with your aide? He's hot."

"Of course not."

Martog gave a snort. "I remember before I was married, men pursued me. Gral, Fek, Tor …. It made me feel appreciated."

"Have you mated with Skon yet?" asked Tares.

Offended, T'Pol shook her head. "No."

"Maybe you should. You could compare the two as lovers and decide which one you wanted." Tares leaned over, grabbing a piece of fish – an after meal appetizer. "You could decide between emotion and logic."

Jhamel waved away any other mention of the discussion, filling tea mugs for the others (except Tares who she provided ale to) and discussed her children and Shran's home improvement project, which included his interest in building a place to practice his weaponry.

The idea Tares had planted into her mind – mating – took hold and seemed it wouldn't let go. It took her back to last night and the dominance Jonathan showed her; it was a tact he had not taken ever. He'd never made her pant, claiming she was his. An eyebrow rose of its own volition.

His behavior was definitely peculiar.

And as her eyebrow flattened, she also thought his behavior welled the lust within her, fanning flames only he could stoke. Raw. Unadulterated.

Oddly, as if she'd called to him, he appeared downstairs, his eyes turning to dark pools. It caused the breath to escape her lungs quickly. Before she realized it, the two of them were claiming their coats, exchanging pleasantries with perplexed hosts and hurrying outside. Once out in the slight chill of the evening as she headed to drive, he spun her around to press his lips to hers. It was difficult to lead him to the craft and more difficult to keep her focus on piloting as he attempted to seduce her until they reached home.

Even as she struggled from his grasp, his mouth sought hers out – in the parking garage, in the elevator and walking to their apartment. Finally in front, as she opened the door, he swung her into his arms and threw open the door. As he threw her to the couch they'd just purchased, an idea struck her.

He acts like he's in Pon Farr.

TBC