A/N: I can't believe I've hit 40 chapters!!
Insane Viola Guy, thanks for your comments. Here's the tricky part – I agree with you. It's weird to have nuclear weapons … seems like there's more treacherous weapons with their inventions. And here's the unfortunate thing – it's canon! In Balance of Terror they refer to some desperate measures taken by the humans with nuclear weapons, which help stop the Romulans. So, I'm going to keep going with it and ask for some major suspension of disbelief.
Everyone, thanks for continuing to write in, including someone who tried to guess what happens; I'm ashamed at how close she came.
-----
T'Pol woke up with a headache – and associated it with leaving for Vulcan in less than six hours, leaving her mate. Sitting up momentarily, she looked at the empty bag on the floor and then at one folded robe next to it. Not only had she not packed, she hadn't prepared her clothes for he journey. Worse, she was still in bed and planned on staying there for another few minutes, if not longer. Resting back, eyes roaming to her sleeping lover, she felt a ghostly smile threaten to spread across her mouth – Jonathan was slumbering with the bed covers barely covering his naked hips.
He's handsome.
Closing her eyes, she mused that her concentration, thanks to Jonathan, had been completely wrecked for the past two days and instead of further planning to how to repay Coridan, she'd spent the majority of her time entertaining him – going to dinner, talking, taking long walks …. Of course these activities, she thought, usually led to other things.
Mating.
His thoughts continue to distract me.
At first, she believed his thoughts were brought on by Pon Farr, but he ensured that wasn't the case and his thoughts mirrored those sentiments.
Besides, he's not Vulcan.
The fragments left of Surak's katra were not enough to send Jonathan through the madness of scorching flames and the tiny remnants of Arev, Syrran, couldn't stoke an inferno to mate. The Science Directorate – accepting that a Vulcan had melded with a human – deemed there would not be adverse lasting affects. Priests weighed in with the same conclusion, promising the human would only remember odds and ends.
And yet the desire emanates from him.
The source was unclear other than his overwhelming jealousy of Skon. When she merely thought of her aide, Jonathan would narrow his eyes and curse under his breath. He'd promised to fight him and had fantasies about killing him – using the lyrpa to slit his belly until green blood spilled to the ground or taking an ancient sling to his throat to strangle him until all life choked from the Vulcan's body. Thinking of such violence was unlike him.
She'd brought his emotions to his attention – the ever-present lust and the incessant jealousy. But at every discussion, he waved away her concerns by explaining it was normal.
Perhaps in human mating, males are driven to prove the females belong to them.
Jonathan had mentioned more than a few times she belonged to him.
As T'Pol hoped to be able to focus on the matter, his eyes creaked open and he greeted her with a slight smile.
"Hello," he said.
"Hello," she said. Her finger traced his cheekbone and then migrated to his mouth as his grin widened.
"Did you sleep well?" she asked.
"Like a rock. You?" he asked.
"Very well."
Shivering she felt his lips press against hers and welcomed them at first. When his mouth opened to deepen it, his tongue coaxing hers, she withdrew by sitting up.
"I haven't packed," she said.
"You still have a few hours." His fingers – in the sign of Vulcan affection -- lazily traced her arm.
"I've been thinking … perhaps you should see a doctor, you seem …."
He waited.
She said, "I've known you for many years and have never seen this side of you."
"We've never been intimate until recently." His eyebrows knitted together. "I thought we already had this conversation."
"We have, but it bears mentioning again. And, you have only become … driven this past week."
"I got the impression you were enjoying it."
That notion made her flatten her lips; she had been. "Still. Perhaps you are ailing in some way."
"I don't feel sick." His smile turning lopsided, he sat up with her. "In fact, I feel great."
Teeth tugged at her earlobe, in just the spot she liked, and with significant effort she moved away from him.
He whispered, "It's normal for humans to feel this way before leaving each other."
"Is it?" she asked.
"Sure." Scooting toward her, he leaned over and took her lips again.
"I have to prepare for my journey."
"Pack later," he said, seductively.
"There's no more time."
"I want you."
And she wanted him, too, but instead of giving in, she shook her head. "You cajoled me into mating several times last night."
"Cajoled? I don't recall using much effort," he said. Flicking his tongue along her ear, he whispered, "Besides two isn't several."
"We have spent many times the past few days mating."
"So?" "You belong to me."
Incredulous, she stiffened. "I belong to no one. We are not married."
"Not this again."
A heavy sigh left his lips and in what appeared like defiance, he slipped into the bathroom and turned on the shower. After a few minutes, she walked inside to continue their conversation, talking through the shower curtain.
"Stop toying with my emotions, T'Pol," he said, before she could begin.
"Toying?"
"You heard me."
"I'm not toying with your emotions." And for the first time in a considerable while, she felt anger build within.
"The hell you are. I can feel it." Just as she was about to set him straight, he continued. "I guess in a few hours you won't have to worry about me wanting to touch you or asking you to be my wife. I just hope Skon makes a more suitable mate for you."
That stung and she opened the shower curtain to give him what for, unable to keep her emotions at bay.
"Your jealousy is causing you to act foolishly," she said.
"Well, wouldn't be the first time I acted foolish – like starting a relationship with you."
A sharp intake of breath prevented her from reacting right away. "It appears I have been equally imprudent."
"Oh?" he asked, turning the shower off. "Just think, it won't be a problem for much longer."
The two glared at each other for a few minutes. Eventually, her eyes meandered over his dripping form and instantly she felt his lips on hers. For only a split second, she found the action shocking and then immediately afterward heard her voice encourage him.
"Yes," she said.
"You're mine."
Her back smacked against the bathroom wall, almost knocking her breath out as his lips attacked her ferociously -- her neck, her ears and mouth. Every kiss he gave her was accompanied by a confession. He wanted to marry her, but he wasn't sure why he was so insistent on it. Even ticked off as he was, he needed her … had to have her. Claiming her as his – for some unknown reason – was vital.
With each word he uttered, she reflected on her own perplexing thoughts. She wasn't opposed to marriage, especially with Jonathan, and the idea that he may perish hadn't really precluded her from becoming his wife. Maybe, she wondered, remaining single would help her keep her options open -- not that she had any intent on having another man. And anger also welled within her too, and yet she was equally desperate to have him.
"Your mind is madness; it stirs this heat within you. You should see a doctor."
"I will, after I drop you off," he whispered to her.
"Jonathan--"
"Later."
The two slid down onto the tile floor of the bathroom and despite the worry that overcame T'Pol, she put it aside – allowing logic to be ripped from her -- and kissed her mate with equal aplomb.
-------
Archer rubbed the mirror with a towel, cleaning it from the fog of T'Pol's shower. As it cleared, he startled at his reflection and his fingers rushed over a large bruise on his neck, near his collarbone.
"Hell of a hickey," he said to himself. At least my uniform will cover it up.
His razor, he preferred using the old fashion kind because it gave him a smoother face, swept up his throat when he began to replay the morning in his mind. He and T'Pol had few arguments as a couple, certainly none as vicious as the morning's disagreement. Jon hated getting riled up and disliked arguing with T'Pol. And yet this time, there was a part of him that enjoyed it – it fueled him as if preparing him for battle.
To win her.
The idea caused him to miss his mark, leaving a nick behind.
"Damnit," he said. Placing a washcloth under the cold water, he eventually raised it to his neck to staunch the blood flow.
She's right, I need to see a doctor.
Thoughts of destroying Skon wouldn't leave his mind, so much so that he and T'Pol had agreed that that she would ask her aide to come later to avoid seeing him. Spying her aide may cause him to throw a punch … or worse.
I could kill him.
Dropping the cloth, he looked at his blood before taking the razor to finish his shave. Even as his hand dragged the instrument across his face, listening to the scrape, he couldn't get T'Pol out of his mind: her black, logician orbs staring at him, turning cocoa-colored as lust filled them and her bronze, nubile body spread out on their bed to seduce him. Desire sweated from his pores and a low rumbling noise, almost drowning out his razor and her shower, echoed deep within his mind.
She's mine.
"Stop it," he told himself.
Images of her, her pouted mouth whispering profanities in Vulcan to him – words so tantalizing that he could already taste his arousal, came to an end as he closed to eyes to block out the insanity.
It's getting worse.
With a sigh, he finished shaving, splashed cold water onto his face (welcoming the sting of reality) and then ran a towel to remove the rest of the shaving cream. As he looked in the mirror again, he saw T'Pol draped in a robe stepping from the shower. Immediately he turned to her and the heat that boiled his blood started cooking again. A chaste kiss turned more vicious as his teeth nabbed her mouth – the heat between their lips traveled to his tongue and head nearly causing him to black out.
Yes!
"Again?" she asked.
She separated them and for an instant he felt the cool temperature that his heart regulated flow through his body. Gathering his thoughts, he shook his head.
"No." Yes.
When his eyes finally caught hers, her gaze showed mercy and she displayed her fingers for him to touch in the Vulcan kiss. Fingers touched and fire sparked again.
"Maybe you should stay," he said. His fingers broke away from hers and stroked her throat, enjoying the sizzle stinging his fingers.
"I cannot."
"Maybe," he said, his voice growing hoarse, "it's not me who's ill. Maybe it's you."
She moved from his touch and immediately, and he felt his teeth clench at the loss of contact. "No," she said. "Jonathan, it's your thoughts. I can sense it."
There's fire when I touch or kiss her. Or am I imagining it?
And then her soothing, mathematical voice asked, "Is it that you want me to stay with you until you determine what ails you?"
"When is the Council expecting you?"
"In a month."
Just enough time for her to get there and argue her case.
"Nah," he said. " I'll be fine."
An eyebrow poked up and he reassured her by grasping his shoulder as he used to do when she reported to him more than a year ago, ignoring the heat at his fingertips.
"I'll be fine," he said again.
So, T'Pol turned on her heel, changed into her robes and finished packing all the while he stayed out of the room – reading a book on the sofa with Porthos. Keeping his mind busy distracted wanton thoughts.
A few hours later, T'Pol emerged in rust-colored robes – the ones she'd worn on Enterprise – ready for travel. Helping her with her bag, he loaded it into their craft and then drove to the station trying not to glance at her and shooing away any thoughts of making out in the car.
Once at the station, he parked the vehicle and retrieved her luggage. She fussed over the details of the abode for the few days he would spend in it and then switched the conversation, promising to contact him frequently. Nodding his head, he agreed with everything and then dragged her into a kiss – one he knew she didn't want to do in public – as the flames tickled his mouth and tongue. The moment they separated was the instant Skon approached and Jon clenched his fists into tight balls watching the Vulcan.
"I thought you would arrive later," said Jon. He couldn't keep the sneer off his face.
"I wanted to ensure I left myself enough time to--" said Skon.
"You'll see her for a few months. Don't you think that's enough?" asked Jon.
"Jonathan--" said T'Pol.
And unusual for Skon, the man's eyes darkened. "I think that is an adequate amount of time."
Jon closed in on the Vulcan, but T'Pol reached her hand around his wrist and because of the amount of pressure she used, his attention went back to her – it was just enough time for Skon to move into the shuttle, avoiding the challenge Jon was about to call out.
"You will see a doctor tomorrow?" she asked.
"Yes," he said.
"Good," she said. "Contact me as soon as you have the results."
Then biting the side of his cheek, he let a hand drift over her cheek to cup it as a familiar sizzle crept along his elbow to his shoulder.
"I'm sure it's nothing," he said.
She pressed her face into his palm and he leaned down so that his forehead touched hers. Fire spread to his skull, forcing a pant from his mouth.
"I love you," he said.
"I care for you as well. Return to me safely."
Their lips touched again, this time initiated by her – a soft caress. Before either could turn more sentimental, she vanished into the gray shuttle and the door closed behind her.
Jon had felt loss before – missing someone. Margaret Mullin's declination of his marriage proposal, for example, met with tears on his way home as the rain trickled down his face and soaked his clothing. The emotion erupted from making plans for his life, putting all his eggs in one basket – envisioning a home for the two of them and children -- and then having those dreams crushed. Margaret had wanted to stay in touch, but he'd never been a man to continue on in a relationship after feeling his ego implode.
Such emptiness lay there then and now.
I wish she would've married me.
His pride nagged at him like an old woman, tightening his lip and willing him not to hurt. Little good it did.
While an announcement was made, giving their shuttle the go ahead to launch, Jon felt his eyes turn glassy and a lump form in his throat. Eyes followed the flight path of the shuttle streaming across the sky and into the sun until eventually it faded from view.
Goodbye.
------
With the remainder of the week, Jon packed and took care of the apartment to ensure it would still be in good shape when T'Pol arrived. Hoshi and Malcolm had agreed to look in on the place and on Porthos. Although he wanted his beagle with him on this trip, he thought it would mean more for his dog to keep T'Pol company when she returned. Selfishly, he hoped it would remind her of their commitment to each other, one that he questioned more and more.
He also visited the doctor, but wasn't surprised at the results. He'd been in perfect physical health -- his liver, one kidney and internal organs were in excellent shape. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and when Dr. Amanda Stiles questioned him about his reasons for coming, he tried to explain in the most polite of ways; a grin curled around her face anyway and she accused him of being worrying for needlessly.
The reason he hadn't been shocked by the news that he was fine was -- with T'Pol gone the want that overcame him was nearly gone. Sure, he still had fantasies about her, sometimes waking up to the thought she was kissing him, but they weren't as vivid or as distracting. Perhaps, he wondered, he'd excised those demons when she'd left, but he'd correct himself almost right away – the jealousy was still there and the fear that Skon would take what was his.
And although he felt better, his skin still itched as if uncomfortable. He noticed other women more these days. He'd always noticed them and quite liked the female form, but now his eyes would follow women as they walked down the street, even peering over his shoulder to admire their curves. Perversely, he'd usually focus on the women who had dark hair, brown eyes, a slim build and about T'Pol's height, sometimes even imagining it was the Vulcan in a tight sweater-dress or whatever other garment caught his attention. At the end of his leering gaze, a voice in his head – he wasn't sure if it was his or T'Pol's – would bring him back to decorum.
The day before leaving, Shran and Gral took him for a drink to a bar that they had frequented with Ki'ar. Though Archer had never heard the name of the place, he knew the area of town and because of it knew the place had to be a tad seedy.
When he walked into the door, smoke and a fog machine clouded the majority of the room. By the number of men in the place and seeing a small stage in the center of this club, Jon knew it had to be a strip joint. Thinking back to the sign on the door, "Pirate's Booty" he realized how aptly it was named; he'd previously wondered it was a pirate theme bar. As he waved his hand in front of him to clear the thick soup in front of him, he heard a voice call out.
"Over here!" said Shran. "You're late, you almost missed the show."
The human headed toward the voice and finally caught sight of Shran and Gral. When he sat down, he produced a slight frown to them.
"You wanted to meet at a strip club?"
"Gral thought you could use a cheering up and we decided this was the place," said Shran, puffing on a cigar. "We already ordered you something." Pointing at a goblet, he added, "Drink up."
"What is it?" asked Jon. Leaning over he recoiled at the smell.
"Treasure trove. We picked the drink that seemed to have the longest list of ingredients. We figured you could use it."
Gral snorted. "When Tellarites go into battle, we often enjoy the dancing of beautiful women, a good argument and soaks in a mudbath."
Shran said, "We skip the dancing in my world and get straight to the mating. In fact, sometimes there's a week-long--"
"I think we get the picture," said Jon.
Antennae whirled as he mentioned, "We also figured you could use this because of your troubles."
"What troubles?" asked Jon.
"The ones you went to see Dr. Stiles about. On Andoria we call that tyla-tora santipk."
"How the hell do you know what I talked to my doctor about?"
"Amanda Stiles and Jhamel are friends. They talk."
"I thought the information I shared with my doctor was private!"
"She's still mad at you, Pink Skin – even since you turned her down. Don't make a doctor angry." The Andorian smiled. "Don't worry, santipk happens to all Andorians. When we reach middle age, as you are, we go through a phase where we are constantly looking to mate – with anything or anyone."
Jon already had his head in his hands, hoping he could sink into the chair, fading from existence and avoid the rest of this conversation. Unfortunately, the mere hiding of his face hadn't made anything disappear.
Gral agreed. "Even Tellarite men who are past their prime get anxious. When I reached that age, I decided to start spending my money to distract me. I ended up with a shiny vehicle and a crater-sized mudpool. Maybe you should buy something."
A frown cascaded over Shran's face, something Archer could see as the use of the fog machine died down. He said, "You're not getting any ideas about that captain you'll be serving with are you? She would get tyla-tora with you."
Jon sighed loudly. "Captain Vega and I are friends."
"Bah," said the Andorian.
"Has T'Pol contacted you yet?" asked Gral.
Archer said, "We talked for a bit a couple of days ago."
"Not every day?" asked Shran.
"Well, I mean, she doesn't need to – we share a bond. I know everything that's going on. She just entered the Andromeda galaxy, and she and Skon have been comparing notes on how to approach the request to repay Coridan right now."
Jon didn't miss the glances Shran and Gral traded.
"Yeah, I'm sure she's just busy," said Gral. "Probably why she's only talked with you once in a few days."
Shran said, " Archer, never trust a woman."
"You trust Jhamel, don't you?" he asked.
"Yes, but she's my wife. And she's not sitting at home with some thaan who looks nearly half my age." The blue man complained, "You should've challenged Skon while you had the chance."
"T'Pol wouldn't want that."
"Well, I guess it doesn't matter any more," said Shran.
Despite the noxious fumes in front of him, he grabbed his drink and sipped at it. "I suppose not."
"Maybe since you're not married to her, you should – as humans say - play in the field. Maybe bed your captain friend. Who knows, maybe you'll fall in love with her afterward."
A frown cascaded over Archer's lips—there were too many items to correct in the Andorian's sentence he didn't know where to start. "You just don't give up, do you?"
The music cued and Gral have a tiny squeal. "It's starting!"
Archer was about to push himself from the chair and make an excuse to leave early, but couldn't quite muster the incredulity to do so. Truth be told, much of what his friends teased him about was true – he had been desperate in a way.
Maybe it is a mid-life crisis.
As a dark-haired woman, average height with a slim build, sauntered onto the stage, Archer decided he could stay just a little while as he pressed the goblet of Treasure Trove to his mouth to drown out the voice telling him to leave. It took several Treasure Troves to quiet that voice, and once those drinks had been consumed, warmth filled him – so warm -- and he felt himself relax and enjoy it all – his friends, the alcohol, the cigar and the women. Red rushed to his cheeks – not with embarrassment, though – and a smile twisted onto his lips as the fire inside him turned hotter still, sending a few trickles of sweat down his face.
"Seems like you're having a good time," said Gral.
I suppose I am.
"You know, you're almost as much fun as Ki'ar," said Shran, giving the human a sharp slap on the back.
"At least Archer doesn't wave his credits in the air or try to join the dancers onstage," said Gral.
The men laughed together, and Archer realized he'd miss the camaraderie he had with these aliens, his buddies. Silently, he wondered if perhaps that's why he wanted to stay as his eyes rested on the dancer sauntering over to him, chocolate pools staring back at him. The woman had T'Pol's mouth – fleshy, probably just as tantalizing to kiss -- and high cheekbones, ones that he wanted to run his knuckles lightly against.
He averted his eyes and stared at his goblet thinking maybe he'd had way too much to drink.
"Do you want me to dance for you?" the woman in front of him asked.
He lifted his head and heard himself pant.
"You're mine!" he heard as if a scream at the base of his skull, enough for him to nearly spill his drink.
"No thanks," he said, producing a nervous smile. And as she walked away, he let his eyes follow.
It took a few minutes for Archer to realize Shran had said something to him and when he eventually turned his head to acknowledge the Andorian, the man shook his head.
"You should definitely play in the field."
-------
The shuttle that T'Pol and Skon had rented was gray and small – just enough for the two of them with two rooms that barely could hold a bed, a common bathroom and a center area for navigation that had two seats and one large window across the front. Although it was an older style shuttle, it had automatic pilot and could plot the most expedient way to get to Vulcan.
Getting there as fast as possible would still take a month, even in this speedy craft named "The Viking."
T'Pol listened to Skon speak, talking about the meeting they would have with Soval, T'Pol and Kovak, but had trouble focusing on his words. Instead, she heard her own heartbeat pound in her ears, keeping time with the music at the club she knew Jonathan attended.
A woman dancing in front of him, teasing him – raven hair flying and dark eyes trained on him.
T'Pol's fingers curled, her nails nearly piercing her own skin and she shook her head.
I have only been gone a short while and already he entertains the idea of another woman. He's mine!
Hot, like an iron, the emotion seared and caused her to flush and sweat. Apparently it concerned Skon because he quieted and the end of the chatter caused her to look in his direction.
"Ambassador?" he asked.
"Yes?"
"Are you well?"
She pushed a trembling hand to her hair and cursed silently Jonathan's emotions, struggling to maintain control. "I am. Jonathan has had some … emotional difficulty lately which has affected me."
"Humans seem to have great difficulty with emotions," he said. Then tentatively, an eyebrow snuck toward his forehead. "Especially Admiral Archer."
Even her eyebrow quivered. There were many emotional humans she'd met. Jonathan was rarely logical, not in a sense she understood – though the outcomes usually resulted favorably – but he was definitely not the most emotional man she'd come across; that distinction was given to Trip. And with the thought of him, a frown nearly cascaded over her face.
"Perhaps when we are on Vulcan, you can meditate and free your mind of such entanglements," said Skon.
Widening her eyes, she again smelled the air and caught his scent – the smell of a Vulcan male lightly sweating. It was the smell of sand drifting into an ancient temple and incense rising from swaying pots. The aroma made her lick her lips and let the shaking hand fall to her side.
"Are you suggesting some retreat?" she asked.
"Once our meeting with the Vulcan High Command, or what remains of that organization, has concluded, the two of us can stroll the capitol together. I was raised there." He paused for a moment. "It would be an honor to show you the city."
With closed eyes, T'Pol reached back into her mind and remembered a time when she melded with T'Pau, the of them sharing thoughts. An awkward boy – one tall and lanky for his age – seemed to tag behind, pestering her.
A gangly boy of five ran behind T'Pau on a field and the girl, larger at twelve, ran ahead claiming she had been eager to research the death of a stray k'lat – a small furry creature with small fangs and black eyes. When she gazed at it, she turned behind her to see her younger brother, still new to the suppression of emotion. Like an infant, water reached his eyes and he turned his face away.
"Death is logical," said T'Pau. "All creatures die. Mother explained that to you when our foremother perished."
"I know," said the boy. Instead of agreeing and gazing at the dead animal, he wiped his nose with his sleeve, crying quietly.
"Skon, you cling to the skirts of Mother's robes too tightly."
Instead of answering, the little boy pouted and ran into the family home as T'Pau watched after him and then turned to the creature on the ground to practice forensics, studying the creature in death.
There was sometimes in his demeanor something that reminded T'Pol of the boy that lingered from T'Pau memories. Still tall and lanky, his nature was reserved and timid. He had a poet's soul, and knew he wrote poetry, although he never shared it with anyone. The man was able to play the lyre, could compute mathematics easily and had been working on completing dissecting the words of Surak, from the Kir'Shara. The man had many talents, and she had a soft spot for him.
Gazing into his eyes, they seemed hypnotic with the lack of pigmentation, shining gray. As if he knew the mystical power he had over her, he closed the gap between them.
"You have grown quiet. Did my suggestion of seeking solace together offend you?" he asked.
Reaching into the air, as if to push a lock of hair from her face, he clasped her wavering hand and stared into her eyes.
"No," she said quietly. "Taking a short break with you does not offend me."
"Then what does it do, T'Pol?" he asked, his eyes moving to her hand.
A gasp left her lips and she found herself snatching her hand away. The moment she did, peace spread over his face and he backed away.
"You have not been yourself for at least a week. If it is the emotions of the admiral, maybe you can purge them through meditation. I could assist you ….?"
An uneasy head bobbed, nodding to his request and she found herself making excuses to escape, roaming the halls as her head spun, sinking into her bed and finally wrapping her arms around her legs as she wondered what exactly lay ahead.
TBC