A/N: Asearcher and I had an interesting discussion. Thanks for the information about where you believe Vulcan is and that perhaps I was incorrect when I wrote that T'Pol and Skon were moving through the Andromeda galaxy.
----
Archer arrived ahead of the launching to welcome the crew to the ship – the Panama, not as the captain, but as what he used to consider a stuffy, irritating dignitary. Starfleet space dock hadn't changed much since he first took Enterprise out, it had low lighting and had been painted in beige. And just like when Enterprise left for the first time, he was up in the decks looking down on a group of people waiting for a speech to be made.
Smiling, he walked up to Mel and beamed a little broader; she'd cut her hair to shoulder length looking more radiant than ever. She stuck out her hand, but he brushed past it to draw her into a hug – a tight squeeze.
"Mel," he said. "You look great."
"You saw me four days ago," she complained, squirming out of his hold.
Giving a brief chuckle, he let her go as he gave her a wink. "You ready to do this?"
"Launch the ship?"
"I used to get nervous when we were leaving space dock, like my helmsman would accidentally smack a pylon."
A grin popped onto her face. "I heard about your first time to take the pilot's test."
Archer swung his head to her, his eyebrows shooting toward his head. "Oh?"
"I also heard that your academy teacher knew you could pass so let you try again once you'd already dented the shuttle."
A laugh chortled out when a few of her team members began to cue up. Travis was among them, having earned Lt. Commander for his fast action while on the Potomac when he took over as captain. Also in the line was a portly man with an overextended grin that curled literally from one ear to the other: Dr. Phlox. Holding a small bag, of what he called herbs, he enthusiastically took his place near Travis.
A brunette woman with a lot of gumption and know-how suddenly appeared in line, someone Archer was sure had accepted a captain's position by now working on the newest Starfleet technology: Commander Hess. She still had a bun sitting precariously on her head, kept in place with only two pins, and still had a lot of sass. On seeing her old captain, she gave him a brief hug before she poked fun of him for actually accepting an admiralty.
A few new faces showed up in the line as well – Engisn T'Var, a Vulcan communications expert who, reportedly, could speak as many languages as Hoshi. Everything about the woman was angular – sharp nose, pointed chin, almond-shaped brown eyes and a bowl-shaped hairdo. Instead of wearing a catsuit with patches as T'Pol wore, this woman allowed the baggy uniform of Starfleet to hang off her. Stoically, she took her place next to the doctor.
A thick-necked man with a crewcut marched into line next: Lt. Simon Levy. With a strong New York City accent, claiming he was from Brooklyn, he gleefully started yammering about the number of new weapons the Panama would be equipped with, leaving out – Archer guffawed – the nuclear weapons in the cargo bay.
Finally, Gardner stepped onto the lectern and the room broke out into applause. Pointing a finger to the view screen behind him, several ships came into view – because of the static on the screen, it was difficult to tell exactly what they were. With a single blow, from one of them though, the ship had only static and then the screen turned black. With that, the lights were brought up.
"That's our enemy," said Gardner. "We don't really know what they look like. Reports have varied from black ships that fade into existence to vessels that have painted reapers on their bellies. Whatever they are, we know they're dangerous."
Names appeared on the screen – ships that had been destroyed with the Columbia at the head of the line. Archer bowed his head at reading it.
Gardner said, "We've confirmed these ships were all destroyed at the hands of our enemy. Latest count is more than 25 Starfleet vessels, 42 Andorian, 15 Vulcan and 21 Tellarite. This doesn't include the number of shuttles, cargo vessels and commercial transports that have been obliterated."
With disgust the admiral turned off the monitor. "Today, we're launching the Panama, the Shenandoah and the Constantinople."
All eyes turned to the upper decks and for the first time Archer really looked at the other humans and aliens lined up next to them, understanding they were officers on those ships.
Gardner said, "We owe these people our lives."
Thunderous applause reverberated throughout the hall, reaching Archer's ears and like the first time he launched a vessel, he tried not to shy away from it.
Matt Gardner then said, "The Vulcans, Andorians and Tellarites are all sending more vessels as well to end this war quickly. Its for our posterity they do – our way of life and our children's'."
With a pip noise, alerting the crews to board their vessels, they all headed to their individual crafts, Mel leading the way as the admiral followed at the end. When they reached the bridge of the vessel, Jon was about to retreat to the situation room directly adjoined when Captain Vega called out.
She said, "Stay on the Bridge, Admiral. It'd be fun to have you here."
With a sly smile, he agreed and made his way behind her chair to get one of the best views in the house. T'Var headed straight to her station, while Travis slid into his seat and stroked his controls gently. Hess manned the station on the Bridge, her eyes eager as she fidgeted and Levy cracked his knuckles eager to place his fingers on the armory controls, something that reminded Archer of Malcolm.
"Everyone ready?" asked Mel.
"Aye," came from everyone and Archer turned to her with a grin.
"Well, Captain, you gonna take this thing out?" he asked.
"You heard the man," said Mel to Travis.
And soon Travis gave an affirmative and the ship moved gracefully from it's mooring and headed out into space at impulse, flanked by the other ships announced – the Shenandoah and the Constantinople.
Each team member reported all systems functioning normally, and once they reached the edge of their system, Archer headed to the Situation Room with Arthur Westing, who volunteered to serve again. When he got in the room and was about to talk with the young man at his side, he realized Mel was already in the room and talking.
"So," she said. "You're our dignitary. I'm supposed to invite you to dinner."
He said, smiling, "Gee, you make it sound so inviting."
"Chef is preparing meatloaf."
His grin turned lopsided and she giggled. She said, "I know what you like, Admiral."
"Hmmm," he found himself saying. Drowning out the lecherous voice that rumbled inside his brain – the one that spoke with wild abandoned these days to ignore rules, regulations and good manners -- he nodded. "What time?"
"Seventeen hundred," she said.
"Sounds good."
"But, let's make it informal, okay? I'd forgotten how much our uniforms itched."
You could always take your uniform off, he thought. The idea narrowed his eyes.
"Admiral?"
"Uhm, sure," he said.
With a crooked smile, she turned and walked out the door and Archer found himself staring at the portal even after she left. Arthur cleared his throat eventually grabbing his attention.
"Right," said Jon, trying to sound official. And yet his eyes drifted to the door again, as his mind attempted to recall the visage of the captain of this vessel.
The rest of the day went quickly, and Archer spent most of his day communicating information to the other two Starfleet vessels that left with them. Silently, he mused that providing orders to other humans was a lot easier – no one bickered, challenged his authority or told him it was "illogical." Instead, he received an affirmation with every command and some eagerness to perform duties.
A nice change.
When 1700 hours approached, Jon made an exit back to his cabin and fumbled through his closet to find something that seemed appropriate – not too casual and not dressy. After a few minutes, he landed on a pair of slacks and a shirt with three buttons near the neck. He threw them on, combed his hair – which he noted needed a haircut – and made his way to the galley to have dinner with Mel.
Each woman he passed gave him a slight smile and despite him ordering his head to stay fixed ahead, he turned to watch them saunter away with admiration. After peering over his shoulder at nearly every woman he came across, he mentally chastised himself for going through middle age.
When he reached the Captain's Mess, his grin turned more pronounced. Mel was already in the room, staring out the window at the stars. Eyes trailed down her form as he walked behind her.
"Glad to be back out here?" he asked.
She turned around, wearing a red, sleeveless tunic, black slacks and crimson lipstick. "I would be under different circumstances."
For some reason, he offered her the chair and pushed her in before slipping into the one next to her and her brow crinkled.
"What's gotten into you?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
"You seem …."
He waited.
She shook her head. "You just … you look good and you're acting kinda peppy. I expected you to be …."
"What?" he asked.
"I don't know – moping."
"Moping? About what?"
"T'Pol. Leaving Earth. You didn't seem that enthusiastic when I told you I'd asked for you to be assigned to my ship."
He looked down at the empty space in front of him. "I'm just trying to make the best of everything."
More almost came out of his mouth when the steward brought their food out. A pile of mashed potatoes towered over two thick slices of beef with tomato sauce on them and green beans lay at the meat's side. With a smile Archer licked his lips.
"I hope this is Chef Thomas' recipe," he said.
"Wouldn't dream of serving you anything else, Jon," said Mel.
Immediately, he dug into his meal and he felt Mel watching as he did so. Mouthful of white, creamy spuds, he raised his eyebrows to her, hoping to solicit a response.
"You were about to say something," she said.
"Huh?" he managed, gulping down his food.
"Best of what situation?" she asked. "Being on a vessel carrying nuclear weapons in a war?"
Sighing, Archer put down his fork. "Yeah."
"Is there something else?" she asked.
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure, I'm sure."
No, I'm not. There was the fact that his libido had been tied up in knots for the past week, maybe more, as he thought about T'Pol and only recently started waxing sentimental about other women. Currently, his bondmate – someone he considered his soulmate – denied a more permanent relationship with him and instead toured the galaxy with a man half his age. A man of her own species and a handsome one, or so Martog and Jhamel thought.
Instead of conveying all that to her, he instead gave her a forced smile and leaned over to gulp the water next to him.
Mel shook her head and then leaned her elbows onto the table. "Jon, you look like you had your heart dragged through your throat and I've seen you stare after nearly every good looking crew woman who passes by … and don't think I haven't noticed."
He guffawed. "I'm not staring."
"What happened between you and Ambassador T'Pol? You two break up?"
"No, everything's fine."
"Jon--"
"Everything's fine," he said.
"Jon, level with me. We're friends." She paused. "Last time we spoke you'd moved in with her and seemed to be interested in making a deeper commitment."
His eyes darkened and he stabbed a piece of meat. "Leave it alone."
With that, the two friends ate the rest of their meal talking only shop as he diverted her from making their conversation personal. At the end, Archer made a hasty retreat – mumbling some excuse about reports – and headed out.
When he got to his cabin, he made a beeline for the mirror. Mel was right, his eyes were a little bloodshot, dark encircled them, and a frown twisted itself onto his lips. Worse, he could feel sweat beginning to drip down his back. Removing his shirt he grimaced at the rings under the armpits of the shirt and the trace amounts of perspiration on the front and back. Throwing the shirt into the laundry chute, he got ready for bed.
Laying out, he closed his eyes and tried to put his personal problems aside.
The sands of Vulcan blew hot, whipping against a giant gong. Large men with lyrpas flanked T'Pol as she entered the plaza. He struggled to breathe the thin air in the noon day soon, his skin frying – already red and angry – as he picked up a weapon: a sling. His shirt had been tossed off at the inception of the challenge and he wait for the man he was pitted against, practicing the weapon to get the feel for it.
Skon, fully clothed and limber, picked his sling and immediately hurled it in the air with grace and skill.
A gong sounded, one that muffled under the beating of his heart, and before Archer could wield his weapon, he'd been felled. Confusion sprang on his face as he saw a sling wrapped around his ankles and as he lurched forward to retrieve his weapon when he saw that Skon had it already in his hands.
"Give up, human."
"Worla!" said Archer, spitting the word in the Vulcan language. "Never."
Pushing himself up, entangled, he threw a fist at the Vulcan and watched blood trickle down from his mouth. Archer ignored the throbbing in his hand; he guessed his knuckles hurt worse than Skon's mouth did. And then Skon's open hand smacked him in the mouth and nose, a snap interrupted Jon's heartbeat and caused Archer to fall to the ground and begin to loose consciousness.
"Kroikah!"
Sitting up, he began to pant and realized the sweating was getting worse. Not only that, but he felt keyed up and ready to expend some energy. After slipping into a workout outfit, he looked at the comm, struck with the idea of ordering the Panama to Vulcan.
Shaking his head, he made his way to the gym and ran … for hours.
-----
They'd been out in the black for four days, each day exactly as the previous one: chats about their strategy, small course corrections for the shuttle to ensure they arrived on Vulcan and welcome silence.
When T'Pol awoke today, though, she found her skin was hot – sweaty to the touch. Pushing herself wearily from her small bunk, she made her way to a mirror to gaze at her reflection. Her hair was damp, clinging to her face, and her skin glowed a deep green.
I must have the climate controls set too high.
Stopping in front of the thermostat, she nudged the buttons until cool air was released from the vent and sighed in relief as it hit her body. Sweat turned to goose bumps and she stretched at the breeze, giving her energy after her brief sleep. Slipping on her robes, she headed back out to the common area and saw Skon sitting in the pilot's seat. For some reason, she decided to sit next to him, before showering.
"I hope your slumber was pleasant," he said.
"It was, thank you." Giving an eyebrow to her fellow Vulcan, she said, "You have picked up Earth customs quickly."
"Their pleasantries seem sometimes appropriate."
The woman almost let a smile onto her face, but instead quietly agreed.
"I have checked all systems, it appears everything is as it should be," he said.
"Excellent. I was going to prepare for the day. You mentioned … guided meditation. I believe I may find that beneficial – Jonathan's emotions grow more cumbersome." Pausing only for a minute, she turned in his direction. "That is, if you are willing."
"Of course."
"Then perhaps we can begin in an hour?" she asked.
"As you wish," he said.
T'Pol sauntered into the bathroom and despite it being so miniscule – barely enough room for even her to fit under the shower head – she luxuriated in the water cascading over her body and enjoyed massaging soap into her skin. When the supply cut off, something they did on small ships to conserve water, she was surprised; the supply ran at least thirty minutes long. And even at her grimiest, after coming home from a difficult mission like when she was captured on Coridan and had spent days there, the longest shower she'd ever taken was precisely fifteen minutes. Any more, she always reasoned, would be a waste of water.
A towel swept over her body and then folded neatly around her torso to her thigh – an Earth custom she'd grown accustomed to – and she picked up the remainder of her clothing and walked through the ship back to her bedroom.
Curiously, she stopped where Skon was and waited for him to turn around. When he did, she saw his face blushed green and he lowered his eyes for a moment.
"Do you need something, Ambassador?" he asked.
As she collected herself, wondering exactly why she'd stopped, she decided to make up a small excuse. "You may shower now, if you like."
Eventually his gaze met hers and she gasped at what was there – his eyes burned, gray as they were – and he nodded his head.
"Of course," he said, his voice hoarse.
Slowly, he pushed himself from the chair and moved toward her. Rooted to the floor she stayed still and awaited him to approach her, her eyes stuck to his and his to hers.
"I will meet you in your room in an hour," he said.
Internally, she smiled, before walking away to her room and attempted to drown out the sound of Jonathan – his ire rising. His temper grew more difficult to ignore – fueled by a jog at his gym, an activity he'd devoted himself to for the past four days, ever since he'd been on the Panama. This wasn't the time for an argument about his jealousy, so instead, she slipped into her catsuit – a garment that made roaming around the ship easier – and waited for Skon to assist her with meditation.
When he reached her cabin, his hair was still wet and T'Pol could smell his sweat again.
Maybe the environmental controls were too hot for him as well.
Without a word, he stripped from his outer robe and flung it onto the edge of the bed and then sat down there, next to her.
"We could meld," he said. "The meditation would be easier."
As her lips were about to agree, she felt a small voice within her beckon not to – Jonathan's voice. Carefully, she shook her head, asking for only guided meditation.
"Wh'ltri?" he asked.
"Yes," she said.
And as she closed her eyes, his voice gently reminded her of the effortlessness of meditation as he instructed her to let her mind grow silent and her head, neck and limbs float. The moment she felt the inner-peace of meditation, a thought came from nowhere nearly causing her to gasp.
The winds of Vulcan blew hot, clanging against a giant gong – the one in her mother's courtyard. Distant cousins carried the lyrpa and flanked her in protection. In the center, nearest the gong was Jonathan – his shirt tossed to the ground and his skin red and freckled as if burned. Every breath he took looked pained and a frown had cascaded across his face. She knew his thoughts and she recoiled at them.
"You choose that I challenge him?" he thought, a sling held awkwardly in his hand.
Skon wore the vestige of her suitor, a red sash wrapped around his middle as Archer wore the white to denote her champion – the color for her chosen victor.
When the gong sounded, Skon made the first move, nimbly, and brought Archer to his feet.
"Give up, human," he said. Although the blood fever had taken him, he seemed composed.
"Worla!" said Archer. "Never."
Jon pushed himself up and punched Skon drawing blood to his lip. And then Skon's open hand, posed in the position of power, smacked him in the mouth and nose. He fell instantly and his eyes began to drift close.
"Kroikah!" screamed T'Pol at the top of her lungs.
When she opened her eyes, Skon stared at her – his eyes burning.
"Why did you ask me to stop?" he asked.
"It was in my mind. I envisioned Vulcan. It … it called to me."
"Called?" he asked.
Shivering, she looked at the thermostat and realized the temperature was already quite hot. Silently, she wondered when exactly she managed to turn up the heat and wrapped her hands over her arms as she attempted to explain the vision, including how he and Jonathan fought for her.
"When my wife entered Pon Farr she dreamt that Vulcan called to her." He lowered his voice and said, "Perhaps you have entered your mating cycle."
"No."
"You perspire even in the heat of your room, your eyes burn and you dream of Vulcan."
Doggedly, she denied it. "Impossible."
"You are of child bearing years, why is it impossible?"
"I would know," she said, haughtily. Her teeth chattered as she said it.
"Hmmmm," he said, his voice ringing with amusement. "When a Vulcan enters his … or her … cycle, reason and logic are far from mind. You may have entered it without knowing." A hand drifted over her neck as if to indicate he was stirred by her cycle.
"Absurd," she said.
"Then allow me to get the scanner to settle this."
----
Archer waited in the situation room for what felt like hours, waiting to hear the next move from Admiral Gardner. By the silence, Jon was starting to worry the plan might be to amass as many ships as they could and strike Romulus itself. Thinking back on the speech Matt gave, he thought it might just be true. The United forces were getting desperate, asking ships to carrying nukes, something sinister could only await.
And yet, he spent the majority of his time thinking not about impending doom or his orders, but about sex. Somewhere, he'd heard the adage that men thought about sex every seven minutes. The notion was a bit ridiculous; although he'd watch women occasionally or be struck by an idea in the most solemn of moments, he hardly thought about sex non-stop. He'd never timed himself, but couldn't believe every seven minutes a man's libido demanded attention.
Until now.
Tapping his fingers nervously on the console in front of him, he tried to purge a bevy of images from his head. Fantasies about various women leapt to mind – women from his past and women even on the ship. He thought of Margaret Mullin, her red hair streaming down her bare shoulders as she kissed him wildly.
No, brown hair to her shoulders like T'Pol.
Every woman he called to his mind mysteriously transformed into T'Pol. Even a petite blonde, Ensign Sylvia Clark, who he frequently saw in the gym in a skimpy workout outfit as she shadow boxed became T'Pol. T'Var, who although Vulcan looked nothing like T'Pol had been in his thoughts and had magically became T'Pol kissing him, both in the Vulcan and human style. Even Melanie Vega, her ruby lips opening for his tongue, eventually turned into T'Pol.
It wasn't just the constant fantasies or envisioning every woman was T'Pol, he started having small black outs where he couldn't remember exactly what was happening. Two days ago, he'd been alone with Captain Vega in the turbolift. He'd remembered entering and leaving, but nothing else. Today, he'd stepped behind Travis on the Bridge and told him something, but for the life of him he couldn't recall what he'd said.
This can't be part of the mid-life crisis.
Nudging the button in front of him, he contacted Phlox and scheduled an appointment with him tomorrow. When that was settled, he relaxed a little and glided out onto the Bridge. He needed to pace somewhere else or do something else.
"Hey, Admiral. Did you need something?" asked Captain Vega.
His fingers wiggled and he nearly brought his hand to cup her cheek, a licentious remark tickling his mind.
"No," he said, grinning stupidly. "I'm just going to get a little exercise. I'm feeling … antsy."
"Haven't gotten any further orders?"
"Didn't I tell you?" he asked.
"No."
"Oh," he said, having sworn he did. "Well, we should receive something more in the next few days. Until then, Gardner wants us to wait right here."
Before he did something he'd regret, he dragged his feet across the threshold into the lift to go to his cabin and change.
---
Skon waved the scanner over her once more and shook his head to the same results. "T'Pol, how many times do you need me or this scanner to tell you that you are in Pon Farr to believe it?"
A fist unconsciously balled itself and she flung it against her own leg. "I am not!"
"You are."
How could I be so foolish?! How could I deny my mate?!
And then she thought back to the past few weeks. Things between her and Jonathan definitely had heated up – their rendezvous' were more lurid and hungry than in the first few weeks of their dating. He tore at her mouth, neck and ears with his teeth and she returned it.
Why wouldn't I decide to stay with Jonathan?
An idea struck her – one that had she been able to tap logic that would've – surely – occurred to her. In her building fever, her body and mind had been calling out to him for him to claim it. A Vulcan male would dominate the female, showing clear ownership until the woman submitted; it required patience from the male and strength—both of the mind and of the body. She'd wanted her mate to claim her, restraining her if he must to do so, ravishing her mind. A human, Jonathan, she reasoned, would not be so domineering or savage.
Why did I resist marriage?
"It will take more than two weeks for us to reach Vulcan," he whispered. "Perhaps--"
His hand displayed two fingers and he gently nudged them toward her. Staring at her fingers, she pondered what the touch of a Vulcan would feel like against her skin. Tolaris had lit a fire in belly and caused electricity to shoot through her, bouncing off her fingers.
Hesitantly, she pressed her fingers together and leaned them out for him to take. The moment their hands met, lighting. A pant worked from her mouth and her eyes closed at the feel. He huffed with the same intensity, emotion so obviously flowing from his mind. And then his fingers glided along her arm and then wandered to her neck, spreading into the Vulcan greeting. Tingles, the hair at her neck rising and goose bumps rippling along her skin, as his hand touched her jaw, then and then ears.
T'Pol mimicked those motions, opening her eyes, letting her hands and fingers wander his skin. The swelling in her stomach grew and the fire he had ignited began to burn her insides. She leaned over and pressed her mouth to his.
----
Melanie was at dinner when she received a call from her very confused helmsman. Apparently in the course of the past four hours, the admiral had ordered the Panama to Vulcan and then changed his mind. Twice. Captain Vega would've written it off as a joke had Travis not sounded so concerned at the admiral's tone of voice and produced evidence through the intercom – a recording of the admiral.
Leaving her chicken and stuffing, she asked T'Var where the admiral was located and then shot off in the direction of his cabin, fuming silently.
She'd asked him several days ago what the hell was wrong with him, but like a stubborn mule he'd refused to tell her. It hadn't taken a rocket scientist to know that things with T'Pol had gone south and that the man had been harboring a broken heart because of it. She'd summed up it's why he'd spent so much time in the gym lately.
The minute she jabbed her thumb on at his chime, she heard a commotion and was about to let herself in when the door swished open revealing a thin man in only his running shorts, dripping with sweat. Suddenly, she became nervous.
"Sorry, I ah …."
"Want to come in?" he asked.
"Sure," she said. "I mean, yes."
Mel had seen her friend's body before, like when she'd cared for him back on the planet near Romulus, but then he'd been so embarrassed that she'd forced her hands only to work over the areas they need to without admiring his chest or muscles. It was hard to ignore those regions now.
The man may've been in his fifties, but he was cut – firm in all the right areas – and good looking. Without intending, her eyes drifted to the tiniest bit of hipbone showing and she felt a little weak in the knees, almost causing the question to fly from her thoughts. Almost.
"Admiral--"
"You're in my cabin, I think you can call me Jon," he said, as a correction.
"Travis contacted me with some confusion about orders you gave him and then changed."
"What orders?"
"Mayweather said you ordered us to Vulcan."
"He must be mistaken."
She sighed. "He said you did so twice and then belayed each order."
"No."
Eyes closing, she shook her head. "Jon, it's been recorded into the ship's logs, including your voice." She paused as he furrow his brow. "Have we received orders from Starfleet? Is that why you asked him to go to Vulcan and then changed those orders?"
"My voice is in the logs?" he asked.
Without further ado, she called up the information on his terminal and then replayed his own voice providing the orders, the sound of it causing the hair on her arms to stand on edge. Jon's voice was strained, unsure and yet angry.
Dumbfounded he remained silent after she ended the playing of the log.
She sighed. "Listen, I know you've been--"
Instead of finishing her sentence about his personal life, she instantly was cut off by his kiss. Another followed. And then another. With each one, she felt her knees continue to weaken possibly, she wondered, because their bodies at some point had pressed against each other. His hands dove under her hair and he reached to get her closer still, hungrily attacking her lips. The second his hand slid along her butt, she pushed him away even as she wanted him to continue.
"I report to you on this mission," she said. "And as long as I wear this uniform--"
But, she didn't finish, instead she found herself in his arms again and this time initiated a kiss.
"I used to care that you reported to me, but I can't stop thinking about you," he said.
His tongue interrupted any response she wanted to give.
"I remember dreaming about you in Decon, rubbing gel over your naked skin," he said.
Although the Decon chamber had been removed from newer ships like the Panama, she remembered older ones had that feature and had often wondered how crewmen managed to keep their minds on business as they rubbed cream onto each other's skin. Word around Starfleet was that was an easy way to pick up the opposite sex.
The timber in his voice was low and it made her slide her hand along his rear end as well and she smiled as it caused him to moan. So, she ran her fingers along his stomach and chest, reveling in touching him and he seemed to enjoy it as well -- his lips darting up her neck and suckling her earlobe.
Things were heating up too quickly because she found herself at the edge of his bed as he unzipped her jumpsuit.
This is crazy! Sure, I want him, but he's my admiral.
One hand guided inside to grab at her waist and the other brought her more fully against him – so close she could feel his heartbeat as well as his already peaked excitement.
"I wanted you so desperately," he whispered.
And when his lips crashed against hers, he spoke a name into her open throat – one that wasn't hers. T'Pol.
Just as he was about to push her onto the bed, she wiggled from his grasp.
"T'Pol?!" she asked, already zipping up her uniform.
"Huh?" he asked.
When she gazed into his eyes, he seemed equally confused and then perplexity migrated toward shame – his face red and his eyes rooting to the floor.
"Put me in the brig," he said.
"What?"
"I tried to violate you. Put me in the brig."
She was about to argue that it wouldn't be violation if she willingly gave herself to him, which is precisely what she was about to do. But, he kept talking.
"I'm your commanding officer, and I clearly disregarded regulations. You should put me in the brig."
Looking at him, he shivered a little, his face red – with what seemed leftover lust, embarrassment and maybe even fever. His eyes darted from left to right unfocused and despite the fact they weren't trying to jump into each other's clothes, he still panted as if breathless.
"Are you all right?"
Bearing his teeth, looming over her, he closed the space between them until she felt herself backed into a wall.
"No! I'm telling you if you don't put me in the brig, I'll come onto you again."
That wouldn't be such a bad thing. Maybe he didn't mean to say T'Pol's name?
She was about to tell him that though they were friends, she still had feelings for him, when he told her something that truly frightened her.
"I probably did tell Travis to head to Vulcan; I've been blacking out almost since we've left." Stepping up toward her, looming over her, he said, "If you don't put me in the brig, I'll come onto someone else. I've been so angry lately, I could even assault someone – maybe even you, Mel."
She gasped.
"I'm not fit for command," he said, his lips nearly on hers.
Nervously, her hand reached for her weapon, drawing it as she stepped away.
-----
Although T'Pol didn't consider herself an expert at kissing, she had – at least Jonathan had told her – been proficient at it. It tickled her to hear him say that because she believed he had great skill at the art himself. Kissing him made her stomach feel as if a shuttle she had occupied had taken a direct hit and fell several meters before righting itself. Letting their tongues mingle brought almost the same euphoria as when she injected herself with trellium.
The opposite was true of Skon. When she pressed her lips to his, he held them still – unsure what to do – and then reared back.
"What was that?" he asked.
"A kiss."
"Human?"
"Yes."
"Why did you attempt to do that?"
T'Pol knitted her brows. "I don't know."
"Your tongue attempted to invade my mouth. Humans use their tongues as well?"
"Yes."
"Peculiar. Let us refrain from doing so again."
When he leaned forward to attempt to place his fingers along her neck and ears again, she felt the hunger burn again and realized Jonathan was caught up in her fire still … and was attempting to stave the yearning with someone onboard his ship. Instead of her heart beating, her blood boiling and asking for relief, she felt an overpowering anger rise, choking her throat with bile. Cold, she felt a sneer pass over her lips as she called to the mind the woman that her mate was attempting to disrobe -- a woman she'd been jealous of before.
"Captain Vega?" she asked.
"What?" asked Skon.
Jonathan is attempting to seduce another woman. Surely, he must know that only I can soothe his fire.
Skon stood, although T'Pol lost track of his movements. She could only feel her breath stutter and her fingers pressing into her own flesh as if to crush another woman. The image in Jonathan's mind was terrible -- his hand darted down Captain Vega's waist, holding pink flesh before stripping her of the blue jumpsuit all crewmen wore. Ruby lips pressed over her mate's, encouraging him to mate. Just as he was about to push her to the bed, she heard him call her name - T'Pol - as if he was seducingher instead.
The idea brought madness.
"Stop it!" she yelled to Jonathan. The chaos invaded her brain, and although she sensed his presence, she couldn't be sure that he'd stopped. "When I see her again, I will scratch her eyes out," she said.
"Pardon?" asked Skon.
"Set a course to intercept the Panama." Thanks to the bond she shared with Jonathan, she gave the coordinates.
"You are going to attempt to find Admiral Archer?"
"Yes."
"Ambassador," he said. And then he softened. "T'Pol, it is futile. If the scanner has registered your fever, you are too far along to attempt to seek his assistance. You will die in the madness, your blood boiling. I have been through it myself."
Even now, she panted, her lips dying to attempt to kiss again, her body undulating with pleasure.
"Give me a sedative and head toward the Panama." I will not allow my mate to bed another, even if he calls my name as he does so.
"You are deranged," he said.
His hand snuck its way along her shoulder and she knew in an instant he would perform the neck pinch. Because Vulcan women are faster, she was able to dodge the motion and push him to the ground.
"Then so be it, but you will obey me!"
"I will not allow you to die, T'Pol."
"Stop it! It is not your choice to make."
"If you bedlam had not claimed you--"
"Skon, I would never choose you. If I continue, I would be using you. I would mate wit hyou thinking of him and his lips on mine. He is my bondmate." She felt reason tickle her insides and she used that moment. "If the situation was reversed, you would attempt to return to your mate."
"No, I would bow to reason."
"I know you. You would try everything you could to get to her in time, to take her. Allow me the same right. I burn for him and I know he burns for me as well."
Skon's face gave way to almost a frown.
"Please?" she asked.
Quickly, as if the man knew it was best to get it over with, he dug into the medical bag at his side and then produced a shot into T'Pol's leg – a sedative. As she closed her eyes, she heard near anger in his voice.
"I can honor your request, but cannot abide by your death. It lacks logic. If you are within death's grasp, I will save your life however I can."
TBC