A/N: Night's Darkness – we're always on the same page! Everyone else – thank you!!
-----
Shran scratched his white hair, bending one of his antennae in the process and hurled a frown at the door as he marched into the hospital room of Staron. This wasn't something he was looking forward to, and as he threw the door open the pit of his stomach lurched and flipped. The Vulcan was sitting up, his eyes on the door, as if expecting the visit. Already there was an air of superiority.
This Vulcan is nothing like T'Pol.
"Ambassador," said Staron.
Shran nodded, trying to keep a sneer from actually reaching his face in vain. The man's tone sounded especially snotty, like the Vulcan had a kapig stuck up his torax.
"Where is Ambassador Gral? I expected you both to be here," said Staron.
"Hold your vagon, Staron, he'll be along. He's parking the flitter."
As Shran was about to draw a breath and ask how the food in the hospital was to prolong actual discussion, Staron started talking.
"Very well, I shall discuss this matter with you. I understand Ambassador Neville Simon is awake. I recommend we invite him and--"
"That tarpig?! Simon is who got you into this mess."
"Simon is the ambassador to Earth. I survived, and the idea to establish peace had merit. I am not certain an Andorian would understand."
Elation spread over the Andorian's features when Gral, just walking through the door, huffed at the information so that Shran didn't have to retract his blade and threaten the Vulcan. The Tellarite crossed his arms and wrinkled his snout to show his displeasure.
"Simon is a fool!" he said. "I refuse to deal with him."
"As the ambassador to Vulcan--"
Shran said, "You're not the ambassador, Vulcan, and you're not in charge of this council. I'd rather we go to Pelletier – the prime minister – and ask for a representative. If the humans send us Simon … then it's their arepec."
Staron narrowed his eyes, showing what the Andorian decided was anger.
"Ambassador Shran, I do not believe I am the leader of the Council. If I were I never would have--"
Gral growled. "I never really liked you – you were always a pain in the torak to Skinny … T'Pol." With a slight turn of his head, his eyes shot to Shran's. "Come on, Blue. It's useless to stay here."
"As the representative--" started Staron.
Gral headed out the door and Shran followed. When the door swung shut, the blue man spun to his friend a grin cascading across his face. The victory of the moment evaporated and the Andorian began to wonder about future dealings with the Vulcans. A smirk on his face, a lopsided smile failing to humility, he leaned in.
"You know I hate that guy, but--" said Shran.
Gral interrupted, "We're teaching him a lesson – we are the ones in control. We can return later and settle with him."
"Huh?"
"I've raised a litter of children. Sometimes you have to prove you're in control for them to respect you. Staron is more egotistical than Skinny or Skon – we need to show him we're in charge."
Antennae wiggled and a smile formed over his blue mouth. "We have a saying on Andorian, 'to be a thaan you have to have the stiffest antennae.'"
Gral snorted. "Tellarites say – 'to be a leader you have to be the one who bears your teeth and argues first.'"
"So, how long do we wait out here?" asked Shran.
"Let's go get something to eat and drink … and then we'll deal with him. I can bide my time entertaining myself. We may not be able to outwait a Vulcan, but we can always do other things while he's stuck in his hospital room."
"I like the way you think, my friend."
-----
Mel felt a bead of sweat trickle down her temple and she pointed her weapon at Archer's chest, trying – and failing – to steady her breath. The admiral was larger than she by a foot, and could easily take her in a fight. What made her tremble more was the man in front of her didn't resemble her friend, but a man clearly at the edge of his rope – panting for sex.
"Back away, Admiral," she said.
The words weren't said as harsh as she'd intended them to come out, and yet he stepped back as he huffed for air.
"You want me to put you in the Brig," she said, "but, I think Sickbay is the better location for you."
"Mel--"
Captain Vega watched his face flush – just as red as when he passionately kissed her. Licking her lips, she remembered that it was indeed passionate; his lips felt like silk and the stubble of his beard gently scraped the chin and cheek. And he attached to her lips as if he were desperately in love with her, groaning into her open throat and clutching her body as he exchanged tongues.
That look was in his eye again.
His foot slid forward by centimeters.
"I'm not sure Sickbay is where I should be sent," he said, softly.
Another foot nudged forward and she stared at him – the look in his eyes was one of pure seduction. Although she'd seen some handsome men in her time, she'd never seen any that dripped with sex – so blatant, primal. Bare chested, wearing only skimpy shorts, he was the epitome of desire and she let her eyes wander over his muscled body, admiring it. Even though she was scared, she wanted him. Desperately. Silently she mused whether that's what frightened her.
"I'm not sending you to the Brig," she said.
He took another step until he loomed over her. "Oh?"
Cursing under her breath, she tilted her head up and felt his lips slide over hers again and the soft scraping of his five o'clock shadow.
It's too bad this wasn't meant to be.
And then she fired.
"Sorry, Jon."
----
Skon slipped behind the controls after propping T'Pol into the seat next to him. Hearing her pant made him tremble slightly. It was a well-known fact that Vulcan men could sometimes be sparked into the heat of Pon Farr when around a single woman trapped in its fire. Unconsciously his eyes turned to her and he bit his lower lip to gain control.
Concentrate! he commanded.
The pheromones that Vulcan women emitted during Pon Farr were captivating, alluring – calling to the most primal nature of the Vulcan male. It reminded him of reading of stories of the ancient rite of battle – to fight over a mate.
Hand trembling as he touched the steering nodule, he realized he would fight for T'Pol if she wanted it. And then he remembered the words she spoke, before begging to have a sedative.
I would never choose you.
Skon was a follower of Surak – a logician where control held steady at the center of his beliefs. And yet … he admired the balance between emotion and logic – something that T'Pol uniquely seemed to possess. Not vile like the votosh katur, she logical while warm and caring – giving into compassion, the most noble of human emotions.
It hurt, if he were to admit to emotion, that she had chosen the human over himself. With a raised brow, he realized that many of the times he'd entered her abode were based on excuses. He'd enjoyed spending time with her, and – he realized – he'd been attempting to court her … to win her emotions so that he could be the benefactor of her love.
Love.
A hand nearly stretched out to caress her hair, but stopped short and then clenched.
Vulcans do not love.
It was an intriguing idea, though. Closing his eyes, he searched his memory. He had a fondness for his parents and sister – more than respect. He'd even had a fondness for a small creature that had climbed into his window when he was a boy – a sand-colored reptile than reminded him of an Earth lizard.
Maybe that is love.
He had such a fondness for T'Pol and for his departed wife.
I miss her.
He'd met his wife as most Vulcans did, when he was merely seven years old in front of the sanctuary where he was learning how to control his emotions. They were left for a few minutes while their parents talked with the Vulcan priest who would share their thoughts. Taller than him by several centimeters, she stared down at him.
"You have funny eyes," she said.
"You are tall and gangly and have crooked teeth."
It was just enough time for him to decide he'd dislike sharing his katra with this person. When the priest bent over to touch their minds, he'd felt disdain at the idea, imagining this disgusting girl – T'Mara – sneering at him.
Ten years later they met again at a celebration. Her youngest brother had passed the kaswan ritual and her parents had invited family, which included his. As he reached for a skewer, enjoying his solitude, a woman sauntered next to him. Something about her seemed familiar – sandy brown hair, dark chocolate eyes and a thin nose. And yet, she didn't seem as gangly as the young girl he once saw and her teeth were now straight; she seemed now to have developed into a beautiful Vulcan woman.
Staring down at her, now at least ten centimeters taller than she, he offered her a plate and then two began talking. It amazed him, as they spoke, how much in common the two had. She was studying to become a mathematician in hopes of working at the Science Directorate and he was interested in possibly becoming a teacher, like his father before him. Soon, four hours passed – seemingly like only minutes – and while they conversed, his mind buzzed and hummed: the bond between them.
It amazed and delighted him that their relationship only improved. Although neither had entered Pon Farr, the time most Vulcans headed into marriage, they asked a priest to wed them. They'd lived together only five years, before she contracted an illness and perished.
Opening his eyes, he looked at T'Pol. After being wed for so long to another woman and enduring the pain that accompanied her illness – even throwing himself into a healing trance to help save her – he found it difficult he could have such fondness for another woman again. In a way, he wondered if it marred the memory of his wife to think of T'Pol this way.
As if the ambassador could hear his thoughts, she shivered and then awoke.
"More," she said.
She obviously meant sedative, although her chaos-ed mind couldn't speak the words.
"T'Pol, the medical kit that came with this vessel only has five more doses. It is not enough to sedate you for--"
"More!"
Quickly his fingers found the hypo and loaded it. Restraining a sigh, he shot it into her neck and watched as her eyes began to gain focus and eventually with satisfaction drift closed.
Through his latest calculations, and that's precisely what he did well, they would reach the Panama in approximately three days. With only five doses left, something it seemed she needed every four hours, there was no way they could make it in time. It's not just that, by the trembling she did even in her sleep, he knew her blood was boiling with the fever of Pon Farr.
-----
Mel carried Archer using the fireman technique – draped over her shoulder – and by some miracle didn't run into anyone on the way to Sickbay. Good news -- she hadn't worked out an excuse to explain why the admiral was out cold, stunned no less, and slumped over nearly naked except for the skimpy running shorts that he wore.
The moment she hit Sickbay, she begin to feel immediately relieved as Phlox met her at the door, an uncharacteristic frown spreading across his face, to help carry Jon to a biobed.
"Restrain him," she said.
The doctor raised both eyebrows, but did as she said, seemingly biding his time until he heard an explanation.
"Something's wrong with him," she said, pointing to the body.
Retrieving a scanner, he waved it over the admiral once and then turned to her with more surprise. "You stunned him?"
"Yes."
"What happened?"
"I need this to be confidential."
"Of course."
Sighing, she tried to figure out the best way to explain that she and her commanding officer nearly jumped into the sack together. Straightening, trying to gain at least remnants ofpoise, she righted her uniform and put her hair into place.
Maybe I'll just explain the symptoms.
"He's been sweating heavily and his eyes have been unfocused."
"Why did you stun him?"
She coughed. "He asked me to put him in the brig."
"He's not in the Brig." As if unconvinced, he asked, "Captain, what aren't you telling me?"
"He …."
"Yes?"
"We almost …."
"Yes?" asked the doctor.
Wincing, she decided blurting it out would hurt less. "He tried to seduce me."
With a jerk, the Denobulan's head reared back. "Oh?"
Trying hard not to chew on her nails, she went through the entire story – from how he'd ordered the ship to Vulcan more than once and how she wound up in his cabin kissing him. In good taste, she decided to leave out the information of how he'd unzipped her uniform – nearly off – and how her knees were against his bed. And for some strange reason, she knew the doctor understood that's probably what happened anyway and waited for her to tell that lurid part of the tale. But, she didn't.
"That's it?" he asked.
Her eyes narrowed. "Close enough."
"Hmmmmm," he said, a little too gleefully. Holding his scanner aloft, he began to wax philosophic about human mating. "It's intriguing that humans under the most difficult of situations attempt to procreate."
Vega crossed her arms. "I'm telling you; it's not like him."
"Maybe he wants to begin a relationship with you. Although, I don't believe it's wise to--"
"He doesn't want a relationship with me." She sighed again. "He called me T'Pol. I think he thought I was her."
"Oh," he said. Waddling to her, he rested a hand on her shoulder. "Perhaps the three of you--"
"No!"
"You know in other species they are able to sustain a relationship with more than one partner and--"
"No." Her lips flattened. "Doctor, can we focus on the patient?"
"I have multiple degrees, including one in behavior psychology and sexual therapy should you decide to change your mind."
She wouldn't, not for a second.
As he waved his scanner over Archer again, the Denobulan frowned as he pondered over the readings.
"What is it?" she asked.
He shook his head and loaded up the imaging chamber, sending Archer headfirst into it. When the doors closed, an image of the admiral's brain displayed on a screen above and the Denobulan made a chortle sound in the back of his throat.
"What?" she asked.
He typed in a few commands on the panel in front of him, focusing on various systems one after another making the same chirp after every one.
"What?" asked Vega.
Phlox furrowed his brow and changed the view several more times, pondering each picture he brought up and chirping.
"Phlox, what is it?!"
The doctor turned to her and frowned. "His heart rate is high for a human, his blood pressure is up, there's increased activity here," he said pointing to an area toward the back of the brain.
Mel suspected the doctor could continue listing exactly what was wrong with Jon, taking more time than she really had, so she pressed again.
"What's wrong with him?" she asked.
"I've never quite seen issues like this on a human. The profuse sweating, the way his respiratory --"
"Doctor, what is it?!"
"I have absolutely no idea."
---
After a few drinks and a bite to eat, Shran and Gral were about to head back to the hospital where Staron was staying when a tall Andorian woman headed in the door. By the look on her face and the antennae lurching forward the way they were, Shran knew she was irked about something.
Stalking up to the two of them, she leaned against the bar.
"I knew you two would be here," she said.
Gral sipped his beer and grunted. "Have a drink."
A frown rooted itself on her face and her eyes shot to Shran's. "I got a call from General Krag – something you would've received if your communication device was on."
A weak smile attempted to placate the situation and her. "Gral and I were attempting to ignore the stuffy pointy ears who's in the hospital. He'd tried to call us three times already. Vulcans are stubborn, I'll give them that."
"Staron?" she asked.
He nodded and then diverted back to the reason she came after them. "What did General Krag want?"
"He didn't tell me. He indicated he wanted to speak with you."
A huff left the blue man's lips. "Was it urgent?"
"Thy'lek, it's from the general. I'd say you should return it."
Nodding the Andorian slipped away, as he noticed his aide grabbed a drink and let her eyes meander the bartender – a human male about twenty-six years of age with chocolate skin. Shaking his head he whipped out the communication device and held it to his lips, asking for his planet's leader.
"Shran!" said the voice.
"Yes?"
"I've been contacted by Admiral Gardner. It appears we're close to being able to successfully use the dilithium crystals in a ship."
"Good news," said Shran, trying to act cheery. His heart wasn't in it; he still felt like a traitor to his friends T'Pol and Gral.
"I'd like you to work out the details with their ambassador – Simon."
A hand smacked itself over his face and he rubbed his antennae at the man's name. "Did they indicate they wanted Neville Simon to represent them? I mean, did they mention his name specifically?"
"They did."
Grendal! "Very well. I'll work with him."
"Excellent. Your loyalty to Andoria will be well rewarded, Thy'lek."
"Thank you, sir."
The general said, "I realize going to Earth was a hardship to you and your family. I'd like to recall you for a promotion and give the duty of ambassador to your aide."
Panic set in as soon as the words "recall" were mentioned. Maybe he'd argued with Krag about stealing the dilithium crystals to begin with and maybe he hadn't enjoyed being assigned to Earth, but he couldn't leave now. His eyes traipsed over to Gral and he watched the little pig slouch over his beer.
The man's aide may've shot and killed his girlfriend, but ….. They'd relied on each other, fought beside each other against Terra Prime operatives who injured T'Pol and Archer and somehow argued themselves into a friendship. After the Council broke up, they looked to each other for support and found they typically agreed on nearly every issue – about Simon, about Archer and T'Pol, the war ….
Shran must've been silent for too long because the general spoke again.
"I thought you'd be happy with the news. I would think you'd want your son to grow up thaan on Andoria and your daughter to learn the prowess of the Imperial Guard. You said you wanted that before you left."
"But, the war isn't over and the Council still needs us."
"It's why I want to promote Tares." After a few seconds, said. "Don't tell me you're enjoying that planet."
"It's not like that," said Shran, knowing the words were a lie.
"You're turning down the opportunity to come back to Andoria? You're turning down a chance to become a Major in the Imperial Guard?"
"For now … yes." After pausing a long moment, he said, "But, after the war, General, I'll be ready to return home."
"I'll have to think on this. I've never been turned down before."
"You'll order me back? You'll force me to take the promotion?"
And without an answer, the connection went dead.
With a long sigh, Shran let his antennae fall and without saying a word, Gral and Tares appeared by his side. The little pig, his friend, snorted and then pointed to the communication device.
"You look like someone who's had his meal taken away mid-course," said Gral.
"What's wrong?" asked Tares.
Leaving their presence, he saddled up to the bar and ordered a drink – Andorian ale. Taking a long, slow drink he heard the others come up behind him.
"Blue, what happened?" asked Gral.
"Nothing," he muttered.
"Thy'lek?" asked Tares.
"I said nothing!" Forcing the rest of the drink down his throat, he turned to Gral. "We best be going back and meet Staron. Tares, you should come with us."
"If you'd like," she said.
"I'd like. Besides, you never know when you may become an ambassador yourself."
He didn't care about the confusion spreading over her face or the fact that Gral still had half a glass of ale left, he immediately started walking out the door, his antennae drooping.
---
It was six hours after she dropped the captain, and Captain Vega was stalling for time. According to T'Var, Admiral Gardner had tried contacting Admiral Archer every two hours attempting to provide information to him. Mel asked T'Var to indicate the admiral is indisposed, but she knew that excuse wouldn't last much longer.
Tired of waiting for word from Dr. Phlox, she headed down there and marched into Sickbay. Right away, she heard Archer's yells and curses – sounding like a man in a sanitarium. Unlike the usual orderly way it was kept, beakers were strewn about as well as hypos and canisters. Even the doctor's hair was wild, standing nearly on end, as the man's face – typically twisted into an enormous smile – was covered in a frown.
"I suppose you haven't learned anything," she said.
"I've run every test I possibly can. I can't think of a single human ailment that matches these exact symptoms. Yes, there are hundreds if not thousands that have some of the symptoms he's showing, but nothing that inhibits all of them."
Vega watched Archer – his eyes wild as he strained against the straps that held him down – yelling.
"Let me go!" he screamed.
"Couldn't you give him a sedative?" asked Vega.
"I've already given him two."
"In the past six hours?"
"Yes. There's supposed each dosage is supposed to last eight."
Her eyes widened and she gasped.
The Denobulan's hand combed through his hair – making it defy gravity shooting up like spikes over his head, appearing to Vega like a hedgehog. Slumping into the seat next to him he pointed to his computer.
"I've run the symptoms through the computer and … nothing. I don't think has ever happened, but I'm at a loss for what to do next."
Vega frowned; she knew Phlox was the very best medical officer Starfleet had ever seen and had come recommended by not only Admiral Archer himself, but Admiral Garnder. Phlox had turned down the responsibility of chief medical officer for Starfleet itself to go on this adventure, and rumor had it he'd declined more important positions through – like leading doctor of the Denobulan Institute of Medicine.
"Maybe … he's insane?" she said, hating to have the words come from her mouth.
Phlox turned his head and stared at the image on the screen and stroked his chin in consideration, as if pondering the idea the admiral – a man decorated by Starfleet as well as other alien nations, including Vulcan – was bonkers.