A/N: I'm evil, but I'm not that evil! I couldn't just put Skon and T'Pol together. Anyway, sorry it's taken so long and thanks for being patient. Just as a warning – exposition ahead. I'm not completely happy with this chapter, but keeping it longer wouldn't really help.

-------

Shran opened his eyes and frowned. Turning in the bed to look at his wife, blissfully asleep, he thought maybe returning to his home world would be for the best. They could raise their son there among other Andorians where he would learn the art of the blade and run on the ice fields. Maybe his son would even take up the garon, an ice sport than involved icicles flying at nearly 90 miles an hour.

Curling his antennae up, he felt his wife stir beside him. It was no use trying to keep anything from her, being a telepath meant she frequently knew what was on his mind sometimes before he did.

"Why don't you just tell the general you don't want to go?" asked Jhamel, sleep in her eyes.

"You don't tell General Krag no."

"Maybe this is a good time to start."

Sitting up, he planted his feet on the floor and leaned his arms against his blue legs, bare to the chilly morning air. Lowering his head to his chest, he pondered the day – going to Staron's hospital room and wrangling with the tarpig.

"Tell him you feel there is still work to do here," she said.

"Go back to sleep, my love," he said.

She sat up along with him and stuffed her arms across her chest as her blind eyes narrowed.

"No," she said. "Your thoughts are spinning and I know you're upset. I want to--"

"There's nothing you can do though. Really there's nothing either of us can do."

"You are thaan. Thy'lek Shran of Andoria a previous member of the Andorian Imperial Guard," she said. "That man, the man I married, can convince the general."

Shran barely turned his head and watched his wife. Her utter devotion was something he always loved about her, and he appreciated that now. Shaking his head, he pushed himself off the bed.

Jhamel seemed determined.

Ensuring her shimmering robe was fastened around her, she stood too and stepped as near as she could.

"Living on Earth has boosted your self confidence. I'm afraid …."

Gathering her into his arms, he nestled his head and antennae under his chin before kissing the crow of her white mane. Taking her long curls in between his fingers, he tried to reassure her.

"I still have friends in Andoria," he said.

She bristled in his arms. "Torak? He's no friend."

And then a thought occurred to him. "Jhamel, do you want to stay here?"

Looking up and only slightly over his shoulder, she bit her lip. "Our friends are here."

"Miranda can come visit."

"I'm talking about all of them. Miranda, Martog, Gral, T'Pol, Jon ….."

They kissed, it was longer than he'd intended and involved her attempting to touch tongues as she'd seen the humans do. He didn't mind that so much and stroked her antennae with his as they embraced. When they came up for air, he smirked.

"I'll miss them, too."

Jhamel said, "Then you'll think about staying?"

"You want our son to grow up gak-tragar – an alien to his own people?"

"I want our son and daughter to grow up where they have children to play with and are loved."

Shran sighed, a trait he'd picked up from the Pink Skin, and hung his head. The words were true enough and he decided then and there, he'd attempt to tell the general exactly how he felt and how important it was to stay – important to Shran and his family as well as Andoria.

The doorbell, a sound that still unnerved Shran, rang and the Andorian remembered Gral was picking him up to take him to the hospital this morning. Unfortunately, he hadn't showered or cleaned his antennae. Reading his mind, as his wife always did, she pointed to their bathroom – the one Shran kept promising to update to Andorian-style – and smiled.

"I'll ask Gral to wait."

As he headed into the shower, he knew Gral would – that's the type of friend he was. Of course, when Shran appeared, he also knew the Tellarite would grumble and complain about what a neatnick he was to shower and all.

Strangely, that put a larger smile on his face.

----

Mel walked around the Bridge, pacing, waiting. She'd been waiting for three days for the additional troops to show up without a sign from them hoping in a way they wouldn't show up soon; with Admiral Archer still out of commission it could prove embarrassing. Thankfully, Admiral Gardner had already alleviated concern by indicating the fleet was still in route and that their calculations gave another day and a half.

One more day and hopefully, she thought, Admiral Archer would be ready for duty again. She'd also hope that Ambassador T'Pol would be satisfied and that she and her aide could leave the ship. Vega didn't want to be forced to cart the ambassador and her aide into dangerous territory; that wouldn't sit well with the Vulcans. And taking T'Pol and Skon into Romulan space wasn't something she could exactly explain to Starfleet.

Glancing over at the replacement communications officer, Crewman Eric McCartney, she sighed. T'Var had been out sick for three days straight, probably with the same bug that kept the admiral and ambassador from showing their faces. Or Skon's for that matter.

Every day since T'Pol arrived, Vega had silently sighed in relief that her "assistance" with the admiral wasn't needed. It was too close for comfort; she'd already, in her mind, picked out her nice pajamas, not the sweat pants and t-shirt she was used to wearing to bed, and started thinking about shaving her legs and underarms – a ritual before the act she vaguely remembered partaking in before she broke up with her last boyfriend.

A beep sounded dragging her from her musings and the temporary Communications Officer put a dark-haired and dark-eyed man in his mid-forties on screen.

It was Captain Stiles.

He gave a small smile. "Hey. Since Captain Gardner thinks it'll take another day, maybe we can play hooky?"

Vega laughed. "Your men growing restless, too?"

"I caught my chief engineer using extra coils as hockey pucks in the Engine Room."

"I think they'll see action soon enough," said Vega. "I'm encouraging a little down time."

"Speaking of downtime, I hear Admiral Archer has been working around the clock. I'd heard that guy was devoted to his work, but …."

Vega smiled nervously. "Yeah, he's dedicated all right."

"I hear Panama has a good cook. Looking for a little company?" he asked.

"Sure."

"Good. Maybe we can convince the admiral to take a break."

"He doesn't want to be interrupted."

"I've hardly had a chance to talk with him since this mission began," he complained.

"Well--"

"At least ask him, will ya? I've wanted to talk with him about something for a while. We have a friend in common."

For some reason, she found her head bobbing as if she would attempt it, something he took to mean everything was set.

He said, "Great. I'll see you at fifteen hundred."

Vega's face sloped down and just as she was about to contradict, the screen faded to black.

Great.

"Want me to let Cook know to expect the captain?" asked Simon.

There was something in his eye – a gleam. Stiles, one of the men captured – a man she and Archer helped to save – was a hero. While Duvall and was intent on blowing up the ship with its captain, Stiles evacuated the personnel and got some of them down on a planet safely. Though tortured, his psyche evaluation was good and the man, devoted to duty, took his promotion aboard the Constantinople.

I don't know if I could jump back to duty so quickly, she thought. Not after what he went through.

"Thanks," she said. And without further ado, she headed for her Ready Room and closed the door, wondering whether she should interrupt Admiral Archer to warn him.

-----

Archer looked in the mirror, tracing his fingers over bruises, scratches, a small gash above his left eye when T'Pol had tackled him and a swollen lip that had already dried with blood. He hadn't eaten in two days and only had sips of water while his body sweated and used the last reserves of energy. Despite looking like a shuttle crash victim and aching with exhaustion, he felt exhilarated. The sensation was one of winning the lottery. His skin tingled, his mind buzzed, his stomach fluttered and he couldn't stop grinning.

Though Jon Archer had done and experienced a lot of things in his time, he'd never in all his years felt so alive – not punching a hostile alien, kissing a woman passionately, hearing his heart roar at the sight of an Orion woman, passing his pilot test or winning the right to captain the Enterprise. Nothing could beat the ticking in his gullet.

The word he conjured to explain his own emotion wasn't nearly adequate to describe his joy: happy.

Bronze arms wound themselves around his bare chest and he saw T'Pol's head barely peek above his shoulder as if she was standing on tiptoe.

"You feel better," he said.

"Yes," she replied. "The need isn't as strong."

Closing his eyes, he took his hands and placed them over hers. Pon Farr was one of the most out of control, frightening experiences he'd even encountered – as if fire would've scorched his entire body killing him slowly and painfully until his life had been snuffed out. If the flames didn't kill him, he wondered if she would've – her nails digging into his skin, teeth ripping his flesh, and strength overpowering him many times to force him to the ground or against a wall hard.

Then, opening his eyes, he smiled. The flames hadn't killed him and certainly she hadn't.

So he kissed her.

Mouths and limbs tangled, having missed fitting together even though it'd been a matter of minutes rather than hours, just as a beep sounded overhead – the door. T'Pol furrowed her brow, her face flushed green and her nose twitched and he pressed his lips against her forehead to reassure her.

"It's her," said T'Pol.

"Mel?" he asked.

She nodded.

How long have I been away from duty? he thought.

"I'll need you again soon," she said.

"I know." A smile crept over his lips. "You wanted to take a shower anyway …. It might give me enough to figure out what she wants."

The door chimed again and T'Pol's mouth gave a ghost of a smirk, her eyes blinking, before she headed under the showers spray. Somehow her jealousy, resounding through their bond, made him smile. The idea that he wanted Mel was ludicrous – even in the mating fever he'd only wanted her because she was available and because her features, dark eyes and hair with a plump mouth, reminded him of T'Pol.

Sighing, he put a shirt over his head long enough to cover his sweat pants and headed for the door on bare feet.

When the door slid open, he heard Mel gasp and he remembered how frightening he appeared with contusions and scratches covering his body.

"Mel," he said. "I know I look a little worse for wear, but really--"

A hand stretched toward him and in his mind he thought he heard his bondmate growl, so he stepped out of the way.

"Probably not a good to touch me," he said, his eyes heading back to the closed door. "She might smell it."

The remark met with quiet as perplexity smacked her face and Archer sighed again. For a second, he thought about explaining that Vulcans were sensitive to smell, especially during mating, and that every time he and T'Pol veered toward coupling it began with her sniffing at his neck more ardently than Porthos might. Not that he minded – he believed her nose tracing along his throat was sexy.

"Don't ask," he said.

"Not a problem," she said.

A laugh almost escaped his mouth until he remembered that the friend standing in front of him was the same woman he nearly spread out on his bed. Sheepish, crimson fled to his face and he suddenly had difficulty looking her in the eye.

"About before," he started. A cough followed him rubbing the back of his neck trying to find the right words. "I'm sorry."

Embarrassed, but eager to see if he was forgiven, he met her gaze.

"Yeah, me too," she said.

"You're all right?"

"Yeah."

He coughed again. "If you want to take this up with Admiral Gardner for a formal reprimand or --"

She rolled her eyes. "Jon, Phlox explained everything. I … I'm just glad everything's okay now."

"Is it okay? I mean … Mel, are we okay?"

He watched her narrow her eyes and then wince. "Well, it's weird, but … I'm willing to try and forget if you are."

"Me, too." I hope I can forget it! Nothing like making an ass of yourself in public.

Placing her hands on her hips, she looked down one end of the hall and then the other.

"So, Ambassador T'Pol all right?"

"She's fine."

"She look like you?" she asked. And then at the question, she put her hands in front of her face and shook her head. "Scratch that. I don't want to know."

That's good. He didn't relish the idea of telling the captain under his command that Vulcans were difficult to bruise, but he managed to give her a massive hickey on her neck as well other myriad details.

"Listen, I dropped by to ask if you were hungry. Phlox said he'd take it to you, but he seems too … enthusiastic," she said finally, as if searching for the right word. "I figure you didn't want a bunch of meddlesome questions about … errr, what went on in there."

Archer grimaced. "I appreciate it. I'm famished, but it's hard to get away for food." And then he turned scarlet again. "You know."

It was her turn to cough.

She said, "Also, Captain Stiles has been getting antsy about seeing you and invited himself to the ship. He said you have a mutual friend."

"Miranda."

The woman in front of him jumped a little and she furrowed her brow. "You get around."

"No, it's nothing like that," he said, thinking it was a little like that. "Dr. Miranda Stiles works in Starfleet Medical; she gave me the green light to board Panama. Captain Stiles is her ex-husband or … it sounded like they were working through things."

"Well, he's looking to talking with you. Tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Yeah. Although, your appearance--" After a long pause she said, "You may have to tell him you were attacked by a Denebian worm."

He would've laughed under different circumstances, instead, he decided he'd just wear a turtleneck and figure out a good excuse for the gash over his eye and the split lip.

She said, "I planned on having dinner with him at around seventeen hundred if you care to join us."

"I'll be there." He paused. "Maybe you should invite Captain Gupta."

"I will. Actually, could you meet me at sixteen hundred so I can catch you up? It'll give Simon a chance to talk with Captain Stiles."

"Sounds like a good idea."

Nodding, she indicated she needed to do a few things and would send a steward to his cabin with some food – vegetarian in case the ambassador wanted to eat -- and then headed down the hall.

Stepping into his room again, Archer saw his bondmate who had what he knew was a frown on her face – there was a knot between her brows and her lips turned ever-so-slightly down.

"You're dining with her tonight?" she asked.

"And Captain Stiles. Maybe even Captain Gupta. I'm their commanding officer and I've been … holed up."

"Holed up?"

Smiling, he kissed her again to reassure her. "Holed up in a good way."

The heat that radiated from her when they touched lips nearly scorched him and staggering back he realized the mating fire was on them again. Although it wouldn't leave him enough time to head to Dr. Phlox for remedies for maladies like bruises, he decided -- in the embers of her Pon Farr -- he didn't really care. Before she tackled him again, he pushed her to the bed with dominance, something he'd learned that Vulcan women liked.

Her eyebrow twitched, a sign she would coil her muscles and attack, so he fell on her to pin him under his embrace. Not so oddly to him, he'd heard her to do so before, she cooed.

"Lifemate," she whispered.

-------------------

Shran waited in the Starfleet Medical with Gral for Staron to indicate he was ready. It peeved him to no end sit around on his duff for the Vulcan. Gral in the meantime grumbled under his breath about Staron.

"He wants to make us wait. It gives him the upper hand," said the Tellarite.

Just as the blue man was about to concur, a doctor indicated they could see the Vulcan aide. When they walked in, Shran felt his antennae stiffen with rage. In the room already seated in a wheelchair was Neville Simon, Earth's ambassador – the same one who'd insisted a group of aides and ambassador attempt to broker a deal with the Romulans for peace.

Neville Simon – the same Earth ambassador who led them into a trap, killing Starfleet officers and diplomats.

The balding, middle-aged man wore a smirk on his face as if this had been planned for weeks.

"Good morning," said Neville.

"What is the meaning of this?" asked Gral, snorting.

Staron narrowed his eyes. "Ambassador Simon--"

"I can't believe the Earthlings want this man to speak for them," said Shran.

"I understood you received confirmation about my position," said Neville.

He had, but it still flummoxed him to think Simon was Earth's choice. As if agreeing, both Gral and Shran grew quiet and silently, the Andorian wondered whether if T'Pol was here they'd be forced to deal with Simon.

"I understand the ambassador from Ithan is joining us soon?" asked Simon. "I see that as progress."

Gral snorted, "Only progress?"

"You have had considerable time and little results for your efforts," said Neville.

Shran was tempted to reel off the number of diplomats, like the Xindi, that wanted nothing to do with this effort because of the botched Romulan peace negotiation – the same one that landed Neville in a wheelchair, but held his tongue. Instead, he threw contempt toward the human. Gral must've felt the same way.

"Yes, the Ithanite's people agreed to sign our treaty," said Gral. "What concern is it of yours?"

"Earth has not signed this," said Simon.

"Here we go again," said Shran, hoping the mumble was loud enough for the Earther to hear.

Neville began, "I'd like to review the--"

"I'm in charge of this Council. I say what you do and when you do it," said Gral.

"You are being unreasonable," said Staron. "If this were Admiral Archer, no doubt you would allow him the opportunity to review the treaty. You would do so for any new ambassador, would you not?"

Shran pulled out a PADD and tapped a few buttons. "Here," he said throwing it in the lap of Neville. "But, we're not adding anything into the treaty. Ki'ar signed it and is already en route to act on it."

"I will have to review it before I decide what we do," said Simon.

Gral grunted and said, "If that's the case, the Council will move forward without Earth's interaction. Ambassador T'Pol spoke for Earth, at your prime minister's request. I assumed that would be enough for you."

Simon said, "I respect Ambassador T'Pol, but … she's Vulcan. I'd like to review it."

"Let him review," said Shran, annoyed.

Gral said, "Fine. But, you have one day. Ki'ar gets here in less than a week. His people don't like last minute addendums; we should prepare him for anything you change."

Simon frowned. "Very well."

"I suppose you want to review it as well?" asked Gral, turning to Staron.

Staron said, "I would. Although I trust Ambassador T'Pol, I would like an opportunity to review what she has agreed to."

Shran was tempted to let them struggle through what a visit from the Ithanites would be like, and he would've if he didn't like the little Ithanite so much. Instead, he and Gral found themselves going over protocol. Quietly, Shran thought that both Staron and Neville would be in for quite a surprise; it's partially what kept him and Gral talking – a smile lighting on their faces.

-----------

Jon headed down the halls toward the Captain's Mess, in casual gear including a convenient turtleneck shirt, feeling a spring in his step. Smiling to the beat the band, he slipped into the captain's lunch area. Mel stood up on his arrival and he waved her back in her seat.

"Sit down," he said.

Sliding into a chair, he grabbed a napkin and threw it into his lap. Immediately, he leaned over the table and took some bread from a basket and crammed it in his mouth; he hadn't known until just now exactly how famished he was until now. His hand wrapped around the water glass, bread still dangling from his lips and stuffed in his cheeks, when he felt Mel's gaze and looked up.

"Wh--?" he asked through his food.

"Hungy?"

Swallowing the food, gulping it with some water, he nodded. "Starved," he said, already reaching for another piece of bread.

"No kidding."

Chomping on the last of the morsel in his mouth, he gave a slight smile. Her eyes lit up with something and suddenly he recalled an inconvenient door chiming only three hours ago. Guessing perhaps she'd sent food exactly as she'd said she would and that he'd missed his opportunity, he shrugged. "Uhm, there was chime at our door earlier, but--"

"Save it," she said.

I'll have to remember to bring back something for T'Pol.

A steward came into provide a menu – two options when he looked at the nearly depleted breadbasket. Mel intercepted any comment.

"Admiral Archer likes bread."

The steward nodded, too disciplined to comment, and left, providing Archer the opportunity to find out what exactly had happened in the past three days. Melanie described how they were still waiting for the rest of the fleet to join them – something that Admiral Gardner thought would happen within the next day. Picking up a PADD, she called out a list of various tests and drills run to keep the crew engaged. Apparently, she'd said, everyone was growing batty for something to do.

"You haven't missed much," she said.

"I'm glad to hear it. If we were in battle--" It was an unpleasant thought.

Slowly nodding her head, she leaned in. "Captain Gupta will be joining us, but later. He said he had something to wrap up."

As they chatted about work and engine efficiency, a beep interrupted them and Archer pushed himself from the table. A man a few inches shorter than him with brown eyes and brown hair – slightly receding – waltzed into the room. Sticking out a hand, he produced a firm handshake.

"Admiral Archer," he said. "It's good to see you."

Jon smiled. "Captain, I'm glad we have more of a chance to talk."

He delivered the same warmth to Vega, which impressed Archer. He'd always believed it was easy to suck up to the boss, but more difficult to get along with peers. The fact Stiles appreciated Vega only made Archer respect him more.

Discussing ship's business, including the anxiousness of the crew, they made arrangements for additional drills to occupy everyone's time and chatted about what the future might entail. Neither Archer or Melanie knew much, and what they did know they revealed much to the disappointment of Captain Stiles, who's face began to turn down.

"We're going into Romulan space, aren't we?" he asked.

Jon's face turned grim. "Seems so."

At that the three were quiet.

Dinner was ordered and delivered before the conversation turned personal. Stiles leaned over and pointed a fork in Jon's direction.

Stiles said, "You know my wife."

"Miranda?"

Stiles agreed, "We're getting back together. I figure I can say wife."

"I know her," Archer agreed. "She's my doctor."

Stiles chuckled. "I heard that's not exactly how you met."

Archer couldn't miss Melanie turn to him, eyes twinkling. "Oh?" she asked.

Jon said, "She befriended Ambassador Shran and his wife. Their daughter goes to the same school as yours." Jon tugged at his turtleneck. "Shran tried to set me up after your divorce, but nothing happened."

Stiles smiled. "Well, at least your story matches. It's okay, Admiral. She said it wasn't a love connection."

Mel turned to him, her eyebrows shooting up toward her hairline. "You do get around, Admiral."

He frowned, working up how to explain what happened to Vega before she deemed him some kind of ladies' man. By the expression on her face, she'd already headed down the Don Juan road.

Jon said, "It's not like that. I wasn't interested, but Shran wouldn't take no for an answer." When this didn't seem to convince her, he furrowed his brow. "You'd have to know him."

"I'm sure," she said.

Although he knew he was going to get shit later from her, he felt they had an understanding and then turned back to Stiles. Closing his eyes, realizing that the man might be offended by what was said about his wife, he tried to clarify that he'd thought she was attractive; he'd had already been interested in someone else when they were introduced.

"It's all right. Your loss is my gain," said Stiles, waving away the comment. Seriously, he added, "But, it's a small universe."

"Certainly is," said Jon.

Archer could tell Melanie was about to rib him again when a chirp sounded near her head. Jon chose that opportunity to scoop a forkful into his mouth noticing his plate was nearly clean already.

"Vega," she said.

"Captain Gupta is aboard, ma'am," said Simon Levy, the security guard.

"Great. Do you mind showing him here?"

"No problem. Headed to the Mess Hall anyway," he said.

"Thanks, Simon. Vega out." Mel without skipping a beat turned back to Stiles. "You have a little girl?"

"Sure do – Tonya."

"How old is she?" she asked.

"Seven. Just turned seven a month ago," he said.

Mel, bringing a glass of wine to her lips smiled sadly. "She must be glad you're getting back together."

"Sure is." Stiled said, "Family is hard when you're in Starfleet. You're never there for birthdays, never there for anniversaries, can't always contact your wife back …. Doesn't make for a happy home life."

Archer found himself listening to the information, wondering if that was his fate. Before he could inquire, Gupta walked in. Almost the same height as Jon with a shock of black hair, he had tanned skin and chocolate eyes. Jon didn't know whether men necessarily were handsome or not, but he figured this guy was striking.

"Good evening," he said.

Grabbing a seat in between Stiles and Vega, he sat down and unbuttoned the top button of his Nehru jacket. Leaning up briefly to shake hands with everyone, he eventually settled back into his seat.

"Thanks for inviting me," he said. "We usually have poker on Fridays, and I like to give the people under my command a chance to take my money."

Jon laughed, "That's not exactly the way I heard it."

Gupta grinned. "I wish it didn't quite happen that way. Ever since we invited Crewman Martok to join us, he's calculatedly cleaned my clock."

"Martock," said Stiles. "That sounds Vulcan."

"Crewman Martock is," said Gupta.

Jaw tensing, Stiles grimaced. "Me and the others sent by Ambassador Simon – we were captured by Vulcans!"

Alarm bells rang in Jon's mind and from the reverberation, he knew the claxons were also sounding in T'Pol's. Before he could stammer out a word, Gupta spoke up.

Gupta said, "The Vulcans have been our allies for more than one hundred years."

"Yeah," said Stiles, "But they kept back our technology. I'm telling you the Vulcans and Romulans are in league together."

Vega's eyes shot to Jon's and he took a deep breath. "You don't have any proof."

"You were there, Admiral. Did you see Vulcans?"

Warning, his gaze shot to Vega, silencing her with his glare. "We're not sure what we saw."

Vega agreed, "They could be renegade Vulcans. I've read reports of Vulcans who have no logic."

Stiles shook his head. "I'm telling you. The people who tortured me were Vulcan. They had pointy ears and green blood."

"I know you've been through a lot, Stiles. I also know you're one hell of a commanding officer, but your prejudice isn't welcome here," said Archer. "If you think I'm the kind of Admiral that approves of that--"

"You used to," said Stiles. "What's changed?"

Vega gave a small gasp.

As Archer was about to push himself from the table and launch into a verbal attack, he heard a voice in his head reminding him that perhaps at one time he was less tolerant of her people. More over, the voice prompted him that – indeed – her ancient brethren were the Romulans. To scoff loudly, T'Pol argued, would invite investigation.

Closing his eyes, instead, Jon spoke quietly barely holding the anger at bay. "Times have changed."

"Damned straight," said Gupta.

"I don't want this particular subject to come up again," said Archer.

"You've been spending a lot of time with Ambassador T'Pol," said Stiles. It wasn't a question.

"Your point?" asked Archer.

"I … heard a rumor that perhaps there's more than just negotiations between you."

Reflecting for a split second, Jon decided to face his junior down. "That's really none of your business."

The glee in Stiles eyes let Jon know he was about to claim victory, so to rob him of it, the admiral nodded. "But, since this is a friendly conversation – there is. We're married."

Gupta leaned in with more interest and Vega took a shallow breath.

The confusion on Stiles' face was worth the comment and Archer flattened his lips to suppress the thrill of delivering that shocker. "So, as your commanding officer – I'm telling you the Vulcans are our allies. As someone sitting at a dinner table with you, informally, I can tell you I don't want to hear that crap."

As if too embarrassed to continue, Captain Stiles stood and headed out the door with mumbled apologies. The minute the door shut, Vega's eyes found his.

"You're married?"

Jon shook his head. "It's complicated, but … in essence we are. We're just missing the formal ceremony."

Gupta smiled. "Congratulations, sir."

"Thanks," he said.

Vega sighed. "I don't get him – he seems like a nice guy."

"He's been through some difficult times," he said.

"I guess," she said. "The thing I don't get is -- his psyche test must've passed him for duty."

"Psyche tests don't weed out prejudice," said Jon. He knew firsthand. "He'll get through it. In the mean time, let's not let him spoil our dinner."

Jon noted to talk with T'Pol about that revelation. There were many reasons to keep the information from surfacing. If Stiles remembered what the Romulans looked like, then perhaps it wasn't too far off for others to find out the truth. Information like this was hard to keep clandestine in war. In addition, Vulcan was Earth's ally; by exposing them it would weaken the alliance possibly even causing a rift that could allow the Romulans to win. Denying the truth – lying - wasn't easy for Jon, a part of him wanted to agree and let Stiles know exactly what happened. It'd be easier for the man if he did; he might even be able to overcome his prejudice.

It's not fair.

Maybe Phlox could provide any assistance, he thought.

Although the man had been released, it seemed there was still evidence of psychological trauma. Only one thing would help – getting it out in the open.

In the meantime, Archer decided to ask the cook if he could take food home. The growling and gurgling in his stomach wasn't his, but T'Pol's.

A/N: Next chapter - more Shran, the Ithanite returns, Romulan battles and more. Oh and sooner.