A/N: Thank you for all those dedicated people who've written in. Believe it or not, it really did push me to keep at it. I wrote a version months ago, and I just wasn't happy with it. You guys helped me hang in there. There is a natural Act III (which this is starting) and I sure needed a small break.
But back to the grindstone. Again, thanks for your interest!
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The rest of the dinner between Archer, Gupta and Vega passed quickly and entertainingly, except for when Gupta -- in all decorum -- had asked why Archer sported a small gash and a fat lip. Although Melanie's eyes dove for her napkin, the admiral explained he'd taken a few unexpected spills. Thankfully Captain Gupta let the remark stand, despite skepticism spreading over his face and a look of panic crawling over Captain Melanie Vega's.
Getting up, Jon stretched, took his doggie bag of food – one created for a starving T'Pol -- and headed out the door. On his departure, Gupta turned to Melanie to ask more information about what Admiral Archer had brought up earlier that evening to fend off further racism from Captain Stiles – that he and Ambassador T'Pol were married.
"You know, I'd heard about the admiral and Ambassador T'Pol years ago, but figured they were merely rumors," he said.
Mel folded her napkin, laying it gently on the table, and turned to Gupta.
She said, "I don't think there was anything back when she reported to him. The admiral told me most of this happened over the course of the past year."
Even though Jon never told her that he'd harbored feelings for T'Pol a lot longer, she got the impression that was the case. What she knew of the man is that he never did things in halves; the man seemed to throw himself head-long into situations and once he committed to something, Mel knew he'd give it his absolute all.
"Hmmm," said Gupta interrupting her musings. "Well, it's better now that she doesn't report to him I suppose. I was never big on love in the ranks. Doesn't seem to work."
She shrugged.
He said, "I admire the Vulcans sometimes – able to leave their emotions behind."
It was then that Mel found herself smiling without meaning to and ducked her eyes from his gaze while tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.
She said, "I don't know. I've been aboard the ship with Ambassador T'Pol now and known her well enough to question if they really do leave their emotions behind. I mean – a Vulcan and a human? Seems pretty illogical to me. It's got to be based on something else."
Gupta laughed, the rich bass tones filling the room. When he quieted, he finally asked, "You're telling me that a Vulcan can fall in love?"
"Stranger things can happen I suppose – like befriending the Andorians and the Tellarites."
"Stranger things." He nodded and somberly added, "Like fighting an invisible enemy."
The two were silent as she pondered what would happen next – whether this would be her last mission. Going to Romulus was a fool's errand, and yet the allies had no choice. They were out of options.
Quietly the man across from her stood slowly. "I should get back to my ship."
She sighed. "Let me walk you there."
With that, the two chatted, small talk mostly, as they meandered down each corridor – Mel enjoying his company and deciding that perhaps this guy could be a friend.
----
When Archer got back to his room, he set his the leftovers from his dinner on the table and watched as T'Pol nearly jumped from her bed to eat. Scavenging through, tossing things aside, she quickly starting forcing pasta (including the tomato sauce) into her hands and slurping it down, reminding Jon of Porthos when given a plate of cheese. Crimson sauce dribbled down her chin and after five handfuls shoved into her mouth one after another, she glanced up to finally catch his gaze. Her brown eyes fixed with surprise as two slender eyebrows reached toward her forehead.
"What?" she asked.
Instead of repulsing him though, he felt his body become alive and his heart throb in his chest – energy restored to a sluggish body. Their bond strummed like the sound of a harp, melodic, and he found himself mesmerized by the way her mouth suckled her fingers, sauce still hanging around her lips, while her eyes remained on him.
"I've only seen you eat with your hands twice," he said, remembering her feeble attempt to enjoy popcorn with them and when he'd forced her to eat while they were captured on Coridan.
"I'm famished," she mumbled through a mouth full of pasta.
And then she dove her fingers to collect more pasta and sloppily brought it to her face to suck it down.
It was beautiful. Radiant. Despite sunken cheekbones, bruises along her neck and black circles weighing down her eyes, she glowed. Shining, glimmering like the moon, full and bright, hanging in a clear nighttime sky. She twinkled like the stars amidst the blackness when he'd camped as a boy – taunting and teasing him, demanding he dream of living amongst them.
He was in head over heels, crazy and desperately in love with her.
Watching her cram more of the meal into her mouth, an unintended growl began to form at the base of his throat. The sound shocked him and yet piqued her interest. She halted her actions, her nose twitching as if he released some new exotic scent. And then before his brain could fire neurons, sending signals to walk to her, his body began to move and his lips covered hers. Tasting her mouth, not just the sauce that still coated them, intoxicated him and he discovered he even tasted her scent – desert wind and burning parchment. Desire.
Mouths carnal and raw enveloped each other – his on top of hers, hers on tops of his – their tongues rolling as if to swallow the other. His hands, enjoying a life of their own, darted to her head to cup her face and then traced a line down her arm so that his fingers could play with hers. Hands danced against each other, index finger and middle stroking the other before moving to touch jaws and necks.
When they broke for air, short though it was, he laughed – his stomach tickled with the sensation of being on a roller coaster suddenly diving from great heights -- and she smothered his chuckle with her lips. As he gazed into her eyes, he imagined they smiled at him with the same pure joy he felt, and he shut his lids only long enough to relish that feeling. The two rubbed noses, him knowing that she liked the shape of what he secretly thought of as his oversized snout. And then his mouth nibbled at her bottom lip to suckle the taste of remaining sauce that he hadn't swallowed in his kisses.
Even though his body had dedicated itself to pleasing her every day, exhausting him, he could feel it capitulate to her again. The fire, the one that threatened to scorch him already several times today, sizzled without burning.
"The mating fever is nearing its end," T'Pol thought.
He brought her body closer to his, so near he could feel her heart beat, settled where the human diaphragm was, against his abdomen as his teeth and lips toured her neck. Hands rushed through his hair before two fingers of her hand ran across his chin.
"You told Captain Stiles we are married?" she asked.
There was tension in her voice, and immediately – ignoring the waves of desire – his mouth left her throat.
"We are," he said.
They were indeed life partners, but there had been no formal ceremony to sanctify it … no priest to ensure their minds stayed intertwined as T'Pol had wanted.
"Is it such a bad thing people know we're together?" he asked.
A hand cupped his cheek. "Of course not, Jonathan." Eyes searching his, she clarified her meaning. "You have not told Starfleet. And I have not mentioned anything to T'Pau. By revealing to Stiles that you are wed, information may be passed onto to our superiors."
"Demoting my clearance seemed to be a pretty good indicator that Starfleet was clued in," he said.
"It's more serious now."
"Was it ever not serious?" he thought.
"It is time we tell them," she said.
"Now?" he asked.
Two fingers darted to his, her eyes seeming to scorch his flesh, so much so that he panted.
She said, "Not now. Tomorrow."
Eyes dark like fire, he saw her focus on him and felt his own body melt in the flames. Her lips attacked his again and as they touched tiny shocks traveled up his arms, to his head and down to his toes. Their lips merged with more intensity, capturing the others mouths as if their lives depended on it while their fingers wandered away from fingers to excite skin.
Parting, she backed up to lie on their mating bed and he towered over her his nose flaring like a predator sniffing the air for prey. The lust was dangerous now, filling his belly with want so deep it hurt like starvation. Dominantly, he grabbed at her hair and forced her mouth to his to take what belonged to him. In response, he felt her body go weak – pleased at his aggression: it was the way a Vulcan male would mate.
Tenderly, submissively, she encouraged him by letting her emotions zip through their bond – what he would call love. It told him that in her own way, she'd always loved him; hard earned respect had given way to friendship which had in turn led to admiration and eventually to something more. Past tears shed over his supposed-death in the Expanse, her worry about him being killed in the Romulan War, the devotion she showed to finding him so she could share her Pon Farr …. These were the acts of a woman who was his soul's twin; her actions and deeds were those of a woman in love. Although she didn't declare it like a human might, it was visible -- bare -- for him to see in perfect clarity now.
It made him almost laugh at his jealousy of Skon or the obstacles it had taken for them to get this far – for him to admit his feelings, to bond, to find love.
"I love you, too," he whispered.
A glint of a smile reached her eyes without marring her lips. "There are no more barriers between us."
"No," he agreed.
"Our journey had many winding roads," she said.
"Wouldn't have had it any other way," he said, pushing her to the bed.
----
Shran drove a shuttle, a large one meant for two children and the litany of equipment that accompanied being an Andorian father – safety seats for children, the harness he carried Shras in, a bag dedicated to a change of clothes and cloths for wiping up vomit, drool and other bodily fluids as well as a toy chest for Tallah. On Andoria, a vehicle would already be outfitted for these necessities with a few switched dedicated to hiding it between egg cycles. Andoria would never sport such an oversized vehicle on Andoria.
It was one of many things he hated about Earth and would simultaneously miss.
As he drove up to Gral's mud hut, one built on the outskirts of San Francisco in an "alien friendly neighborhood," he saw the little pig wave goodbye to his wife and head for the car.
"You're late, Blue," said Gral.
The Tellarite snorted and moved Shras' empty child seat from the front.
"I had to cook dinner before I left. Shras eats at human hours." And then he shook his head, his antennae wiggling with disapproval. "I don't know why Jhamel encourages the children to eat three times a day. You should eat when you're hungry, not by where the sun is located."
"Humans have so many strange customs," Gral agreed. "They sleep eight hours a day … but don't take advantage of a nap."
"The drink only after five o'clock," said Shran. "What sense does that make? Alcohol stimulates the blood."
"Yes, and they drink that brown liquid that tastes like the bottom of old shoes."
"Coffee," said Shran, nodding. "It makes my antennae curl."
"They eat food that has been long killed, and they don't participate in the hunt for food." Gral stroked his beard. "It does no honor to the animal you eat."
"Yes, I agree. I don't think they'd know how to spear a fish if their lives depended on it," he said. "Maybe it's because they keep some of the animals as … pets."
"Yes, and they don't eat them!" said Gral. "Why have a live animal at your house unless you intend to devour it?"
"They go on … vacations where they laze around and eat all day."
"They work eight hours a day, not when work needs to be done. I've never understood that."
"Oh, and … restaurants? I've never understood the idea of eating outside the home with people you don't know serving you."
"Yes. I hate those … except for buffets. I find allowing me to see what I'm eating before I choose to do so is beneficial," said Gral. "Also, these places usually chocolate pie. It's no Tellar delicacy, but it is tasty."
Gral snorted in merriment and Shran discovered he was laughing as well, it rumbling deep within his lungs as if he'd been aching to do so for a long time. The joy between them continued and soon they laughed merely because the other was happy. Within a few minutes, Shran dried his eyes when the mirth had run its course and his stomach had recovered from jiggling that accompanied cheer. The little pig looked over at him, his beady eyes glowing.
"I heard from my leader Tyr a rumor about that gem you showed me five months ago – that the Andorians the humans are working together on dilithium crystal technology for ships. Is that true?" he asked.
Shran tried to look defiant and then set his gaze back on the road. "Of course not."
The pig grunted and held his tongue until they reached the bar they'd been frequenting to escape from Staron or Neville – the Gray Goose. It was a shack of a place, no Vulcan – liberal or no – would show their pointed ears in such a place. The bar reeked of cigar smoke and stale beer, a cranky machine squawked muffled music and the drinks tasted slightly of dishwashing liquid. But the drinks were half-price and truly neither Gral nor Shran could tell the difference – human alcohol being so weak.
When a pint of brown liquid showed up in front of Gral, what the bartender announced was a porter, the Tellarite decided to speak up.
He said, "I'm hoping that the humans and Andorians wouldn't deceive us, Blue. It could hurt our alliance in the war."
"We know that. Why would Andorians and humans go behind your back?"
"Because although we're allies, your people never trusted mine and vice versa," he said, seriously. With a snort, he said, "It's a wonder we're friends."
Shran eyed the amber liquid in front of him, also beer, and then gulped it down as he would Andorian ale. "I never would've imagined," he said fondly.
The little pig started to lick the foam from his beer -- a peculiar quirk, but one Shran was used to -- before picking up the glass and quaffing it in a matter of seconds. A small burp left his lips and he patted his belly afterward to show his appreciation for the alcohol.
"I heard another rumor – that you were being reassigned. Is that one false too?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.
Do these little pig demons have telepathy or is he listening to more of my conversations?!
Shran started to deny that rumor too, when Gral finally waved his long, skinny fingers as if to shut the Andorian up.
"Martog spoke with Jhamel."
"Females," huffed Shran. And then the Andorian explained the reasoning. "Tares is ready for more responsibility and--"
Gral pounded his fist on the bar. "Pa-tah!" Getting the bartender, a short redhead, to get him another beer, he then stared at his friend.
"Without you the Council will be broken, and you know it," said Gral.
The Andorian was egotistical, full of pride and self-conceit, and yet he thought Tares would do wonders in his role. She got along well with Ki'ar and she might better negotiate with Staron and Neville. The only one she may not befriend with the same dedication was the little pig sitting next to him, the man who used to head the Council … the little alien that was one of Shran's best friends.
"Shras and Tallah should see their home," said Shran.
"Shras was born here," said Gral.
His antennae swiveled. "It doesn't mean he should be raised here. My son is Andorian. He should feel the ice flow beneath his blue feet, feel the snow pelting his face and the wind whip through his white hair."
Gral didn't seem to buy any of that, and began to place his tongue on the foam of the next beer served. "I can ask Tyr to help you stay."
Shran dragged a hand over his antennae in thought while the Tellarite spoke up again.
"Archer, Skinny and now you?" he said. "We've been through so much the four of us. You going … it wouldn't be the right thing to do. We are needed. We're all that's left."
"There's more to this alliance than the four of us."
"All we have are each other's word."
Shran disagreed, "We have treaties, leaders who believe in this friendship and money invested. General Krag is no fool – he won't back out, and neither will my queen."
"I can't deal with Staron and Neville by myself."
"Tares might be able to … sway Neville. He seems like someone who may like to be tyla-tora with her," said Shran. "It is hard to resist Tares' charms." The blue man spoke from personal experience then. As he put his lips to the edge of the glass, he heard the little pig beside him grow quiet, only whispering his next argument.
"I need you, Blue."
Shran raised his brows in disbelief and then saw the pig beside him grow a little teary-eyed before shuffling an elongated finger under his snout and then snorting. The rest of the Tellarite's beer vanished into his little brown mouth, leaving foam on his fuzzy beard.
"Let's not get sentimental," said Shran, feeling his ice veins thaw. Suddenly, a little water threatened to leak out of his eye and he straightened his spine. "I'm a member of the Imperial Guard, recalled to serve my queen. I have better things to do than play nursemaid to Neville Simon and Staron."
"And so do I, but as diplomats it is our job to deal with them." Gral's frown transformed for a minute. "That is your lot and mine, Shran. We are diplomats. And deities forgive me, but I find it to my liking as I suspect you do."
The blue man threatened to bluster, his hand on his ice blade as he worked up a saying that had permeated Andorian culture: diplomacy is for the idle. Just as he opened his mouth, he heard his voice betray him.
"Serving with you, the Vulcan and Pink Skin has been my greatest accomplishment." His antennae drooped slightly and then he frowned. "I've been on this drak-ed planet for too long. I'm growing as weak-willed as a human."
Silently, Gral's chubby arm made its way to Shran's shoulder and he held it there, his bony fingers cupping the Andorian's bicep. Rather than say anything, the Andorian quietly returned the gesture.
They both finished their next beer, mutely, their arms interlocked to show – at least if they were human – that there was a longstanding bond of friendship between them.
Finally when the next beer came their way, the two ended their camaraderie and Gral's eyes turned beady.
"We'll see about this reassignment," said Gral. "It'll be a dry day on Tellar when that happens."
----
A long, deep sigh left exhausted Vulcan lungs and T'Pol lifted her lids to suddenly embrace the tingles that ran along her skin. Relief.
Sanity, she thought.
It was good to have clarity of thought again. Although T'Pol's flesh still sizzled in delicious, exciting and fatiguing ways, her mind once again found snippets of reason and logic. Calculations, mathematical symbols and Vulcan runes seeped into her brain again, nudging utter chaos back toward the dark where the unkempt portions of her mind always remained.
Tranquility. Peace reigned again, allowing her heart and breath to slow to a steady pace. No longer did she want to tear out Captain Vega's eyes in jealousy or demand satisfaction from her willing partner. Instead, she felt the eerie calm like after sandfire struck, the landscape whipped and battered with clouds of red gathering in the air and settling on a hushed desert.
Her blood temperature which once burned hotter than flame, cooled. The thermostat that humans used – 34 degrees Celsius – began to chill her thin skin used to warm climes. Wrapping her fingers around the blankets gathered at her feet, she urged them over her bronze flesh.
The need to mate savagely, clawing at the man in bed beside her submissively as she begged for the ultimate release, eased. What replaced that desperate need was merely lingering desire. Not desperate. Not needy. Just enough to warm her insides and cause her mouth to fill with saliva.
Slowly opening her eyes, she gazed at the man beside her, a smile playing on his sleeping face. Sighing, she ran her fingers over his mouth, too irresistible to keep from touching, and watched him stir. Then she leaned over and provided Jonathan a kiss on the forehead, cheek and lips while his hand traced her bare back.
When his eyes opened, she stared into the green hue noticing freckles, lines and fractures where other colors – brown and blue -- attempted to invade. His eyes were one of his best features, how they sparkled or stormed at a moment's notice reflecting instantly his mood, transparently. Through their bond, she felt his pleasure at knowing that tidbit and to show it, he cupped his hand against her face.
"T'Pol," he whispered.
Closing her eyes, she nuzzled the hand at her cheek and then lowered herself under the covers facing him. The two were silent for several minutes, both gazing at the other in admiration and adoration. Jonathan was the first one to break the quiet that came over them.
"How'd you sleep?" he asked.
"You already know," she thought to him.
"Seemed like I should ask," he thought back.
"Well. Very well."
A smirk slid onto his face. "Me, too."
"I am … pleased to hear it."
He rolled over on his back and stretched, the covers sliding down his form to barely hide his navel from her view and she nearly frowned in disappointment. His belly button, as the humans would call it, entranced her greatly.
Amusement seem to spread across his face – his lips plastered into a half-smile, one she knew teemed with love and merriment while his eyes twinkled under the low lighting of the stars glowing nearby.
"My need has greatly diminished," she said. Even now the logic behind that statement stood tall and true, drowning out the fainter voice telling her that her urge would never die with this man.
"That's too bad," he said, his hand reached her damp hair.
"You have neglected your duty," she reminded him.
It was the first time she saw his eyes cloud over, the obligation of his job clinging to his form.
"That's true," he agreed. And then as if startled, he sat up. "I haven't missed anything, have I?"
Honestly, she stroked her fingers along his jaw in the Vulcan sign of affection. "I cannot be sure."
Quickly his hand reached for the button beside him and he smacked it with dedication as he spoke into the comm, the mantle of his rank beginning to settle over him again. A voice answered, quiet as if awakened from a deep sleep.
"Captain Vega," said the voice. T'Pol felt her hairs stand on end and her eyes squint in disapproval.
"Admiral Archer here. Status."
"Awaiting further orders, sir." And then as if shaking the sleep from her voice, she spoke with more clarity. "You and I talked about this at dinner. We've been asked to stay our ground for the time being."
"Right." He sighed. "You'll alert me if the condition changes?"
"Of course, Admiral."
"Thanks, Mel."
"Get some sleep, sir."
Before he could sign off, T'Pol found her hand wrestling his away from contacting her back and he gazed at her, fully understanding for the first time that he wasn't the only one jealous.
"You know I'm not interested in her," he said.
"I know."
His hands snaked around her form and he brought her closer to him. "It's just you and me. I know that now."
Vulcans formed a connection, T'Pol understood, deeper than any human could truly appreciate. Even when Trip had been alive, he too had misunderstood the depth of a bond – the connection between two people and the intimacy created when sharing thoughts. She was pleased, Vulcanly so, that Jon had finally recognized it.
"Me, too," he said. With that, he placed his lips on her nose. When she wrinkled it with confusion, he purred a laugh. "Although, it feels like it's not quite over."
"Pon Farr is less … all consuming now."
He smiled and then snuggled her to his body. Rather than resist, she nuzzled her cheek into the fur of his chest and felt her katra smile.
"From our bond I noticed you were concerned we had to mate on Vulcan." He paused as she glanced up at him, his green eyes catching hers. "My mind heard you comparing it to the salmon – spawning where it was born."
T'Pol eventually lowered her face back to the hair at his midsection and agreed. "Vulcans – as you know – are not away from our planet as long as I have been. Even Minister Soval returned to Vulcan frequently. I was unsure whether mating off-planet would ease my fire."
"And yet you did anyway."
"To not share my Pon Farr with you would be … illogical," she said. "You are t'hy'la."
Their lips met, almost of their own accord and she realized she was hungry again.
"The pasta is still there," he said. "There's a fork that came with it, if you wanted to use it."
She took in a deep breath, remembering her unending hunger and placed her fingers over her naked stomach. It rumbled, but didn't ache and starve as it once did. And then she ruminated on that idea. Pon Farr lasted seven days usually tapering off at day four; this cycle had only singed her flesh and boiled her blood for three days.
Perhaps it is what is felt with a human.
"Is it always seven days?" he asked.
She startled a little, his ability to hear a thought she believed had been more secret, and then shook her head. "We have precious little information about Pon Farr, but that was my understanding." Gazing at her human companion, she let her lips fall by centimeters. "I hope I did not offend you. Humans--"
"You didn't," he said. She tried to speak to him again, when his hand flattened her against his form and hugged her there, silencing her. "Seems tomorrow I go back to being an admiral."
"And I should continue being an ambassador. I need to tell T'Pau of the change in our relationship and why I have been detained. And Minister Soval."
Jonathan smiled and for some reason her teeth nibbled at his flesh. She said, "You like the idea of me telling Minister Soval of our relationship."
"I wonder what he'll think."
"I believe he will find it agreeable that I did not perish under the fires of Pon Farr."
"I think he'll freak out," he said. When she started to open her mouth to disagree, he interrupted. "Vulcanly, of course."
"I thought you liked Soval."
"I do. I just don't think he or Minister T'Pau are ready for a the two of us."
"I don't believe Minister Soval will care." And then she paused. "And Captain Stiles and others like him?"
Jonathan shook his head. "That doesn't matter."
"Regardless, we should tell them in the morning."
"It's oh-two hundred right now," he said.
Her lips turning down, enjoying the warmth of his body, she disagreed. "I doubt they will be up." And the moment Jonathan tried to argue, his mind projecting that the Vulcans would be up anyway with their sleep scheduled and the time difference, she silenced him with a kiss. The gesture hushed him. When their lips parted, she watched satisfaction creep over his face and then turned her body as he spooned around her.
"I wouldn't want to inconvenience them," she said.
"Of course," he said, feigning agreement.
She felt his breath on her neck and heard the rumble that echoed through his nose, stuttering from his lips. Eyes closing, she welcomed the quiet that sleep provided, as she spent little effort thinking that she would meditate again tomorrow. Mind slowing, thoughts whisked away into the void, she sensed him drift into the deep unconsciousness before REM. Her body following, she suddenly became aware of a presence – like the echo of a presence – faint, like an apparition. It tingled like a smile from Jonathan, plucking the bond – the thread – that joined her and her human partner.
Knitting her eyebrows, she searched her mind attempting to determine what made itself aware.
Have I imagined it?
Turning to the man who slept beside her, she interrupted his slumber, just to ensure it hadn't been him that tried to wake her.
"Jonathan?" she asked in the darkness.
Her only response was a snore that increased in decibel.
"Jonathan?" she asked again. This time, she shook him and he came to life suddenly, snorting in the process.
"Yeah," he said groggily.
And then the feeling, the ghost, vanished. Like a candle that barely flickered, snuffed, she found no traces.
A barely noticeable frown threatened to mar her face and she sighed humanly, wondering if the "presence" she'd experienced was more the result of spending three days without meditation.
My mind is in disarray.
Nodding, knowing that was the most logical conclusion, she decided to spend time tomorrow – even before she contacted Ministers T'Pau and Soval – in Vulcan reflection.
"What is it?" asked Jonathan again, his voice still drowsy.
Pushing her back into his chest, she felt his arms snuggle her to his chest and then a quiet snore leave his lips.
"Never mind," she said. And then T'Pol fell into a dreamless sleep.
TBC