"You're not drunk." You stare into the mirror, and ignore the multiple images. "Man's gotta stick to his guns." You shake your head, hoping the images will resolve into one.
Is that logical?
"Uh uh. Logic - and people who spout it like they're geysers - got no place here in my head, not tonight. Nope. Not even if they're beautiful and brilliant and complicated enough that you could spend a lifetime getting to know them."
A lifetime - aww, hell...
Shaking your head damned sure didn't work - now there were four of everything, or maybe five. Didn't matter. Nother drink would fix things, get those multiple images to stick together, resolve back into one.
Logic.
Lifetimes.
"Damned curse words." No room for them in your head. Curses on the curses. "Hell with 'em," you mutter. "Hell with you, too," you tell the multiple images of yourself. "Nother drink, that's all I need. That's my story, and I'm stickin' to it."
But another drink only brings things like logic and lifetimes closer; you can feel them breathing hot breath, and cold, down the back of your neck, shivering through your spine, freezing and burning at the same time. Damned dirty words. Why do they always stick around, when - when - ?
No. Not thinkin' that. Nothing can make you, not so long as there's a bottle. And there's lotsa bottles; you've been collecting alcohol since the mission started, askin' pretty much everyone to give you a little of whatever they brought, anything they found on the planets they visited.
You never really expected to drink it out here, stuck in space. You were gonna bring it home -
"Stop it." You stare at the bottle you hold - sake, from Hoshi. Just a little bottle, this one. She said her father had given it to her, to toast herself when she wasn't frightened. You didn't tell her that you thought her father was kind of an arrogant ass, to send his brave but sensitive daughter out here with a bottle that about screamed he expected her to put her tail between her legs at every lightyear, the way Porthos had when he saw Phlox's bat for the first time. You don't tell her that, because you like Hoshi, and you're damned proud of how far she's come, even if her horse's ass of a small sake bottle giving father isn't.
She's like a little sister to you -
"Stick to the plan, Tucker. Words you don't say. Little, anywhere near sister. Logic. Lifetime." There were other words, but you've forgotten them - better that way. If only these didn't seem to be on an endless loop in your head.
If only you hadn't been relieved of duty, forcefully, because of logic.
"No. Dirty word." You drain the sake, because you can't drown yourself in your work if the Cap'n won't let you anywhere near Engineering. Said you were a menace to the ship - what the hell does he know, anyway? You could've gotten those shiny, barely broke in engines up to Warp Six, maybe Six Point Five. You'd've worked on the damned structural integrity after; ship wouldn't have come apart - logic be damned; that woman's not an engineer, or an architect...
Architect. You strangle a cry; won't let it out of your throat to breathe your air. It wants to stick a knife in your heart, that word.
Architect. It's knifing and twisting, and you're dangling on its point. Its points - her points, and her damned logic...You throw the bottle at the mirror; it's leaving your hand before you know what you've done. You twist that cry into a laugh that sounds maniacal even in your own ears.
Good. Anti-logic. Just what you need. "Stick that in your damned logic pipe, and smoke it," you say, and laugh at the shattered glass and the dripping sake.
You look at the bottles. Never thought you'd go through so many. You never much liked to drink alone. Your eyes go to the picture. You tried turning it upside down; you tried to put it in a drawer. Three weeks is a long time to try not to look at something, when it's all you can think about.
You're tired. Exhausted. You stagger to your bed, pretending it's not because you haven't been sober since - awww, hell, since when? Since it had been long enough to be almost sure -
Almost. Filthiest word of 'em all, almost. All. Most.
You fall on the bed; lie on your back, but the ceiling's spinning. "Cap'n on the ceiling." you say, and giggle. But it's not funny, the spinning, any more than the Captain on the ceiling was for Miss Points'N'Logic.
"She was my Cinderella. Now she's the Evil Stepmother."
Logic.
Damn her. Damn logic, the dirty word.
You roll to your belly. But that only makes you feel sick, and you don't want to sleep, anyway. "For in that sleep of death what dreams may come?"
Damned Shakespeare, too...gotta get out of here, get away, get unstuck. It's the middle of the night; maybe you can slip into Engineering, just for a minute. If you can touch your engines, you'll feel better. You'll be home.
Awww, hell. Home. What kind of home was there now, after -?
You scream into your pillow - it claws at your throat all the way up. Somehow, you stop. If you don't, you think you might scream forever.
You haul yourself back up, grab a bottle without even looking to see what it is. Doesn't matter; only a means to an end, and nothing more. You're out the door before you know that you're leaving the room.
"Where'm I goin'?" Don't know. Doesn't matter.
Wherever you go, you're still stuck in space. So you walk - well, stumble, bouncing off one wall, then another, and banging your shoulder on the junction. You stop, staring at a door...you've forgotten how to get in, how to make the door work - you're an engineer, damnit, you can do this, you can open the door...but do you want to?
"Beats starin' at it." That's true; whenever you stare at any blank something, your mind starts pinning movies to it...two little blonde kids, roaring fire...
"No, no, no!" You slam your free hand on the panel, swig from the bottle. The door opens, and you lurch through, too fast. Your stomach, sick of it all and maybe pushed by your liver, tries to climb out, find a new place to live- but it throws its belongings out first, as you hit the floor and the bottle flies away. You scrabble after it - or try to. But your stomach's giving you a piece of its mind, and you're helpless to stop it...
Boots. Not Starfleet boots, oh no.
Her boots. Aww, hell. Of all the people you don't want to see - she's all of them, right here. Miss Points'N'Logic.
"Commander Tucker?" Why was her voice so soft, so kind, when you were just sick all over her pretty little shiny boots? "Trip?"
"First name, eh? Maybe I'm dyin' . Would be a blessing..." You hadn't said that to anyone. Hadn't talked to anyone but yourself.
"You appear to be - significantly inebriated. Perhaps to the point of toxicity."
"Puked on yer pretty boots, T'Pol."
"Perhaps you have purged some of the intoxicants. Are you strong enough to stand, if I help you?"
You stare at the boots, decorated with everything your stomach owned. A lot of booze. Nothin' much else. "Stand? Wha' th' hell for?"
"If the Captain becomes aware of your - self-medication - he won't consider my recommendation that you be returned to duty."
"Returned to - what? Why would you - ?"
"Commander, do you feel you can stand, if I assist?"
"You asked that already." You think she did, anyway. Or something like it. Close enough. "Too close. Danm, T'Pol, it was too close."
"I have asked. You haven't answered."
You wonder what the hell she's talking about. Why she's botherin' with you. "Forgot the question. Brain's numb - stuck at one-tenth impulse. Slow goin' - take us months to get home -"
"Trip. Can you stand?"
"Canya catch me?"
"If necessary, I am capable of carrying you. However, it would undoubtedly arouse curiosity and attract attention that won't help in convincing Captain Archer."
"Why do you want me to stand?" You think maybe she's explained this already, but, if she has, she doesn't say so.
"This is the Mess Hall, Commander. If you remain here, you will be seen. I won't be able to assure that it won't be reported."
"You wanna help me?"
She kneels, and a hand hovers somewhere over your shoulder. You can see its shadow, but turning your head right now would be a helluva bad idea - your stomach's threatening to clean its cargo holds, and pitch anything it finds right on her boots, with the rest.
"Yes, Trip. I want to help."
"Why?"
"Because I feel the depth of your pain. I understand that you can't go forward until you're certain, and that you can't be certain until you return home. I know that we are too far from Earth for you to bear the waiting. I don't believe you should be punished for being unable to simply wait. I believe that you should be assisted, and granted clemency for any - perceived failings - that result from this untenable situation."
"You talk too much, and make my head hurt."
"I have experienced the same thing, with you. I will cease speaking."
And she does. Silently, tenderly, she helps you up, puts you in a chair, where you slump on the table, only half aware that she is on her hands and knees, erasing the evidence. Logical. Thorough.
When she's done, she supports you - doesn't take you home, though -
"Oh, hell, home...home's not there...Lizzie...Lizzie...where are you, Elizabeth? Architects travel a lot, don't they, T'Pol- where're we goin'?"
"There is no alcohol in my cabin," she tells you, her voice gentle. "It's clean and quiet. I will tend you, and watch you, and you'll sleep. No one will disturb you, and, as I am off duty for the next two days, I will see to your needs while you - recover."
"Why?"
"Because I know what it is to be tormented by emotion, with no way free."
You look into her eyes, and all the images of her slide into one. You see her, as you never have. The feeling stays with you as she brings you to her quiet candlelit room, a room that smells of citrus and sandalwood. That smells of her. She strips your clothing, and you are too far gone, too hungry for simple care, for touch, to even be embarrassed that she's seeing you completely naked for the first time, like this. She climbs into the shower with you, with all her clothes still on, except the boots, and her socks. Her bare feet are small and delicate, but she supports you as though you weigh nothing.
She puts you naked into her own bed. You protest weakly. "I will get your clothing once I know you are finished vomiting; it's too great a risk now."
You long for touch. She can only say no. You swallow pride, anger, hurt. "Sleep with me, T'Pol. Let me hold you. Stick with me."
When she climbs in and lets you pull her silk-clad heat in close, you are sure you are dreaming.