A/N: A bit of a bridge chapter here. More backstory, as told from the memory of the T'Lassa from the alternate timeline.

February 3, 2387

Vulcan, alternate timeline

"How will you accomplish this?" T'Lassa asked as she stood, dusting off the grit left on her hands from the closet floor.

"I have 29th century technology that allows us to cross realities and move through time," Miral explained.

T'Lassa stood there, quietly staring at Miral. "I worked at Starfleet Medical for a time, before I was transferred to Starbase 47. There were fears of the possibility of temporal psychosis based on several experiences recorded. Is that no longer a problem in the 29th century?"

Tom crossed his arms, anticipating the reply. It had been at the back of his mind, his own crazy experiences with time travel sometimes calling the idea back.

"The exposure is minimal. And the goal is to undo the damage the sphere builders have done. Once we do, none of this will have happened. What happens to us won't matter," Miral reiterated, lifting her chin defiantly as she saw the concern on both of their faces.

"The probe attack on Earth in 2153 was found to be caused by temporal interference. Yet, it could not be undone," T'Lassa told her cautiously. "There may be…aspects of all of this that you cannot change."

Miral's eyes flashed, so like her mother in that instant Tom almost lost his breath. "Their goal here was to ensure that Tom Paris and T'Lassa did not survive. However it works, that serves their purpose in the future." She swallowed hard, the anger dissolving into a wistful sadness. "Those aspects caused all the rest of the damage, Doctor."

T'Lassa continued to study the younger woman. Everything made perfect sense as she had seen it in Tom's mind. Everything except this one truth that Tom didn't seem to comprehend—Miral was on her own mission. Daniels had sent her on this mission to save the Federation. She was here to save her father; the Federation was just a convenient excuse. She worried what would happen if, like she had explained, something else was needed that was contrary to Miral's designs. She tucked the thought away for safe keeping.

"Where is your ship?" T'Lassa asked.

"Orbit, with a fake registry. We can beam up directly from here," Miral explained. The Klingon tapped her combadge and then reached for T'Lassa's elbow, direct contact the only way the less sophisticated transporter could de-materialize someone not wearing a combadge.

The transporter process was always almost instantaneous, occurring outside of conscious thought. They were just one place…and then the next. Actual time elapsed could be variable, but the process invariably felt the same. Miral was accustomed to it, which was why this time she was so disoriented.

Unusually, she swore she heard whispers, bits of conversation in random snippets inside her head. The words and their meanings were not discernible…the voice unknowable. Suddenly they were on the pad in the shuttle. Miral almost staggered, overwhelmed by the jumbled noise in her head. She released T'Lassa's elbow…and then the noise ceased.

Tom was already moving away, towards the front of the fuselage. He brushed past them without noticing.

It was T'Lassa who broke the spell. "You melded with her," she said to Miral, a statement even though a question was appropriate. "T'Mira," she clarified.

"Wait. That was…that was…T'Mira?" Miral asked, astounded. "In your mind…when I touched you?"

"Vulcans are touch telepaths. Surely, you know this. She is my daughter," T'Lassa said, just the one sentence to justify it all. "Your link would not diminish…simply due to a phase variance. She is here, on this world, and part of me as well…for the same reason."

"She's just a child," Miral replied, her eyes misting. Tom turned back from the cockpit to watch as the interaction progressed.

"The connection you have is beyond age…or time," T'Lassa said, her voice heavy. In explanation she offered, "I separated her from you…in this timeline. I…didn't realize how…strongly you felt about each other." T'Lassa shifted her eyes downward, full of regret, unaware of how she had flipped to calling this woman her young daughter's friend, as if they were the same person.

"She's my best friend," Miral responded emphatically. "My sister…in my heart," she added. "In so many ways, she was all that I had. I miss her."

"Once I resigned my commission, I went back to Vulcan. I tried to stay on Earth, but as a civilian, it just wasn't possible," T'Lassa explained. "It was one of the most difficult things I've ever done…separating yo–Miral from T'Mira." She fumbled over the words. Her eyes flitted to Tom before settling back on Miral. "Admiral Paris means well…he is just not equipped to handle the needs of a devastated child, most certainly not a partially Klingon child."

Tom's sigh was audible in the cabin. "He's gotten better from when I was young, and still, I…" He shook his head, not finding the words to express his regret that in this reality, his orphaned daughter was left with his potentially loving but stern father.

If left this way, would his daughter grow up any better than he had? Was she doomed to fail over and over and doubt her worth for the rest of her life because of it? He thought of this young woman, who was extraordinary despite having a mother who had emotionally abandoned her. Although, he reminded himself, she'd had Aaron. As stoic as he could be, Aaron would have made a difference where his own father might have not been able to.

"Your relationship with T'Mira would not necessarily be the way it is now, when the circumstances of your life change…if we are successful," T'Lassa told her, easing the words out as gently as she could.

Miral's eyes were still glassy. "If we do succeed, then she grows up with her mother and her stepfather there. Her mother taught her the right balance of how to be herself, but once she was gone, she lost that…and Aaron tried, but he didn't know the way you did."

"The way you did," T'Lassa stressed, her eyes gleaming with understanding.

"Well," Miral huffed, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. "That was the only thing I ever learned from my mother." Her eyes stung with unshed tears.

T'Lassa sensed the young woman's pain, and left the rest of her thoughts unspoken. T'Lassa had seen what losing both parents had done to Miral. It was a tragedy beyond bounds to know that B'Elanna had been there and still this Miral was as wounded as if she hadn't been.

"We need to go…before the Vulcan orbital station starts to wonder what the hell we're doing," Tom said, turning and sitting in the pilot's chair.

Miral shook herself, the spell breaking. She spun and dove for the co-pilot's seat. "Take a seat, Doctor," Miral called. "Next stop is Starbase 47…stardate 79489.77."

June 26, 2402, T'Lassa automatically calculated. Her daughter would be 26 years old. Aaron would be 52. The thought of seeing him again, like this, completely compromised her emotional suppression mechanisms. She tried an abbreviated form of meditation here, trying to calm herself, only to find the meditation was leading her into a stream of memory that would not leave her alone.

May 31, 2386

Starbase 47

"I have loved you for 4 years, 8 months, and 19 days," T'Lassa told Aaron.

He rolled onto his side to face her as they lay side by side. His eyes wider, he asked, "You can pinpoint the exact day?" He felt a hand seem to close around his heart, as the full scope of her feelings, the ones she had never wanted him to know, became clear.

Quickly, he counted back the time, recoiling in horror as he realized what time frame she was referring. He became disgusted at the picture of himself ingrained in his memory. How could she have ever fallen in love with him? He had even despised himself during those days. Whether by the look on his face, or the unpleasant feelings he was transmitting to her, she knew she needed to elaborate.

She nodded. "It was while you were in command, after the Paris' went back to Earth for a time. After Commander Torres'...difficulties."

He looked away briefly, realizing his memory of the time was so hazy because he had spent a great deal of it intoxicated. She sensed his shame, touched his chin and turned his face to her. The other hand she lay against his chest, gently entwining her fingers in his chest hair. "Dr. Conlin was off the station. The Tarkalean Flu had broken out. My daughter was ill. I was as well, but I was still working, because I was in charge and no one else was available. That group of Naussicans came on board…and broke up the bar on the lower level."

The more information she gave, the better the time came into focus, but it was an awful memory. He still could not fathom the connection. She continued. "Security was overrun, because so many of them were ill and they didn't have enough manpower to staff appropriately. They ransacked the Infirmary, looking for drugs. I tried to stop them." That he remembered, the thought still angering him four years later. One had assaulted her, knocking her to the ground, the other put a knife to her throat. That was when he arrived, one of them demanding all the remaining drugs or telling Aaron he would kill her.

"You wrestled him to the ground, and he put the knife through your shoulder." He still had a faint scar, because he had delayed treatment for so long after the injury. "The knife was still sticking out of you, and you grabbed his disrupter and held them all there until the second security detail arrived." Her voice becoming soft with reverence, she went on. "You wouldn't let me treat you, until you were sure I was all right." He felt her touch the scar, ever so gently.

"I never told you this, but because I was so sick, I didn't properly shield myself when you touched me." She felt him hold his breath, as he waited for her to reply. "I had no idea, before that, how much energy you were exerting, just holding yourself together. What it took, for you to simply get out of bed in the morning. How much pain you were in. And you still did what you did…risked your life to save me."

"I would have done that for anyone," he said dismissively.

"Yes, you would have." Her voice trembled with the profundity of her admiration. "Even for someone you didn't know. But that day, you didn't do it for just anyone. You did it for me."

She had tried to rationalize the way she felt about him afterwards. That the fever had so disrupted her cognitive functioning that she couldn't trust the events she remembered. But even after 65 years in Starfleet, having a knife pressed to her throat so close the blade had cut her skin had been the closest to dying she had ever experienced, even worse than being assaulted by Romulans. The fever had, in fact, interfered with her suppression capabilities. And she had been absolutely terrified.

He had moved so quickly to dispense her attackers it was just a blur in her memory. What she did remember was him, as he turned back to her, cowering on the floor, her hand pressed to the bleeding wound on her neck. She could see the blood spurting out of the wound where the knife protruded from his shoulder. He moved as if there was nothing there. "Doctor," he had said intently, pulling her up with a gentleness that seemed foreign in the sea of violence. She was dizzy, teetering. He had lifted her up, and she had felt the pain in his arm jangle her nervous system with the unguarded touch.

"Your arm…" she had said weakly. He ignored her, prying her bloody fingers away from the wound on her neck.

"You need to let me see," he said. She sensed the strain in him, as he worked through the pain. She heard the sound of the tricorder. "My God," he had whispered, at some reading he noticed. Probably the high fever. "He missed the artery. But I need to treat the fever. How long have you been working so sick like this?"

She felt him run the derma generator over the wound. Her medication had been due to be redosed when she had been taken hostage. "Over there," she weakly motioned to her hypospray. "Commander, please. You're bleeding." He still ignored her. Drifting in and out of consciousness, she saw one of the security detail wrap something around his shoulder, wisely knowing removing the blade was potentially more dangerous than leaving it in.

It was when he came back with the hypospray. He brushed her hair back away from her neck, his hand lingering against the skin when he did so, when she felt it all. Without her control, his emotions assaulted her, wringing tears from her eyes. He had given her something to sedate her, she realized as she began to lose consciousness. She tried to fight it, knowing there was no one else who could treat him beyond first aid. But she couldn't. In her dreams, all of her impressions of him had coalesced.

Two hours later, she had awoken, to find him still with the knife embedded in his flesh. He had begun going into shock from the blood loss. "Commander, I need to treat you now." She had hurried him to the biobed and begun the surgery he needed to repair his wounds. As she worked on him, her brain still foggy from medication and fever, she began to notice that her concern was more than just her professional determination. She was actually worrying about him, about what she had sensed, about how he may have permanently damaged his arm by not letting her treat him. About how badly she wanted to thank him, for saving her life.

She had stayed, longer than was necessary, longer than had made any sense, at his bedside as he was sleeping. She had had to clench her hand into a fist, to stop the urge to touch his cheek. As she turned away at that moment, she understood what it was she felt.

Just three weeks after that incident, she had found him, passing out from intoxication in the same bar the Naussicans had wrecked. Weeping in his drunken state, telling her he wished he was dead. That living had just become too hard.

July 23, 2382

Starbase 47

Lt. Ralana D'Jak entered the infirmary in a hurry. "Dr. T'Lassa?" she called, not seeing the doctor right away.

"Yes, lieutenant?" she replied, finding the engineer slightly agitated as she was waiting.

"Doctor, I'm sorry to bother you. But I wanted to talk to you in person, before I called you." She was wringing her hands together, another sign of her anxiety.

"What is it, lieutenant?" she asked.

"It's Commander Michaels, Doctor." She didn't elaborate, the worry creasing her forehead and the lines next to her eyes. T'Lassa tamped down the shrill inside her chest, an irrational fear for his safety intruding on her thoughts.

"If he's injured, then--"

She stopped the doctor with a shake of her head. "Not exactly. I would have just called you if that were the case." She took a step forward. "Doctor, he's...intoxicated. Heavily. He's in the Andorian bar. Alone. He wouldn't leave when the proprietor tried to close."

The disquiet she had been feeling started to grow. "It sounds like a matter for security, Lieutenant."

"I didn't want to have to call security on the first officer, doctor." Her voice wavered as she continued, "He's really bad, Doctor. Worse than usual, if you know what I mean."

Unfortunately, she did know what the lieutenant was referring to. Mostly rumors, strange answers to questions during routine physicals. The few times when she had been in proximity to him when they were eating, being able to smell the real alcohol in what he was drinking, even when he had been on duty. Even when he had denied that it was in fact, not synthehol. There had never been any incidents that had jeopardized any security or safety, but she had known, especially after their encounter after her attack, that the situation was worsening. And it was only a matter of time before it did start to become a problem.

"Doctor, do you know what I'm talking about?" she asked pointedly.

T'Lassa nodded, quickly sifting possible courses of action through her thoughts as she did so.

"Can you help him? I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn't listen. I know you aren't a counselor per se, but Commander Harkins isn't back until next week." She wrung her hands together again, adding in a soft voice. "I'm afraid he might hurt himself."

Her face set in determination, T'Lassa moved quickly past the lieutenant, her purposeful strides carrying her all the way to the lower level bar.

The proprietor met her in the corridor. "I wanted security. That lieutenant thought bringing a doctor was sufficient? He has a weapon!" She felt her blood run cold. Ralana was behind her, she knew.

The Doctor turned back to her. "Lieutenant, please take Mr. Theleveth to the security office so he may file a report. Have a security detail waiting outside the bar, out of sight, to move on my mark."

She looked worried, as if she had more to add, but relented with a simple, "Yes, sir."

The room was dark, a pale yellow light behind the bar the only illumination. The room had completely emptied out. She walked slowly, her eyes adjusting to the dark gradually. She reached her hands out in front of her to keep from crashing into any furniture. She was halfway across the room when she heard his voice, a soft moaning, weeping. "Commander?" she whispered as she approached.

She heard a clatter, and the sound of glass breaking as he started at her presence. "Go away, Doctor," she heard from the darkness, a low growl from deep in his throat.

"No, Commander, I will not," she said firmly. She stepped closer to the sound of his voice, seeing him sitting propped up against the bar, as if he had stood from his chair, and fallen, sitting where he fell. She stood at his feet, seeing his face dimly. His cheeks were streaked with tears. She crouched beside him, the scent of alcohol assaulting her nasal passages to the point of burning. When he shifted his legs, she saw the phaser in his hand. He had lessened the grip, so that it lay loosely in his hand. But she knew just by looking it was set on kill.

The tension wound inside her like a coil. "Please, Commander. Listen to me."

"You don't understand," he wailed. He banged his head hard backward, hard, against the bar. "I can't do this anymore!" He was still crying, but tears of rage. "Please. It's too hard. I can't...I can't…." He broke down completely, bowing his head in sorrow, as his body shook with sobs.

The sound of his pain, the strangulation in his voice, ripped into her. Steadying herself, she answered deliberately slowly, "Yes, Commander, you can. I know you can."

"Please…just let me die, Doctor," he pleaded, an insane desperation edging his voice.

He grasped the phaser again, and she cursed quietly, having missed her chance to disarm him. "I won't let you do this, Commander. You need help."

"It would be so much easier...please…." he raised his shaking hand, with the phaser in it.

"No," she affirmed. "Commander. You must let me help you."

He dropped the hand with the phaser, waving it carelessly, as she veered to the side to avoid an accidental shot. "You can't help me," he wailed again, oblivious to her location. "You're Vulcan. How can you understand?" It was a vicious barb, anger boiling under the surface. He looked at her, almost through her, his body shaking with sobs again. "I never figured out how to live...without her."

His wife, she knew. She had died in the Dominion War, five years ago. Still so much pain, she thought to herself. She knew his pain all too well. He moaned, deep and hollow, rising in crescendo and then breaking as he shattered into pieces, sobbing so hard he couldn't catch his breath. She grabbed his wrist, pulled the phaser out of his grasp with almost no resistance. She sighed audibly as she adjusted the setting, tossing it aside.

"You are not your pain," she said vehemently, grasping both of his arms and pulling him up. "You are so much more. I wouldn't be here, alive, if you hadn't done what you did."

He just continued weeping, his entire spirit broken. When his pain became completely unbearable to her, she did something she could only rationalize as human. She pulled him into her arms and held him, for what seemed like hours. He fought her at first, but his strength gave out after a time, leaving him resting against her. Despite her mental shields locked firmly in place, his emotion, in its raw intensity, found a way inside her. Perhaps it was her own feelings for him that made her vulnerable to it…she really didn't know. But she hurt for him, in a way she knew he couldn't comprehend.

He woke in the Infirmary, having no memory of how he got there. He felt groggy, fuzzy, like he couldn't quite focus. Drugs, he thought to himself.

"Doctor?" he called, sensing that she was near, but not able to see her. She walked into his frame of reference, tilting her head to look at him as he lay there. He watched her face transform, the worry he knew he saw suddenly evaporating, hiding from detection. "What did you give me? Medication?"

"A sedative, a mood stabilizer, and a dose of detoxification nanoprobes. Your blood alcohol level was over 0.25%. I'm surprised you were conscious when I found you." She pulled up a stool and sat. "Do you remember anything that happened?"

"Enough," he said defeatedly. He covered his eyes with his forearm. "My God, I'm sorry. I could have killed you with that phaser."

"You did not, Commander," she deadpanned.

"What were you thinking? With no security backup?" he scolded.

"That you needed help. And that I could help you," she said softly. He put his arm down, looked at her. His eyes were still bloodshot, but from crying, not from the intoxication. "I know the pain of losing a spouse, Commander," she told him.

She watched his eyes fill with tears. "You're Vulcan, Doctor. You don't experience emotional pain, do you?"

"I assure you, Commander, any being with the capability to love has the capability to feel pain. And I did love my husband. Very much," she told him. He marveled at the way she could sound so passionate and calm at the same time.

"I'm sorry," he said softly.

"How long have you been dealing with this condition, Commander?" she interjected briskly, changing the subject.

He laughed bitterly. "It's been gradually getting worse. For about four years. I started drinking because I couldn't sleep. No matter what else I did. Before long, I needed it to wake up, too. And…" he stopped talking, rubbing his eyes.

"I understand," she said, not wanting to prolong his recounting.

"You took a risk, Doctor. Trying to help me…stopping me," he murmured.

"No, I did not. Risk was wrestling two armed Naussicans to the ground with a knife sticking out of your arm. It was quite...heroic, and courageous," she said again, unable to temper her admiration.

Struggling, he responded, "Not caring if you live or die isn't all that courageous, Doctor."

"To the person whose life was at risk it was. It always will be," she assured him.

She felt him staring at her, obviously not expecting her reaction. "I am anticipating being relieved of duty, after your report," he added quietly, in defeat.

"I made a note in my log, which is confidential. I will not report this, Commander. Provided you continue to let me help you," she told him.

He raised himself up on his elbows. "What are you proposing?"

"That you let me treat you," she answered.

Again, the snarling, bitter laugh. "You make it sound like you're treating a disease."

"Alcoholism is a disease. An inappropriate grief coping mechanism. I can treat it with medication." She touched his arm, and he stared at it, surprised by the action. "The grief...can be managed in other ways. Meditation, for instance."

"Doctor….I don't know how…"

She grasped his hand reflexively, then released it, fearing she was showing too much to him. "You don't have to understand it. Just be open to it."

He nodded, the feeling that he could trust her calming him. 'You don't have to do this for me."

She stayed, her eyes fixed on the side of his face. She didn't move, didn't speak. Time seemed to stand still, and she couldn't pull her eyes away. In his worst form, trodden down, he was still beautiful to her in a way that made no sense to her logical mind. She started when he looked up, afraid somehow he had felt her looking. "But I will."

April 15, 2386

Starbase 47

Aaron woke, the ceiling in the Infirmary fading in and out of focus, as he realized his head ached the harder he tried to focus. Closing his eyes diminished the pain only slightly, but focused his attention on his sense of hearing. There was a conversation going on, just out of his earshot. Drs Colin and T'Lassa, and they sounded like they were arguing. Not arguing, per se, he thought to himself, which would imply more emotional involvement than T'Lassa would have ever displayed. A disagreement, he understood. He tried to listen to the words, but they were too muffled. His head still hurt when he tried to focus too hard, as he realized focusing on the sound of T'Lassa's voice, rather than the words she was speaking, was easier. Even pleasant, in a strange way. Vulcans generally used more monotone in their speech, which was relaxing in itself. The musical lilt in her specific intonation was almost soothing, coaxing him back to sleep.

When he phased back in again, he could still hear them talking. Only this time, they were definitely arguing. T'Lassa raised her voice over Conlin, the slight tinge of irritation unmistakable. "He is my patient, Doctor. You no longer need to concern yourself with it. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," he offered, not quite masking all of his disdain at being so readily dismissed.

She's arguing about me, he thought. Memories began to appear through the fog, reminding him why he was in the Infirmary in the first place. He felt the bottom fall out of his stomach, as more of the memories became clear. He clutched at his chest, feeling the medical gown in the place of his uniform. He sat up, too quickly, his head swimming. The blurry edges of his thoughts pulled him back to the past….the medication, the detoxification nanoprobes.

Oh, God, he thought in horror, as he finally remembered it all. The shame made him feel sick, to the point where he felt like crawling out of his skin. Everything he had worked so hard to change...now, just another failure. He covered his face with both hands. It was the change in the scent of the air, the dusty floral wisps in his breath that let him know she was in the room with him. The thought of looking at her, feeling as horrid as he did, kept his hands over his face.

"How much do you remember?" She said, quietly, very close to his ear.

"Too much…" he mumbled from beneath his hands. "Doctor…."

He felt her hand on his wrist, resisting at first as she pulled, but relenting as he realized she wouldn't let go. His hands fell, but he averted his gaze, the tightness of his shut eyes creasing his temples and cheeks. "Commander, please. Just talk to me," she said softly.

"How could I have let this happen?" he asked, to himself, but directed at her.

"Something triggered this. You have been well….for years. What happened?" she asked.

"I'm in control of myself, and my actions. Always. I chose to….to…." He choked on the rest of what he was saying.

"You made a mistake. A bad decision. No one is immune to those," she told him.

He opened his eyes, turning his face up to her to argue, when the sight of her stopped him. The hand resting on her crossed arms was cut, her wrist spotted with angry green bruises. As well as the side of her face and chin. His eyes were enormous, unblinking. "You're hurt." He whirled away from her, trying to jump off the biobed. "Ohmygod...I did that to you, didn't I?" He cried out, the pain of the thought suddenly unbearable.

She grabbed both his arms, holding him in position. mander!" she asserted, quieting him with the force of her voice. She waited for his groaning to stop before she continued. "Security caused this, unfortunately."

His bloodshot eyes filled with tears as he looked at her. "You wouldn't have been involved in a brawl with Starfleet security if it weren't because of my stupid mistakes…." The self-loathing saturated his voice. And he knew, knew, the bruises on her wrist were caused by his hand...he remembered twisting her arm away from him…

"It was not a 'brawl.' Just a minor disturbance. One line in the security log," she said.

"You can't not report it this time, T'Lassa." His jaw hardened. "I will not let you risk a reprimand because of me. After everything…" The weakness in his voice embarrassed him, and he stopped talking before his voice broke.

"Aaron," she said gravely. "You have a pre-existing condition that you have been under my care for. That is my right as your physician."

"Not when the safety of the station is at risk!" he yelled.

"Aaron," she said again, her eyes flashing like the hottest blue flame. "Nothing was at risk. Please--"

"I could have broken your arm…" He covered his face again, on the verge of breaking down.

She moved closer, so close he could feel the heat from her body against his arm. "How long has it been since you mediated? I know you have not meditated with me in almost a month. Have you done it at all on your own since then?"

"No," he admitted.

"When you weaned off the medication, I told you how important meditation would be to maintaining your equilibrium. You cannot neglect it, even when you are too busy. I know it can be...difficult at times," she advised.

"All of that...and I still failed…"

She moved her body until she stood in front of him, where he had to see her. "You did not fail."

"I'm so sorry…" he whispered, looking at the bruises on her wrist again.

"You will be alright, Commander. You are dealing with an illness. One you will have all your life. This is not a failure," she bent slightly, meeting his eyes and holding his gaze. "It took tremendous strength to get from where you were, to where you are."

She had rested her hand on his shoulder, and pulled it away, afraid she would not be able to resist sensing his emotions, something considered poor behavior at the least among her people. The fact that she knew she was tempted troubled her some, but she kept it tamped down. The pain in his eyes strangled her, making it difficult to breathe.

"I don't know….how to…"

"You will," she interjected, purposely extrapolating the rest of his sentence incorrectly. She didn't want his thanks, or whatever else he felt compelled to say. All she wanted was for him to stop hurting. "My report stands. But you should tell Commander Paris what happened."

"I know. But it would put him in a terrible position. I can't do that to him," he insisted.

"He will understand. He is your friend, not just your commanding officer," she replied.

"He shouldn't have to justify my behavior--"

"Please tell him. He would help you, you know that," she told him.

"Tell me, Doctor. Isn't compassion an emotion?" he asked so softly another human wouldn't have heard him.

Instantly, he watched the emotion imprint itself on her eyes, her lips and her jaw. She set her features like stone when she replied, just as softly, "Perhaps it is, Commander."

Shock at her admission silenced him. Still so close he could hear her breathing, she added, "The Vulcan who raised me believed in compassion. A lesson she learned from the humans that she knew. She taught me the value of compassion. If it is emotional, it is of no consequence. Compassion is more important than logic."

He couldn't look away from her, amazed at what she had said. He might have railed, angry, dismissive of the pity she may have been showing him. Pity was also an emotion, and something she found of little value. He knew, for certain, she didn't feel sorry for him. Sympathy, empathy even. She was above all else a healer. Her life's work was to alleviate suffering. Although, after all the time she had invested in helping him, outside of her role as a physician, hadn't he known she felt this way? Incredible, he thought, impressed again.

"All right," he conceded softly.

"I am off duty in another hour. We will eat, and then meditate. Does that sound agreeable?" she asked.

The tension on his face eased. "It's a date, Doctor," he said.

She almost seemed startled, but recovered so quickly he doubted what he had seen. "Please be prompt, Commander," she said sternly. Her expression never changed, but inside, he knew she was teasing. He let the strangeness of the moment fill him, how easily she had transformed his mood--from despair to hopefulness in less than ten minutes. And breathed a sigh of relief at the welcome change.