It would have to be enough.

Muttering soft curses under his breath, Charles Tucker rose to his feet, the now-spent welding torch held lightly in his hands. He studied his handiwork with a practiced eye, noting the various weaknesses and intuitively recognizing what would need the most reinforcement. It would hold.

He hoped.

At his side, Sergeant Reynolds waited patiently. The MACO had turned out to be pretty much useless when it came to this kind of work and both had come to the grudging realization that he was only helpful as an extra arm or some muscle. They'd exchanged only a few words, working mostly in silence. At least it was a comfortable silence, unlike any of the times Trip had to work alongside Amanda Cole these days. He almost sighed.

"So you and Commander T'Pol are pretty close, huh sir?" Reynolds asked out of the blue. Trip did sigh then; he'd been expecting this line of questioning from the MACO for quite a while now and had actually hoped that Reynolds would be different. He'd heard a variation of it every single time he and any MACO or Starfleet crewmen were alone. Except Sergeant Cole. She just gave him the hairy eyeball, like he'd done something wrong or pissed her off somehow though he had no idea what or how. Women, he grumbled to himself.

"Yeah," Trip replied as he studied the welding job with the hand-held scanner; it seemed pretty solid. "She's one of my best friends." He rattled off the answer by rote, wishing all along that he didn't need to lie. To be perfectly honest, he didn't want to hide their relationship, didn't want to conceal that they were pretty much married. Who cared if they were a couple any damned way?

The scorched features of Ensign Masaro leaped into his memory, answering that question like it always did. Terra Prime. Those xenophobic terrorists were a chapter of his life he wished he could close permanently. Just thinking of them reminded him of little Lizzie...

"Hmph," Reynolds said as Trip began gathering the tools into the tool bag. Tucker glanced up at him, hiding his concern behind a practiced expression of disinterest - his own personal Vulcan mask: that had sounded entirely too knowing.

"What?" he asked with no hint of the annoyance he was feeling. The MACO had the decency to look embarrassed when he responded.

"Just that ashayam is quite a bit different from t'hai'la." Reynolds hesitated, took in Tucker's blank yet shocked expression. "Sir."

"You speak Vulcan." It wasn't a question; the accent had been perfect, better than Trip's.

"Not according to my MACO records, sir." Reynolds gave him a tight smile; at least Trip understood the Professor nickname now. "Your secret's safe, Commander. We Florida boys have to stick together."

"I thought you went to OU," Tucker muttered; his brain was straining to find a believable excuse for why T'Pol would call him 'beloved' in her native tongue. Pretty much everything that was springing to mind was ... well ... stupid.

"Born in Ocala, sir. Grew up in Gainesville; we moved to Oklahoma when I was twelve." Trip still had nothing. Stall! his brain told him.You can make something up! Maybe he did have a concussion; that would explain why he felt like he was thinking through mud.

"Really? I'm from Quincy. Loved goin' down to the Swamp to watch the Gators-"

He broke off in mid-sentence as a wave of agony washed through him. It felt like someone had hammered a spike of molten fire into his abdomen and then, just for spite, wiggled it around a bit. His every breath was torture, as if he were inhaling fire itself. Searing lava churned in his stomach, burning its way to his groin and back again. Acid seared through his veins, through his kidneys, through his intestines.

And just like that, the pain was gone.

Gasping with remembered shock, Trip found himself face down in the dirt, with Reynolds gripping his shoulder and calling his name. He drew in a ragged breath that sounded more like a gasp. What the hell was that?

"I'm okay," he muttered as he - unsteadily - climbed back to his feet with Reynolds' help. Understanding dawned almost instantly, framed by a lightning quick anger. "I'm okay," Trip repeated, his face reflecting a myriad of emotions all at the same time: anger, concern, fear, shock. He shoved the tool bag into Reynold's hands and fixed the MACO with an unblinking look. "Stay here," he commanded, the tone of his voice brooking no dissent. Reynolds reacted instinctively and very nearly snapped to attention, years of MACO discipline recognizing the absolute authority in the voice.

Breathing deeply and slowly, Trip lessened his presence in the bond, a skill that T'Pol had taken great pains to teach him out of concern that his more volatile emotions would upset her often delicate balance; he had taken to it like a fish to water, once again amazing his Vulcan mate. It had served him well in the past when he tried to spring surprises on her, like the shore leave he finagled out of the captain on Risa for the two of them a couple of months ago or the pajamas he picked up for her most recent birthday - although that really had been more for him than for her and he'd been right: she did look good in Triaxian silk; this time, it allowed him to step inside the shuttle before she could sense him.

At a glance - and that was all she gave him - Trip could tell something was wrong. Still seated in the pilot's chair, T'Pol was hunched over, her normally stiff posture abandoned as she leaned forward over the console. The moment his boots touched the pod's deck, she straightened, once more an image of perfect poise.

He didn't buy it for a minute.

Kneeling down by the medkit, Tucker extracted a specific hypospray and slid it up his sleeve before standing and walking in her direction. It was an effort but he kept himself under control, maintained the distance between him and the emotions swirling in his gut. He'd learned a lot of things from her.

"Are the repairs complete?" she asked without glancing back as Trip strode up to stand behind her.

"Mostly," Trip replied, eying her handiwork on the comm system. Frankly, he wasn't impressed; as far as he could tell, she hadn't accomplished a damned thing. Probably meditatin' to control the pain, he thought angrily to himself.

"I have been unable to restore communications," she informed him, icily precise. Her formality only served to worry him more; with her sense of smell and hearing, T'Pol had to know they were the only ones on the pod. The only conscious ones anyway.

"Don't worry about it," Trip said flatly. He saw her register his tone and tense ever so slightly. "You lied to me, darlin'," he said softly as he leaned over her shoulder, his mouth mere centimeters from her ear. She turned to face him, their noses nearly touching, and raised her perfect eyebrow.

"How have I deceived you?" She sounded entirely too innocent and he frowned, his eyes narrowing.

"You said you were fine. Aside from the broken ribs and your leg." Anger was starting to leak into his voice.

"Iam fine." Now, T'Pol was frowning.

"Then why the hell does my stomach hurt?" Trip almost snapped, his unblinking gaze boring into her. She blinked, her eyes darting away almost furtively; he'd seen that only once before, the morning after they had sex for the first time when she had lied about what it meant to her. Now, many years later, he knew her well enough to read what she was trying to keep concealed from him: T'Pol was uncomfortable - she had been caught in a lie and knew it. "It's not my pain I'm feelin', is it?" he asked, and she swallowed, a visible indication of her state of mind.

"A minor injury. It's nothing for you to be concerned about." Once more, the anger swelled; how could a woman this brilliant be so ... so mind-numbingly stupid at times?

"Bullshit." She blinked at his language; Trip was rarely that vulgar around her, knowing that she didn't appreciate it. Especially after that conversation she had with his mom. "If I can feel it, then it sure as hell isn't minor!" With a guilty look in her eyes, she glanced away and, the moment her eyes broke contact, he acted, letting the hypo slide into his palm so he could press it against her exposed neck. Almost instantly, her head snapped around, eyes narrowed in something reasonably close to fury. "It's a painkiller, T'Pol."

"It was unnecessary, Commander," she nearly spat. Trip didn't blink, didn't look away as he replied.

"Then why do I feel better?" he asked, sounding vindicated. "Why do you feel better?" She looked away again, a light green flush spreading across her neck. He frowned again; she never blushed. It must be worse than he thought. "T'Pol, you're injured. You need to rest so I'm relievin' you of command." As he spoke, he dropped his hand on her shoulder like she had done to him so many times before.

"You do not have that authority, Mister Tucker," she returned as she stood. This close to her, he could see the effort it took her and that decided it for him; she was going to fight him the entire way, refuse to accept real medical attention and struggle on despite her obvious pain. Like a good trooper. Like a good Vulcan.

Like hell.

"You are my mate," Trip said firmly, emphasizing the Vulcan term; he was surprised to realize that they had slipped into her native tongue and he hadn't even realized it. "And I love you more than anything." She gave him a surprised look, not at the depth of his regard for her – she already knew that – but that he would say so out loud in the presence of other Starfleet or MACO personnel. Even unconscious ones. Her eyes darted away, looking to find Sergeant Reynolds and Trip smiled as he inched his hand closer to his target. "But I won't let you die, darlin'." He squeezed the bundle of nerves.

Too late, T'Pol understood what he had done; her gaze snapped to his and he felt her surprised outrage through the suddenly active bond in that moment of realization. Her expression had a clear meaning: I can't believe you just did that! Without a sound, though, her eyes rolled back and she slumped forward into his arms, completely oblivious to the world. Trip blinked as he held onto her.

"Well, I'll be damned," he muttered. "It worked!"