Trip

Trip looks around his living room and smiles to himself. Two weeks have passed since he arrived home and there is evidence of T'Pol all over his house. Her toiletries share the cabinets and shelves in his bathroom, her clothes occupy half the closet, there is a low table with a candle and meditation cushion in front of the living room windows, a copy of 'The Teachings of Surak', in Vulcan, lies on the coffee table, a selection of Vulcan fruits and vegetables are stored next to the Earth food in the status unit, canisters of her favourite teas sit on the bench top, her Vulcan robes hang on the coat hook next to the door. She has a side of the bed and a regular seat at the dining table where she always sits. Her presence here feels permanent and he is not surprised to find that he feels okay about that.

He looks at the time, it's eight a.m. and she is still asleep. He frowns slightly, as he understands it, she needs less sleep than humans but she seems to be waking later and later each day. Yesterday he had to wake her to get to work on time, she missed her meditation and was edgy all day. He makes her some mint tea, carries it through to the bedroom, sits down on the edge of the bed and kisses her awake.

"Hey sleepy head, it's already oh-eight-hundred. You need to get up now if you want to meditate before going to the Embassy."

She looks up at him with the bleary confusion of someone woken abruptly.

He smiles down at her and tenderly pushes her tussled hair off her face. "I'll go get you some breakfast."

He's in the kitchen heating plomeek broth when she emerges. He notices she's put his Starfleet sweatshirt on over her pyjamas. He's pretty sure he's lost that shirt forever - he's okay with that too.

She sips the broth and wrinkles her nose at the taste but tells him it's fine when he asks. He looks at her closely. There's something about her that's not quite right. She looks sallow and has shadows around her eyes. He feels a twinge of anxiety. He's wonders again if there's something wrong with her but she would never admit to weakness. She only finishes half the broth.

He showers and packs an overnight bag while she meditates. He's heading down to see his parents while she has meetings at the Embassy this weekend. At oh nine thirty he kisses her goodbye and heads for the shuttle terminal. He still can't shake the feeling there's something wrong with her.

He'd like to say he enjoys the weekend with his family but he can't. He doesn't hate it. His parents act much the same, fishing for stories that demonstrate his greatness, asking about friends he's brought home in the past. He and his brother talk sport and work and women like they always did. But he feels like they are all playing a part. Even his sister-in-law and nephews seem awkward. It's as though they are trying too hard to be the people they used to be, before losing Lizzy, but they all seem like clever counterfeits of themselves. It makes him feel sad.

He watches the News and is disturbed by an article about anti-alien marches, a reporter stands in front of the Vulcan Compound and reports that record numbers of Vulcans in the private sector are relocating to Vulcan missions or heading back to Vulcan. His father snorts at the short sightedness of people. Trip thinks about Natalie's parting comments and wonders how common these kinds of sentiments are. He worries about T'Pol walking to the Embassy, he should have left her the ground car.

The president comes on and speaks of ground breaking negotiations for technology exchanges with the Vulcans. Trip's ears perk up. He feels a surge of anticipation at the thought of getting his hands on new tech. It will also require him and T'Pol to work together a lot more and he can't hate that idea.

He wants to call her, just to hear her voice, but worries she will feel crowded. It's a blind path he's trying to navigate. Even she doesn't know how to date a Vulcan. He walks out onto the porch and opens his communicator and pulls up her contact. Then closes it before hitting the call button. He stands there feeling like he's fifteen again, trying to work up the courage to call Sophie Mills and ask her on a date. He chickened out then as well he muses. With that thought he decides he's going to do it and opens up the unit just as it chimes. It's her, she tells him that she misses him. His heart contracts, this is definitely love.

He stands on the porch and looks out into the Mississippi night while they talk about nothing in particular.

He asks how the debriefings went. She responds with that Vulcan catchall of non-information, "Fine."

He can't help himself, he feels so happy that his tongue runs away with him. "Is that 'fine': it was awful and I don't want to talk about it, fine; or 'fine': it just was and there's nothing special to report, fine." He asks.

"The latter." He fancies he can hear the raised eyebrow in her voice.

She asks how things are with his family and he doesn't even register his use of 'fine' as a response until she parrots his words back at him.

He finds himself responding honestly that it's neither. There's a moment of silence as she considers his response. "It took many years for my mother and I to renegotiate the terms of our relationship after the death of my father." She tells him.

His eyes narrow. "I thought you didn't get along with your mother?"

"I don't." She replies honestly. "But our relationship was complex before my father died. His death simply meant we had to find a new level of complexity." She says all this with total deadpan he can't work out if she is teasing him or not.

They sign off the call, looking forward to seeing each other tomorrow. He almost tells her that he loves her, but stops himself at the last minute.

He turns from his contemplation of the night sky to find his parents, sibling and sister-in-law watching him unashamedly through the living room windows.

He walks into the room to face down four grinning adults. "Amusement must be pretty thin on the ground in Mississippi if watching a person take a phone call is so entertaining." He chides them affectionately.

His mother stands up and collects some empty mugs off the coffee table. "Work call, hon?" She asks impassively with a raised eyebrow she could have taken straight of the face of a Vulcan.

"Just a friend." He answers noncommittally.

"A pretty friend?" His brother asks meaningfully.

"A real pretty friend I'd wager, Paul." His father chips in emphasising the 'real'.

"Just hush, all of you" his sister-in-law smacks Paul on the arm as she says it. "It's been years since Trip brought a girl home. We'll never get to meet her if we scare him away now."

Trip just sits there and accepts their playful ribbing, with a smile as wide as the Mississippi, and a faint blush on his cheeks. He's in love, and this is the most natural exchange he's had with his family all day.

It's already dark when he arrives in San Francisco the next day. It seems like winter has made its last gasp and it's cold and raining. When he gets home he finds that T'Pol has started the fire, and the room is warm. She hasn't turned on the lights but has lit candles and distributed them around the room like she does in her quarters on Enterprise, the familiar scent wafts over him reminding him of their neuro-pressure sessions in the expanse. He likes it that she feels comfortable enough here to stamp her mark on the place. He abandons his overnight bag on the floor and drops onto the sofa next to her. He toes off his shoes and puts his feet up on the coffee table. She puts down her book and shifts over to rest in the circle of his arm. They sit there quietly, watching the fire, taking a moment just to be together and breathe.

T'Pol

She feels the heavier artificial gravity of the compound as soon as she is led into the waiting room. She has spent three years on the Earth ship, practically floating in the lighter gravity, and she has always acknowledged the resulting heavier feel of returning for meetings and debriefings. But this is the first time it has felt as though her bones are being dragged into the ground when she has reported to the Vulcan Embassy.

She tries to shake off the cloud of fatigue that seems to have surrounded her in the last week. She suppresses the worry that it indicates a relapse of her Pa'nar syndrome. The Doctor has been amazingly effective at keeping her in remission for the past year and a half but since getting back to Earth she has noticed a number of symptoms that would seem to be most logically explained by her illness. She resolves to contact Phlox and arrange a consultation with him. She reasons it is unlikely to be in the next week. Starfleet debriefings begin on Monday. There will be little time for anything else.

She is not looking forward to any of these debriefings, her dragging fatigue will only make it harder to keep her already difficult emotions suppressed. She has a feeling the Vulcan Embassy staff, in particular, will show her no quarter. She practices some low level meditational breathing while she waits. The more centred she is when the meeting begins the easier it will be.

As it turns out the meeting is relatively benign. The Vulcans are particularly interested in the events on the Seleya but she is in no position to elaborate greatly on this episode, her own logic being so degraded during the boarding that all her memories are clouded with rage and fear. She does not shy away from the task of conveying this information to the collected officials despite the tendency of Vulcans to hold in disdain any sign of emotional weakness. She wants to emphasise the great danger to Vulcans in this compound.

Her analysis of the spheres is also a source of great interest. The data brought back by the Enterprise has largely been made available to the Vulcans. Most of it was her work in the first place, but she provides what further insights she can.

The questions about the emotional stability of the Captain are a cause of some concern to her. She does not want to be disloyal to the Captain but there were moments that she had questioned the logic of his decisions. Particularly in the final stages of the mission where he had twice chosen to put himself forward for missions with a high probability of failure. She also has to acknowledge to herself that her own logic had been compromised at this time so her ability to dissuaded him from an irrational path had been limited. She is reluctant to provide too much information to the High Command it would not surprise her if they are still in doubt about his capabilities after three years.

Despite the relative ease of the discussion she is exhausted by the end of the day and is looking forward to the inviting warmth of Trip's apartment and sinking into the sheets that still smell of him. Instead she is pressed to join the officials for dinner. She is not entirely reluctant she realises, relishing the thought of traditional Vulcan food, prepared by an expert, with authentic ingredients. The meal, strangely, is the low point of her day. The food tastes tainted and metallic, her apatite abandons her as soon as it is put in front of her and it is only through the fiercest of Vulcan discipline that she is able to eat enough to demonstrate good manners.

When she finally arrives home she only has two thoughts on her mind, sleep and Trip. She takes out her communicator and questions whether it is appropriate to call him. She feels the need to reassure him that her affection for him is genuine and she has passed the period of confusion that caused her to push him away so frequently. She admits that she is dissembling, her desire to contact him is for her own satisfaction, she has become accustomed to his presence in the evenings, when they can come together and discuss their day, even if their work has brought them together. She realises that she misses him and experiences a strange certainty that he would be pleased to hear her say it. She places the call and is rewarded with his obvious pleasure at hearing her voice and sentiments.

After terminating the call she eyes the meditation cushions in front of the windows and considers foregoing her usual nighttime session. Her mind is made up when she drifts of to sleep while contemplating the pros and cons and she drags herself, without reluctance, to the bathroom to prepare for sleep. She performs her pre-sleep rituals but as she departs for the bedroom some unknown motivation prompts her to snag one of Trip's worn T-shirts out of the laundry hamper. She dons the shirt and slides into bed wrapped in his scent but missing his presence. She falls into a deep sleep in moments.

It is almost morning before the dream comes. She has dreamed before of course, disturbing emotional visages, mostly the product of chemical alteration to her neural functioning, once as an experiment with reduced Vulcan discipline. Those dreams of the past, if they had not been disturbing, had been down right terrifying. This is different. It has the strange surrealism that humans often report when recounting their sleep induced visions.

Her first awareness of the dream is standing on Enterprise. Later when she looks back and analyses the dream she realises that there is not one detail in the space she is standing that would indicate it was a ship of any kind, but she knows with curious dream certainty that, despite evidence to the contrary, it is Enterprise she is on.

She soon realises that she is not even standing, the grav-plating must have failed so she floats freely in this distorted Enterprise dream space and listens to the pulse of the warp engines. Then she is filled the absolute conviction that there is no warp engine on this Enterprise. Rather the entire ship is alive, a giant organism and the thrumming tattoo she mistook for an engine is its heart beating inside its massive body and she is calmed by the shushing flow of blood through its veins. She feels safe, as though she is home.

She awakens to the strange knowledge that for the first time in a week that she has spontaneously awoken at the designated hour without the intervention of an alarm clock or Trip. She shakes off the strange, unidentifiable emotions the dream has prompted in her and rises to perform a thorough meditation session before returning to the Vulcan Embassy for more debriefing.

The ensuing day proceeds much as the one before. She is pressed for details and analysis of the multitude of encounters and decisions that were made in the expanse. There is constant probing about the Captain, his state of mind, his logic, his emotions. She walks a fine line between disclosure and loyalty. After some time she becomes aware of their suspicions about her relationship with the Captain. Before her damaged synapses can suppress them, she feels flashes of both: amusement at their lack of insight, and insult at the implications. She is asked to define her relationship with the Captain and realises there are not words in her native tongue that adequately capture the affection she feels for him. Ironically it would be easier to define her relationship to Trip, at least there is an equivalent in Vulcan culture and correspondingly in the language.

She realises that it not just Archer to whom she feels attached, but many of the crew members she interacts with on a daily basis. She feels a connection to them that is emotional in its structure. They are her friends, she decides, and feels a sense of satisfaction from the multitude and complexity of the bonds that tie her to this group of humans.

They never ask about Trip. There seems to be an illogical agreement amongst the collected Vulcans to ignore the reports of the alternate Enterprise with its human/Vulcan hybrid Captain. As if, like a small child with no object permanence, provided they do not look directly at the event, it does not exist. There is certainly no logic for her to raise the topic herself, her fragile emotional control is unlikely to be up to being probed about her relationship with the Commander. It is safer to let them assume she feels some small level of unrequited attraction to the Captain than let them know she is completely in the thrall of the Chief Engineer.

By the end of the day the fatigue is drawing against her again. The constant energy requirement to suppress her emotions and the dragging pull of the increased gravity have left her drained and shaking. She stands in front of the the collected officials, her hands clamped behind her back to hide the quiver in her hands, and expresses the appropriate farewells. But it is her direction towards the compound exit that draws Soval's attention.

"You are not staying at the Vulcan Compound, Sub Commander?" Soval is the consummate diplomat. He does not allow the current reputation of a former officer to influence his observance of protocol.

T'Pol schools her features to the best of her compromised abilities. "There was not space in the public section of the Compound when I returned from the Delphic Expanse. I made other accommodation arrangements."

Soval's eyebrow raises. He can be a difficult Vulcan to read when he chooses, even for other Vulcan's, a lifetime as a diplomat has taught him to show nothing in his face. "I am sure suitable arrangements can be made. I will have a room available for you tomorrow."

She can't help but observe the irony. Two weeks ago, when she wanted a place here, she would have felt satisfaction at the offer, particularly knowing that it would have put the talentless desk clerk in his place. Now an offer has been made, she has no desire to stay at the compound. Aside from her contentment at being close to Trip, there is a level of comfort in his home with its private living room and outdoor space, and larger bedroom than she would not get at the compound. It is logical for her to prefer to stay there.

She is not certain how a reluctance to return to the compound would be interpreted by the other Vulcans. Given their obvious suspicions about her connection to the Captain, she is fairly certain they would probe further into her accommodation arrangements. While their enquiries would expose no impropriety in her relationship with Captain Archer, it would almost certainly reveal the depth her relationship with Trip.

She realises she does not have a logical reason to refuse, that would not result in further interrogation. "That would be agreeable." She concedes, adequately concealing her disinclination. "I will check in tomorrow after my duty shift."

She returns to the apartment exhausted and discouraged. She wonders how it is she has become so uncomfortable amongst her own people. She knows she should eat, but her appetite has continued to elude her so she settles in for meditation prior to Trip returning from his parents.

By the time her meditation is complete the sun has set and the temperature has dropped significantly. She eyes the gas fire set in the wall and questions the logic of combustion as a means to heat a room. In the end the logic of physical comfort overrides the illogic of the heating method and she ignites the unit. It warms the small room far quicker than she anticipated and provides a soft glow to the room which she finds soothing. She tamps down on the disquiet this produces. She is Vulcan, she should not need to be soothed.

She sits for a while staring at the flame and contemplating her identity in light of what she has done to herself. Ultimately, she decides, it is logical to accept these new emotions as there is no way to suppress them. She distributes a number of candles around the room and, in the soft scented light, reads Surak in the desperate search for wisdom that can allow her to reconcile her Vulcan identity with her now unstoppable emotions.

When Trip gets home she does not bother to pretend indifference to his arrival. As soon as he sits down next to her, she moves into his arms. The maelstrom of emotions she has battled for the past two days fade away and, for a moment, she basks in the peace his presence grants her. It would be agreeable to remain here with him until Enterprise redeploys but she recognises the logic of keeping their relationship private. She informs him of Soval's offer and her decision to accept it. She feels him stiffen in reaction immediately.

"You'd rather be at the Vulcan compound than here, with me." He looks down at her a hint of hurt in his eyes. He still doubts the sincerity of her feelings for him. Given how confusing her actions have been towards him in the past it is not surprising.

She strokes the side of his face. "No, I would much prefer to stay here with you. But if I were to refuse the Ambassador's offer it would raise questions that would be likely expose our relationship. The effect on both our careers would be detrimental."

He puts his tongue in his cheek and regards her for a moment. "It's going to have to come out eventually. I'm prepared to take something Earthside if it means we can stay together."

She feels a surge of satisfaction at his words. Surely he would not be willing to alter his career trajectory if he did not feel some commitment to her. "In the future, I believe that will be the logical progression for both of us. At the moment, however, I do not even have a formal commission from Starfleet. It is likely they will require my commitment to Enterprise for a significant period before I can request a transfer."

He nods at the the truth in her statement. Then pulls her closer and kisses her forehead. "Still, I'd rather have you here with me."

"It would be agreeable to me also. But the long term stability of our relationship relies on our discretion at this juncture."

The smile he gives her makes her chest tighten. "I like the fact that you're thinking about us as long term."

She crawls into his lap, straddles his hips and looks down into his eyes. She does not feel the need to say anything further but begins to run her fingers over the plains of his face. He looks up at her with a soft smile on his face and settles his hands on her hips under the hem of the oversized starfleet sweatshirt she has requisitioned, stroking his thumbs over her iliac crests.

Later, she regrets her silence, her assumption that he understood that for Vulcans there is only long term, that long term means life. Later, she knows, that for humans, love can not be implied. It is the one emotion that must be spoken. But here and now, she believes he understands and thinks that she does. Later, she recognises the irony that for Vulcans, sex, outside of Pon Farr, is an exclusively emotional act, perhaps the only emotional act for her species; whereas for humans it is more complicated, it can be an act of supreme love but also one of supreme indifference and, as such, they don't rely on it as an indication of affection. Later, she realises that for all the times they misunderstood what the other was saying, their greatest act of miscommunication was when they said nothing at all.

But for now, in this moment they are perfect together. Together they kiss, together they touch, together they move, together they breathe.

XXX