Disclaimer: Oh gee, don�t I wish.
Spoilers: Mostly from �The Xindi� and last season�s �The Expanse,� but brief references also made to �Breaking the Ice� and �Cogenitor.�
Author�s Note: Special thanks to Tami for being such an awesome and positive beta. You�ve been an inspiration!
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*This was a waste of time.*
Sub-commander T�Pol lit her meditation candle carefully. A waste of time. Not more than a minute had passed since Commander Tucker had left her quarters, where she had attempted to quell his insomnia in an age-old Vulcan practice of neuropressure. As she had suspected, he hardly had the patience nor the tact to sit through the first posture.
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Doctor Phlox had asked her�no, ordered�.ordered her�to help the Commander. An intimate practice for an intimate loss, Phlox rationalized. His sister was dead. *Her and seven million others,* T�Pol rationalized on her own. *Why is Commander Tucker any different?*
He was close to his sister.
*And the difficulty is to be expected. No loss is easy, even for a Vulcan,* she argued in her head.
Phlox seemed to be pleading with her for help. Why? Why did it matter so much that *she* be the one to ease the Commander�s grief? He certainly could not expect her to empathize with him, offer him support. Why could the doctor not see this? There was no doubt in T�Pol�s mind that her technique would work. The endorphins produced by stimulating the correct nerve served to ultimately allow the body to enter into a deep state of relaxation, thereby inducing the REM cycle. Neuropressure was a common Vulcan practice; there was no reason why it would not work on a human, as their physiologies were similar. Yes, the doctor�s logic was sound. Her reasons for not wanting to perform the procedure were not.
�Vulcan neuropressure can be very intimate,� she attempted to explain. A certain level of trust was necessary to perform such an act, and she certainly did not trust Commander Tucker. How could she explain this to the doctor?
Nearly two years ago, when T�Pol began her service aboard Enterprise with Jonathan Archer, Commander Tucker intercepted an encrypted piece of mail to the Vulcan sub-commander. A private message. Rather than minding his own business, Tucker became suspicious and requested to Archer that the message be translated. His paranoia turned to shameful embarrassment when he discovered the message was from T�Pol�s potential mate, Koss, asking that T�Pol return to Vulcan, or he would break off their betrothal. The very memory of the incident caused T�Pol to grow uncharacteristically tense. Naturally such a private message would be encrypted. And Tucker had no business reading her letters. No, there was no reason for her to trust him at all.
Worse, several months ago, Commander Tucker had once again proved his impulsiveness with the Vissian cogenitor. His desire to imprint human ethics onto a member of an alien species resulted in the suicide death of the cogenitor, despite warnings from both sides to stay out of it. The death of the cogenitor rippled into the life of a child that would never be born, and the first contact of a species who would probably never trust humans again.
T�Pol did not mention this to Phlox. It would hardly factor into the equation of necessity that the Commander receive these treatments. Yet when trust was required to perform such an intimate act, she could not think of anyone she trusted less than Commander Tucker.
Yet as she stared long and hard at the Denobulan doctor, she noted her reflection in his abnormally large and expressive eyes. A feeling of deja-vu washed over her; it was quickly repressed.
She had been standing in sickbay in that very spot nearly six weeks ago. Talking with Doctor Phlox about issues of trust and loyalty towards another human male, one whom she happened to respect and trust very much. Jonathan Archer. When confronted with a choice - go against the wishes of the High Command and resign commission, or conform, and with conformity give up all that she had worked so hard to establish with these humans over two years - she had made perhaps the first illogical decision in her entire life. Phlox�s words of that day reverberated inside her brain; she would never forget them.
/�It's interesting. You and I are the only aliens on board this vessel. To go or to stay. For me, it was a simple question of loyalty toward the Captain, and the sad realization that he'll need me more than ever on such a crucial mission. But for you, it's a more difficult decision. Does your allegiance lie with the High Command, or with Captain Archer?�/
Archer. Her loyalty was with Captain Archer. *Jonathan Archer,* she thought to herself, and a strange sensation coursed through her as she realized she meant it with every fiber of her being. No longer part of the Vulcan High Command. A piece of her was now gone, replaced by something new, unforeseen, and curious.
T�Pol�s thoughts snapped back to the present, where Phlox was standing there, smiling at her kindly. *He wants me to do this for the Captain,* she realized. *Captain Archer needs his Chief Engineer, and his Chief Engineer needs my help.*
Reluctance and obligation waged a private war across her delicate features. She still did not understand why the doctor could not register sleeping pills to Commander Tucker to help him sleep; surely they would be just as effective, and less time consuming as well. But T�Pol steeled her resolve. This was a test of her loyalty to Captain Archer. She had dedicated her life to this irrational human without realizing it as soon as she set foot behind her science console on Enterprise�s bridge, their fates forever entwined. She had only admitted to it when she had given up her commission with the High Command. Either way, she was his.
Phlox watched as the sub-commander left sickbay and an impish, Cheshire-cat grin spread wide across his face. No words were necessary. T�Pol had given him her word that she would help Commander Tucker, but it was the volumes spoken in her hesitation that were best left to interpretation. And Phlox was one hell of an analyst. If there was anyone aboard that T�Pol would barter her soul for, it was Jonathan Archer.
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The meditation candle flickered as the intensity of her thoughts ate away at her control. Perhaps it was being inside the Expanse. She had seen the transmission, had witnessed how the bizarre abnormalities of this hostile region had transformed logical, concise Vulcan officers into unrestrained beasts of barbarianism. It disturbed her. If the Expanse could do such a thing to a Vulcan, the personification of control, what would it do to these humans? What would it do to her?
Emotion, raw and unfiltered, began to wash over her. She could not stop it.
Fear. What had she gotten herself into? The High Command was right, the Delphic Expanse was no place for her�for anyone�and certainly not for the untrained minds of the Enterprise crew. They had no right to be here. Though immune to the effects of most emotions, T�Pol knew she could not bear to watch those around her being slowly driven insane before she succumbed to it herself.
Her hands clenched as she fought to repress these alien feelings. Her candle was dancing wildly upon the wick, threatening to spill over the wax that was boiling up underneath.
Anger and self-loathing. If she had not decided against her better judgment to remain on Enterprise, she would not be sitting here now, attempting to do something that came as easily to her as breathing under normal circumstances. She would not be forced to give Commander Tucker neuropressure treatments when she clearly did not want to. She would not owe anyone anything�
Disgust. The way Tucker�s hands had felt on her back, so cold and calloused and�needy. Vulcans never liked to be touched. It was a violation of personal space. Her face had remained a mask of impassiveness during the procedure; it had to, if she were to do her part in convincing the Commander that the treatment was as simple as it was necessary. Necessary to Captain Archer, necessary to this mission�
Panic. What if the Captain had seen her there, sitting half-naked in her quarters, with Tucker�s hands exploring her vertebrae so casually? Such an intimate gesture, reduced to such a mundane experience? What would Jonathan have thought of his �esteemed� science officer then?
T�Pol gritted her teeth, trying desperately to rein in her control. Find the constant. The first step to control is establishing that which never wavers. Her room was spinning wildly around her. No control, none, whatsoever�her fingers longed only to seek out the softest place to break her fall�
�T�Pol to sickb---� she wheezed airily as her head made contact with the floor.
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