*  *  *

Someone was in terrible pain.  It was distracting, and he needed to concentrate.  The blackness had dissipated, and now there was a very faint light far away.  It was as if he were looking through a gauzy veil.  And now, there were sounds. 

He tried to raise his head, but something was pressing him down into the depths.  He managed to turn his head, and saw an expanse of brilliant white laying before him.  The sounds became clearer, and he was able to recognize them. Voices.  Human voices.  It was hard to make out what they were saying, because whoever was in pain was insisting on being noticed.  He managed to turn his head, and the unknown sufferer protested mightily at this. 

There appeared to be two forms bending over him.  He could not see their faces, because they were so far away, and any attempt to focus made the pain only worse.  He realized, dimly, that it was he who was hurting, and with this realization came some remembrance.  He was Charles “Trip” Tucker and he had been sick.  He guessed that he was still sick.  The far-away voices became clearer, and now he could understand what they were saying.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Captain so upset.”  Trip puzzled over who was speaking; the voice was familiar to him – maddeningly so – but recognition was just out of reach.  “I asked him a simple question and he bit my head off.  All I wanted to know is if we should take Porthos back with us.”

“Do you blame him?”  Another speaker, another voice.  Lighter, softer, gentler.  A woman’s voice.  Also familiar.

A heavy sigh.  “I guess not.”  Now he knew.  Travis.  Travis from Enterprise.  What was Travis doing in this white expanse of pain?

“I mean, wouldn’t you be upset?”  It was Hoshi.  Sweet little Hoshi, so like little Elizabeth.  Was she struggling with the pressure and the pain, too?  He couldn’t allow that.  He exerted himself, trying to escape. 

Hoshi was speaking again.  She didn’t sound as if she were in pain, he thought with dim surprise.  She must be tougher than he thought.  “If you saw someone you loved suffering so much?”

He wondered what she was talking about.  So, apparently, did Travis.  “’Loved’?” he repeated.  “You mean all the rumors are true?”

Rumors? Trip asked himself.  What rumors?  But before he found an answer, the whiteness grew until it was blinding, and mercifully, he knew no more.

*  *  *

Hoshi looked over at Mayweather.  “I said loved, not in love.”

“There’s a difference?”

“You’re asking a linguist?  Tell me, Travis – do you love your brother, or are you in love with him?”

Mayweather grinned.  “Okay.  I get it.”

“Besides,” Hoshi added meditatively, “I don’t think that either the Captain or Commander Tucker is that way inclined.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Mind you,” she said, “if they were, then I wouldn’t be surprised if they did get together.  They’re – connected.”

“That’s true,” Mayweather said, after a moment’s thought.  “I guess that’s why there are rumors.”

“You,” said Hoshi severely, “have a one-track mind.”  She looked at her friend mischievously.  “You know, anyone listening might think you’re jealous.”

Mayweather grinned again.  “They’re both good looking guys, but neither are my type.  And besides – regulations.”

Hoshi nodded.  There may not be any regulations against romance, but only as long as there was no more than two degrees of rank – at the very most - separating the participants.  

The faint sound of an approaching engine could be heard.  “That’s the shuttle.  I’ll bet the doc will have a lot of supplies.  I’d better go help the Captain,” said Mayweather.  “Will you be okay?”

Hoshi nodded.  “I’ll stay with him.”  Mayweather stood, and began to leave, but stopped when she called to him.  “Travis?  A word of advice.”  He raised his eyebrows.  “Don’t ask the Captain any more questions.”

He grinned ruefully.  “Gotcha.”

*  *  *

Hoshi sighed, and looked down.  Commander Tucker was unconscious again.  He had been drifting in and out, but was now more often “out” than “in”.  She was glad Dr. Phlox was on his way.  The Commander moaned quietly, and shifted underneath the blankets.  His head turned, and his blond hair tumbled across his forehead, making him look absurdly young. 

Tentatively, she reached down, smoothed the errant hair back.  His forehead was so hot!  He was burning up.  Hoshi knew why the Captain was so upset; he was afraid.  She shared his fear, the fear that this virus might actually kill the young Commander.

Trip’s handsome face was almost as white as the pillow beneath him, and the dark circles under his closed eyes only served to emphasize how frail he had become.  It hurt her to see him like this, and she wished she could do something for him other than brush his hair back.

He was always so kind and patient with her.  That kindness had been evident from the very first.  She remembered how, just several days from launch, while they were returning from Q’uonos, Trip had invited her down to Engineering for what he called “the Grand Tour”.

She had been unsure, and had wondered if this was his version of “showing her his etchings”.  Initially, she was going to refuse, but at the last minute decided to accept his invitation.  She figured that if worse came to worse, she’d scream and run.  And, after all, he was very attractive.

But the scream and run strategy had not been necessary.  She had to admit that some small part of her had been disappointed.  Because he was, after all, very attractive.

He had shown her around Engineering, and explained the warp drive and its workings in great detail, but also in terms she could understand easily.  He had answered all of her questions patiently, and if he thought some of them absurd, he kept those opinions to himself. 

They had then ended the tour standing a few feet away from the warp core, where unimaginable energies, powerful enough to render Enterprise down to her component atoms if mishandled, collided, creating the forces that powered the proud new ship through space.

“Tell me,” she had asked lightly, “does everyone get the ‘Grand Tour’?”

“No,” he had answered while watching the antimatter stream as it flowed into the dilithium chamber.

“Then why me?”

He had looked at her then.  “Because,” he had said in that soft, Southern drawl, “I could see that the engines scared you.  The unknown’s always scary.  I figured that if you understood how they worked, you wouldn’t have to be afraid anymore.”

She had stared.  She had pegged him as a typical macho engineer, but obviously, she had been very, very wrong.  This sort of thoughtfulness and sensitivity was anything but.

Everything that had happened since that time had only confirmed this; he was the quintessential southern gentleman – always patient, always kind, always helpful.  And that innate helpfulness had been rewarded by his being stricken with an alien virus while working to repair a stranger’s engines.  A good Samaritan such as he deserved better.  There was no justice in the universe.

He stirred.  His head moved again, and his beautiful blue eyes opened.  “Hey,” she said to him, “there you are.”

There was no response.  There was no recognition in his eyes, and she guessed the fever was scrambling his thoughts.  Sweat gleamed on his forehead and cheeks. 

She took a wet cloth from a bowl on the bedside table.  “Look at you,” she said gently.  “You poor thing.”  She began to wipe his face, and he closed his eyes.  “Feels better, doesn’t it?”  She finished wiping his face, and then bathed his wrists and forearms.  “Poor Trip,” she said.  A slight shudder ran through him, and he was limp again.  Fainted.  She laid the cloth on his forehead.  “Poor Trip,” she said again.  “Who did this to you?”

*  *  *

Hoshi looked up as Travis and the Captain, laden with boxes, staggered into the bedroom, followed by Phlox.  The doctor hurried over to Trip’s bedside.

Hoshi stepped aside, but Phlox, intent on his patient, did not acknowledge her.  Instead, he looked at the monitors over Trip’s head.  “His temperature has increased significantly in the time since I left Enterprise to come here,” he said.  “We need to reduce it.  Immediately.”  He looked over to Mayweather.  “That box,” he said crisply, indicating, “open it, and give me the coolant blanket.  No time for a lavage,” he murmured to himself.  Then, louder:  “Captain – I require your assistance.”

Archer, his expression pained, removed Trip’s blankets, and began to do likewise with his hospital gown.  Hoshi turned away.  The Commander was entitled to his privacy.  “I’ll be in the other room if you need help,” she said.  Archer, intent on his task, merely grunted, and Phlox did not respond at all. 

Travis smiled at her, but his pleasant face was strained.  “Thanks, Hoshi.” 

She nodded.  Her last glimpse before closing the bedroom door was of Trip, surrounded by his grim-faced friends.  “Get better,” she whispered, and went to the living room to wait.

*  *  *

“Ready?” Phlox asked.  Archer and Mayweather nodded.  Quickly, they lifted the unconscious man up.  Phlox spread the cooling blanket over the bed, and Trip was laid back down upon it.  Phlox then wrapped it around him, until he was cocooned in its frigid embrace.  “Now, we wait.”

And wait they did.  Archer paced back and forth like a caged animal.  Mayweather sat on the other bed, cracking his knuckles nervously until Archer silenced him with a look.  Phlox sat in the wicker chair by Trip’s bedside, intent on the medical sensors monitoring his patient.  The moments crawled by with agonizing slowness. 

Then, Trip’s head moved, very slightly.  “Ah,” said Phlox.  Trip moved his head again, and this time moaned as well.  “I think that’s done it,” the doctor continued.  “His temperature is dropping.”

Archer hurried to the bedside.  “His fever’s broken?”

“It appears so,” Phlox replied.  “I think it’s under control now, but we’ll keep him in the blanket until it returns to normal, just to be certain.”

Mayweather arose from the bed and approached the bed as well.  All three stood in silence by the sick man’s bedside, waiting.  Trip stirred, and moaned again, louder this time.  He trembled, and his eyes opened.

His was shivering, and was in obvious discomfort, but the eyes that looked up at them were clear and lucid.  He looked at the three faces bending over him and blinked.

“Hey, Trip,” Archer said gently.

“Captain,” Trip stuttered, his teeth chattering.  His gaze passed over Phlox, and came to rest on Mayweather.  The engineer stared at the helmsman for a moment, then:

“What rumors?”  Commander Tucker demanded.

*  *  *

Archer sat, his head bowed almost to his knees.  He felt a hand on his back, and looked up to see Phlox standing over him.  The doctor handed him a glass.  He took it, drank, and looked up in surprise.  “Bourbon?”

Phlox nodded, sat beside him.  “I thought you could use it.”

Archer nodded absently, stared into his drink.  “How long?” he asked quietly.  “How long can this go on?”  He looked at Phlox.  His expression was angry, but the doctor realized that the anger was not directed at him personally.  “He was getting better!  He was sitting up, starting to eat, interested in his puzzles, and then – bam!”

Phlox merely nodded.  The Captain continued.  “I’m starting to feel something I haven’t before.  Fear.  I’m afraid.  Afraid that he’s never going to get well.  And I don’t think Trip could stand life as an invalid.”

Phlox remained silent.  Archer took another drink.  “Starfleet isn’t going to allow us to keep a chronically sick man aboard Enterprise forever, you know.  And if we bring him back to Earth ... “ He sighed.  “If he does recover, then there’s no way in hell Fleet is going to let him go back out again.”  He looked at Phlox.  “I had to fight tooth and nail to get him, did you know that?  It’s true.  Fleet wasn’t too happy about sending their brightest engineering star out into deep space.  They wanted him designing new engines, not surveying planets.  It was only because Enterprise was the first warp 5 ship that I was able to get him at all.  And if we send him back to Earth, that’ll be it.  Trip will end up flying a desk.  And that’ll kill him.”  He took a deep breath.  “But should we try and keep him aboard Enterprise when there are better facilities on Earth?”  He shook his head.  “I don’t know.”  He looked over at Phlox.  “You’re awfully quiet,” he accused.

Phlox shrugged.  “Sometimes, silence is the best tool a physician can use.”

Archer sighed again.  Phlox had never seen the Captain look so defeated.  “What the hell are we going to do?”

Phlox had no answer to give him.

*  *  *

Malcolm Reed sat and waited.  Patience was a necessary attribute for a tactical officer.  He looked towards the verandah, where Subcommander T’Pol was in conference with the Captain and Phlox.  He had no idea what their discussion was about.  All he knew was that the Vulcan had come to him and stated that she had an urgent matter which she needed to discuss with the Captain immediately.  In person.  When he asked why she needed him to pilot her to the planet’s surface, she had merely replied that in her estimation, it was probable that his input would be required.  Eventually.

Until then, he would wait.

A soft sigh interrupted his thoughts.  He looked down.  Commander Tucker sighed again.  He was asleep, exhausted after his latest ordeal.  As he looked down on his friend, Reed’s stoic mask slipped.  For a brief moment, he looked wistful and melancholy.  But for only a moment.

Trip shifted on his pillow, and Reed put out a tentative hand, touched the sleeping man’s shoulder.  He allowed himself the luxury of allowing his hand to linger ever so slightly.  Then, quickly, he withdrew it.  The irony was not lost on him; the one person he longed to comfort above all others was the one whom he did not dare.

It was not that he was afraid that Trip would shun him if the engineer knew of his bisexual leanings; in fact, he was quite certain that the Commander was well aware of the fact.  Beneath his deceptively simple exterior, Trip was a man of extraordinary intelligence and sensitivity.  Not to mention tolerance.

Unfortunately, Reed was also fairly certain that Trip’s own orientation was 99% hetro.  And even if he were ever to consider sampling how the other half lived, the tactical officer knew with bitter certainty that one Malcolm Reed was not going to be the one to sway him.

He smiled sadly.  This would all be wholly acceptable except for one small fact.  He was quite hopelessly in love with Charles Tucker III.

It had certainly not been his intention for this to happen.  When he had first met the handsome, gregarious southerner, he had naturally been attracted.  But with a radar that had been finely developed through the years, he knew Trip was not going to return that attraction.  So he had put the barricades up.  That way, there would be no muss, no fuss.  Or as Trip himself would say, no harm, no foul.

But he had not counted on the force of that southern charm.  Trip, the golden boy, had wormed his way through the barriers of British reserve that Reed had erected.  Getting drunk together on Shuttlepod One had been Reed’s own personal Waterloo.  He simply could not fight any longer, and so had waved the white flag of surrender, metaphorically speaking.

He had hoped that his attraction would turn out to be similar to a school crush; something to be briefly enjoyed and quickly forgotten.  But Enterprise’s close quarters, and Trip’s own charisma had been factors he had not taken into consideration.  The more time they spent together, working on ship’s systems, watching movies, playing poker, arguing, bickering over life, the universe and everything, the more his initial attraction had deepened.  His fundamental error, he realized, had been getting to know the person behind the attractive exterior.  That was what had brought him defeat.  Not to put too fine a point on it, Trip was, in essence, as pretty on the inside as he was on the outside.

He sometimes wondered what would happen if Trip ever found out that his poker buddy was in love with him.  Not just sexually attracted to him (although Reed would happily volunteer to shag Trip silly) but in a let’s-spend-our-lives-together-in-a-white-house-with-a-picket-fence type of love?

He smiled sadly.  Ah, well, it was all right.  Because Trip was never going to know.  He’d settle for being the engineer’s poker buddy, and keep his true feelings hidden.  It was all very bloody romantic, but the bitter truth was, romance was all well and good in those old movies Trip loved so much, but living it was something he could do without quite nicely, thank you very much.

He shook his head, thankful for the umpteenth time that humans were not telepathic.  He could imagine the reactions if people knew what was going through his mind right now.

I’m just a big pile of mush, he thought, looking at Trip.  And it’s all your fault.

*  *  *

Trip sighed.  Not again, was his first thought.  He looked around, and to his surprise, saw Malcolm Reed staring somberly into space.  “Mal?” he asked weakly.

“Commander,” his friend replied.

Trip rolled his eyes.  “Will you drop this ‘Commander’ stuff?  Enough already.”

“Sorry – Trip.”

“What are you doing here?  Is the whole damn ship down here?”

“Not quite, but nearly.  Subcommander T’Pol asked me to accompany her.”

“She’s here, too?”

Reed nodded.  Trip closed his eyes.  “Wonderful,” he muttered.

“She’s talking to the Captain and Dr. Phlox,” Reed explained.  “They’ve been at it for some time now.”

Trip did not respond.  Reed looked at him, worried.  “Are you in pain?  Should I get the doctor?” 

He half rose, but Trip’s voice stopped him.  “Don’t.”  He sounded unutterably weary.

“You are in pain,” Reed said unhappily.

“So what else is new?”

Reed looked at him, hoping that Trip was joking, but there was no laughter on Trip’s face.  He looked – defeated.

“Hey,” Reed said uneasily.  “Hey.  Things are going to improve, you know.”

“Do I?”  He sighed again, looked up at Reed’s stricken face.  He tried to smile, but it was a pretty miserable effort.  “Sorry, Mal.”

“Don’t be.  You’ve been through hell.”

“That’s the problem.”  Reed stared, not understanding.  “`Been through’”, Trip elaborated.  “Like it’s something that’s over and done with.  But it’s not.”  He rubbed his eyes.  “I lie here, take the doc’s potions, sleep when they tell me to, eat what they tell me to, do everything I’m supposed to, and it doesn’t do a damn bit of good.  I hurt like hell.  I can’t keep anything down.  I sleep, and I don’t feel like I’ve had any rest.  Hell, I can’t even sit up without help, let alone do anything else.  The Captain has to wait on me hand and foot.”  He looked at Reed.  “I’m so tired, Mal.  I don’t know how much more I can take.”  His eyes became bright with tears.  “I’m not even sure I want to.”  He brushed his hand over his eyes, trying to wipe the tears away.  “Sorry,” he said.  He lifted his hand away from his eyes, and stared.  He was apologizing to an empty room.

*  *  *

“Lieutenant?”

“Whatever you’re discussing, I think you’d better stop and listen to me.”

Archer stared.  He had seldom seen his tactical officer so intense; Reed practically vibrated with urgency and concern.

“All right, Malcolm,” he said.  “Tell us.”

*   *   *

Subcommander T’Pol had rarely, if ever, seen Captain Archer so angry.  “Are you certain?” he demanded. 

She blinked.  “I am unable to offer you a 100% certainty, Captain.  But I am confident that my hypothesis will prove to be correct.”

Archer then swung on Phlox.  “And you?”

The Denobulan nodded.  “When the Commander suffered such a dramatic relapse, I realized that my suspicions were correct.”

“You suspected this earlier?  Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Suspicion is not the same as certainty, Captain.  And considering the gravity of such suspicions, voicing an unsupported opinion would have been extremely irresponsible.”

Archer sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, unconsciously imitating Trip. 

“I have taken the liberty of sending the data to the Vulcan Science Directorate.  I expect a response within the hour,“ T’Pol informed him.  “And I am confident that my suppositions will be confirmed.”

“That this virus is actually an engineered pathogen,” Reed said.

“Yes.  As you are no doubt aware, Lieutenant, viruses can and do mutate,” Phlox said.  “Such mutations are responsible for the fact that the so-called common cold, for instance, is not curable. 

“But humanoids have evolved to cope with these pathogens.  You may think otherwise, but the human immune system is astonishing.  Without it, you would be dead from any number of lethal invaders. 

“The Commander is no different.  His internal – army, if you will – of white blood cells and antibodies was beginning to recognize and kill off the invader.  The virus should have been eliminated.  But in a very short time – an unnaturally short time, only a matter of hours – the virus shifted.  It camouflaged itself, changing its outward appearance so that his immune system could no longer recognize the invader.  And under this new appearance, it started up its deadly work once more.  And I suspect that once his immune system learns to identify and target the intruder, it will again shift.”

“Can’t you just eliminate the damned thing from his system?” Archer asked.

“I am attempting to do so.  But if even a few of these pathogens survive, the cycle begins starts over.”  Phlox sighed.  “I am not certain, but I am willing to venture a guess that, in addition to its shifting ability, the virus is also capable of becoming dormant when necessary.  Hiding somewhere in its host until it can begin a new attack.”

“Such adaptations are not found in nature,” said T’Pol.  “Not simultaneously, at any rate.”

Archer frowned.  “Was the exposure deliberate?”

Reed frowned in turn.  “Hard to say sir.  But I would say, probably not.  It would be difficult to fake the sensor readings we got.  And our encounter with the Elgarians appeared to be a genuinely random one.  And why just Commander Tucker?  If it was deliberate, why not infect the whole ship?  So I would say it was an accident.”

Phlox looked as unhappy as Archer had ever seen him.  “However, I would guess it occurred during the initial stages of his visit.”

“Only an idiot would keep stores of a biological hazard near engineering or life support,” Reed agreed.  “And those were the areas that needed repairs.  The whole crew would have been affected.”

“So sometime during the first part of his visit, he’s accidentally exposed,” Archer said.  “Maybe while on tour.”  He looked at Phlox.  “So that for the 3 days he was over there – “

“I would say he was sick for at least 48 hours.”

“Then they dump him like yesterday’s garbage in our airlock, and claim mortal offense at his illness.”

“At least we now know why they said that,” Reed pointed out.  “They could hardly admit that they were carrying an engineered virus on board.”

Archer slammed his fist on the kitchen table, startling all of them.  “I’ll be damned if they’re going to get away with it!” he snarled.  “I’m going to get them!”

“I believe that you should.” T’Pol responded.  At his astonishment, she clarified:  “Not, however, because of your sentiments for revenge.”

Reed nodded.  “The antidote.  If I were carrying something like this, I’d make damn sure I had the antidote on hand.  You’d have to be crazy not to, and the Elgarians may be duplicitous bastards, but I don’t think they’re crazy.”

“Then why not give it to Trip in the first place?”

“Probably because he’d come back and tell us he got sick and they had an antidote all ready and waiting.  They’d be afraid that we might suspect something.  Easier to let him die,” Reed added bitterly.  “Ties up all the loose ends.”

“Right,” Archer said grimly.  “So what are we going to do?”

T’Pol looked calmly at Reed.  “You asked why I thought your presence would be required, did you not, Lieutenant?”

*  *  *

She reached, seeking her centre, searching for serenity and sanctuary from the emotions buffeting her.  While Subcommander T’Pol could understand her companions’ anger, she had no wish to share it.

A faint sigh insinuated itself into her consciousness.  She recalled herself to an awareness of her surroundings.  She had sought refuge in the bedroom while the Captain and Lieutenant Reed finalized the details of their plan.  Her decision to do so was two-fold:  she needed quiet in order to gain her equilibrium, and the doctor had decreed that someone was to remain in attendance on his patient at all times, while he himself worked on his ameliorative solutions.

She looked over from her seat to the man lying on his sickbed.  He had turned, and was now lying on his side, facing her.  She stood, and leaned over the bedside rail that the doctor had insisted on erecting, even though the Commander was currently under heavy sedation.

When Lieutenant Reed had interrupted their consultation with his somewhat overly-dramatic announcement, both the Captain and the doctor had immediately hurried to the Commander’s bedside.  She had elected to remain in the living room.  She knew that her company would not be beneficial; she had nothing of substance to contribute, and it was highly probable that her presence would only serve to upset the already too-emotional patient.

She had, however, been able to hear the ensuing conversation with perfect clarity.  The Captain had spent a great deal of time assuring his stricken friend that his situation would improve.  The Commander had, for his part, remained skeptical.  Finally, the doctor had decided that pain and exhaustion were coloring Commander Tucker’s point of view, and had accordingly sedated him.

The Captain had emerged from this session looking grim, but had immediately resumed their discussion.  He had, for the most part, kept his emotions in check, and T’Pol appreciated the effort that it had cost him.  He had been quite naturally upset by her hypothesis, and the resultant confirmation from the Vulcan Science Directorate had deepened his anger.  But he had remained in control, listening to Mr. Reed’s suggestions, and formulating a reasoned and logical plan.

Commander Tucker sighed.  His eyes were moving under their closed lids, and she knew he was in REM sleep.  In dreams.  And, judging by his reactions, they were not pleasant ones.  His legs moved.  Evidently, he was struggling against some unknown adversary.  He sighed, then moaned.  His legs kicked, dislodging his blankets, and revealing that his hospital gown had ridden up his legs and was bunched around his waist. 

She immediately averted her eyes.  As a Vulcan, to intrude on his privacy to that degree would be unthinkable.  She understood that even by the more relaxed human mores, to gaze on him when he was in no position to grant her permission was unacceptable.  Eyes still averted, she tugged at his gown, pulling it back down, and then once his modesty was once again assured, she turned, and pulled his blankets back over him.

His IV tube had slipped under him, impeding the flow of his medication.  Carefully, she disentangled it, and then checked to ensure that the medicated flow was steady again.  Once the Commander had been woken, and given them the information necessary to their plan, it had been decided to keep him sedated until said plan had been put into action.  “I don’t have to worry about Trip while we’re out there,” the Captain had declared, and his reasoning, emotionally based as it was, was nonetheless sound.

She sat back.  It would be prudent to keep the Commander under closer scrutiny until he slipped back into a deeper sleep.  She gazed reflectively at him, considering once again the problem that was Charles Tucker.

It was accurate to say that she had never met an individual – a man – quite like him before.  Her exposure to humans before Enterprise, even when living in San Francisco, had been strictly monitored by her superiors at the Vulcan compound.

The few human males she had met had been either Starfleet officers or scientists.  While naturally more emotional than Vulcans, they had still tended to be more restrained than human females, and she had made the assumption – incorrectly, as it turned out – that all human males were inclined to behave this way.

Then she had met Charles Tucker III, and all of her assumptions were shown to be incorrect.  Freewheeling, verbose, unpredictable – he had blown across her field of view, upsetting her careful perceptions and unsettling her personally.

She found herself responding cautiously to this intense, open, volatile individual.  A male who exhibited his emotions so unreservedly was not someone whom she had previously been required to interact with for any great length of time.  She had responded by attempting to keep him at arm’s length, but somehow he managed, to put it in human parlance, to “push her buttons” regardless.  As a result, she tended to regard him much in the same way she would regard a wild ley-mata – with a certain wary fascination.

She was also forced to admit that she initially misjudged him – and misjudged him badly.  She had made the assumption (and it was a sloppy one) that he was not particularly intelligent, and wondered why Captain Archer had chosen him for the important post of Chief Engineer of the first Warp 5 starship.  After observing him for some time, she had realized that she was in error.  Far from being unintelligent, he was actually quite brilliant.  Not only was he able to think logically when the situation required it, but he was also able to be creative, and apply lateral thinking to solve a problem.  She doubted that very few human – or Vulcan – engineers could successfully create a fraudulent warp breach, or repair alien technology as easily as if it were that of their own species.

He sighed again.  His blond hair, rare in Vulcans, glinted in the lamplight.  From a strictly aesthetic point of view, she was also forced to admit that, for a human, he was somewhat attractive. 

And he was capable of surprising her.  Take, for instance, his recent conduct.  He had borne this ordeal stoically – and bravely.  He had been in considerable discomfort, and had been uncomplaining.  Forced to undergo numerous embarrassments and inconveniences, he had done so without flinching.  She would have thought he would have complained, vociferously, at every given opportunity.  But he had not.  Instead, his behavior over the past few weeks had been almost Vulcan in its acceptance and endurance.

He was relaxing now, his breathing slowing, his eyes no longer moving under their lids.  Dropping into a deeper level of sleep, he sighed again, and rolled onto his back, and flung one arm out over his pillow.

She heard approaching footsteps, and identified them as belonging to the Captain.  The door opened, and Archer entered.  Quietly, he crossed the room, and stood over the younger man’s bed.

“Trip,” he murmured.

“He is sleeping quite deeply,” she informed him.  “I believe that he is in no discomfort.”

“That’s what you think,” Archer replied bluntly.  She raised a brow in response, and he clarified:  “This entire situation is causing him nothing but pain.  And I intend to make sure it stops. He’s suffered enough.”

“I see,” she responded.

He gave her a searching look.  After a moment, he suddenly smiled.  It was a tired, grim smile, but a smile nevertheless.  “You know,” Jonathon Archer told Subcommander T’Pol, “I believe you really do.”

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