Repairs- Ch. 3

Repairs
By nikitee

Rating: R - English – Romance, Angst

Disclaimers in Chapter 1

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Chapter 3

T’Pol
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Subcommander T'Pol picked up her grey jumpsuit from the shelf just inside the decon chamber, and followed Ensign Sato and Lieutenant Reed into the dressing area. It was significantly cooler than inside the decon chamber itself... but thankfully there was no Klingon smell here either, she reflected as she dressed. The warmth would be missed, however; it was... pleasant and... soothing.

Glancing across the bench, T'Pol saw the communications officer rub her hands over her goosefleshed arms before thrusting them into the sleeves of her jumpsuit: the ensign was cold as well. And the armory officer? T'Pol turned her head and noted that the lieutenant was dressing with his back to her and Ensign Sato: modesty perhaps? Illogical, but... human. T'Pol studied the musculature of his back for a moment, her mind calling up the Latin names for each easily... and started when she heard her name.

"Yes, Doctor?"

"May I see you for a moment?"

"Certainly." The science officer fastened the closure at her neck, ran a hand over her side to smooth the material of her jumpsuit, and followed Doctor Phlox to his office.

"Yes?"

"As you requested, I completed a second scan while you were in decon. I included a baseline blood chemistry analysis..." the doctor paused, and tapped the side of the monitor on his desk. "I was hoping to find a cause for the headache you mentioned, so I checked your medical log as well."

"And did you find something," she asked.

"I'd made a note that the Anaprovalin dosage you required for relief had increased last time you visited sickbay. Your headaches have become more frequent and more severe since you arrived on Enterprise, and correspond to an increase in both adrenal and hormonal levels. Would you like to see the graphical analysis?"

"No."

"Subcommander, I completed both a graduate-studies internship and two tours of duty on Vulcan. I have encountered this... pattern before. Have you experienced any other... symptoms?"

"It is a personal matter, Doctor. I would prefer not to discuss it," T'Pol said flatly, averting her eyes. How he pried!

"I am aware of that. I am also your physician for the time being, and it is my responsibility to care for you. I assume you intend continue your duties as long as possible before returning to Vulcan?" He paused, expecting some comment, and continued when he received none. "The unengaged stage, on average, has a duration of three to five years, as you are probably aware. Your body chemistry indicates that you are approximately a year into pon frell, though we will need to review additional symptomology to corroborate. I recommend that we begin a regimen of Anaprovalin and Gerraxon to inhibit adrenaline and stabilize your hormone levels. Neither will have significant side-effects, or affect your performance. It should also decrease the frequency and intensity of your headaches."

T'Pol looked at him again, and studied his face for a full minute, silent and guarded. "That is acceptable."

The Denobulan nodded, and briefly smiled in relief. "Fine. Return tomorrow before your duty shift, and we'll... do what needs to be done."

***

The communiqué had come during the night shift, so Ensign Sato had forwarded it to Subcommander T'Pol's quarters within minutes of its arrival. It was sent on a standard subspace band, rather than encrypted and sent over a secure frequency. It had been in transit to the Enterprise for 37.231 hours, she calculated, glancing at the time stamp. Low priority. Personal.

It was from her father. It was short. One line, in fact. Five words. Thirty four characters, if translated to English from the Vulcan: "Koss wed T'Lin. Make arrangements."

T'Pol deleted the message without re-reading it. She resisted the urge to rub her temples, or scream. Some part of her -- deeply buried now but coming closer to the surface each day -- wanted to, needed to...

There was no reason now to return to Vulcan. No, she corrected, there never had been... Tomorrow, she would see the doctor... perhaps, with the regimen he had planned, she would have another year for exploration. Just a year... could be enough.

***

The smell was awful. Her nasal inhibitor had worn off... had she been unconscious? T'Pol opened her eyes, squinting through the dank blackness to assess her surroundings. Thread-thin beams of moonlight shone through holes in the wall. Holes from projectile weapons? She sniffed, looking for the acrid stench of gunpowder or another primitive accelerant. She was not alone. Archer... the smell belonged to Archer. He was anxious, and dirty, and sweating... nearby... no, directly behind her, she realized. They were back-to-back tied together at the waist. His breathing was slower that it should have been, she realized... was he unconscious, or merely cold?

Her hands and feet were tied as well... the knots were tight, but not particularly complex. The Vulcan pulled, and twisted her hands, trying to get a look at the knots... Behind her, Archer groaned... "T'Pol? Are you okay?"

Priority one: get loose... the captain and his science officer tried several times to stand, using each other for leverage, as if backing up against a wall. He was quite a bit taller, and she needed several tries to compensate. Finally, they were standing... panting.

"The knots, can you reach them, if we turn so we're face to face?" She nodded and acknowledged, realizing belatedly that he could not see her, exhausted and numb already from the cold and the effort of maintaining her mental shields while in such close contact with him. And the smell... ugh!

Jerkily, she rotated her hips and slid around him under the ropes. There was just enough slack for her to turn. Her breasts were now crushed against his chest, and... his midsection pressed into her abdomen. Her stomach turned as she realized this, feeling the growing warmth of him even through the many layers of clothing. The burning deep inside her flared momentarily -- a hot flash of physical need and a wave of nausea hit her at the same time. She tried to squirm away, make more room between then, and... they fell. She landed hard, directly on top of him. She thought she felt his breath against her chest, even through the cloth. He stiffened against her thighs, and his smell changed. Male pheromones mixed with dirt and sweat. He was becoming aroused, and... amused.

I need to get out of here, she thought wildly as they righted themselves -- with more friction, rubbing, and throbbing -- and attempted to stand again. Get out...

***

"And I thought I'd give you one, too." An apology? Uncharacteristic for the captain, T'Pol noted. Motivated by... what? He was nervous, she realized from his altered scent as much as his lack of eye contact. The sleep- deprived angst and pheromones were gone now, and the panic -- but in their place: fear... Was he afraid of her? Or was he afraid of himself?

"Unnecessary."

"Yes, it is..." He spoke quickly, but not to her... fascinated, she watched his eyes as the pupils dilated slightly, and counted silently to herself as she checked his respiration and the pulse beating at his neck. She raised an eyebrow, astounded at his audacity: a Vulcan man would not mention his sexual desires in such an open manner. A Vulcan commander would never have such a discussion with one of his subordinates, male or female. But the commander's spouse would of course be one of the crew if needed... when needed.

When would *it* be needed, she asked herself idly, and was suddenly surprised. She heard herself replying in calm tones to Archer, to his audacious observation of 'friction' between males and females: You are my superior. It would be inappropriate for us to pursue a relationship of any type, if the 'attraction' were indeed mutual.

T'Pol's mind raced even as the senseless, distracting words she spoke aloud tumbled out: Is it 'mutual'? He is... attractive and... willing, it seems. Would sexual intercourse with the Captain be enough, knowing his fear of intimacy in general, and of her in particular? Did he have the emotional maturity that would be required, that she would need from him, to survive? She dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it surfaced: Impossible. Not this human, who just so uncharacteristically obsessed over an enslaved quadruped, and become so distracted with selfish, emotional concerns that he was unable to act in the best interest of his ship without great prodding. No, not this human. He was too volatile, unpredictable, unsteady. Unreliable. Un...

T'Pol looked at her commanding officer again, struggling to keep her face carefully blank. She closed her eyes, for just a fraction of a second longer than a blink: control, control. Better to go assist Mister Tucker in installing the plasma conduits secured by the Captain's belated apology. Yes, better to do something useful, something to further the repairs to the wounded Enterprise.

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Continued in Chapter 4

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