Salve

By Laura Schiller

Based on Star Trek: Enterprise

Copyright: Paramount

One look at Captain Archer outside the doorway told T'Pol that he was not here on ship's business. For one thing, he wore a T-shirt and sweatpants; for another, his frown-lined eyes were more than usually intense.

Did he know he had caught her in the middle of her evening meditation? Did he know her emotions were scattered in all directions right now, like yarn after a pet had played with it?

"Can I help you, Captain?"

"I hope so," he said. "It would help me very much if you could tell me how my science officer is coping after having her mind invaded. The truth, please. No platitudes."

She'd guessed as much. This was her first day on duty after Rajin's attack. She had been so careful to let everybody see that she was functioning normally. Too careful, it seemed.

"Captain, I appreciate your concern, but my privacy … "

" … is important, but not worth your mental health," he interrupted, stepping past her into her quarters. "I know you, T'Pol. You bottle things up until you explode. It's not good for you, and it's not good for the mission."

"Thank you for that candid assessment," she snapped, fighting back an inordinate surge of anger. "I had no idea you considered me so unstable."

"That's not what I meant. You're the most stable individual I've ever known, but you're not perfect, anymore than I am. Look, Rajin got to me too."

The nonsequitor almost made her flinch. She had been facing away from him, but now she turned, and the bitter lines carved into his face took her breath away.

"I feel like an idiot," he said. "I let her get away with enough biometric data to engineer a plague if her superiors feel like it. Her hands … well, I don't need to describe them, do I? It was the best feeling in the world. And I fell for it."

Even though she should – and did – understand exactly what he was going through, something about that statement provoked her past the edge of logic. The best feeling in the world. Rajin's hands sliding up under her shirt, probing beneath her skin. Rajin's mind writhing past her barriers like the tentacles of a sea monster, cold and impossibly strong.

"How fortunate for you," T'Pol retorted acidly. "I assume you did not resist, then? She gave me the same advice, but I found myself unable to take it."

Archer looked appalled and remorseful. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but it was too late now to stop the explosion.

"She told me to 'let go'. It was the same thing Tolaris said. As if it were my fault. As if I were too tense, too prudish, too – too Vulcan – to ever form a meaningful connection. I am too emotional for my own people, and not enough for anybody else. I've never belonged anywhere. I never will. And those like Rajin, like Tolaris – they know. They know it as soon as they look at me … "

Her voice, which had been growing ever more brittle and shrill as she spoke, was overwhelmed by the tears that threatened to choke her. She stared at the ground, letting them run down her face, letting her shoulders shake until she could breathe again.

Archer had let her run on without interrupting all this time, but now he spoke, and the fierce heat of his voice warmed her like a touch.

"You are not weak. Or at least if you are, so am I, and so is our whole damn crew. And it was never your fault. Not Rajin, and not Tolaris. On the contrary. You saw through them when no one else did. And you haven't stopped them from letting you live your life. That takes strength, all by itself.

"And as for belonging … "

He stepped into her personal space, radiating warmth and that strong, foreign scent that had become so familiar. She could have backed away easily. She didn't want to.

He put both hands on her shoulders, just as he had done when trying to send her back to Vulcan at the beginning of their mission to the Expanse. It had been his selfless concern that decided her. His hands were the opposite of invasive. They held her together. They anchored her to keep her from drifting away.

"You belong here, T'Pol. Never doubt that."

Here on Enterprise, she wondered, or here with him? He didn't specify. Either way, she was inordinately happy to hear him say it. She caught herself smiling.

"I … I should meditate."

"You should."

When he stepped away and dropped his arms, she saw something on his skin that distracted her. It was a greenish, scaly patch, red at the edges. It looked extremely uncomfortable. Archer saw her looking and covered it up with his other hand.

"The Loqu'eque virus," she realized. "Are you still in pain?"

"It's no big deal." It was his turn to sound embarrassed. "Itches like hell, though. Phlox says it should all be gone in a couple of weeks."

"Wait." She began rummaging in the Starfleet-issue chest of drawers next to her bed. It could be useful sometimes, having a mother who specialized in traditional healing techniques. T'Les had taught her neuropressure long ago as part of her meditation lessons. As for the collection of medicines she'd sent over during Enterprise's retrofit, it would be a miracle if T'Pol didn't use them up.

She fished out a jar of a thick, pearlescent ointment. "Anti-inflammatory," she said, translating her mother's untidy Vulcan script on the label. "For external use. Take no more than will cover your fingertip, as it is highly concentrated."

"What's in it?"

"You would prefer not to know."

"Hm." Archer unscrewed the lid and took a sniff. "Doesn't smell too bad. A bit like aloe vera. You're not thinking of competing with Phlox, are you?"

"Perhaps – if my demanding superior left me enough time."

He grinned. "I walked right into that one, didn't I? Uh … I'm afraid I have one more demand. Or … request. If you don't mind." He replaced the lid on the jar and played with it, twisting it around.

"Yes … ?"

He blushed. She could actually see it spread, from the tips of his ears right to his cheeks.

"Well, the thing is … one of those," he held up his arm, showing the inflammation, "Is on my back. Where it's hard to reach. "

"Oh."

If she were human, she might have burst into stress-relieving giggles at this point. Human males. Honestly. As if they hadn't shared the Decon chamber dozens of times.

"Well, sit down, Captain, and take off your shirt. You should have said something earlier."

A wooden statue of Surak stared at her disapprovingly from its perch on a high bookshelf. She stared right back at it as the gray T-shirt dropped to the floor.

She took a little longer to rub a fingertip's worth of ointment over the rough, painful-looking skin than was, perhaps, strictly necessary. But then, her mother had taught her that thoroughness was essential to any medical procedure.

He let out a little sigh and his shoulders relaxed, as if the cool ointment were already soothing the itch.

She was really doing this. She was touching someone, and it did not frighten her. She was helping him. She was proving Rajin and Tolaris utterly wrong.

She forbid them from having this much power over her.

With a final pat, like a sculptor finishing with the clay, she stepped back.

"Was there anything else, Captain?"

"Yeah. I can take care of the rest myself." He put his shirt back on and tugged it down self-consciously, still red in the face, but smiling.

"Good night, T'Pol. And don't forget – whenever you need someone to talk, I'm right here."

"I will remember. Good night … Captain."

To still be using his title sounded odd under the circumstances, but that was one boundary she didn't care to overstep.

As soon as the door closed behind him, she reached for a candle and a lighter. At the very least, she could be sure of being alone tonight. Commander Tucker wasn't due for another neuropressure session until tomorrow.

It was absolutely, definitely, past time to finish her interrupted meditation.