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She couldn't stop thinking about his lips now.

T'Pol stared into the flame of her candle, and tried to push the memory into the fire. She had kissed Sim for entirely logical reasons, and they were reasons entirely confined to the tragedy of his brief life. So why did she find herself looking at Trip Tucker's mouth and replaying that moment in her mind? Why did she find herself distracted when he spoke, imagining instead the sensation of his lips against hers?

(Because Trip and Sim were the same person, and now she knew what it felt like.)

She took a deep breath, inhaling to the very depth of herself. No.

No, there had been logic in kissing Sim. There had been a reason. What reason could there possibly be to kiss Trip? What good could possibly come of such an ill-advised action?

(She had wanted to know before Sim, and now she did, and she knew it felt good. She could kiss Trip, and his mouth would be gentle against hers, and when they separated, he would look at her with wonder in his eyes.)

Obviously this meditative mode wasn't working tonight. She blew out the candle sharply. No matter how hard she tried to give those thoughts to the fire, the only thing they burned was her.

It was a question Hoshi had been dying to ask for weeks now. She knew she shouldn't. She knew it was nosy, and unprofessional, and none of her business. Yet she wasn't sure she could stop herself. And since she and T'Pol were alone in Command, this seemed like the perfect time to ask.

"I understand if you don't think it's appropriate," she said, "but...that fingertip touching thing you and Commander Tucker do...that's a Vulcan expression of affection, right?"

T'Pol gave her a long look, eyebrow hovering at the point just below disapproving. "Yes," she said simply, and returned her eyes to her console.

Maybe she was feeling gossipy, or maybe she'd just run out of shame. "So does that count as Vulcan PDA?"

"PDA?" T'Pol looked back at her. Now she looked curious.

"It's an acronym. Public Display of Affection."

"Ah. I suppose that it is." T'Pol was thoughtful for a moment. "Although from what I have witnessed of human affectionate displays, I would think the Vulcan variation would be considered quite mild."

"Oh yeah," Hoshi chuckled. "Of course...there are some displays that viewed as appropriate to the time and place, and others that...aren't."

"Why engage in an inappropriate display?"

Hoshi thought about that. "Because...the people involved are enjoying each other enough that they don't care." She shrugged a little. "Because it's transgressive, I guess. Sometimes it's fun to be shocking."

"I have noticed that tendency in humans," T'Pol said, still looking thoughtful. "It is fun," she repeated, seemingly to herself.

She appeared to be ruminating on that, so Hoshi returned to her reports, only to be surprised by the other woman activating the comm. "T'Pol to Tucker."

"Tucker here. What's up?"

"Commander, could you come to Command, please?"

There was a bewildered beat, then he said, "I was just up there half an hour ago."

"I am aware. This will only take a moment."

Another confused silence. "Alright. Gimme a sec."

Hoshi leaned back in her seat. Whatever T'Pol was up to, she couldn't shake the feeling this was about to get good.

Trip appeared promptly, a series of questions printed in bold face type across his expression, none of which were answered, because T'Pol was waiting for him. She reached for the back of his neck and kissed him. And not just a polite peck, either - she was obviously being thorough about it. Trip was tense with surprise for only an instant before leaning into the kiss-

And then he seemed to remember where he was and what was going on.

He took a step back. "Um...hi. What the-" He looked over her shoulder towards Hoshi, who saw no point in trying to hide her amusement. "Hey, Hosh." She wiggled the fingers of one hand at him, grinning. He looked back at T'Pol, who shrugged slightly.

"PDA," she said, as if that explained everything.

Trip looked back at Hoshi. "What did you do?"

"Nothing!"

He passed a suspicious look between them, before throwing up his hands in confusion, and hitting the door panel. Hoshi waited until he'd left before doubling over with helpless laughter. When she could finally breathe again, she saw T'Pol back at her console, as if nothing had happened.

"You were correct," she said. "I believe that was fun."

The man waiting in the visitors' room wasn’t seated at the table, but stood by the window, staring out at the prison yard. He didn’t turn when John Frederick Paxton entered, but Paxton would have known that profile anywhere.

“Commander Tucker,” he said, pulling out a chair and sitting. “Sorry, it's Captain these days, isn’t it?” Tucker shrugged.

“Didn’t really come to talk about my career.”

“Then what brings you all the way here?”

Tucker turned, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing, of all things, a folded piece of paper. “Just dropped by to share some news I thought you might find interesting.” He unfolded the paper and slapped it onto the table in front of Paxton.

Paxton eyed the paper coolly. It was a hardcopy of a medical imaging scan, a fetus in utero. He looked up at the other man for explanation. 

“T’Pol’s pregnant,” Tucker said softly. “It's mine. Turns out all that genetic tinkering your people did made it real easy to do again, and better this time.”

Paxton looked up at him, his expression stiff. “So you've come to gloat.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Go ahead,” Paxton sniffed disdainfully. “Bring a half-breed into the world. See how accepting our enlightened galactic neighbors are of mongrels.”

Tucker's eyes narrowed hotly. He leaned over the table, his voice tight. “I will rebuild this whole goddamn universe one atom at a time to make it a safe place for my child. Do you think I care? You've already lost this fight, Paxton. I just wanted to remind you.” He straightened, flashing Paxton a nasty smile. "And to say thank you. Have a nice life - I know I will."

Trip opened his eyes grudgingly, trying to decide if he really wanted to be awake or not. A half-hearted attempt at a stretch didn't get him very far, because there was a Vulcan laying on him.

T'Pol wasn't directly on him, but she had contrived to arrange herself so the two of them together were taking up less than fifty percent of the bed's total area. She was pressed against his side like a magnet, her left leg hooked around his. Her muffled voice issued from the vicinity of his collarbone, answering his unvoiced question. "You are warm."

He couldn't help it - he laughed. "Is my little desert critter chilly?"

She lifted her head, her eyes peevish. "I have been to Florida," she informed him. "You were not raised in a cold climate either."

He fondly brushed her hair from her indignant face. "So?"

She pursed her mouth at him, then lowered her head again. "I am not a 'critter'."

"Critters are cute. So are you."

She shifted, folding her arms on his chest and resting her chin on them to give him a considering look. Finally she said, with extreme dignity, "I will allow it. For now. Because I am chilly."

Trip smiled, and rubbed her back. "Lucky for you, I am always available for temperature regulation services. And...ya know...other kinds of services."

There it was - that little glint of knowing amusement. It always felt like a win to get that look. "I am aware," she said.

"Just a friendly reminder."

She stretched against him in a very deliberate and significant manner. "I know how to submit a request for your services." He let out a long, slow breath, letting his eyes close again.

"You certainly do."

T'Pol brushed at the front of her new lavender sundress, straightened the straps by a nanometer, and opened the door. "Well?"

Trip whistled softly. "Damn. Purple always has been your color."

She preened slightly. Pride was perhaps not necessarily logical, but it felt good. "You approve."

"Obviously." He took a step towards her, his eyes making a slow transit from the hem of her skirt up to her face. "God, you're gorgeous," he said softly. He touched her chin, very gently, his fingers sliding along her jawline, following the upsweep of her ear before he leaned in to kiss her, soft and searching.

I am so lucky.

The thought seemed to emerge organically, breathed between them on lips that were otherwise engaged. In moments like this, it had all been worth it - every dragon of fear and doubt slain, and all for this.

She exhaled when he withdrew, and for some reason, her eyes didn't want to reopen. So she left them, reaching for him, pulling him close and holding him tight, her face against his shoulder.

I am so lucky.

The Romulans were closing fast, and Enterprise had already taken one hit too many. T'Pol leaned over the engineering station on the bridge, glaring at readouts that told her things she didn't want to see - damage reports from all over the ship, and worst of all, the starboard aft thruster was offline, and their maneuverability was severely compromised. And they didn't have time-

There was a way to manually reset it.

She blinked. How did she know that?

Under the console. The main feed tie-in actually ran almost exactly under her feet.

She dropped into a crouch, pulling up the panel. Now which...

The one farthest left.

She would need to disconnect it, wait a few seconds, and then reconnect it.

But how long?

I dunno. Long enough for the break in Cheeseburger in Paradise? Ya know...'I like mine with lettuce and tomato..."

Oh, Trip. REALLY?

The ship rocked, and over the din, she heard Malcolm Reed deliver another damage report. It was now or never. She disconnected the line, hummed to herself, and reconnected it.

"Starboard thruster is back online!" the helmsman cried.

"Finally! Let's give them a taste of their own medicine!" Archer ordered.

Later, in his ready room, he asked, "So how'd you know how to reset the thruster?"

She shrugged slightly. "It...occurred to me." He nodded, smiling a very faint smile.

"I see." He picked up a PADD and she stood to exit. Without looking up, he said, "Tell Trip thanks for me."

Trip returned home that evening with a singular focus, one thing dominating his thinking, one desire animating him.

He was going to eat the hell of out this pie.

He'd been passing the bakery on a daily basis for weeks, resisting the urge to go in and drool all over the display cases, but then he'd caught the unmistakable whiff of pecan pie on the air as he walked by and his willpower vanished.

He consoled himself with the knowledge that A) he'd earned this, and B) he would of course share it with T'Pol when she got home.

He was in the middle of serving himself a slice when he heard the door open. "Welcome home," he called, and took a bite. His eyes slid shut.

Heaven.

Plate in one hand, fork in the other, he turned...and felt a pair of slim, strong arms wrap around him.

He opened his eyes, looking down at T'Pol, firmly pressed against him. "Uh...can't really hug you back at the moment, sweetheart," he said.

"That's alright," she replied, voice slightly muffled.

His shoulders were starting to burn, and his pie was so close, and yet so far away.

"Is, uh...is everything okay?"

"Yes," she said, tilting her head up to look at him. "I simply wished to hold you." Her right hand drifted up to clasp the back of his neck, and in her touch, he could feel how much she enjoyed being close to him, how much pleasure she took in having her arms around him. Your proximity is my shelter.

"And there's nothin' I love more," he said gently, "but, uh…can I at least put this down?"

"Very well," she said. "On one condition."

"Condition?"

"I would like a bite of pie."

He narrowed his eyes, giving her a dirty look. "Of course you would." He reached around her, carefully maneuvering a bite of pie onto the fork, and just as carefully aimed it at her lips. She took the bite, holding his gaze with hers the entire time. "Now can I-"

"You may."

He leaned past her to set down the plate and fork, sighing with relief to be able to rest his arms on her shoulders. "Pie thief," he said, without rancor.

"It was a crime of opportunity."

He chuckled, shaking his head fondly. "Shelter, huh?"

"Yes."

He leaned his head against hers, smiling, and she tightened her arms around him.

Heaven.

He wasn't going to say it. He was doing his damnedest not to think it. The words 'I told you so' would not cross his lips or his mind, not if Trip could help it. But it was taking every scrap of his willpower not to.

T'Pol's eyes remained fixed on the (still) inoperable beverage synthesizer in front of them. "You should not have to be responsible for every household repair," she had told him, before banishing him from the kitchen. That had been an hour ago, and when he had risked her wrath to poke his head back in to check on her progress, he had found her staring at the thing in disgust.

The bearings had probably come out of alignment. That was it. It was a simple fix.

She heaved a deep breath. "You were right," she said. His eyebrows climbed.

"Say that again?"

Her sigh seemed to come from the planet's core. "You. Were right."

He wanted to take this moment and press it between the pages of a scrapbook, to keep, fresh and pristine, for the rest of his life.

He sank his teeth into his lower lip to keep from grinning. "You don't say."

Her right eyebrow rose, full of danger and potential misfortune, and that was when he broke. He laughed, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind. "Oh, c'mon, sweetheart...you know nothin' gets me goin' like those three little words."

She gave him sidelong glare, which he deflected by bowing his head to kiss the side of her neck. She sighed again. "Will you fix it?"

"Absolutely," he said, nuzzling her ear.

She allowed a moment to enjoy that before asking, "Do you truly enjoy hearing me say that, or are you simply teasing me?" He shrugged.

"Little of column A, little of column B?"

"I will remember that."

T'Pol came home to an unusually quiet house. She realized, standing in the empty living room, that she had become accustomed to Trip and T'Mir greeting her on her arrival, and the lack of them did not necessarily concern her, but it did leave her somewhat nonplussed. "Trip?" she called. "Trip!"

"In here."

His voice led her to the nursery, and the puzzle was solved. He was in the floor, propped up on a fluffy bulwark of cushions, with T'Mir sprawled against his side, her eyes closed. "She got me," Trip reported.

"So I see."

His left arm was wrapped around their sleeping daughter; he lifted the right, beckoning her. "Wanna get in on this action?" he asked, smiling. She cocked her head, taking in the sight of them. T'Mir's cheek was pressed close to her father's chest, her little body relaxed in the perfect tranquility of complete and unquestioned safety.

It was a question with only one possible answer.

"I believe I do."

She sat in the floor beside him, snuggling under his arm, her head resting on his shoulder. He rubbed her upper arm with easy, familiar affection, turning his face to kiss her temple. "Comfy?"

"Yes." She reached across him to stroke T'Mir's hair. "And you?"

"Me? I'm perfect. I got the two best girls in the galaxy cuddled up on me. What more can a man ask for?"

They were walking along the corridor, headed roughly in the same direction, and for the space of one step, their shoulders almost brushed. The thought crossed Trip's mind that T'Pol's personal space could be awfully… fluid, for a Vulcan, but just as quickly, he laughed it off. He definitely needed to get some sleep if he was thinking things like that.

"I'm glad you've been joinin' us for Movie Night, Subcommander," he said. She gave him a sidelong, delicately eyebrowed look.

"Are you?" Before he could protest, she said, "I find it a… very educational undertaking, observing humans in a communal social setting. And the films themselves provide fascinating insights into your psychology."

Because they were currently getting along so well, he was going to be good and not make a snide remark about her sounding like a zoologist in a primate habitat. "So what do y'all do? On Vulcan, I mean. In a 'communal social setting'." He couldn't stop the air quotes.

She paused, turned a quarter turn, looked at him and said, "You would find it dull," and continued walking.

"Try me!"

She stopped again. "Colloquia to discuss philosophy and other academic disciplines are common."

"Oh, I bet the fur really flies there," he muttered. So much for not being snide.

"As I said."

"Well, y'know what? If I was on Vulcan, maybe I'd give it a try anyway!"

"Why is that?"

"Maybe it'd be educational! Maybe I'd gain fascinatin' insights into your psychology!"

She gave him a long look. "I would be interested to see what you would do with such information." He folded his arms, and looked right back.

"I bet you would."

It was Trip's turn to get up with the baby, and he did dutifully, but T'Pol couldn't get back to sleep even after he'd risen, even after T'Mir's cries had faded into soothed murmurs. She lay in bed for a little while, eyes refusing to close, until she pushed back the covers and thrust herself to her feet.

Wrapping her robe about herself, she peered into the nursery, where Trip walked with soft steps, holding their daughter to his shoulder. He was humming, his hand cupping the back of her head, and as he turned, he saw T'Pol. "Your momma thinks you should go back to sleep too, baby girl," he said softly.

Another turn or two, and he laid her back down in the crib; she gnawed drowsily on her fist, eyes drooping shut. Trip looked down at her, and there was something in his expression that made T'Pol want to touch him. She took his hand.

She's the same age Elizabeth was.

T'Pol nodded.

"Everything we missed with her," he whispered aloud. "Hell of a second chance."

She nodded again, reaching with her free hand to hold his cheek, gently turning his face towards hers. His eyes shone in the warm, dim light of the little cribside lamp, and a tear slid down his cheek. She leaned close and kissed it, brushing it away with her lips. "No one gets to take her from us," she murmured.

He shook his head, sniffling, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "No. Never."

"Are you certain you do not require assistance?" T'Pol asked, head tilted as she watched Trip sort through bundles of conduit in the small maintenance closet.

"I am perfectly capable of doin' my job without supervision, thank you very much," he snorted, then shot her a knowing look, eyebrows waggling suggestively. "Besides, it's a tight squeeze in here. We'd have to get awful friendly."

"I did not offer supervision," she said. "I offered assistance." She returned the lascivious gaze steadily. "And I am not afraid to be friendly."

He smiled, the cheekiness shifting into warmth. "I won't say no to the help," he said. "Get this over with faster."

She stepped towards him, the door sliding shut behind her. It was a confined space, particularly with both of them in it; his lips moved in a little smile, and he handed her one end of the conduit. "Hold this," he said. Their hands brushed as she took it.

It was pleasantly warm in the little closet, the dry, sharp odor of electricity blending with the rich organic scent of Trip himself in a surprisingly satisfactory manner. And it was pleasant to be working together - as he liked to say, they made a hell of a team, and that was rewarding.

As was watching the way his mouth moved while he worked, and the sure, steady, confident motion of his hands. His hands really were a pleasure to observe...

"There we go!" Trip announced cheerfully. "All buttoned up." He gave her another little half-smile. "Thanks for the help."

"You are very welcome."

The focus of his eyes seemed to shift, ever so slightly. If she wasn't mistaken, he was looking at her lips. "How welcome am I?" he asked, very softly.

"Extremely," she replied, just as soft and did the only logical thing, which was to kiss him.

It wasn't enough.

One step, and she had him pressed to the bulkhead, his mouth curving against hers as the kiss grew harder and more urgent. In a pause for breath, he whispered raggedly, "Well, hi there."

"Hello." Her right hand was unzipping his uniform; she couldn't say why precisely, but it seemed like an excellent idea. And he offered no objection, his hands sliding down her sides to pull her against him. It was absurd, she thought, even as her lips sought out the soft, sensitive spot below his ear - they were on duty, and this was extremely unprofessional.

Actually, posited another part of her mind, if his proximity had led to this state of arousal, where was the logic in self-denial? This argument seemed to be more than good enough for her right hand, which dived low into his uniform. He groaned at the contact. "Oh, baby..."

They might be concealed from sight with the door closed, but this closet was not soundproof. Only one course of action, then. She kissed him again, deeper, her tongue silencing his, her hand busying itself, which prompted his reciprocation.

This had been, she judged, a profoundly logical course of action.

Fifteen minutes later, they exited the maintenance closet, straightening their uniforms and glancing both ways before setting off in opposite directions.

Trip appeared at T'Pol's door that evening with an overnight bag slung carelessly on his shoulder, which he dropped on her desk, the better to dig out its most prized content. "The Evil of Frankenstein!" he said, holding out the data chip. "Cuz I know you love Peter Cushing."

"I appreciate the subtlety of his performances," she corrected. He snorted, grinning.

"Uh huh." The data chip retrieved, he stowed the bag on the floor by the bed, and T'Pol realized she would get no better opportunity than this.

"Trip...I have been considering a matter of logistics."

He looked up from where he sat on the bed, taking off his shoes. "Sounds sexy."

She pursed her lips at him, her left eyebrow rising, then cleared her throat, determined not to be distracted by his joking. "I have given the matter some thought, and I believe it is not the most logical course of action that you should have to pack a bag every time you spend the night in my quarters. To that end..."

She knelt, and opened the rightmost of the built-in drawers under the bed. He peered at it. "It's empty," he noted.

"So that you might have space for a spare uniform and undergarments."

He smiled, very slowly. "Can I keep a toothbrush here too?"

"That would also be logical."

He nodded thoughtfully, still smiling. "I guess it would." He grabbed the bag, carefully transplanting its contents into the empty drawer - clean underwear and socks, an extra tee shirt, a fresh uniform for the next day. That done, he glanced back at her. "Feels more like home already!" he proclaimed, and leaned back on the bed, holding open his arms. "Movie?"

She inserted the data chip in her console, then settled beside him as the Hammer Films logo splashed across the screen. Interesting. It did feel more like home.

The sky was slate gray over the Presidio, the low clouds rolling in like a slow wave. Trip paused on the walking trail, and took a deep lungful of air, eyes narrowed. "It's gonna rain soon," he announced. T'Pol glanced upward.

"Then perhaps we should return to the tram station," she suggested. He inhaled again, looking thoughtful.

"I'm not sure we're gonna have that long." In confirmation, the first few raindrops pattered lightly down on the ground, and they about-faced back to the park entrance. It was a shame to have to cut their excursion short, but-

The sky got tired of waiting, and the splatter of rain transformed into a torrent. Trip and T'Pol bolted for the nearest cover, a picnic shelter about twenty yards away. He was laughing when they both skidded to a stop.

"God, I love gettin' rained on," he said cheerfully, giving himself a shake. T'Pol lifted an eyebrow, running her hands over her soaked hair to strip off the excess moisture.

"I am very pleased for you," she said. Unfazed, he laughed again.

"And you- Have I ever told you are adorable when you're wet? Like a cat with its ears back."

Her eyebrow climbed, its upward momentum as dangerous as flattened cat ears. And yet… Adorable? She enjoyed that idea perhaps more than she should. He grinned, taking her damp face between his damp hands.

"It's cuz you're cute when you're mad, ya know," he said, and she believed him, because she could feel his fond amusement, there in his touch.

"I suppose," she said with all the dignity she could muster, "that there are worse things than to be adored."

"There sure are," he agreed, still smiling.

You should kiss me, her eyes told him.

Yes, ma'am.

It was a soft, easy kiss, his lips gentle on hers, but then his hands slid back from her face to tangle themselves in her wet hair and her own hands lifted to clasp the back of his neck, and then it seared and searched. Neither of them noticed that the rain had slackened, their attention focused wholly on other matters.

When they finally parted for breath, Trip chuckled softly. "Probably oughta head home," he said, giving her a knowing look. "Get outta these wet clothes."

"Indeed. I believe that is a very sensible idea."

"I do have good ideas sometimes."

"Sometimes," she agreed, exiting the picnic shelter. He glared at her a moment for following.

“Y'know, that wasn't the part of the sentence you were supposed to focus on!"

"But it is the most accurate."

"Get you out of those wet clothes and into some trouble," he muttered. She didn't reply, but simply took his hand.

Another excellent idea.

It was a warm, bright day on this nameless world, circling a nameless sun.

Well, that wasn't actually right. The Vulcans had given it a designation - some string of numbers that kept sliding out of Trip's memory the instant he tried to think of them. Which, as far as he was concerned, seriously lacked poetry. This place was far too beautiful for plain old numbers.

"Now this," he said aloud. "This is why I joined Starfleet."

Subcommander T'Pol looked up from her scanner, casting an inquiring eye towards him. "You are not currently engaged in any activity."

"Nope!" he agreed cheerfully. "Who needs to be?" He spread his hands, gazing about the sundrenched valley, the long grasses iridescent in the light. "This planet is gorgeous!"

"And that is why you joined Starfleet?" She returned to her scans. "To make aesthetic judgments of planetary bodies?"

"To see just how amazin' the universe can be? Yeah. Yeah it is." He shot a querying look of his own at her. "Why'd you join the High Command?"

"So that I might be of service to my people and my homeworld."

"That's it?"

"What more is required?"

"Why science?"

"I have an aptitude for it."

He blew out a frustrated breath. "Science is all about curiosity! You can't tell me you're not curious about the universe too." She opened her mouth, and he added, "Or you can, but I won't believe you."

She gave him a fixed stare, her mouth tightening involuntarily. She wanted to tell him that he was entirely incorrect...which would be an untrue statement. And that should not have been a problem, because falsehoods served a logical role in communication, just as honesty did. But Commander Tucker was honest, often to his detriment, and T'Pol found herself mirroring his truthfulness, even when it seemed unnecessary.

"It is...gratifying to contribute to the expansion of knowledge via scientific inquiry," she admitted. "I suppose you might call that curiosity."

"See?" He grinned. "That didn't hurt."

"The second I laid eyes on you," Trip whispered, "I knew I was gonna love you for the rest of my life. And I will. I promise."

Elizabeth looked up at him through the incubator glass, blue eyes solemn, like she understood.

It was raining in Savannah, a steady, drenching downpour that had completely upended the Tucker family's plans for an afternoon out. So instead T'Mir was holding court in the upstairs playroom, serving lemonade from an old, chipped teapot to her amused and biddable father and grandfather. Cookies had been requested, and T'Pol had gone downstairs to get some, though she would also be returning with a plate of cut vegetables and some p'ket sauce, because balance in all things was necessary.

She paused in the living room, unsure at first of why she did, until she realized her eye had been drawn to the wall of family photos to her left. She surveyed them, head tilted. There was Charles and Elaine's wedding portrait, and Albert and Miguel's. There was Trip's Starfleet commissioning ceremony, Owen's high school graduation, and Charles's retirement party. There were vacation photos, holidays, and birthdays. And there were even photographs of her - a picture Trip had taken on their honeymoon in Mexico, one from her official investiture as ambassador to Vulcan, one of her holding a newborn T'Mir.

And then there was the picture of Trip and Albert and Lizzie at Lizzie's birthday, but it had been moved slightly, to make room for a small, round frame that contained the image of a baby girl with her father's eyes and her mother's ears.

It wasn't T'Mir.

She heard someone behind her, and turned her head to see Elaine approach. "You added her picture," she said softly, and knew she didn't need to specify which one.

"She was family too."

In this season of the year, sandstorms were a common occurrence in and around ShiKahr, the wind patterns and atmospheric pressure being well suited to their formation. That afternoon, before she left the embassy to return home, T'Pol noted that one would passing quite close to her family home, and knew where she would find her husband when she got there.

He did not disappoint.

As she approached the house, she saw him, seated outside the courtyard wall in a folding chair, nursing a bottle of beer, his eyes fixed on the curtain of dark red cloud that swept down from the sky, scouring the land below.

He noted her as she drew near, saluting her with his bottle. "Hey, sweetheart! Wanna join me?"

First things first. "Where are the children?"

"The boys are down for a nap." He tapped the comm on his chair arm. "I got an ear out for 'em. And T'Mir's over at T'Lara's. Should be comin' home in an hour or so."

She smoothed the skirt of her robe, and sat on the bench built into the wall near him. His hand dipped briefly into the cooler at his feet. "Get you a beer?" She lifted an eyebrow at him, and he grinned. "Can't blame a man for tryin'. One of these days you'll say yes."

They watched the clouds together in comfortable silence for a little while. The first time she had caught him at this strange weather watching ritual, she had been perplexed. But in time, she had come to understand it for the mixture of awe and defiance that was, that immensely human combination of motives that seemed to perfectly define Charles Tucker the Third. And then she had come to love it, because she loved him, in all his illogic.

He drained the last swallow of his beer, just as the sound of infant murmuring began to issue from the comm. "Better pack it in," he announced, standing and offering her his hand. She took it, and he smiled suddenly. "Love you, too."

Shuttlepod 2 returned from Columbia, without its passenger. Hoshi sighed to herself, and logged its return. He was really gone - Trip had transferred, spinning some line about a new challenge that she didn't believe for a minute. She knew he didn't either. Something had happened, something he wouldn't talk about, and his evasions hurt, because they didn't make any sense.

He was such a bad liar.

And now that he was gone, there was one final duty to undertake: go to his now empty quarters and clear the comm log from his personal console. She sighed again and rubbed her forehead. She hoped he knew she was mad at him.

It wasn't a task she could put off for long, so that evening, she sucked it up and got it over with, trying not to notice the barrenness of the little room as she sat at the desk. It was a simple enough job - all reports, logs, and official Starfleet correspondence would be archived to a special drive of Enterprise's computer core. His personal messages would have been transferred to Columbia with him. Except…

There was an unsent message, left in the personal channel, addressed to Commander T'Pol.

She should have deleted it immediately.

She didn't.

But reading it was the opposite of illuminating, because it was only three words.

It was you.

Ambassador T'Pol's desk was, unsurprisingly neat and orderly. She kept only what was necessary on its surface, and did not clutter it with sentimental trifles.

There was the rock, though…

Occupying a space directly to the left of her console screen was a solid little block of reddish Earth sandstone, approximately seven or eight centimeters square. It sparkled in the light, owing to its high gypsum content. It was an odd decorative choice, but few would have dared to question it, and T'Pol did not deign to explain it.

"Momma, I found this!" T'Mir thrust cupped hands at her mother, the stone glinting brightly in them. "Look how pretty!"

"That is lovely, T'Mir," she said gravely. "Why do you have it?"

"For you."

T'Pol accepted the gift in the spirit it was given, touching T'Mir's hair with a fond hand. "Then I will treasure it."