CASTAWAYS

"Bloody hell!" was all Malcolm had time to say before every klaxon, alarm, and siren began clanging simultaneously and the shuttlepod, which had been cruising along at full impulse, dropped abruptly to a crawl and swayed sickeningly from side to side.

"What is happening?" T'Pol called over the din, making her way to the front of the shuttle and clutching the back of Malcolm's seat to avoid being thrown off her feet.

"Gravity well!" he shouted back, fighting with the controls to right the craft.

"Reverse thrusters!" T'Pol ordered, but Malcolm shook his head.

"It's no use. We're already past the event horizon!" T'Pol reached around him and pressed the controls to shut off the klaxon. "Best hang on, this is going to be rough!" Malcolm continued in a voice which was much too loud in the suddenly quiet cabin.

T'Pol sat in the copilot's seat and pressed her finger to the comm. controls. "T'Pol to Enterprise." There was no response, as Malcolm had expected. They were well out of communications range with the ship. T'Pol pressed another control. "Mayday. This is a distress call to any ship in the vicinity. We have been pulled into a gravity well. Please respond." The only reply was a brief crackle from the comm., then nothing.

For a moment, everything went deathly silent as the impulse engines cut out as well. The only sound was Malcolm's breathing, quickened by a hefty jolt of adrenaline. He knew the gravity well would eventually spit them out the other end. What he wasn't sure about was whether the shuttlepod could withstand the crushing forces within.

Suddenly, as if in answer to Malcolm's unspoken question, the metal frame surrounding them began to creak ominously. As he watched several dents appeared in the walls of the shuttle.

"The shuttlepod-"

"Shhh!" T'Pol interrupted. She held up her hand for silence, obviously concentrating on some sound he could not perceive. Malcolm waited as noiselessly as possible, trying to quiet his breathing. The sound of his heart pounding in his ears drowned out all external sounds.

"Oxygen is escaping," T'Pol said finally, turning her head from side to side in an apparent attempt to locate the source. "There." She pointed to the back corner of the shuttle, near the ceiling.

Malcolm sprang from his seat and hurried to the spot. When he got closer he too could hear the faint hiss of their precious oxygen being sucked out in the vacuum of space. He found the source, a tiny hole no larger than a pinprick, and, standing on the back bench, covered it with his right forefinger. To his surprise the hissing sound continued, nearly masked by the creaks and groans of the shuttle's frame buckling inward.

"Damn!" Malcolm found another pin-sized hole half a meter from the first and pressed his left forefinger over it. The hissing stopped abruptly. Then T'Pol was standing on the bench behind him with the soldering tool. He removed his finger from the hole closest to her and she quickly patched it. Carefully they changed positions, her body pressed against his back while they maneuvered on the narrow bench. As soon as she was in position, he removed his hand and hastily scooted out of her way while she patched the other hole.

The shuttle, which had been gently spiraling, suddenly tumbled sharply, throwing T'Pol from the bench. She rolled gracefully and sprang to her feet, bouncing in the sudden lack of gravity. Malcolm, who had already reached a seat in the middle of the shuttle before the turbulence hit, captured T'Pol's arm and pulled her down into the chair beside him. Both buckled* themselves in and grimly hung on while the shuttle tossed them ever more violently in every direction.

The creaking and groaning from the metal frame increased in intensity until it became a screech. Watching T'Pol's face, Malcolm could see that it was causing her physical pain. He winced in sympathy.

The hissing sound started up again, this time sounding as if it were coming from all around them. On all sides the shuttles' frame was beginning to buckle and give way under the extreme gravitational forces.

Another violent jolt shook the shuttle, and then sudden acceleration pressed them into their seats. The stars out the front viewport compressed and distorted before returning to normal as the acceleration ceased. The shuttle, with no functioning engines, continued to tumble aimlessly in space. The klaxons and sirens started up again.

"We've been thrown clear!" Malcolm shouted, unbuckling himself from the seat and fighting his way to the front of the shuttle. Looming directly in front of them, now filling the viewscreen, was an enormous blue-green planet.

Malcolm fought with the controls in a frantic attempt to coax the engines back to life, but to no avail. Thrusters stubbornly refused to respond. Without engines, they were definitely in for a rough landing.

He was peripherally aware that T'Pol had once again silenced the alarms and was sending another distress call, which got no audible response.

"Engines are off-line. We're going in," he said as calmly as he could under the circumstances. T'Pol was out of her seat again, applying the soldering tool to every hull breach she could find. The craft began to shudder violently as they approached the atmosphere.

Malcolm fought the controls again, trying to keep the nose of the craft up and the angle shallow enough for them to avoid burning up on re-entry. The cabin became uncomfortably hot. In irritation, Malcolm wiped the sweat from his eyes with his forearm.

T'Pol, who had returned to her seat in the front of the shuttle, calmly buckled herself in and checked the sensors. "Oxygen-Nitrogen atmosphere. Abundant vegetation, no signs of large animal life," she reported.

"Great," Malcolm returned sarcastically. "So provided we survive re-entry we'll have plenty to eat."

"It is unknown whether the vegetation is edible for our species," T'Pol responded evenly, either not perceiving or blithely ignoring his sarcastic tone.

Malcolm didn't have time to think of a comeback because at that moment they broke through the atmosphere and the ground rushed up much too quickly. With no thrusters, he was helpless to slow their descent.

"Come on, pull up, pull up," he muttered, struggling to force the controls to respond with little success. The craft jolted as it contacted the tips of the trees, for a moment skimming along the treetops and then slamming into the ground and continuing to skid. Pieces of metal flew off on impact, which left the cabin exposed to the air.

Ahead of them Malcolm could see that the ground, which had been fairly level, dropped off abruptly to leave only open sky. The shuttlepod hit the precipice and tilted precariously, hanging for a moment balanced on the edge.

Slowly the craft tipped over the edge of the cliff. Out the front windshield, maybe a hundred meters down, was only a wall of gray. A small voice in the back of Malcolm's mind whispered, "water . . ." and then with a stomach-turning lurch they were free-falling. Malcolm heard himself screaming before the nose of the shuttle impacted the surface of the water. He flew forward and struck his face on edge of the control panel. Freezing cold water poured in around him. He was vaguely aware of T'Pol calling his name, then it was drowned out by the water closing in over his head, and he knew no more.

**

"Lieutenant!" T'Pol shouted over the roar of water rushing in through the breaches in the shuttle's hull. She got a brief glimpse of Reed's face, covered in bright red blood, before he was completely submerged. Unbuckling her seatbelt, she struggled through the chest-high water to his side. Taking hold of his arm, she flipped him over so that his face was out of the water. She towed him with her to the back of the shuttle where she pulled the emergency kit from its storage place and heaved the strap over her shoulder and neck.

The shuttle, which had leveled out after the initial impact with the water, tilted nose down again and began to sink. Still holding Reed's head out of the water with one hand, T'Pol fumbled under the water for the handle to open the hatch. When her fingers closed on the lever she heaved it upward with all of her strength, which caused the hatch to blow forcibly outward. The shuttle recoiled backward, throwing her off her feet and nearly causing her to lose her grip on Lieutenant Reed's limp body.

T'Pol shifted Reed around until his back was against her front, and hooked her arm under his chin to keep his face out of the water as best she could in the rapidly shrinking air pocket. Judging by the dimness of the light filtering in through the windows, she estimated the shuttle was already several meters below the surface.

Taking one last deep breath, T'Pol ducked beneath the water and out the hatch. Once free of the sinking shuttle, she kicked for the surface, towing Reed along behind her.

As soon as they broke the surface of the water, T'Pol hauled Reed around in front of her, paddling with both feet and holding his head clear of the water with her hands. Blood still poured freely from a deep gash on his cheek. T'Pol waited, and after several seconds was rewarded with the sound of a shallow breath.

Satisfied that he was breathing on his own, T'Pol pivoted in place until she spotted the shore, over a hundred meters away. She tucked Reed's head in against her shoulder, hooked her hand under his chin, and began to paddle expertly in the direction of land, her rapid pace quickly eating up the distance.

As she swam, T'Pol reflected with some amusement that her colleagues on Vulcan would hardly have recognized her at this moment. Swimming was not exactly a national pastime on her home planet, which had no free groundwater. She had learned to swim at a pool near the Vulcan embassy on Earth, doing laps in the predawn hours when the water was nearly deserted. Like any other physical activity, swimming had come naturally to her. She soon found that her skill in the water was viewed with suspicion and even open contempt by her Vulcan colleagues, which for some reason amused and delighted her much more than was appropriate.

After several minutes of hard swimming, T'Pol reached a point where the water became shallow enough for her to touch the sandy bottom. She dragged Reed's limp body out onto the shore and immediately checked his vitals. His pulse was strong, respirations shallow but steady.

Hands shaking from the cold, T'Pol examined his face, gently probing around the gash with the pads of her fingers. The skin was discolored and swollen, but his maxilliary and zygomatic bones appeared to be intact. She zipped open the emergency kit and took out a small towel, a bandage, and a tube of antibiotic ointment. After she had wiped away the blood and water as best she could, she applied the ointment and bandage to the cut.

Next T'Pol opened an emergency blanket and laid it on the ground next to Reed. She stripped off his cold, wet clothing and hauled him naked onto the blanket. He was covered in wet sand, but that could not be helped. He was in no condition to complain at this point anyway.

T'Pol wrapped the blanket around him. After again checking his vitals and finding them still strong, she scouted around for wood, with which she built a cozy fire fifty or so meters from the shore. As soon as the blaze was burning well, she took hold of Reed's blanket and dragged him over next to the fire.

While T'Pol was squeezing the water from Reed's saturated clothing, she discovered his communicator in the pocket on the sleeve. Her own communicator had disappeared with the shuttle. When she opened the cover, nothing happened-no chitter of an opening channel, no lights, nothing. She turned the device over and water trickled out from a crack in the housing.

With a small sigh, T'Pol set the communicator aside for later study and returned to the task of hanging Reed's clothing up to dry. Judging by the position of the sun, it was early afternoon. If the current temperature was any indication, Reed would need dry clothing to survive the night.

**

Malcolm returned to consciousness suddenly, gasping and thrashing. Water! He was in water! His arms were pinned, he couldn't get out. Drowning, can't breathe, he thought frantically.

He felt hands on his shoulders. "Lieutenant," T'Pol's voice broke through the nightmare. He sat up with a terrified gasp and looked around wildly.

"What-what--?"

"It's all right, Lieutenant," T'Pol said soothingly, hands tugging the blanket up around his shoulders. "You are on land."

"The shuttle--?" He scanned the campsite in confusion.

"It sank." T'Pol sat back on her heels and gestured to the lake, which was barely visible in the dim light of early evening.

"I see." Malcolm sat in silence for a moment while he digested that bit of information. "What about our communicators?"

"Mine is missing, yours is damaged."

"Ah." After another moment of silent contemplation, Malcolm came to realize that he was freezing. He looked down and was aghast to discover that he was naked. Completely naked. He wrapped the blanket more tightly around his shoulders in embarrassment. When he finally met T'Pol's eye, he could have sworn he saw amusement there.

"My clothing . . . you . . . you took off my clothing," he said stupidly. Despite the cold, he could feel the heat of shame climbing up the back of his neck and over his cheeks.

"Yes. It was wet."

Malcolm spluttered incoherently.

"It is dry now. Would you like it back?"

"Yes, please!" he answered quickly. She rose gracefully and crossed to the fire, where his clothing was draped over tree branches, returning after a moment with a bundle which she held out to him. He snaked out one bare arm from beneath the blanket and snatched the bundle from her hand.

Malcolm hastily located his underwear, which was still slightly damp around the waistband. He looked up to find that T'Pol was watching him, hands clasped behind her back.

"If you don't mind?" he snapped. She raised a questioning eyebrow at him. "I'd appreciate a little privacy."

"You may require my assistance."

"I think I can get dressed quite well on my own, thank you. Now if you please?"

T'Pol's shoulder moved upward slightly in a tiny shrug. As soon as her back was to him, Malcolm stood, dropped the blanket, and began to vigorously brush off the sand that clung to his skin. Even though he knew there was no one around, he still felt acutely self-conscious at being so exposed. In the end, his need for modesty won out over his desire for cleanliness, and he hurriedly pulled on his clothes without thoroughly removing all the sand. His uniform smelled unpleasantly of smoke and stagnant water.

"It'll be night soon. We'll need a shelter," Malcolm said while zipping up his coverall. "I'll gather some branches."

T'Pol turned toward him. "Be seated, Lieutenant," she said. "I will build a shelter."

"Nonsense, why should I sit around and let you do all the work?" Malcolm put his foot up on a nearby rock and began to lace up his boots.

"It is not nonsense. You will put the blanket around yourself and sit by the fire."

"Sub-Commander-"

"That is an order, Lieutenant," T'Pol said firmly, placing light emphasis on his rank. "You are injured. It is advisable for you to rest."

"I will rest, as soon as we finish building a shelter."

T'Pol raised her voice ever so slightly. "Lieutenant, follow my orders. Be seated."

"I'm fine," Malcolm grumbled under his breath, but he did as he was told, wrapping up in his blanket and settling himself cross-legged on the ground facing the fire. T'Pol went back to the task she had apparently been working on when he woke up, namely arranging leafy twigs over the branches of two nearby trees to form a crude shelter. Malcolm stared into the fire, but watched her work out of the corner of his eye. She was haphazardly laying out the branches across the gap between the two trees.

"The roof would be more water-resistant if you were to interlace the branches," Malcolm called to her.

"I do not believe it will rain tonight. I can build a more secure shelter in the morning."

Malcolm held his tongue with an effort. He knew it would be no use to argue-T'Pol would just order him to remain silent, and the fight would be over before it even began. Sometimes he wished he could be more like Trip, saying and doing whatever came to his mind without worrying about the consequences. On the other hand, Trip's mouth often got him in trouble, and would even more often if the Captain were stricter about proper procedure.

Thinking about his friends gave Malcolm a momentary pang as it reminded him that they were very far away. In their current situation, it looked as if he wouldn't be seeing them anytime soon. He was stuck here with the ice queen for the foreseeable future. Malcolm sighed softly, hoping T'Pol's sensitive ears wouldn't be able to pick it up.

**

Night fell, clear and cold, with a promise of frost on the air. T'Pol had rationed out one protein bar to Lieutenant Reed and one to herself, along with a pouch of water. Now they lay wrapped in their blankets on opposite sides of the fire. Reed had barely spoken to her since she had ordered him to sit. Reading his body language, T'Pol was fairly certain he was irritated with her, as in fact she herself was mildly irritated with him.

T'Pol attempted to clear her mind for sleep, but was distracted by a quiet sound coming Lieutenant Reed's direction. A rapid clicking sound. After a moment she realized it was his teeth chattering in the cold.

"Lieutenant, are you all right?"

"It's damn cold, Sub-Commander."

"You would be warmer if we put our blankets together," she said sensibly.

There was a pause; her suggestion hung in the frozen air. After a moment he said icily, "Is that an order?"

T'Pol was surprised enough that she responded quickly, "No, it is not."

For several minutes there was silence. Reed's teeth were no longer chattering, but she could still hear his quiet breathing, carried to her ears on the still night air. T'Pol turned over, facing away from him, and resumed trying to sleep. Finally she heard a rustling sound, now drawing closer.

"Sub-Commander?" T'Pol turned onto her back and discovered that Reed was standing over her, blanket in hand and an embarrassed expression on his face.

"Is the offer still open?"

In response, T'Pol pulled back her blanket, spreading it out on the ground. He lay down beside her and covered them both with his blanket, and they tucked it in around the edges.

"Good night," he said when they were tucked in together. He rolled onto his side, facing away from her, his body not touching hers. She could feel him shivering, the motion transferred to her through the blanket.

T'Pol considered what to do. He was clearly cold. Physical contact would provide warmth to them both, although he would benefit more as his body temperature was normally lower than her own. She was aware that if she touched him he was likely to have an adverse reaction, most probably embarrassment. There was also the possibility that he would misinterpret the gesture.

T'Pol chided herself for putting consideration of emotions over physical comfort. He was cold, she could warm him, so why did she hesitate? She turned her body to face the same direction as he was, sliding in closer until she was pressed against his back, her knees bent behind his. His spine stiffened noticeably with the contact.

She pressed on, risking further offense by slipping her arm around his waist and laying her hand lightly against his tense abdomen. His clothing was still damp, she realized, which would add to his perception of the cold. She moved in closer, her arm tightening around him, and after a moment the muscles in his shoulders and stomach began to slacken by degrees, until he lay relaxed against her. His breathing grew shallow and rhythmic.

Closing her eyes, T'Pol again attempted to sleep. She had expected it to be difficult, with the weight of his body against her, the smoky, musty smell of his clothing sharp in her nostrils. But her own exhaustion after a very trying day won out, and she too soon slipped into slumber.

T'Pol woke up alone, with the blanket tucked in around her. She sat up and looked around for Lieutenant Reed, but didn't find him. He had apparently been busy already this morning, because the fire had been built up, and the collapsible pot had been filled with water and placed outside a neat circle of rocks which now surrounded the blaze. Although the sun was just rising over the eastern horizon, it was already considerably warmer than the previous night.

T'Pol stood and gathered up the blankets. When they were safely stowed away, she set the pot of water onto the fire to boil. There was a supply of teabags in the emergency kit, which she intended to put to good use.

A rustling noise from the direction of the lake captured her attention. A moment later Lieutenant Reed appeared, looking considerably cleaner than he had the previous night, and carrying an armload of branches.

"Good morning," he said briskly as he set down his load and brushed bark and splinters off the front of his uniform.

"Good morning. I am boiling water for tea. Would you like some?"

"Sounds lovely. I saw some fruit on one of the trees by the river. The rodents around here certainly find it edible."

"We have no way of knowing how it will affect our systems."

Reed knelt on the ground and began to sort the branches, small in one pile, medium in another, and large in a third. "Without trying one," he said.

"Pardon?"

"We have no way of knowing without trying one."

"I would consider that a last resort, Lieutenant," T'Pol responded while zipping open the emergency kit and extracting two teabags and two collapsible cups.

"We are likely to be trapped here for some time, Sub-Commander. We are going to need something to eat." Reed had finished sorting and was now on his feet, removing the branches T'Pol had placed over their heads the previous night.

"That is true."

"I saw a number of fish in the lake. I think I could probably catch one, if I made a spear." Reed began to arrange the branches on the ground, deftly weaving them together into a closeknit covering which he dropped into place between the two trees. It fit perfectly, with no gaps. T'Pol found herself impressed.

Reed continued talking, as if what he was doing was no difficult feat. "I know you don't eat meat. Maybe we can find a way to test that fruit for you." He set another woven section in place to form a back wall of the shelter and neatly attached it to the roof by some trick which T'Pol was unable to ascertain.

"Perhaps," T'Pol said, distracted by filling the cups with the now boiling water. She added the teabags and carefully stood. Reed took one cup from her and held it with both hands, blowing on it to cool it enough to drink. When he stepped back, T'Pol moved in to admire his handiwork.

"Do they teach this type of shelter construction at StarFleet Academy?" she asked as she ran her hand along the back wall of the enclosure.

"No," he answered shortly. She turned her head to look at him, but he just took a sip of his tea and changed the subject. "Do you think anyone will pick up your distress call?"

"It is possible," she conceded doubtfully. "It is also possible that the shuttle's automatic emergency beacon deployed as it was designed to do, and that signal will be detected by a passing ship."

"But you don't think it's likely," he said with an air of finality.

"No, I don't," she admitted. "As you said, it is likely that we will be forced to survive here for an extended period of time."

Reed crouched by the fire, poking at the flames with a stick. "Well, then, we'd better get started. I saw some smaller trees down by the lake that might be suitable for making a spear."

"Very well," T'Pol said with a slight sigh. She too had seen those fish, while she was dragging Reed from the water the previous day, and she believed that attempting to catch one would be a waste of time. They moved lightning fast, and disappeared under the rocks at the slightest sound. However, if he wished to spend his time in that fruitless endeavor, she was willing to let him try. She would keep herself busy attempting to fix the broken communicator.

**

Archer drummed his fingers on the armrest of the captain's chair in a staccato beat. It would have driven T'Pol crazy, had she been there. But she wasn't there. At the moment, Archer had no idea where she was, and that was driving him crazy.

"Are we at the right coordinates?" he asked Travis, unnecessarily, because he knew as well as Mayweather did that Enterprise was exactly where she was supposed to be, but for some reason the shuttle wasn't there.

"Yes, Captain. They should be here."

"Hoshi, how late are they?" He turned his head to look at his communications officer, who was seated at her station.

"Almost six hours, sir."

"Hail them again."

There was momentary silence while Hoshi complied. "Still nothing, Captain. I'm not reading any signs that the shuttle was ever here, and there are no recent warp trails in the vicinity."

"Then where the hell are they?"

"I don't know, sir."

Archer slumped back down in his chair and resumed drumming the staccato beat. When T'Pol had suggested this mission, she had intended to go alone, but Archer had insisted she take Malcolm along with her for safety's sake. That ought to be enough, right? Two people in a tiny shuttlepod with no weapons to speak of, and engines that couldn't outrun a gnat, hurtling through space to attend a science symposium on some backwater planet that Archer knew almost nothing about. Anything could have happened to them, anything.

Not anything, a rational voice that sounded suspiciously like T'Pol spoke in his mind. They could not have been eaten by bears. It was highly unlikely that they ran off and joined the circus. Archer sighed.

"Travis, set a course for Corilius Prime. Let's find out if they even arrived at the conference."

"Aye, sir."

Chapter 3: Fish story

Malcolm crouched along the lakeshore, intently watching the fish dart in and out of the shadows beneath the overhanging trees. He hefted his spear in his hand, feeling its weight, waiting for the right moment.

In the two weeks they had been trapped on this planet, he had crouched in this very spot on countless occasions, even hurled the spear several times, but always came up empty. The fish were just too damn fast.

His right foot felt like it was going to sleep, so he shifted his weight slightly to rest more on his left. The back of his neck itched, but he refused to move and perhaps frighten his prey away again. Today had to be the day. He was sick to death of eating the sour, underripe berries that T'Pol had deemed safe for consumption. Tonight he was determined to dine on seafood.

The weather, which had been cold when they arrived here, had turned warm in the past week, and Malcolm wore his uniform top down, the sleeves tied around his waist, which left his chest and shoulders bare. Several days ago he had received a nasty sunburn, hence the itchy neck where the burnt skin was peeling.

One fish, about as long as his forearm, lingered in a sunny spot for a split second longer than the others. Malcolm saw his chance and he took it, thrusting forward with the spear and catching the fish in the midsection. At first he wasn't sure he had actually caught it, but when he pulled the spear from the water there was the wriggling fish, impaled neatly on the end.

Malcolm let out a whoop of victory. Then he froze, hearing his cry echo off the cliff on the other side of the lake. It wouldn't do to let T'Pol know how excited he was. She would find some way to shoot him down, he was sure. Better to treat this triumph matter-of-factly, as if it were unimportant, hardly worth mentioning. That attitude would rob her of her ammunition against him.

**

T'Pol carefully arranged berries in rows on rocks in front of their shelter to dry in the sun. She had already finished one batch and was starting on the second when she heard Lieutenant Reed's cry from the lakeshore. She almost started towards him, thinking perhaps he was in trouble, but quickly realized that his cry was not one of fear, in fact quite the opposite, he sounded excited.

A few minutes later Reed entered their campsite, carrying his handmade spear over his left shoulder, right forefinger hooked through the mouth of a fish. A tiny smile played about his lips.

T'Pol raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You caught one."

"Yes," he said nonchalantly. He carefully leaned his spear against a tree then casually tossed the fish down on a large, clean rock. He knelt next to the rock and took out the pocketknife from the emergency kit, wiping the blade on his pant leg.

"Well done," T'Pol said with a slight smile, and his head snapped up at the rare compliment. When he saw her smile, his face lit up with a triumphant grin.

"Thank you." Reed quickly ducked his head and returned to his work of gutting the fish. T'Pol studied him for a moment, watching the muscles in his back ripple as he expertly sliced open the belly of the fish. The skin on his shoulders had darkened in the sun, a layer of pink overlaying the tan underneath. His hair, which had grown well past its usual military cut, curled slightly at the nape of his neck. For a brief instant T'Pol found herself wondering what those curls would feel like.

She shook her head at the foolishness of her thoughts and returned to her own work of laying out the berries to dry. I must try harder to meditate, she told herself. She had tried several times in the past two weeks, but each time had failed to achieve proper concentration. The flame from the fire was too diffuse, and the only candles available were in the emergency kit. She did not feel that lack of meditation was an emergency situation which warranted wasting their only candles.

T'Pol reflected that perhaps it was the mere closeness of their living situation combined with the lack of meditation which led to her current difficulty with control. Their second night on the planet, she had simply laid out the blankets together without consulting him, and he had not complained. They had been sharing the blankets ever since, even though the change in the weather made it no longer necessary. T'Pol found that somehow she just slept better with him next to her. The steady rhythm of his breathing soothed her, lulled her to slumber. She did not even object to his smell anymore, which perhaps was indicative that she had become too comfortable with the situation. She resolved to put some distance between them before she did something she would later regret.

That night T'Pol laid out the blankets on opposite sides of the fire, and if Reed was surprised he gave no sign. He said goodnight, and then turned his back on her and immediately fell asleep. She lay awake for nearly an hour, straining to hear the rhythm of his breathing over the crackle of the fire.

**

After several hours of tossing and turning, par for the course lately, Archer had just crossed the threshold into sleep when the buzzing of the comm. awakened him. He reached up and pressed the button without opening his eyes.

"Archer."

"Captain!" came Hoshi's excited voice. "I think I found something! Can you come to the briefing room?"

Archer didn't even have to ask what she found, or indeed even what she was doing on the bridge at this hour. She had only been working on one project for almost three weeks now: finding that shuttle. Archer made a mental note to order her to take some time off soon.

When he arrived in the briefing room, Hoshi, Travis, and Trip were already there, clustered around the viewer. Over Hoshi's shoulder Archer caught a glimpse of something that looked like an hourglass tipped on its side depicted on the screen.

"What's up?"

"I picked up a trail," Hoshi answered. "It's faint, but I think it's the shuttle."

"And what's that thing?" Archer gestured to the screen.

"That there is a gravity well," Trip said. Archer moved in to get a closer look.

"It looks like they were sucked in, Captain," Hoshi said quietly.

"Wouldn't they have picked it up on sensors?"

Trip shook his head. "Not unless they were running level five scans like we were when we were searching for their ion trail."

"So they were sucked in. Then what would happen to them?"

"Well, it's theoretical, Cap'n. As far as I know no one's ever been inside one of those things before."

"Ok, fine then, theoretically. Could the shuttle survive that?"

Trip took a deep breath. "Theoretically, maybe. The gravitational forces in the middle, the narrow part, are incredibly intense, like being at the bottom of the deepest part of the Pacific Ocean, only multiply that by about a hundred. Our shuttles weren't exactly built to withstand that kind of pressure. After they went through the middle, the shuttle would be tossed out the other end at a high rate of speed, kinda like a slingshot."

"So they'd end up over here." Archer pointed to the far end of the hourglass shape."

"Yeah, but cap'n, that's a huge area. We're talking about millions of cubic kilometers."

"Well, then, we've got our work cut out for us. I don't know about you all, but a search area of 'millions of cubic kilometers' sounds a lot better than 'the entire galaxy.' Trip, download the search parameters into the navigational computers. Travis, set a course, warp five. Hoshi, let's keep our sensors searching for the shuttle's locator beacon or any distress signal they might have sent."

**

For the fifty-seventh time in less than four weeks, T'Pol lifted the power cell from the neat row of communicator components in front of her and closely examined the intricate circuitry within. She could see no obvious reason for it to malfunction, the circuitry appeared intact. If it were functioning properly, the power cell should have recharged itself with solar energy. However, despite its apparent undamaged state, the cell stubbornly refused to recharge.

She turned the device toward the fading light of late afternoon to trace again with her eye the path of the delicate wires. She found that in the insufficient illumination, she could no longer distinguish the circuitry from the housing.

With a tiny sigh, T'Pol carefully replaced the components of the communicator into the container that she had designated for that purpose. She would resume her work tomorrow. In the meantime, a cup of tea was in order.

As she crossed to the fire, T'Pol noticed that the collapsible kettle was already nestled in the flames. When she reached it she saw that it was empty, apparently having boiled dry. Her lips tightened.

T'Pol used a stick to retrieve the kettle from the flames, her annoyance growing when she saw that the bottom was blackened from the heat. Looking up, she spotted Lieutenant Reed sitting on a rock some distance from the shelter, sharpening his spear with the pocketknife.

"Lieutenant," she called tightly.

"What?" Reed turned his head in her direction, but his attention was obviously still on his task.

T'Pol closed the distance between them, holding out the kettle. "You allowed the kettle to boil dry again."

"I suppose I got busy. Sorry." With a dismissive shrug, he turned back to his work.

"The bottom is blackened," T'Pol continued, heat rising in her voice. "If our only pot is ruined, we will have no way to boil water or cook food."

"Look, I said was sorry," he responded in kind. "What more do you want?"

"You must pay closer attention. Your carelessness nearly cost us our kettle."

"But it didn't, did it?" he pointed out, his attention still on his work.

T'Pol felt her irritation build to a flash of anger. She knew that she was dangerously close to losing control of her emotions, but for one second she didn't care. "Lieutenant," she said sharply.

His hands stilled, his face half-turned in her direction. "What?!"

In her anger, T'Pol spoke rashly. "Perhaps if you had been paying closer attention on the shuttle, we would not find ourselves in this predicament."

Reed jumped up and whirled around to face her, the color draining from his cheeks. His lips parted but he said nothing. In an instant T'Pol's anger melted away, only to be replaced by another, even more uncomfortable emotion: guilt. Her comment had hurt him, deeply, as part of her had known it would.

T'Pol forced her voice into a more even tone. "Lieutenant, my comment was inappropriate. Please disregard it."

Reed's lower lip twisted briefly, then he abruptly turned away from her, hand clenched into fists. T'Pol watched the muscles tighten in his bare shoulders. She had damaged him emotionally, and she realized that she had no idea how to repair the damage. Physical injuries she could mend, emotional injuries left her completely baffled.

She attempted to excuse herself, to explain away the insult. "I have not been able to meditate since we arrived here, due to the lack of candles. My emotional control is . . . slipping."

Reed stood very still for a moment, only the muscles rippling in his shoulders as he clenched and unclenched his hands. "Are you finished?" he asked finally, voice thick with an emotion that T'Pol easily identified as contempt. Contempt for her, she thought. T'Pol felt a surge of contempt for herself as well when she realized that with one comment, she had destroyed any respect or affection he might have held for her.

"Yes," she said flatly.

Reed strode off toward the lake without looking back, leaving his spear behind. T'Pol opened her mouth to call him back. It was late afternoon and the air was cooling rapidly. At the last minute, she stopped herself, closing her mouth without speaking. She had no right to tell him what to do, not after what she had said.

**

T'Pol was stoking the fire when Malcolm returned over an hour later. The sun was nearly gone, a few last rays peeked out from between the distant hills and washed the campsite in a kind of golden light. When she saw him, T'Pol dropped the last log on the fire and stood, uncertainly, to watch him approach. He was carrying something.

He entered the shelter without speaking and set his burden down on a rock, lining up what looked like a dozen pinecones in a neat row. When he had finished he finally met her eye. In the light from the fire she could see that his eyes were bloodshot and his face was smudged with dirt.

"These are for you," he said, a current of tension underlying his quiet tone.

T'Pol stared at the pinecones, not sure what to say. After a moment, he picked one up and crossed to the fire. He held it to the embers for a few seconds until the top started to burn brightly. Sheltering the flame with his hands, he moved back inside and carefully placed it on the rock.

"It's a candle," he said awkwardly. "Well, not exactly a candle, but it should do in a pinch."

She entered the shelter and knelt beside the rock, staring mesmerized at the flame, which continued to burn brightly, flickering in the slight breeze. "How did you make this?" she asked softly.

"I covered pinecones in pitch. Each should burn for several hours."

"I see."

There was a pause, during which T'Pol continued to stare at the flickering flame, peripherally aware that Malcolm was shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.

"Look, T'Pol . . ."

She broke her concentration and looked up at him. A lock of his hair had broken free from the rest and curled over his forehead. "Yes?"

He turned away with an almost inaudible sigh. "Never mind. I'm going to wash my hands." Malcolm zipped open the emergency kit and extracted their last bar of soap, which had already shrunk to nearly half of its original size.

T'Pol watched him head down to the lake, until he disappeared in the gloom of twilight. She returned her attention to the flame, under her breath reciting the familiar litany to enter meditation.

Her mind stubbornly refused to clear, her attention drifting away from the solitude and purity of the flame. For some reason that she did not fully understand, she found herself picturing Malcolm's face when he brought his first fish back to camp, the grin of triumph that lit up his features. She smiled slightly at the memory.

Next her mind replayed the moment after she had blamed him for the shuttle crash, picturing again his crestfallen expression, his lip twisting with the effort of controlling his emotions. She reviewed her comments following the insult and discovered that she had not actually apologized to him, only made insufficient excuses for her words, excuses which sounded hollow to her own ears.

She had wounded him deeply, and his response had been to bring her a gift. T'Pol closed her eyes briefly, remembering the awkward silence, during which she had failed to even thank him for his kindness.

Exhaling sharply, she gave up the pretense of meditating. She had to find him, repair the damage she had done, apologize properly and thank him for his gift. It was the only logical response in the situation.

T'Pol blew out the candle and set it beside the others on the rock. She rose to her feet and set out in search of the Lieutenant.

It did not take her long to find him. He was seated on a log at the lake's edge, bent over alternately scrubbing at his hands and dipping them into the water to rinse. He apparently did not hear her approach.

T'Pol stood for a moment behind him, eyes fixed on the curls at his neck. "Lieutenant," she said softly. His head came up but he did not turn toward her. "Lieutenant . . . I apologize."

He turned to face her, his eyes hesitantly meeting hers. The lock of hair fell across his forehead again, softening his face, making him look very young and vulnerable. T'Pol's breath caught in her throat.

With an expression of mild irritation, Malcolm blew a puff of air at the curl, which flew up and then resettled on his forehead. Before she realized what she was doing, T'Pol reached out her hand and gently brushed back the errant lock. Ears turning red, Malcolm looked back down at his wet hands, refusing to meet her eye.

T'Pol skirted the end of the log and crouched in front of him, looking up into his face. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground, one wet hand still rubbing the other.

She caught his wrists and turned his hands over to examine the palms. "Lieutenant, your hands are clean," she said softly. He continued to stare at the ground, chewing on the inside of his lip.

T'Pol lifted his hand to her cheek and inhaled deeply, drinking in the scent. His hands were a heady mixture of pitch and soap, strength combined with surprising tenderness, a perfect metaphor for the man himself. T'Pol suddenly found it intoxicating. She closed her eyes and breathed it in.

"I tried not to use too much soap," he began apologetically. T'Pol's eyes slowly opened and met his at last. They held the eye contact for a long moment, his hand still against her cheek even though she had released his wrist.

"Malcolm," T'Pol whispered, just to say his name, because she had never called him that, but now it felt right. She rested her palm against the side of his face, ran her thumb gently along the faint scar that was still visible on his cheekbone.

Leaning forward, T'Pol brushed her lips against his in a light kiss, and after what seemed like an eternity his lips pressed in to capture hers more firmly. She moved her hand to the back of his neck, fingers slipping through the soft curls at the nape.

Later T'Pol would tell herself that she had lost control, that the kiss, and what followed it, was a momentary impulse, but it wasn't true. Very deliberately she lifted her hand, first two fingers spread in a V. After a moment's hesitation he responded in kind, his fingertips resting against hers.

As soon as their fingers touched his lips parted in a sharp intake of breath, and he blinked in surprise at the slight brush of her mind against his. T'Pol kept the touch light to shield him from the full force of the meld.

She broke the contact, stood, and held out her hand to him. He put his hand in hers and willingly followed her to the shelter.

Chapter 4: Separation Anxiety

T'Pol slowly opened her eyes in the darkness. Her internal chronometer notified her that there were yet three hours remaining before dawn. Behind her, Malcolm's steady breathing told her he still slept. She could feel his breath soft on her neck with each exhalation, his bare arm wrapped around her waist, cool hand resting against the warm skin of her stomach. The touch felt so safe and comforting that she moved in closer against him.

T'Pol scanned the campsite, wondering what had awakened her. After a moment of concentration, she became aware of a steady hum filling the air. A very familiar hum.

"Malcolm," she hissed, laying her hand on his arm. "Malcolm, wake up."

He mumbled sleepily and raised his head. "What is it?"

"A shuttle," she whispered back.

His voice dropped to match hers. "What?'

"The shuttle is here." T'Pol pushed his arm off and sat up, raking her fingers downward through her hair.

"Bloody hell!" Malcolm cursed with quiet intensity. He sprang from the blankets and gathered up their clothing, tossing her uniform to her.

As quickly as they could they pulled their clothes on. T'Pol was fully dressed, but Malcolm was still slipping his undershirt over his head when they heard a familiar voice call, "Hello! Anyone there?"

"Shit!" Malcolm whispered in the semi-darkness as he fumbled with the zipper of his coverall. He had it half-zipped when Commander Tucker came around the corner, flashlight in hand.

"Hey, there you are!" Tucker said excitedly. He swung his torch from T'Pol's face to Malcolm's, his smile faltering a little when neither of them greeted him.

"You guys ok?" Tucker asked uncertainly. He swung his flashlight around the campsite. The beam lingered for a brief second on the haphazardly entwined blankets.

Malcolm finally found his tongue. "Fine, thanks. Glad to see you, Commander." He finished zipping his coverall while T'Pol calmly picked up their blankets and stowed them in the emergency kit.

"Good to see you too, Malcolm. Sub-Commander." Tucker stuck his head outside of the shelter and called, "Captain, I found 'em. In here!"

T'Pol continued her task of cleaning up the campsite, dumping the water from the kettle and stowing it and the knife in the bag. When the captain and Ensign Mayweather entered a moment later, she straightened up to greet them.

"T'Pol! Malcolm! You're a sight for sore eyes," Archer cried when he saw them.

"I am pleased to see you as well, Captain," T'Pol intoned.

"Do you need any help packing up?"

"I believe I have everything. We were not able to rescue much from the shuttle before it sank."

Archer strolled around the shelter, shining his torch at the roof and walls. "This is quite a cozy little shelter you've got here. Something they teach at the Vulcan Science Academy?"

"That is Lieutenant Reed's handiwork," T'Pol replied blandly. Even in the faint light from the approaching sunrise, she could see Malcolm's ears redden.

"Well, I'd love to hear all about it later. As for right now, I bet you'd like to get back to the ship, huh?"

Malcolm caught himself peeking at T'Pol out of the corner of his eye. Apparently the word of the day was 'pretend.' Pretend nothing had happened. Well, if there's one thing the Reeds are masters at, it's pretending, Malcolm told himself wryly. "Certainly, Captain," he said, perhaps a little too brightly. "Will we be able to retrieve the shuttle?"

"I think we could manage it," Trip said eagerly, as the group began the short trek back to the waiting shuttlepod. "Maybe you could help me on that, Malcolm."

The group clambered one by one into the shuttle, the captain and Travis taking the front, Trip in the middle, and T'Pol in the back. Malcolm, who was the last one in, hesitated for a moment, then chose the seat next to T'Pol.

"First I'm going to have a hot shower, eat a meal that doesn't contain any fish or dried berries, and sleep for at least twenty-four hours. Then we'll see about raising the shuttle," Malcolm grinned at the prospect.

Trip turned in his seat to share Malcolm's grin. "I think you've earned it, pal," he said in an undertone. Malcolm felt his ears, which had never completely recovered from T'Pol's compliment, heat up again. He decided to ignore his body's reaction while he shot Trip a look of non-comprehending innocence.

The corner of Trip's lip quirked upward in a knowing smile, but he turned back around in his chair without saying anything more. Malcolm tried to catch T'Pol's eye without drawing the attention of the other occupants of the shuttle, but he was unsuccessful, as she stared straight ahead and ignored him completely. After a moment, he gave up the effort and looked away, carefully hiding his hurt feelings and trying to disregard the unsettled sensation in the pit of his stomach.

"So you caught some fish, huh, Malcolm?" the captain called from the front of the shuttle.

"Yes, Captain. Speedy little buggers they were, too."

"Good for you."

"What was it like going through a gravity well?" Travis asked.

Before Malcolm could respond, T'Pol spoke up. "It is not an experience I would like to repeat."

The captain and Trip both chuckled, and after a moment Malcolm let himself join in. He still watched T'Pol out of the corner of his eye, desperately searching her face for any expression, any hint of what she was feeling. For some reason he felt like his very existence depended on her response. But he was disappointed because her face gave no clue as to her emotional state, if she even had one at all. She did not speak again on the journey back to Enterprise.

When the shuttle reached the launch bay, Malcolm followed Trip out and turned back with his hand out to help T'Pol disembark. She ignored him, however, instead simply clambering out on her own as if Malcolm didn't even exist.

It felt to Malcolm like an eternity before they were cleared from decon, and even longer before the doctor gave them a clean bill of health. Throughout the examination Malcolm studiously avoided eye contact with T'Pol, which wasn't too difficult because she never looked in his direction.

As soon as the doctor cleared them, T'Pol turned to the captain. "I am anxious for a hot shower and sleep, Captain. Thank you for finding us." T'Pol nodded at the rest of the group. "Thank you, Commander, Doctor." Her eyes rested on Malcolm for a brief moment. "Lieutenant," she said coolly.

"Sub-Commander," was his automatic response. His stomach did a flip-flop when her expressionless eyes met his and then flicked away again.

T'Pol turned on her heel and strode calmly out of the room without a backward glance. Malcolm chewed on the inside of his lip while he watched her go.

"Well, Malcolm, it's good to have you back." Archer clapped Malcolm on the back, drawing his attention away from T'Pol's retreating form.

"Good to be back, Captain. I'm tired, too, so if you don't mind, I'll head to my quarters."

"That's fine, Malcolm. Dinner in the captain's mess tonight, say 1900?"

"I'll be there. Thank you, Captain." Malcolm nodded to Trip and Travis. "Thank you all."

Malcolm tried to stride out confidently, as T'Pol had, but discovered it was impossible. All he could think about was talking to T'Pol, but she had made it fairly clear that their relationship was back on a professional level only. It's for the best, he told himself firmly. But somehow that wasn't good enough now. He wanted more.

**

T'Pol sat cross-legged on the floor of her quarters with her meditation candle centered in front of her. It had been a very long day, the longest part being dinner in the captain's mess, with Commander Tucker asking all sorts of intrusive, annoying questions. T'Pol had had to employ emotion- suppression techniques several times to avoid allowing her irritation to show.

Now in the welcome quiet of her quarters, she focused her attention on the solitude and purity of the flame, shutting out all other thoughts. She felt herself sinking into the familiar rhythm of the meditation liturgy, her mind clearing effortlessly.

The ringing of her doorchime broke her concentration, which caused a slight pang of irritation. "Come," she said, with her eyes still fixed on the flame.

The door slid open and T'Pol looked up to see Lieutenant Reed standing awkwardly in the entrance. He made no move to enter the room.

"Enter."

"I'm disturbing you. I'll come back later." He started to turn to leave, but T'Pol called him back.

"Come in, Lieutenant. You are not disturbing me." T'Pol blew out the flame and rose gracefully to her feet.

"I-I wanted to talk to you." Reed said uncomfortably as he stepped into the room. The door slid shut behind him.

"So speak."

"What's-I mean, I want to know what you're thinking." He did not make eye contact.

"On what subject?"

Reed's eyes flicked up with obvious annoyance. "T'Pol, stop that. You know what I mean."

T'Pol took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She had hoped to avoid this conversation altogether, but it appeared that would be impossible. "Lieutenant," she said seriously, "it would be inappropriate for us to pursue a romantic relationship."

Reed's eyes flitted away again. "You're right, of course."

"I acted--impulsively. I was overtired and I allowed my emotions to cloud my judgment. It will not happen again."

"No, of course not." Reed's tone was light, his voice quiet. "We wouldn't want to do anything out of clouded judgment, would we?"

T'Pol watched him curiously. He was reacting with much more restraint than she had expected. "It would be best if we pretended it did not happen at all."

"Pretending is my forte, Sub-Commander," Reed said flippantly. T'Pol tried desperately to read his face, to see past his off-hand comment to his true feelings. She had never been proficient at reading emotions, a skill which appeared to come naturally to most of the humans she met. She believed this ineptitude put her at a distinct disadvantage, particularly in situations such as the present.

She was able to see no hint of any underlying hurt on his face, so she decided to take his comments at face value. The only conclusion was that he had no desire for a relationship beyond the strictly professional. T'Pol was surprised by the almost physical ache that this realization evoked. She quickly suppressed the emotions before they betrayed her by showing up on her face.

"Did you wish to discuss anything else?" she asked finally.

"No, that's all. Good night, Sub-Commander." He smiled briefly, a tight smile that never quite reached his eyes, and left.

"Good night, Lieutenant," T'Pol said to the closed door.

**

Trip stood with a toolbox in each hand and surveyed the outside of Shuttlepod Two. With the gaping hole in the side, it looked like it had been ripped open by a pair of giant jaws. He whistled in surprise at the damage.

Trip looked back at Malcolm, who stood with arms folded and a deep frown on his face. "I'm amazed you survived that."

"Very nearly didn't," Reed grimaced. "If T'Pol hadn't dragged me out, you'd be looking at my corpse right now, sitting right there in the pilot's seat."

Trip shuddered. "I don't even wanna think about that. Well, I guess we've got our work cut out for us."

Together they pried open the hatch, which was stuck half-shut, and climbed into the pod. Trip immediately opened the access panels in the back while Malcolm headed toward the front.

"Can ya purge the injector manifold?" Trip said, setting aside the panel cover and flicking on his flashlight.

"I'm on it." Malcolm pressed the appropriate lever, but instead of the expected hiss of escaping air, they heard a trickle of water running.

"Damn. I was afraid of that. Mal, can you help me back here? The manifolds are all full of water."

A moment later Malcolm was by his side, and Trip handed him the flashlight. "Lay down here," he said, pointing. Malcolm complied. "Keep the light aimed at the manual release valve." He pointed at the spot inside the access port, and Malcolm obediently trained the light on it. Trip lay down on the floor next to him and stuck his head inside the port to reach the valve.

"So, uh, how are things going?"

"Fine," Malcolm answered flatly. Trip turned his head to look at him incredulously.

"That's it? Fine? Details, man!"

Malcolm very deliberately aimed the flashlight directly into Trip's eyes. "Details about what?"

Trip squinted to see Malcolm's face past the light. "You. T'Pol. One set of blankets."

"It was for warmth."

"Bullshit. Why were you putting your clothes on in the middle of the night?"

"It's none of your business, Commander."

"Don't give me that, Malcolm. I told you all about Kaitaama."

"A bit more than I wanted to know, to tell you truth."

Trip yanked the flashlight from Malcolm's hand. "Can you get me a hypospanner?" Malcolm sat up and crawled to the toolbox. When Trip stuck his hand out from under the panel, Malcolm slapped the correct tool into his palm. "At least tell me how long it's been going on."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Since before you were stranded together?" Trip used the hypospanner to open the manual release valve a half-turn, grunting with the effort. Nothing came out, but he could hear gurgling somewhere inside the pipes.

"Trip . . ."

He held the spanner out to Malcolm. "How about the next size up?" Malcolm took the tool from his hand and gave him a different one. "It must have been after we were stuck on Shuttlepod One, unless you're better at keeping a secret than I thought," Trip mused.

He heard Malcolm sigh in resignation. "It was one time, all right."

Trip pulled his head out from under the panel and stared at Malcolm in surprise. "No way!"

When Malcolm nodded mutely, Trip gave a low whistle and broke into a grin that was almost a leer. "You boinked the ice princess!"

"I wouldn't call it 'boinking', Trip."

"All right, 'buggered,' 'rogered,'" Trip rejoined with a terrible imitation of a British accent. "Whatever ya wanna call it. So . . . how was it?"

Malcolm stared at a spot on the bulkhead with a far-away look in his eyes. "It was the most incredible experience I have ever had in my life," he said softly.

Trip's eyebrows shot up at that. "Whoa."

Malcolm shook his head abruptly, as if trying to clear it. The far-away look disappeared and his eyes dropped. "Anyway, it's over."

"What? Whaddaya mean, over?"

"It would be inappropriate for us to pursue a romantic relationship."

"So she dumped ya, huh?" Trip said sympathetically. He stuck his arm up inside the panel and heaved on the valve with all his might. There was more gurgling, and then a rush of brackish, green-brown water flowed out of the pipes and out the open panel. Trip jumped to his feet, but not fast enough to avoid getting his uniform soaked.

"Ugh, gross."

"You think that's bad, try nearly drowning in it."

In disgust, Trip began packing up his tools. "I'm gonna have to get a team down here. This is a waste of time."

"I agree. If you don't mind, I've got work to do in the armory."

"You never answered my question."

"I wasn't aware you had asked one," Malcolm evaded.

"Did she dump ya?"

"There was no dumping involved. It was . . . mutual. Besides, dumping implies a relationship, and there wasn't one."

Trip clapped Malcolm on the shoulder. "Tough break, pal."

Malcolm shook off the hand. "I'm fine, really. Are we finished?"

"Yeah, I guess so. You wanna go get some lunch?"

"No thank you. I've got work to do."

"I'll take a rain check then. See ya."

Malcolm just nodded and headed out of the shuttle bay. Trip watched him go, shaking his head. Malcolm had certainly acted nonchalant about the whole breakup thing, but Trip had the feeling there was more to it than he was letting on.

Chapter 5: Fear of Drowning

Water. Everywhere. He thrashed and fought his way to the surface, a tiny air pocket in a sinking shuttle. He could see her, with her back to him. She was opening the hatch. He tried to call out her name, but was unable to hear his own voice over the roar of the water.

She managed to open the hatch, and swam out, leaving him behind, alone. He tried to follow but could not. His legs felt like they were stuck in cement. He screamed her name again, but again could hear only the roar of the water in response. Then the water closed in over his head, shutting out all sound.

Malcolm woke up with a strangled cry, his covers tangled around his legs and cold sweat soaking through his shirt. For a long moment he just lay still, listening to the sound of his own labored breathing, reminding himself he was still alive.

When he had managed to convince himself it was just a dream, like it had been the last dozen times, he threw off the covers and sat up, rubbing at his scratchy face with his palms. A cup of tea. He needed a cup of tea.

**

T'Pol hesitated outside the door to sick bay. It had been nearly three days since she had returned to Enterprise, and yet she found that, despite extensive meditation, the lack of emotional control which she had experienced while stranded had not disappeared. In fact, if anything, her difficulties had increased since her return to the ship.

She was extremely reluctant to discuss her emotional difficulties with anyone on board. However, it was entirely possible that the symptoms she was experiencing had a purely physical cause. If she were ill, then her illness could perhaps be treated and her symptoms relieved. Weighing the alternatives, she saw no other logical course of action. There was always the possibility that the doctor would diagnose a condition for which there was no cure, but that would also be worth knowing. Taking a deep breath, she pressed the control to open the door to sick bay.

She found the doctor inspecting the animal cages. When he saw her he put down a food dish and smiled brightly at her.

"Sub-Commander, what can I do for you today?"

"I would like you to examine me." T'Pol kept her voice carefully neutral.

"Have a seat." The doctor washed his hands while T'Pol sat primly on the nearest exam table. "What symptoms are you experiencing?" Phlox picked up a scanner from a counter and began to calibrate it.

"My symptoms are not important."

Phlox fixed her with a reproving look. "Sub-Commander, it is difficult for me to perform an appropriate examination if I don't know the patient's symptoms."

T'Pol stared straight ahead. "Very well. Please look for signs of pon farr"

"Ah." The doctor fiddled with the dials on the medical scanner. "And your symptoms?"

"Sleeplessness," T'Pol admitted tonelessly. "Lack of concentration. Irritability. Difficulty with emotional control."

"I see. How long have you had these symptoms?"

"Approximately two weeks and two days."

"Hmm." Phlox frowned at the scanner. "Well, you have none of the hormonal and chemical changes consistent with pon farr. Perhaps if you told me what may have triggered these symptoms?"

"I cannot say."

Phlox set the scanner back down on the counter. "Two weeks ago you were stranded with Lieutenant Reed on an uninhabited planet. Did something happen between you that may be causing your symptoms?"

"It is a private matter," T'Pol evaded.

"Too private to discuss with your doctor?"

"I do not wish to discuss it."

"It may interest you to know that I have been treating Lieutenant Reed for similar symptoms. He also did not wish to discuss any possible cause."

T'Pol did not allow her surprise to show on her face. "It is inappropriate for you to discuss Lieutenant Reed's medical conditions with me."

"Of course. On the other hand, if your symptoms have the same underlying cause. . ."

"Lieutenant Reed's condition is none of my concern. I believe we are finished."

"Would you like me to prescribe a sleep aid?"

"That is not necessary. Good day, Doctor."

As she left sick bay, T'Pol attempted to reason through the situation logically. Premise one: I am experiencing certain symptoms. Premise two: If I am not physically ill, these symptoms must be emotionally based. Premise three: I am not physically ill.

Conclusion: My symptoms are emotionally based.

Further premise one: I am proficient in techniques for controlling emotions. Further premise two: If I faithfully follow these techniques, I will be able to prevent emotions from controlling my actions.

Further conclusion: I will practice techniques to banish emotions. I will not allow my emotions to control my actions.

By the time she reached her final conclusion, T'Pol was outside the door to the science lab. Since she was not due on bridge duty until 1500, she decided to use the time to catch up on the busywork inherent in her position as Enterprise's first officer.

She sat at her immaculate desk and logged in to her workstation. She called up the duty rosters for the coming week. Aeronautics was first, followed by Astrometrics, Communications, and Engineering, all filled in with neat lists of shifts and names. T'Pol scanned down until she reached the roster for Security. It was blank.

T'Pol sat back in her chair and stared at the screen. Lieutenant Reed had not turned in his duty roster. She checked the chronometer: it was 1101. The roster had been due at 0800, which meant that it was over three hours late. In her tenure as first officer, over two years, she had never received a late duty roster from Lieutenant Reed. Commander Tucker, on the other hand, was a different story. She had cautioned the chief engineer for that very infraction on three occasions, and would have placed a written reprimand in his personnel file, had the captain allowed it.

As she stared at the screen, T'Pol decided that she must be even-handed in her treatment of her department heads. She must reprimand Lieutenant Reed. It would be unfair to Commander Tucker to do otherwise.

Thus resolved, T'Pol pushed back her chair and headed toward the armory, where she was sure to find Reed. A small, irrational part of her was glad for the excuse to talk to him. She had been feeling lonely, which was also an irrational reaction, she knew. He had become such a constant presence over the time they were stranded, that she felt almost lost without him.

T'Pol paused a moment in the corridor to regain control of her thoughts. She refused to be controlled by her emotions. Loneliness is illogical; I am sufficient unto myself, she thought. I do not require his presence to be complete.

When T'Pol reached the armory, Ensign Thomas informed her that Lieutenant Reed was working on the phase cannon assembly. She entered the open hatch and found him working alone with his back to her, either disassembling or reassembling a piece of equipment, as pieces were strewn haphazardly around the floor. He apparently did not hear her enter as he continued working and did not turn around.

"Lieutenant," she said brusquely.

He dropped a tool with a clatter, and spun around quickly at the sound of his rank, blinking when he saw her. "Can I help you?" T'Pol noticed that his face as well as his hands were smudged with thick, dark grease.

"You have neglected to turn in your duty roster."

"I haven't finished it yet." He shrugged dismissively.

T'Pol persisted. "It was due today at 0800."

"I've been a little busy, as you can see. This place went to hell in my absence. The phase cannon assembly is in need of serious overhaul." He turned his attention to one of the pieces on the floor.

T'Pol folded her hands tightly behind her back. "Perhaps you can delegate some of the work to members of your crew. That is part of your job as head of security."

Without looking up, Reed said with slight irritation in his voice, "I know what my job is, Sub-Commander." He selected a piece and turned his back to her to affix it to the disassembled phase cannon.

T'Pol watched him in silence for a moment; she could see the muscles in his shoulders rippling under his uniform, and for a brief instant she pictured him shirtless, suntanned, muscles working while he sliced open his first fish. Her eyes traveled to the curls at his neck, and she remembered how soft they felt. She was overtaken with an almost irresistible longing to touch him.

With an effort, T'Pol employed a time-honored technique to banish the emotions that were dangerously close to the surface. When she felt that she was sufficiently under control, she spoke. "When do you think your duty roster might be completed?"

"I don't know, T'Pol," Reed replied in anger so obvious that even T'Pol could read it plainly. "I'm busy here. I'll get to it when I get to it."

T'Pol responded to him with a flash of anger of her own. "Lieutenant, your attitude borders on insubordination," she exclaimed, much more sharply than she had intended

Reed spun around and blinked at her, shock evident on his face. "You're right, I--I'm sorry."

T'Pol sensed his weakness and took a step forward. "Do not think that you can abandon all protocol simply because we have interacted in a less than formal environment. I am your commanding officer, and you will show the proper respect."

Reed just stared at her, swallowing convulsively. Finally he spoke, softly. "Yes, of course, Sub-Commander." His lip twisted briefly, and his eyes dropped to the floor.

As he tipped his head forward, an errant lock of hair slipped down over his forehead. T'Pol felt her breath catch in her throat at the memories it evoked. She was weakening, but refused to give in.

"And Lieutenant," she snapped, replacing the tenderness with irritation.

"Yes?"

"Get a haircut." T'Pol turned on her heel and marched out without looking back.

After she left, Malcolm stood for several minutes rooted in place, gaze fixed on a piece of equipment on the floor. He couldn't quite seem to get his breathing under control, and he discovered that his lower lip was quivering. He pressed his lips together to keep them still. His knees, which felt like jelly, suddenly refused to support his weight.

Malcolm sank down to a sitting position, with his back against the wall. His mind jumped incoherently from one subject to another, his thoughts were jumbled and confused.

He had had relationships fall apart before, had even been dumped a number of times, so he was familiar with the uneasy, empty feeling in his stomach after a breakup. But this . . . this was completely different. It felt like his guts were being ripped out, like he was being torn limb from limb. He didn't understand why it should hurt so badly.

Malcolm told himself firmly to pull it together. There was no reason to fall to pieces over a little thing like this. He told himself to be strong, not to let it affect him so much.

Out of the chaos of his thoughts, a clear image came to his mind, of T'Pol holding his hand to her cheek. He felt her soft skin against his palm, remembered how warm and yielding her lips were when they kissed. He wanted that touch again, so badly it hurt.

The feelings of loneliness and loss overwhelmed him. He drew his knees up and buried his face in his arms, shoulders shaking. For the first time since he was six years old, Malcolm Reed began to sob uncontrollably.

**

At 1303 exactly, Trip Tucker entered the armory in a very good mood. His team had managed to get the shuttlepod's engines to fire up at last, and it looked like they might even have the right parts to repair the gaping hole in the hull.

Tucker nodded to Ensign Thomas and ducked into the phase cannon bay where he knew Malcolm would be working. He found the Lieutenant with his back to him, fitting a piece of the assembly casing in place.

"Hey, Mal. You ready to go to lunch?"

Malcolm finished attaching the piece, but didn't turn around. "Er, go on ahead without me. I'm busy here."

"Come on, Malcolm. You need to take a break. I hear they got pineapple upside down cake," Trip wheedled.

"I'm not hungry." Malcolm's voice was rough. Keeping his back to Trip, he leaned over to pick up another piece of the assembly's casing from the floor.

Trip frowned in concern. "Hey, you ok?" He took Malcolm's arm and turned him around. When he spotted the man's red-rimmed eyes, his voice softened. "Are you crying?"

Malcolm shook off Trip's hand. "I'm fine. Just-just leave me alone, please." He started to turn away again, but Trip moved to get in front of him.

"No, I'm not gonna leave you alone, Malcolm. What's going on?"

"It's nothing. I'll get over it."

"It was T'Pol, wasn't it? What'd she do?"

Malcolm just shook his head and ducked around Trip to pick up the piece of casing. Sniffling, he turned toward the wall and fitted the piece into place. When he was finished, he stayed facing the wall.

Trip folded his arms across his chest. "I'm right, aren't I? The ice princess strikes again. I bet she couldn't resist the chance to kick ya while you're down."

Malcolm swiped at his eyes with his forearm. "It wasn't like that. Please just stay out of it, Trip. This doesn't concern you."

"Like hell it doesn't. You're my friend, Malcolm. Come on, talk to me about it."

Malcolm sniffled again and squared his shoulders. When he turned back to face Trip, his eyes were red but dry. "There is nothing to talk about. Now if you don't mind, I have work to do, as I'm sure you do as well."

Trip recognized that stubborn look in his friend's eyes and knew he wouldn't get anything more out of him, at least not right now. With a sigh, he said, "Fine. We'll talk later."

By the time Trip left the armory, his good mood had evaporated, to be replaced by anger. He wasn't mad at Malcolm, he realized, although it was damned annoying that the man wouldn't tell him what was going on. He was mad at T'Pol for causing the problem in the first place. Although he wasn't sure what had happened on that planet, he was positive that Malcolm wouldn't have initiated a break-up.

Trip shook his head when he remembered how Malcolm had put it: "It would be inappropriate for us to pursue a romantic relationship." He realized now why those words sounded so funny coming from Malcolm's mouth. It was obvious that he had been quoting T'Pol.

The more Trip thought about it, the angrier he became, until he finally decided that he had to talk to T'Pol.

After searching fruitlessly in several places, including the bridge, Trip found T'Pol in the science lab, her head bent over a viewer. She looked up briefly when he entered, but then went back to her work without greeting him.

Trip crossed the lab to stand in front of her. "What's going on with you and Malcolm?" he asked without preamble.

T'Pol's head came up slowly. "There is nothing 'going on,' Commander."

"So you just dumped him for no reason?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Look, T'Pol, I have eyes, all right. I notice stuff."

T'Pol leveled her frostiest gaze at him "What did you notice, Commander?"

"I know what I saw when I walked into your shelter. Don't try to deny it. Malcolm already admitted it."

There was a long pause. Trip could almost see T'Pol's brain working. Finally she gave a small sigh. "I see. Then why are we having this discussion?"

Trip slammed his fist down on the lab table. "Dammit, T'Pol, why do you two have to be so much alike?"

"In what way?"

"You're both so--so close-mouthed. Getting anything outta you is like pulling teeth."

T'Pol's lips pursed in irritation. "It is none of your concern, Commander."

"Oh, yeah? Well, Malcolm is my friend. I don't know what you did to him, but he's cryin'. You hurt my friend, T'Pol, and that makes it my concern."

"He is crying?" T'Pol's voice was even, inflectionless. She doesn't even care, Trip seethed.

"Yes. You broke him, and so help me God you'd better fix him. The sooner the better." Not trusting himself to say more, Trip spun on his heel and stalked out. He didn't look back, because he had a feeling that if he had to see that smug expression on T'Pol's face a moment longer, he'd wind up smacking her, and that probably wouldn't be good for his career.

After the door had slid shut behind Commander Tucker, T'Pol let her shoulders drop and the emotions she had been suppressing softened her face. "What if I am unable to fix him?" she asked the blank, unfeeling door. "I cannot even fix myself."

**

Chapter 6: Ties that Bind

It was the middle of the night, but T'Pol once again found herself unable to sleep. Her attempts to meditate were met with failure as well, and now she was reduced to sitting on her bed with her head in her hands. Commander Tucker's words echoed uncomfortably in her mind. "You broke him, you fix him."

How could she repair Lieutenant Reed? She had apparently damaged him emotionally, but she was unclear what exactly she had done to inflict the injury. Perhaps she should call Commander Tucker and request more information.

Immediately she discarded that idea. It was none of Commander Tucker's concern. If she reasoned logically, she should be able to discern the source of the pain on her own.

In the past few days, logical reasoning had become increasingly difficult to attain, particularly where Lieutenant Reed was concerned. Malcolm, his name is Malcolm, a small, irrational part of her brain reminded her. His eyes are blue-gray, like a stormy sea, the irrational voice whispered. His hair is soft. His skin is soft. Tenderness combined with strength . . .

She brutally silenced the irrational voice. "Logic is my guide," she hissed through clenched teeth. "A relationship with a subordinate officer is against regulations." Not only that, but such a relationship would be impossible, she reminded herself forcefully, as said "subordinate officer" ('Malcolm,' the irrational voice insisted) had made it clear that he had no desire for an . . . intimate relationship with her. Logic dictated that she must accept the reality of the situation and move on. However, the dictates of logic could not prevent the deep sense of loss that manifested itself whenever she thought about her life without him.

In her mind, T'Pol pictured herself placing her emotions in a box and closing the lid. She took a deep breath through her nose and blew it out slowly through her mouth to clear her thoughts.

Having successfully silenced the voice and suppressed her emotional reactions, T'Pol forcibly returned her attention to the matter at hand, namely discerning the source of Malcolm--Lieutenant Reed's pain.

T'Pol thought back to her latest conversation with Lieutenant Reed, in the torpedo bay. She recalled accusing him of unprofessional conduct, but he had agreed with her, so how could that comment have injured him?

She thought back further in the conversation, to when she had suggested that he delegate some of his work. His response had been defensive; in fact, he had snapped that he knew what his job was. T'Pol suddenly realized that by reminding him of his duties, she had most likely offended him. She knew that Lieutenant Reed was very sensitive to suggestions that he was not performing adequately at his job.

A connection was made in her mind, between her reminding Reed of his job, and her comment on the planet where she had blamed the shuttle crash on his inattentiveness. Both comments would likely have the same effect on him.

Confident that she understood the source of his emotional pain, T'Pol now believed that she would indeed be able to fix it. An apology was in order, and perhaps a little encouragement that he indeed performed his duties adequately.

Thus resolved, T'Pol dressed and left her quarters, still barefoot. When she reached Lieutenant Reed's door, she pressed the buzzer without hesitation.

There was a longer than usual pause, and when the door finally opened, Reed was tying the drawstring on a pair of sweatpants. His hair was rumpled and he wore a tank-top style undershirt and nothing on his feet. T'Pol remembered suddenly that it was the middle of the night and she had most likely interrupted his sleep.

For nearly a minute he stood in the doorway, staring at her with an unreadable expression on his face. Finally he stepped back and allowed her to enter.

His quarters were neat, almost obsessively so. He settled himself on his perfectly made bed and drew his feet up to sit cross-legged. T'Pol propped herself on the corner of the desk chair. She took a deep breath to collect her thoughts.

"I would like to apologize to you."

Reed's expression was guarded. "For what?"

"For my comment in the phase cannon bay. I did not mean to insinuate that you did not know how to do your job."

"What do you mean?"

"I suggested that you delegate some of your work. You responded that you knew your job. My suggestion hurt your feelings."

At that moment, Reed did something completely unexpected. He laughed. "I'm not that fragile, T'Pol," he said dryly.

T'Pol took another deep breath. This was not going as well as she had hoped. "I know that you are sensitive regarding your performance at your job. My comment regarding your lack of attention in the shuttle also hurt you. I apologize for that comment as well."

Reed stared at her silently for so long that T'Pol almost repeated her comment, thinking that perhaps he had not understood it. As she opened her mouth to speak, he inhaled sharply.

"Oh my God." He turned his face away from her, fists clenching his lap.

"What is wrong?"

"So that's it, eh? You felt sorry for me." He shook his head in disgust.

T'Pol was completely taken aback by the apparent change in subject. "Excuse me?"

"It was a pity fuck!" Reed slammed his fist into his palm. "I never thought I'd get pity sex from a Vulcan!"

It took T'Pol a second to realize what he was talking about, but when she did, everything suddenly made sense. She had read him incorrectly. His reaction (or rather lack of reaction) to her denial of their relationship had been a sham, and she had fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker, as Commander Tucker might put it.

"No!" She shook her head desperately. "I did not do it because I felt pity for you. I felt . . . How do I explain my actions when I do not fully understand them myself?"

Reed met her eye, and T'Pol caught a glimpse of the depths of his pain. Pain that she had caused, not by any off-hand comment, but by her actions. "Try," he demanded.

"You were kind to me after I had hurt you. I found myself attracted to you. I acted on that attraction. It was a momentary impulse."

"It certainly didn't feel like a 'momentary impulse.' You could have stopped at any time."

T'Pol considered his comment. "Yes, that is true. My actions were not impulsive in the strictest sense of the term. I did act intentionally." Now it was T'Pol's turn to examine her hands and avoid eye contact. "The . . . attraction had existed for several weeks before I acted on it. It began when you created a superior shelter so efficiently and effortlessly."

"Ah, that."

"Yes. You never told me where you acquired such a skill."

"Do you really want to know?" Reed's voice was puzzled.

"Yes."

"It's not a pretty story."

"I would like to hear it."

Malcolm took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. "When I graduated high school, seventeen years old, my father wanted me to enroll in the Naval Academy. I--well, let's just say that wasn't what I wanted to do. So I left."

Malcolm paused in his story and cleared his throat. Finally he continued softly, almost as if he were talking to himself instead of to her. "The day after graduation, I took all the money I had, about one hundred credits, and rode the train as far as it would take me, which happened to be the north of Scotland. Since I had no money left for food or lodging, I spent the entire summer living off the land, fending for myself. Then, when the summer was over, I hitchhiked back to London and joined Starfleet."

"You taught yourself this skill?"

"Among others, yes."

T'Pol almost smiled. "I am more impressed now than I was at the time."

"But if you--if you were attracted to me, then why did you . . ." Malcolm's voice faltered, then continued. "Why did you want to pretend like it had never happened?"

"I thought I was doing what was best for both of us. But now I realize I was only thinking of myself. I did not consider that my actions might hurt you, that you might agree even though you did not wish to."

Reed looked down at his clenched fists in his lap, and T'Pol watched him slowly force his hands to relax. "I'll get over it," he said quietly.

Her gaze traveled to his face, his lips pressed tightly together, his downcast eyes. She felt a surge of emotions wash over her: hurt, confusion, loneliness, desire, all jumbled together. The lock of hair slipped down over his forehead, and T'Pol could not stop herself. She reached out and gently brushed it back.

The touch turned into a caress. Moving to sit next to him on the bed, she stroked down the side of his face, ran her thumb lightly over the nearly invisible scar on his cheekbone. Malcolm sat motionless while she touched him, still looking down. After a moment his eyes came up to meet hers.

"Don't do this unless you mean it," he said very quietly.

"Is this what you want?"

"Yes," he whispered, eyes locked on hers. He leaned in and let his lips brush against hers, and T'Pol felt a thrill of excitement at the contact. Returning and deepening the kiss, she tangled her fingers in the curls at his neck, marveling in their softness. With her lips still pressed to his, her other hand trailed down his chest to the waistband of his pants, fingers working to untie the drawstring. Touching him felt so right, so good, that she didn't feel she could be apart from him a moment longer.

Malcolm's hand covered hers, stopping her motion, and he slowly broke the kiss. "Wait."

"What is it?"

"We-we can't do this," he said in a rough voice.

"Do you not want me?"

Malcolm's eyes dropped. "Yes, I do, but-I'm just mixed up. I don't know what I want." His voice was husky with emotion.

T'Pol lifted his chin to force him to look at her. As soon as their eyes met, the emotions washed over her again, this time confusion and loneliness were at the forefront. In a rare flash of insight, T'Pol understood what was happening, knew the true source of their pain.

"I see."

"See what?" His bewilderment and hurt were obvious.

"I did not believe it was possible with a member of another species."

"What was possible?"

"When we-were intimate-I unintentionally initiated a mating bond. The disruption of this bond is causing us both pain."

T'Pol watched comprehension dawn in his eyes. "That explains it, then," he said.

"Explains what?"

"I didn't understand why I was having such a hard time getting over this. I've been dumped before, but this-this really hurt." Malcolm's voice broke.

T'Pol interlaced her fingers with his. "Commander Tucker told me you were crying."

"He did, eh? I might have known."

"I too have been experiencing emotional repercussions from our . . . breakup."

"You have?"

"Yes. The mating bond is extremely strong. Without you, I have felt completely alone."

Malcolm's eyes flicked up to meet hers for a brief instant and dropped again. He took a breath as if to speak, but released it without saying anything. T'Pol waited, and after a moment he took another quick breath and began to speak in a rush. "When I got back to London after my little adventure in the woods, I found out that my parents had never reported me missing. I wrote them a letter, and they never even opened it. They rejected me, and I was completely alone. That's--that's how I felt, when you asked me to pretend it never happened. So alone." His voice was soft, completely open and honest, without a trace of his usual sarcasm or contempt.

"Malcolm, I am sorry, I never intended to hurt you."

"It's this bond, isn't it? That's what's making us both so miserable." There was silence for a moment as Malcolm chewed on the inside of his lip. "Can you--can you fix this? Can the bond be broken?"

"It is possible to break the bond, but the process can also be painful. Is that what you want?"

"I don't know," he said miserably. Malcolm's gaze locked on hers, and for several seconds they held the eye contact. "Yes," he said with a tone of finality. "We have to. We can't-we can't . . ."

"I agree," T'Pol replied reluctantly. She held up her hand, with her first two fingers spread in a V. His hand came up instinctively, without hesitation, to meet hers.

**

As soon as T'Pol completed the ritual, Malcolm curled up on his bed and fell almost instantly into a deep sleep. She sat beside him on the edge of the bed, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. He looked so peaceful, so vulnerable, with his rumpled clothes and mussed hair. Very lightly T'Pol stroked his hair back from his forehead.

"Malcolm," she whispered. He stirred slightly in his sleep but did not waken. Reluctantly T'Pol withdrew her hand and stood. She had intended to simply walk out without looking back, but something drew to him, kept her standing by the bed gazing down at his motionless form.

She felt a twinge of an emotion which she belatedly identified as regret. It seemed that in her very soul there was now a blank space, an empty spot that he had filled, but no longer. A small part of her longed for that space to be filled again.

The more rational parts of her brain took over, pushed the loss and longing aside, and reasserted control. Straightening her spine, she turned and strode out with her eyes straight ahead.

**