Author's Notes:

I don't own them; they might own me.

First off, I want to thank everyone who has come to read, review, follow, or favorite. Being new here, it's incredibly inspiring to know that my stories are providing entertainment, making people think, giving those sizzling TnT feels. April is my busiest writing month, and this weekend my kids and I are visiting out-of-state friends, so I may not answer comments right away. Please know that I am reading them, and I'll be back to answer when the dust clears and my mind is coherent enough for that task. As always, I love feedback, and find it very useful, so let me have it!

And, speaking of sizzle, this story has sex. Not just in allusions. It's not graphic or the entirety of the scene, but the M rating applies, and the piece is probably NSFW. None in this chapter, which is rated T for minor allusions to prescription medication abuse.

This scene takes place between during "The Xindi", as an exploration of the neuropressure thread. Spoilers for "The Xindi", "Bounty", and "The Expanse", and references to my previous story, "Cowled".

The Needs of the Many

Phlox considers the problem as he moves to the tank of eels. This crew has faced a terrible trauma, and it has fallen to them to ensure their homeworld's safety. They've spent most of the last months in transit back to Earth, then to the Expanse, and now through it, seeking what seem to be extremely sparse clues.

He spends a few moments watching their graceful movements. Enterprise's crew is understandably stressed, and it's beginning to take a physiological toll on them. There is little to be done, in most cases, beyond palliative care. Only answers will settle things; only information can provide those answers.

Subcommander T'Pol is graceful - and a very long way from home. She is less given to personal talk than anyone on the ship. Although she seems to have adjusted to her sudden departure from the High Command, there was likely to be a certain isolation in her new reality. It can't be easy for a Vulcan cut off from her own people and the ways her human shipmates offer and receive comfort.

"I sense she is too much alone, and knows of no way to deal with the lack." He nods to the tank, and takes up a pinch of snow beetle droppings, which contain optimal nutrition for the eels.

Commander Tucker's personal trauma is far deeper than the fresh wound that scores his planet's surface- it goes to his soul. Earth will heal; those who had been in the path of the attack, as the Commander's sister had been, could not. Death is permanent - and its impact upon the formerly easygoing engineer has been profound. His connection to his sibling was deep and sustaining. Where once his easy manner set the tone for the crew, now he is far more volatile - and he isn't sleeping. He's in desperate need of solace and rest. He's seeking respite in hyposprays full of sedatives; but there is no sedative that can overwhelm his grief, and he runs a grave risk of becoming dependent upon them.

Two of the eels are ignoring the food; they are engaged in a mating dance, and won't eat until after their coupling period ends. Phlox reserves a bit of the food - the others will consume all that is available, but these two will no doubt be hungry, when their amorous activities end.

The doctor watches the mating pair, and a plan begins to form. Perhaps he can assist Commander Tucker and Subcommander T'Pol to find mutual healing, through healing one another. He smiles and leaves the eels to their own devices, as the humans would say. Yes, that will do nicely, if he approaches it properly.

Sometimes, privacy and basic nature can do more than any amount of advisement or medical intervention.

T'Pol studies her face in the small mirror, attempting to surmise what he will see when he looks at her tonight. She appears nearly as tired as she feels; it has been a challenging day, beginning with Phlox's revelation regarding the Commander's insomnia, and his request, so casually expressed. But of course the Denobulan physician doesn't know the import of what he asked, nor how conflicted she is by her own agreement.

Perhaps she should call Doctor Phlox, and explain that this deeply intimate practice is never engaged in between unbonded members of opposite genders. Perhaps it's best to explain the inherent risks, and the intended purpose of neuropressure in the establishment and deepening of the pairbond, and as a prelude to sexual relations.

If he knew the significance of the practice, of its vital place in Vulcan culture, would he have asked her to do this thing? Would he advise her to abort the effort, and find some other means to help the engineer manage his grief?

And if he couldn't?

Commander Tucker's day was, by all accounts, far more challenging than her own, and compounded by the effects of grief and exhaustion. Perhaps, he won't even notice her appearance. Nor should that matter to her, beyond the manner in which she might use it as a tool for his benefit, and Enterprise's, and Earth's.

The needs of the many….

T'Pol traces the upswept pinnae of her ears, and her fingertips begin to tremble. He is fascinated with her ears. He touched them, the first time they were in Decon together, and she had had to suppress the tremor of response. She wants him to touch her ears again. This is illogical; her ears will play no part in the neuropressure. She touched his neatly rounded ears that day, as well. Her fingertips yearn to do so again, to explore that which, even after years spent living among humans, is Other to her instincts regarding ears.

No. The respective shapes of their ears are irrelevant to her purposes.

The needs of the many outweigh the wants of the one.

And if she somehow damages him?

T'Pol picks up her lotion, and slathers it over her hands. She tells herself she's desensitizing her fingertips; that it's a necessary precaution. But she allows herself to take pleasure in the slip and tug of the lubricant, in her own touch. A small primal sound parts her lips, and her blood suffuses her face, bringing a new warmth, and a dusky tone. Would he find that appealing, or far too alien, a reminder that even their blood differs?

That is irrelevant. They need not have similar blood chemistry to share neuropressure. They need only mutual willingness, and access to the necessary skills.

She is accomplished at the practice. She had spent what time she wasn't otherwise engaged in study of human anatomy. There didn't seem to be any prohibitive differences, although many of the neural nodes were located slightly differently than their Vulcan counterparts, and she would require her full concentration, and an incremental learning process, to be certain of placement and response, which might be very different in such an emotionally undisciplined species.…

T'Pol finds herself standing by her comm, still caressing her own hands. Did she move here consciously? Does it matter? The fact that she is touching herself in a manner intended to stimulate arousal, is proof that she must recuse herself.

She can't treat Commander Tucker if she isn't in control of her own desires. She reaches for the speaker button, intending to call Phlox.

But she stops, staring at her own paired and trembling fingers. An instinctive response, as the touching was. Instinctive, and revealing.

Logically, she ought not touch him, simply because of how deeply she wants to touch him. How deeply she feels the desire to ease his pain, not for Enterprise, or Earth, or even for him.

She wants to help him because she can't bear the thought of his suffering, the angry, wounded edge in his bearing, the distance and rage in his eyes, and the absence of his once familiar smiles and laughter.

The needs of the many are the want of the one.

She can't press the button. He is her flame; her nectar. He had been, in a restaurant in San Francisco. He is tonight. Nothing has changed, and for her, nothing will. Even if he feels nothing, if the attempt is a complete failure - she is Awakened to him. No other male can hold any appeal for her, so long as Charles Tucker the Third lives.

She will have to face her own responses to him, and the emotions that drive them. She will be vulnerable, because she desires him. Since the premature and pre-empted commencement of her mating cycle, the desire has been a spiraling live thing within her, growing like the tentacled entity that had once threatened to take over the ship.

And if he doesn't desire her?

T'Pol has no answer for that. She ponders it while she showers, and dresses in her sleepwear – made from the Triaxian silk he had given her, in a color that matches his eyes. She ponders it while she stares into her mirror, and finally she goes to her bench, and removes the book she had bought on Earth, still wrapped in the brown paper. She dares not open it tonight, but she traces the image on the cover with her trembling fingers that long to touch bared human skin.

T'Pol's hands, strong yet gentle, play over Trip's back, and, everywhere she touches, warm relaxation spreads outward from the neural nodes he didn't even know he had, before tonight.

Why the hell did he fight this so hard? He's alone with T'Pol, shirtless, and she's touching him. It's peaceful here in her quarters, with its dimness and candlelight, and the deep peace that reigns here. A woman's touch; if understated. He can tell what colors she likes best, what textures she enjoys touching.

She hasn't said much, except to explain what she's doing, and to instruct him in the proper breathing, which she'd already told him at least five times was 'vitally important'. But she seems - comfortable. It feels like maybe she enjoys touching him. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking, because he loves the feel of her hot fingers and her powerful, gentle hands moving on him, the sound of her breath moving through her, as he matches his own to it.

He's a little ashamed that it's taken him this long to realize that she's lonely, and that maybe he can help her by letting her help him. But she must need to talk, sometimes. Could just this be enough for her?

Time to up the ante. And put himself out there.

"I've been having these nightmares." It seems far too loud in this room, and he wishes he could take the words back. For a moment, there's only breathing, but her hands go still on his shoulders.

"I'm sorry." Once, he wouldn't have been to able to hear the sincerity in her simple words. She'd told him he had a lot to learn about listening to Vulcans, and she'd been right.

"Do you, still?" He says nothing more; she doesn't like being vulnerable. Does anyone?

"I employ various techniques to guide my dreaming," she murmurs. Trip realizes that she hasn't really answered, but he doesn't call her on it. Her room; her hands on his shoulders. T'Pol leans forward. He feels her breast brush his shoulder, tantalizing. "Your breathing, Commander."

"Sorry." Did it mean something, that she'd taken off her shirt? That she let her breast touch him? That she was wearing pajamas made out of baby-blue Triaxian silk?

He isn't about to open that can of worms tonight. Might have jumped on the chance, a few months back - but now, he's not sure what he has to offer her. She's essentially given up everything to come with them. Because he'd gotten her drunk? Was it an impulsive choice that she now has to live with? And what the hell will he do if she gets hurt or killed out here?

"Breathing is the most important component of neuropressure," she reminds him yet again. Trip turns a little, to see her watching him with that worried look on her face. He wonders just when he'd learned to read her expressions and her voice - when she first came aboard, she'd seemed almost robotically nonexpressive. But then, he'd already seen the way the music danced across her face in tiny, potent shifts.

Damn - remembering that sent his breathing in the wrong direction.

"Would it help you to talk about the details of your dreams, Trip? I don't wish to pry, but they seem to be - distressing. I've learned humans often benefit from the sharing of such things."

She stayed behind him, and he was grateful for that small grace. He was on the ragged edge of either tears or rage too much lately; sometimes both, at once. Usually, with no idea which was coming. "Yeah, maybe it would - but this is just between us, right? You're not going to report it back to Phlox?"

"Your dreams are a personal matter. I will not share them without your permission." The candles flicker, and she breathes smoothly, her hands sliding over his shoulders and down his arms. Does she know what she's doing, or is this something else?

Whichever, it's damned soothing. He doesn't so much decide to tell her, as the words just come pouring out of him like they've been waiting for an excuse.

"I'm standing by the house. It's a beautiful day, and Lizzie's out at the edge of the park – there was a table there, by the fountain. She had her tea parties there when she was really little, and liked to read in that same spot when she got bigger. Sometimes we're kids, and sometimes adults- " A choking sob breaks from him. "Sorry -"

"There's no need. "Her hands are hot and comforting as they softly caress his upper arms. She leans her cheek into his shoulder; her breath prickling the skin on the back of his neck with new awareness. They're alone, in candlelight, on her bed, and she's only in some thin clingy silk. "There's no need." She repeats it, her voice huskier than usual, but barely more than a whisper.

"I'm screaming to her to get out, to move. But I can't get close to her, and she doesn't hear me. The probe is coming, but she's looking at me and trying to figure out what I'm saying. Then the wind hits her, whips her hair into her face. She had such pretty long blonde hair - she was so proud of it..." Trip bows his head over the pain, and her hands move in slow circles - not neuropressure, just a comforting touch on his skin. Comfort for him? Herself? Both of them? "She turns, and the fires hit her, and, just like that, she's gone...and that's when I wake up."

That did it. He's crying like a baby.

Her arms wrap around his neck, and he feels wetness on his shoulder. Is T'Pol crying with him? "I grieve with you, Trip. Perhaps, if I were human, I would know what to say -"

That pulls a tiny smile from him. "Don't count on it. I never do." He wants to turn to her, wrap his arms around her, feel her in his arms as proof he's more alive than he's felt lately, more than the ragged broken edges of rage and tears that marked the slicing scorched place where home and Lizzie had been. But he's afraid to break the spell, or mention what she might see as a lapse of control.

So he cries, great heaving noises that echo in her still sacred Vulcan space, that intrude on her sanctuary. He's shaken by their force; he hurts, but his focus is on her silent tears on his skin. Proof, as if he needs it, that she feels, and feels deeply.

For him.

Phlox smiles. It's late into ship's night, and he'd had no visit from Commander Tucker. T'Pol, when asked, had said only that neuropressure was an intimate experience, that Commander Tucker had accepted it, and that she would say no more concerning it, as it was a matter of privacy. But she looked - more centered, and less alone, than she had a day ago.

The eels were back to their mating dance. Perhaps, in the end, it was the most basic of contacts that held the most potency.