#st:ent

She situated the bottle to her liking, tucked under her chin, and Trip re-adjusted the blankets, cocooning her. The word made his heart hurt, scared him more than nearly dying ever had. It was a harbinger of something being wrong, of her body diverting its energy to her insides instead of focusing on homeostasis.

“OK, well hopefully that’ll help, yeah?” All he could really see was her nose and eyes. Under other circumstances, it might have been adorable, but her nose wrinkled as her teeth chattered, and the bone-deep terror at the prospect of losing her eclipsed any cuteness that might have been there.

He sat down on the bed next to her and pulled out the book they had been reading: The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, one that his mother had sent them, a loving note tucked inside and a promise to visit when Eliza was feeling better. Carefully, he traced the writing inside the front cover: Property of Elizabeth Tucker II, gently inscribed in his father’s handwriting. In Trip’s darker moments, he wanted to beg his parents to visit, to move in with them, give him someone to lean on in the almost-inevitable situation that Eliza died. And then he thought of his sister - Elizabeth Tucker I - and crumpled under the weight of his grief, crumpled under the guilt of asking them to love another one whose life was so likely to be cut short.

“Are you gonna read?”

He blinked back into the small room. “Sorry, yeah. Where were we?” There was another of Travis’ woolen attempts tucked into the book, adorned with a clumsy letter that could have been an E. “Right, hiding in the wardrobe: 'I wish the Macready would hurry up and take all these people away,' said Susan presently, 'I'm getting horribly cramped.'”

Beside him, his daughter sighed, a small, content noise, and he let the two of them get lost in the story for a little while, long enough for her shivering to slowly subside and her eyes to droop, heavy with sleep.

“OK,” he whispered, reaching the end of chapter eight, “I think that’s enough for tonight. You want the night light?”

“Uh huh.”

“Alright then.”

“Daddy?” Her tiny voice followed him across the room as he turned the lamp on and the main lights off.

“What’s up, Betsy?”

There was a pause. He turned back to see that she had wriggled her hands out, and was frowning down at the bedspread, fingers tangled up in the fabric, tight enough that he could see imprints starting to form on her skin.

“Hey, hey,” he pulled her hands away, cradling them between his own, “something wrong? You can tell me.”

She still wouldn’t meet his eye. “Why…” and then she trailed off, clenching her hands into fists almost unconsciously around his fingers.

“Why what?”

She shrugged, an almost imperceptible motion.

“Do you want me to get mom? So you can ask her?”

Eliza’s eyes went wide as they finally met his. “No. No, don’t get mom.”

“OK.” He chewed down on his bottom lip, watching as she went back to frowning at the duvet. “Do you want me to guess?”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to ask it anymore.”

“Alright.” He squeezed her fingers, gently. It wouldn’t do well to push, she was like her mother in that regard, stubborn to a fault and more likely to dig her heels in if someone disagreed. “Well, if you change your mind again, I’m always here, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He stifled a sigh. “OK. You warm enough? Need another layer?”

“No thank you, Daddy.”

“OK.”

*

It wasn’t until the next morning, too early for anyone to be awake, that he finally heard the question. The seizure she had had partway through the night had finally ended, but her little body was still shivering against an imagined chill.

T’Pol pressed fingers to their daughter’s forehead. “She’s still burning up.”

He nodded, exhausted from another night of no sleep. “Phlox?”

“I will call him. Just to check that everything is… normal.”

Not alright, it was never really going to be alright, but as long as there was no change, nothing new that they needed to worry about, Trip thought they could handle it.

Eliza’s eyes fluttered open as T’Pol left the room, a tiny crease appearing above her nose as she looked around for her mother.

“Mom’s just gone to get the doctor.”

The crease vanished again, replaced by the same bone-deep weariness that Trip felt. “Hurts.”

“What hurts, baby?”

“Everything.”

He swallowed down the sob that threatened to erupt. “I know, I know it does. Phlox’ll be here soon, OK? We’ll see what he can do.”

She folded her body around his hand, tucking it into her chest like it was her favourite teddy. “Daddy?”

“Still here, baby.”

“Why didn’t you let me die?”

He froze. For a moment, he couldn’t even get enough air in to breathe, let alone reply, and when he did, only one word came out.

“What?” It was more of a strangled sound than a word, but she understood him regardless.

“You knew that I would always be like this. I will always be sick. You could have let me die and started again. With a proper child, like Lorian from the other timeline.”

There was too much there for Trip to really process. “We love you. We’ve always loved you, from the moment we knew you existed.”

She twisted slightly, turning her head so one eye (her bad eye, his brain provided, unprompted) was peeking out to look at him. “Then why did you make me live?”

That time he couldn’t quite choke down the sob or push back the tears. “Betsy, baby…”

“I hurt.” She whispered, tears building up in her own eyes. “All the time. Everything hurts.”

And what could he say to that?

He was interrupted by T’Pol re-entering, Phlox at her side. The doctor had his usual cheerful smile affixed to his face, but there was a tension around the edges that Trip was getting to know all too well.

“Hello, Miss Eliza,” he said, the tension dropping slightly as he turned to smile at the little girl, “how are we doing today?”

She shrugged, wiggling out of the blankets just enough that he was able to do his checks. “‘M fine.”

The doctor nodded, keeping up a careful stream of chatter as he went through the motions they were all too familiar with, but his face was serious when he turned back to them with the tricorder. “I’m not sure what has happened, but she needs to be monitored.”

It was a code, really, Eliza hated the hospital and saying it aloud would send her into a spiral.

“No.” She said from the bed. “No, Daddy, please I don’t want to.”

“Sweetheart…”

He saw T’Pol nod out the corner of his eye, and permitted the sedation, which was going to be necessary to get her there.

“No!” Her voice trailed up into a scream as Phlox and her mother approached her, even as the hypospray was hidden, and her eyes turned on him, wide and scared and pleading. “Daddy! Please, please, I don’t wanna–”

The sedative took effect quickly and the silence in the room was almost too much to bear.

“I will find a gurney.” Phlox said quietly. “If you can prepare her to be transported.”

*

Trip sat beside Eliza’s hospital bed, his fingers tangled in the fabric of the blanket draped over her. She was still pale, too still, the only movement the slow, deliberate rise and fall of her chest. Machines beeped steadily, an artificial heartbeat filling the room.

He should have been relieved that she was stable. That the seizure hadn’t caused more damage, that Phlox had assured them this wasn’t worse than what they’d already endured before. But all he could hear was her voice from that morning, too small, too fragile, asking him why he hadn’t let her die.

He buried his face in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. He’d spent years holding himself together for her. He couldn’t break now. But God, he wanted to.

“You’re allowed to fall apart, you know.”

He flinched at the voice, looking up sharply to see a woman standing in the doorway. She was older, her hair streaked with grey, and her expression one of gentle understanding. He thought he might recognise her, might have seen her in the hospital before in passing, but now she was stepping into the hospital room like she’d been exactly where he was sitting before.

“Heather.” She offered, settling into the seat next to him, the one that had been set up for T’Pol before something else had gone wrong somewhere else and she’d been dragged away.

Part of Trip can’t help but think that she was relieved it had happened, that she didn’t have to sit with him in the oppressive silence with nothing to do but wait.

“I—” he started, but nothing came out. He cleared his throat. “I don’t know how to help her.”

Heather nodded, “No parent does.”

And it’s something about the exhausted understanding in her voice that lets him exhale shakily, his hands flexing as if searching for something to hold onto. “She asked me why I didn’t let her die,” he admitted, voice raw. “Like I made a mistake saving her.”

She was quiet for a long moment. “I have a foster son. Well, we think of him as just our son, but paperwork is…” she trailed off, running a hand through her hair. “Noah. His… mother, she got sick of how much he talked at one point. He was three. He loved her. And she just… have you seen the damage concentrated caustic soda can do?”

Trip shook his head.

She nodded, slow, “Yeah. It’s… she poured it in his mouth, to shut him up, melted off almost all of his tongue. It’s why we’re in here fairly often, he has weekly appointments where they stretch out what’s left in the hopes that he’ll be able to talk again at some point.”

There was a long silence in the hospital room, punctuated by the beeping of the machines and Heather’s slightly ragged breath.

“Yeah. That’s why he was put with us. Anyway, he can’t talk but… when he first came to live with us, it was clear he hated himself. That he thought he wasn’t worth the space he took up. And me and my husband, we tried, we took him to the therapy appointments, we did the assignments. They helped, a little.” She let out a breath, shaking her head. “It took time, but he started to understand that what she did didn’t reflect him, that how he looked now didn’t reflect who he was and that… we only got that far because he found people who understood him. People who made him feel like he belonged.”

Trip swallowed hard. “How?”

She offered a small smile. “There’s a dance class. It’s for kids like ours. Some have mobility aids, some don’t. Some are in pain every day. But they all get it. And for a little while, they don’t have to explain themselves.” She hesitated before adding, “It’s not a miracle fix. But it helps.”

Trip didn’t answer right away. He looked back at Eliza, at the faint crease between her brows even in sleep, the way her small hands curled into fists. He thought about how isolated she’d been. How every time another treatment failed, she withdrew a little more, convinced she was a burden.

He didn’t know if a dance class could change that. But it was something.

“Okay,” he said finally, voice hoarse. “Tell me more.

Heather had to leave soon after, but she left him with the contact details for the class and a promise that she would speak to the dance teacher about Eliza’s situation. T’Pol had sent a quick message, with the details of whatever problem she was dealing with, but he just read enough to confirm that she wasn’t hurt, just busy, and hoped to be back by that evening, which was why he was so surprised when the door opened again.

Malcolm, Hoshi, and Travis stood in the doorway, still in uniform, and they hesitated for a moment before stepping inside, their expressions filled with quiet concern.

“We heard,” Malcolm said simply, his voice quieter than usual.

Trip blinked, feeling a pang of guilt deep in his chest. He hadn’t even realized they were back on Earth. He’d been so consumed by Eliza—her pain, her questions, her endless struggle—that he hadn’t thought about anything or anyone else.

Hoshi noticed his expression, because of course she did, and gently knocked him on the shoulder. “Hey, don’t think like that, we know how much she needs you.”

Travis nodded, “We just wanted you to know we’re here. For both of you.”

Trip let out a breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I appreciate that. I just…” He shook his head. “I don’t know what to do for her.”

Malcolm sat down in the chair Heather had vacated. “You’re here.” He said. “That matters.”

There had been enough sleepless nights on the Enterprise when Malcolm had admitted what his childhood was like into the silence that Trip knew how much that meant coming from him.

“Thanks.”

Travis glanced at the bed where Eliza lay, her tiny hands still curled into fists. “You should get some sleep.”

Trip scoffed. “I can’t just leave her.”

Hoshi raised an eyebrow. “We’re not asking you to leave. Just rest. We’ll stay. You won’t be any use to anyone if you collapse.”

He hesitated, exhaustion warring with anxiety in his chest, but… these were his friends, T’Pol’s friends, and they loved Eliza as much as the two of them did. The exhaustion was bone-deep, weighing him down. “Alright,” he relented. “Just for a little while.”

And as he finally let himself rest, crashed out on the pull-out parent bed all the children’s rooms provided, knowing that nothing would happen to either of them with those three watching over, the weight on his chest lightened just a fraction.

*

T’Pol was back when he woke, sitting quietly in the plastic chair, her gaze settled on Eliza’s still form, even as her head turned slightly towards him.

“Malcolm said she remained stable.” She reported. “Although she still has not woken.”

He nodded, pushing back the paper-thin blanket that someone had settled over him at some point. “Figured he would have woken me if she had.”

Their little girl lay between them, her blonde hair fanned out on the pillow in a way that reminded him of his sister’s favourite fairy tale. Sleeping Beauty. Possessed by a ridiculous instinct, he bent over and kissed her on the forehead. Her brow wrinkled slightly at the touch, smoothed out again when he pulled back and remained still.

She didn’t wake up.

T’Pol moved around the bed to stand next to him, pressing her shoulder against his, and her fingers hesitated before they brushed over the same spot he had just kissed. “She asked why we made her live.”

Of course T’Pol had heard that, he’d been stupid to think otherwise or that he could keep it from her. Trip exhaled, rubbing his hands over his face. “Yeah.”

For a long moment, his wife was silent, leaning over their daughter in a way that placed their profiles opposite each other - like that, he could see the way she had inherited her mother’s nose. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter than usual. “I have always believed logic could explain all things. But there is no logic in suffering.”

Despite everything, despite knowing his wife like the back of his own hand and despite knowing how much she adored their daughter, her words made his throat tighten in horror. “So what do we do?”

T’Pol’s expression softened in a way only he would notice. “We show her that she is not alone.”

He thought of Heather again, and her promise that the dance class had helped Noah, had brought him out of the shell that trauma had pushed him into. “We show her she’s not alone.” He breathed in, a deep, stabilising breath. “I might have an idea.”

*

She finally stirred the next morning, blinking blearily up at them, still sleepy enough not to notice the way Trip’s eyes welled up instantly with relieved tears, and her voice was rough when she spoke.

“Mama?”

“I am here.” T’Pol reached for her hand without hesitation.

Their little girl stretched out her other hand, almost blindly, “Daddy?”

He caught hold of it, “I’m here, darlin’, we got you.”

She blinks, her vision obviously clearing as she sat up, not releasing either of them. “I want to go home.”

“We gotta speak to the doctors first, OK?”

Eliza agrees, albeit stubbornly, and Trip pauses at the door, looking back at her. “We’re gonna help you, darlin’. You don’t have to do this alone.”

T’Pol, still holding Eliza’s hand, nodded. “You are not alone.”

For the first time in a long while, Eliza didn’t argue.

*

Eliza did not want to go to the dance class. That was understandable, PhysEd was one of the subjects she had been pulled out of at school at Phlox’s suggestion that exercises designed to keep healthy children fit might not be the best match for her, and she hated that. If there was anything she hated more than school as a concept, it was feeling different, feeling other.

No matter how much he tried to convince her that this class wouldn’t be like that, she wasn’t buying it. She stood stiffly in front of the doors, arms crossed and face set in a scowl. “This is stupid.”

Trip crouched in front of her, adjusting the jacket around her shoulders. “Hey, you don’t have to do anything, you can just sit and watch if you want, but we just want you to try going in there, OK?”

She didn’t answer, staring pointedly at the ground as T’Pol gently propelled her into the studio. The space was bright, warm, almost too warm for Trip, but none of the kids already in there seemed bothered by it. There had to have been about eight or nine of them, some of them already moving around, negating any attempts he made to count them, and a slightly larger group of adults, some sat in chairs towards the side, others on the floor with the children.

They varied in age, some older, a couple younger, some using crutches, some missing limbs, some moving carefully like every step had to be measured.

Noah was already there, his mom carefully lacing up pink shoes, but she smiled, waved at the three of them, and led her son over to meet them.

“Hi, you must be Eliza, I’m Heather and this is Noah.” Her hands moved as she spoke, carefully signing out the words.

Eliza nodded, slowly as their small group was joined by another woman, who introduced herself as Darcy, the dance teacher.

“Did you want to come and dance today?” She asked Eliza, her smile bright and genuine, “Or just sit and watch?”

Eliza shrugged, but she slowly emerged from behind Trip's legs.

Another boy, one with a prosthetic leg, caught her eye and grinned, signing something to Noah before he waved them both over.

Noah went immediately. Eliza hesitated.