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She smiles slightly.

"Looks like we should pack, then, and I should get repatriated." She laughs. "And if everything works out, in a few weeks we'll be on the books married in the Federation, instead of retroactively recognized at some time who knows when."
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"That'll be cute."

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They pack.

They fly to New Vulcan; they are not interrupted on the way by any Starfleet vessels cackling "gotcha".

They dock; they shuttle down; their hotel room is comped; off goes Isabella to her repatriation ceremony.

It takes a little longer than expected. She's not back in the morning.

This morning is circled, in her calendar.
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...

Lalita goes looking. Early.
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He can hear shouting, when he approaches the room.

One of the voices is Isabella's, and there is a familiar tension in her voice, if you happen to have an augmented memory and can remember that far back.

"- would have been betrothed regardless, if your father had -"

"I said no - I am - I am spoken for - I have a sa-kugalsu -"

"He is not a Vulcan, T'Mir -"

When he gets to the door, he can see Isabella backed into a corner, shaking, face drawn and pale, and she sees him, and she screams at the top of her lungs, "Kal-if-fee!"
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That is a word Lalita knows.

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"T'Mir, be serious," says one of the Vulcans. He's probably not the one Lalita may be about to fight; that's probably the young man over there in the corner, who isn't in as bad shape as Isabella is but appears to be coming up on his own little problem. It's not entirely clear whether this was how he'd have chosen to resolve it. "V'Ler is -"

"It's my right, I am claiming it," Isabella hisses through gritted teeth, "if my sa-kugalsu will champion me against your - your breeding program."
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"Of course I will, darling."

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Isabella sinks to the floor and hugs her knees and shakes.

"This backfired," murmurs one of the elder Vulcans to another, "V'Ler could wind up dead instead of married, I told the High Council -"

"There's nothing for it now, and if he lives it will break the fever, at least," the other mutters. They probably don't intend to be overheard, but no one counts on Lalita's ears.

V'Ler, the young man in the corner, is now visibly sizing up the challenger.
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Lalita smiles slightly.

"I'll try not to kill him. He is a member of an endangered species."

He doesn't look like much, all together - tall, lithe, human. But he is entirely too confident for a human who speaks Vulcan this well, who apparently understands exactly what is going on, who is betrothed to a half-Vulcan, and who is about to fulfill a combat challenge for her right to deny her Vulcan suitor.
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V'Ler notices this, but he's - distracted; either his own conveniently timed hormonal issues are in full swing now or he finds something attractive about crying, life-threateningly desperate women who have been surprise-engaged to him as part of recovering said endangered species.

He shifts his weight, takes a step forward.

"T'Mir, your display is unseemly, even at this time," hisses one of the elders.

"I hate you so much," she hisses back at him through the tears.
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It is upsetting to watch Isabella cry. He doesn't like it.

"I'll just be a minute, darling," he says gently.

In the event, once the challenge has begun, it takes him forty seconds to put V'Ler on the floor. He is not fucking around. Not with this.
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V'Ler makes some sort of noise. He's definitely not eying Isabella anymore.

The elders are - surprised - but they don't get between Lalita and Isabella, who uncurls from herself enough to hold out her arms towards him, trembling.
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He hugs her.

"C'mon back to the hotel, my love," he murmurs in English.
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She can walk. It's a little hard to remember that particular use of her limbs at the moment, but if she can lean on him, head on his shoulder, tearstained face tucked against his neck, she can follow him.

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He leads her back to the hotel.

He scoops her up and carries her to bed.
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She appreciates being carried, very very much, because then she doesn't need her arms to hold herself up with him as support, and her hands can creep up to his face, and she can reach out -

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Oh.

Oh.

Well then.

They are about to become very married.
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The very marriedest.

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So married. So, so married. So fucking married.

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Emphasis on one of those words.

Pon farr isn't always contagious, especially interspecies, but it happens, syncs up Vulcan couples - he won't drop into his own cycle without her present, if they should be separated, but she can pull him into hers per occasion, it would seem.

And this time she isn't a desperate, confused virgin and he isn't a near-stranger.

They will be extremely fucking married.
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He does not bother to pretend to need any more sleep than he actually requires in order to keep on marrying her.

It's a very long week.
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Best week. Best fucking week.

At the end of it they sleep on each other. And are married.
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So very married! Married and snuggly.

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Eventually, Isabella wakes up.

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