This was a quick birthday-fic for my brother who really liked the dynamic between Archer and T'pol, and was disappointed their relationship didn't get more airtime. Needless to say, such a request was tantamount to putting up the Bat signal.

He hadn't wanted her.

Now he was willing to boot somebody out an airlock to keep her.

Archer rocked slightly in his chair, watching the hypnotic whirl of space through the viewscreen, stars flashing by at a comfortable warp 3. It was late alpha shift, just a few hours before beta. His senior bridge crew, while far from inattentive, had slipped into the professional daze of an uneventful week coupled with a very unremarkable day. Trip and Mayweather were conversing quietly at their station. Baseball, if the snippets he could glean was any indication.

Chin in hand, Archer propped his elbow on the arm of his chair. They had 18 hours before they were scheduled to rendezvous with the Vulcan cruiser – ostentatiously named the High Culture, the pompous pricks. 18 hours left to convince T'pol to stay. Or, alternatively, to find some Xindi, one or two space-time disturbances, and accidentally forget to make his rendezvous. Might buy him a day or two.

Archer huffed a sigh. If the subcommander had been human, he could have appealed to her emotionally (maybe even tried to guilt-trip her). But she wasn't, so how would he even begin to persuade a Vulcan? Logically, her tour of duty was up. She had no "logical" reason to stay. Archer considered a roundabout approach. I could plead my poor, pathetic human weaknesses and say I'd drive right through a star without her holy Vulcan-ness onboard to hold my hand. It burned his ass, but hey. He'd take what he could get, even if it meant backtracking two year's progress.

Toes on deck, Archer continued to rock his chair lightly from side to side, well-worn hydraulics creaking softly. He was used to T'pol's calm, even monotone relaying him information in a crisis. He'd come to rely on how she thought, how her perfectly rational brain approached the myriad of problems they faced out here, in the unfriendly black of deep space. And as much as her Vulcan snootiness had grated on his nerves, Archer had also learned it was the perfect counterbalance to his less cerebral human crew.

If he was the heart of the Enterprise, then T'pol was its brain.

He tried to imagine what he'd do without his brain.

It wasn't a pretty sight.

His next sigh came out more like a growl of frustration. She was his science officer. A member of his crew! Indian-giving douchebags. Archer wondered that they'd do if he simply refused to hand T'pol over for transfer. Torpedo me, probably, he sulked. He knew he was being unreasonable, but in the silence of his own head, he figured he was entitled. He couldn't ask Starfleet to intercede on his behalf. They had no authority here, and he wouldn't ask the Vulcan High Command to piss on him if he was on fire. He had to convince T'pol herself. Assuming, of course, that it was her decision to make, which – in all likelihood – it wasn't. She had superiors, too. Orders to follow. Regulations to be obeyed.

The lift doors swished open, heralding a yeoman with a tray of coffee. Decaf, of course, it being so late into alpha shift. Phlox's orders. Caffeine keeping too many personnel from getting the appropriate amount of REM sleep, or so the doctor's last report had read. Archer considered it a personal offense. Without caffeine, coffee was denied its entire purpose in life. He reminded himself to have a little chat with the good doctor regarding his crimes against nature.

"Coffee, captain?"

Archer grunted something unintelligible, but took the cup anyway. It was scalding hot. Good. He sipped it slowly, rolling the styrene cup between palms held well away from his body. When he'd been a cadet, the ship he'd been serving on had fallen suddenly out of warp, the sudden jolt dousing his crotch with boiling liquid. He could still remember the embarrassment of a 17-year-old boy forced to present his swollen privates to a female CMO for treatment.

Archer took another swallow. Well, at least it was funny in hindsight.

The last few hours of alpha shift petered away with alarming rapidity and Archer was no closer to solving his problem than he'd been a week ago, when the transfer order had originally came in. He was running out of time. Behind him, T'pol rose from her chair with a soft rustle of velvet, pausing to intercom for her beta shift replacement. Archer felt his guts tighten. They'd be docking with the High Culture first thing tomorrow morning. What was he going to do then, affix himself to her leg and beg? He had some pride left. Not much, but some. If he were going to resort to that he'd rather do it aboard the Enterprise, not in front of some sanctimonious Vulcan ambassador.

T'pol reached the turbolift and Archer shot to his feet faster than strictly necessary. "Hold the door," he ordered. T'pol gave him the Eyebrow, stepping inside to wait for him. Archer scurried inside with as much dignity as he could muster, smoothing the front of his jumpsuit as the lift doors closed.

"Deck 5, captain?"

"Deck 5."

T'pol tapped the control panel with the brisk grace only Vulcans seemed capable of performing. The lift gave a soft jolt, alternating stripes of light playing across the subcommander's hair. In such close proximity to her, Archer could smell the resinous haze of incense that seemed to cling to her clothes, as familiar as the aftershave and thin lubricating oils that identified Trip, or the sweet orange miasma that surrounded Hoshi. In a world of sanitized duranium and sterile, recycled air, bereft of all the smells normally found planetside, it was these little, intensely personal things that made the Enterprise more than just a ship, her crew more than personnel. It made them family. Archer's throat seemed to close up for a moment.

T'pol turned her head to look at him. "Is there something you wish to speak of, Captain?" she asked evenly, the cool inflection of her voice vibrating softly in the enclosed space.

Archer couldn't do it. She was just too damn Vulcan. All logic and cold-blooded rationale, nothing so ineffective as sentimentality. It was impossible. There was no way he'd get her to stay, even if he went down on his knees and pleaded. If anything, such a disgusting human display of emotion would just turn her away faster. Archer's jaw hardened.

"Nothing, subcommander," he said, his tone clipped. Suddenly all he wanted to do was sleep, forget about Vulcans and Starfleet, and the stupid rules that made each of them tick.

The lift suddenly ground to a halt.

T'pol gracefully reached a hand out and steadied herself against the wall, swaying slightly. After a moment of hanging motionless in the turboshaft, Archer irritably punched the intercom. "Archer to Bridge."

"Trip here, Captain. I see it. Looks like we've got a circuit burnout in relay nine. Emergency stops halted the lift between Deck's 4 and 5."

No kidding, mister. Archer resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. "How long till it's repaired?" he sighed.

"Well…" a pause as if Trip was assessing his instruments. "Unknown, Captain. I've got a damage control team on the way now, so… ETA five minutes to get there, ten minutes to fix the lift."

Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes stuck in a narrow 4×7 cylinder with the Vulcan whom he couldn't decide whether he wanted to hug (screw Vulcan tradition) and never see again (maybe my new science officer will be a little easier to like). "Keep me posted. Archer out," he said, resigning himself to wait. He slouched against the wall of the turbolift, zippers jingling.

"A circuit burnout in that relay is unlikely," T'pol informed him, clasping her hands behind her back. Archer fought the scowl threatening to crawl over his face, annoyed by the familiar gesture. Among humans at least, hands were meant to expressive – pointing, clapping, waving about in frustration. Did they teach them to do that in widdle Vulcan grammar school, to keep those treacherous hands under heavy guard?

"The electrical currents required to burn out that relay do not pass through that particular part of the ship," T'pol continued, oblivious, "therefore it is likely that Mr. Tucker will find his diagnosis in error."

"We went through an ion storm last week," Archer growled, scrubbing a hand over his face. He needed to remember to shave in the morning. "The ionization could have overloaded something."

"Perhaps," T'pol allowed, her tone of voice indicating that she was merely placating him. Archer took a deep breath, refusing to rise to the bait. He'd matured beyond the need to argue with a computer over every little detail. Instead he listened to the soft pulse of the Enterprise around him, the ubiquitous hum of her engines. As the turbolifts were designed for transport rather than long-term occupation, the temperature inside the lift was perceptibly cooler than the rest of the ship. Not unpleasant, but noticeable. Archer absently ran his fingers along the wall at his back, feeling the oddly jutting seam of a wallplate.

Crap. When did his hands migrate back there, leaving him standing in a would-be imitation of the Vulcan? He let his head fall back to stare at the ceiling. Another minute or two drained away, and T'pol offered nothing in the way of small-talk. Her prolonged periods of silence had become another constant. She only spoke when she had data to offer him, or if he asked for her opinion. It was usually fine by him. Usually.

Today the silence was cold and Archer was nonplussed to notice that it was mirrored in T'pol's too-straight posture, the rigid hike of her shoulders. Not that the Vulcan would do anything so demeaning as slouch, but there was a certain… looseness in her limbs when she was at ease. She was not at ease. Her hands were clasped just a bit too tightly, her chin held just a little too high.

Archer swallowed. Just when had he become so attuned to her mannerisms? There was no stardate he could pinpoint, just the knowledge that somewhere along the line, she'd ceased being the subcommander (aka The Vulcan Spy) and became T'pol. Just T'pol.

Aw, hell, who am I trying to kid? I need her here – the Enterprise needs her. We really might fly into a star, or God only knows what else. She'd become the stable pivot upon which his command could rotate. Archer carded his fingers through his hair in a gesture of helplessness. He had to say something. Even if she smacked him down for it, he had to try. He couldn't live with himself if he didn't try.

"T'pol?"

She rotated to look at him, her face impassive. "Yes, sir?"

Archer opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again like a fish gaping for air. T'pol's eyebrow began a slow, imperious ascent into her hairline. Archer's face reddened. "Stop that," he spluttered. "This is hard enough without you being all…" he gestured at her as if it explained everything.

An awkward silence fell. Archer clapped a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing nervously. Be direct, Jon. "Look," he began, "is there any way I could convince you to stay onboard the Enterprise?"

His face was positively glowing now. What had happened to the bravado that'd seen him safely though over a dozen encounters with hostile species? He dug deep and attempted to conjure some.

"It's dangerous enough out here without me training some bright-eyed kid fresh out of the academy to fill your shoes," Archer continued with a surety he didn't feel. Nevermind the fact that Starfleet would never assign him some "bright-eyed kid". He'd get the best of the best, an officer with years under his or her belt. He already knew this. Commander Romack's transfer papers had already been sent to him for review, effective the moment they rendezvoused with the High Culture.

"You know the ship, the crew – the kind of things we face out here. I value your experience," Archer said, finding there was no need to fake the sincerity in his voice. "We leave for the Expanse in less than 32 hours and don't want this ship vulnerable due to your absence."

T'pol took a moment to cogitate a response. "Starfleet officers are well-trained. If such an unlikely thing occurred, it would be temporary," she pointed out, uncomfortably stiff. Trying to box him into a corner with her insufferable logic. Archer didn't have time to stop and grind his teeth.

"Was that a backwards little compliment?" he queried, smiling a little when she bristled. "I'm not talking about familiarity with the make and model of my ship, subcommander. I'm talking about personal relationships."

T'pol inhaled for a reply. Archer held up a hand to stall her. "Illogical, I know, but nevertheless, it exists," he said. "A strange little fact about humans is that they tend to work better with people they know, people they've learned to trust through experience, not commendations on a transfer packet."

T'pol's dark eyes regarded him solemnly. "And you trust me, Captain?"

Her voice was soft, neutral. Calling his bluff.

He wasn't bluffing.

"With my life," he said firmly. "And I think I can speak for the crew as well. You don't make the best drinking buddy, subcommander, but you are irreplaceable."

Silence. Just when Archer was certain that his admittedly schoompy admission had been a Very Big Illogical Mistake, he watched the tension bled from T'pol's shoulders. Her chin lowered, causing the overhead light to catch in her eyes, and somehow they seemed inexplicably warmer

"Your statement is illogical. However, I must concede the facts; familiarity does seem to foster higher rates of efficiency among the crew," she told him, disdainfully polite. Archer held his breath as T'pol hesitated for a moment, taking longer to formulate her next response.

"Given this information, including the current assignment of the Enterprise, it would seem irresponsible of me to transfer at this time." T'pol straightened to face him at attention. "Request permission to apply for an extended tour of duty, sir."

"Granted," said Archer, breathing a sigh of relief. It was such a religious experience, he felt confident enough to offer the subcommander a little grin. "After all, I'd hate to say we drove right through a star because you weren't around."

"If such a gross miscalculation befell the Enterprise, then as helmsman it would be the fault of Ensign Mayweather, not I," she sniffed. "In any case we would be vaporized in the event, thus freeing you from any obligations to report to Starfleet."

Archer burst out laughing, much to the scandal of the Vulcan standing next to him. God knew it felt so good to get that off his chest. He'd noted the wording of T'pol's answer – not so much a "will stay" as a "try to stay" – but he counted it as a victory. A heaping big one, thank you very much, and a very respectful up yours to the Vulcan cruiser waiting for them in the morning.

"Finally," Hoshi sighed dramatically. "I swear, if I had to listen to the Captain creak his chair like that for another cycle..." she left the threat hanging.

Mayweather nodded adamantly. It wasn't just the chair creaking. And it wasn't just the Captain. Vulcan's didn't feel emotion his ass. Over the past week, the silence at the end of T'pol's sentences had been brittle enough to give them all splinters.

Looking very smug with himself, Trip arced his arms over his head, savoring the luxuriant stretch of a job well done, and tapped a button on his command console, releasing the Emergency Stop on the lift. "Power restored, Captain," he said into the com, over which the three co-conspirators had most certainly not been listening. "You should be good to go."

"Appreciated, Mr. Tucker. Get a repair crew in the tubes tomorrow morning before it happens again."

"Aye, sir."

He'd get right on that.