Languidly, leisurely, he fluttered his eyes open and stared into the early morning sunlight that reflected off the ceiling. Jonathan Archer grabbed the sheet and snuggled it just over his nose in an attempt to ignore morning and the urge to get up and get ready for another workday.
The sleep, what little he had, was glorious … like the kind he'd enjoyed decades ago … the kind that was accompanied by his Dad announcing a plate of 'flapjacks' was downstairs waiting for him. It was a slumber that tricked him momentarily into thinking the only thing he had to worry about was whether there'd be enough snow for his sled.
'That's it!' he thought with a start. Twitching his nostrils at the crisp air, he knew what awaited him: snow.
Throwing off the covers, he sprang to his feet and tossed on yesterday's clothes – brown pants and a tan shirt. Gleefully, he bounded out of his room into the cabin's main living area to look out the primary and largest window.
A slender woman loomed near the large pane that was surrounded by planks of old wood, blocking his view. When she heard his the floorboards creak and his ankle pop, she turned around.
"It's snowing," T'Pol said.
A pleased smirk landed on his face.
"They shut down the base. The building where our negotiations are to take place has been closed …."
His smirk grew into a smile. Ever since they'd landed on Nara, Archer'd been hoping for a day off – a day to explore the forests, which he'd had the opportunity to gaze at longingly on his way to the negotiations every morning and squint to see through the darkness on his way back home.
"Perhaps you don't understand the magnitude of the situation," she said, continuing.
The Vulcan droned on about unpredictable weather patterns, which she warned would be problematic before they even journeyed down to the planet, as well as the native's inability to cope with their own self-inflicted climate issues – thanks to an industrial revolution that ran amok.
Ignoring his first officer, which he sometimes did too well, he moved to the window to see for himself. His first glance outside shocked him: everything was white. Everything. This wasn't the light dusting he remembered from his childhood in New York; it was the kind he'd read happened to Chicago and upstate New York on rare occasion. More than 1.5 meters of snow had dumped onto the ground and by the look of things another 2 meters could easily come within the next hour. In other words ….
"A blizzard," she said, flatly.
Concern wrinkled onto his forehead. "How long is this supposed to last?"
"I don't know. Apparently erratic weather is typical to these people, as I believe I mentioned to you already."
Yeah -- she'd mentioned it more than once. Archer exhaled.
He and T'Pol had been cooped up together all week. They ate every meal together, spent all day in negotiations with the Narans together, debrief about those negotiations together … and basically had spent too much time … together.
It wasn't just seeing each other at every waking moment – the cabin was small. In fact, Archer mused to himself that the size of the entire cabin was roughly the same size of the apartment he had back in San Francisco: two tiny bedrooms (only big enough for a bed), a living room/kitchen area and one bathroom. And all of this was the same size of his apartment – hardly luxury quarters.
Worse still – neither one had a lot of sleep. Narans were infamous for needing two two-hour naps: one in the middle of the day (cots were provided) and one in the middle of the night. Because they were on Nara, they were approximating their sleep cycle as best they could. Almost ever-present daylight made it impossible to rest anyway. The Naran's day began at 0400 hours, just about the time Archer and T'Pol left every morning, and ended at 2400 hours, just about the time Archer and T'Pol got back every night. Even T'Pol, who was used to only sleeping four hours a night, was cranky. Unknown to Archer, she was especially crabby because she could hear him snoring during the roughly two hours they slept per night.
And to top it off, as if they needed additional problems, the Narans ate very little. Archer spent most of his time in negotiations absolutely famished. In fact, one day the Narans could hear his stomach rumbling, which became a source of amusement for pretty much everyone except Archer and T'Pol. Constantly up, working and not eating made Jonathan Archer a very hungry and unpleasant person to be around. He'd managed to stave off most of his grumpiness, but found himself occasionally snapping at his first officer for no reason other than thinned patience; the venting he unleashed on her prevented displaying bad manners to the Narans, whom he considered his hosts. Sadly, from day three on, Archer had taken to gorging himself at breakfast, the only meal he didn't spend with the Narans, to make up for his birdlike eating patterns the rest of the day.
Spending every waking hour with each other in very cramped spaces, including the meeting room where they'd spent the majority of their time, sleeping very little and eating even less had frayed both of their nerves … even T'Pol's, though she was much less confrontational about her discomfort.
Archer continued to remind himself of Starfleet's request – it was imperative he be on his best behavior. If this planet wasn't in such a strategic location and Starfleet, the Andorians and the Vulcans felt better about the Klingons and Romulans, they wouldn't have sent Enterprise out here. Nara just happened to be smack dab between Qo'nos and Romulus. Aligning themselves with the Narans was a top priority.
His first inclination was to snap at the way T'Pol continued to remind him that she suggested Ambassador Quant come aboard Enterprise. She reminded him nearly every day, including twice yesterday – once as they'd slogged through the rain and last night when the electrical storm threatened to knock out their power or start a fire.
No matter, he told himself, he was still happy with the decision to travel to the planet. Worse than spending a week annoyed was denying himself the chance to put his feet on solid land and smell fresh air.
"Guess we'll just have to make do," he said, trying to coax her with a fake smile.
It didn't work.
"We're running low on supplies," she said, with unease.
"It could be over soon," he said.
"That's what you said about the rain."
Archer frowned. It had been raining, no pouring, for three days straight – leading into a fantastic lightning storm the kind he'd never witnessed before. The two Enterprise officers had squishy shoes, damp hair and soggy clothing for three days and because there were tiny holes in the cabin, a small amount of water had managed to leak into their abode causing some of their personal items to become wet, including the wicks or T'Pol's candles and the blankets on Archer's bed.
"Well, it eventually stopped," he said, trying to prevent his voice from growling at her.
"Now it's frozen precipitation."
"All right. Fine." With his hands on his hips he decided to confront her. "I might be getting on your nerves, but you know what?"
Her eyes widened as she braced herself for him to begin yelling at her again –something he'd already done twice since they landed, which didn't include the gruff way he talked to her usually around meal times.
Feeling his temper begin to slip away, he decided the best thing he could do was stop and go back to disregarding what she said. Scratching the back of his neck he avoided her gaze.
"Forget it," he said with defeat.
"It has been a difficult week," she said.
Already raised, her eyebrow twitched. Vulcans experienced emotions, but few leaked out. Certainly irritation was the only one permitted to show. Unfortunately for Captain Archer, she'd been showing a lot of that … and it was a trait she knew he disliked from her species … along with haughtiness. The lack of sleep and inability to meditate, the reduction in food, the close quarters (indeed she was already out of her nasal numbing agent) and time together had pressed her beyond her limits. The one thing she never liked about her own people was their ability to be rude to the cheeriest of races. And now that she had so much experience with other races, she realized Vulcans were rude often.
"Perhaps this storm will allow us to catch up on our sleep," she suggested.
With that concession, his voice softened. "We apparently got four hours already today," he said. "It was nice to sleep in."
She nodded as he decided there was no time like the present and turned to go back to bed, despite the sunlight.
Before he could trudge back into the bedroom, she decided to clear the air about something that had prevented her from sleeping the full four hours he'd alluded to.
"Captain … perhaps we should talk about last night."
Startled, he pivoted quickly, but managed to avert her eyes.
"Listen, T'Pol, it's okay …."
"No, it's been, I believe you would say … worrying me."
"It could've happened to anyone."
He was looking for a quick escape – worse than incident itself was to talk about it. Obviously, that was something she didn't understand about humans.
"I doubt anyone would accidentally see their commander in the nude."
Interrupting the brief silence, the communicator buzzed.
With relief, the captain grabbed the device and flung it open.
"Archer here."
"Cap'n, we picked up a hell of a snow storm on long-range sensors. Everything okay down there?"
He knew which crewmember it was by the drawl. "Just fine, Trip. Snowed in, but other than that, okay."
"That's good to hear. Boy, T'Pol must be feelin' pretty smug. She did try to convince you that Ambassador Quant …."
A slight tilt of his head told him Trip was right; T'Pol's eyebrow poked against her forehead with definite arrogance. Indeed, she was secretly thrilled to hear someone admit she was right; the captain would never do so.
"Anything else?" Archer asked the metallic box, cutting the Southerner off.
"No, sir. Keep in touch will ya? The science team says this storm is a doozie."
Ending the conversation, Archer snapped the communicator shut, laid it on the table and decided to get to some sleep.
"Captain, I apologize. I had no intention of embarrassing you."
Humans' modesty over their own bodies was legendary; something as a Vulcan she could never quite understand. It was vital for her to seek her commander's forgiveness.
Archer sighed. "It's okay."
T'Pol felt it important to add, "You usually lock the door."
Stopping in his tracks, he rested his chin on his chest.
That's exactly what happened. Archer woke up at 0330 hours last night feeling sweat drip off his body – just enough to make it impossible to go back to sleep. He decided a quick shower would feel refreshing and put him out like a light.
Without turning on the light, enjoying the sun beginning to poke its rays into the single un-curtained window of the bathroom, he took off the last stitch of clothing he had on. He was about to walk into the Naran's version of a shower (a Hoshi-sized metal contraption with something that looked like a water hose jerry-rigged to the wall) … when a robed T'Pol barged in.
When something startling happens, the body responds strangely – every muscle tenses up and freezes unable to move or change positions. The mind sometimes joins in by imagining that the event that just occurred didn't happen at all or happened to someone else, somewhere else. It's only a few seconds later, when reality hits, that both body and mind jerk into awareness.
T'Pol could only gape with astonishment as Jon watched her, stunned that she'd walked in on him. Suddenly, the Vulcan averted her eyes and stumbled for something to say as he gave a manly yelp, kneeled down and grabbed whatever he could (which turned out to be a shirt) to cover the area between his navel and upper thigh. Within a few more seconds, she mumbled an apology, he murmured an acceptance and she filed out, forgetting to close the door. As his heart raced and insecurity set in, he shut and locked the door (although it was no longer necessary), and tried to shake off the humiliation.
They hadn't spoken of the incident, which he was grateful for, until now. It was just something else in the long line of irritants that caused the week to become something of an utter disaster.
He decided to re-assert, "It's okay. It happens."
Looking almost vulnerable, she nodded her head and lowered her eyes toward the floor. It was his turn to make a few concessions.
"Maybe we've even. I mean … I've been singing in the shower, squirting toothpaste on your robe and forgetting to turn up the heat in the morning."
It was a simple task – she'd asked him to turn on the heat in the morning … and yet he could never remember to do so. Instead, he would brag about the magnificent cool weather, how much he missed the cold sea air in San Francisco and how sometimes the Bridge was too warm for him. This bugged her, possibly more than his snoring or singing in the shower, which jolted her awake every morning save this one.
'Toothpaste?' she asked herself.
"I thought you told me you didn't spill toothpaste on my robe," she said.
Guilty eyes swung toward the floor. "Oh."
Shifting her weight, she decided to add her transgressions.
"I apparently have been raising the temperature every evening, which you have remarked you dislike."
That was certainly true – he'd often throw the covers off in the night after breaking into a sweat, grouchily make his way to the thermostat (mostly because he'd almost always stub his toe on his bedroom door) and stubbornly turn it down to 19 degrees Celsius.
"Seems like it's been one thing after another ever since we've gotten here. Murphy's Law, I guess," he said.
"I know something about the history of the United States, but I am unaware that law."
The corner of his lips tugged up involuntarily. "It's not really a law. It's more like a principle: everything that can go wrong will."
Beginning to laugh, he thought about the other transgressions they'd committed against each other. It was as if they were a couple who'd decided to just recently move in together. Despite feeling friendship toward each other, their annoyance at the "small stuff" only punctuated that point: she didn't like when he left the cap off the toothpaste or the way he wadded his towels on the wrack, and he didn't care for her using nearly all the mugs for her tea or that the cabin smelled like Vulcan incense.
"Coincidence," she said.
Without correcting her, but allowing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end at the speed at which she dismissed his comment, he drew another deep breath – something he'd been doing a lot that week.
"I'm gonna hit the hay," he said, ignoring her again.
As he departed for his bedroom, the lights flickered and then went out and the hum of the heat sputtered and failed. Taking a tentative step forward toward the switch, T'Pol said what they both already instinctively knew.
"The power appears to be out."
Searching through his mind, he wondered about the temperature and T'Pol confirmed it almost immediately.
"The temperature outside is –24 degrees Celsius."
That was cold.
"I'm sure it'll come back on," he said, not completely convinced.
"Possibly," she admitted.
On a lark, Archer decided to contact Enterprise, thinking maybe they could at least transport a generator or power cell to make their stay a little warmer and then contact the consulate to determine if Enterprise could help the rest of the Narans. Walking swiftly over to his communicator, he flipped it open and contacted the ship.
"Archer to Enterprise."
A fritz of static rang through and he shot a worried brow to T'Pol. He repeated the words more desperately, "Enterprise? Enterprise this is Captain Archer."
The crackling noise eventually faded to silence. Archer clicked the device closed and set it on the table with defeat. At that instant, he felt a cool draft blow in through the cabin's cracks and crevices. As if to denote she was already becoming chilled, T'Pol crossed her arms and slowly rubbed her hands against her biceps.
Archer remembered why T'Pol complained about the lack of heat in the morning – Vulcans didn't do well in cold climes.
"You cold?" he asked.
"No."
He knew better. Teasing her, he asked, "Did you bring a sweater?"
Sensing the bait, she quipped a lone eyebrow at him.
"I didn't either," he admitted. "But, you can wear my jacket."
The Vulcan for a second considered the smell of his garment. Wearing it would force his scent on her. It was a problem years ago when she'd first met humans, but less of an issue now … although she found it sometimes overpowering in large doses as she had on this trip. Deciding his scent wasn't really a concern, she determined what was: she didn't want to deny him of warmth.
"It's not necessary."
Frowning, he said, "Yes it is. Does that need to be an order?" Puffing out his chest and furrowing his brow, he let her know he wasn't backing down.
"No," she replied.
Archer wandered off to get it and then proudly brought it back to her as if it was the least he could do for agreeing to come to Nara in the first place. She slipped her skinny arms into it and hoisted it onto her shoulders, feeling it swallow her form.
After fixing the collar for her and moving back a step, he announced what he'd intended to do all morning since discovering there was snow on the ground.
"I'm gonna take a nap."
T'Pol gave in. "Seems like a good idea."