A/N: Yes, I'm back, as promised, with another missing scene. A more light hearted story this time, from the truly brilliant Two Days And Two Nights. There are scenes in that episode (no prizes for guessing which ones!) that always seem to get mysteriously stuck in my DVD player ;o)

Now, what could be more embarrassing for Trip and Malcolm than being scammed, mugged, and stripped to their civvies (yum!) by those shapeshifting aliens? Um - how about trying not to tell Jon what really happened to them?

Enjoy!

Busted!

As Risa fell away through the 'pod's viewscreen, Jonathan Archer allowed himself a rueful smile. So much for it being a 'planet of pleasure'. All it had brought him was a Mickey-Finned head, and the concerns of what Keyla might have learned for her Tandaran handlers. Still, he thought dryly, glancing behind him, he wasn't the only one with regrets that he'd be keeping to himself.

Trip had done his best to bluff his way out of it, of course, as only he could.

'Fascinatin' culture, sir.'

But Jon knew him far too well to fall for that little trick. That tousled hair, butter-wouldn't-melt expression, and striking lack of clothing, had nothing to do with any kind of 'culture.' And, of course, it was his Captain's duty and privilege to find out how he - and Malcolm too, for God's sake! - had ended up in such a state.

So yes, there were more grounds than usual for him to welcome the sight of his ship ahead of them. Feel the slight jolt of the docking clamps, lifting the 'pod into its bay. And as its upper hatch started to open, his smile widened with anticipation.

Showtime.

Halfway up its ladder, Trip and Malcolm froze. Cringed with identical 'oh, crap...' expressions. If not for gallantly letting Hoshi leave the 'pod first, they might have gotten away with it. Instead, just as they reached the upper gangway, a playfully stern voice blew those hopes for a dignified escape through the nearest airlock.

"Hold on, you two. Not so fast."

Slowly, very slowly, and even more reluctantly, Trip and Malcolm turned to face their Captain. To that Captain's further amusement, they both looked as if they were about to face a firing squad.

If anything, what they faced instead was even worse, as Jon walked casually around them. Picked some non-existent fluff from the sleeve of Malcolm's robe. Risked the wrath of Tucker when he did the same to Trip's hair. But threat to his life regardless, when he completed his inspection, and saw the chagrin on their faces - yes, he thought through a helpless grin, it was more than worth it.

Safely behind the privilege of his rank, he could keep his own misadventures on Risa to himself, and revel instead in... well, whatever mess this modern day Laurel and Hardy had landed themselves in this time.

"So, Trip... I take it you and Malcolm followed your own excellent advice?"

Considering he'd only given that 'advice' a few minutes earlier, it was odd that Trip seemed to have forgotten it already. Or maybe it was the fumes from whatever Malcolm had been doused in that had dulled those ultra sharp senses into a conveniently befuddled frown. Ever the helpful friend-cum-big-brother, it was only fair, and natural, for Jon to help him remember.

"Met some new people? Found more... exciting ways to spend your time than curled up with a good book?"

Through another trade of near frantic glances, Trip finally nodded - giving Malcolm a sharp nudge in the ribs as he realized his partner in embarrassment was about to crack. If he was hoping for mercy, though... well, sadly for him, it didn't come. If anything, the grin on his Captain's face grew evilly wider.

"Aaaaaaaaand?!"

Oh, hell.

With Malcolm still sulking over his dented ribs, it was left to Trip, as ever, to save the day - if not their dignity. Not with engineering genius, though, or another flash of that famous wit.

'I hope this isn't their matin' ritual.'

No, to defend himself against this latest assault on his pride, he'd have to bring out the big guns. Twinned salvos of that good ol' Southern charm, and a little work of art that Lizzie called 'The Woobie.'

Before fascinated eyes, his face took on a look of utter dejection. His lower lip crept into a pout that could put a sulking toddler to shame, while his eyes - oh yes, those baby blue eyes, silently begged for sympathy.

Inwardly, at least, Jon was now in fits of hysterics. God, that expression was priceless! If he could change those eyes to brown, add a couple of legs, two floppy ears, and a tail with a life of its own - yeah, he'd have Porthos, trying to convince him that he hadn't... no, really, really hadn't, chowed down on his favourite slippers.

His imagination was having so much fun, in fact, that a plaintive voice almost, almost, passed him by.

"We - We were mugged, Cap'n! By a couple o' two timin'..."

"...muggers..." Malcolm chipped in, with what he thought was invaluable back-up, but which a pointed glare suggested otherwise.

Under its ferocity, what was a tired, sore, unpleasantly fragranced tactical officer to do? Simple. Show his friend and Captain that he could muster up quite 'the Woobie-Face himself.

"They - They took everything, sir! Our room keys, our credits... everything!"

'Yes, Malcolm, that what muggers usually do.'

For Trip, of course, it had been even worse.

"Hey, what about my suit?! They - They took my suit!"

'That thing you always team up with that purple shirt? God, they must have been desperate. Or colour blind.'

Thankfully unaware of this silent slur against his fashion sense, Trip forgot his shang-hai'd suit and, hoping against hope that he'd actually get it, went all out for the sympathy vote.

"...an' - an' we were tied up too...!"

Helped along by another nudge to his ribs, Malcolm, too, now leapt bravely back into the fray.

"...left in this basement, sir... all night..."

"...yeah, an' - an' with no-one around to help us...!"

"...no-one at all, sir... it was awful..."

"...had to smash a bottle o' somethin' to cut ourselves loose..."

"...wine, I think... though rather stronger than what we're used to..."

'Smells more like paint stripper... and I hope you realize, Mr Reed, you've put Porthos right off his cheese.'

Cruelty to cheese-loving beagles regardless, Malcolm was more concerned in preserving his own, thoroughly trashed sensitivities. Needless to say, so was Trip.

"But - But we didn't go down without a fight, sir!"

"Hell, no! You think we look bad, Cap'n? You - You should see the state o' them!"

'I'm sure that's true, Trip... but somehow I doubt you left them tied up in their underwear.'

Still somehow managing to keep his face straight through that thought, Jon nodded as he slid a brotherly arm around their shoulders, radiating as much concern as his amusement would allow.

"Well, as long as you're both all right."

"We're fine, sir... just a bit tired," Malcolm assured him, managing a grateful smile against his innocence at his Captain's teasing.

"An' sore, Cap'n... reeeeaal sore," Trip agreed, ramping 'the Woobie' back up to full strength, and yawning theatrically to give it a bit of extra woobie-ness.

"...jus' need to get a good night's sleep..."

"...and a shower," Malcolm added, setting off another round of butt-saving teamwork.

"Oh, yeah, that - that too... a nice, hot..."

"...long..."

"...yeah, nice, hot, long... reeeeeally long shower..."

Fighting a losing battle now, against a rising tide of laughter, Jon just nodded, shaking his head through another fond afterthought. God, these two really were impossible. He'd heard rumblings from the rest of the crew on their less than flattering nickname, and - yes, he had to admit now, how well it suited them. The Calamity Twins fitted them to a perfect T.

Before they hit those much needed showers, though - well, he couldn't resist making one last, mischievous suggestion. Pausing for his moment, Jon waited until they started to walk away - then pounced.

"Well, I hope they were pretty enough to be worth it. And next time, boys, I suggest you stick to the books."

Again, they froze. Winced at the front, and flinched at the back. Squaring their shoulders, they managed all of two, almost dignified strides - then shot round the nearest corner as fast as their legs could take them.

Listening to fading mutters of peevish blame, and even crankier protests of innocence -

"...see if I let you talk me into going off world with you again..."

"...awww, for the love o' God, Malcolm, let it go already...!"

"...can't believe you tried to hook me up with a shapeshifting alien..."

"...damn it, Malcolm, you were fooled by 'em too...!"

"...and a male bloody alien at that..."

"...NOT... AT... FIRST!"

- Jon leaned against the wall, clutching his sides - and simply howled.