A/N: This story is inspired by the episode "E2", so technically it is canonical but AU. One thing that always bugged me in ST:TOS was the assumption that Captain Kirk was, shall we say, "compatible" with every space babe that he encountered. While it's convenient to think so (and it's a good argument for a universal deity), it's not that interesting. So, this story explores how a human might approach a relationship with a brand-new alien species (Vulcans don't count, T/T'P-ers, because they are by this time a known quantity), and what it might take to overcome cultural and, yes, sexual differences. It's a romance, not an erotica, so don't expect anything beyond what a T-rating would allow.
Disclaimer: ST:Ent and its characters belong to Paramount. Sigh. I'm just coloring inside the lines.
Chapter One – Of Weddings and Wine
The bride and groom gazed at each other as they recited the vows they had written, oblivious to the eighty members of the crew who were watching and listening. An expectant pause hung as they finished, then the captain, surreptitiously checking his notes, cleared his throat.
"By the power vested in me as commander of this vessel, I now pronounce you husband and wife." He smiled broadly. Leaning in toward the groom, he announced in a theatrical whisper that could be heard in the far corners of the recreation room, "You may kiss your bride."
To the delight of the onlookers, the groom obliged, heartily. Captain Jonathan Archer waited a moment, then looked around. "It's my pleasure to introduce for the first time anywhere in the galaxy, Oscar and Judith McCarthy-Martinez!"
After the bride received a soft "Much happiness," and a light kiss on the cheek from the captain, the couple linked arms and made their way into the crowd for more embraces and well wishes. Archer turned off his padd and dragged a finger around the collar of his dress uniform. He hated the outfit, and couldn't wait to consign it back to the depths of his closet. But Archer had a healthy respect for marriage, both the ceremony and the institution – not that he had any intention of participating in either himself – and he felt that a dress uniform was required for the occasion.
This was the fifth nuptial ceremony he had officiated over. As captain of the Enterprise, this was one of his duties, one that he'd recognized but had no inkling he would ever perform when they'd pulled out of space dock that first time, all those years ago. The role of captain as officiant had held a certain historical charm then; it had been that way ever since the first sea-faring vessels had crossed the vast oceans between continents on the big blue marble. Now, however, each ceremony merely reminded Archer that he and his eighty crewmates, Starfleet and MACO alike, were destined to live out the rest of their natural lives on this ship, with whatever ceremonies that were necessary to make the time tolerable, as they flew endlessly through this purgatorial area of space called the Delphic Expanse.
It had been more than three years since that fateful decision – some, including Archer, might say, "that colossal mistake" – to use a sub-space corridor to attempt to rendezvous with Degra's ship in an area three days away. It would have taken Enterprise too long in her devastated condition to travel through normal space, and time was of the essence if they wanted to stop the launch of the Xindi weapon. Degra, the weapon's chief designer, had been on the verge of believing that the Xindi's whole plan to annihilate Earth and all humans had been the result of ruthless manipulation by the Sphere Builders. In three days, they would have met, out from under the Reptilians' watchful eyes, to cement Degra's cooperation, and Archer was sure he could have convinced the rest of the Council to abort the planned destruction of his planet.
But the sub-space corridor had . . . collapsed? No, shifted, maybe. And when Enterprise had emerged on the other side, she had found herself thrown back into the past, by one hundred and seventeen years.
Once, time had been of the essence. Now, they had nothing but time. And all Archer could do, besides relive every second of his spectacular failure, was to try to provide some semblance of normal life for his now missionless crew. Their children, or grandchildren, would now have to finish the job they had begun. There had always been the possibility that many of his crew would not see home again; now, it was a certainty for all of them.
He sighed as he turned toward the door, away from the reception starting across the room. He almost didn't pause when he heard his Chief Engineer, Commander Charles 'Trip' Tucker, call his name.
Trip jogged the last few steps to the captain's side, a drink already in his hand. "Hey, where are you going so fast, Cap'n?" he asked, taking a sip.
Archer indicated his dress uniform with a wave of his hand. "I really want to get out of this monkey suit. And I thought I'd relieve Travis on the Bridge. He volunteered to miss the ceremony; it's only fair he should get to enjoy the reception."
"Aw, why don't you stay a bit," Trip coaxed. "Don't you have to be a stand in for the father-daughter dance?"
Archer sent him a squinty-eyed glare. It was well understood between the two friends that Archer did not dance, ever, and for good reason. "Ha, funny. The ship doesn't run itself, Trip," he said, nodding at some Engineering crew who were already heading back to their posts. "You'll have to cover for me."
Trip, officially off-duty, took another swig of his drink. "All right, Cap'n, if you say so. I'll bring you a piece of the wedding cake once it's cut."
"Yeah, great, thanks," Archer replied absently as he made his escape. As festive music began to pour from hidden speakers, Trip strolled back over to the refreshment table, where Sub-Commander T'Pol stood, stabbing at a plate of celery with her fork. "The captain did not wish to stay for the meal?" she inquired, raising an eyebrow slightly.
"He's not much of a party person," Trip explained. "He's gone back to the Bridge."
"This might have been an appropriate opportunity for the captain to take a day off," T'Pol commented. "He has not done so in more than seven months."
"Really," Trip said, beginning to bounce to the music. "That long, huh?"
"Seven months, two weeks, and three days," T'Pol clarified.
Trip looked at her, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. "Come dance with me, mother hen," he said, setting down his glass and grabbing for her hand.
She gazed at him severely. "Vulcans do not dance."
"Nobody here will tell on you," Trip replied, drawing her out to the middle of the tiny makeshift dance floor. Other crew members swirled around them; T'Pol could see no actual purpose in their movements. She stood, ramrod straight, as Trip began to move to the music, a smile on his face. "Relax," he said, "a little dancing isn't going to hurt the baby, I promise." Sighing, she permitted herself to sink into "parade rest" position, hands loosely clasped behind her back, feet slightly spread for balance, and swayed infinitesimally from side to side, in perfect rhythm to the music.
x x x
Archer shifted position on the bed and switched the novel he was reading from his right to his left hand. Porthos raised his greying head at the movement, on the off chance that some edible treat was coming his way, then laid his muzzle back down on his paws when it was clear that his master was still engrossed in the book. The door chime rang. Archer laid the book face down on the pillow and crossed the room in three paces to press the door release.
True to his word, Trip stood there, holding a plate containing petit fours and a large slab of cake in one hand, and a tall glass of burgundy liquid in the other. "Got time for a late night snack?" Archer glanced at the clock; it was two in the morning. He had left the Bridge in the able hands of the officer of the watch only an hour ago.
"Party still going on?" he asked, stepping back to let Trip enter.
"Oh, yeah, a few hardy souls are still at it." He snatched the small glass of water off of Archer's bedside table, ducked into the head, and dumped the liquid into the sink. Then he poured half of the wine into the glass and handed it to the captain. Archer eyed it a moment, then took a cautious sip. "Don't ask the vintage," Trip warned, plopping himself bonelessly onto the floor. "You don't wanna know."
"Where's T'Pol?" Archer asked, settling back down on the bed and picking at the sweets on the plate. Porthos raised his eyes hopefully again, and gave a little disappointed whimper when Archer shook his head at him sharply.
"Oh, she ducked out after about an hour, said she felt a little tired." Trip took a swig, obviously the latest of many that evening. "I think this pregnancy is taking more out of her than she wants to admit."
"Hmm," Archer said, not really wanting to get onto the subject of Trip's terrific marriage to T'Pol and their upcoming blessed event. That base part of his personality, the part that envied Trip, had dwindled from a torrent to a trickle over the past year since Trip and T'Pol had announced their betrothal. He looked into the glass of wine and saw the scene again: how his two senior officers had cornered him in his ready room at the beginning of their mutual shift. How he had known, even before Trip had opened his mouth, that the relationship among the three of them was about to be irrevocably altered.
"We thought you should be the first to know, Cap'n," Trip said, standing very close to, but not touching, T'Pol. Archer studied their faces, one placid, one on the verge of a grin.
"I take it this is happy news?" he ventured, stalling.
"T'Pol and I have decided to get married," Trip announced, turning to look at his new fiancée.
Archer, not an inexperienced warrior, fought the most difficult battle of his life as he tried to control his face, to wrestle his expression into one of pure delight. He thought he won that fight, mostly. He reached forward to clasp Trip's right hand in both of his, then pulled him into a hug and slapped him lightly on the back. He turned to T'Pol and said, "If I remember correctly, you're not supposed to congratulate the bride, I don't know why. Best wishes, T'Pol. May I?" She leaned toward him a centimeter, and he enveloped her in a brief hug. He warned himself to be careful; she was, after all, extremely sensitive to human emotions.
"Trip and I have come to ask you to perform the ceremony," T'Pol said evenly. "We have decided to use a traditional Vulcan ritual."
A hundred protests sprang to Archer's mind, not the least of which was, I don't know anything about Vulcan rituals! But T'Pol would have thought of that already, it was that obvious, and she undoubtedly had some plan for his participation. So he smiled, almost, and replied, "I'd be honored."
And it was true.
In the eight months since the ceremony, Archer had been schooled daily in the art of friendship, including the hard lesson that true friendship requires humility. So he swallowed his pride and ruthlessly squelched any emotion that was not happiness at his friends' good fortune. Last week had brought a new challenge: news that T'Pol was expecting. He had no doubt he would rise to it. Eventually.
As if reading his thoughts (heaven forbid), Trip mused, "I can't believe I'm going to be a father. Who'd have thought?"
"When I think of a little 'Quad' running around, I tremble for this ship and her crew," Archer quipped.
"Especially if he ever gets in cahoots with your son or daughter, Mister 'Let's Hijack a Warp Two Prototype,'" Trip shot back.
Archer took a larger swig of wine. "Yeah, well, I don't think I was ever meant to get married and have kids."
"You love kids," Trip protested, full of paternal affection for his impending offspring.
"No, I really don't, at least not until they're old enough to appreciate astronomy and aerospace technology," Archer answered, thinking with a pang about Sim.
"Well, I think you'd make a great dad," Trip insisted.
Archer stretched out on the bed and gazed out the window. They were traveling at impulse, so the stars appeared stationary against a field of black silk. "Actually, I've thought of myself more as a great bachelor uncle."
Trip snorted and leaned back on one hand. "Yeah. Except not like my Uncle Harold."
"Your weird Uncle Harold? The one who looks at the kids funny and nobody wants to be alone in the room with? Oh, no, no, no," Archer laughed. "I was thinking more along the lines of 'Uncle Jon who shows up every once in a while, a different gorgeous blonde on his arm each time.' The one who spoils the kids, gives them candy when their parents aren't looking. Teaches them filthy words in alien languages."
His friend speared him with a blue gaze and a suddenly serious expression. "But you don't really expect to spend the next hundred years alone, do you?"
"Well, I have no intention of living to be a hundred and fifty, so, no," Archer drawled.
"You know what I mean."
Archer sighed. "There's nobody for me on this ship. I outrank everyone."
Trip tossed back the rest of his drink. "Oh, come on, Jon, Starfleet regulations don't apply anymore."
The captain put the plate aside and sat up, a signal that Trip knew well enough. He watched as Jon withdrew and became Captain Archer, saying, "This is still a Starfleet vessel, and we're still on a mission, long term as it may be. All of these people are still under my command. It's inappropriate." And, just like that, the conversation was over. "Thanks for the cake, Trip."
The commander rose, a bit unsteadily, to his feet. "Yeah, I'll see you on the Bridge, Cap'n."
"Sleep in tomorrow, Trip," the captain advised. "T'Pol, too."