AN: I want to thank those who are following. I hope you're still enjoying, especially as the world goes into lockdown. If I have brought you even a moments pleasure, then this is well worth the trouble.
"Any particular reason?" A.G Robinson pointed to the bottle of bourbon on the table. He'd been in the 602 an hour, watching Archer slowly get drunk. Half the bottle had been consumed prior to his arrival, which wasn't in the least like his puritanical friend.
"Yes," the word came out as a slightly slurred hiss. Hazel eyes snapped up, stating Robinson should leave him to wallow in misery alone.
"We playing twenty questions?" Robinson teased in his superior voice, taking the opposite seat without asking. Unwilling to risk sharing, A.G. jiggled the ice in his empty tumbler. Archer didn't react, which told the pilot a whole lot.
"Twenty," Jon snorted, lost in his inebriated thoughts for a moment. "Nah. Let's just say I've had a hell of a dry spell since Carl left."
Raising an eyebrow, Robinson dredge up an image of Jon's last boyfriend. If he recalled correctly, Carl worked at Kentfield Hospital in administration and liked to swim. Nice enough guy but not Starfleet. Archer had gone that route while at Stanford, getting his degree, then again in pilot training before deciding outsourcing was a better fit. The relationship with Carl ended rapidly when newly promoted Lt. Commander Archer had been assigned to a year on Star Gazer as part of his training for the upcoming NX program.
"Starfleet will do that to a relationship, even the most solid," Robinson grimaced, recalling his own lack of companionship while on Galileo for the same reasons. He'd well and truly made up for it in the fourteen months since being groundside with a string of brief affairs. Archer, on the other hand, was a serial monogamist.
The four of them, Archer, Gardiner, Duvall and Robinson had all been required to do a space tour to gain the extra half rank and some command experience. They'd been like peas in a pod for the last six years. Back in those days, you came to officer training with a college education, spent six weeks in the class room, followed by another three months in flight school. Only Archer had been lucky enough to get into Stanford. The newly formed organisation recruited most of their officers from the United Earth Space Probe Agency, until they merged in thirty-two.
Snorting, Jon watched the play of emotions across Robinson's face. "I'm trying to recall why I ever joined up. The Vulcan's are still stalling on the new engine, our ships take years to get anywhere and any new talent has procedure and protocol drummed into them so they won't buck the system. Tell me, A.G., what the hell did Humanity do wrong?"
"So, we're in the maudlin stage," he goaded, hoping for a hint of Archer's real issue.
"Hell, yes," Jon toasted, threw back the amber liquid in his glass and then refilled it. "One more, then I'm going home alone. Seems to be my lot in life."
"Who is he?" Robinson demanded, finally understanding the reason for the self-indulgent behaviour.
"Young, blond, out of my league," Jon scoffed. When Robinson actually seemed to be listening, Archer added, "the kids only twenty, almost completed his PhD. Real genius, according to his file. I could tell he's built like Adonis, even under his uniform."
"Starfleet?" A.G. searched for clues. They all knew the brass were headhunting in the hope of keeping the Complex moving forward in spite of Vulcan involvement. Jon's current assignment was a lecture circuit with Captain Layton that had been abruptly cancelled almost a fortnight previously, leaving Archer in limbo. The only reason he'd been chosen, in Robinson's opinion, was his connection to Henry Archer.
"That would be telling," Archer sniggered.
"You're getting sappy in your old age," Robinson stated sourly. "Hell, Jon, your only twenty-eight. Out of the four of us, you're the youngest. Gardiner's nearly forty with a wife and three kids. Duvall got married last year, finally, after Sue threatened to leave him. I suspect they have a kid on the way from his sentimental expression. He and I have almost five years on you. We did our time in the UESPA before transferring to Starfleet. You had it easy, with your father at the complex in the early days."
"Real easy," Jon slammed his glass onto the table, attracting attention of those seated nearby. "My father was forty when I was born and died when I was twelve after suffering form Clark's Syndrome years. Yes, I knew a few of the engineers and theoretical warp physicists, but that's not what got me a full scholarship to Stanford or into Starfleet. People seem to forget I did it on my own. Hell, even my mother was gone by then."
Holding his hands up, Robinson stated, "sorry," in a tone that was anything but. Still it seemed to mollify Archer. Reaching for the bottle again, Jon pushed it at A.G. along with his half full glass.
"You finish it," Jon stated morosely. "I think, no, I know I've had enough."
Robinson sighed, understanding he'd get little more out of his friend and major rival. Downing the liquid in Archer's beaker, he capped the bottle. Standing easily, A.G. slipped what remained of the bourbon onto his jacket, considering it payment for the good deed he was about to perform.
"Come on," he aided Jon to stand. Unsteady on his feet, Robinson had to place a supporting arm under his shoulders and take half Archer's weight. "I'll take you home and put you to bed."
"Sorry," Archer grinned wickedly, "you're not my type."
"Really," Robinson shook his head, "I never would have guessed. Just as well, you could afford to lose a few kilos for your Adonis."
Snorting Archer demanded, "you calling me fat?"
Rolling his eyes, for once A.G. Robinson refused to rise to the bait. Jon was drunk enough that he'd have trouble recalling anything once they reached the door. When the night air hit him, the older pilot knew Archer would pass out.
Jon woke around lunch time the next day, sunlight streaming though his floor to ceiling window, piercing his closed eyelids and making his head thump. Left hand failing around the bedside cabinet, Archer located a hypo and glass. Grinning, he managed to crack one lid partially open.
"Eureka," he mumbled through a mouth as dry as the Simpson Desert.
Injecting the hypo, it took several minutes for the pounding to stop. Now able to sit up with his eyes open, Archer downed the water while looking over top of several other building to the bay. He'd have to thank Robinson. As much Jon the hated to be the older man's debit, A.G. had ensured he got home and had the supplies he'd need on waking.
Archer padded into his bathroom and asked the dishevelled image in the mirror, "what the hell did I tell him last night to achieve this little miracle. Jonny, old boy, you look like shit. Feel like it too, truth be known."
Snippets of conversation came back with another glass of water. Each drop of hydration seemed to energise and clear Jon's mind. Making his way back through the bedroom and into the all-purpose living room, a few minutes later he had a coffee in one hand. Ensconced on his couch, Archer allowed himself time to think about the previous two weeks.
Friday afternoon he'd accompanied Captain Layton to Stanford for the first of their lectures. Starfleet had been given space in a remote building for their officer training, until the new facility at the Presidio could be built. That was still a year away. Jon wondered if they'd delay the opening until forty-two, coinciding with the tenth anniversary of Starfleet's inauguration.
He had a long and lonely weekend stretching out with too much time to think. Too many of those thoughts centred around meeting Cadet Charles 'Trip' Tucker. Frustrated, by Saturday afternoon, Jon decided to take his irritation out at Stanford's pool. Hooking up with some old college buddies after his workout, they took in a water polo game. Dinner and drinks followed, with the guys encouraging Jon to join them each month. Archer came to the realisation that he needed to get out more.
Monday morning, with nothing timetabled, Jon hit the simulators. He hated this temporary assignment. If he wasn't babysitting Captain Layton, Lt. Commander Archer was left to his own devices. Before he could go to the mess for lunch, Commodore Forrest called him into a meeting. Grinning, Archer expected it, but not the result.
"Jon," Max indicated a seat on the opposite side of his desk, next to Ian. "I've been hearing about the incident on Friday afternoon. Layton thinks there's someone better qualified to do the PR lectures."
"Cadet Tucker, Sir," Jon supplied easily.
"Trouble is," Forrest's expression changed to aversion, "the dam Vulcan's almost run Starfleet. They want someone older, more experienced on this project."
"With all due respect, Sir," Jon interrupted, "does humanity run Starfleet, or the Vulcan's?"
"Sometimes I wonder," Layton stated forcefully. "Hell, let's put the cards on the table, Max. You and I both came through UESPA in thirty-two, we were all alive when the United Earth Government was announced in thirteen. Humanity's come a long way, politically speaking, in the last thirty years. Yet, we're still allowing another species to pick and choose who even gets entry into the Starfleet Officer Program. The only reason they want someone like this Tucker kid, is to keep him from one of the cargo transports. Those Boomers would pick him up in a heartbeat and give him the latitude to tinker with their engines if it increased their velocity. How the hell would it look if a merchant vessel was the first to reach warp two?"
Archer glanced up at Layton. Scrutinising the older man, he realised he'd misjudged him completely. Ian pretended to be a bumbling idiot. Nothing could be further from the truth.
"I'm constrained," Max sighed, rubbing a hand over his forehead, "by my position and the political landscape. I rely on your insight, Captain."
"Then make the decision," Layton stood, pacing the office. "You already have Henry's son. Allow Archer to be this kids mentor, lead him by the hand, introduce him to all the right people. I'm telling you, when Tucker's speaking about engines, he's engaging, smart, funny and knows what he's talking about. You want people to believe this thing can fly, you've got your vehicle. Question is, do you have the balls to go against the Vulcan overlords and use it?"
"We'll have to make a cover story," Forrest stated. Leaning forward, elbows on his desk, the Commodore was considering every option.
"As I understand it, Sir," Archer carefully noted his commanding officer's reaction, "Cadet Tucker won't be at the academy much longer. Exams for the current class start next week. If his commission could be granted early."
"An Ensign," Max considered. "That might work. How do you feel, Captain?"
"A little under the weather, Sir," Layton played along. "I believe my illness won't get worse until Wednesday. Isn't that when our next lecture is scheduled, Commander?"
"I believe so, Sir," Archer responded impartially.
"The less you know the better, Jon. You'll be contacted in due course with new orders. In the meantime, find something to do but don't look like that's what you doing," Forrest dismissed.
The rest of the week passed with only a brief communique from the Commodore's office officially postponing the remainder of the lecture tour due to Captain Layton's sudden illness. Although Jon expected it, there were only so many hours you could spend in the simulator without a specific project. At a loss professionally, he started to do some research into Tucker's PhD thesis. Using the information from Lt. Hemmings, Archer found himself enthralled by Trip's enthusiasm for his father's engine as he perused the twelve papers generated by the kid. Jon would never understand half of the engineering jargon, but he got enough to see the jungle and not individual trees.
Another week passed, without word from Commodore Forrest or Captain Layton. Archer knew the officer exams had concluded, appreciating that the cadets would gather for their final celebration before a two week leave. They'd return for graduation and their new postings. Realising it would look suspicious if Cadet Tucker was granted special dispensation, Jon knew it would be another fortnight before he could expect new orders. With little end in sight and boredom weighing him down, Lt. Commander Jonathan Archer went to the 602 with the express aim of getting shitfaced.
"Well," he looked into the empty cup with a contemptuous chuckle, "I certainly achieved that goal."
Retracing his steps to the kitchen, Jon made himself brunch. He enjoyed cooking, when he got the chance. Starfleet accommodations for his rank were adequate but not spacious nor well appointed. Situated on a lower floor of the building, he gazed out while the eggs poached, wondering how to spend the rest of his lonely weekend. After eating, he decided on heading out to Land's End and a long, hard run. Maybe this evening, he'd try that singles bar where he'd met Carl.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Jon's mind supplied as he feet hit the pavement. I was getting over Nick when I met Carl. Not that I lived with Nick, or our relationship lasted that long. Who knows, maybe I'll meet someone to take my mind of this Kid.
Pouring on the speed, Archer attempted to leave his thoughts behind. He seemed successful, until the end of his run. Approaching at an outdoor café, Jon wondered if his exercise induced odour would allow him to order a coffee without upsetting the other patrons. Before he could decide one way or the other, his communicator buzzed. Cursing, the device tagged him as a Starfleet officer, even out of uniform. Several people nearby attempted to look as if they gave him privacy. In truth they'd actively listen in on his conversation, hoping to find out if the rumours about the development of a new engine were true.
"Archer," he responded, putting distance between himself and the cafe.
"Lecture series is a go. Ensign Tucker has been notified of the change to his leave. Monday, 0930, my office to hammer out the details," Max made the orders short and sweet.
"Understood, Sir," Jon swallowed, keeping his voice even.