Archer poured himself another coffee, spooned in too much sugar substitute,
and slid into the seat across from his chief engineer. For the past week,
he's been avoiding item one on his list of things to do -- talk to T'Pol -
and, well, today was 15 days from Phlox's mark: it was time, and he was
still working up the courage, mentally rehearsing his approach... so what
was five more minutes? "You look beat, Trip."
"Long month, sir." Trip dragged his last forkful of pancake through the pool of syrup on his plate and popped it unceremoniously into his mouth -- food eaten for sustenance, not enjoyment, this time.
"Yeah, you didn't even come back for football. How're the repairs coming along? T'Pol put herself back in the bridge rotation as of tomorrow, so I assume they're past the critical phase?"
"There's still a lot to do, but we're almost warp-worthy again for sustained speed... probably by the end of tomorrow. 'Bout 80% complete from our original damage assessment. We're working on integrating improvements now, so it's slowing us down a bit. I tell ya, Jon, for a science officer, she's a hell of a design engineer."
"T'Pol? Really?"
"Yeah, using Malcolm's force fields to shore up the damaged hull plating was her idea - totally new application, not a top-secret Vulcan one she decided to let slip. She's up on the bridge now, runnin' the numbers to see if we can generate enough power from the current warp configuration to rig up the whole ship once we have access to a drydock."
"How's she been... otherwise?"
"Uh, okay. Worked to the bone like the rest of the engineerin' staff... more shifts, since she doesn't need sleep as often. Great stamina. It's all I can do to keep up with her."
Archer coughed, choking down the mouthful of coffee he'd taken, praying silently that Trip didn't see him blushing like a schoolgirl. That's just all he needed to hear now...
***
Subcommander T'Pol spread out another set of hastily-drawn schematics over her science station console, and traced her finger down the serpentine rows of neat figures Tucker had penned in the margins, calculating the standard variation in her head as she thought of the smooth line made by his neck and shoulder, the last thing she usually saw, inches in front of her face, before losing herself... T'Pol bit the inside of her cheek and lectured herself sternly: this is not the time, not the place. There are only 4.216 hours left in this duty shift.
The set of schematics she had been working on a moment ago and pushed aside recoiled into a loose cylinder and thunked hollowly to the floor. You can't ignore me. I spring up at the slighted provocation... look how phallic that was, darlin'. She rolled her eyes and frowned ever so slightly at the image of him in her head, teasing and tantalizing.
Ensign Sato giggled from her console nearby, amused by T'Pol's outward struggle. "Why don't you work in the ready room, Subcommander? You could use the desk and side table for the plans."
The science officer focused, assessed. "Excellent suggestion, Ensign." T'Pol gathered the paper schematics and PADDs as slowly as she could manage in anticipation of private retreat, "I will be in the ready room. You have the bridge."
Hoshi smiled, and eagerly moved to the big chair.
***
Commander Tucker strolled on to the bridge half an hour later, PADD and a tray of metal cubes in hand. From the center seat, Ensign Sato noted with pleasure that the chief engineer was clean for the first time in weeks.
"Hey, Hoshi... where's she?"
"Ready room, waging war on your schematics. More table space." The petite ensign hitched her thumb over her shoulder, and stopped mid-gesture: not very authoritative, she sighed.
"'Kay. You look good there, by the way..." Trip winked at her and slid through the door of the ready room, where T'Pol stood working at the desk terminal. The screen was tilted at an outrageous angle, and the hardcopy schematics they'd drawn off shift over the past week -- usually while naked on the floor of the Vulcan's spartan quarters -- covered every flat surface.
"I have metallurgy samples for the hull plating," he said without preamble. "How's it comin'?"
"There would be more progress if you would stop distracting me."
"Distracting? How could I be distracting," he asked, feigning innocence, though he could feel the desire building in her again beneath her outwardly calm exterior, through their link. He bent to get a better view of the screen over her shoulder, eager to see the power figures she'd been working on, to know if it was possible -- but was overwhelmed by the heat and desire radiating from her, as he leaned closer, now that he was in the room. He pressed his chest and hips against her back, reaching for her hands. "Isn't this supposed to... uh... taper off, sometime? We've made love so many times in the past couple of weeks, I lost count. I can't feel my underwear..."
"A Vulcan female's cycle quickly synchronizes to that of her husband, Tucker," she breathed, a husky whisper.
"So this is all my fault, yer sayin'?"
"Yes, for at least the last one hundred and seven point five encounters."
"That many, huh?" She could hear the smile in his voice... and knew it was not because of the number, but because she'd used the English word, aloud.
"You should return to engineering..." she turned and straightened in his awkward embrace, found herself looking at the hollow of his neck. She watched his pulse beat -- afraid to meet his eyes, afraid losing all control while she was on duty -- and breathed in the intoxicating scent of him. She felt herself beginning to melt, again, helpless as he pressed himself against her, searing in spite of layers of uniforms. "...*now*, Commander."
"So what's the point five?" He lowered his head, pressed his lips against the corner of her full, pouting mouth, and reached out for her with his mind... just for a second, just... he brushed her cheek with the back of his hand, shuddering as the flames of her still-heightened drives licked his vision.
"What in the hell are you doing?"
Trip turned hastily, keeping T'Pol behind him, trying to give her time to compose herself, focus again... Damn, Jon, what timing! Son of a bitch!
"Uh, working on schematics for the plating shields?" Trip tried, color rising.
Jonathan Archer stood equally red-faced in the open door of the ready room, expression a mixture of shock, embarrassment, and... something much more complex. Anger? Jealousy? The captain's eyes flashed, cold and hot at the same time.
"No you weren't," he said shortly, stepping into the room. The noise of the bridge vanished as the door snapped shut. Silence.
T'Pol, composed now and outwardly impassive, took a step away from Tucker, meeting the captain's glare steadily, but with a lingering hint of fire. Archer swallowed, hard... had they? Oh, boy... the way they had been looking at each other... yes, they had. How had he missed it? The palpable connection between them? The easy familiarity? "How long... has this been going on?"
"I just got here, Jon... metallurgical samples for the new hull plating."
"Don't be dense, Trip," Archer said through clenched teeth.
"A couple o' weeks."
"I can't believe you'd take advantage of T'Pol like this. I thought you were a gentleman."
What? What the hell was he talking about? Trip dared a glance at T'Pol, who was studying Archer with great intensity: She smelled surprise, and the older, lingering stench of fear as well. His eyes blazed, too, with some type of tormented passion not based in this encounter. He... knows about the pon frell, she realized suddenly, eyebrow arching with her own surprise. He knows!
"Ya shouldn't make assumptions, Cap'n." Trip snapped, astounded as he compared notes with T'Pol in a split-second glance, then reading the captain's expression and stance easily after their long friendship... Archer had assumed T'Pol would be with him!
Uncharacteristically, T'Pol shook her head, a visual echo of her vehement mental denial: I have given him no reason to make that assumption. Trip knew it already, without a doubt, but... did Archer?
"You have no idea what you've gotten involved in," Archer started again, volume rising slightly with his defenses.
"I think I know better than you do."
"Really?"
"Really." Trip went out on a limb, guessing, "Would you have known about T'Pol's condition if Phlox hadn't told ya?" Seeing Archer pale, he continued. Bingo! "Would you have noticed the change in her eye color, or the tone of her skin? Or her voice? Could you tell what she was feeling from across the room?"
Archer stared at the engineer, mouth open. He was so over his head, he realized... all along, he's been dreading... knowing deep down that something was wrong, or at least not right. "And you could?"
"You weren't ready for this, Jon. Hell, how long have you known, and you couldn't even talk to her about it? You're my best friend... but you have to realize that this has nothing to do with you, and it never did. Whatever it was you'd talked yourself into, I'm sure was well-intentioned... but it was *you*, not T'Pol... I'm sorry, the timing sucks, Jon... and yes, we probably would have ended up nekkid on your floor, but you know what's involved, I'm sure Phlox told you that, too."
"So this is just sex, between you and T'Pol?" He asked, regretting it almost immediately, but having to know, even if it hurt all of them to ask: Could it have happened, between him and T'Pol? Ever?
T'Pol stepped forward, back straight, face a mask. Tucker knew that she couldn't let it slide. "No, Captain, the relationship is permanent -- by our mutual choice. The quality and intensity of the physical copulation is an unexpected benefit."
Archer stared at her. T'Pol had carefully, logically chosen Trip, he realized... probably for the same reasons he had himself... his best friend, the same man who danced on tables and wore Hawaiian shirts at parties, collected baseball cards, and spouted his opinions without thought to the consequences? His loyal, compassionate, perceptive, supportive best friend. Over him. And Archer never saw it coming, never suspected... and he should have known.
"I thought..."
"You assumed... and your assumption was based on incomplete information." T'Pol relented, seeing the confusion and raw hurt in the captain's eyes. "Thank you for your concern, however... and your... willingness to assist me. The... symptoms of my condition are under control, and should not be a distraction to either Mister Tucker or myself... for much longer."
"I see." Embarrassed and still confused, Archer retreated. As the ready room door closed behind him, he breathed a sigh of... relief.
***
Trip was stretching on the center mat when Archer entered the gym after shift. The captain tossed his towel to the side, and eased himself onto the weight bench nearby.
"Trip?"
"Yeah?" The engineer didn't look up.
"Sorry. I acted like an ass." Jon pressed up, a heavier bar than he was used to: Travis' or Malcolm's probably. "I was surprised, and..."
"S'okay, Jon..."
"Should I apologize to T'Pol," he ventured, wondering if this apology could be as disastrous as the last one he offered her. "She couldn't have chosen better, I do know that. You've been my best friend for years; T'Pol and I have that in common, now."
"She'll forgive ya."
The two men worked out in silence for a moment, each preoccupied with the implications of that.
"Trip?"
"Yeah?"
"A hundred and seven times?"
"Mind yer own business, Jon..."
*** FINIS ***
UPDATE NOTE: Yielding to popular demand, the author retools Archer ever so slightly, defying the characterizations of B&B, to make him a man instead of a 3-year-old... hope this is more satisfying to all.
"Long month, sir." Trip dragged his last forkful of pancake through the pool of syrup on his plate and popped it unceremoniously into his mouth -- food eaten for sustenance, not enjoyment, this time.
"Yeah, you didn't even come back for football. How're the repairs coming along? T'Pol put herself back in the bridge rotation as of tomorrow, so I assume they're past the critical phase?"
"There's still a lot to do, but we're almost warp-worthy again for sustained speed... probably by the end of tomorrow. 'Bout 80% complete from our original damage assessment. We're working on integrating improvements now, so it's slowing us down a bit. I tell ya, Jon, for a science officer, she's a hell of a design engineer."
"T'Pol? Really?"
"Yeah, using Malcolm's force fields to shore up the damaged hull plating was her idea - totally new application, not a top-secret Vulcan one she decided to let slip. She's up on the bridge now, runnin' the numbers to see if we can generate enough power from the current warp configuration to rig up the whole ship once we have access to a drydock."
"How's she been... otherwise?"
"Uh, okay. Worked to the bone like the rest of the engineerin' staff... more shifts, since she doesn't need sleep as often. Great stamina. It's all I can do to keep up with her."
Archer coughed, choking down the mouthful of coffee he'd taken, praying silently that Trip didn't see him blushing like a schoolgirl. That's just all he needed to hear now...
***
Subcommander T'Pol spread out another set of hastily-drawn schematics over her science station console, and traced her finger down the serpentine rows of neat figures Tucker had penned in the margins, calculating the standard variation in her head as she thought of the smooth line made by his neck and shoulder, the last thing she usually saw, inches in front of her face, before losing herself... T'Pol bit the inside of her cheek and lectured herself sternly: this is not the time, not the place. There are only 4.216 hours left in this duty shift.
The set of schematics she had been working on a moment ago and pushed aside recoiled into a loose cylinder and thunked hollowly to the floor. You can't ignore me. I spring up at the slighted provocation... look how phallic that was, darlin'. She rolled her eyes and frowned ever so slightly at the image of him in her head, teasing and tantalizing.
Ensign Sato giggled from her console nearby, amused by T'Pol's outward struggle. "Why don't you work in the ready room, Subcommander? You could use the desk and side table for the plans."
The science officer focused, assessed. "Excellent suggestion, Ensign." T'Pol gathered the paper schematics and PADDs as slowly as she could manage in anticipation of private retreat, "I will be in the ready room. You have the bridge."
Hoshi smiled, and eagerly moved to the big chair.
***
Commander Tucker strolled on to the bridge half an hour later, PADD and a tray of metal cubes in hand. From the center seat, Ensign Sato noted with pleasure that the chief engineer was clean for the first time in weeks.
"Hey, Hoshi... where's she?"
"Ready room, waging war on your schematics. More table space." The petite ensign hitched her thumb over her shoulder, and stopped mid-gesture: not very authoritative, she sighed.
"'Kay. You look good there, by the way..." Trip winked at her and slid through the door of the ready room, where T'Pol stood working at the desk terminal. The screen was tilted at an outrageous angle, and the hardcopy schematics they'd drawn off shift over the past week -- usually while naked on the floor of the Vulcan's spartan quarters -- covered every flat surface.
"I have metallurgy samples for the hull plating," he said without preamble. "How's it comin'?"
"There would be more progress if you would stop distracting me."
"Distracting? How could I be distracting," he asked, feigning innocence, though he could feel the desire building in her again beneath her outwardly calm exterior, through their link. He bent to get a better view of the screen over her shoulder, eager to see the power figures she'd been working on, to know if it was possible -- but was overwhelmed by the heat and desire radiating from her, as he leaned closer, now that he was in the room. He pressed his chest and hips against her back, reaching for her hands. "Isn't this supposed to... uh... taper off, sometime? We've made love so many times in the past couple of weeks, I lost count. I can't feel my underwear..."
"A Vulcan female's cycle quickly synchronizes to that of her husband, Tucker," she breathed, a husky whisper.
"So this is all my fault, yer sayin'?"
"Yes, for at least the last one hundred and seven point five encounters."
"That many, huh?" She could hear the smile in his voice... and knew it was not because of the number, but because she'd used the English word, aloud.
"You should return to engineering..." she turned and straightened in his awkward embrace, found herself looking at the hollow of his neck. She watched his pulse beat -- afraid to meet his eyes, afraid losing all control while she was on duty -- and breathed in the intoxicating scent of him. She felt herself beginning to melt, again, helpless as he pressed himself against her, searing in spite of layers of uniforms. "...*now*, Commander."
"So what's the point five?" He lowered his head, pressed his lips against the corner of her full, pouting mouth, and reached out for her with his mind... just for a second, just... he brushed her cheek with the back of his hand, shuddering as the flames of her still-heightened drives licked his vision.
"What in the hell are you doing?"
Trip turned hastily, keeping T'Pol behind him, trying to give her time to compose herself, focus again... Damn, Jon, what timing! Son of a bitch!
"Uh, working on schematics for the plating shields?" Trip tried, color rising.
Jonathan Archer stood equally red-faced in the open door of the ready room, expression a mixture of shock, embarrassment, and... something much more complex. Anger? Jealousy? The captain's eyes flashed, cold and hot at the same time.
"No you weren't," he said shortly, stepping into the room. The noise of the bridge vanished as the door snapped shut. Silence.
T'Pol, composed now and outwardly impassive, took a step away from Tucker, meeting the captain's glare steadily, but with a lingering hint of fire. Archer swallowed, hard... had they? Oh, boy... the way they had been looking at each other... yes, they had. How had he missed it? The palpable connection between them? The easy familiarity? "How long... has this been going on?"
"I just got here, Jon... metallurgical samples for the new hull plating."
"Don't be dense, Trip," Archer said through clenched teeth.
"A couple o' weeks."
"I can't believe you'd take advantage of T'Pol like this. I thought you were a gentleman."
What? What the hell was he talking about? Trip dared a glance at T'Pol, who was studying Archer with great intensity: She smelled surprise, and the older, lingering stench of fear as well. His eyes blazed, too, with some type of tormented passion not based in this encounter. He... knows about the pon frell, she realized suddenly, eyebrow arching with her own surprise. He knows!
"Ya shouldn't make assumptions, Cap'n." Trip snapped, astounded as he compared notes with T'Pol in a split-second glance, then reading the captain's expression and stance easily after their long friendship... Archer had assumed T'Pol would be with him!
Uncharacteristically, T'Pol shook her head, a visual echo of her vehement mental denial: I have given him no reason to make that assumption. Trip knew it already, without a doubt, but... did Archer?
"You have no idea what you've gotten involved in," Archer started again, volume rising slightly with his defenses.
"I think I know better than you do."
"Really?"
"Really." Trip went out on a limb, guessing, "Would you have known about T'Pol's condition if Phlox hadn't told ya?" Seeing Archer pale, he continued. Bingo! "Would you have noticed the change in her eye color, or the tone of her skin? Or her voice? Could you tell what she was feeling from across the room?"
Archer stared at the engineer, mouth open. He was so over his head, he realized... all along, he's been dreading... knowing deep down that something was wrong, or at least not right. "And you could?"
"You weren't ready for this, Jon. Hell, how long have you known, and you couldn't even talk to her about it? You're my best friend... but you have to realize that this has nothing to do with you, and it never did. Whatever it was you'd talked yourself into, I'm sure was well-intentioned... but it was *you*, not T'Pol... I'm sorry, the timing sucks, Jon... and yes, we probably would have ended up nekkid on your floor, but you know what's involved, I'm sure Phlox told you that, too."
"So this is just sex, between you and T'Pol?" He asked, regretting it almost immediately, but having to know, even if it hurt all of them to ask: Could it have happened, between him and T'Pol? Ever?
T'Pol stepped forward, back straight, face a mask. Tucker knew that she couldn't let it slide. "No, Captain, the relationship is permanent -- by our mutual choice. The quality and intensity of the physical copulation is an unexpected benefit."
Archer stared at her. T'Pol had carefully, logically chosen Trip, he realized... probably for the same reasons he had himself... his best friend, the same man who danced on tables and wore Hawaiian shirts at parties, collected baseball cards, and spouted his opinions without thought to the consequences? His loyal, compassionate, perceptive, supportive best friend. Over him. And Archer never saw it coming, never suspected... and he should have known.
"I thought..."
"You assumed... and your assumption was based on incomplete information." T'Pol relented, seeing the confusion and raw hurt in the captain's eyes. "Thank you for your concern, however... and your... willingness to assist me. The... symptoms of my condition are under control, and should not be a distraction to either Mister Tucker or myself... for much longer."
"I see." Embarrassed and still confused, Archer retreated. As the ready room door closed behind him, he breathed a sigh of... relief.
***
Trip was stretching on the center mat when Archer entered the gym after shift. The captain tossed his towel to the side, and eased himself onto the weight bench nearby.
"Trip?"
"Yeah?" The engineer didn't look up.
"Sorry. I acted like an ass." Jon pressed up, a heavier bar than he was used to: Travis' or Malcolm's probably. "I was surprised, and..."
"S'okay, Jon..."
"Should I apologize to T'Pol," he ventured, wondering if this apology could be as disastrous as the last one he offered her. "She couldn't have chosen better, I do know that. You've been my best friend for years; T'Pol and I have that in common, now."
"She'll forgive ya."
The two men worked out in silence for a moment, each preoccupied with the implications of that.
"Trip?"
"Yeah?"
"A hundred and seven times?"
"Mind yer own business, Jon..."
*** FINIS ***
UPDATE NOTE: Yielding to popular demand, the author retools Archer ever so slightly, defying the characterizations of B&B, to make him a man instead of a 3-year-old... hope this is more satisfying to all.