Disclaimer: As expected, I still don't own anything and probably won't ever…living in a capitalist society is driving me nuts. I'd much rather move to Easter Island.
A Word From The Author: I really did not plan to write anything, but you people are giving me bad, bad ideas…so, here. This is not a sequel to Sense, though. I am not a happy person and this is not really a happy story, so please don't ever flame me for the lack of optimism (this will apply rather later, but consider yourself warned).
I won't really flip out if you flame me for the 'pairing', as I do not believe in any…this is television, people, not religion, or politics or whatever. :]
Rating PG-13 for language and some problematical issues perhaps?
Spoilers: There are some dubious and vague references in future chapters to pick at for those who have paid attention to detail.
Production Notes: I know where this is going, but don't really have it written down except for some bits and pieces. So, yes, this is probably a five-part story, but the chapters might be very slow in coming, as I don't have that much time…
Please let me know, how much sense it makes to continue this.
Conversations at Midnight
01: Empty
by onescape
"Do your best, Allison."
He sounded firm, authoritative. Textbook commanding officer.
He was a scared, desperate man reaching for desperate measures.
"Sir? Tell my parents, sir." Although her voice rang out tinny through the speaker system, he could hear the slow and steady flood of realization, loss of hope; a child being left behind in a dark place. All seeping out into the coldness, until nothing was left. A void; the last 'sir' completely hollow. She sounded like an empty brass jar.
She shouldn't have said that. She shouldn't have.
"I…I will. Archer out."
Out.
He sat up abruptly, bathed in cold sweat. Legs tangled in soaked sheets, so that he stumbled and fell twice and hit his side against the desk in his hurry to get to the bathroom – and he was definitely getting too old for this, he thought rubbing what would certainly be a contusion across his ribs in the morning. His joints painfully protested against the abuse.
The harsh artificial light hid nothing of the angry and worn out wrinkles in his face, and he felt naked looking into the mirror.
He needed a drink.
"Morning, Lieutenant. Ensigns."
"Good morning, sir." Menderra at the communications nodded.
"Sub-Commander."
"Captain."
T'Pol rose gracefully from where she had been perched at the edge of the seat, unobtrusively took quick inventory of his appearance from head to toe, and walked without a word over to the science station.
Archer sagged into the Captain's chair, propping an elbow on an armrest and rubbing the bridge of his nose in an infinitely tired gesture. He then waved a hand in the general direction of the bridge crew.
"Report…somebody. T'Pol."
"According to Commander Tucker the warp engines will not be online for another two or three weeks. We are currently moving at half impulse towards our last scheduled destination, the binary pulsar SGT 2114-7. At this speed we will reach it in eight months and seventeen days."
Archer realized he had been listening for the trace of sarcasm in her voice, when it wasn't there. The previous events must have effected her far more than she'd expected…maybe even just as much as any of them. How he envied this act of hers, perfected by long years of practice – he figured, just like a few times before, that right now she'd make a much better Captain than he would. She could be a mountain of calm and strength whether she felt any of it herself or not. He just sat there, his splayed fingers still covering his face, since he couldn't summon the energy to put on a mask. Yet. And it had been forty-eight hours.
He inhaled deeply and straightened in his seat. Glancing to the helm briefly he met Mayweather's unguarded stare.
"Is something the matter, Ensign?"
"No, sir," Mayweather shook his head and looked away.
"Maintain course, then." They could very well crawl along until they were able of warp again. Anything better than sitting here.
"Aye, sir."
Archer swept his gaze around the bridge. All blank faces were hastily returning to their duties. If Hoshi were here, she'd face him like a brave little soldier and say, I don't know, sir. Maybe we could ask you?, and he'd tell her You're out of line, Ensign, but without the implicit harshness of such statement. And he'd feel stronger himself, just because she'd stood up to him. But Hoshi was still lying in sickbay with a concussion, and here everyone, even T'Pol, evaded his eyes. There was no resistance to lean against.
Gripping the armrests he eased himself up again. He felt like a fool.
"T'Pol, you have the bridge. I'll be in my ready room."
He observed the stacks of padds littering his desk, hands nicely folded in front of him, until the door beeped.
"Yeah, come in."
Trip Tucker loped in and Archer looked up hopefully, but even his engineer's face looked strangely empty without the usual half-smile.
"I brought you some status reports on how the repairs are coming along."
"No, you didn't."
"Fine. So I came to see how you were doing, you looked like shit last time I saw you and that was, uhh, five hours ago, when you were stalkin' the hallways. Ya know, you're not very subtle."
"Maybe, but I really don't want to poke about in this." Time to change the topic. "How come you can sleep? I could really use some advice now."
"Yeah. Good question. Well - I'm dead on my feet."
"I suppose I can do that."
"Yeah."
Tucker put the padds in question on top of an already established heap and leaned on Archer's desk.
"Look, Jon, I know this should be basically my mess. I couldn't make the decision, so instead I pushed you into it – "
"Trip –"
"You didn't mention anything, but I know it and that's more than enough. I am the goddamn Chief of Engineering and it shoulda been my decision. I mean, we had exams on things like this at the Academy! Honestly I'd feel much better if you rubbed my face into this, but then again I guess I can't really expect you to take care of my feeling better right now…" Tucker trailed off with an embarrassed, weak laugh.
Archer gave him a curious look. His face for the first time took on a semblance of life.
"You're trying too hard," he said with a shade of a grin, then heaved a sigh. "At least you talk to me. The rest of the crew has been pussyfooting around me since." For a moment he looked sheepish.
"Eh, do you still have that stash of Seven Crown that's not supposed to be on board?
The engineer gave him a mock-conspiratorial glare. "Jeez, Jon, not so loud in front of the Captain!"
Archer laughed shortly without real mirth. "You think you could do without it for one evening?"
"I'll get it after I've finished the shift," Tucker nodded and turned to leave.
"Trip."
"Yeah?"
"Have someone prepare a pod so that it looks presentable for the funeral tomorrow."
"Will do."
The door hissed shut and Archer let his eyes close. The short conversation had taken more out of him than he cared to admit.
The dinner was… uneventful. Everything was uneventful. Routine was highly overrated, Archer thought pushing a piece of steak about on his plate. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the faintly disapproving glance his Science Officer sent his way. He could just hear what she was thinking. How he was letting emotion get the better of him. How he had showed the whole spectrum of symptoms in the past two days – the insomnia; the loss of appetite towards his favored slabs of dead animal; the overall exhaustion; the severe reduction of social contact. Totally predictable. She probably thought his behavior was highly undesirable and a danger to the execution of his duties.
She was right, of course.
Funny, how he sometimes seemed to be able to read T'Pol like a book. Or so he thought…or liked to think.
The room was silent. Trip had shoveled his ravioli in in a total of five minutes, and with a half-hearted excuse he'd fled the Captain's mess earlier. Archer found he didn't mind at all. His engineer was being preoccupied; trying to work out whatever there was of his made-up and self-inflicted guilt in his usual way. Trip was buzzing with angry energy, and Archer knew he would not stand a chance against it at the moment.
He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to remember what had happened, or that she had even ever existed.
He wanted peace, but that was the one thing he couldn't get. There was nowhere to run in this godforsaken tin-can, especially when one was its captain.
Archer caught himself staring at the wall, his fork poised above the plate. Again. His grip loosened and it clunk against the porcelain loudly.
T'Pol didn't even look up from her bowl of steaming soup. He was unbelievably grateful for that small bit of privacy she'd granted him. She of all must have known best what it was like to seek a place of solitude and not be allowed one. Archer silently berated himself for all the times he'd intruded upon her in his ruthless desire to know.
Crewman Holloway came in and waiting the Captain's assent collected the plates. Archer could see how the young man cringed at his own every movement; the sounds he made seeming overly loud after the previous silence.
"Captain."
Archer dragged his focus towards his Science Officer.
"Yes?"
"I have been recommended what you call 'chamomile tea' and found it very relaxing. Maybe you would like to try having a cup this evening," T'Pol delivered the last sentence with a polite question mark at the end, looking at a point somewhere above his ear as was her habit.
Archer curbed his surprise quickly, and swallowed the jabbing remark about her sudden bout of concern that came to mind immediately. "I…Yes. I guess that might be a good idea. Thank you, T'Pol." He offered not-quite-a-smile. Most of the time he felt he had to smile for them both to somehow compensate for her lack of expression.
"You're welcome. Good night, Captain."
"You too, T'Pol."
She pushed away from the table with barely a sound and left, not looking back.
Not that he'd expected her to.
Would have been nice, though. Just once.
Or not.
What did he know about her? About why she did the things she did; why she said the things she said? Next to nothing. Archer didn't believe logic was what she followed exclusively – nature wasn't logical, the universe was ruled by chance and chaos, so the Vulcans couldn't have evolved this far by living based solely on logic. What else there might be that drove her, though…if he was honest, he had no whiff of an idea.
An hour later, when all muffled sound of eating utensils and superficial conversation in the mess hall had died down, Archer forced himself to make it out the door. He thought of the bottle in his quarters, and of T'Pol - those two dark pits of her eyes, always half-lidded, so skilled at faking lack of interest.
He walked over to the resequencer in the corner.
"Chamomile tea. Eighty degrees centigrade."
He hated this. He hated how he hung on to such a minute sign of a personal opinion. How easy it would be to succumb…
(TBC…hopefully)