AUTHOR: darrah
SPOILERS: Twilight, Xindi.
SUMMARY: This is an experiment in speculation. After "Twilight" ends, Archer wakes up in Sickbay to his old reality, his memory intact fractured, his life at a crossroads, his ship and world threatened, and his friendships strained. As the weeks pass in the Expanse, he realizes two things – his center of gravity has shifted from his self to another; and that the phrase "tomorrow is another day" is a sop for the weak.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. I only play with them.
ARCHIVE: Please keep headers intact and tell me where.
FEEDBACK: PG for this chapter.
CATEGORY: A/TP, some hints at T/TP.
NOTES: This is my first ENT story and was originally written and posted in mid-December 2003, prior to Image in the Sand and Damage Revisited. The triad of Archer, T'Pol and Trip fascinates me: oh the possibilities, the nuances, the pathos! So here I am, with my little contribution to their dynamic. Please be honest in your comments. I'm here to learn. One more thing, if you hate triangles, be patient, give this a try. You might like it, you never know! If you hate it, send me hate-mail. I can take it. I'm a big girl. :)
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: Grateful thanks to Monica for her encouragement and being there for me when I needed the support. This story wouldn't be writing itself if she hadn't urged me on.
---
Chapter One: Sight Unseen
---
It's the
same thing night on night
Who's wrong, baby,
who's right
Another fight and I slam the door on
Another battle in our dirty little war
When
I look at myself I don't see
The man I wanted to
be
Somewhere along the line I slipped off track
I'm caught movin' one step up and two steps back…
From "One Step Up"; Bruce Springsteen; Tunnel of Love
---
Jonathan Archer woke up in a sweat and the world spun around him; and kept spinning. He clutched at anything solid and encountered cotton and dura-steel. The sheets were wet and smelled of his sweat. He touched his face. Wet, too. Was he crying?
For the first few moments, he had no idea where he was and how he came to be there but the first image in his head was – T'Pol. He felt her presence within him, around him. But she wasn't there with him. Why? She was usually there when he woke up, puttering around their bedroom, straightening a pillow here, arranging a vase of sunflowers there – her mere presence a quiet salve for his wounds.
Archer let his lips form her name; let his closed eyes envision her face. Yet he knew she would not answer; her delicately shaped hands would not cover his; her voice would not reassure his doubts. She seemed near, and yet farther away than she'd ever been from him.
This was a different reality.
He heaved his shoulders up slightly and allowed his weight to rest on his elbows.
Darkness stretched out around him, smelling of acrid solutions and cleansing product. He was lying in a narrow bed, a curtain drawn in a semi-circle obscuring the rest of the room. His head ached with a dull throb and his body was too warm for the layers of blankets covering him.
And T'Pol was still missing.
Archer's inherent pragmatism won a handy battle with dismay. Okay, so he was in Sickbay. He'd been dreaming. And now he needed to get to his quarters.
He sighed and stretched lazily, then swung his legs over the bed, noting that they were bare. Somebody had divested him of his uniform before putting him to bed, probably Phlox. He felt the room tilt, then right itself as he drew a deep breath. He stood up and tested his feet. The ground felt firm and cool. The ship was moving at a steady speed. That much he could decipher. The hour was late, the Sickbay quiet, and the sounds of Phlox's irrepressible pets muted. Archer was sure the Denobulan was nearby, completing his nightly regimen, ready to pounce on him at the first signs of life.
Doctors!
He stepped lightly, thanking the gods for a starship's super-techie, non-creaky floors. He knew exactly where Phlox kept extra pairs of clean trousers and shirts. Feeling his way around, he tiptoed to a side locker, opened the door a fraction, and stepped in.
He hadn't turned the Sickbay lights on. No point in waking the dead.
Or the hibernating.
As his vision adjusted itself to the chiaroscuro of the enclosed space, various crew uniforms on the top two shelves revealed themselves. Just a pair of pants would do for now. That was all he needed to get to his quarters. He felt sweaty and smelly all over. Yechh! A nice, hot shower was in order. ASAP.
The Sickbay lights came on just as he was slipping into a pair of flannel exercise pants. Phlox stood in the doorway of the locker.
"Now, now, Captain. I don't remember saying you could get up and walk around, much less get dressed!"
"Phlox, we've got to do something about those sickbay beds!"
"What's wrong with them?"
"Let's just say that if I'd been sleeping in MY bed, I wouldn't be awake prowling Sickbay at the moment." Archer knew a whiny tone when he heard one. He'd heard it often enough from his chief engineer.
Phlox's Cheshire cat grin was in full view. Archer winced.
"Captain, you may go to your quarters, but you have to report back here by 0900 hours tomorrow morning. Otherwise, I am not giving you bridge or even mess hall clearance." Phlox held up a hand. "And yes, I am DEAD serious. And I want you to get some QUALITY sleep. By that, I mean you should NOT be up and about before 0800. Do you have a headache?"
"A small one," Archer heaved a sigh.
DEAD serious? QUALITY sleep? The good doctor had been spending too damned much time with Trip.
"Sure, fine, whatever. I'll be back in the morning. Just let me…" his voice trembled a bit from exhaustion.
Phlox shook his head.
"Captain, please go to bed. But at the first sign of any distress from the concussion, I want you to be back here—"
"—Okay, okay! I promise."
"And Captain…"
Archer halted – half his body already out the Sickbay doors – and looked back at the doctor. Phlox had a strange look on his face, his mouth scrunched into a tight little bun, his eyes unsure.
"Spit it out, Phlox," Archer said. "Bad news…?"
"No Captain… at least not that I know of yet. But… actually, well, I wanted to talk to you a little… in private." The last word was almost a whisper.
Archer frowned a little. His feet were already deep in the tap dance of flight from the antiseptic air of sickbay. He craned his head and looked around sickbay. There didn't seem to be anybody else here. Phlox could be such a drama queen at times.
"Oh? What about?" He hoped the good doctor heard the impatience (or was it resignation?) in his voice.
Phlox bit the side of his cheek. His eyes were hooded as he considered. Then he straightened. His words sounded rushed, as if he was in a hurry to get them out.
"Captain, you haven't been sleeping well, you have lost a considerable amount of weight, and you have been very… shall we say… remote… for the last few weeks. We're all a little concerned."
"We…?" Archer looked at Phlox.
"The 'we' denotes your senior officers. I, too, am very worried. I would like you to have a full physical examination as soon as possible, sir."
Hmm, from the looks of things, some serious arm-twisting was to follow, especially now that the 'sir' had been dusted out.
Archer was silent. He really didn't have the time or the patience for this. Right now, he had no intention of either talking to anyone, or submitting to a physical. But he knew that the more he protested the more Phlox would pull out the Book of (Obscure) Rules of Medical Ethics vs. Command Functions to throw at him.
"You just gave me a physical, Phlox."
"That was not a real physical, Captain! You know very well what I mean." Archer could feel himself getting agitated. The dream had calmed him somehow, almost re-energized him. But now solitude beckoned again. Powerful. Seductive.
"Well, I am not going to discuss this now, Phlox. I am perfectly healthy, thanks to you!" Archer threw that one in, hoping it would take the sting out of what he was about to say. "But I am not going to have my head examined by you or any of my senior officers. I have enough to worry about as it is. And I need all of my faculties intact. I don't need any distractions right now."
His eyes caught Phlox's determined look, the "I am the doctor and I know best" look and despite his best intentions, he felt his voice sharpen.
"Please, Doctor, just leave me alone, alright!"
He realized he was shouting. Lately, it seemed, he did that a bit too much. Phlox looked shocked. His eyes were narrowed and his mouth held in a straight line. Archer began to feel a tiny bit of remorse and, perhaps, embarrassment.
As the silence lengthened, Archer sighed. He was exhausted. He needed some sleep right now.
But Phlox beat him to it.
"…Captain, it can wait." His ample form half-turned and his hands got busy with what looked like testing crucibles and tissue samples and the like. "Go to bed and have a good night's rest. We'll talk tomorrow."
Archer didn't even wait for Phlox to finish his sentence; he was out of Sickbay in the next nanosecond.
He keyed open the door to his quarters, and realized that his headache had returned with a vengeance. As he groped for his pajamas, he saw that Porthos was nowhere. His little bed was empty and his toys missing. Archer frowned. Just how long had he been out of it all? Two days, right? Had he left his dog with someone else? Oh lord, please don't let it be Phlox. Archer found himself almost mouthing the words to an ancient prayer his mother had taught him. Despite the extent of the doctor's own menagerie, Archer didn't trust Phlox when it came to his own multi-legged creature, especially after that horrific night in Sickbay. Since then, Archer had kept Porthos away from Phlox. Irrational, he knew, but there it was. Phlox had saved more than Porthos' ass that night. He has saved Archer's sanity. But it was a captain's privilege to be irrational about his loved ones. Or something like that. Well. Whatever.
Dropping the pajamas on the bed, Archer took a quick shower and pulled on a pair of cords and a tee-shirt. As he walked down the corridor, he considered. It was 0155. Well past time for the midnight snack Porthos and he often shared. By "midnight snack", he really meant cheese: The Forbidden Food. Oh, just who was he kidding? Archer knew it was really he who had spoiled his pet. It was his own incessant penchant for cheese that had started Porthos on it. Except that Porthos didn't react too well to the stuff. Someday… someday, he thought, I am going to get him hung up on things better digested.
So where could he be right now? Who would be kind enough to take his beagle in, feed him, put up with him? Could it be T'Pol? These days, at times, she seemed to even like Porthos. Archer had caught her stroking Porthos' fur when she thought no one was paying any attention. Hmm.
But T'Pol was probably fast asleep right now.
In her blue silk pajamas.
With her midriff bare.
Now where had THAT come from! Good god. Please! DON'T GO THERE. Not again. He gave himself a stern mental shake.
Anyway, so who else could it be? Cutler? Hoshi? Reed? Trip? Archer knew his pet followed his stomach.
Cheese! That must be it.
Somebody must have been sneaking Porthos cheese on the sly.
Right, it was either the galley or Trip's quarters. Archer harrumphed a little. Trip must have spoiled Porthos silly these past couple of days. With his master gone, the little monster was free to frolic and feed to his heart's content. Cheese must have been only the start. Porthos could be one fat little beagle by now.
A reluctant grin curved his lips as he stretched his arms out and scrunched his shoulders into his neck. Aaaah! That felt good. Things were bad, yes. Phlox wasn't far off the mark. He still felt the crushing sense of defeat and helpless paranoia that had crowded his every pore since they'd entered the Expanse, but he felt okay right now and a minute or two with Trip before bed might be just what the good doctor ordered. If he was sleeping, Archer figured, he'd go wake him up for just a bit. Just for a bit.
He'd missed Trip. It seemed they hadn't had one of their guy talk things in ages.
Archer began to whistle, not even noticing that this was the third time he'd rung the door chime at Trip's quarters. No answer. Was he sleeping? Maybe Porthos was sleeping as well. Archer considered beeping Trip then decided against it. If he was indeed sleeping, it would not do to wake him up. Maybe he could just slip in and get Porthos? He hit the chime again and waited. Then he keyed in his own command code that opened the hatch to Tucker's quarters.
"Computer, lights."
His beloved beagle was there – curled up in a little bed Trip must have made for him. Aww. That Trip. What a sucker. He'd even gotten some of Porthos' toys. They lay in a semblance of happy disarray around his sleeping beagle.
Archer picked him up gently and the pup sniffed a little, burrowing his head into his master's chest, instantly recognizing "home" when it came to him.
Archer stroked him and looked around. The bed was empty. It didn't look as if Trip had even made it to bed tonight. He was probably in Engineering. Or the Galley. Getting his pie and milk regimen. Straight up.
Very good. He'd trudge to the galley then. He was kind of getting hungry, as well.
But the mess hall and the kitchen were all dark. No sign of Trip. A couple of crew-women passed him and the look in their eyes, despite the nonchalant greetings, told him he was wandering the corridors in his civvies. This wouldn't do at all. It was way past midnight and he and his dog needed their sleep. He didn't want the good doctor to order him back to Sickbay the next day on account of exhaustion.
He stopped at a wall comm. and pressed the button. It beeped back at him.
"Bridge, this is Archer."
"Captain! This is Lt. Foster at the con, sir. How are you feeling, sir!"
Archer smiled. "I am fine, thanks. At ease, Lieutenant. Is there anybody from alpha shift on the bridge?"
"No sir. They are all off duty. We're delta shifting now, sir!" The Lieutenant's voice conveyed suppressed excitement, probably at the thought of speaking to the Captain at such an odd hour. Archer made a mental note of speaking one-on-one more often to the beta, delta, and gamma shifts in his off hours. He needed to know these young ones even better. Maybe after this mission. If they all came back safe and sound.
At the very thought, he began to feel a stiffening in his spine, a curdling in his stomach.
Cut it out, Archer!
He took a deep breath. "Lieutenant, do you have an update for me? How's it going up there?"
"All systems go, sir! No problems. We're maintaining course at half impulse."
Where to? No matter. He'd get all that from T'Pol tomorrow. Right now, his very bones were weary.
"Alright, carry on. I'll be in my quarters getting some sleep."
"Very good, sir! Good night to you!"
"Good night, Lieutenant. Oh, by the way, is engineering delta shifting, do you know?"
"Yes, sir, they are."
"What about Commander Tucker? Do you know where he is?"
He hated this: asking around for his senior officers. There should be a way to check his officers' whereabouts without waking the dead. Still, it was way past midnight and he'd been sick. So he could be forgiven some laxity of control.
There was a silence but sounds of consulting voices filtered through the comm. system. Then Foster was back.
"Captain, as far as we know, Commander Tucker should be asleep. Would you like us to try his comm., sir?" Boy, they were eager up there, weren't they?
Archer smiled. "Oh, no, it's fine. I'll see him tomorrow." He didn't want to cause any more fuss than he already had. He'd find Trip himself. If not tonight, then tomorrow.
Foster's voice came through the comm. again. "And sir, just to let you know, he has Porthos with him."
Archer smiled. Porthos was much adored on this ship. And he knew it, the spoiled little beast.
He lightly patted the snoring snout at his shoulder. One ear perked up and he felt a tiny, wet lick on his forearm.
"Thank you Lt. Foster. Carry on. Archer out."
Archer stroked his beagle's soft, downy fur for a moment. Then, whistling under his breath, he thumbed a different code on the comm. – a code that was still experimental at Starfleet Science and Tech; to be used only at the captain's discretion for emergency purposes. It was designed to allow voice control of the comm. to the commanding officers of the ship.
At his touch, the comm. came alive and responded in audio mode.
"System working," a mechanical, slightly stentorian male voice piped.
Archer frowned and shook his head. Way too forbidding, but it'd do for now.
"Computer, where is Commander Tucker?"
"Commander Tucker – current location – Subcommander T'Pol's cabin."
T'Pol's quarters.
Trip.
Trip was in T'Pol's quarters.
Now.
At… 0234 hours.
Archer felt frozen. A cold frisson traveled from the small of his back, down the back of his thighs, to his ankles, and he almost sat down, right there, in the corridor.
He thumbed the comm. shut and started to walk. He had no idea when or how he got back to his own quarters. As he lowered Porthos to his bed and pulled on his pajamas, a hammer pounded into the jumble of thoughts in his skull. Pouring some cold water, he swallowed, in quick succession, three of the painkillers Phlox had given him. He suspected that the analgesic in the pills were backed by some powerful sedatives. That's good. I need to just not wake up one of these days.
As sleep claimed him, the last thought in his head was – so the rumors are true.
---
TBC