TWO STEPS BACK - CHAPTER 4/5
AUTHOR: darrah
SPOILERS: Twilight; Similitude; Shipment; Fusion; Stigma; Carpenter Street.
RECOMMENDATION: It might help to read the first three chapters to this story.
SUMMARY: This is an experiment in speculation. After "Twilight" ends, Archer wakes up in Sickbay to his old reality, his memory 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-13 for this chapter.
CATEGORY: A/TP, some T/TP.
A/N: The title of this chapter is taken from Rabindranath Tagore's poem of the same name, in his Geetanjali.
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Chapter Four: Mind without Fear
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I came for you, for you, I came for you, but you did not need my urgency
I came for you, for you, I came for you, but your life was one long emergency
And your cloud line urges me and my electric surges free
Crawl into my ambulance, your pulse is getting weak
Reveal yourself all now to me girl while you've got the strength to speak...
For You; Bruce Springsteen; Asbury Park
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Jonathan Archer could not sleep that week. At all. After tossing and turning for an hour every night, he would hole himself up in the Command Center and check out every single fact, every single piece of evidence, every single sphere they had so far discovered. It kept him from thinking too much of his actions and their consequences. Misery, anger, and guilt plagued him daily, like a bad cold. Every once in a while, he would feel a bout of intense pain in the back of his neck, followed by flashes of faces and events – Crewman Fuller, Gralik, a Xindi Reptile, Daniels, Sim, Trip, T'Pol...
...In a red blouse, her hair in a ponytail...
Even his dreams had become more intense, more heart-stopping – a strange mixture of the disastrous and the rapturous. Most nights he awoke to find himself in a sweat, his heart in his throat, his head swimming with unfamiliar sensations, jumbled words, hazy images.
And he was almost sure that he was now sleepwalking. Several nights that week he had ended up in the Command Center with no recall whatsoever of when or how he had arrived there. Things were bad, pretty bad. But, he surmised, things could have been much worse. The Xindi could have by now – if they'd wanted – destroyed Enterprise. It was the only ship of its kind in the Expanse. It would surely not survive against the combined efforts of the Xindi fleet. So why hadn't they? Archer had thought long and hard about this. Something – someone – must be giving them a long rope. Gralik may have been right after all. Maybe all Xindi were not the enemy. If so, then Archer needed to find that one powerful friend.
He also thought about Raijin. Poor, misguided Raijin. Well, no. Not so poor. And just maybe not so misguided after all. She had known exactly what she was doing. What was that old adage about the devil with an angel's face? He had almost fallen for it. He sure hoped he would never have to see her again. He certainly would never ever let her on board this vessel if he could help it. Or anywhere near his crew. His blood still boiled when he thought of the injuries T'Pol had suffered in her hands. It was a good thing Trip had been on hand to save her, because her Captain certainly hadn't! Seeing her lying on the diagnostic bed – bruised and pale – he'd felt as if a bomb had gone off in his skull. He'd been grateful Trip had been there, but something bothered him about the situation. And no matter how much he had tried, he could not bring himself to thank his friend for saving T'Pol's life. Instead he had controlled his temper with difficulty and stormed out. How very mature and commanding of him!
Of course, now, thanks to thinly disguised shipboard rumors, and his ill-timed comm. call to locate his chief engineer in the middle of the night, he finally knew the reason for the existence of that creeping finger of doubt. The thought of them together made his body grow cold, and his mind shut down. He didn't want to think about it, but images of them... intertwined... limbs interlocking, breaths mingling, bodies melding... came unbidden. Kept coming.
Anyway! Time to stop the clock on this crap.
Archer bent over the console – checking and rechecking the charts. T'Pol had done a bang up job so far. He could not imagine anyone else in her position right now on this mission. He could not believe he had been prepared to leave her behind. She just had to be the best science officer ever to serve on any ship, anywhere. Those Vulcans must have realized what they'd lost. Maybe that was the reason Soval had it in for him. She had dared to choose a Terran hothead over his much-vaunted Vulcan sophistication.
Speaking of hot heads.
Archer blew his breath out through his cheeks. Boy, was he in trouble! In too damned deep, as they say. He still could not believe what had transpired between them in his ready room a week ago. He had been under enormous stress, teetering close to the edge. He knew he should have dismissed her right away. Instead, he had let her remain, a million of his own questions circling his brain, his temper rising like bile up his esophagus with every word uttered. And, maybe unknowingly, she had pushed him a bit. Then all hell had broken loose...
Oh lord! He had almost kissed her! And it hadn't been all sweetness and light. Every time he thought of his actions, he felt a mixture of embarrassment, shame and anger. Had he hurt her, physically? Had he held her too tightly by her arm? He knew very well the bronze softness of her skin and how it could show every little bruise. It was probably already showing.
He shook his head. He was almost glad he hadn't kissed her. Almost. That look on her face, that clenched fist when he had pulled back had told him tons. But they had come close... to what? All he knew was, in the heat of the moment, in the nearness to bliss, it had seemed as if she did want it to happen.
And something did happen between them.
But whatever happened... whatever demon had taken possession of him in those few seconds, she had not pushed it ... and him ... away. When he had touched her, she had not moved away from him. Instead, he had felt her move infinitesimally nearer, closer; closer than they'd ever been. Then she had gasped a little and arched her neck as he'd leaned into her... her shoulder brushing against his chest... her scent invading his nostrils... it would have taken just another millisecond to reach out and slide his hand up the silk of her throat and touch his lips to hers...
A millisecond and a world full of courage.
He closed his eyes. Don't! Don't do this... he almost pleaded with himself. Don't analyze. Don't think. Don't remember. You can't afford it. Not now.
Right now, you can't afford to do anything other than... your job.
Sure, Archer, easier said than done though. Especially when she and Trip are probably...
... Oh for heaven's sakes, Trip's in a coma in Sickbay...!
Archer shook his head. He had gone truly over the bend, thinking this way after what had happened down in Engineering! Still, a niggling doubt picked at his higher reasoning. Did she believe that this whole... cloning experiment ... could be successful? That Sim would actually die in order for Trip to live again? What did she truly believe? What did he believe? He had no idea. And neither, it seemed, did his CMO. The whole situation was muddy. Even Phlox had no clear answers.
Archer knew one thing for sure. If this mission went the way they all hoped it would go, he would have to go back home and be responsible for a lot more than saving Earth. In fact, he would not be surprised if he faced a court martial at some point. But what other recourse did he have? He was playing god with one hand tied behind his back, but he refused to think of the day when he would be forced to acknowledge to himself that Trip had had a chance to live and he had botched it. Nope. This was the only way, for Trip, for this ship, and for humanity. Trip was a kickass engineer and a great acting captain. Enterprise could not afford to lose him right now.
The strange thing was that he had known that T'Pol would try to stop him. He had known that the strength of her beliefs in the Vulcan version of ethics would not allow this to go unquestioned. So, as soon as she had walked into the ready room with that particle in her hand, he had known that there was something else on her mind. Two years together. Yes, he knew her quite well by now. Just as she did him, he suspected.
He'd noticed her fidgeting, as much as any Vulcan could, out of the corner of his eye. But he'd ignored it. He'd told himself that he did not feel anything. Nothing at all. There was a void in his chest that preempted any connection. With anyone. He just wanted to be left alone. He didn't want to think or to debate the situation. And he definitely didn't want to talk to her. He knew she would try to stop him from creating the simbiot, and maybe she was right. But he could not afford to be weak. What had to be done had to be done.
But, even now, that little seed of suspicion plagued him. Yes, she was a Vulcan, and yes, she was logical, practical. She existed on the rational plane, refusing to give in to compassion or uncertainty. But he had known better. He knew her better. Something told him that she had given up on the possibilities too quickly for his comfort. Barring the initial shock when he had informed her of Trip's accident, it had seemed to him that she'd accepted Trip's loss with an equanimity he could never, in a million years, own. And her words in the ready room had further confirmed her position.
Had she really given up on Trip coming back? Was that why she had not moved away when he had almost kissed her...?
He could not help but feel a sense of... shame... at the direction of his thoughts but a million scenarios, alternatives and what-ifs crowded his mind. T'Pol was Vulcan, yes. But she was also a woman. And even though she had never said anything outright to him, he could pinpoint specific moments in their past interactions when they had been this close to...
He had known for a while that T'Pol was aware of his feelings about her. After all, he had told her as much after that fateful showdown with the Vulcans when the secret of her illness had spilled out. At the time, he had been disappointed at her silence. But he had accepted that she was sick, she was distracted, and perhaps, just a little skittish. She had been acting that way for a while, ever since the mind meld with Tolaris. And he figured it was only because of his idiotic denseness toward all things T'Pol that he had somehow missed the signs along the way.
He remembered the hours, after Tolaris's attack, that they had spent in Sickbay, with only Phlox for company. She had been... inconsolable, and almost human in her inability to face the downward spiraling of the remains of her control… the horrifying torment within her on open display for him and the doctor. At the time, he had been furious and penitent beyond belief. It had taken him one and a half seconds to realize that it was he who had pushed her toward her fate. Literally. He had hotwired, unknowingly, the whole sequence. And it could not have been more obvious if he had dressed her in her best, arranged her on a gilded plate, and served her up to Tolaris and his fellow renegade Vulcans.
Then, about a year ago, he had committed a worse transgression toward her. His most unforgivable sin had not been his insistence that she acquaint herself with the Vulcan doctors at the Interspecies Medical Conference on Dekendi III, it had been his total failure to connect the dots. Even when T'Pol had tried to remind him, it had taken a while for him to recall the incident with Tolaris.
He still had no explanation for this memory lapse on his part.
He'd felt totally confused at first. After the Vulcan doctors had reported Phlox's wrongdoing to him, all he could think was – why would Phlox do this? Why would he lie to the Vulcans? Had he taken leave of his senses? How could he place his captain and his ship in this kind of false position?
As for T'Pol... Archer could not believe what he had heard. She was ill? Since when had this happened...? He felt unbelievably hurt and angry that she had not mentioned her illness to him. Why? He could understand Phlox's reluctance to divulge her private matters, but he had thought that, after the way he had dealt with Tolaris and the rest of the situation, she could have opened up to him and shared a little of herself.
He guessed he had been wrong on that count, as well.
He had been furious too. The comm. call with Dr. Oratt had been a humiliating experience. More so because it had brought back the bitterness of the past… of his own constant clashes with Soval and his cronies, as well as his father's lifelong, and ultimately failed attempts to deal with the Vulcans on an equal footing.
Anger had indeed fueled his initial summons to T'Pol and Phlox and he had been prepared to deal with them, at least this time, just as the Vulcans had wanted him to. Far be it from him to come off looking lenient when it came to less-than-desirable behavior on the part of his senior officers.
But as soon as she had entered his ready room, all anger had been replaced with hurt, and a sense of profound sadness. And distance.
She had come in promptly and had stood – her spine ramrod straight and her eyes level – until Phlox arrived. Archer had glanced up at her but did not acknowledge her. Instead, he'd let her stand, not looking at her or speaking to her, as the minutes ticked by and the silence between them lengthened.
The subsequent conversation had been torture for him. And, he was sure, for her.
Even after Phlox and T'Pol had tried to tell him the truth, his pain had blinded him somewhat and delayed his understanding of his own responsibility in the matter. But his wake up call had been the look on her face when he asked her why she had taken the chance that led to her illness.
She had said, simply, haltingly, that she had been forced.
They had stared at each other for a long moment as the world around them dwindled.
Had he seen reproach in her eyes?
As awareness dawned he had felt miserable. He should have asked. He should have tried to find out whether she was okay. He should have paid her more attention.
No wonder they had not told him. He had neglected, yet again, his duties toward not only his first officer, but his friend.
Yes, it had taken him a long time. But it was finally during her hearing with the Vulcan doctors that he saw her, for the first time, as a woman with a set of personal principles that deserved his utmost respect and admiration. He had almost gasped when, earlier on the Enterprise, she had refused to give up the name of the miscreant who had done this to her. He could not believe she was capable of such nobility, such justice. Before that time, he had seen parts of her that defied description. She was brilliant, intoxicating and drove him crazy with her logic and her unconscious sensuality. Even her vulnerability added to her strength. All these were her unique signatures. And even though he had found himself adrift in a sea of helpless fascination, he had left the siren call of her various facets alone. To heed it would be too dangerous, too full of import and consequences. So he had kept himself slightly aloof, not from her, but from the thought of her... of them... together.
Then came the hearing.
Sitting beside her, facing the mask-like faces of the Vulcan contingent, he had felt a sense of oneness with her – a sense of fighting the odds together – that had taken his breath away. He had never, in his forty-one years of life, felt that before, with any woman.
They had stared down the system and won somehow. He'd figured that the Vulcans, after administering the obligatory slap on her wrist, would probably write T'Pol off as a loose cannon. He'd also wondered whether Soval would be apprised on the details of the matter.
He knew it was unfair, even unwarranted. And that he should have further fought her tarnished reputation, that they should have done something about Dr. Yuris. But, at that moment, he just wanted to take T'Pol home. To the ship. Safe and sound. So he had grabbed what he could and allowed his selflessness to take the back seat. His reward had been the look of immense relief on his first officer's face as the Vulcans allowed her to stay on Enterprise... with him.
On their way back to the ship, he had sneaked several glances at her – twin tastes of denial and amazement flooding his mouth. Their eyes had met briefly, and he'd detected something in them – something that made him suddenly, unbelievably, happy.
And, deep inside, a lightness of being invaded his limbs and made him a bit dizzy.
Later on, standing in front of the window in his ready room, he'd told her, in as low-key a manner as possible, how he felt about her.
"... But on a selfish note, I'm glad he did. I didn't want to lose you."
He had looked back at her as he'd uttered the words – half apprehensive, half-disbelieving of what he was saying and feeling. Was he really confessing? Was he ready for this... for her... in his life?
Her reaction had been almost non-existent, non-committal – just as he had expected – almost as if she hadn't heard him. Instead, she had said merely that she wanted to keep fighting.
He had agreed. He couldn't help but agree. How could he not?
And he had accepted her silence. He had expected no more, no less. This was T'Pol. There could not be anymore. And he accepted that.
For the next few minutes, they'd stood in companionable silence – a state that had become natural to them over the last few weeks – looking at the stars dotting the darkness outside. Even though she'd stood perfectly still, he could tell that she was distracted, restless. Then she had looked up at him and told him the truth.
The truth she had not dared tell Phlox or the Vulcans.
"Captain, I have mislead you," she had said, her voice a whisper, so low that he had had to bend his head toward her to hear her words.
The rest of it had become a jumble in his mind. He could only remember that she'd trembled as she spoke: her voice, her hands, and her whole body. When she'd noticed her lapse, she had clasped both hands behind her back and straightened her spine.
A part of him had wanted to take her into him, hold her close and let her lean her strength against his, but he'd been shell-shocked into near- catatonia by her admission.
As she spoke, her voice rendered hoarse with guilt and misery, the images she conjured up drove a dagger into his gut.
"I am to blame, Captain."
He felt stunned, confused.
What!
She would not meet his eyes. He thought he saw her swallow a couple of times before continuing.
"I... am responsible for this... disease. No one else."
"But... T'Pol—!"
"No! Please..." she drew in a quick breath. "Please Captain, allow me to continue."
He fell silent.
She looked at the floor.
"He did not... I asked for it. All of it. Tolaris was... he was different. He was ... what humans would call wild. I have never met anyone like him. He brought something out in me that I have never felt before—"
"—Felt?" Archer felt as if somebody had rushed him on a football field.
T'Pol looked out the window. Her eyes looked as if they'd turned jet black. She continued as if she hadn't heard him.
"... I craved it Captain. The experience. I craved him. Like a desert traveler craves a single drop of water."
He felt sucker punched. He felt as if something had collapsed in him, such as the will to live. He felt as if a light had been switched right off inside his skull.
He looked down at her. She still looked the same. But it was as if something fundamental had changed between them, or, maybe... inside him.
He tried to listen to her but her words had begun to flow together. They circled around him, making him lightheaded.
She said she had urged Tolaris to continue that night, despite his initial caution. She said something about a dream about her nights in San Francisco.
"So I was right..." he said.
She looked up at him.
"Captain?"
"I was right. You were spending a lot of time with Tolaris. I thought that was—"
He stopped abruptly.
She kept looking at him.
Don't say any more, Archer. He admonished himself for that slip. Be careful.
But he had to know.
"Did..." He stopped, then continued.
"Did you... did you want him?" He whispered. His voice sounded hoarse to his ears.
She looked back down.
"I... yes... I did. And I knew he wanted me. I know he wanted my mind and my soul and my..."
She stopped and swallowed.
He stood very still. His heart was still. Was it actually beating?
Her voice surged into his veins, like some strong anesthetic from an IV. He felt cold, groggy, as if he was under the Pacific without flippers. And the undercurrent was too strong.
"I did think about it, Captain, for a long time." She looked up at him then. "I thought about asking you... telling you..."
So why didn't you! He thought.
But he held his tongue.
"... But I knew that this was a chance in a lifetime for me to experience something I never have before..."
He felt as if every second that went by was a step toward realization. Of some sort. Like a doomsday announcement.
"...I knew he desired me. I knew that from the moment I met him. On Vulcan, this never happens. Our lives are... tied along familiar paths, Captain. I would never meet someone like this on Vulcan, never have this opportunity..."
He closed his eyes. He couldn't take this any more. He backed slowly away toward the window and stood with his spine stuck to it from his neck to his behind.
God give me strength, he thought. So this is why I got no reaction.
"We... meditated for a while. He did warn me... he told me I should think again. But I had already decided...I... needed him... needed his touch... we began to..."
He drew in a sharp breath.
"Please," he muttered. "Not the details."
She stopped speaking and looked sharply at him. Her eyes were wide. He thought she looked almost as if she was seeing him there for the first time. He had all but disappeared in the reliving of her memory with Tolaris.
He put up a hand. Was it shaking?
"I don't want to hear any... details."
She kept looking at him. Her eyes were green now. And very wide.
"Captain, I am sorry. I didn't realize..."
He gave a low, short bark of laughter.
But he had to ask. He was like a man asking for his last smoke.
"What...? What didn't you realize, T'Pol?"
Her eyes seemed stuck on his face. He wished, for the first time in their acquaintance, she would look elsewhere.
"Captain, I... I didn't realize the risks... the danger," she said. "I was curious—"
Curiosity. Oh, right. That explained it.
Wasn't that an emotion, by the way?
"—But you... desired... him, right?"
"Not in the way you think..."
Archer shook his head. Women! Were they the same everywhere?
She continued after a short silence. She told him that she had fought back. But it was only after she'd realized the extent of the price she would pay, that she had protested. She'd fought back then, like a wild Vulcan lematya, but Tolaris was too far gone in his quest for her soul.
"You know the rest," she said.
The silence, after her low-voiced, halting admission, was deafening. She looked up at him for a full fifteen seconds, her eyes searching his stunned face – her own flushed a deep green – then she looked away, at the floor, at anywhere but him.
Archer held her gaze until she broke it, his pulse thundering in his ears. An ice- cold sliver of something... was it disillusionment? Astonishment? Betrayal? Whatever it was, it clutched at his throat and rendered him mute.
She was silent as well, her head bent, the fall of her cropped hair hiding the arch of her eyebrow and her eyes from him. They stood together, in the clutches of uncertainty, doubt and shame, for a long while. Then, bidding him goodnight, she turned away from him. In that nanomoment, something... something in the sound of her voice – was it desolation? – galvanized him, and he put out his hand and touched her shoulder. She halted immediately, looking back at him, and he suddenly understood why he was the only person she had told... that she could have told. Why they were sharing that precise moment at that precise point in time. Why he had fought for her like a tiger fighting for its cub.
They were kindred souls. And, for him, at least, there was no other.
This didn't matter. Tolaris didn't matter. Nobody... nothing else mattered.
"T'Pol..." His voice broke a little in the middle of her name.
He halted, then swallowed. She was silent, waiting, watchful. He looked at her for a moment, then allowed his hand to cup her face, his thumb brushing lightly against her jaw. She looked at him, not moving away from his touch. And he knew, in that instant, what to say.
"T'Pol... we... all make mistakes. I am sorry I pushed you toward..." He couldn't say any more, his throat closing in the pain of their shared guilt.
She did not reply. But he felt, for the barest second, a slight pressure of the soft skin of her cheek against the roughness of his palm. Her eyes held his for what seemed like eons.
Then she stepped away, and left the room.
It was only after she was gone that he realized that her admission had not changed his regard for her an iota. He had known, at that moment, that his was a hopeless case.
All he'd wanted was for her to be well... for her to be okay. All he'd wanted was for her to be with him, by his side, fighting their battles, together.
Strangely, they had actually grown closer since that day, bit by daily bit, sharing pain and danger, rescuing each other out of hot spots, bailing each other out of tight spots. Every XO and Captain must have an understanding beyond normal ken, Archer realized. But he knew that T'Pol and he shared a bond that went beyond the mere personal. It spoke of a future that beckoned all of Humanity and all of Vulcan – in a bond that seemed to be a sacred pledge to protect and embrace the best and the worst of them all.
Then the Expanse came... and with it the threat of extinction. And with that came the descent into his own personal hell.
Then the rumors... Sim... Trip... two names that rolled off his tongue like fire and ice.
Two names that banished his soul to permanent perdition.
After that, he had withdrawn from them all. But, most of all, he had withdrawn from her.
That day, in the ready room, she had disagreed with him about creating and destroying Sim. And instead of discussing the situation, he had lost control. Even now, if nothing else, then the rough brutality of his dismissal and her headlong plight from the room plagued his conscience. He knew that since that night she had made sure to avoid him. In fact, they actively avoided each other now, only talking to each other on the Bridge and in front of crewmen and other officers. Their interaction was civil and polite and distant. Nowadays he sort of sneaked onto the Bridge, and if he saw her at her station, he would greet the crew and slink into his ready room. She had even sent the duty roster to him once via Hoshi. Now he routinely avoided having dinner in the Captain's Mess for fear of running into her. Imagine that, the Captain of the ship barred from his own Mess! She probably ate hers in her quarters, anyway.
Archer knew the crew noticed. Even bulkheads have eyes on starships. But at this point, there was not much he could do to bridge this chasm they had carved together.
He sighed and began to shut off command codes and lock down the display screens in the Command Center. This was going nowhere fast. His mind was filled with the thought of her... of them... and his body was crying foul. His concentration was nil right now. He couldn't even look at the schematics of a sphere without thinking of her long, exquisite fingers tapping the right buttons to manipulate the database. She had wonderful hands... strong yet gentle. Just the right combination for...
This time he groaned out loud. This was just too much. He needed something; something that would stop him from... thinking... about her, about everything else. But most of all he wanted to just lie down in his bed and go to sleep for the next forty-eight hours. When he awoke, Trip would be all right... alive. And maybe, just maybe, this entire week would have been a nightmare. Heck, this entire mission could be a nightmare.
He massaged his temples. He felt a doozy of a headache coming on. His stomach growled, and he realized he hadn't eaten since morning. These days, a piece of toast and a slice of cheese was all he could down at breakfast. And now his blood sugar was probably down in the dumps. The lack of food and adequate rest was beginning to get to him. But going to Phlox would be tantamount to an admission. And he didn't need any questions right now. Maybe because he didn't have any answers.
Archer turned around and stalked out of the room. He could not believe what was happening to him... around him. He could not believe he was thinking this way, doing these kinds of things... like throwing people in airlocks and torturing prisoners and playing god! How much farther would he have to sink in his quest to protect his people? And would they even care? Would they even recognize the extent of his sacrifice? What would his father think of him now? If Henry Archer were alive, would he ever want to see his son again? Would he ever condone his son's actions? Would he ever forgive him? Would he ever have been able to face his father with his head held high even if this mission saved earth?
Would he ever have been able to say – "Look dad, I made your dreams come true, dad!"
He felt himself running – almost a fast jog – away from the Command Center, away from the Xindi database... his breath coming in strained gasps. He thought he passed two crewmen greeting him, but he didn't stop. He kept running, and ran right into the doors of the gym, which were a tad too slow for him. His forehead hit the metal doors just before they swished open. Rubbing at the skin, he looked around and was glad it was empty. He knew that Malcolm and Hayes sometimes worked out here late at night. He picked up a clean towel and went to his designated locker to change into shorts and a tee-shirt. As he slipped out of his uniform, he sat down heavily on the bench and tried to calm down. He needed to calm down. He needed to let go of this fear... of failure, of irrevocability, of annihilation.
That was it. He needed to just do or die.
Tomorrow, he would bid goodbye to Sim. And that would have to be that. No more, no less.
Then he would have Trip back. And all would be well.
Daniels was a persistent bastard. Archer had no idea why he kept shadowing him and Enterprise. What was it about the guy that irked the hell out of him? Was it a certain oily insouciance? Or was it that idiotic earnestness? Either way, Daniels bugged him. More so, because he had very little reason to believe the man but often found he did. And it was just that the doubts and uncertainty came, without fail, after Daniels was gone, so that Archer would not be able to ask him the tough questions.
Exasperating!
Maybe she could help. This time, she would not have to hear it from him. If this Detroit business did happen, then he wanted her to see it for herself. He was tired of having to convince everyone, especially his science officer, of the existence of time travel. A part of him wanted to take Trip. Or maybe even Malcolm. Malcolm would be the right choice actually. God only knew what sort of danger they would face. True, T'Pol was eminently capable of defending herself and him in the bargain, but lately, he'd been weighing even miniscule decisions like sending her on simple away missions outside the ship. He knew how dangerous that line of thinking was for a man in his position and he already knew that if Forrest had an inkling, he'd get a sound verbal thrashing over subspace.
So, in the end, it was precisely this thought that guided his decision. Forrest would probably approve. Because, one, he needed her – a Vulcan – to finally believe. And two, she was, after all, his science officer.
He firmly quashed the little voice that said – come on, Jonathan, this is your chance. Make that night up to her. Be serious. Be professional. Be her Captain. Make it up to her... with her, you nincompoop.
And wasn't it funny how he called himself Jonathan nowadays. Before, it had always been Jon...
... And wasn't it strange how... in his dreams... dark green eyes under sharply arching eyebrows hidden by a waterfall of nut brown hair always made him catch his breath... pause... take a look around...
... No... This was still the Enterprise. So get with it, Archer!
These visits from Daniels were really messing with his head. Maybe he should have told Daniels about these dreams?
Nah.
He looked down. Porthos was tagging along. Damn, he'd left the cheese and the ham sitting out in the open in the Galley. He'd have to go back and put the packets back in the cooling units. And then he had to wake the quartermaster. What'd they wear in Detroit in the early 21st century anyway? Hmm... you couldn't go wrong with leather and denim, he figured.
Then he was standing in front of T'Pol's quarters, chiming her door. He hoped to god she was alone. He had no idea what to say or how to behave if she wasn't. Trip was no longer in Sickbay. Phlox had released him on the promise of a lighter work-week – something Archer had gladly signed off on. Enterprise was glad to get her chief engineer and movie night instigator back.
She took a little time to key her door open. Was she a heavy sleeper? A voice inside told him that he should already know the answer to that question. Dismissed! He replied back.
Porthos, as usual, bounded in, his tail wagging at the sight of her. It was amazing how his dog liked someone who didn't seem too fond of him on the surface. Despite his mood, he almost grinned at her expression when his Beagle went straight for the silky-looking cushion on the floor. He guessed dog hair and dog breath weren't too conducive to meditation. He made a mental note to keep Porthos away from her quarters in the future.
He realized, while apologizing for the late hour, that his First Officer was looking unusually drawn. Archer looked at her closely for a second. Was it the light or was she looking thinner, almost gaunt? He squinted a little in the half-light. Were those dark green things circles under her eyes or was she wearing some sort of makeup? No, they were circles. Her skin looked hollow and pinched, her eyes dark pools of exhaustion.
He had been lax in his duties with his crew lately, delegating without thought the upkeep of morale to Phlox and Trip. But could those two take care of T'Pol's needs?
He bit his cheek. Now where did that come from?
He noticed that she sat down when he went inside and did not get up off the bed. Definitely unusual for her. She was usually coiled energy around him. Even this morning, on the Bridge, she had been fine. At least, as far as he had noticed. He decided to let it go. No point, right now.
And he tried not to notice her sleep-ruffled hair, bare midriff and long legs clad in some blue silk thing.
She was mostly silent, her gaze steady, posture very straight, even as she sat on her bed. But her shoulders slumped. Yup. Definitely. Just a tad.
He felt a weakening. They were alone. Completely alone. Something in him wanted to tell her – like she had once told him – everything on his mind. Something in him wanted to confess it all, convinced that she would somehow understand, forgive, and accept.
Something in him craved her nearness, craved the soothing, tender touch that held him in his dreams. Maybe then he could really sleep a dreamless, restful sleep. Sheltered from the mayhem and the misery.
"Find something to wear that won't stand out in 2004."
She nodded, once. Then he hightailed it out of there.
Well, that went well!
Swearing under his breath, he picked up Porthos and strode to the Gym.
This had become a daily ritual after his all-nighters in the Command Center. He figured he could trade. Even if he couldn't eat, he could still exercise, keep up his fitness. This way, for an hour, he could forget Earth and all his worries. Today, though, he'd given the Command Center a miss. He needed to rest, keep his energy up. Tomorrow would be a busy day.
The Gym was empty at this hour of the night. He loved having it all to himself. Come to think of it, he loved having all the rooms on this ship to himself these days: the Bridge, the Mess Hall, the Galley, not to mention his ready room and his quarters – his two sanctuaries.
It was strange. He hadn't been this... this reclusive before. He had been known as Social Archer. He took pride in his sociability, his ability to hobnob with all strata of people. Come to think of it, when was the last time he'd had breakfast or lunch or dinner with Trip or T'Pol or any of his senior officers? Heck, when was the last time he'd dropped by engineering? Or the Armory? Was he really becoming a regular Ahab?
He shoved the worrisome thought away, stepped onto the treadmill and began to walk, then run.
He would put away the cheese and the ham right after this. Maybe make himself a sandwich before going to bed. His stomach growled in perceptive compliance as he revved up the speed on the machine, the pain in the back of his head receding at the sudden, welcome rush of adrenaline.
Yes, tomorrow would be a busy day. But, tonight, he needed sleep.
---
TBC