ACT THREE

Jon was frustrated.

As Soval declared yet another recess - the third in as many hours - Archer stood up from his uncomfortable chair and struggled against the urge to punch something, anything. For the first time in his life, he found himself wishing Crewman Daniels would make one of his surprise visits and whisk him away to some distant century, or that a Suliban would show up and make death threats, or that Trip would get a message from Starfleet that would call them both away from this damned table ... anything that would give him a break from Paul Mayweather.

The Boomer didn't even acknowledge Jon's nod as he strode away from the table, and Archer let himself wonder what punching the younger man would feel like. That's counterproductive, Jon, he told himself as he clenched his fists and moved away from the table himself, glad for Trip's quiet but steadying presence at his side. This entire "negotiation" was getting to be more and more frustrating as time passed: they'd just wasted another four hours arguing over what he thought to be trivial nonsense, and Archer wondered just how many times he'd heard the same refrain about Starfleet not providing appropriate protection for ECA ships.

At least some progress had finally been made, though. Mayweather had grudgingly acceded the point that the integration proposal was a good one, but then had promptly balked on the little details about how and when the integration would actually take place. They'd gone around in circles for the last forty-five minutes, bickering about the pay scale for ECA crews or how much autonomy ship captains would have or how rank would be determined until finally even Soval appeared to have had enough and ordered the latest break.

"You're not helping, Soval," he grumbled as the Vulcan moved by him. His chest ached as he spoke and Archer barely managed to keep himself from rubbing the scar tissue in a futile attempt to ease the pain. Phlox had advised him against overdoing it but Jon had ignored the Denobulan, confident of his ability to ignore the pain until negotiations were over.

Now he wasn't so sure.

Soval gave him an almost amused expression in response; it was a subtle lightening of his features, a softening of his eyes and fractional curve of the lips, but it was unmistakably amusement.

"Can't you get them to stop being so ..." Jon trailed off, trying to find the appropriate word.

"Intransigent?" Trip offered, not bothering to hide his smile.

"I am an arbiter, Commodore," the Vulcan replied, his voice absent of the condescension that had been there when Enterprise first launched. "Not an advocate." He pinned Archer with a steely gaze and Jon got his meaning at once: Soval would not pick sides, even if he favored one over the other.

Dammit.

"Commodore. Captain." He gave them both slight nods before turning away and walking across the room to join the station administrator. Archer sighed in frustration, shooting a glance at Mayweather and the other ECA representatives. They stood clustered in a semi-circle, deep in discussion. As if sensing Archer's eyes on him, Mayweather looked back and their eyes met; Jon shivered at the hate he saw there.

Archer looked away first.

"You're not helping much either, Trip," he pointed out, and Tucker gave him a funny look. "Soval gets along with you. Can't you ...?" He trailed off, knowing his old friend would get the point.

"Can't I what?" Trip gave him an unreadable look; these kinds of expressions were all too common now. T'Pol had influenced her human lover more than either of them knew. "You heard him, sir; he takes this whole arbiter thing pretty seriously." Trip sounded almost approving.

"You like him," Jon accused, and Tucker shrugged.

"Afraid so." He smirked at Archer. "He's a grumpy old man ... just like you." As he gave Trip a glare - a glare that just seemed to broaden the younger man's smile - Jon couldn't help but notice the Vulcan's head swivel in their direction and the flat, unamused look the ambassador gave Tucker. Damn Vulcan hearing, Archer mused to himself as he shook his head, half in amazement, half in disgust. Not long ago, Trip would have cut his arm off before admitting that he liked any Vulcan.

Especially Soval.

"How's the investigation going?" he asked in an attempt to get his mind off Vulcan diplomats and - what had Trip called them? - intransigent Boomers. Tucker sobered almost instantly, transforming into a Starfleet Captain within the span of a single heartbeat.

"Okay." He frowned, poorly concealed concern for T'Pol lurking in his eyes. "T'Pol's following up some promising leads now." Trip looked away and, for just a moment, took on an almost alien expression as his eyes focused inward. Jon was silent, disquiet swirling in his stomach as he observed the man he loved like a brother. He trusted T'Pol with his life, had grown to think of her as one of his closest friends, but found that he was still not entirely at ease with the idea of a telepathic bond. It just seemed ... inhuman.

And that, perhaps, was the crux of his problem.

Jon had only just learned of the bond's existence in the aftermath of Elysium and still hadn't quite come to terms with it yet. Logically, he knew that he should just move on and accept it as a result of T'Pol's Vulcan biology, but doing so was turning out to be a little bit more difficult than he'd anticipated. The stress of his recovery and his crushing workload at Starfleet Command barely allowed him time to reflect on what it could mean for Trip down the line and Archer would be the first to admit that his deep-rooted issues with Vulcans played a role in his discomfort."

"So how are you and T'Pol really doing, Trip?" he asked softly. His old friend gave him something of a surprised look and Jon smiled. "No bullshit."

"No bullshit?" Trip grinned; it had been something A.G. had said all the time back in the days of the NX-Alpha. "We're doing fine, sir." Tucker's amusement dissolved and he narrowed his eyes. "You asking as Jon or as Commodore Archer?"

"As Jon," he replied. He gave Trip another smile. "I'm just concerned, that's all." For a moment, Archer hesitated, wondering if he should ask about the bond or mention his own fears about what it meant for his friend. In the end, he retreated into official business; Trip was an adult and could make his own decisions. "Off the record, Starfleet Command is still a little ... concerned about chain of command issues." Tucker nodded.

"So are we," he said with a sigh as he ran his fingers through his hair. "We're tryin' to be discreet, but pretty much the entire crew knows where she's sleepin'." He shot Jon a disgruntled look. "Wouldn't be a problem if you hadn't promoted Stiles."

"Meaning?"

"T'Pol wanted me to make him First Officer." Trip shifted in place. "Had me convinced too. It wouldn't have solved all of the problems ..."

"Just most of them," Archer finished. They stood in silence for a moment, both keeping an eye on the ECA representatives. "Command will probably look the other way while the war's going on, Trip." He gave Tucker a cautious look. "After that, I can't promise anything." Trip frowned. "They may decide to give you different duty stations."

"We've discussed that possibility." Tucker's words were flat and utterly without emotion, so Vulcan-like that he hardly sounded like himself. Archer gave his old friend a look, recognizing the unspoken meaning at once: T'Pol and Trip would leave Starfleet if faced with being separated. He gave Trip a tight smile, letting his eyes communicate his understanding and his acceptance of that fact. For a long moment, they stood quietly, an easy companionable silence that Jon realized he had missed more than he had realized. Of their own volition, his eyes drifted back to the ECA group and he made a decision.

It was time to clear the air.

With a confident air, he approached the group, Trip a step behind and to the right of him. As he neared them, the Boomers ended their muted discussion and turned to face him, faces going blank. Mayweather took a half step forward, effectively putting himself at their front and forcing Jon to interact directly with him, which was fine with Archer.

That was what he wanted to do anyway.

"Captain Mayweather," Jon said with a nod. This was the first time he'd had a chance to interact with Travis' brother outside of the negotiating table and, from the bleak look on the Boomer's face, it would probably be the last.

"Commodore," Paul Mayweather replied darkly, his lips narrowed with anger. He gave Trip a brief nod. "Captain Tucker."

"Captain, I'd like to express my condolences for your loss," Jon said sincerely. It wasn't the first time he had tried; he'd sent no less than six subspace messages from his sickbed at Starfleet Medical, but each time the attempt had been rebuffed.

"Your condolences are noted." Noted but not accepted; Jon tried not to sigh as Mayweather pinned him with an angry glare. Behind the Boomer, two of the three ECA reps - the two women - frowned at the words.

"Travis was a hell of a pilot," Trip spoke up suddenly. "He saved a lot of lives at Elysium. Includin' mine."

"He's still dead," Mayweather snapped, his eyes never leaving Archer. All three of the ECA reps were shifting awkwardly now, their desire to be elsewhere obvious. "You promised our dad that you'd look after him," Mayweather continued. Archer tried not to flinch at that memory, tried not to show how much that had hurt. "Where the hell were you when my brother died?"

"I was unconscious on a lifeboat," Jon replied calmly. "Doctor Phlox was trying to restart my heart." Mayweather's expression flickered, softening for the briefest of moments before he turned cold once more.

"Too bad he succeeded," the Boomer declared bitterly before pushing by them as he returned to the table. As the other three ECA reps followed him, their eyes averted, Jon sighed. Into that moment of silence, Trip spoke.

"That could have gone better."