Chapter Eight – Of Examinations and Explorations

Archer sat on the bio-bed in Sickbay, resisting the urge to swing his feet like a child. Every glance in the mirror nowadays reminded him that he was on the far side of fifty. He hated annual physicals; hated waiting to be lectured about the things he needed to be doing more of, like exercising, and less of, like drinking coffee; hated having such conversations while stripped down to his skivvies. As with every other doctor Archer had ever known, "Undress," was the first directive out of Phlox's mouth, and "You may get dressed now," would be the last thing the Denobulan tossed over his shoulder at the end of this ordeal. Since the ship's medical sensors were sensitive enough to take readings through clothing any other time, he didn't understand why people had to sit around in their underwear for annual examinations.

Phlox recorded the exam data in his computer, then updated the file to show a comparative graph of the captain's general health over the past seven years. "Hmmm," he said, pleased. "Well, Captain, I must say, there is one upside to our being thrown back in time."

"Really. What's that?" Archer asked grumpily.

"Without the stress of the Xindi mission, your overall health has improved dramatically over the past few years. Your diet is adequate; you exercise regularly; and your blood pressure is as low as I'd want to see it. You are in excellent condition."

"Great, can I put my clothes on now?"

"Just a few more diagnostics to finish up," Phlox said. "It will only take a few minutes." He went along recording data while the captain squirmed a little. The doctor could tell there was something on his patient's mind, and he could keep the "diagnostics" excuse going for as long as it took the captain to spit it out.

Archer finally screwed up his courage. "Doc, can I ask you a question?"

"Certainly." Phlox kept his eyes fixed on the monitor.

"Well, it occurred to me that I'm getting older, and, um." He pulled up, banked, and circled for another approach. "I'm considering entering into a relationship with . . . someone, and I just wanted to know if, you know, physically, I'm in good enough . . ." he shrugged, ". . .shape."

"Hmm," said Phlox, "that depends. If you were considering a relationship with, say, a Klingon, then probably not. One of them would eat you alive, but the same would hold true for most humans, regardless of age."

Archer glared at him, realizing the doctor was having a joke at his expense. "Not a Klingon. A – an Ikaaran." There, he said it. As there was only one of those on board, that was as blunt as he was willing to be.

Phlox pulled a chair up and sat. "Hmmm," he said again, this time seriously and thoughtfully. "From a purely physical standpoint, I would say you should have no worries in the areas of stamina and performance, even at your age." Archer went red. "I assume you've looked into the medical database?" The captain nodded. "Then you understand that humans and Ikaarans are, in theory, sexually compatible – mostly. If you are willing to keep an open mind, I think it could be a satisfying relationship for both of you."

There were a lot of qualifiers in that opinion, Archer noted, and he knew why. According to the database, which he had had ample time over the past year to study, Ikaarans were a tactile species. He knew first-hand, so to speak, the incredible physical sensation evoked by skin to skin contact. He had not imagined the almost electrical energy that had skittered over his body when Esilia had touched him. Even when he dreamed of her, which he did often, he awoke with a yearning to feel that sensation again.

But what had brought him up short was the discovery that Ikaarans did not regularly engage in sexual intercourse; in fact, intimacy of that nature was matter-of-factly associated with reproduction. Ikaarans only ever engaged in it for the purpose of conceiving children.

Even if he could broach the subject with her (assuming she had forgiven his rejection of her), and even if she were still remotely interested in him, that was a pretty big stumbling block to get over. He thought he could. Maybe. He didn't know. Damn.

"Captain," Phlox began, and this time there was no trace of teasing in his voice, "I gather you are asking me for advice – which, by the way, is very flattering, I must say. My time among humans has taught me that one of the strongest emotions your species can exhibit is regret. It is apparent that you believe this woman can make you happy. If that is the case, then allowing, shall we say, fear of the unknown to stand in the way of that potential happiness would be a great mistake. I would add that if there is any person aboard Enterprise who deserves a little happiness, it is you, Captain." He slapped his knees and rose. "And, by the way, yes, this conversation will remain confidential." He parted the curtain and left, throwing over his shoulder, "You may get dressed now."

Leaving Sickbay, Archer resolved to begin a careful courtship of Esilia, and to see where it might lead. It was more difficult than he imagined, since she spent every waking hour, it seemed, in Engineering, working with Trip to try to find a way to interface the Ikaaran technology with Enterprise's systems. After a full week, during which the ship's emergency backup systems kicked in four separate times, both Trip and Esilia were beginning to seem a little obsessed.

Finally, Archer resorted to that old chestnut: dinner and a movie. He invited Trip and T'Pol to join him for a meal, and casually mentioned to Esilia that his favorite movie, Raiders of the Lost Ark, would be that night's feature. He had pulled a few strings to get that done; rank still had its privileges. He figured there was just enough romance amidst the adventure scenes to get the ball rolling.

Having orchestrated a double date, Archer sat back and listened as Trip and Esilia enthusiastically dominated the dinner conversation with their description of the modifications necessary to incorporate the new Ikaaran technology. He was amused by the sight of his engineer, baby sling draped across his chest, trying to eat without dropping any food on his son's head. The baby stirred, and Trip rose to pace the little room, bouncing gently with each step in the way that seemed innate to human parents.

The crew had become accustomed to T'Pol, off-duty, striding through the corridors with Lorian slung across the front of her, a practice, which, she explained, assisted in mother-child bonding. But it had come as a pleasant surprise to both parents to discover that Lorian was more easily lulled to sleep when held by his father. T'Pol theorized that Lorian was soothed by the sound of his father's heartbeat, since the human heart was located in the chest – as opposed to in the lower back, as was the case for Vulcans. So whenever Trip surfaced from Engineering, he eagerly took on the job of wearing the baby sling.

With Trip's attention diverted elsewhere, Archer took up the conversation. "Trip tells me that there were hostilities between Ikaar and Wyric over the past year."

Esilia sipped her juice. "Yes. The war lasted about five months, by your reckoning. I was called into service, as was every other skilled pilot."

"Your ship is not equipped with much weaponry," T'Pol observed.

"That's true. I was sent to monitor border skirmishes. Little ships like mine can easily slip through the intel net without detection." Esilia's voice hardened. "I stopped being a scout and became a spy. I got shot at several times. I didn't much like that. The upgrades you made to my warp engine came in very handy, Commander," she added, glancing at Trip.

"Well, I'm glad you made it through okay." Archer could well understand the anguish of having a mission of exploration turned into a mission of war.

"As soon as peace was declared, I separated from service. Now I . . . what's your word? Freelance. Transporting cargo, people, sometimes information. It's fairly lucrative. Of course, all the while I was hoping to run across Enterprise again." She lowered her black eyes to inspect the odd-smelling cake, something Chef called "tiramisu," gracing her dessert plate. Archer watched her, and they both completely missed the significant glance that passed between Trip and T'Pol.

When dinner was over, the four of them stepped through the door into the Crew's Mess, which had been converted, as it was every Tuesday evening, into a theatre. As they took their seats, Esilia inquired politely, "Is this . . . movie based on actual events in Earth's history?"

"Not really," Archer answered, claiming the seat next to her. "It's just an adventure story."

"You may find that you have to 'suspend your disbelief,'" T'Pol added helpfully from behind them. "It makes for a more . . . pleasant experience."

"T'Pol has learned to suspend not only her disbelief, but also her logic when watching movies," Archer commented, grabbing a bowl of popcorn being passed out by a crewman. "She's become quite the film buff, although she prefers Westerns."

"As I said," T'Pol replied archly, "it can be a pleasant experience." She checked to make sure Lorian was still asleep as the lights faded and the screen came to life.

Somewhere during the first act, Esilia's hand brushed against Archer's, deep in the popcorn bowl. The tingle of physical contact almost made him lose track of the plot. By the time Indy and Marion met up in the desert, Esilia had moved closer, her head resting lightly against his shoulder. He reached down and took her hand in his, feeling like a high school kid on his first date, and began to caress the back of it gently with his thumb. And when Indy had his final confrontation with the evil Nazis, she clutched his arm tensely, eyes glued to the screen, and snuggled close. He resisted the urge to assure her that the film had a happy ending.

When the lights came up as the closing credits rolled, Esilia breathed a deep satisfied sigh and said delightedly, "What a fascinating story. I have lots of questions."

"I'll bet you do," Archer answered, smiling. He waited as the crew began to file out of the room, some of them sending curious glances his way.

"Now that's a great movie," Trip commented, handing an awake but quiet Lorian to his mother. "Almost as good as Bride of Frankenstein."

Archer intercepted the inevitable query by turning Esilia toward the door. "I'll walk you home." He nodded a goodnight to his officers and ushered the Ikaaran out.

Trip looked at his wife, a smile playing about his lips. "What do you wanna bet we find them necking in the turbo lift?"

"The captain does not indulge in 'Public Displays of Affection,'" T'Pol noted.

"The captain doesn't indulge in 'Public Displays of Anything,'" her husband retorted, "but I think he's about ready to make an exception. He's smitten."

"Smitten," T'Pol tried out the word. "I am not familiar with that term. How, exactly, does one 'smit'?"

Trip held out two fingers, and T'Pol met them with her own. "Let's go put the baby to bed, and I'll show you."

x x x

Stepping out of the lift, Esilia paused long enough in her dissection of the movie's plot to observe, "Your quarters are not on E Deck."

"A gentlemen always escorts his date to her door," Archer answered smoothly, keying in the code to the guest quarters. A blast of hot air hit him as the door slid open. "Whoa. Warm enough in here for you?"

Esilia missed the irony completely. "It's very comfortable, thank you." She entered after him, took off the thermal shirt that she wore around the human-cool ship, and went immediately to the table where she kept a pitcher of water and a glass. "Would you like a drink?"

Archer ignored the totally unintended implications of her offer and shook his head. "No, thanks." He stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, trying not to look at the couch where she'd tried to seduce him the last time he'd been here. "How is Captain Leev-Sran?" he asked, just to have something to say.

Esilia turned away from him, setting the glass of water down. "I told you that all the scout ships were sent to the border?"

"Right."

She heaved a sigh. "Without any scouts, the Tanaar was basically blind. It ran into an ambush on a routine run. It was destroyed." She put a hand to her throat. "If I'd been there . . ."

Archer stepped up behind her and turned her into his arms. "I'm so sorry." She rested her cheek on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around her, trying to ignore the growing sizzle of physical contact. After a moment, she looked up, and he decided he really had no choice. He kissed her. There was something indefinable in her expression as she pulled away slightly. "Nobody kisses on Ikaar," she said wistfully. So he kissed her again.

She bunched the fabric of his long sleeved tee-shirt in her hands to keep from touching his skin; even so, Archer felt himself beginning to lose control as he devoured her. The little voice inside his head that whispered, You're moving too fast, had worked itself up to a roar before he could finally tear his mouth away and set her back from him gently. He touched his forehead to hers, trying to catch his breath. He noted with amused detachment that she was a little breathless, as well. "Goodnight, Esilia," he said in a gravelly voice.

"Are you 'spooked' again?" she asked, caught between arousal and irritation.

He backed up a step, then two. "I gotta feed Porthos." He shrugged almost helplessly as she glared at him, a picture of sexual frustration. He was pretty frustrated himself, but he knew that if he didn't leave now, he'd be here until morning. He felt for the door release without breaking eye contact. "See you at breakfast."

As the door shut, he could have sworn she growled at him.