Chapter Nine – Of Interest and Intimacy

"No, no, no, try it again," Trip insisted, exasperated, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. Perhaps the eighth time would be the charm.

Esilia sighed. "Fine. Two guys walk into a bag – "

"A bar! Two guys walk into a bar!" The commander gripped his head with both hands. "Don't you people have bars?"

"Apparently not," Esilia sniffed, glancing at Archer for moral support. He was too busy covering his mouth with both hands to give her any assistance. "And if we did, we'd have enough sense not to walk into them. We would walk around them." She used a reasonable, earnest tone, and even arranged her completely smooth, eyebrowless face into a frown.

"You're killing me, woman," Trip complained. "You and T'Pol should go on the road together. A freaking black hole of comedy."

A strange sound exploded from Archer, and he leaned to the side of his chair, wobbled, and then fell over onto the floor. His guffaw came from somewhere underneath the breakfast table. It was the high-pitched laugh of a man who has completely lost control, who would not regain the power of intelligent speech for several moments.

Trip hadn't heard that sound from Archer in almost a decade, and even then, they'd both been very, very drunk. He didn't know if he was sorry or glad that T'Pol wasn't here to witness this.

Esilia stared, askance, at the captain, who was convulsed on the deck in the fetal position, with his arms gripping his sides hard. She considered for a moment calling Sickbay, but then realized that Commander Tucker didn't seem at all alarmed. In fact, the commander was smiling, as if this hacking fit of the captain's was something to be enjoyed.

"It's a silly story," Esilia defended herself. "It makes no sense."

"Clearly, the art of the joke is beyond you," Trip snorted. "Walks into a bag, jeez."

With a series of musical, breathy sighs, Archer slowly regained control of himself, relapsing every few seconds into a throaty chuckle. He wiped the tears streaming from his eyes and dragged himself back up into his seat, still snickering. He avoided Esilia's gaze, which was both confused and offended, as he tried to recover his composure. "Sorry," he managed, with a sheepish peek in her direction.

Esilia regarded the captain with a teasing expression. "Perhaps you should visit the doctor for that condition. Exertion like that could be dangerous, at your age."

Archer gave her his squinty-eyed glare, the one she loved to provoke, and leaned toward her. "You'd be surprised just how much exertion I can take at my age," he retorted, then turned a dusky red as he realized what he had said. Neither Esilia nor Trip bothered to hide their smirks.

Satisfied that she had gotten the last shot in, Esilia rose and dropped her napkin amidst the breakfast dishes. "I'll be in the Command Center, working," she added pointedly. "Perhaps you can teach me more jokes later."

Trip watched her go, then turned back to the captain, who was concentrating a little too hard on drinking his orange juice. "Oh, yeah," Tucker drawled, "she's got it bad."

"What?"

"That girl's in love. With you."

"What makes you say that?" Archer asked, striving to sound skeptical.

Trip grinned. "Could be the way every conversation rolls around to, 'Captain Archer said this,' or 'Today, Captain Archer did that.' Or the way her eyes are glued to you whenever you're in the room."

Archer scoffed. "She stares at everyone like that. You just notice it more because of the eyebrow thing."

"Oh, come on, Cap'n, don't tell me you haven't noticed how she takes absolutely every opportunity to be near you? You don't think she hunted down Enterprise across who knows how many light-years just to give us systems upgrades, do you?" The engineer watched as Archer's eyes moved to the window and grew distant. This conversation was about to be shut down, he guessed.

Archer's voice was soft and thoughtful when he spoke again after several moments. "You know that old joke about the guy in the flood, and he lets a rowboat, a speedboat, and a hovercraft go by because he's waiting for God to save him?"

"And he drowns."

"Yeah, and then he's mad at God for letting him die, and God says, 'well, what happened to the two boats and the hovercraft I sent?'"

"Yeah."

Archer wiped his mouth with the napkin and stood, straightening his uniform. "You're the hovercraft, Trip. And I've decided not to drown." With that, he walked out, pausing only to clap Trip's shoulder as he passed.

x x x

Porthos romped around like the puppy he used to be, loving the attention being lavished upon him. It was his nightly shipwalk, and Archer always made it a point to visit the ship's nursery.

There were eight Enterprise children now, ranging in age from newborn to four years old. Because the crew's quarters were generally small, Archer had okayed a plan to convert half of Cargo Bay Three into a secure, soundproof nursery. Crewmembers could spend time with their children in a less cramped space, and it also provided a place for the children to be cared for when their parents were on duty. It took some juggling, and constant maintenance of the duty log, but Archer tried to give parents enough time off to be with their kids.

At Reed's insistence, the nursery had another function, as a secure shelter. Now, a Tactical Alert included not only an automatic computer command to polarize Enterprise's hull plating and bring the weapons online, but would also cause the captain, or whoever was in command, to direct all caregivers to the secure nursery. Non-tactical personnel, both assigned and volunteer, plus at least one MACO, had the responsibility to account for and protect Enterprise's children in the event of hostilities. They were under strict orders: any of their other duties were secondary.

The thought of going into battle with children onboard made Archer's blood run cold. He would do whatever he could to avoid it.

Porthos loved the nursery. The beagle showed great patience as toddlers climbed over him, and small pre-school aged hands petted his bristled fur. He was a useful tool in getting the children to bed; games of go-fetch usually resulted in much running around by the children and none at all by the dog. Without moving much at all, Porthos exhausted the children; after his visits, they lay down on their cots and slept like logs.

Leaving the nursery, Porthos perked his beagle ears up as far as they could go, and bounded off down the hall. Archer strode after him, and nearly collided with Esilia, who was chatting around the bend with Crewman Kelly.

"Ladies," Archer nodded, bringing the dog to heel.

"Hello, Captain," Kelly said, and Esilia echoed it after a moment. Kelly, who was already late for her shift in Engineering, excused herself and took off.

Archer tried not to be awkward. "Porthos and I were just taking a walk. Wanna join us?"

"Thank you, yes." Esilia reached down and petted the dog. Porthos licked her fingers. They meandered around the saucer section, talking about inconsequential things. As was his custom, Archer visited several departments, the Gamma shift crew whom he did not see very often, since he was usually on duty during Alpha and Beta shifts. Those crewmembers, junior staff mostly, rarely interacted with their captain. He felt the least he could do was put in a little face time each evening, make some small talk, and generally convey to them that he knew who they were and appreciated them. He did this in the most casual manner, by addressing them by rank and name, maybe a cursory inspection of the area, then a satisfied, "As you were," as he left.

Esilia noticed that the crew stood a little straighter as the captain left each area. These people would walk through fire for their commanding officer; from the ship's logs she had read, that feeling was mutual.

They walked the ship until the little dog's tongue began to hang out of the side of his mouth, a sure sign that he had had enough exercise. Archer stopped at his own quarters. "He's hungry," he said apologetically, unlocking the door. He invited her with a hand gesture to go in before him.

Porthos moved right to his bowl and sat expectantly, as if his master had forgotten what was required. As Archer poured the kibble, Chef's special recipe, into the dish and topped up the water bowl, Esilia prowled around the room. It was functional and neat, with very few personal touches. There was a utilitarian blanket on the bed, and several pillows. Only Porthos' corner looked at all lived-in. She examined the Cochrane statue sitting on a ledge and commented, "Nice doll."

"It's a trophy," Archer replied testily.

She picked up each of the photographs on the desk in turn, of Tucker and Archer, both looking quite young, standing next to a tiny ship; of six or seven of the crew, wearing billed hats, posing in front of a shuttle pod in bright sunlight – Archer with an utterly delighted expression on his face; of an older man who could only have been Archer's father, solemnly holding an engine component of some sort in his hands. She placed each photo carefully back in its original position.

She heard a soft sound behind her, then felt hands on her shoulders. Archer ran his chin across the top of her head, savoring the smell and feel of her hair. His fingers deftly untied the ribbon at the base of her braid, and spread her hair across his hands. He'd been itching to do that for over a year. She began to tremble. He bent his head and nuzzled her neck, and the shock of it made her grab the desk edge.

"Esilia," Archer's voice rumbled against the side of her throat, just under her ear, "tell me to stop. Or, . . . not."

She turned in his arms and eased the zipper of his jumpsuit down to his waist. "Captain," she murmured.

"You can call me Jon," he interrupted, amused.

"Jghonn," she pronounced it in that liquid gargle-language she had spoken when she had first come on board. He thought it was the sexiest word in the universe. Her fingers worked on the buttons of his jersey – there must have been a hundred of the damned things – as she went on, "You know we don't . . ."

He bent slightly at the knees to meet her at eye level. "Mmm-hmm." Both the jersey and the jumpsuit slid off of his shoulders and down his arms. She made short work of the blue undershirt, tossing it impatiently to the side. Her thermal jacket and blouse soon followed. Her hands crawled through the hair on his chest; he was a little self-conscious about it, but the electric sensation took over and banished every single thought except his craving for her from his mind.

He captured her mouth as if it were an enemy flag, and ran his hands up the front of her, relieved in some petty part of him that at least breasts seemed to be a constant in the galaxy. Cupping her, he almost chuckled as he realized the old adage was true: more than a handful would be a waste.

She wore a small pendant, in a shape similar to a teardrop, now resting against her bare skin. The stone was a deep green-blue, a cross between an emerald and a sapphire. At the query in his eyes, she said, "It's salish, the most rare, most valuable jewel on Ikaar. It was a gift to me when I was born." Archer bent his head and kissed her throat, just above the vee of the pendant's chain.

Esilia's knees seemed to be getting a little weak, so he picked her up and carried her to his bed. Placing her gently in the middle, he searched her face for any hesitation. There was none. He knew he had to hold himself under strict control; if this was the price for having her in his bed, he'd gladly pay it. He clicked off the main light, leaving only the desk lamp on across the room.

Long fingers roamed over his forehead, his cheeks, his chin, leaving a tingling trail. He copied the movements with his own fingers, then his lips. Esilia pulled away for a moment, her face flushed. "Jghonn," she whispered, "are you sure . . .?"

"Sssh. Stop talking."

"But . . ." It was clear she was giving him one last out. She had researched human customs as well.

He pinned her with green eyes, brows raised. "A little less conversation, a little more action," he said, quoting an old, obscure song. She got the point and settled into the task of introducing Archer to the art of lovemaking, Ikaaran style.

At times yoga-esque, at times deep but gentle massage, Ikaaran intimacy made human sex look like armed combat. She taught him that his whole body was one constant pleasure zone. Never had the hollow behind his ear, the line of his ribcage, the curve of his hip, the plain of his back, been studied in such minute detail. In turn, he handled her like the most fragile glass, his fingertips whispering over her skin. He traced a line with his index finger from the nape of her neck, down her back, buttock, leg, across the dip behind her knee, to the knob of her ankle, and discovered this path to be so sensitive, it made her entire body vibrate like a harp string. His own body vibrated on the same chord. He couldn't tell where he ended and she began.

He had considered himself in the past to be a careful, attentive lover. He now knew what that term really meant. It was the difference between a wind-sprint and a marathon.

No wonder Esilia had been so worried about his age and stamina. Hour after hour of slow, steady build-up; the tension of hands, fingertips, and lips, stretching him to the breaking point; the delicious anticipation – and nothing could have prepared him for the onslaught of physical and mental release. He felt like a surfer overtaken by a sudden storm at sea, overwhelmed by that one perfect deadly wave, finally thrown, shattered, exhilarated, and exhausted, onto the shore. He wanted to lie there and never move again. He wanted more.

He summoned enough strength to give Esilia one last, lingering kiss. She sprawled across his chest, head tucked in the hollow of his shoulder. He pulled the blanket up to her neck, knowing that the room was a bit too cool for her liking. In no time, she dropped into a light sleep. He doubted he could command any of his limbs to move, yet his mind raced.

It hadn't been the energetic, acrobatic, room-rocking sex of his younger – and not so young – days, by any means. He probably would never experience that again. Could he turn his back on everything he had learned over the past thirty-odd years, every instinct ingrained in him by thousands of years of human evolution, in order to feel the way he was feeling right now, with this woman?

Oh, hell, yes.

He loved her, that was clear. He was attracted to her, and wanted her. Now, he was totally possessed by her. He tried to imagine life aboard Enterprise without her; the picture wouldn't even form. Then he thought about spending the rest of his days arguing with this woman, studying the stars they both loved, trying to sneak a few words edgewise into conversations, maybe even raising a child.

That felt real and right. He was fifty-three years old, nearly a hundred light years from a home he would never see again, and he had finally found his soul mate. Perhaps the universe had finally forgiven him for the many crimes he had committed out here in the Expanse. Perhaps his penance was over.

She stirred, and reached up a hand to trace his square jaw, his prominent chin. He grabbed her hand, beginning to feel the familiar tingling and positive there wasn't a thing he could do about it. She lifted her head from his shoulder to get a better look at his expression. "Are you well?"

"More than well," he answered in a husky voice. He felt her shift, look toward the bedside clock, and then begin to pull away. They were both aware that the captain would be expected on the Bridge in less than two hours. "Esilia?"

"Hmm?"

"I want you to stay."

"Most of the crew is likely still asleep. Nobody will see me leave." She rubbed her cheek on his chest, and then pushed against the mattress to rise.

He tightened his hold. "I'd like you to stay." He realized that in seven years aboard this ship, no one had ever shared this bed with him. He told her as much.

"Not even T'Pol?" He tilted his head to search her face. "She's your second in command. You work closely with her."

"I work closely with Trip, too," he laughed, trying to dispel the tension."I've never slept with any of my crew. I never would."

"You wanted to, though."

"Sleep with Trip? No, that's really not my thing." She turned a tense face away from him and he stopped teasing. "Seel. Listen to me. You're not a second choice. You're not a consolation prize. You're the one I want. You're the one I choose. Stay, please."

"Well, then," she said finally, and with some satisfaction. "In that case. . ." She snuggled back down and went to sleep.