Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

-- T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

Chapter Four – In For A Penny

It had all started when Archer mentioned, off-handedly, that he would be piloting the shuttle to take the two Nausicaan survivors to the small trading post T'Pol had found. Like most such facilities, it was a stopping point for scores of different species, any one of which might be persuaded, for the right price, to assist the Nausicaans in contacting their own people. Archer was prepared to pay a small fee on the Nausicaans' behalf if necessary; they had a cargo hold of trellium-D they weren't using, he reasoned.

Summoning Reed to his Ready Room, he ordered the lieutenant to put together a security team to transport the aliens to the surface. Suspicion made Reed ask, "Who's piloting?" He thought he knew the answer already.

He was right. "I am," Archer said, walking over to the cabinet where he kept his log discs.

"If I may, sir, I would suggest a different pilot, Mayweather, perhaps."

Archer stopped. "Is there a problem, Lieutenant?" he inquired coldly.

Reed knew that Archer was beginning to percolate. He rarely ever called Reed by his rank, and only when he was about to disagree with whatever the Tactical Officer was proposing. He sighed inwardly, finally deciding just to go for it. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Granted," Archer said tightly.

"Sir, there is no reason for the captain of this vessel to be a member of this away team. This is not a first contact, nor is it a diplomatic mission. We are simply escorting two aliens to an unknown facility. Your presence is not necessary." The captain stiffened. Nothing like being told that you weren't wanted, and by a subordinate, too. Reed went on, the cadence of his speech quickening as he sought to forestall the imminent explosion. "This is nothing that the MACOs and I cannot handle. Besides, it is better for security altogether if you were not there to distract us."

Well, that could have been said better, Reed admitted to himself, wincing inwardly, but you can't unring a bell, now can you.

Archer's eyes narrowed and his face grew even colder. He squared his shoulders. "Distract you?"

Another cliché suggested itself to Reed. In for a penny, in for a pound. "Sir, this outpost is unknown to us, with any number of species we've never encountered before. I don't know what the layout of the place is, and I don't have any information on how friendly or how hostile the beings down there might be. Our attention needs to be fully on getting in and getting out. You have a tendency to get involved in situations that could compromise that simple objective." And bringing those scantily-dressed situations back on board with you, he thought but didn't add.

Having given permission for free speech, Archer couldn't very well rescind it now. But he could yell. "You're saying, Lieutenant," and he stressed the rank now, as if to imply that it could become a temporary title, "that you don't have the time or the patience to babysit your captain on an away mission?"

Penny. Pound. "I'm saying that you make it difficult, if not impossible, for me to do my job, which is to protect you!" Reed's voice actually echoed off the metal deck.

A well-rested Archer might have recognized the absurdity of the situation, and laughed ruefully at the sight of his very proper English officer clenching his fists tightly as if about to have a temper tantrum. A less-stressed Archer might also have recognized the truth of Reed's words, that he had too much at stake to go larking on an away mission. An earlier Archer might have applauded the fact that Reed had finally unbent sufficiently to challenge his commanding officer. Instead, this right-now Archer stepped closely up to his Tactical Officer, deliberately crowding his personal space, towering over him to the point of bending his neck to get eye-to-eye. To his credit, Reed neither flinched nor stepped backward.

"You. Are. Dismissed." Archer said through clenched teeth. Reed waited a beat, just to make sure it didn't seem like he was fleeing, then left the room. As he headed toward the Armoury, he hoped that the captain was using "dismissed" in the colloquial sense, as in, "Get going," rather than in the permanent sense, as in, "You are demoted, fired, and get the hell off my ship."

He figured it must be the former when the shuttle pod left two hours later with Travis at the helm.

If he had asked Archer at that moment, the answer might have been quite different. Once the shuttle pod launched, however, Archer threw himself onto his tiny couch, flipping on his PADD to try to make sense of the shadow readings. It was there, with him curled up like a pretzel, waiting like a dad for a teenaged son to return home with the family car after a date, that sleep overtook him, and seized the opportunity to torment him some more.

He fell asleep at twenty-three hundred hours, uncomfortable but optimistic that, since he was so tired he literally could not keep his eyes open, he would sink into a dreamless, formless sleep.

He was right, for a while, until the Nausicaan woman began to scream, as she clawed the skin off of his face in long ribbons. Beside her, Hoshi shrieked at him as well, in high-pitched Japanese, which he could nonetheless understand, "Murderer! Fraud! How many more of us are you going to kill?" He tried desperately to rise from his command chair, which perversely had grown tentacles that attacked him and tried to keep him seated. His eyes sought out T'Pol, who looked at him from her science station with a zombie's face, open sores oozing green across her cheeks. Travis lay dead, burned and stiff, at his feet. Struggling, he looked up at the view screen and watched in horror as the ship, unpiloted, careened at Warp Five toward an unsuspecting Earth.

He awoke on impact. And headed to the gym where he ran twenty-four kilometers on the treadmill.

Now, exhausted but grateful for the endorphins produced by the strenuous exercise, he made his way back to his quarters, gripping one of his ubiquitous PADDs. Shirt still damp with sweat from his workout, Archer strode down the corridor toward his quarters. By ship's time, it was four o'clock in the morning, an hour he had grown to know quite well.

"Bridge to Captain Archer."

The captain sighed. Please let this be good news. Or, at least, not bad news.

"Archer."

There was a surprised pause. Apparently, the ensign covering communications had expected him to be in his quarters. "Sir, the shuttle pod has returned."

"Thanks. Archer out." He ran a hand through his wet hair and debated showering before meeting Reed. No, he'd better do it now, so the lieutenant could make his report and then get some rest.

He wasn't looking forward to this conversation, not after the blow-out with his Tactical Officer. Part of his mind recognized that the lieutenant had a valid point; the rest of him still bristled at being criticized so harshly.

Now, thoroughly exhausted, anxious, and embarrassed, the captain took ten deep breaths before stopping at the door to the shuttle pod bay.

Reed looked every inch the cool professional as he inventoried the weapons the away team had taken with them to the trading post. He acknowledged his sweaty, drained-looking commanding officer with a brief nod, eyes on the last pistol as he snapped it into its holding case. "Sir."

"How did it go?" Archer asked.

"There was a fairly sophisticated subspace communications platform there. It only cost us a few kilograms of trellium, and Captain Markur was able to contact a ship about six light years away. They should be picked up within the week." Reed straightened. "Captain Markur asked me to convey, again, his gratitude to you, sir."

"Glad it worked out okay," Archer commented. He paused, gathering his thoughts for this difficult next step.

Reed kept his eyes on his work. He knew what was coming – or what should be coming – next, and was rather looking forward to it. He was military enough to know that he was not entitled to an apology, but familiar enough with Archer's command style to know that he deserved one anyway.

Archer cleared his throat. "Look, Lieutenant, about . . . before. You were right. I was wrong. I apologize."

"Very well, then, sir," Reed responded blandly. He locked the last case.

"There's one more thing, Malcolm," Archer said as Reed turned to leave. "I want all security personnel to wear sidearms, whether on or off duty, until further notice. MACOs, too, so inform Major Hayes." Archer had decided, after the ship's near-mutiny, that all orders for the MACOs would go through the Tactical Officer, so that there would be no question about the chain of command.

"Sir?" Reed said. "Do you think that's really necessary, considering the fact that there aren't actually any aliens aboard at present?"

Archer's eyes took on an intense look. "I know you think I'm imagining things, but I know they're out there, just beyond our sensors. If they board Enterprise, they will wipe us all out, and Earth is doomed." He continued in a strangely dreamy, disembodied voice, which caused an icy finger of fear to trail down Reed's spine. "They're stalking us, Malcolm, playing with us, and when they think we've let our guard down, they will make their move."

"Sir," Reed ventured carefully, "considering the fact that these pirates typically attack civilian ships, they may decide to leave Enterprise alone. If they've scanned us, they know, at least roughly, how much weaponry we're carrying." Archer didn't respond, so Reed tried again. "Sir, isn't it possible that you are, er, overreacting just a bit?"

The glare Archer sent his way should have turned the Tactical Officer to stone. He was still the captain of this ship, dammit, and his word was law. "I want all of your people armed," the captain ordered in a glacial tone, "and the MACOs, too. See to it." Without another word or a backward glance, Archer strode out the door and down the corridor.

Archer had been standing at his window for some time, trying to catch hold of his angry thoughts, when the door chime to his quarters rang. "Come in," he said, tiredly, not at all surprised to be disturbed at this ridiculous hour.

Trip entered, carrying his personal PADD. Archer eyed it, not sure he was in any frame of mind to analyze more data, make more strategic decisions. He turned away, stifling a sigh, and sat down on the bed. Trip stood at parade rest just inside the door. "What is it?"

It was a moment before Trip spoke. "Permission to speak freely, sir?" That got Archer's attention; he had known Trip way too long to have to give him the green light to speak his mind. It was a measure of how far apart they had grown that such a request could ever even leave Trip's mouth.

"You don't need my permission, you know that, but go ahead." Archer braced himself.

Trip took a deep breath. "Cap'n - Jon, I'm worried about you. I'm worried about your health, your mental health. You look like you haven't slept in days; you don't eat. Now, I - I understand that maybe you don't want to talk to me or, you know, be my friend anymore, but, it's not just me that's noticing how tense you are."

"What makes you think I don't want to be your friend anymore?" Hurt showed on Archer's face.

"When was the last time you and I really talked?" Trip asked gently. "We used to have this, this bond, but nowadays, it's like you can't even look at me."

"Since when don't I look at you?"

"Since Charles," Trip replied sadly, and Archer felt hollow. He scrubbed his face with his palms as he tried to formulate a response. When he lowered his hands, Trip was gone. He was alone.

He jumped up and spun in a tight circle, looking around the room. The door to the corridor was closed; he would have heard it open when Trip left. He glanced at Porthos, sleeping comfortably. No way the beagle would have remained asleep if Trip had come to visit.

He sat shakily back down on the bed. I am going mad, he thought, and clenched his hands into tight fists.

x x x

T'Pol stood stiffly, even for a Vulcan, and considered the situation. She had taken the unusual step of convening a meeting of the most senior officers, in Sickbay, without the captain's knowledge or presence. Now she took careful note of Lieutenant Reed's words and tone as he reported the incident with Captain Archer, trying to determine whether there was actually cause for concern, or whether this was simply human emotionalism creating a false crisis. As she listened, and thought about her own interactions with the captain lately, she became more and more convinced. Their commanding officer was in trouble.

And now, on top of the ongoing tension of the Xindi mission and this new, phantom threat, the crew was utterly unnerved by the sight of security officers and MACOs patrolling the corridors, fully armed.

"Is the captain in any physical danger, Dr. Phlox?" T'Pol asked when Reed was finished.

The Denobulan twitched. "Well, from the scans I took at a distance, his serotonin level is abnormally low, from lack of sleep. Both his heart rate and blood pressure are elevated, putting him at higher risk for a sudden stroke. It's likely that he is experiencing a persistent, medium-grade headache, and I have noticed that his coordination is starting to suffer."

"There's got to be some way to approach him, a way to suggest that he step down even for a day or two without the cap'n, you know, blowin' a gasket," Trip said.

"I think no matter how you say it, he's likely to hand you your head," Reed retorted. "Although, maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea if he attacked one of us. Then I could take him into custody for his own protection - and ours."

"I am certain we can find a resolution which does not involve provoking the captain to violence," T'Pol responded dryly.

"There's no way he's not going to consider this a vote of no-confidence," Trip said.

"Or a challenge to his authority," Reed added. "Especially after . . ." He let the sentence die away, but felt Trip go utterly still beside him. They may have been able to convince the captain once that relieving him of duty by means of a phase pistol shot to the chest was the best thing for the ship and her crew, but there was no alien toxin to hide behind this time. And if Archer thought they were ganging up on him simply because they disagreed with his handling of the present situation, they could all find themselves confined to quarters, leaving a sleep-deprived, increasingly paranoid, less-than-rational captain in charge.

T'Pol stifled the surge of impatience. "Relieving himself of duty is the logical course of action. The captain will see this once he has been apprised of all of the facts."

"The cap'n isn't Vulcan, T'Pol," Trip pointed out, arms crossed.

T'Pol didn't need that unfortunate reminder. She headed purposefully toward the door. "I believe the captain is in his Ready Room. Shall we go?"

"'That which thou doest, do quickly,'" Trip muttered, bringing up the rear.

Archer rose with some surprise from his desk as his senior officers filed into the Ready Room. The office was tiny, and it was a tight fit for five people.

T'Pol took the lead, as if she had drawn the short straw. "Captain, we are concerned about your physical and mental well-being. You have not slept in several days. Chef reports that you are not eating. Your behavior has become erratic. Your obsession with the Askarinoc has reached puzzling levels, to the detriment of our primary mission of finding and stopping the Xindi weapon.

"No other personnel has seen any sign of the alien ship. Long range sensors show nothing in the vicinity. Further, the anxiety level of the crew has risen significantly since you ordered that all security personnel wear sidearms. The entire crew is worried, both about you and about the mission."

Archer turned to look out the Ready Room window, stumbling slightly over the desk chair. "Another mutiny," he laughed mirthlessly. "Hasn't even been a month since the last one. This must be a Starfleet record." I do not believe the ship is safe with you able to roam at will. You are a fraud.

"Cap'n," Trip put in quietly, "Dr. Phlox says he can give you something to make the nightmares go away," at this, Archer sent a bitter, betrayed glare over his shoulder, "so you can – "

"Shut up, Trip," Archer responded softly. "Just – stop talking." He nodded once, as if confirming something for himself. His mouth twisted into a sour smile as he pivoted slowly to face them. "Let me see if I've got this right." He ducked beneath the low ceiling rib and stopped in front of T'Pol. "My First Officer thinks my behavior is erratic and puzzling. Well, no surprise there." He shifted his gaze to Phlox. "My Chief Medical Officer is just itching to drug me unconscious." A step to his right, and he was in front of Reed. "My Armoury Officer thinks I'm being paranoid and suspicious – and, you know, I can't even begin to appreciate the irony of that one."

He flicked his eye toward Trip with an expression approaching hatred. "And, if I remember correctly, my Chief Engineer, my best friend, is convinced that I'm just overdue to get my, what was it, my ashes hauled. Have I left any – oh, yes, Chef. My Chef, apparently, is afraid that I am anorexic. Have I covered everything?"

T'Pol laced her fingers together behind her back. "Captain," she said in a low voice, ignoring the other three people in the room, "I've told you before that you may trust me, and I have trusted you with more than my life on several occasions." Reed shot an interested glance her way as she went on. "Trust me now. You are doing damage to yourself and endangering this mission."

"T'Pol," Archer said hoarsely, "I'm perfectly okay." He tried to smile confidently, failed completely. "I know you don't believe me, but, you tell me, have I ever lied to you?"

"Only when you've told me that you were fine when you were not," she replied implacably.

Archer let out a sound of pure frustration and swung back toward the window. And for the first time in the collective memory of everyone present, he clocked his forehead on the metal beam that supported the ceiling.

Into the stunned silence dropped one word: "Shit."

Whatever response there might have been to that was lost as the lights dimmed. A moment later, a voice over the intercom announced what all five of them had known instantly. "All hands, go to Tactical Alert. This is not a drill."