It would not, of course, have been polite for the guests to leave without receiving the thanks of the captain.
Once Jon's ears had recovered somewhat from the battering they had received, he made his way to the nearby room that had been prepared for the band to retire to after the performance. There was talk and laughter within, and as the door opened he was not really surprised to see that the blonde drummer was sitting in the singer's lap. The blue coat had been removed, along with the shirt, and Westbury was swigging beer out of a bottle – at a guess, quenching the thirst generated by performing under the fierce overhead lighting on stage. Although the mat of chest hair obscured some of the detail, his upper body was surprisingly muscular, and a tattooed snake around one upper arm emphasized the bulge of the bicep in it.
"Captin!" He greeted the newcomer with delight, giving the woman on his lap a smack on the butt to dislodge her – a familiarity she seemed to accept as completely normal. "'Ow'd'yer enjoy the gig then, mate? Oh – 'oo's this then?"
"This is my First Officer, Sub-Commander T'Pol."
The singer rose to his feet, and came forward to be introduced. "I wouldn'a' fawt this was sumfin' yer average Vulcan'd be interested in, Sub-Commarnder," he said cheerfully. Nevertheless, he was watching her intently, with something rather more than the intensity of someone being introduced for the first time to an 'alien'. Almost - if there could have been any reason to do so - with appeal.
T'Pol gazed back at him with equally fixed interest. "It has been a most ... educational experience, Mister Westbury," she replied.
"Norrexac'ly your sort'a music, I'spect," he suggested.
"On the contrary." She clasped her hands behind her back, and there was now the suspicion of a faint smile on her mouth. "I have always believed in appreciating talent, even when one discovers it in the most unexpected places."
"I fink that was a total compliment!" he cried, and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek.
Jon blinked, but a moment later the singer turned to him. "Oh, 'fore I forget! I don't normally do this sort'a fing, y'know? But a little bird said. So just for once I'll do it." He delved in a pocket of his apparently spray-on pants, and brought forth with some difficulty a laminated photograph, which he handed to the captain. "I'd be dead grateful if you'd give that to the lovely lady, Cap'."
Jon took the photo. It had on it, scrawled in silver ink, 'To the gorgeous Hoshi Sato, love, Ian. Xxx'
"You know Hoshi?" he asked in surprise.
"The little bird does." Ian favored him with a large wink. "An' if she's gorgeous, which 'e reckons she is, I fink it's just a nice fing to do to make 'er 'appy!"
"I am sure Ensign Sato will appreciate the gesture," said T'Pol. "Though she might appreciate it even more if you were to give it to her in person."
He shook his head vigorously, looking regretful. "Nah. See, I seen you got loads'a really pre'y girls on board, right? An' I reckon I don't wanner make any of 'em jealous. So if yer could give 'Oshi that on the quiet, Cap', I reckon that'd be for the best."
Deborah had been consulting her chronometer. "'Ay, Ian. Time we were goin' innit? You know 'ow that bloke on the station was goin' on about us 'oldin' up the loadin'."
"Ar. Bloody 'ell, 'e dinn'arf. Cap', I reckon we better scarper. Fanks a million for 'avin us." He extended a hand, and Captain Archer shook it.
"Thank you for the concert," he said somewhat weakly.
"My pleasure, Cap'! Absolutely my pleasure!"
Moments later, they were all at the airlock where the shuttle waited to take them back to Earth. Possibly it was sheer coincidence that Travis and Hoshi happened to be wandering down the corridor, and received an airy wave of acknowledgment that had them both beaming.
"That was Hoshi Sato," said Jon, as the two of them rounded the next corner, not without many a backwards glance.
"Blimey, she was a bi' of all right!" Westbury stared appreciatively after the departed comms officer.
"I am sure she will be delighted to learn that you think so," said T'Pol drily, with the faintest shadow of an irony that made Jon glance at her. It was hardly something that the Vulcan would normally discuss with a junior officer, but perhaps in the circumstances she felt it was a compliment that should be passed on. Maybe he could say something along those lines when he gave her the autograph.
The airlock door opened; the shuttle was waiting. At a guess, the process of dismantling the stage and sound system would already be underway, much to the satisfaction of the logistics team across on the station waiting for the cargo bays to be cleared.
The band were clearly not in the habit of taking lengthy or formal farewells. With only a few words they departed, accompanied by their minders; and Jon was conscious of a sense of mingled disappointment and relief as the airlock door closed. He had his ship back, and normality could return.
He turned around and found T'Pol looking at him with a hint of … curiosity? Amusement? Certainly there was something in her gaze that he couldn't quite identify, but she secured the airlock with her usual calm efficiency and turned away with the air of one who has nothing she wishes to say. He was used to that, so he fell into step beside her.
Novelty was all very well, he reflected, but when you were in charge of a starship, then 'normal' was very much the way he preferred things.
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