The BLTS Archive -  Second Chances
by Gigi Sinclair (gigitrek@gmail.com

---

Spoilers for: "Broken Bow", "Unexpected", "Shuttlepod One", "Desert
Crossing", "Two Days and Two Nights", "One Night in Sickbay",
"Precious Cargo", "Shockwave", "Future Tense", "Canamar."

Disclaimer: Characters not mine. Neither are the parts I quoted from
episodes. I'm sure you'll recognize them.

Notes: My own personal challenge. Following a very interesting
discussion about canon, I decided to see if I could write something
vaguely related to the show. Tenuously linked to "Bush Tucker", as
well.

Warnings: None, really. But it is something of a departure from my
usual style. And it's kind of long, as the bishop said to the
prostitute.

Date: March 2003

---

Jonathan Archer was going out of his mind. Not that this was a new
state of affairs. He had been more or less constantly insane for the
last four months, ever since he'd started a new semester at Starfleet
Academy and had met one Trip Tucker.

And he'd known the man's name from that very first class. One hundred
and four students in his graduate-level warp theory course, and, from
the moment Jon had stepped onto the podium, the only person in the
room was Tucker, Charles, student number 800971246.

The inappropriateness of having relations with a student had been
repeatedly stressed to him by his superiors, and reiterated by
Starfleet Academy's board of governors. There had apparently been one
or two embarrassing incidents of late, in which female students had
given birth to children who bore more than a passing resemblance to
the professors who had awarded them A-pluses a few months earlier. As
well as one or two embarrassing incidents in which female professors
had given birth to children who looked like their former students.

Jon had more or less paid attention to the warnings. He had a good
grasp of birth control techniques, and had no intention of sleeping
with any of his female students anyway. Or the males for that matter.
Until he'd come into class that first day and had seen Trip sitting in
the front row of the lecture theatre.

He tripped over the podium. Unlike many of his colleagues at Starfleet
Academy and in civilian universities, Jon did not cultivate an
'absent-minded professor' image in the hopes it would excuse him from
any responsibility or real work.

He was mortified when, in front of one hundred and four people who had
gotten up early and were already mentally writing his instructor
evaluation, PADDs, papers and the projector for his multimedia slide
presentation scattered across the floor. When no fissures opened up in
the floor to swallow him, he bent over and began to gather his things.
He was so absorbed in not looking at the students that he didn't even
notice one of them was helping him, until he raised his head to see
two large blue eyes mere centimetres from his face, and Trip handed
him a pile of his belongings.

"Thank you," he mumbled, knowing his face was the colour of a standard
tomato.

"No problem," the man had an accent, which was unexpected. A rather
sexy accent, truth be told. Which didn't make Jon feel any more
comfortable about kneeling next to him in front of one hundred and
three strangers. "I'm Trip Tucker."

"Jonathan Archer," Jon replied, before realizing how stupid this was.
Of course the students knew his name. It was printed on the front page
of the syllabus. Trip just smiled, though, and replied:

"I know. I signed up for this course cause I knew you'd be teaching
it." His smile got wider, and Jon nearly dropped his PADDs all over
again. "Didn't know there'd be a floor show as well." Then he winked,
actually winked, and returned to his seat. Jon arranged his things on
the table, coughed, and somehow managed to get through his two-hour
lecture without further humiliating himself. Unless you counted the
several dozen times he unintentionally emphasized the first syllable
in Zephram Cochran's last name.

Jon was pleased to discover that, in addition to being about as
attractive as a minor Greek deity, Trip was a good student. He asked
interesting questions, he handed in well-written assignments on time,
and, although he didn't need to, he was one of the few students who
took advantage of Archer's office hours to come and talk to him. Trip
came very frequently, in fact. Sometimes, they would end up talking
for hours, about warp theory and his father's engine mostly, but
occasionally about their personal lives. Jon was fascinated to learn
that Trip came from Florida. He was even more interested in the fact
that Trip was unmarried and never mentioned any steady girlfriends.

For four months, things had gone on comfortably like that. Jon, who
had never liked teaching all that much, found himself looking forward
to the graduate level warp class. Even more he, who had always sneaked
out early during office hours, looked forward to spending that time
with Trip. He enjoyed their conversations so much that, whenever Trip
didn't show up, Jon missed him, and felt almost rejected.

Which, Jon knew, was how he was going to feel for a good long while if
he let Trip leave without finalizing things between them, one way or
another. He had already invited Trip to work with them on the warp
engine over the summer, but Trip had also received an offer to spend
the summer as an engineering intern onboard a short-haul cargo ship, a
job that would give him better job experience and more money. Which
meant that, now the final marks had been posted and the course
evaluations were in (only three students, he was pleased to note, had
referred to him as 'ridiculously under-qualified'), this could very
well be the last time he saw Trip.

Not wanting to incur the wrath of the board of governors—or, worse
yet, scare Trip away—by propositioning him in the lecture theatre, Jon
had invited Trip to his office for one last discussion. One that was
going to have a slightly different theme than their previous talks.

He hadn't slept for days. His palms were sweating and he felt like he
was about to throw up. His heart nearly stopped when he heard a knock
on his office door, and he barely managed to call out,

"Come in," in a weak, strangulated voice. If Trip noticed anything
odd, he didn't let on. Instead, he bounded in, energetic as usual, and
collapsed into the chair across from Jon's desk.

"Hi, Jon. You wanted to see me?" And here it was, the moment Jon had
rehearsed practically every night for the last four months. Reminding
himself that he was a mature, competent officer, trained and
experienced enough to handle anything life threw at him, he cleared
his throat and said, poetically:

"Want to go out with me?"

Trip nodded. "OK."

Jon felt like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders,
raised a few feet, and dropped back down onto him. Because, in four
months, he had never once considered what he was going to say if Trip
agreed.

"Oh." He blinked, then was seized by the sudden, horrible fear that
perhaps Trip didn't understand what he meant. "I mean, like a. . .
We'd be on a. . . "

"Date." Trip smiled. "Cool. Where do you want to go?"

Jon had no idea. If he was honest, his fantasies about Trip had
concentrated more on the post-date activities than on the actual dates
themselves. He was about to suggest dinner, but was then hit by the
thought that perhaps young people, people Trip's age, didn't go out
for dinner anymore, and the suggestion would just remind Trip that
he'd agreed to go out with an old man. Before he could suffer an
aneurysm racking his brains for something, anything, else to suggest,
Trip said: "We could go for a drink, if you want."

"Perfect!" Jon could have kissed him. Although that really didn't have
anything to do with the suggestion. "Is tonight. . . "

"Sure. Eight o'clock OK?" Jon nodded. "Great. I'll meet you here."
Trip smiled again, and Jon wondered if it was possible he had died and
gone to heaven. But then Trip left, and he was faced with the hellish
question of what he was going to wear.

So, at twenty minutes to eight, Jon was sitting in his office, trying
to look like he was working while really going out of his mind. He
hadn't been this nervous in a long time. Then again, he reminded
himself, he hadn't had a date in a long time, either. Especially not
with someone he liked as much as he liked Trip.

He couldn't have explained what the attraction was, apart from the
obvious. Trip was a good-looking young man, but he was also
intelligent, and thoughtful, and different from anyone else Jon had
ever met. Which was likely why he, an otherwise cool, competent and
controlled individual, was currently sweating through his blue,
button-down shirt, the seventh option he had tried on before leaving
the house.

"Nice place," Jon commented, just to say something, when they arrived.
Trip had been reluctant to go to any of the student bars. While Jon
didn't particularly want to go there, either, he'd been vaguely
worried that Trip was ashamed of being seen with him, until he'd
added: "They're full of assholes." The bar they'd decided on was
off-campus, in a quiet residential area, and looked just about like
every other bar Jon had ever been in.

"What are you drinking?" Trip asked, as they sat at a table in the
corner, next to an antique "cigarette machine" and a painting of dogs
playing poker.

"Beer."

Trip nodded without asking for further details and headed over to the
bar, affording Jon a nice view of his denim-clad behind as he went.
Jon watched, transfixed, until a sound from the other side of the
table wrenched his attention away.

"Archer?" Jon looked up, and nearly fell off the leather bench when he
saw Captain Forrest, Captain Williams, and their respective spouses
sitting in a booth on the other side of the decorative Corinthian
column. "What brings you here?" Jon's heart, which had nearly returned
to a semi-normal rhythm, began to hammer again. Which was stupid, he
told himself. After all, Trip wasn't his student any more. But he was
young. And sexy. And currently, to Jon's initial delight, dressed in a
semi-cowboy outfit of jeans, boots and a plaid shirt, while the
captains and their wives looked like they had just stepped off the
golf course. An assumption which was validated when Captain Williams
said:

"Probably the same thing that brings us here. The decline in service
at the Nineteenth Hole at Silver Springs."

"I don't think he's a golfer. Are you a golfer, Archer?"

"Not really." Although he did occasionally have the urge to whack at
people's balls with a long metal stick. "Actually, I'm here with a
friend of mine." He glanced back at the bar, where said friend was
laughing with the bartender, a young, redheaded woman in a tight
silver blouse.

Williams followed his gaze and gave a low whistle. "Archer, you dog! I
didn't think you were the type." Williams nudged Forrest and pointed.
Forrest laughed, while the two women rolled their eyes at each other.

"How'd you land a looker like that?"

Jon turned around again, just to make sure they were looking in the
right direction. Although his sexuality was noted in his files, and
although in most circles homosexual affairs had become so accepted as
to be almost dull, he hadn't expected the captains to be that
enthusiastic. Just as he was wondering if he had underestimated his
bosses, Forrest continued: "And a redhead, too. Bet she's a real
spitfire, eh, Archer?" Williams laughed heartily, and flinched as the
woman to his right obviously assaulted him in some manner.

"That's not. . . " But Jon didn't need to explain. A moment later,
Trip headed over to the table and sat down beside him, saying,

"Here you go, Jon," as he handed a glass over. The smirks disappeared
from Forrest and Williams' faces, to be replaced by smiles on the
faces of their wives.

"Captain Forrest, Captain Williams, this is. . . "

"Charles Tucker." Trip interrupted him, standing up and extending a
hand. The movement drew the denim, which was already snug, tighter
over Trip's ass, a fact which clearly did not go unnoticed by either
Forrest's partner, Dr. Harrison, or by Ms. Sawyer-Williams. "Real
pleased to meet you folks. You might remember, Captain Forrest, I
wrote you a letter a while back about the work experience program. . .
"

"Oh, yes." Forrest nodded politely. "Mr. Tucker. From your letter, I
assumed you were a student. . . "

"I am. Graduate student. Warp drive engineering." Trip sat back down,
nudging Jon's leg as he did so. Which was nearly enough to distract
Jon from his terminal embarrassment. Forrest cleared his throat.

"Yes. Indeed. I didn't. . . I wasn't aware you were a. . . friend of
Lieutenant Commander Archer's."

There was a flash of something in Trip's eyes. Jon wasn't sure what it
was, but he soon found out. "Well, you were right about that, Captain.
I ain't Jon's friend," Trip replied. "I'm his boyfriend." With that
clarification made, he leaned over and pressed his lips against Jon's.
It took every ounce of Jon's self-control not to open his mouth and
give Trip a tongue-driven assault right there in the bar, in front of
his commanding officers. It was still the best kiss Jon could remember
experiencing, and he was disappointed when Trip broke it and sat back
down.

The captains shifted nervously and developed a sudden fascination
withand immediate urge to discuss-the dogs playing poker picture on
the wall. Sarah Harrison, on the other hand, engaged Trip in a
conversation about Florida, a conversation which was still going on
when Captain Forrest and Captain Williams decided they wanted to give
the Nineteenth Hole at Silver Springs another try, after all.

When they'd gone, Trip looked at Jon. In four months, Jon had seen a
lot of expressions on Trip's face: excitement, concentration,
exhilaration. But this was a new one. He seemed embarrassed.

"I'm sorry, Jon, I just got no time for that shit, you know?" Jon did
know. Trip swallowed, and repeated: "But I'm real sorry if I
embarrassed you in front of your COs. I didn't want to do that."

Jon hadn't thought he could be any more smitten with Trip, and he was
proven wrong. The look on his face, and the sincerity of his words, as
he apologized just about did him in. Jon felt a flush rising in his
face again, this time for an entirely different reason.

"I wasn't embarrassed." He hesitated, then lay his hand next to Trip's
on the table. Trip looked up at him, then inched his hand over until
they were touching. "There's nothing wrong with telling them the
truth." At least, he hoped it was the truth, and not just Trip's idea
of youthful rebellion or sticking it to the establishment. Jon hadn't
realized he was holding his breath until Trip said, quietly:

"Is it?" and Jon was able to exhale.

"I'd like it to be. I mean, really, really like it to be." Trip
grinned.

"Me, too, Jon." Jon sat, gazing at Trip, until the younger man, grin
fading slightly, prompted: "So does that mean I can. . . "

"Oh. Of course." Jon met him halfway. And this time, he didn't bother
keeping his mouth shut.

---

"Oh, Jesus, Jon."

Jon smiled, gratified as well as sated, as he lay down next to Trip,
who was doing a passable impression of a man having a severe asthma
attack. He rolled over to rest his forehead on Jon's sweating
shoulder. "Seven years and you get better every fucking time."

"You make sure I get a lot of practice."

Trip laughed and licked his earlobe, then lifted his head to kiss Jon.
That activity took up quite a bit of time, and it was a few minutes
later when they separated their mouths and snuggled together.

Usually, this was the moment when Trip put on the screen and flipped
around until he found a football game, a science show, or a subtitled
soft porn film. This time, however, he left it off, which led Jon to
ask:

"Something wrong, Trip?"

Trip didn't go in for endearments. Neither did Jon, really, although
he had to admit, he did let an occasional 'honey' slip now and then.

"I'm not going to see you for five months. That feels pretty wrong to
me."

"It's for a good cause." In a week's time, Jon was leaving for Jupiter
Station, to oversee the last phase of the 'Enterprise's' construction.
Trip, as chief engineer, had been scheduled to go along, but a
staffing issue had arisen at the last minute, and Starfleet Command
had ordered him to stay in San Francisco until the rest of the crew
went up to the station, in five months. Eight weeks after that, they
were finally going to do what Jon had been waiting years for. They
were going to begin their mission.

"I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you, too," Jon admitted. "But I'll call."

"I know." Jon felt, rather than heard, Trip sigh. He kissed Trip
again, on the forehead this time, and continued:

"There's something else."

"It's stupid."

"Never. What is it?"

"My mama. . . "

"Trip. . . " Since he had just encouraged Trip to share his thoughts,
he tried hard to sound non-judgmental. But, as nice a woman as Trip's
mother was, nothing good ever started with those words.

"She's convinced something's going to happen on this mission. And she
doesn't think we should go up there without. . . " Trip's forehead,
under Jon's cheek, was still hot from their previous activities, but
Jon could have sworn he felt it get warmer. "You know, making
something official."

"We've talked about this before." Jon kept his voice neutral. He had
six days to spend with Trip before he was going to be gone for five
months. This wasn't the moment to start a fight about marriage.

"I know. It's just. . . " He trailed off.

"Just what?"

"I'd kind of like it, too. I'm not talkin' about a big church weddin'
or anything," he added quickly. "Just something quiet."

"Trip, I love you," Jon reminded him. "You love me," at least, that's
what he'd been gasping just fifteen minutes before. "Why do we have to
share that with anyone else?" Trip tried to sit up, and Jon
reluctantly let him do so. "Because the way it is now, I kinda feel
like you're ashamed of me."

"What?" Jon sounded as outraged as possible. He could see Trip was
getting a familiar look in his eyes, the look that usually meant that,
unless Jon trod very carefully indeed, one of them was going to be
spending the night on the couch.

"That interview you did for 'New People.' They asked if you had a
significant other. You said no."

"They asked if I was leaving anyone special behind."

"You didn't mention that you were taking anyone with you."

"Trip, that's ridiculous."

"You mentioned Porthos."

"Because that's a story! What did you want me to say? 'Oh, yes, thanks
for asking, Trixie. I'm actually fucking my chief engineer. . . '"

"Fucking?"

Jon regretted the words the moment they were out of his mouth. "Trip,
that's not what I meant. . . "

"So what did you mean? Sure, I don't mind 'fucking' Trip, but when it
comes to actually letting people know how I feel about him. . . "

"We can't do that. You know what people will say if they know we're
together. . . "

"That's their problem."

"They can make it ours." He tried to take Trip's hand, but Trip pulled
it away. "This is everything I've ever wanted, Trip. I can't risk
losing it." Trip got out of bed and pulled on his shorts.

"But you don't mind losing me."

Jon knew Trip too well to think this was only about getting married.
He gave him twenty minutes, then pulled on his own boxers and went
into the living room.

He found Trip on the couch, cuddling Porthos and watching a movie that
appeared, from the bare-breasted woman standing forlornly at a window,
to be French. Silently, Jon sat down next to him, pulling a lopsided
afghan, crocheted by Trip's well-meaning yet needlecraft-impaired
Auntie Em, over top of them.

"Sorry I was such a jerk," was Trip's eventual comment, when the
bare-breasted woman had given up mooning over of Jean-Philippe and had
put on a turtleneck to go smoke with Jean-Paul. "It's not easy being
in love with the most important man on the planet."

"Really?" Jon put an arm around Trip's shoulders. "I don't find you
that difficult."

Trip smiled. "Where did you get that one?"

"Page twenty-seven, One-Liners for Clueless Guys."

"I wondered where my copy went."

"I didn't think you'd miss it." Jon relaxed. This was OK. They were
OK. "I love you." Trip nodded and leaned against Jon, as Porthos
settled in between them.

"Me too, Jonny."

---

"How long. . . "

"Captain Archer."

If she had seemed like the insubordinate kind, Jon would have said
that the communications ensign snapped at him. As it was, she was
definitely brusque. "You must stop asking me when the shuttle is
arriving. You will be informed as soon as it docks."

"I just want to see my crew." One of them in particular.

"Of course, sir." The ensign gave a small, tight smile. Jon took a few
deep breaths and wandered to the other end of the operations deck,
fingering the object in his pocket. He couldn't believe he was so
nervous. He knew what the answer was going to be. But he also knew he
should have asked the question a long time ago.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the ensign informed him
that:

"The shuttle has docked, Captain. You may see the crew now." She may
have muttered something along the lines of 'You impatient bastard',
but Jon couldn't be sure. He was already halfway to the shuttle bay.

"An honour, Captain Archer." It was the tactical officer, Malcolm
Reed, who addressed him first. At Reed's salute, Jon nodded in a way
that he hoped seemed captainly and distinguished rather than horny and
distracted, and looked over at Trip, who was hauling his bags out of
the shuttle.

"Welcome to all of you," Jon smiled at Hoshi, and the helmsman, Trevor
or Tyler or something. Jon never could remember his name. "Ensign
Barrow will show you to your temporary quarters." He hoped that would
be enough to move them along, but Reed asked:

"Sir, if I may, when will we be permitted to see the ship?"

"Tomorrow, probably."

Trip slung his bag over his shoulder and turned around to face Jon.
Then glanced away abruptly.

"What time, sir?"

"What? Oh, I don't know, Lieutenant." What did that mean? He'd
expected Trip to practically jump his bones right there in the bay. It
was taking all of Jon's self-control not to do that very thing.

"Captain, I would greatly appreciate it if I could have some sort of
approximation. . . "

"1100 hours," Jon pulled the number out of thin air. Reed all but
clicked his heels, but Jon scarcely noticed. Obviously, Jon thought,
Trip was trying to play it cool. He appreciated that. After all, he
was the one who had wanted it cool.

"Very good, sir. I will see you then."

"Commander Tucker," Jon finally allowed himself to say, now that Reed
seemed satisfied. "If I may have a word with you. . . "

Trip cleared his throat. Jon wondered if he was getting another cold.
"Yes, Captain."

Words weren't the first thing on Jon's mind when he and Trip finally
arrived at the quarters he'd been using for the last five months. The
door had barely slid shut behind them when he had Trip in his arms and
his tongue in Trip's mouth. He was so excited that it wasn't until
later, when he was reliving the moment trying to figure out what had
gone wrong, that he realized Trip hadn't exactly been an active
participant in the kiss.

"I missed you." Jon murmured.

"Mm." It had been a long five months. That sound alone was very nearly
enough to distract Jon from his plan. But the jabbing of the small box
in his pocket reminded him, and he forced himself to delay his
gratification. Later, of course, he wished he'd been less focused and
just fucked Trip right then. Or at least tried to.

Trip sighed heavily. "We gotta talk."

Jon nodded. "I know. I've got something to ask you."

"I think I should. . . " He lay a finger against Trip's lips. Trip
pulled his head away, but stopped speaking.

"Let me go first." Jon took a deep breath. He had spent a good deal of
time planning this, nearly as much time, in fact, as he'd spent
dreaming about asking Trip out six and a half years ago. He knew Trip
wouldn't like it if he got down on one knee, so instead he put a hand
on Trip's shoulder and presented Trip with the ring he'd bought two
months earlier from the station's pawn shop, which was the size of a
small department store. Apparently, there were more than a few people
on the station who had severe poker habits. That, or, after several
months on a station, people just got bored with their possessions.

He'd rehearsed his part dozens of times but, just like the first time,
everything flew out of his head when he looked into Trip's eyes. He
improvised with:

"Want to get married?" Which, while not eloquent, was at least to the
point.

Trip stared at the ring box like Jon was holding a scorpion.

"I. . . " Trip stopped, and gave no indication he was going to
continue. Jon smiled. He had accomplished the impossible: he had
struck Trip Tucker speechless.

"We should have done it years ago, I know." Jon said, while Trip
composed himself. "But it's all organized. Captain Mackenzie's ready
when we are and I've got your parents on a live feed."

"I. . . "

Beaming, Jon pushed the ring towards Trip. "Put it on. I really hope
it fits."

"I had an affair."

Jon kept smiling. He didn't know what else to do. After a long moment,
he decided he must have misheard and said:

"What do you. . . "

"I met a woman and we had an affair."

Jon had never noticed how loud the air circulation ducts were. But
when there was no other sound to distract your attention, they were
practically deafening.

Finally, Jon cleared his throat and said:

"Five months is a long time. I understand that you might have had. . .
urges that were hard to control." And if he ever met the slut who had
made Trip lose that control, he would commit a very unprofessional
act. But, in two months, they would be leaving for five years, where
the only things available to tempt Trip would be the warp core and the
Captain. And not even Trip liked the warp core that much.

"It was more than that. Natalie and I. . . there's a connection there.
Like what I have with you, but. . . different." Trip rubbed his eyes,
and kept them closed even after he removed his hands. "I'm sorry."

"So you're. . . " Jon couldn't bring himself to say the words. He
couldn't even think them. They were inconceivable.

"I'm sorry," Trip repeated.

Jon could handle angry Trip. He could handle sarcastic Trip, and
bitching Trip, and insecure Trip. But this was quiet, sad Trip, and
Jon didn't know what to do. So he let Trip leave, slinging his duffel
bag over his shoulder. Fifteen minutes later, he shoved the ring into
the drawer on his bedside table and commed Captain Mackenzie. Then he
asked that snappish communications ensign to tell Trip's parents he'd
call them back as soon as possible.

Trip wasn't one for drawn out fights. He did stalk out frequently, but
usually, it was a matter of minutes before he stalked back and they
had it out. A very short while after that, they inevitably ended up in
bed. The whole thing, from first sarcastic comment to the make-up
orgasm, usually lasted no longer than two or three hours, at the most.
So, at first, Jon expected Trip to come back and finished what he'd
started. He expected it right up until six-thirty the next morning,
when his alarm went off. He'd never been to sleep.

He was standing in the hangar, staring out the window at 'Enterprise'
with a very large cup of coffee in his hand, when Trip came up beside
him. He didn't look that great himself, with dark circles under his
eyes and a violent, yet oddly attractive, cowlick sticking out from
the top of his head.

"Good morning," Jon spoke first.

"Mornin'." Jon swallowed his coffee, trying not to wince. Five months,
and he had yet to get used to space station coffee. Which seemed to
have engine oil as a primary ingredient. He pointed at the ship.

"She's a beauty, isn't she?"

Trip nodded, then sighed. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right." It wasn't. Jon hadn't had a more miserable night
since the one he'd spent in the hospital, waiting for his father to
die. But this was Trip, and whatever problems they had, they could
work out. "What do you need me to do?" He kept his voice low, although
he doubted anyone could hear them over the clanging of metalwork and
the colourful swearing of the metalworkers.

"I'm really sorry."

Jon forced himself to smile. "Stop saying that. Just tell me what you
need." A hug followed by a good fuck followed by a wedding, was Jon's
own personal wish list. Unfortunately, that didn't quite correspond
with what Trip finally came up with.

"Let me be your friend."

"You are. . . "

Trip ran a hand through his hair, disarranging it even further. "And
just that."

Jon was suddenly unsure he'd heard correctly. What with all the
metalwork and everything. "Are you. . . "

"I'm sorry."

Jon ignored him. "Are you dumping me? For a woman you just met and who
you're not going to see for the next five years?"

"I said I was sorry." And with that, Trip turned around and left. Jon
was still standing there, feeling like he'd been hit by a cargo ship,
when Lieutenant Reed came bounding in and saluted him like he was
auditioning for a role in a Gilbert and Sullivan musical.

"Sir." He said it like it was a complete sentence. And made no attempt
to say anything else. Finally, Jon prompted:

"What?" He thought he saw an eyebrow flicker, but he wasn't in the
mood to care.

"I'm here to see the ship, sir."

"What?" He repeated, and this time the eyebrow definitely did flicker.

"You said I could go up and see it at eleven hundred hours, sir. It
is," he glanced at the chronometer. "Ten fifty-seven. If you would
like me to wait the required three minutes. . . "

"Knock yourself out, Lieutenant." Hopefully literally. Then he left
the hangar quickly. Lieutenant Reed didn't seem like the type to be
sympathetic to a crying captain.

---

A fucking Vulcan. He couldn't believe it. He knew he'd do anything for
this job, and apparently Forrest knew it, too. At first, it hadn't
seemed like such a big deal. Forrest had broached the subject with:

"I am pleased to see you and Commander Tucker are being discreet."

"Discreet?" It had been two days since Trip had dumped him in the
hangar. They hadn't spoken privately since then, which was just as
well since Jon had been wandering around in a daze since that
conversation. For a moment, he couldn't think what Forrest was talking
about.

"I don't have a problem with it," Jon wasn't too out-of-it to know
that was a lie. "I know both of you better than that. But some people.
. . "

"Don't worry. There's nothing to be discreet about." Jon didn't bother
to hide his bitterness. Which he regretted when Forrest said:

"You mean you. . . " He nodded. "Shit, Jon. Is that going to be a
problem? Because I've got to tell you, it's kind of late now to be
making any changes to the senior staff. . . "

"It won't be a problem," Jon replied quickly. The idea of leaving Trip
behind made him feel sick, even now. Especially now. Because he still
held out a lot of hope, and five years was long enough to change
anyone's mind. At least, that's what he was counting on.

"All right," Forrest agreed, very readily. Why became apparent as he
continued: "Speaking of which, I've got some news about your first
officer. . . "

"The Ventral Plating Team says they'll be done in about three days."
It was the first time Trip had spoken since they'd left the station.
It hadn't been his idea to get into an enclosed shuttle with Trip, but
after eight weeks, he'd run out of excuses as to why he didn't want to
go and look at his ship with his chief engineer. Trip didn't seem
exactly overwhelmed with enthusiasm, either, but he drove Jon out
anyway.

"Be sure they match the colour to the nacelle housings." Jon said,
just to say something.

"You aiming to sit on the hull and pose for some postcards?" A few
weeks ago, Jon knew how he would have responded to that. A suggestive
comment about exactly what kind of postcards Trip would want of him.
Trip would have replied with a joke about pinup girls, and they would
have had a nice, comfortable laugh together. That was then.

"Maybe," was all Jon managed now, staring up at the ship.

It was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen. For a moment, he was
overcome with emotion, so much that he forgot that things were bad
with Trip.

"God, she's beautiful, Charlie." He let it slip before he could think
better of it.

"And fast," Trip answered, without missing a beat. "Warp four point
five next Thursday."

"Neptune and back in six minutes." It figured Trip would focus on the
speed, he thought. He'd always been about speed. A teasing joke about
that was on his lips, but he killed it before it could escape.
Instead, Jon said:

"Let's take a look at the lateral sensor array."

"Give me a sec." Trip was nervous. He didn't sound it, like Jon did,
but he showed it when he wrenched the control throttle about ten times
as hard as necessary. Jon was nauseated, partly by the sudden
movement, partly at the idea of Trip being nervous around him.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were afraid of flying," there
was a hint of their old teasing in his voice, but it sounded forced.
But Jon took it up gamely, mostly because he didn't know what else to
say.

"If I'm afraid of anything, it's the scrambled eggs I had for
breakfast."

"Pretty soon you'll be dreaming about scrambled eggs. I hear the new
resequenced protein isn't much of an improvement."

"My number one staffing priority was finding the right chef." That's
what I was doing, Jon added to himself, when you were back on Earth
fucking Natalie. "I think you'll be impressed." He was about to
continue the banter, when it struck him how incredibly inane this all
was. They were adults. Competent ones, even. They should, he thought,
be able to discuss this in a reasonable, mature manner, instead of
jumping all over the place like a couple of Highland dancers. So
instead, Jon said:

"What the hell are we doing?"

"About what?" Trip kept his eyes on the ship.

"Us."

Trip didn't pretend he didn't know what Jon was talking about.
Fortunate, since if he had, Jon was reasonably sure, staffing issues
aside, he would have pushed Trip out the airlock.

"I want us to be friends. Is that doable?"

Jon hated the word 'doable'. Also 'twenty-four seven', 'good to go'
and a number of other archaic expressions that were for some reason
dear to Trip's heart. But it wasn't the moment to argue semantics.

"I don't know," he answered, honestly.

"Would you like me to resign?"

"Of course not." This was as much Trip's dream as it was his. He
couldn't deprive him of it, any more than he could deprive himself.
Even if friendship wasn't entirely doable.

"I do. . . still like you a lot, Jon." Amazing, Jon thought, that just
seven and a half short years ago, that would have been enough to give
him good dreams for months. "I'd really like it if we could be
friends." Friends. As in platonic.

"We've never tried that." And Jon thought it was probably to start
now. But if the alternative was five years of awkwardness, he'd do his
best. "Can I ask why. . . "

"Your galley's more important to you than your warp core. That's a
confidence-builder," was Trip's idea of reply. Jon could take a hint.
Suppressing a sigh, he stared out the window.

"A starship runs on its stomach, Charlie." And so did he, since he
apparently wasn't going to be running on any other part of his body.

---

Trip was sucking him off. Good as he was in the other positions, this
was the one area in which Trip excelled. Something to do with the size
and experience of his mouth, as Trip himself said. It was very true.
Jon was sweating rivers into the beige cotton sheets, although that
wasn't entirely Trip's doing.

The temperature in the room had to be at least a hundred degrees. The
heat, and the trilling kookaburra song that responded to his orgasmic
cry, gave him enough evidence to deduce that they were in Australia,
in the Northern Territory bed and breakfast they'd gone to after their
less than relaxing five days in the outback. Which meant that this was
two years ago. Which meant this was a dream. But Jon didn't care. He
pulled Trip up and kissed him hard. Trip kissed back, rubbing Jon's
chest with one hand and stroking himself with the other.

"Want a hand with that, honey?"

A growl met Jon's use of the endearment, just as it had when they'd
actually done this. Damn, Jon thought, as he reached out to cover
Trip's hand over the erection. He hadn't thought his memory was that
good. But he remembered everything about Trip: the way he felt, the
way he sounded, the way he tasted. The way he closed his eyes and
twitched his nose like an understudy on 'Bewitched' when he was
enjoying the afterglow.

The memories remained even after the alarm woke him up and they were
joined by the recollection that, far from being in an overheated but
comfortable Australian hotel, they were a week out of spacedock and
had already met a new and very unpleasant alien race.

"Great orange juice, Captain."

Jon didn't know where the 'Captain' thing had come from, but it was
all Trip had called him since they'd left Jupiter Station. Which he
didn't particularly like, but at least it meant Trip was speaking to
him.

"Chef squeezes it fresh."

"That ain't gonna last long."

"I don't think the novelty's worn off yet. For any of us." Jon speared
a piece of bacon. T'Pol had declined to join them this morning, which
disappointed Jon more than he'd have expected. She was a much more
interesting person—Vulcan—than Jon had originally thought.

"Hell of a week, huh?" Trip said, around a mouthful of toast.

Jon had to agree. "It's what we signed up for."

"Fun, adventure and regular ass-kickings. Just like it said in the
brochure."

"You got a different brochure than I did."

"I had the recent edition. Yours was probably printed on paper."

Jon laughed, for the first time in what seemed like forever. Trip
smiled, encouraged, and went on: "I was proud of you, though."

"What?"

"The way you handled yourself. You're a real credit to us. We're lucky
to have you, Captain."

"I-We're lucky to have you, too, Trip."

Trip smiled. "Best in Starfleet, right?"

Best anywhere, Jon thought. Then quashed that thought and replaced it
with:

"Right down to the Chef."

---

"I didn't do anythin' to deserve this." Jon looked up from his
paperwork to see a very agitated engineer standing in front of him.

"I never suggested you did."

"You're actin' like you think I coulda stopped it." No need to ask
what Trip was talking about. The bulge in his side was becoming more
and more apparent. Jon hoped they found the Xyrillian ship before Trip
had to go into sweatpants. Or, worse yet, a muumuu.

"I don't think. . . "

"Well, I couldn't have. I had no fucking idea. I never suspected a
thing." He clenched his fists at his sides, and, for a moment, Jon
feared for his origami 'Enterprise.' "She totally blindsided me."

"Really." Jon smiled dryly. "I can't imagine what that must have been
like." He looked back at the PADD.

At first, he took Trip's silence to be sulking, or maybe just
annoyance. Then he heard a loud sniff.

"Don't cry, Trip." He tried to make it sound like an order, but the
sight of Trip in tears broke his heart all over again. Jon got up and
walked around the desk to put a hand on Trip's shoulder. "Look, I
can't pretend to know what you're feeling. But I'll do whatever I can
to help you through it. We all will." He allowed himself to squeeze
the Commander's shoulder. "We're here for you."

Trip's tears increased, and at first, Jon was afraid he'd made things
worse. Then Trip wiped his eyes and gave him a convincing, if somewhat
watery, smile. "You are such a great guy."

Jon smiled back, leaving his hand where it was. It was the most
physical contact he'd had with Trip in months. He was enjoying it.

Just as he enjoyed it when, without further warning, Trip grabbed him
by the front of his uniform, shoved him against the nearest bulkhead,
and growled: "Fuck me now."

"What?"

Trip shoved his tongue into Jon's ear, all but ripping the uniform off
with his hands. "I want you so much."

Jon felt like he was inspecting the hull without an EV suit. Trying
not to gape, he instead came up with the very captainly expression:

"Mmpf. . . " as Trip kissed him hard enough to leave bruises. Trip
continued to talk dirty, much dirtier than Jon would have expected
from a mother-to-be, undressing Jon all the while. Jon went with it,
pausing occasionally to wonder if the ready room was soundproofed and
why he'd never thought to ask that question before, until Trip
groaned:

"Come on, Captain, I need you to do it."

That one word jarred Jon out of his happy trance. He was Captain and
Trip was high on pregnancy hormones. It could have been anyone on the
other end of his tongue. Malcolm, even, Jon thought, trying to cheer
himself up with the mental image of Trip assaulting Lieutenant Reed
like this. It didn't work.

"I can't, Trip." He pushed Trip away and pulled up his clothes. There
was a rip in the collar of his black T-shirt and the jumpsuit zipper
was broken. He didn't know how he was going to explain that to the
Quartermaster, but he thought Porthos would have a role to play.

Trip didn't ask him why, or try to change his mind. Instead, he gave
Jon a poisonous glare, fastened his own uniform, and stomped out of
the ready room like Jon just insulted Trip's mother. Jon sat back at
his desk and hoped they'd find the ship before Trip became a mother
himself. And before Jon had to deal with the issue of changing tables
in the men's rooms.

---

"You didn't even try. . . "

"Jon."

"I'm just saying, after all the courses we took. . . "

"I'm real sorry, OK, but CPR and the fucking Heimlich manoeuvre were
the last thing on my mind when I thought I was about to die and you
were saving me a seat at the head table."

Jon shook his head and cut his lasagne. It was pointless lecturing
Trip. He'd never been good at keeping his head in emergencies. And
when you threw a bottle of bourbon and someone like Malcolm into the
mix. . .  "I'm just glad you made it back."

"Me too." Trip stared at the wall. "I. . . I would have hated to die
without telling you. . . " He stopped. Jon's heart did the same. He
waited, digging his fingernails into his thigh, for as long as humanly
possible-about four seconds-before prompting:

"What?"

"Thanks." Trip looked up. "For being my friend, even after. . .
everything." So it wasn't a declaration of undying love. It was the
first reference Trip had made to their previous relationship, even
privately, since they'd left Jupiter Station. "And also, I'm sorry."
Sorry for leaving him for a woman who had dumped him via sub-space
communiqui a few weeks into the mission? Sorry for ending the best
relationship Jon had ever been in, the one he'd expected to be in for
the rest of his life? "For doing it like that. After what we had
together I shoulda been more, you know." He played with his fork and
looked like he was about to admit a humiliating shortcoming.
"Sensitive."

"Oh." So he wasn't apologizing for what he'd done, but the way he'd
done it. "Thank you," Jon said, politely. Trip smiled like a huge
weight had been lifted off him, and Jon went back to cutting his
lasagne and pretending that was anything like what he'd been hoping
for.

---

"All right," Trip wheezed. "Whatever you say. Xanadu's fine."

"More than fine. It's paradise." Sort of like this, Jon thought, only
without the shooting, the heat stroke and the imminent death. "Your
turn."

"U." Trip coughed a little, but didn't launch into another fit.
Instead, his eyes glazed over. "I don't know." Jon could think of
plenty, but he resisted the urge to give him a hint. Trip didn't need
that and wouldn't appreciate it, no matter what state he was in.

A shell exploded, rocking the shelter. Instinctively, Jon threw
himself over the Commander. Who looked up and said, as soon as the
tremors subsided,

"Let's play a different game."

"What do you want to play?"

"Dunno." Trip shook his head. Jon racked his brains desperately for
any one of his childhood slumber party slash-Scouting-slash-day camp
time-wasters.

"What about Truth or Dare?"

"OK. I dare you to kiss Zobral. On the lips," Trip sounded weak.

Jon forced a smile, for his sake. "You can go first. And I don't think
you're up for much of a dare. So I'll give you Truth." He paused for
only a moment. "What do you regret most?" It was the first question
Jon could think of, mostly because it was the subject foremost in his
mind. He knew what his answer would be. He regretted killing Trip, not
in an abstract way by helping him get on 'Enterprise', but in the very
concrete way of dragging him down here, regardless of Trip's feelings
and his own first-hand knowledge of Trip's problem with heat.

"Regrets." Trip sighed and looked directly at him. Jon couldn't tell
if he was really there or not. Despite the lecture he'd given Trip
after the shuttlepod incident, he'd found himself in the same
predicament. A real emergency, and he'd completely forgotten
everything he'd learned in his survival courses. "Regrets," Trip
repeated. For a brief moment, Jon thought he was going to say
something about their break-up. He wanted Trip to say something about
their break-up, because Jon desperately needed to hear those words
before they both died. Instead, though, Trip smiled fuzzily and went
on, "Regrets, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention. I
did what I had to do, and saw it through without exemption." He
faltered, and Jon continued for him.

"I planned each charted course, each careful step along the by way.
But more, much more than this, I did it my way." He leaned over Trip
as another blast shook the bunker.

---

She was a nice woman, Jon could see that. She was intelligent, she
liked dogs, and she certainly wasn't hard to look at. No, there was
absolutely no reason he couldn't spend a very nice weekend enjoying
Risa with Keyla. No reason, Jon sighed, except for the very minor
detail that he wanted to be with Trip.

Trip, who had made it very clear that he wanted to spend his shore
leave with Malcolm. Jon knew how easily false rumours could spread on
a ship. All he had to do was spend half an hour in the gym at the same
time as T'Pol and the next thing he knew the rumour mill was
announcing the first inter-species pregnancy. Well, first female
pregnancy, anyway. With that in mind, he'd ignored the rumours he'd
heard about Trip and Malcolm being more than just good friends. True,
the two of them fought more than any friends he'd ever known, or any
enemies, for that matter. And Trip did have a weakness for accents.
Still, Jon refused to believe it. Trip wouldn't do that to him. He
couldn't.

Or so he'd thought. Then he'd fought his way back to the shuttle,
disappointed but not entirely surprised that the first attractive
woman in years to show any interest in him turned out to be a
murderous enemy operative. And he'd found Trip and Malcolm waiting in
their underwear, smelling like a frat house carpet and spinning a
story with considerably more cock than bull about it.

Paranoid Malcolm, who took three kinds of phase pistol along when he
went to the bathroom, blindly following a couple of strangers into a
secluded area. Right. Jon didn't believe it for a minute, although he
did clearly remember the time Trip had convinced him to get involved
in a sexually charged game of hide and seek in a hotel hallway in
Paris, and had accidentally let the room door lock behind them. Trip
had the same look on his face as he'd had when they'd been forced to
go down to the lobby, wearing nothing but hand-towels, and beg the
snotty concierge to let them back in.

He was about to say something about this, but he couldn't bring
himself to do it. Forcing them to admit it meant that Jon wouldn't
have any choice but to believe it. Instead, when Travis asked if he'd
had a nice vacation, he just looked out the window and lied.

---

Denial was a powerful state of being. Jon was able to sustain it for
several months. Trip still ate in the captain's mess and still came
over to watch water polo and play with Porthos, but something had
changed. The difference became even more pronounced after Jon came
back from his time travelling adventure with Daniels, the occasion
when Malcolm had been badly injured-badly meaning more severely than
usual-by the Suliban. On several occasions, Trip cleared his throat
and seemed about to say something important. Each time, Jon cut him
off with a joke about Vulcans or a comment about the ship. He didn't
want to know.

Neither, apparently, did his subconscious. He often dreamed of Trip in
sexual situations, remembered and imagined, with himself, with Malcolm
and, if he'd been drinking before bed, with Phlox or Hoshi or even
Henry Archer. But when Porthos was sick and he dreamed about a heavily
emotional funeral, it was T'Pol by his side.

He wasn't the only one surprised by that. When Phlox tried out his pop
psychology, he seemed enthralled to learn that T'Pol's feelings would
be more important to Jon than Trip's. At the time, Jon hadn't believed
they were. He had, in fact, vehemently denied it. No one in the world
was more important to him than Trip. Even if they spent the rest of
their lives as friends, Trip would still be the first person he went
to for advice, the one person he needed to impress. The one person he
loved. Or so he thought, until he and Malcolm went on a rescue mission
and found Trip nearly naked in the jungle with a princess.

Years before 'Enterprise's' launch, Jon had known that Trip would get
into a lot of trouble on the mission. He was that kind of person. If
there was a hole around, you could count on Trip to fall into it. Or
insert at least one of his body parts, as the case might be. It wasn't
finding Trip with Kaitaama that surprised Jon, although he had hoped
that, after what had happened when he hadn't done anything with
Ah'Len, Trip would be more intelligent than to actually do something
with an alien. It wasn't even Malcolm'sexceptionally restrained, if
the rumours were true—reaction to the situation that caught him off
guard.

No, Jon was surprised by his own lack of jealousy. Kaitaama and Trip
had clearly had sex. He recognized Trip's rumpled, post-orgasmic look,
and quite apart from that, they both looked more embarrassed than
innocently naked people would have any reason to be. And, while Jon
was disappointed, irritated and very pissed off, he wasn't jealous.
This fascinated him, on almost a clinical level. Later that night,
lying in bed, Jon tried to analyze it. He had been jealous of Malcolm
after Risa. He had been jealous of Ah'Len, despite Trip's repeated
reassurances, and jealous didn't begin to describe how he'd felt about
Natalie. So why not now?

Not because Kaitaama wasn't worth being jealous of. She was the kind
of woman who would only go for Trip: beautiful, rich, and annoying as
hell. And Jon still cared about Trip, that wasn't in question. He'd
nearly gone out of his mind looking for him, and he'd spent most of
their trek through the jungle cursing himself for sending Trip into
danger yet again.

Jon still wanted Trip, as well, if the X-rated dreams were anything to
go by. So the only conclusion he could draw from the lack of jealousy
was that, while he still wouldn't kick Trip out of bed if he ever
showed up there, he wasn't in love with him anymore. And he didn't
know whether he should be happy about that or not.

---

"The Enolians are a technologically advanced people who enjoy meeting
new cultures," T'Pol informed him, succinctly and efficiently as
always. "They have good relations with the Vulcans."

"Would you like to go down?" Jon offered.

"While I would appreciate the chance to visit Ketto Enol, I believe it
would be more impressive if you were to go yourself."

"Fair enough." Jon stretched. "Think I should bring someone with me?"
He still hadn't got T'Pol to roll her eyes, but he had three years. He
hadn't given up yet.

"It would be preferable not to visit a previously uncontacted planet
alone, Captain."

"I'll see if Malcolm wants to go."

T'Pol hesitated a moment. "If I may suggest, sir, Commander Tucker has
suffered a steady decline in productivity over the last seven weeks. I
believe he would benefit from a few days away from the ship."

"All right." Jon furrowed his eyebrows. "I hadn't noticed anything
wrong with Trip." Although if T'Pol said it, he knew it had to be
true. For the last nine years, he had been sensitive to Trip's every
mood; it had been three months since he'd figured out he wasn't in
love with him anymore. Did it only take that long to completely lose
touch with someone?

"It may not be discernible to you, Captain, but I can assure you, his
productivity is declining. And will continue to do so unless action is
taken."

"I'll take him, then."

There was something Jon couldn't quite interpret in T'Pol's
expression, but then he hardly ever knew what she was thinking. Since
he wasn't about to start worrying about that now, he gave her the
bridge and went to comm Trip.

The Enolians gave them a lavish welcoming reception, complete with
banquet and traditional theatre performance (traditional Enolian
theatre, Jon thought, was something like a cross between shadow
puppetry and mime. He had been forced to kick Trip awake no less than
fifteen times during the hour-long presentation.)

They had also been given two suites in a nearby luxury hotel, and they
were sitting in Trip's suite, having a drink and talking about the
day, when Trip said:

"I was real happy when you asked me to down here with ya."

"You deserve a break." Jon smiled at him.

Trip looked away, rubbing his neck nervously. "Listen, Captain,
there's something I gotta tell you." Jon's smile disappeared and he
swallowed, suddenly awkward himself.

"Trip. . . "

"No, Captain, really. . . "

"Trip," he repeated, more firmly. "I know about you and Malcolm." He
smiled again, and put a hand on Trip's shoulder. "I'm happy for you."

"What?" Trip's initial puzzlement quickly turned into annoyance. He
scowled. "Why does everyone think I'm doin' it with Malcolm?"

"You're not?" Jon wasn't thrilled by the news, nor was he displeased.
It didn't affect him one way or another. Like, he thought with vague
interest, Trip had just told him he was planning to have the
resequenced pork chops for dinner.

"No! I mean, not that he ain't real hot and everything, but. . . " He
shook his head firmly. "No. Not even a bit. We're just friends."

"OK." Jon took a sip of the wine, which was something like a cross
between lemonade and sake. "So what did you want to talk about, then?"

Trip didn't immediately reply. When Jon looked over, he was blushing
and staring at the carpet. "Trip?"

"Why don't we start with how I'm a total jerk who wouldn't know a good
thing if it jumped up and bit him in the ass?"

Jon sipped his citrus sake, then placed his glass on the end table,
which appeared to be made of some extra-terrestrial wicker. "What?"

Taking a deep breath, Trip turned and looked Jon in the eye. "What do
I gotta do to get things back the way they were?"

Until just recently, Jon would have done anything to hear those words.
Every day, every evening, whether he was on the brink of death,
whether Trip was the one in mortal danger or whether it was just
another boring night in space, it was all he'd thought of. Until
Kaitaama.

"I don't know what. . . " Jon finally managed.

Trip cut him off. "I know. Let me explain." He took another deep
breath and turned in his chair, so he was facing Jon. "Remember, right
before you went to Jupiter Station, I told you my mama thought
somethin' bad was gonna happen to one of us?"

"Yes." Jon remembered that night, one of the last times he and Trip
had made love. It had been a frequent attraction in the Trip Sex Dream
Follies, and still made occasional comeback appearances.

"Well, it got me to thinkin'. What if something did happen to you? It
was hard enough being away from you for five months. I couldn't
imagine us being apart forever."

"So you decided to break up with me?" He tried to sound
non-judgmental. And he wasn't judging Trip, he was just trying to
understand. That's what he told himself, anyway.

"It sounds stupid," Trip admitted. "But I figured if you were gonna
die anyway, it'd be better if we were just friends. Then I wouldn't
miss you so much." By the end of the sentence, he had taken on an
almost sheepish tone. "I know it's dumb, but that's what I thought
then."

"And what do you think now?"

"That I'd go nuts if you died without knowing how I feel about you."

"Hm." Jon nodded, considering this.

"It was finding the body in that future ship that got to me," Trip
continued. "I looked at that thing, and all I could see was you when
you were off sightseeing with Daniels. What if you'd died? I'd never
know what happened. And it'd probably have killed me. Specially since
it'd have kept me from having a second chance with you." He sighed,
letting out a breath Jon hadn't been aware he was holding. "So what do
you say?"

Trip didn't smile, but he did look at Jon with big puppy eyes, the
ones that he'd always brought out when he wanted something. In the
past, Jon had always given in. Then again, the puppy eyes had never
succeeded a painful break-up and two years of forced friendship.

"Trip. . . "

"Please, Captain. Just tell me what I gotta do. Anything, you just say
the word."

Stop calling me Captain, for one thing, Jon thought. But that wouldn't
be enough. Nothing would be, not now that he'd passed the point of no
return and stopped being jealous. He sat quietly, hoping Trip would
glean that from his silence, but Trip had never been one for picking
up on subtlety. He insisted: "Come on, Captain, tell me. I'll do
whatever you want."

And Jon had to reply, quite honestly: "Take us back in time, Trip."
Then he picked up his glass and went into his room.

The Enolians were gracious hosts. Jon couldn't remember the last time
he'd slept in a nice, soft bed in a nice, well-decorated room with
adequate ceilings Actually, he could, but that hotel experience had
been rather overshadowed by his brush with the murderous Keyla. There
were no assassins here. He was looking forward to a long sleep-in,
followed by a leisurely breakfast on the balcony and maybe a little
sightseeing in the afternoon. Hopes which were dashed just after dawn,
when he was awoken by a hammering on his door.

Trip was not renowned for being outdoorsy. He was in fact, Jon
remembered, the man who had once spent an entire night lying awake in
their tent, certain that a bear was going to crash in at any second
and eat them. Despite the fact that they were at a folk festival ten
miles outside San Francisco. So Jon was a little surprised to see Trip
standing at his door at the crack of dawn, wearing a backpack and
hiking boots.

"What are you doing?"

"Want to go for a hike? There's some terrific trails around here."

Jon rubbed his eyes. "Did I miss something? You hate hiking."

"You don't."

"I'm not really in the mood, Trip."

Trip looked hurt. "I'm tryin' here, Jon." It was the name that did him
in. He was so surprised to hear it that he'd said:

"I'll be ready in fifteen minutes," before he knew what he was doing.

The trails were great, Trip had been right about that. He'd been
cooped up in a ship for the majority of two years, and, once he got
over the loss of his morning in bed, Jon began to enjoy himself. Trip
even seemed enthusiastic. In the past, Jon knew he'd generally glazed
his eyes and thought of engine parts whenever they went for nature
walks, but this time, he actually seemed interested, enthusing over a
beautiful blue lake and even getting a little misty-eyed at the sight
of a six-legged deer beside a waterfall.

He was behind Trip, walking up a verdant, flower-covered hill, when he
caught his foot on a root and fell forward. Trip caught his hand and
kept him from hitting the ground, which was good. Jon had been hoping
to come back from at least one away mission without any injuries. When
Trip kept hold of his hand even after Jon was no longer in any danger
of falling, Jon didn't pull it away. After all, he told himself,
friends could hold hands. If they were girls. And in the second grade.

"You've gotta see this, Jon." They'd been walking for nearly an hour
and a half, and Trip hadn't once asked to take a break. That alone was
worth seeing. The ruins they found at the bottom of the next hill were
just a bonus.

"What is it?" Letting go of Trip, Jon climbed over the rocks. It
looked like a theatre, or maybe a lecture hall, with a dozen rows of
bench seats descending to a flat, grassy area at the bottom. It was
clearly visited often, but there was none of the restrictive ropes,
informational signs, admission booths or gift shops that would have
accompanied it on Earth.

"Guidebook said it's an amphitheatre. About three thousand years old."

"Wow," Jon used a word that Trip himself favoured. It wasn't the most
fascinating thing he'd seen in his life, but it was interesting. All
the more because Trip had brought him here.

"Come down here." Trip headed down the sloping seats until he arrived
at the bottom. Jon followed him, taking off his pack and rubbing his
shoulder. "Stand right there," Trip continued, positioning Jon on the
open space at the bottom.

"Why?"

"You'll see." Trip rifled through his own pack and took out two PADDs,
which he handed to Jon. "Don't look at them. They're just props."

"Props?"

"Yeah." Pushing his pack to one side, Trip sat on the remnants of the
front row. "Drop them."

"Why?" Jon could see where he was going with this, and he didn't know
if it was the best place to be exploring.

"Just do it."

"They're perfectly good PADDs. I don't want to break them. . . "

"Oh, for God's sake." Trip stood up, took the PADDs off Jon, placed
them carefully on the ground and kneeled, pulling Jon down with him.
"Say it."

"What?"

"Your line. Come on, Jon, please. You only have two." He was almost
pleading. Jon had to give in.

"Thank you."

"No problem. I'm Trip Tucker." Trip smiled widely and, despite
himself, Jon was reminded of the first time, back at Starfleet
Academy.

Almost automatically, he continued: "I'm Jonathan Archer."

"I know." Trip's smile wavered a little, and he swallowed hard. Jon
was about to say somethingalthough he wasn't sure whatto try and put
him at ease, when Trip went on: "You're the best thing that's ever
gonna happen to me. In about seven years, I'm gonna make a hell of a
mistake because, well, I'm that kind of moron, but I really, really
hope you'll forgive me, because if you don't, I don't know what I'm
gonna do."

Trip blinked at him, and Jon's heart did a few acrobatic manoeuvres
heretofore only possible in zero-G. "I'm crazy about you, and that's
only gonna get worse with time. I promise. And you gotta tell me you
feel the same. Please, Jon."

Jon smiled, to keep himself from having a more emotional, and
embarrassing, reaction. It was, he remembered thinking of their first
date nearly a decade ago, a simple, sincere apology that had gotten to
him the first time, and it was the same now. The hell with Kaitaama
and whatever denial-driven survival instincts had kicked in when he'd
seen them together. The hell with Trip's issues. Jon loved him. A lot.
And that's what mattered.

"I appreciate that, Cadet Tucker, but do you really think this is the
place for such a conversation?"

Trip laughed, more, Jon thought, out of relief than as applause for
his half-hearted joke.

"Hell, Jon, we had our first kiss in front of two Starfleet captains.
And their wives."

"True enough." Jon leaned forward, ignoring, for the moment, that the
stone was playing hell with his bad knee. "Let's have our second first
kiss in front of a hundred and three imaginary graduate students."

Great as that was, Jon didn't really feel like having their second
first sexual encounter in front of any day-tripping Enolians who
happened to come along. He broke it off before it could get too far.

"We can't do this here." It wasn't quite the decisive, take-charge
tone he was going for, but the groaned gasp got the message across.

Trip raised his head reluctantly. "You're right." He fastened Jon's
pants solicitously. "I got somethin' else I want to ask you, anyway."

Trip rummaged in his pack for a minute. Jon took the opportunity to
get off the hard ground, and sat instead on the hard stone bench
beside Trip. Which meant that Trip was in an ideal, kneeling position
when he finally found what he was looking for and presented it to Jon.

"What. . . "

"It's a garboranum. An Enolian betrothal stone. It's traditional to
give it to the person you're hot for on the day you get engaged."

"That's a hell of a guidebook you've got." The garboranum, a
square-cut, purplish stone about the size of a fingernail, was hanging
from a silver-coloured chain. It was a fairly tasteful piece of
jewellery, which relieved Jon enormously. Trip's jewellery sense
wasn't much better than his fashion sense. That was why the, as yet
unused, wedding ring in Jon's desk drawer was a plain, unobtrusive
band of latinum. Jon knew that Trip himself would have chosen
something more closely resembling Mr. T's high school graduation ring.

"T'Pol found it." Trip handed the necklace to Jon.

"It's. . . " Jon wasn't sure what the appropriate response would be.
"Nice," he finally decided on.

"I know it ain't a pawn shop wedding ring, but I figure, if you're
willing, we can fix that soon as we get back to Jupiter Station."

Jon smiled. "Thank you."

"Put it on," was the next prompt. Jon did it. He didn't much care for
jewellery, but they'd only been back together for ten minutes. He
wasn't ready for their second first fight.

"You sure you want to wait that long?" Jon asked, smiling, as he
attached the clasp around his neck. "I think T'Pol can marry people.
And don't tell me you never dreamed of a big Vulcan wedding. . . "

Trip laughed again, and Jon had to join in.

"I can just imagine it. A vegetarian buffet and four hours of group
meditation. Sounds great." Trip raised his eyebrows. "But I don't
wanna have to wait seven years to consummate the relationship."

"No," Jon agreed. The two-year hiatus had been more than enough.

---

After two years of memories, finally having Trip again was intense.
Like a first time, but better, because each already knew what the
other liked. If Jon was honest, the real first time with Trip hadn't
been that great. They'd both been nervous, both had been drinking, and
Jon had been certain that, the minute he saw him naked, Trip was going
to be reminded of how much older Jon was, and realize he'd made a huge
mistake.

This time, there was none of that, although Jon was amazedand more
than a little concernedto see how many new scars Trip had accumulated
since the start of the voyage. The best part, though, was when Trip
sighed,

"Oh, God, Jonny," and Jon realized just how much he'd hated that whole
Captain thing. "I love you."

"Love you, too, honey." Trip didn't even make a face, which Jon had to
remark on. "You used to get all bent out of shape when I called you
that."

"Because I used to think it was corny," Trip admitted, snuggling
closer. "But then I realized it can be kinda nice to have a pet name."

"What's mine?" Jon asked. And if he said Eagle Scout, he promised
himself he would never speak to Trip again. Well, not for a few
minutes, anyway.

"Captain, of course." Trip said it like it was obvious.

"Oh." Jon blinked. "I thought that was. . . I mean, you started using
it when you dumped me, so I thought it was meant to. . . "

"No one else calls you that, right?"

"Not that way."

"So it's a pet name."

"Right." Jon didn't quite follow that, but decided he could live with
it. After all, it had the bonus of being acceptable in polite company.

"You OK with that, Captain?"

"I suppose so, honey."

---

"What are we going to do?" Jon asked, a few hours later.

Trip rolled over to face him. "I was thinking we could order room
service, then try for a third round."

"You'd be lucky."

"I already am."

Jon smiled, thrilled at how easily they'd fallen back into their old
routine. "I meant what are we going to do when we get back to
'Enterprise'? We won't be able to keep this a secret."

Trip blushed and mumbled something into his pillow. Jon had to ask him
to repeat it. "I said, T'Pol already knows." "What?" If anything, he'd
have expected Hoshi to be the one to figure it out. She was always
giving them funny looks anyway. "How did she find out?"

"I told her." Trip stared at the ceiling. That was even more bizarre.

"I didn't realize you were such great friends." Then again, until
yesterday, he'd been convinced Trip and Malcolm were sleeping
together.

"We're not." Trip sighed heavily, and explained: "I was getting a bite
to eat one night and she was there drinking some of that tea of hers.
I thought you'd be real proud if I tried to be sociable, so I asked if
I could sit with her. She gave me that whole 'it's a free ship' thing
of hers, and we got to talking."

"And naturally the conversation turned to us."

"She knew already, Jon. She doesn't miss a thing. You should know
that."

"So what did she say?" Jon couldn't see T'Pol causing a problem for
them. He was more worried about other members of the crew. Lieutenant
Reed had been disappointed that Jon's command style hadn't extended to
getting him killed; Jon could just imagine how he'd react to the news
that his Captain was sleeping with, in love with, and engaged to be
married to his third in command.

"Basically, that I should get my ass in gear and do something about
you before I ended up goin' nuts or killing someone."

"I never noticed. . . "

"And also," Trip continued, "That it'd be good if I could get you laid
so you'd stop panting after her." Trip smirked. "Not that she used
those words, of course."

"I wasn't. . . " He trailed off, as he remembered the past few weeks,
when he'd barely let T'Pol out of his sight. For purely professional
reasons, of course. "Anyway, that doesn't matter. Did she seem
concerned? That our relationship would affect our work?"

"Didn't seem like that to me. She seemed more concerned that our not
having a relationship was distracting me." Trip's smile went right to
Jon's groin, and it seemed that perhaps he was going to get lucky
again after all. "The crew won't care. They know we're professionals.
And they know what I'm like. No one's gonna think you'll stop sending
me into danger just 'cause I'm your boyfriend. More the opposite."

Jon laughed and ran a hand through Trip's hair. Trip, for his part,
shifted himself until he was lying on top of Jon, licking his neck
like an exceptionally sexy puppy.

"Think dinner can wait?" Jon asked.

"'Room service is operational until the Hour of the Six Golden Bells
in most quality hotels.' Says so in T'Pol's guidebook," Trip replied
helpfully, moving southwards. Jon closed his eyes. "Remind me to thank
T'Pol when we get home." Trip's reply was lost, muffled by Jon's
stomach. Not that either of them really cared.

---

"Captain's Starlog, supplemental." Jon leaned back in the shuttle
chair. He had been supposed to record at least three or four of these
damn things every day, but he had been otherwise occupied for the
majority of his visit. He just hoped no one checked the date
signatures. "Trip and I have left Ketto Enol, where we had a
successful first contact with the Enolians." He looked over at Trip,
who wasn't too busy piloting the shuttle to blow a kiss in his
direction. Jon smirked and couldn't resist it. "We also found time to
squeeze in a little R and R."

Trip laughed and Jon paused the recording, giving him permission to
continue. "Never heard that euphemism before."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "Just filing an accurate report, Commander."

"Then you'd better slap an X-rating on that and charge admission. I
expect a percentage."

"Naturally." Jon started recording again, racking his brains for
something he could describe without offending anyone's sensibilities.
Although he knew most of the crew, Dr. Phlox certainly, would be
anything but offended.

He decided on Pen'zaan, a sport Trip had come across during one of his
post-coital television flickings. He had just finished recording an
accurate, if dull, description of the sport when, without
warningunless you could count tersely informing them: 'We're coming
aboard' ten seconds before doing so as a warninga group of guards
boarded the shuttle.

Trip, of course, didn't sit quietly while the guards tore the shuttle
apart, looking for unspecified contraband. After one or two remarks
about the guards' personal hygiene habits and the sexual availability
of their mothers, Trip had received the butt of a weapon to the face.
Jon, trying to remain as calm as possible, leapt up when Trip hit the
floor, and that had led to an all-out brawl. Which had led to them
being shipped, without trial, Miranda rights or their one allotted
phone call, to a prison colony that sounded about as welcoming as
Alcatraz, without the ornithological opportunities.

He and Trip weren't even sitting together, something which was clearly
affecting Trip more than it was affecting him. It was ironic, Jon
thought, that Trip, who wasn't known as the strong, silent type
himself, would end up beside someone who seemed intent on talking him
to death before they even got there. Although Jon knew Trip would
never in a million years see any correlation between his annoying
seatmate and himself, and Jon wasn't going to be the one to mention
it.

He was wondering how, exactly, he was going to get them out of this
one, when, just like that, the opportunity presented itself. Acting
ability hadn't, exactly, been part of his official job description,
but since they'd left spacedock, he'd spent a great deal of time
pretending to be fascinated by even the most banal alien customs.
Playing the role of an intergalactic smuggler was just one step up
from that. And Jon had to admit, even if this wasn't the ideal
situation, it was nice to be able to refer to Trip as his 'partner'
again.

---

After being unjustly arrested, hijacked, beaten up and nearly killed
along with his partner, Jon was feeling a little less than charitable
towards the Enolians. In the past, he'd always managed to suppress his
feelings in the name of diplomacy, but when he finally arrived back on
'Enterprise', only to have the Enolian representative start hassling
him about paperwork like he was Admiral Forrest's secretary, Jon
snapped.

"Kuroda's dead, the other eleven prisoners are under guard. As you're
aware, my engineer and I were falsely arrested. We almost wound up in
Canamar. Makes me wonder how many others don't belong there. You
wanted a report? You've got one."

Jon hadn't been sure how to ask, but it was unnecessary. Trip followed
Jon to his quarters like it was the most natural thing in the world.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Trip was kissing him, gently
at first, but then harder, until Jon was painfully reminded that he
had recently been kicked in the face. Repeatedly.

"Trip. . . "

"Sorry, Jon." Trip whispered, kissing his captain's bruised cheek
instead. "But that really turned me on."

"What? Nearly dying?" Because while this mission certainly afforded
enough opportunities to satisfy that kink, Jon was beginning to feel
he was getting too old for it.

"No. That speech." Trip's eyes shone. "You aren't usually like that.
It was real sexy."

"Oh." Jon smiled and tried to sound as severe as possible, given the
fact he felt almost giddy. "In that case, Commander, I suggest you
remove your clothing and join me in the shower before I get really
pissed off."

"Yes, sir." Trip smiled. Jon pulled off his own shirt, revealing the
betrothal stone around his neck. Trip started a little when he saw it.
"You've still got that?"

"Of course." For a brief, insane moment, Jon was seized by the worry
that Trip regretted giving it to him. "Why?"

Trip swallowed hard and licked his cracked lips. "There was something
in the guidebook I kind of. . . forgot to mention."

Jon froze, his shirt in his hands. "What, Trip?" Trip swallowed again,
then took a deep breath, staring at the floor between them. "It's just
that. . . garboranum is a protected mineral. You're not allowed to
take it off the planet."

"What?" Jon felt himself growing cold in a way that had nothing to do
with his missing clothes. "You mean after all that, we were. . . We
actually. . . "

"Smuggled it." Trip looked at him sheepishly. "Sorry, Captain."

"Jesus, Trip, I don't believe this!" He had to tell the Enolians, of
course. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he didn't. Which
would mean kissing ass, playing the stupid human card, and doing all
the other things he loathed, and they would still be justified if they
chose to send the two of them to Canamar after all.

So he was looking, basically, at a lot of humiliation and possible
lifetime incarceration, all because Trip had 'forgotten' to mention
that the engagement necklace he'd so romantically proposed with was
made from an endangered rock. "Jesus!" He repeated. Jon could have
killed him. "I. . . You. . . " Jon was speechless.

Trip, however, knew exactly what to say. He gave a goofy grin, planted
a soft, apologetic kiss on Jon's lips, and whispered: "Just kiddin',
Captain."

---

"I wish to apologize, Captain." Jon looked up at T'Pol, surprised.

"What for?" Life was pretty good. Immediately after their return from
the prison ship, Trip had moved quite a lot of his things into the
captain's cabin, and had spent every night there since. While Jon was
sure this had not gone unnoticed within the crew, no one had said
anything to him about it. Even Lieutenant Reed had been silent on the
subject. And, after some initial nervousness, Jon had to admit, there
were no negative aspects to having Trip in his arms every night.

"I insisted that you and Commander Tucker go down to Ketto Enol. In
doing so, I placed you in the line of danger."

"You didn't know that."

"That does not excuse it. If you had been killed, or if we had been
unable to retrieve you, the ship would have been most. . .
inconvenienced."

"Sub-commander." Jon smiled at her. "I know exactly what you did for
Trip and I."

"While I did everything within my power to convince the Enolian
government to release you. . . "

"I meant the other thing."

T'Pol raised an eyebrow. "Sir. . . "

"Thank you." He expected T'Pol to pretend she didn't know what he was
talking about. Instead, she said nothing. So he added: "By the way,
your guidebook was very helpful."

"It was merely the information I located in the Vulcan database."

"I appreciated it. So did Trip."

T'Pol hesitated a moment, then inclined her head. "You're welcome,
Captain. On both counts." She left the ready room. As the door closed
behind her, Jon absently touched the necklace under his uniform and
thought that, maybe, the Vulcans weren't quite so bad after all.

---

The End