Categories > TV > Star Trek: Enterprise > Scent
Archer woke on a bed in Sickbay, feeling like he had slept for a month. For a moment, he merely lay there, staring at the ceiling and enjoying the luxury of thinking absolutely nothing. Memory, however, did not stay quiet for long, and Archer sat up with a groan as the events of the past two days came flooding back.
"Ah, Captain, you're back with us!" Phlox said cheerfully, putting down a rack of tubes and trotting over.
"How long was I out?" Archer asked, rubbing his forehead. He looked down at himself and noted that he was in a clean uniform. He wondered if he had arrived at Sickbay in one. On the list of his concerns, however, that one was quite low.
"You've had a good eight hours of sleep, and it was long overdue," Phlox said, in his unaggressively chiding manner. "I did take the liberty of infusing you with some saline. You were quite severely dehydrated. I advise you to get a little food in you - something proteinacious and easily digested, like fully cooked fowl musculature - and take it easy for a day or two. You've had a long week."
"You can say that again, Doctor." Archer's reply was heartfelt. He took the Doctor's offered arm with gratitude as he rose to his feet.
A half-hour later, he was in his quarters, trying to eat a chicken thigh and rice with some semblance of manners, rather than rip it to pieces and inhale it. It helped, he decided, that he was back to normal - 'normal' now being a state were everything smelled hopelessly bland. It felt like a riotous orchestra had been abruptly stilled. It was peaceful, in some ways, but the silence was frighteningly profound. He took a deep breath and another bite.
He had stopped into the bridge on his way to his quarters. It had been a mercifully uneventful visit; Mayweather was overseeing a helmsman Archer did not recognize, and had greeted Archer cheerfully. Sato's and Reed's stations were unmanned, Archer had noted.
It was for the best that he had not run into Reed. He needed a little time to process recent events. Any one of them would tax his skills as a commander and a diplomat. Taken as a whole - good god, what had happened?
Archer had always believed that the most difficult matters should be dealt with before all others. That priority spot was quite clear, and he stabbed another piece of chicken as if he could impale the situation and fix it to the plate. He had to deal with the fact that he had made love to... no, that was not an accurate phrase. Fucked? Far too vile. Had sex with? As accurate as he was going to get. Yes, had sex with one of his crewmembers.
It would have been a delicate enough situation if it had been a standard worshipful-crewmember-with-a-fixation case. For legal reasons, Starfleet's official position on that was a resounding "No," and so the grey shades were a matter for quiet, off-the-record discussions with peers. When the crewmember in question was as psychologically interesting as Reed, Archer pondered, things got a little more difficult. When the sex came under such unusual circumstances, the resulting conundrum dwarfed the size of the Enterprise.
One very painful aspect of the conundrum prodded at Archer, and he forced himself to face it. He did not love Reed. Yes, he cared deeply for the man, respected him, felt close to him - but love him? In the way you really should love someone you screw in the shower?
Archer put his fork down, his appetite gone. This was something he needed to address immediately, much as he would love to put it off until, oh, the end of the damn mission. But the only alternative was to pretend that the event had never happened, and that was not fair to Reed. Or to himself, either; he needed a bond of trust with his senior officers, and he could not pretend that this had never happened and still look Reed in the eye.
Feeling twenty years older than he was, Archer stood. What he had to communicate in this aftermath - his clarifications, his apologies - was not something that could be conducted by a letter or a memo or PADD-message. It would unconscionable not to do this in person. Porthos, who had been eyeing the chicken with more than casual interest, got to his feet as well, his tail wagging enthusiastically. "Wait here," Archer told the dog. "I'm going to need you when I get back."
Yes, in the manner of its kind, the dog would give boundless and unconditional love, Archer pondered as he walked out; his uncomplicated devotion was something a Starfleet captain could never aspire to.
"Ah, Captain, you're back with us!" Phlox said cheerfully, putting down a rack of tubes and trotting over.
"How long was I out?" Archer asked, rubbing his forehead. He looked down at himself and noted that he was in a clean uniform. He wondered if he had arrived at Sickbay in one. On the list of his concerns, however, that one was quite low.
"You've had a good eight hours of sleep, and it was long overdue," Phlox said, in his unaggressively chiding manner. "I did take the liberty of infusing you with some saline. You were quite severely dehydrated. I advise you to get a little food in you - something proteinacious and easily digested, like fully cooked fowl musculature - and take it easy for a day or two. You've had a long week."
"You can say that again, Doctor." Archer's reply was heartfelt. He took the Doctor's offered arm with gratitude as he rose to his feet.
A half-hour later, he was in his quarters, trying to eat a chicken thigh and rice with some semblance of manners, rather than rip it to pieces and inhale it. It helped, he decided, that he was back to normal - 'normal' now being a state were everything smelled hopelessly bland. It felt like a riotous orchestra had been abruptly stilled. It was peaceful, in some ways, but the silence was frighteningly profound. He took a deep breath and another bite.
He had stopped into the bridge on his way to his quarters. It had been a mercifully uneventful visit; Mayweather was overseeing a helmsman Archer did not recognize, and had greeted Archer cheerfully. Sato's and Reed's stations were unmanned, Archer had noted.
It was for the best that he had not run into Reed. He needed a little time to process recent events. Any one of them would tax his skills as a commander and a diplomat. Taken as a whole - good god, what had happened?
Archer had always believed that the most difficult matters should be dealt with before all others. That priority spot was quite clear, and he stabbed another piece of chicken as if he could impale the situation and fix it to the plate. He had to deal with the fact that he had made love to... no, that was not an accurate phrase. Fucked? Far too vile. Had sex with? As accurate as he was going to get. Yes, had sex with one of his crewmembers.
It would have been a delicate enough situation if it had been a standard worshipful-crewmember-with-a-fixation case. For legal reasons, Starfleet's official position on that was a resounding "No," and so the grey shades were a matter for quiet, off-the-record discussions with peers. When the crewmember in question was as psychologically interesting as Reed, Archer pondered, things got a little more difficult. When the sex came under such unusual circumstances, the resulting conundrum dwarfed the size of the Enterprise.
One very painful aspect of the conundrum prodded at Archer, and he forced himself to face it. He did not love Reed. Yes, he cared deeply for the man, respected him, felt close to him - but love him? In the way you really should love someone you screw in the shower?
Archer put his fork down, his appetite gone. This was something he needed to address immediately, much as he would love to put it off until, oh, the end of the damn mission. But the only alternative was to pretend that the event had never happened, and that was not fair to Reed. Or to himself, either; he needed a bond of trust with his senior officers, and he could not pretend that this had never happened and still look Reed in the eye.
Feeling twenty years older than he was, Archer stood. What he had to communicate in this aftermath - his clarifications, his apologies - was not something that could be conducted by a letter or a memo or PADD-message. It would unconscionable not to do this in person. Porthos, who had been eyeing the chicken with more than casual interest, got to his feet as well, his tail wagging enthusiastically. "Wait here," Archer told the dog. "I'm going to need you when I get back."
Yes, in the manner of its kind, the dog would give boundless and unconditional love, Archer pondered as he walked out; his uncomplicated devotion was something a Starfleet captain could never aspire to.
Sign up to rate and review this story