Archer paced back and forth, while Porthos watched from his little bed.  Phlox had out-and-out refused to let the Captain into Sickbay while he was operating on Trip.  No distractions could be permitted.  Even thought he understood and agreed with the doctor’s decision, it was still agony for Archer to be banished to his quarters and do nothing but wait.

So he paced.  While he did so, he found himself offering up a simple, childlike prayer to whomever might be listening.  Please.  Let Trip be all right.  Please.  Eventually, he sank wearily onto his couch, his face in his hands.  He felt something cold and wet on his knee, and looked down to see Porthos, looking up with mute sympathy.  “Hey,” he said, his voice breaking, fondling the beagle’s silky ears.  Porthos looked towards the door, then back at him and whined.  “I know,” Archer told him.  “I miss him, too.”  His dog jumped onto the couch and lay his head in the Captain’s lap.  He stroked the soft fur, glad of the company and comfort.  It had been so long!  Had something gone wrong?  Please … no …  He didn’t know how much more he could stand.

And yet, he would have to stand it, wouldn’t he?  It was part of the price; the price he had to pay for loving Trip.  But oh, it was such a high one.  So terribly, terribly high.  And yet, what choice did he have?  The alternative?  Life without Trip?  Unthinkable.  Sad and dreary.

And if he dies? A small voice whispered.  Then what?  What will your life be like then?  “Shut up,” he muttered.  “He’s not going to die.  He can’t die.”  Why?  Because you won’t let him?  “Shut up, shut up,” he moaned.  “Just shut up.”

Mercifully, that small voice did fall silent, leaving in its wake an empty, cold void somewhere in his middle.  This just couldn’t be happening, could it?  Was it just last night he had held Trip in his arms, listened to his pleasure sounds, heard his carefree laughter?  It had been only a short time ago, but it felt like a lifetime now.  And if Trip died …

His wall comm sounded, and he leaped up.  It was Phlox.  “Captain.”  The doctor sounded tired.

Archer discovered that it was suddenly hard for him to speak.  Something was lodged in his throat; a huge hard lump that was choking him.  “Doc,” he managed in little more than a strangled whisper, “Trip?”

“Is out of surgery.”

“And - ?”

“And I need to speak with you.”

Oh, God, no.  “Is he – is he dead?”

“Dead?  Of course not.”  Archer sagged with relief.  Short-lived relief.  “But we need to speak.  Immediately.”

*  *  *

The Captain entered Sickbay at a gallop.  Phlox was waiting for him, and put out a calming, restraining hand. 

“I want to see him,” Archer stated flatly.

“Of course you do.  However, you also need to calm down.  You will not be able to help the Commander.  And he is going to need you to be as composed as possible.”

Archer swallowed.  “You’re right.”  He took a deep breath.  “Okay.”

The doctor led him over to a curtained-off area.  Trip, unconscious, lay behind it.  He was so ashen as to be almost gray, and his chest was rising and falling with painful slowness, but he was alive. 

Archer went to his side, took his hand.  “He’s so pale,” he murmured.

“There was a great deal of internal bleeding,” Phlox replied soberly.

Archer looked at him.  “And?”  Sickbay’s main doors opened, and he looked at the doctor inquiringly.

“I requested Subcommander T’Pol attend as well.”

Uh-oh.  “It’s that bad, is it?”

Phlox did not answer.  Instead, he called, “Over here, Subcommander.”

The curtains twitched aside, and the Vulcan walked through.  Her calm, cool gaze swept over them, noted Phlox, noted Trip and noted the Captain holding Trip’s hand.  Her expression did not change.  “You requested my presence?”

“I did indeed.”

Archer looked from one to the other.  “Okay.  We’re all here.  So what’s the bad news?”

Phlox did not contradict him.  Instead, he said, “I have managed to stop the internal bleeding and repair that damage.  But his ribs and leg are badly broken.  Actually, ‘shattered’ would be a more accurate description.”  He looked somber.  “I do not have the facilities here to properly repair such extensive damage.”

“So what are you saying?  You want to take him back to Earth?”

“How long would that take?”

“At top speed, a few months at least.”  Archer realized what he was saying.  “Too long.”

“Indeed.  And so you see my quandary.”

Archer looked at T’Pol.  “What about the Vulcan database?  Are there any nearby planets with the requisite medical technology?”

“No.”

Phlox looked grave.  “Naturally, I will do the best I can for the Commander, but – “

“Wait,” T’Pol interrupted.  She walked over to the computer, sat down.  Archer and Phlox traded a glance.

“Subcommander?” the doctor asked.

T’Pol, intent on the computer, did not answer.  “Give her a minute,” Archer said.  “I recognize that look.”

“Very well.”  Phlox looked doubtful, nonetheless.

Archer stroked Trip’s forehead.  “What happens if you’re forced to treat him here?”

“I will, of course, give the Commander the best possible treatment available.  But considering the severity of the damage,” he shook his head, “the Commander will probably end up permanently impaired.  Unable to walk properly.  As for his ribs …” he trailed off.

T’Pol turned.  “There may be another option.”

“And that would be?”

“The Vulcan hospital ship T’Mara is in this sector.”

“Hospital ship?” Archer asked.

T’Pol nodded.  “Attached to the Vulcan Science Directorate.  Hospital ships are responsible for on-location medical research, and also for treatment of Vulcans – and others – that they may come across.”

“Think they could help Trip?”

“They have state-of-the-art equipment,” T’Pol replied.  “The term ‘hospital ship’ is not merely a method of categorization.  These ships are, in essence, mobile hospitals.  However,” she added, “they may not have had any experience in treating humans.”

“I’m sure that I will be able to aid them in that area,” Phlox said.

“The question is,” Archer asked, “will they help us?”

“Vulcan physicians take an oath,” T’Pol said austerely.  “They are duty-bound to aid any life-form in distress.”

Could have fooled me, Archer thought.  Certainly don’t seem duty-bound to aid life-forms suffering from Pa’nar Syndrome.  He kept quiet; giving voice to such thoughts would be counter-productive right now.

“In addition,” she continued, “treating Commander Tucker would be a learning opportunity no Vulcan physician would wish to forego.”

Archer held onto his fraying temper with both hands.  He knew she was only stating facts, but it was still difficult to hear Trip described as a mere “learning opportunity”.  “Very well,” he said, keeping his voice calm, “can we contact them?  Ask them?”

“There is no need to seek permission,” T’Pol told him.  “All we need do is inform them that there is a patient in need of their aid.  They will not turn us away.”

“You sure?”

T’Pol merely gazed at him. 

“All right,” Archer said.  “Subcommander, kindly contact the T’Mara.  Inform them of the situation, and have Ensign Mayweather set a course to rendezvous with them.  Best possible speed.”

“Understood.”  And without any further conversation, she exited Sickbay.

Archer looked at Phlox.  “Doctor, please transmit all of the pertinent information regarding Commander Tucker.  Let them know what to expect.”

“Very well.”  The Denobulan looked at Archer.  “However, I will require the Commander’s informed consent to do so.  And his consent to be treated by the Vulcans.”

“He’s a member of my crew.  Under my command.”

“Yes.  But it is not you who will be undergoing these procedures, Captain.”

Archer sighed.  He knew that on certain matters, Phlox was immovable.  “Will waking him harm him?”

Phlox shook his head.  “I will not waken him, per se.  I will simply allow him to come out of the anesthetic by not administering any more sedatives.”

“Then he’ll be in pain.  I don’t want that.”

“Nor do I, Captain.  I will ensure that he is given medication for the pain.  I promise you, he will not be in any discomfort.”  Seeing that Archer was still unconvinced, he added, “Nor will I keep him awake for any great length of time.  I cannot conceive that the Commander will refuse to give his consent.”

“And yet you still insist on asking him.”

Phlox merely looked at him again, and Archer sighed once more.  “I can see you won’t change your mind.  Very well.  But I want to be here when he awakens.”

“But of course, Captain.  However, it will be some time before that happens.”

“I see.  Tell me,” he asked, “just out of idle curiosity – what would you do if Trip were, say, comatose?  Unable to give consent?”

“Then I would consult a member of his family – or his spouse.”  He looked at Archer.  “And in that case, I would consider you to be the Commander’s spouse.”

Archer felt absurdly grateful.  “Thanks,” he managed.  Then, “Can I stay with him now?”

“Of course, Captain.  I’ll get you a chair.”

*  *  *

Archer woke with a start to find Phlox bending over him.  “Trip?” he asked, panicked. 

“Still unconscious.”

He looked over at his lover, and was comforted by the slow rise and fall of Trip’s chest.  “Then why did you wake me?”

“I think you need to lay down and get some proper rest.  The Commander will not waken for some time yet.”

Archer looked stubborn.  “I want to stay with him tonight.”

“I understand.”  Phlox pointed to an adjoining bed.  A blanket and pillow lay across it, along with some pajamas.  “But as ship’s doctor, I must insist that Enterprise’s captain gets a proper night’s sleep.”

Archer sighed, but knew better than to argue.  He changed, and climbed into his bed.  “If Trip – “

“I will of course awaken you, Captain,” the doctor replied patiently.  “Now, if you  please – “  He dimmed the lights by both beds.  “Go to sleep.”

Archer heaved a sigh.  “I’m wide awake now.”

“Indeed?  I can remedy that.”

“Now wait just a minute – “ Archer began.  He heard the hiss of a hypospray, and knew no more.

*  *  *

“That,” Archer said grimly, “was a dirty trick.”

He sat up, rubbed his face and glared at Phlox, who returned the glare with a calm gaze.  “It may have been a ‘dirty trick’, but you got a good night’s sleep.”

“Still – “ said Archer grudgingly.  He looked over at Trip.

Answering his unasked question, Phlox said, “Still unconscious.”

“He’s been out a long time.”

“Not unusual, Captain,” the doctor assured him.  “He underwent extensive surgery.  However, the levels of anesthesia left in his system are dropping.”

“When do you think he’ll wake up?”

“I can’t give you a precise time,” was the reply.  “However, I will call you when he does.”

Archer stared at him. 

Unfazed, the doctor continued.  “You had best shower and have breakfast before you head to the bridge.”

This left the Captain speechless.  “Well?”  Phlox asked.  “Is there something you don’t understand?”

“But Trip – “

“I will contact you when he begins to awaken.  But Enterprise’s crew needs to see that their Captain is able to function right now.  Would you not agree?”

“Unbelievable,” Archer muttered.

“Captain,” Phlox said gently.  “I meant what I said last night when I told you that I considered you to be the Commander’s spouse.  Believe me.  I will call you.”

*  *  *

The Captain of the first warp 5 starship sat in the center chair, staring, unseeing, at the viewscreen.  Around him, the bridge crew busied themselves with routine tasks.  It seemed to be business as usual, except for the fact that the usual chatter between crewmembers was conspicuously absent.  Everyone worked silently, apparently engrossed in their individual tasks.  It seemed that no one wished to risk the Captain’s wrath.

That was not the only reason.  The empty engineering station was mute testimony to what had happened to Trip, and his absence cast a pall over the entire group.  Everyone was well aware that he had been severely injured, and the popular engineer’s friends were all deeply worried.

None more so than the Captain.  He forced himself to sit quietly, when what he really wanted to do was scream, shout, kick something – take action.  Instead, he was required to sit and wait.  Something he did not do well at the best of times.  How long had it been?  Had something gone wrong?  He desperately wanted to call Sickbay, but refrained.  He had to think of his crew.  They were already upset; he didn’t need to add to it by calling Sickbay every ten minutes.

“Captain?”  It was Hoshi.

“Yes?”

“Dr. Phlox requests your presence in Sickbay, sir.”

“Very well.  Inform the doctor I’m on my way.”

He forced himself to walk calmly into the turbolift, turned to face the crew.  Pale, anxious faces stared back at him.  He stood straight and tall, and looked over to T’Pol, who looked also looked worried (in a restrained fashion).  Quietly, he said, “You have the bridge, Subcommander.”

The turbolift doors closed, and he sagged against the wall.  “Oh, God,” he moaned softly.  Please let him be okay.  Please.

“Doctor?”

Phlox turned.  “Ah, Captain.  Good.  The Commander is starting to come out of the anesthetic.”  He led Archer over to Trip’s bedside, sat him down.  “I’m sure he will want to see you before anyone else.”

 “Thanks,” Archer managed.  He was almost at the point of tears, and realized how tenuous his control was.

Phlox gave him a long, measuring look.  “Once you’ve spoken to the Commander, I want you to take yourself off-duty, Captain.  You’re far too upset.  Let Subcommander T’Pol handle things.”

Archer started to protest, then thoughts better of it.  “All right, doctor,” he said quietly.

Phlox laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.  “And I think it would be best if you remain in Sickbay.  I can keep an eye on you that way.”

Archer knew that was not Phlox’s only reason.  He managed a weak smile.  “If you insist.”

“I’m afraid I must.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“Any time, Captain.”

Trip chose this moment to move his head.  He sighed.  Archer took his hand, stroked his forehead.  The engineer moaned faintly.

“It’s all right,” Archer said gently.  “I’m here, Trip.”

Trip’s eyes opened.  He looked up.  “Captain?”  He said in a drug-thickened voice.

“It’s just the two of us, Trip,” Archer told him.  “And Phlox.”  He smiled.  “Didn’t I promise I’d get you home?”

“Yeah,” Trip managed.  “Thanks, Jon.”

“How do you feel?  Are you hurting?”

“No,” Trip whispered.  “But I don’t feel so good.”

“We’re going to let you go back to sleep really soon,” Archer promised.  “But the doc here needs to talk to you.”

Trip listened while Phlox laid it out for him.  Archer continued to hold his hand and stroke his forehead while the doctor spoke.

“What are they going to do?” Trip asked.

“I’m not sure what the details of the treatment plan will be,” Phlox admitted.  “And of course, we will not proceed without your express permission.  But I need your consent to allow the Vulcans to treat you.”

Trip sighed weakly.  “Being poked and prodded by a bunch of Vulcans.  Not my idea of fun.”  He looked at Archer.  “I guess I’ve got no choice, though, do I, Jon?”

“’Fraid not,” Archer agreed.

“They’ll take good care of you,” Phlox assured him. 

“Just as long as I don’t end up on exhibit as some Vulcan’s science project,” Trip whispered.

Archer smiled.  “Don’t worry.  I’ll be right there.  I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Nor will I,” Phlox added.

“’Kay,” Trip murmured.  He was visibly tiring, but he looked up at Archer.  “Jon?”

“What, Trip?”

“I’m awfully thirsty.  Can I have some water?”

Archer looked at Phlox, who shook his head.  He handed Archer a thermal container which held ice chips.

“You can have some ice,” Archer told Trip.

The engineer looked from one to the other.  “Am I going to have to have more surgery?”

“Eventually,” Phlox said.

“No, I mean now,” Trip clarified.  “That’s the only reason I can figure that you won’t let me have any water.”

Archer was struck once again by the younger man’s shrewd intelligence.  He didn’t answer; instead, he placed a chip on the engineer’s tongue, and Trip sucked at it gratefully.  When he finished, he asked again:  “Am I, Doc?”

“Probably not,” Phlox finally said.  “But I would rather not take any chances.” 

“Okay.”

“Do you want any more ice, Trip?”  Archer asked him.

“Not right now, Jon.”

“Then go to sleep, brat.”

“Bossy bastard,” Trip whispered in response.

“You bet.  Now behave yourself.  Go to sleep.”  And he bent, kissed Trip’s forehead.

Trip looked up, his expression suddenly shy.  “Jon?”

“I’ll stay,” Archer promised.  “I’m going to be right here.  Now go to sleep, Trip.”  He smiled.  “That’s the third time I’ve had to tell you.  You think because you’re in Sickbay you don’t have to follow orders?”

“Bastard.”

“Brat.  Sleep.”

Trip sighed, closed his eyes, and was immediately asleep.

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