Jonathon Archer was working very hard.  On getting drunk.  He took another swig of bourbon – neat – and considered dispassionately how interesting it was that there were so many synonyms for what he was doing.  There were, of course, the formal terms:  intoxicated, inebriated, and drunken.  Then there were the more colorful colloquial ones: stoned; feeling no pain; bombed; crocked; tanked; tight.  Blotto.  Loaded.  Hammered.  Sloshed.  And his own personal all-time favorite:  shit-faced.  And that was where he was rapidly heading – on to being well and truly shit-faced. 

Yes, there really were an astonishing number of words and phrases used to describe the effects of alcohol on the human nervous system.

And then, there were other words that didn’t.

Like rape.

Rape.  Such a short word.  Short, but not sweet.  Oh, no, no, no.  Brutal.  Harsh.  Like a punch to the gut.  But not sweet. 

Not too many synonyms for that one, were there?  Oh, there was “sexual assault”.  But that was a lawyer’s term.  Dry and juiceless.  Didn’t have quite the same zip.  Zing.  Zippidy-do-dah. 

Rape.  And what word comes from “rape”?

Why, rapist, of course.

Another short and to the point term.

He raised his glass.  Empty.  Captain of the Starship Enterprise, the first warp 5 starship ever built, shouldn’t have to tolerate an empty shot glass when pondering ponderables such as these.  No.

He refilled his glass, and noted that his hand was still steady.  “Straight and true,” he muttered, and raised the glass again.

When you commit rape, what are you?  Why, my goodness, Captain, that makes you a rapist.  Q – E – goddamn D.  A logical syllogism, as Subcommander T’Pol might say.

And when you commit your rape in public?  You are what?

“An over-achiever,” he muttered.  At this, Porthos raised his head and whined.  “That’s right,” he told the beagle.  “Leave it to Captain Archer to make that l’il extra effort.  Go ‘nother mile.”

He drained his glass.  Dammit, when did the dulling effect that everyone was always talking about kick in?  He could still hear Trip, as loud and clear as if he were right here.

He looked at his hand.  My good right hand.  Did my other good right hand.  He giggled.  “I just made a joke,” he told Porthos.  “I must be the funniest guy in the whole damn galaxy.  Whaddya say, huh?”

Porthos, of course, declined to answer.  Pity.  He could use an unbiased point of view right now.

He wiped his good right hand on his pants.  All the perfumes in Arabia ... or all of Phlox’s potions ... whatever.

“Cannot remove this stain from my little hand,” he said aloud.  Good old Bill.  Dead and dust for centuries, but still able to provide just the right bon mot. 

He looked at his hand again.  “If thy right hand offend thee --- ” he murmured.  Not one of old Bill’s, but from another source.  One far older.  And wiser.  It had been pretty goddamned offensive, hadn’t it?  How long had he jerked Trip off for the amusement of Lord and Lady Ghoul?  He’d lost track of time. 

He poured himself another drink, downed it in one gulp.

Too long.  That’s how long.

He flexed his fingers.  Even after one of Phlox’s handy-dandy fixer-uppers, they still ached.  That was nothing compared to what Trip had suffered, though.

Trip.

Turned out that Mister Tucker had been busy while he was away.  Learning.  Being “trained” by the Violations – no, the Volashas, that was their name.  And Trip, always the star pupil, had learned his lessons very well.

“No,” he said angrily.  That wasn’t fair.  God only knew what they’d done to Trip.  Blaming him was an excuse.  A cop-out.  And captains were not allowed the luxury to make excuses or use cop-outs.  Especially when they didn’t deserve them.

If anyone were to blame, it was Lord and Lady Whatsernames.  He clenched his hands into fists.  Did they even suspect, he wondered, that it had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed not to snap their necks like dry twigs?  Lying there, smiling, watching while he whacked Trip off.  And him, making comments about his slave’s seemingly inexhaustible new capacities.  Who was the most detestable?  They, at least, didn’t know better. 

“Right,” he muttered.  Ah, the cognitive abilities were still functioning, were they?  Well, he’d fix that!  “Another round, barkeep!”  Whoops, sorry.  No bartender on duty in the Captain’s quarters.  Pity.  He’d have to take care of things himself, it seemed.  No problem.  That’s what he was, wasn’t he?  A problem taker-care of, that was Jonathon Archer.

His buzzer sounded.  Well, if this was what they talked about when they said this stuff would help you “get a buzz”, then he was sorely disappointed.

The door sounded again.  “Buzz off,” he said, and snickered.  That great wit, Jonathon Archer, strikes again.  Captain Archer, Space Cadet and all-round Boy Wonder.  And now, and inter-stellar jokester, too.  A man of many, many talents.  And now, he could add rape, buggery and assault to his list of accomplishments!  And not just to anyone – no, he had done those wonderful things to his best friend!  That ought to be worth an accolade or two.  At least.  Could a man ask for anything more? 

The door opened, and Subcommander T’Pol stepped in.  Wonderful.  All he needed.  Didn’t he just give her a direct order?  ‘Buzz off’.  How much more goddamned direct did it have to be?  This was insubordination, this is what it was.  Pure and simple.  He ought to – he ought to assert himself, dammit!

T’Pol looked at the Captain, who was slumped over his desk.  He stared up at her.  “Brig,” he slurred.  “Gonna throw you in the brig.  Told you to buzz off.  Didn’t obey.  Bad precedent.”

She raised an eyebrow.  “You are inebriated.”

“I am not inebriated,” he said with drunken dignity.  “I am,” he told her, carefully enunciating every word, “shit-faced.”

“There is a difference?”

“Oh, yeah.  Absolulu – yeah.  There is.”  He looked at her with eyes that were bleary and bloodshot.  “Guess that’s not something a Vulcan would know ‘bout, right?”

“We have more effective and longer-lasting methods of dealing with strong emotions.”

“Dealin’ with emotions?” he repeated.  “How do you know ‘snot a celebration?” He took another drink.  “Celebratin’.  It’s party time.  Got what we came for, right?”  She didn’t answer.  “Course I’m right,” he went on.  “Got Trip, din’t we?  Good ol’ Commander Tucker.  Safe, and – ”  He took another drink. “Safe, anyhow.”

She was puzzled.  Why was he acting this way?  He had known what would likely entail when he took this mission on.  Yes, it was unpleasant.  But it was over and done with.  Dwelling on the facts, no matter how unpleasant they were, would not change said facts.

He looked up at her.  “What’re you lookin’ at?” he asked truculently. 

She responded truthfully.  “You.”

“You tryin’ to be funny?” he demanded.  “’Cause that’s my job.  Not yours.  I’m the official jokester on board.  Not you.  Me.  Not Ms. Vulcan T’Pold you so.”  He snickered again. 

She stepped forward.  “I believe that you have had enough to drink.”  And she reached for the bottle.

He snatched it away from her, wagged a finger in her face.  “Uh-uh.  I’ll say when I’ve had enough.”  He took another swig straight from the bottle, and stood, and began to stagger about the room.  “I’m the Captain,” he muttered, “and I’ll damned well say when I’ve damned well had enough.”  And he took another drink.

“And when will that be?” she asked.

He stopped and stared at her.  “When I can’t hear him screaming anymore.”

Archer looked up as the door opened.  “You’re late!” he announced gaily. 

Dr. Phlox stepped into his quarters.  “Indeed, Captain?”

“Yep.  Figured you’d be here, oh, ‘bout ... ten minutes ‘go.  When I threw her Subcommander Ladyship T’Pol out.  Figured she’d go runnin’ to you.  An’, she did.  But you should have been here –” and he waggled his finger reproachfully at the doctor – “ten minutes ago!  Drunken cap’n – medical ‘mergency, don’t you know?”

“May I sit down?”

“Sure!  Why not?  Have a drink, doc!  Hell, have two!”

“I’ll pass, thank you.”

“’Kay.  All the more for me, then.”

“I think not.”  Phlox reached over.  Archer grabbed the bottle.  “No one listens,” he complained.  “I’m the goddamned Captain and I’ll goddamned well say when I’ve had enough to goddamn drink!”

“And I’m the Ship’s Doctor,” Phlox said.  His tone was mild, but something in his blue eyes made Archer pause.  Sulkily, he put the bottle on the table.  “Fine.  Take it.  Wasn’t workin’ anyway.”

Phlox took the bottle (which was almost empty) and placed it on the floor beside him.

“Why isn’t it working, Captain?”

Archer looked at him, and suddenly chuckled slyly.  “Oh, no.  No, no, no.  Tryin’ to make me talk.  Won’t work.  Captain has to bear some things ‘lone.  ‘Sides – ”

“Besides what, Captain?”

“Wrong person,” he muttered.  “Just realized.”

“Captain?”

“Can’t talk to T’Pol – wouldn’t unnerstan’.  Malcolm?  Don’t know.  Stuffy.  Travis?  Only an Ensign.  Hoshi?  Not kind of thing to talk to young lady ‘bout.  So T’Pol went to you.”

“You’re correct.  She did.”

“And you were late,” Archer said, going back to his original complaint.  “Why you late for a medical ‘mergency, huh?”

“I had things to take care of first!”

“He’s not a thing!” Archer burst out.

“Yes, yes, you’re right,” Phlox said hastily.  “I apologize.”

“He’s not a thing,” Archer repeated, shaking his head.  “He OK?”

“He’s sleeping.  One of my assistants is with him.”

“Sickbay?  Too public, dammit.  Privacy.  Gotta have some privacy.  ‘Specially after – ”

“He’s in his quarters,” Phlox told the captain.  “I’ve sedated him.  He’ll sleep until morning, and he won’t be alone when he wakes up.”

“Good,” said Archer moodily.  He folded his hands, looked at them, and brooded.  “Needs rest.  Recup’ration.  All that stuff.”  He glared at Phlox.  “Unnerstand?” 

“Indeed I do.  And I agree.”

“’Kay.  Good.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Phlox said, “I confess to being somewhat curious, Captain.  Just what did you mean by ‘the wrong person’?”

“You.  Sorry.  No ‘fense.  But to talk to?  Wrong person.”

“And who is the right person, Captain?”  Phlox asked gently.

“You know damn well who!”

“Commander Tucker.”

“Right.  My best fren’ in the whole goddamn universe.  Always there.  Ready to lissen.  Any time.  Not just to the Cap’n.  No.  Everybody.  They all go to him.  Ever notice?”

Phlox nodded.

Archer continued.  “Ensign Jones – cried her eyes out on his shoulder when her marriage went ...” he pointed his thumb downward.  “Crewman Howzer.  Mother sick.  Trip got him leave.  Always gonna listen, Trip.  Nice guy.  Good guy.  Decent guy.”  And he glared at Phlox, as if daring him to contradict this.

“Indeed,” Phlox agreed.  “So you would prefer to speak to him, would you?”

“You don’t get it!” Archer snarled.  “I can’t, goddamn it!  Last person in the world I can talk to now!”  And as quickly as it appeared, his anger vanished.  His eyes filled with tears.  “Don’t you get it?  I’ll never be able to talk to him again.  Never.”

“I think you’re being somewhat over-dramatic,” Phlox said gently.

“Yeah?” Archer demanded.  “Shows what you know.”

He looked at his hands again. 

“Do your hands still ache, Captain?”

“Yeah.  Know why they ache? Huh? Do you?”

“No.  Why not tell me?” 

Archer shook his head.  “Can’t.”

“Whatever you say will remain between us, Captain.  Doctor-patient confidentiality.”

Archer looked warily at him.  “Promise?”

“I promise.”

“They hurt ‘cause I spent all night jerking Trip off,” Archer said sullenly.  “Happy now?”

“I see,” said Phlox mildly.

Archer lurched to his feet, began to pace.  His gait was unsteady, but he could still walk.

“This ‘jerking off’ that you performed on the Commander – did you enjoy it, Captain?”

“Of course not!”  Archer was shouting.

“Then why did you do it?”

“’Cause couldn’t leave.  Not ‘till Trip was ‘finished’.  Would have been rude.  Manners, y’know.”  He turned and looked at Phlox.  “Had to make sure the hosts weren’t offended.  Thought if I fucked him, it would be enough.  Wasn’t.”

Phlox was surprised.  He had rarely, if ever, heard the Captain use such crude language.  Profanity, yes.  But not this.  Obviously, he was far more upset than Phlox had originally realized.

“But it wasn’t?”

“No.  Wasn’t.”  Archer said angrily.  “I got done.  He didn’t.  Still hard.  Ready to go.  Still ... ”  he broke off.

“Captain, I think you should know that the Commander’s system has been literally inundated with a powerful stimulant/aphrodisiac.  You could not have foreseen that they would do this to him.”

“Should have.”

“You are not being realistic, here, Captain.”

“Doesn’t matter.  Should have,” Archer said stubbornly. 

Phlox decided that at this point in time, nothing would be gained by pursuing this point.  Instead, he said, questioningly, “So, due to this stimulant, he ... ”

“Still up.  If you know what I mean.  Had to keep at him.”  He stopped, sat back down, put his face in his hands.  “He screamed,” the Captain said, his voice muffled.  “Screamed so loud, thought his throat was gonna bust.  Begged me to stop, too.  Said he couldn’t take it anymore.  But I couldn’t.  Had to keep him going.  Otherwise, they might have thought something was fishy.  Had to make ‘em happy, see?  Had to pretend ...had to pretend that I  liked listening to him, beggin’ me to stop.  Finally screamed himself hoarse.  Then, he started to cry.  They laughed.  Thought that was funny.  I had to laugh too.  And still keep at him.  Only able to stop when he fainted.  Passed out from comin’ so much.”

He looked at Phlox, and his eyes were full of tears.  “So they said thanks for the fun.  And I thanked ‘em back.  You believe that?  I thanked those bastards.  For ‘trainin’ Trip so well.  Finally got the hell out of there.”

Phlox reached over, patted him on the shoulder.  “You’ve had a terrible experience,” he sympathized.

“And you’re full of shit!”  Archer yelled.  “What’re you talkin’ about?  Me?  Was my best fren’ had the terrible ‘sperience.  From me.  I did it.  I raped him.  God help me, I raped my best fren’ in the world.  I put him through hell.”  He started to cry.  “I tortured and raped my bes’ fren’, and you’re telling me that I’m the one who’s had it rough?”

“Yes,” Phlox said.  “I am.”

Archer continued to sob.  “How will I ever make it up to him?  How?  Can’t expect him to forgive me – too much.  No right to ask.”  He looked up at Phlox.  “I’ve lost my best fren’ in the whole world, doc.  An’ now, I’m all alone. What the hell do I do now?  What am I gonna do now?”

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