All I ask

Archer did relax, slightly, at Paris's verbal confirmation that he had no intention of carrying out those orders, and Jon's hand clenched into a fist briefly when he told him that Forrest had told him details of how he would be punished if he disobeyed. Jon eyed the knife Paris unsheathed and offered to him, kneeling before him. He knew full well that Archer being armed would not make it impossible for Paris to kill him. For one, he still had other knives in his possession, and he was faster than Archer. And he was strong enough to do it weaponless if he had to.

But he won't. Archer wrapped his hand around the knife's handle in Paris's hand, his own hand brushing Paris's palm in the process, deliberately. He picked the knife up, trailing the tip of the blade against Paris's palm but not pressing in for it to penetrate his skin. He stared down at Paris, in that vulnerable position of submission, and he trailed the knife up his neck, barely hard enough to draw blood where there were no vital veins to run into, and he rested the tip of the blade beneath his chin to tilt his head up to look at him. He stood up, grabbing Paris along with him to quickly back him up against the wall. He stabbed the knife into the wall, several inches away from Paris's head with clearly no intention of stabbing him. He kissed the scratch then kissed his lips roughly, gripping him by the collar. “I believe you,” he told him when he pulled away just barely.

What brought it on? "I was just thinking... about the dreams that led me to you. How I thought you were just... A story in my head because although it felt real, no one else was having it. I just wish things made sense." But even their... Condition? Powers? Curse? doesn't make sense. They don't know where it comes from or how it works. He looked down at Paris's hand. "Nevermind," he took Paris's hand and curled his fingers around the other's hand. "We don't have answers, what's the point in dwelling on it?" But his brain was stuck on it. More alcohol, that's what he needs. If it doesn't get his brain to shut up at least he has a shot at not remembering it later.

Jon looked at Paris with a look of caution concealed beneath indifference. He trusts Paris, but he's heard many stories of men who were brought down because of trust in a lover who stabbed them in the back. And if Paris was saying this to him now, that either meant he planned to do it, right now, before Archer could do anything about it, or he was letting him know because he would never do it. Archer knew it was the latter. He trusted Paris completely (but there's always a voice in the back of his mind that tells him it could all be an elaborate ruse, or that Paris could turn when it no longer suits him). More than the brief moment of doubt, though, he felt anger that someone would try to turn Paris against him. He leaned back in his chair. There was a cool rage under the surface, but not at Paris. It was carefully controlled by a posture that portrayed him as unthreatened by this information. "The captain?" Archer asked. Only Forrest had a high enough rank for it to be an order expected to be carried out. "Does he think you would turn against me?"

But he won't. Archer wrapped his hand around the knife's handle in Paris's hand, his own hand brushing Paris's palm in the process, deliberately. He picked the knife up, trailing the tip of the blade against Paris's palm but not pressing in for it to penetrate his skin. He stared down at Paris, in that vulnerable position of submission, and he trailed the knife up his neck, barely hard enough to draw blood where there were no vital veins to run into, and he rested the tip of the blade beneath his chin to tilt his head up to look at him. He stood up, grabbing Paris along with him to quickly back him up against the wall. He stabbed the knife into the wall, several inches away from Paris's head with clearly no intention of stabbing him. He kissed the scratch then kissed his lips roughly, gripping him by the collar. "I believe you," he told him when he pulled away just barely.

Trip turned back to Paris as Archer, though slightly confused, confirm he was on his way, only to find him… Attempting to crawl? Is that what he was doing? “Whoa, hey, just… Stay there. Commander Archer is on his way, he’ll come pick you up.” Trip observed Paris skeptically. “… Maybe literally.” It’s possible the XO might have to carry his lover back to their quarters, or to Phlox, or wherever he saw fit. Trip really didn’t give a shit. As long as it was out of his engineering. “Are you alright?” Obviously not. “Can you talk?” He hasn’t said a word this entire time.

Trip waited somewhat impatiently for Archer to arrive, and he was relieved when he finally did. “Commander.” Trip, who had been leaning against a console, stood up straight when Archer entered.

“I’m here, what’s going on?” Archer asked.

“He’s in the corner. Get him out of my hair. Sir,” Trip requested.

Archer frowned when he saw Paris. “Paris. You’re supposed to be with T'Pol.” He frowned when he processed the condition he was in, and he knelt on the floor beside him. “Who the hell did this to him?” He didn’t see any immediate signs of physical harm, certainly not enough to put him in this state.

Trip shrugged. “Just found him like this. He hasn’t said a word this entire time,” Trip explained.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you,” Archer said to Paris gently. He ran his hand through Paris’s hair, then picked him up in his arms. “We’ll discuss this in private once you’re able to.” He looked at Trip. “Thanks Trip,” he said.

“Don’t mention it. Just get him out of here.”

He was able to get them back to their quarters, avoiding populated areas and unnecessary contact with people he could not trust, which was pretty much everyone. Once he got into their quarters, he laid Paris down on the bed, and gently ran his hand over his lover's cheek. "We're safe now, Paris. We'll be fine here for a while... But I need to know what happened. I need to know how to prevent it from happening again, so please tell me what's going on," Archer asked him, although it wasn't so much a question or suggestion as it was a demand. He needed answer, not just wanted them.

------

It should have been an easy task. Go to engineering, give Trip the modifications he'd been asking for and make it back to Jon's quarters in under twenty minutes before the start of the red eye shift. But Paris hadn't expected to be accosted on his way back. He hadn't thought to take the more common way back either, through the crowded corridors to avoid being singled out, but then again, he hadn't exactly expected an attack from not one, but four of the MACOs at the same time. He didn't have time to brace himself before the blows fell. One minute he was walking peacefully, the next, the back of his head felt like molten lead from being slammed viciously against the nearest bulkhead. Paris tried to cry out, but someone's fist collided with his throat, knocking him to his knees in a rapidly growing daze. Not that he stayed there for long. He felt himself being hauled to his feet just as easily as a ragdoll, before yet another fist made contact with his jaw.

Which is why they picked on Paris, but once the dog got involved, it didn't take them much longer than a ripped up arm, a few torn ligaments on one guy and some damaged uniforms on the luckier ones to scatter. Porthos continued to growl and bark viciously as they ran down the corridor, but he stayed with Paris. When the men were gone, Porthos turned around to Paris's unconscious form. He whimpered as he nudged at Paris's face with his cold, wet nose, then licked him a few times to see if it would be enough to rouse him. He began licking the blood off of Paris's wounds because he wasn't awake to be able to do it himself; he needed to take care of him.

Porthos grabbed Paris's communicator out of its holster and used his paw and nose to flip it open, after a few struggles. Usually it takes a voice command to tell the communicator where to send the message, but they have Paris's communicator set to automatically go to Archer's if it's opened and no voice command was used to direct it. He got it open and pushed the button, and when Archer's voice was heard over the device's speaker, Porthos barked into it, signalling for Archer's help.

Porthos stared at Paris’s hand skeptically but didn’t move as Paris touched his head and biochemically manipulated his mind. If it had been anyone other than Paris or Archer, Porthos would have at the very least growled and likely tried to bite anyone who tried to put their hand near his face in this state, but Paris has earned his trust enough that he allowed it, and his whimpering soon dissipated as Paris’s meld worked. Porthos moved his head enough to lick Paris’s hand once in gratitude. Archer got bandages out from the damaged medkit and, as soon as he got the bleeding to slow down and he cleaned the wound, he patched him up, and he gently stroked the dog’s fur. “Shh, it’s okay. I’m sorry this happened. You’re a good boy. You’ll be okay,” he said in a soothing tone.

Malcolm rolled his eyes.

Archer touched Paris’s shoulder when Paris leaned in to kiss Porthos’s head. “Do we know if it’s a breathable atmosphere out there? Check to see if any of the suits are still intact if we have to, but yes. That’s a good idea. Don’t be out there longer than ten minutes.” Archer took Paris’s hand and pressed a kiss to it.

“Yes, sir.” Paris’ own tension, which was present though less noticeable due to his discipline, seemed to dissipate when Jon kissed his hand. Porthos would feel better soon, now that the situation had been dealt with, and the commander was a lot more level-headed than the major seemed to be. Paris kissed Porthos’ head again before he stood up, withdrawing his scanner from his defective upper left pocket. A scanner that was unfortunately in two pieces, part of its glass shards jammed into Paris’ upper arm from the way it’d originally been strapped to his left bicep. He quirked a brow at the injury for a mere moment, but it didn’t seem to hold his interest, so he pulled the zip back across his arm to hide the gory sight.

Paris gripped the shuttle door tightly, carefully pulling it open enough for him to climb out, using his species’ superior strength. The crash had not only damaged the shuttle’s systems but its mechanisms as well. If he pulled too hard on the door, Paris calculated it would fall apart quickly in his hands. He slipped outside, still holding the fragile shuttle door as he closed it, then turned his head up to face the sky. Almost immediately, the sharp, acidic tang of the air made Paris grimace. He glanced around him, trying to make out the type of environment, and realised that it was inhospitable for as far as his Vulcan eyes could see. Paris… climbed back inside the shuttle.

So, plenty of information, but... Not a lot that provides a clear course of action. Mostly a whole lot of 'stay put because we don't know what's out there and what we do know isn't pleasant.' At least wildlife seems an unlikely thing to have to deal with. So. Staying with the pod for now. "Temperature? How high up was the sun?" They didn't exactly spend enough time to know how fast the sun was moving (technically how fast the planet was moving around the sun), but it was a start. He needed to know if they needed to start working on insulation. They don't know how cold it could get here. Deserts sometimes have an extreme hot/cold dichotomy for day and night, and this planet, or at least this part, might have something similar. Or it might be cold anyway. If it was going to be really hot, of course, they needed to know that too.

Paris knelt down by Porthos, scratching behind his ears as soothingly as he’d learned to do. “Two suns, sir” Paris signed in reply to the posed question, “hotter than the standard temperature on Vulcan, and both appearing at their highest point in the sky. We appear to have crashed on a plant unsuited to your biological specifications.” The presence of two suns concerned Paris greatly, as it meant extreme temperatures during the day and at night. Paris would adapt, and the other men could use the suits, but there was no option here for Porthos. He was not made for these temperatures, even less so than the others, and he was injured. Speaking of injuries… Paris casually flexed his bicep. The circulation there seemed to have been cut off but how, he could not discern. He’d exercised it when he removed the door and replaced it, but this was not a natural biological response. Neither was the warmth he could feel in the area, not unless the wound was infected.

Alright, that was definitely an expression. Trip just stood there for a moment, watching him as Paris wrapped his arms tighter around his knees which was a very unusual position that generally shows signs of distress, which this clearly was in an un-Vulcan-like manner, but that wasn’t something he was going to voice. “Do you want me to call Commander Archer?" 

He let out a short breath not in frustration or impatience but determination as he tried to figure out what to do about this situation. After a moment, he took a few steps away, turning a corner to dismiss the two only other officers on duty in engineering at the moment, who have not been paying attention to the scene but he wasn’t taking any chances anyway. He returned a moment later. "I’m calling the commander over here,” he informed. He wasn’t going to rat him out to T'Pol, who he should be with right now, or Malcolm, his direct superior, and certainly not the captain, but Paris was not Trip’s responsibility and his lover was the obvious solution to this. Whatever’s going on with him was beyond Trip. It was either Archer or Phlox and Archer seemed like the better choice. He took out his communicator and flipped it open. “Trip to Archer, you’re needed in engineering. There’s something here that belongs to you and I’d appreciate it if you’d come pick it up." 

Paris was relieved when Trip mentioned Archer, not T'Pol or the major, both of whom would want answers that he could not currently give them. But the commander would still want an explanation, even if he demanded it with far less displeasure than T'Pol or satisfaction than Malcolm. The Vulcan tightened his grip on his knees again, enough to turn his knuckles white. In an ideal world, he could keep his eyes shut until the danger had passed him by, but this was not an ideal world, and Paris was not a child. Not anymore, not the way that he had been when T'Pau— Paris whimpered, a quiet sound that rarely ever left his throat. His heart was racing so desperately that it was dizzying, making him see dark spots behind eyelids that were already closed. He wasn’t hyperventilating. Vulcans didn’t hyperventilate, that was a sign of imperfect breathing techniques and Vulcans…Vulcans didn’t have that problem. They simply…couldn’t…have that problem.

Trip waited somewhat impatiently for Archer to arrive, and he was relieved when he finally did. "Commander." Trip, who had been leaning against a console, stood up straight when Archer entered.

"I'm here, what's going on?" Archer asked.

"He's in the corner. Get him out of my hair. Sir," Trip requested.

Archer frowned when he saw Paris. "Paris. You're supposed to be with T'Pol." He frowned when he processed the condition he was in, and he knelt on the floor beside him. "Who the hell did this to him?" He didn't see any immediate signs of physical harm, certainly not enough to put him in this state.

Trip shrugged. "Just found him like this. He hasn't said a word this entire time," Trip explained.

"It's alright, I've got you," Archer said to Paris gently. He ran his hand through Paris's hair, then picked him up on his arms. "We'll discuss this in private once you're able to." He looked at Trip. "Thanks Trip," he said.

"Don't mention it. Just get him out of here."

Trip looked up from the console he was tapping at to look at the Vulcan, and doing a double-take because he looked... Well, he almost had an expression and if it does form Trip would wager it'd be one of discomfort. "Sure, but aren't you supposed to be at that delegation thing? I can understand needing a break from the tension of a room full of Vulcans and Terrans but it sounded pretty important," Trip said with a frown.

He turned back to the console, tapped a few more times to end what he was currently working on, and turned to Paris more directly, holding his hands up in a gesture along the lines of 'I'm not going to pry' or 'it's your business.' "If anyone asks, I haven't seen you here. Do you need some space?"