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Hi I'm bad at beginning conversations but I just want to say I adore your blog

Aw, thank you! That's so nice<3

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fellas is it gay to make homoerotic eye contact with ur rival across an active battlefield

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“Constable!” Anna called out and waved before weaving across the promenade “Hi. Um. Sorry. Hello!” She smiled and offered her hand. “This is very straightforward and I apologize, but you’re the other shapeshifter, right?”

"Hm?" He responded when he heard someone calling to him, and looked around to see someone coming toward him rather quickly around the people between them. "Don't apologize, I prefer straightforward," he said, and he looked at her hand when she offered it before taking it to shake, as he's learned to do for the humans aboard. Other shapeshifter. "Yes, I was informed there will be someone else who can change shapes arriving. I'm assuming that's you. It's nice to meet you. It's rare for me to meet someone I have that in common with." From what he'd heard, she didn't seem to be exactly the same thing that he is, although it's hard to really know for sure, isn't it, when he knows so little about where he came from. She... Certainly seemed to be able to imitate the face of a solid much better than he could. Maybe she is a solid, though. Being a shapeshifter didn't exactly guarantee that she wasn't, did it?

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I'm adding his boyfriend Jethro Cane to this blog then

I made some silly choices for fcs for Anna’s son with @theclockisstrikingtwelve, Tavin, so I’m adding him to my multi

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"Shh," Jon hushed as he gripped Paris's neck and placed a finger over his lips to prevent him from talking (which would promptly go into Paris's mouth he was sure, as that was his instinct to do when his fingers got near his mouth). He doubted Paris could form coherent sentences right now anyway, but he relieved him of having to try. Paris is so easily dazed by dominance.

So Forrest will have no doubt about Paris's loyalties now. Perhaps that is what he'd meant to achieve with this order in the first place. Test the theory that Paris would be loyal to Jon over his own captain. His hand tightened around Paris's neck as he thought about how this position was how their relationship began. The combinations of a rough hand and a gentle one had made Paris melt and Paris's malleability is what caught Jon's attention initially. His current grip on Paris's neck was a bruising one. He will leave Paris bruised and send him back out there like nothing happened. Maybe they will see the bruises and assume Archer had punished him for the assassination attempt, but they are likely to see through it. The fact that neither of them are dead will give them away. But at least then that will tell the captain that if he kills Paris for failing to assassinate Archer, Forrest's own life would be forfeit. Killing the captain would undoubtedly result in Archer's death as well, but that didn't matter. So they're at a stalemate. And all Forrest got was confirmation of information he already knew anyway. Paris will likely be punished anyway but it won't be fatal.

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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.

When Jon decided to trail the knife against his delicate skin, Paris' pulse raced faster, fast enough to sicken him. Still, he did not move a muscle, head still inclined, patient as he waited for the commander to hurt him. Then... The knife was pressing into his neck. Paris obligingly looked up when his head was tilted to face his lover, eyes wide with unidentifiable emotion. But the rush of being pulled up and pressed back against the wall made him see stars. For a brief moment between the loud smack of the blade just above his head, and Jon's bruising kiss, Paris blacked out. His heartbeat was so loud, so fast, so completely out of his control that being coupled with a rough movement, was enough to take his consciousness from him. He was pliant in Jon's hands as the other man kissed him, dazed as he realized he couldn't hold himself up. His palm was marked with dozens of tiny blood vessels, burst from the pressure exerted against them, as was his neck. A small sound akin to both a whine and a groan left his throat and he leaned back further against the wall. His pulse was still racing, still...refusing to see or understand reason. “Sir..?” Paris mumbled dazedly, but what he wanted was unclear.

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I think it makes sense for the Imperial Starfleet to follow the rules and regulations of the former U.S. Navy to some degree...but make it mirrorverse. Men not being allowed to wear makeup is obviously not an applicable one since everyone wears eyeliner, but the regulation on nail polish needing to be clear for men probably applies to both men and women in mirrorverse, instead of their allowing only the female officers to wear coloured nail polish. Equality backwards is very mirrorverse behaviour. But I do think that allowing both genders to choose between the ‘male’ jumpsuit uniforms and the ‘female’ cropped jacket and trousers uniforms is believable. The point of the ‘female’ uniform is to be revealing and seductive, and it stands to reason that there are men in the fleet with this agenda as well. The women wearing these uniforms are using their bodies as weapons, so why wouldn't men with the same leanings wear these uniforms to serve the same purpose?

As for the MACOs, Sergeant Travis Mayweather is seen canonically wearing an earring but none of the Starfleet officers wear one. This is interesting, because both the former U.S. Navy and the former U.S Marine Corps didn't allow men to wear earrings. If the MACOs are supposed to be the Imperial Starfleet's version of the Marine Corps (based on the rank structure and similarity in other areas) that would mean that the Imperial Starfleet is the stricter one, unlike how the former U.S Navy was more lax in the prime universe. This also opens up the discussion to just how strict the Imperial Starfleet is in comparison to the MACOs. There's only one uniform variant for the MACOs but two for Starfleet, yet the MACOs have far less strict grooming standards than Starfleet. This could mean that the coloured nail polish ban is not in effect for them at all, if this is meant to be a full reversal of the prime universe.

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"That's what I don't understand. What are the dreams for? Why am I connected to you but you're not connected to them?" He watched as Paris made room for him on the couch, and he sat down next to him.

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.

Paris watched him, head cocked to one side. The dreams were a confusing concept - but for as long as Paris could remember, he’d theorized that they were a mark of some predestined fate. Except… His lack of knowledge that the other members of the Guard existed seemed to discredit his theory every time. Here he was, with all of them. How could their destinies be different? Then again, perhaps it referred to a future destiny. Both Paris and Booker were outcasts of a kind, differing from the others, though their pasts had not mirrored one another. Paris glanced down as he felt his lover take his hand, and a slight blush rose to his cheeks. “The mind often dwells on what distresses it,” he offered, “it is not always clear why, nor is it logical.” The lieutenant pressed his lips to his lover’s hand, before resting their intertwined hands against his own forehead. Paris loved Booker dearly, though neither man expressed themselves as clearly as Joe and Nicky did, this was still obvious to anyone with fully functional visual capabilities. Paris reached out with his free hand to partially unbutton his own shirt before he guided Booker’s hand to his chest.

@startosteerherby sent: “What if you and I share a different destiny?” ( Booker)

Paris glanced up from his sheet music, frowning slightly as he regarded his lover. “If that were true, I would not have dreamt of you as you dreamt of me. I did not dream of them, though you still did.” Paris indicated the others across the room with a tilt of his head, before his frown deepened in concern, and he set his violin down. “What brought this on?” Paris moved over on the sofa he was sitting on, making room for the other man to join him. It was a considerably slow day, with no matters of pressing urgency to attend to. Perhaps it was the idleness that had caused this particularly odd train of thought to manifest. Regardless of the cause, the lieutenant was... concerned.

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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.

When Jon decided to trail the knife against his delicate skin, Paris' pulse raced faster, fast enough to sicken him. Still, he did not move a muscle, head still inclined, patient as he waited for the commander to hurt him. Then... The knife was pressing into his neck. Paris obligingly looked up when his head was tilted to face his lover, eyes wide with unidentifiable emotion. But the rush of being pulled up and pressed back against the wall made him see stars. For a brief moment between the loud smack of the blade just above his head, and Jon's bruising kiss, Paris blacked out. His heartbeat was so loud, so fast, so completely out of his control that being coupled with a rough movement, was enough to take his consciousness from him. He was pliant in Jon's hands as the other man kissed him, dazed as he realized he couldn't hold himself up. His palm was marked with dozens of tiny blood vessels, burst from the pressure exerted against them, as was his neck. A small sound akin to both a whine and a groan left his throat and he leaned back further against the wall. His pulse was still racing, still...refusing to see or understand reason. “Sir..?” Paris mumbled dazedly, but what he wanted was unclear.

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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?"

Paris inclined his head. “He made it extremely clear that should I disobey, I will be punished for it. Explicit details of that were given.” Yet... here the lieutenant was, calmly sharing privileged information with the very man he had been ordered to kill. “I do not care what the captain does to me, sir. I will bear it with grace, as I have always done. But I do not intend to ever cause you harm of any kind, and if you do not believe me...” Paris unsheathed a knife from his nearest holster, shifting to kneel in front of Jon, both hands and the knife extended towards him. “...then take whatever precautions you must. You have... my full co-operation.” Paris closed his eyes as he attempted to keep his racing pulse under control. External reactions were easier to manage than internal reactions. His pulse was so elevated he was almost certain the commander could hear it. Almost certain he could feel his tension as he knelt, ever the obedient soldier ready for punishment.

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“You should be aware that I was ordered to kill you.” (for Jon)

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?"

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Archer carefully carried him out of engineering, being careful to avoid any crew members on his way back to their quarters. That took some maneuvering. He couldn't let people see Paris here, when he was supposed to be with T'Pol looking after the ambassador. He would cover for him, keep him hidden. He clearly needs time. He wasn't sure what had caused this, but he would get answers when he's recovered enough to give them. He needs to have a damn good explanation for this, but given his condition, it's clear he will have one. Paris would not be in this state if there was not something seriously wrong. He knew that much.

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.

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Cris's own hand ran over Lorian's cheek, mimicking the movement Archer had done in the memory as he frowned in concern at what he was seeing in his mind. He doesn't know, does he -- did he -- about the ambassador, about when you were a child. Cris didn't know everything. He doesn't go there in Lorian's mind, not that there would be much to find if he did, certainly not anything that would make a whole lot of sense other than unbearable pain. But he knew enough, he knew more than Archer apparently did at this point in his husband's memory. Cris could sense Archer's frustration through the memory, his confusion and his concern. Which was understandable, given the duty Paris was neglecting to do because of this, and the importance of it.

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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.”

Paris leaned almost automatically into the commander’s familiar touch, whatever strength he had used trying to crawl draining from him. His pulse raced madly against Jon’s side, jaw clenched so hard that he was likely pulling several muscles in the process. He couldn’t think couldn’t find the right words to explain why he wasn’t performing his duties with Commander T'Pol, why he was hiding in Trip’s engineering, and why his aching body was fighting against him. Paris couldn’t reach the words he needed any more than he could even out the rate of his breathing— but after several minutes in Jon’s protective embrace, he began to relax. Enough to lift up his head, his emerald eyes still constricted from his fear, white knuckles tightly clenched into the rough fabric of the commander’s shirt.

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The Old Guard 2

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Commander Archer's dog had a reputation, and he lived up to it. Aggressive to anyone he perceived as unfriendly to his master or what belongs to his master, a category that Paris fell under. Fight back against the commander's dog, face Archer's wrath, not to mention the damn dog's. Paris was an easier target, as he does not fight back, although they're sure to face Archer's wrath because of it, Paris worked for their superior although he belonged to Archer. Those torn loyalties must be what makes Archer slightly more lenient. Too many problems between the men, too many retaliating blows and Forrest would have to get involved, which the commander doesn't want. Paris is loyal to both his masters, his professional one and his lover, despite the abuse from Malcolm and his men. Paris's intervention must be a significant part in holding back his lover's wrath.

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.

Archer cursed quietly at the other end, then praised Porthos for getting him, and told him to stay. Porthos wagged his tail, and brought the communicator close to Paris's body, then laid down across him, returning to licking Paris's wounds and growling at anyone who got close who was not Archer or a trusted ally, a warning growl where anyone else who passed avoided them with extreme caution.

@startosteerherby gets a starter for Archer.

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.

Once, twice, three times, until he could taste copper on his tongue. There was a clenched fist in his hair, holding him still throughout this brutality, preventing him from being able to pull away, not that he would have tried in the first place. You didn't fight Malcolm's men unless you wanted the full brunt of Malcolm's wrath, and Paris had had enough of his superior officer's anger to last several lifetimes. And so he stayed as still as possible, biting his own lip as the Terran officers brutalized him, as quiet as possible with several injuries, many of which he was sure he hadn't counted, and didn't defend himself. Even when he saw a hand slip under his jacket- a strange, confusing action in between the blunt force to his upper body. It was only when his consciousness began to fade out that Paris felt someone else approaching. Someone friendly... to him. With all the ringing in his ears, he couldn't pick up sound, but the last image he saw was a very large, very angry dog. Porthos. Paris' lips twitched slightly upwards and then he fainted, slumped back against the bulkhead.

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Porthos watched Paris leave, and whimpered slightly when he shut the door. Malcolm scoffed. Archer shot him a look. Unnecessary hostility. When Paris came back in, Porthos's tail wagged. The dog's head was resting on Archer's leg and he pet Porthos's head. Porthos didn't like that Paris had stepped out.

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.

Paris maintained his neutral expression, and instinctively concealed these thoughts from Jon, as he knew the away team’s medical supplies were limited. Porthos was more seriously injured than him, and a dog’s immune system was not resilient as that of a Romulan, a half-Romulan, as was Paris’ case. Paris could handle the presence of glass shards in his arm, for the time being. Discreetly, he made certain his fingers could still move properly, and much to his relief, they did. So he kept petting Porthos, hoping he could continue soothing him in the old-fashioned way. As long as Jon’s attention was diverted from Paris, he would be able to keep hiding his injury, conserving the medical supplies the away team had until further notice. Paris did not have a habit of putting himself first, especially not if Porthos was injured, regardless of how serious the injury was. The mere idea of doing such a thing made him recoil in displeasure. He could never be so self-serving as that.

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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.

“We appear to have landed on an L-Class planet, sir” He informed Jon, “the atmosphere contains an extremely high concentration of carbon dioxide, but what I can also calculate to be an oxygen-argon combination. As for the presence of vegetation, I do not believe that we will find it within kilometres of our present location, if at all. This planet appears to consist only of barren rock formations.” In theory, L-Class planets were capable of sustaining vegetation, but Paris knew that if any were available, it would take considerable time, effort and energy to find it.

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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 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."

Paris leaned almost automatically into the commander’s familiar touch, whatever strength he had used trying to crawl draining from him. His pulse raced madly against Archer’s side, jaw clenched so hard that he was likely pulling several muscles in the process. He couldn’t think, couldn’t find the right words to explain just why he wasn’t performing his duties with Commander T'Pol, why he was hiding under Trip’s engine… 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘄𝗵𝘆 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗯𝗼𝗱𝘆 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗳𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘁 𝗵𝗶𝗺. Paris couldn’t reach the words he needed any more than he could even out the rate of his breathing— but after several minutes in Jon’s protective embrace, he began to relax. Enough to lift up his head, his emerald eyes still constricted from his fear, fingertips tightly clenched into the fabric of the commander’s shirt.

JOURNEY TO ATLANTIS ( && JONATHAN ARCHER AND THE ENTERPRISE CREW. )

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.

If Captain Forrest found out that he’d disobeyed such an important order, Paris knew that the next few days would be a blur of pain and blood and regret. Forrest cared for the wellbeing of his crew, but he ruled with an iron fist, if the mutilations to the young armoury officer’s body were any indication. Though another flogging, no matter how vicious, was preferable to what T'Pau had done to Paris in his youth. Perhaps he should turn himself in to the captain, ensure that he was securely locked up in the brig where the Regent couldn’t interfere. She didn’t have any authority over Forrest on his own ship. Between another lattice of scars over his arms and more brain damage, Paris would take the scars. He could live with the scars. He moved to stand up and his legs gave way below him. He couldn’t stand, so he tried to use his elbows instead, but his body…wasn’t making this task any easier on him.

[startosteerherby]

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."

JOURNEY TO ATLANTIS ( && JONATHAN ARCHER AND THE ENTERPRISE CREW. )

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?"

“No, I am adequate, thank you.” Paris tightened his grip on his knees, which he had wrapped his arms about, and let out what seemed to be a shaky exhale. He was unusually pale, enough to blot out his freckles, both the ones on his face and the ones splashed across his scarred torso. He seemed to be doing his best not to appear in any discomfort, but it seemed that he had not succeeded in that particular endeavour. The young armoury officer closed his eyes, trying to ignore the sickening rush of his pulse in his ears. As the second highest-ranking Vulcan officer on this ship, Paris had been told he would accompany T'Pol in handling the affairs of the Supreme Regent's delegation, who were being escorted to an extremely important conference. And under normal circumstances, Paris would have followed those orders to the letter, except...his history with the Regent had taken over him the moment he'd heard the click of her heels against the deck. He...had turned and run like a coward.

[startosteerherby]

“Could you perhaps overlook my presence here?” (for Mirror!Trip for the Evil Journey to Babel thread but it'll probably have a lot of other people in it later. For context, Paris is hiding in Engineering)

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?"