Title: State of Undress

Author: Doyle

Email: the_slugandlettuce@yahoo.ca

Date: 02/11/2003

Feedback: Go ahead and peck my eyes out, but tell me why I deserve it.

Distribution: EntSTslash, Archer's Enterprise, Tim Ruben's if he wants it. All others just ask. I'm easy

Summary: The Enterprise crew awakens to a distinct lack of wardrobe.

Spoilers: none

Rating: pg-13 for swearing and not-so-subtle sexual innuendo

Pairings: Tucker/Reed, Archer/Mayweather, T'Pol/Sato

Disclaimer: Owned by those richer and more influential than me. If I did own them, this would actually happen.

Author's Notes: Completely unbeta'd. Had an idea and had to get it down. All mistakes are mine. As for the plot, let's chalk it up to stress and call it a day.

Captain Jonathan Archer rolled over with a groan and reluctantly answered the hail to his quarters.

"Archer here." He mumbled.

"Jonathan?" A tight and irritated Southern voice floated over the line.

"Yeah, Trip?"

"Do you know we go on duty in two hours, Jon?"

"Yes, Trip, I know."

"I was just about to head to the gym."

Jon sighed. "That's commendable of you, Trip."

"Yeah, well…" the annoyed engineer continued, "I can't go in my skivvies."

"Then don't." Jon had almost fallen asleep again in between the Commander's words. "Call me again in an hour and a half. Goodnight."

"Jon." Trip was fiercer this time.

"What, Trip?" He sat up, unrepentantly awake.

"Give 'em back, Jon."

"Give what back?"

"I think you know, Jon."

"No, I don't know, Trip."

"I think you do, Jon."

"Trip, stop it. You sound like an ex-girlfriend." He flung himself back onto his bed, one arm thrown over his face. "And stop saying my name like that. You wanna come kill me, come over and do it. Don't play Hannibal Lecter over the comm system with me."

"Well I would if I had anything to wear!"

"Boy, now you really sound like a girl."

Trip's voice took on a tinge of fury. "Jonathan Archer, get your ass over here and bring me back my clothes!"


"Bring it back. All of it. My uniforms, my jeans, my *socks*, godammit. I want my stuff back."

"What? Wait, Trip. I'm getting another call." Jon hurriedly pressed another button. "Archer."

"Captain? This is the Quartermaster. My store has been robbed."

"What?" Jon asked, rubbing his hand over his face.

"My store, sir. All the spare uniforms, civilian clothing, even the pieces under repair have gone missing. My rolls of fabric are gone too, but they were kind enough to leave the cardboard cores." His voice was sarcastic.

"What?" He said again. "Wuh…hang on. I'm getting another call. Archer here."


"T'Pol. Is there something I can do for you?"

"Yes sir. Several crewmembers have contacted my quarters to report the theft of their clothing. I am unaware of the standard operating procedure in this circumstance. I require your assistance."

Only taking a moment to breath and blink in surprise, Captain Archer leapt up and ran to his closet. He threw the doors open. Gone were his royal blue Starfleet jumpsuits, his workout gear, his favourite pair of jeans, all the way down to his shoes. All that was left were his Starfleet issue briefs and tanks.

"Oh shit."

"I beg your pardon, Sir?"

Jon turned back to the comm panel. "Uh, Sub-commander, have you been, uh, robbed, as well?"

"Yes sir. I find now that I am. However, I still possess my undergarments."

"Ok. I'll take care of this." He pressed a blinking button. "Quartermaster?"

"Yes, Sir."

"This may seem like an odd question, but have any pieces of underwear been taken?"

A surprised answer came. "No, Sir. They're all here, including your pair of stained briefs."

Jon flushed a little. "Thank you. I'll take care of this. Trip?"

"Yeah? Kept me waiting long enough. Ya know, I really oughta…"

"Stuff it, Trip. What are you wearing?"


"What do you currently have on, Commander?"

"You know damn well I sleep in the buff, but considerin' it's all you left me, I've got my blues on."



"Trip, I think we've got a problem." Jon hit another control and accessed the ship-wide channel. "This is the Captain speaking. All senior officers are to report to my ready room. I don't care what you're wearing, as long as you're decent. All other hands remain where you are."

Five minutes later…

"Holy Cow! Malcolm!" Trip screeched to a halt as he spied Lieutenant Malcolm Reed sitting behind his console.

The armory officer looked up, started slightly, swallowed, and recoiled back into impassivity. "Commander."

"It's not everyday I see an officer at his post in just his briefs." Trip paused for a second before continuing. "You *are* wearing briefs, right?"

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "Of course. I'm not fond of traipsing about the bridge completely nude."

"But half-nude is ok?" Malcolm just glared at Trip's grin. "Why aren't you wearing a tank?"

"I never owned any. I only had t-shirts." Was the curt reply.

"They took your tees too?" Malcolm opened his mouth to answer but was cut of by a youthful voice approaching.

"'They'? We have a suspect?" Travis Mayweather padded onto the bridge, like Trip, dressed in a pair of briefs and a tank top.

"Naw," answered Trip, "Just sayin' how Malcolm got his tee-shirts taken, but we still got our tanks.

"Yeah," agreed Travis, "That is weird. Maybe they thought it covered too much." Malcolm's glare was turning murderous so he changed the subject. "Where's the captain?"

"Not here yet." Trip supplied

"Oh. So does anyone on board have clothing?"

"I believe not. Every article of clothing other than undergarments is missing." Malcolm replied.

Ensign Sato halted onto the bridge, supported partially by the Sub-commander. She was limping, one foot suspended in the air.

"Hi, guys." Both women were dressed in boy-shorts and a tight-fitting tank, but T'Pol's was of a lighter shade.

"Hoshi! What happened?" Trip and Travis rushed to take her weight off T'Pol's shoulders as the Vulcan began to speak.

"Ensign Sato was unfortunate enough to have stepped on an exposed rivet in the deck plating. It must be repaired. In the interim, I have covered it with bowl from the mess hall in order to avoid further injury."

"Are you alright, Hoshi?" Trip asked.

"Oh. Yeah. I'm fine."

"Ensign, it caused you considerable pain to walk, even with my assistance. Logic dictates that you are not, in fact, fine. Ensign Mayweather, please bring me the med kit from behind my station."

"Yes Ma'am" He scurried off to fetch the box.

"Thanks, T'Pol."

"It is my duty, Ensign." She said, in a tone that approached tenderness.

T'Pol sat on the deck with Hoshi's foot in her lap as she mended the small wound. Malcolm couldn't help but notice the unusual lack of brusqueness in her touch. Hoshi sat with her elbow on the armrest of the chair and her eyes cupped in her hand. Her posture denoted pain to Malcolm, but the rate of her breath and the gentle curling of the toes on her other foot indicated otherwise. Malcolm looked over at Trip, who was looking on with a slight expression of hunger. When he raised his eyes to Malcolm's gaze, the hungry look did not go away.

Slightly stunned and distracted, Trip stuttered, "The Captain'll be here any minute." "I'm here." Came a voice from behind. "Sorry I'm late." The Captain too was dressed only in his skivvies. He opened the door to the ready room and ushered his officers in.

T'pol laid a soft palm on Hoshi's anklebone as she looked up at the younger woman's face. "Please take care to allow this wound to heal. Do not exacerbate the injury by walking without shoes. As we are currently without, I will help you."

Hoshi nodded slightly and allowed herself to be raised by the Sub-commander. They walked into the ready room together and easily slid the injured party into a chair prepared for her.

Captain Archer looked at his bridge crew, all in varying states of undress. He sighed.

"Just before I got here, I found this message on my computer." He held up a PADD and read from it: "Dear Captain Jonny, Trip, Malcolm, Travis, Hoshi, T'Pol, and the rest of the Enterprise gang. Your clothing will be returned in due time. You should have some fun without it. Enjoy yourselves. Regards, Q."

Trip was first to break the silence. "Q?"

"I've never heard of it. Or them. Sub-commander?"

"It is a species unknown to me." Said T'Pol, standing protectively behind Hoshi's chair.

It was only then that Captain Archer noticed the unusual positioning of his crew. Malcolm and Trip were on opposite sides of the room, but their gazes were locked onto each other like grappling lines. Trip had his legs crossed and Malcolm had his hands folded in his lap. Ensign Mayweather was leaning his long lean body sinuously against the doorjamb, one bare foot propped up and his eyes half-hooded and intently trained on Archer's own midsection. Hoshi had her legs pressed tightly together and seemed to rock occasionally in her chair. T'Pol had put a hand on her shoulder to still her movements, and had not yet gotten around to removing it. Archer swallowed dryly.


"Yeah?" He didn't remove his stare from the Brit across the room.

"How are the engines?"

"Fine, Sir."

"Lieutenant Reed, what is the status of the weapons?"

"Fine, Sir."

"All other systems?"

"Fine, Sir." He got a distracted three-part harmony for an answer; soprano from Hoshi, alto from T'Pol, and baritone from Travis.

In one final burst of captain-like bearing, he contacted the chef. "Chef, are you willing to open the galley?"

"Yes, Sir," Was the reply, "but it'll have to be cold food. We don't have any aprons down here. Don't expect fried eggs and bacon."

"Noted." Was the strangled answer. He hit another button. "All hands, this is the Captain speaking. We have reason to believe any and all clothing will be returned in time. In the meanwhile, please make do with the apparel you have. All alpha shift officers please report to stations in order to lock down the ship. We are suitable for neither battle nor first contact, so we'll just wait this out. The mess hall will be open, as will most recreational facilities." As an afterthought, he added, "And if anyone finds a robe, please send it my way. Archer out."

"A most logical solution, Captain."

"Thanks, Sub-commander. Ok, everyone out."

As the Chippendale crew prepared to leave, Jon heard parts of conversation.

"Trip, can I borrow a shirt?"

"Sure, we can stop by my quarters on the way to the mess hall." Off Malcolm's randy look, he amended. "But then again, I can't remember the last time I had breakfast in bed. But then, you won't need the shirt."

Their lips were just about to meet as the lift doors closed.

"Sub-commander, do you think meditation would help my pain?" Hoshi asked coyly.

T'Pol answered with the Vulcan version of enthusiasm. "Meditation is often beneficial to any number of maladies. It most likely will ease any pain you may be feeling."

Hoshi beamed. "How about in the forward observation lounge? It's almost always empty."

"A peaceful, private setting such as the lounge would be most conducive to our activity." She replied with stunning- for a Vulcan- alacrity.

"So what are you going to do, Ensign?" Archer asked Travis stiffly as they walked down the corridor.

"I was going to go back to bed." He slid his arm around Jon's waist. "Care to join me?"

Jon grinned. What a wonderful day this was turning out to be. "Thanks, Q." he thought to himself.

He didn't turn around when he heard what he thought was a ghostly voice. "Anytime."

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