Dressing Up

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Codes: Archer/T'Pol, G

Summary: Archer dresses up for a visit to a matriarchal planet.

Author's Notes: At the Logical Choice someone mentioned bad fanfic. Well, let me see how bad of a fic I can write. Yes, the aliens are named after pasta sauce.

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Archer adjusted the scrap of fabric the Marinarans called clothing. He might as well be naked. The outfit looked like a silver skirt and barely covered his briefs. He had better get used to it. The Marinarans were a matriarchal society. Wearing anything more than this in front of the royal court would result in his execution, alien or not.

Securing the belt of his blue bathrobe, he walked to the door of his quarters. A hard thing to do in the platform heels that completed his ensemble. Thankfully, not too many people frequented the corridors. He caused a few double takes. Only the senior staff knew why he and T'Pol were heading down to the Marinaran's homeworld. Enterprise needed a new plasma manifold.

Once inside the shuttlepod, Archer heaved himself into the copilot's seat. T'Pol already sat gracefully in the pilot's chair. She looked like a goddess. Silver hair ornaments held back her hair from her ears in the Marinaran style. Rich purple shimmering fabric hugged her curves. The dress covered her completely from her neck down to her ankles. His aching feet envied the flat sandals she wore.

"Let's get this over with."

T'Pol turned, appraising his appearance. "You forgot something."

"What? I have the skirt-thing on under here, and I'm wearing these ridiculous shoes."

"You forgot the traditional makeup of a male off-worlder in the royal court."

Archer sighed. He waited while T'Pol retrieved some makeup in the colors required. The sooner this humiliation ended the better. Hopefully, T'Pol could manage to negotiate with the Queen and get them out of this solar system.

*****

Archer's hands could pilot a starship, yet he couldn't put on makeup if his life depended on it.

"Allow me to help you."

T'Pol took the silver powder from his hands. Now this was a situation he never thought he'd be in- T'Pol applying makeup on him. She was nothing but efficient, in three minutes she was done.

Archer looked in a hand mirror. He cringed. The silver powder made his skin sparkle. Purple lined his eyes and lips. One thing he knew for sure, he wouldn't be walking the corridors of the ship like this.

The worst part awaited him on the surface in the Queen's great hall. Archer kneeled beside T'Pol. He stared down at the gilded floor mosaic depicting Marinarans going about their lives enjoying the era of peace bestowed by the Queen and her predecessors. Other men in the hall avoided looking at the women in a similar fashion.

T'Pol's hand rested on his back in the way a woman of power did to her male. She tapped once with her finger. He chimed the bell sitting before him again. Then T'Pol spoke. The queen responded. Another tap, so he chimed, and T'Pol spoke again. How many more hours of this?

An agreement to trade led to a traditional dance. Men danced in a suggestive fashion in the center of the great hall. Then they attended a banquet. He fed T'Pol with his hands. Her eyes told him she didn't like this as much as him.

The celebrations continued well into the night until the Queen tired of the musicians, singers, and performers. Finally, he wobbled on his platform shoes behind his ever-graceful first officer to the shuttlepod.

When the shuttle door closed, he sagged into the chair. The shoes were thrown onto the floor. He wrapped himself in his bathrobe again. His sleeve effectively smeared the makeup off.

"The Queen was impressed by you," T'Pol told him.

"Really."

"She asked me while you were in the lavatory if you could be part of the trade."

"What did you tell her?"

"That I could not trade my bond mate."

Archer smiled and leaned into kiss her. When they parted, he laughed. Silver powder shimmered on her lips.

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