Mitchell’s Olde Towne Tavern looked exactly how it sounded- bleached wood sidings, giant windows, a sharply peaked roof, a great big wooden sign on a post, creaking in the sharp sea breeze blowing in from the bay. It really wasn’t that chilly at all today, but considering landside Boston was well above 25 degrees Celsius and the salty sea wind must’ve dropped it at least five degrees, Natilla Walsh found herself rubbing her bare arms and wondering if she should’ve brought a hoodie.

Pushing those great big oaken doors aside, Natilla found no refuge, only a sudden blast to all the senses all at once- an air-conditioning chill slamming into her skin like a solid wall, the thrum of constant chatter and howling laughter and the booming old karaoke machine, multicolored lights blaring over the stage where a familiar face in a patch-covered jacket made possibly the worst attempt at singing… some rock song Walsh was not musically-inclined enough to understand in the slightest. It was enough to make her freeze in the doorway from sheer shock.

If the shock had come just a moment later, she might have been hit full in the face by the world’s rattiest hoodie, fastballed right at her.

“And the Commander is in the house!” crowed Roy Mitchell, an ear-to-ear grin on his face as Walsh snatched the hoodie out of the air and slid it on over her dress, her nose wrinkling at the faint smell of… what very well might have been every single alcoholic drink known to mankind all faintly imprinted on this one article of clothing. “Whatcha in the mood for? Wine? Brandy? Wait- Robbie, she’s gotta try that scotch mix you cooked up!”

She held up a hand just as a person almost identical to Mitchell, besides the lack of a mustache and actually having some hair, started moving behind the counter. “Trying to stay sober today, but thank you for the offer. Why… is Kimura trying to sing a rock ballad?”

“Blame Ines,” Mitchell replied, jabbing a thumb at the merfolk-esque figure sitting in a brightly-painted wheelchair a few tables away, staring at the stage and cringing like she’d just sucked the juice out of a lemon. “Well- no, it’s not really her fault, she didn’t know Asahi legitimately sucks at singing and our esteemed lead pilot is a liiiittle bit too drunk to be self-conscious about it.”

“… I see,” Walsh replied with a curt nod, raising an eyebrow as the screechy singing mercifully came to an end, Kimura making her way down the stage with a noticeable wobble to her step. “So this is how we’re celebrating Archer‘s repairs being completed? Getting drunk?”

“I think that’s how people in Jon Archer’s time always did it,” Mitchell responded, leading Walsh to the bar. “And if you want to at least seem like you’re participating in the festivities, we do have non-alcoholic beverages. And snacks. Robbie whipped up some really nice sandwiches this morning.”

Walsh let out a half-joking sigh as she leaned on the counter. “Alright, I’ll humour you. Rob, a ginger ale, iced, and one of these sandwiches your brother mentioned.”

“Gotcha.” The sandwich came up quick- either Rob had been waiting for someone to ask for one, or their brother had been signing their praises to everyone who came in the doors. A tall glass of ginger ale clinked against the countertop a second later, and Walsh picked it up with a dainty grasp, swirling it idly in her hand.

Within a few moments, they all gravitated her way- first Kimura, hopping up on a barstool nearby and stuffing her face in her hands as the effects of the alcohol kicked in, then Rekii, a Saurian brandy in hand, leading Dehanra and Irinarko behind him. A little cluster of Archer veterans, back together for the first time since everything happened.

Even just being back in their proximity felt good.

“So…” Walsh finally stated, propping an elbow up on the bar and taking a bite of her sandwich. “We’ve got our assignment. I just finished talking with the staff of Task Force 47, Fourth Fleet.”

A round of mumbling started, glanced shared between the bunch.

“We’re to set out for Deep Space 47 by the end of the week,” she continued. “That should give us plenty of time to get the ship supplied and ready to set out. From there… the Thomar Expanse.”

The mumbling exploded into excited chitchatter spilling from every mouth at the table. The Thomar Expanse! Talk about the frontier, and that is what modern Starfleet talks about- this little spit of space once completely unavailable, now open to all- where no-one wearing the Starfleet arrowhead has gone before. And then Ines went silent, and when she spoke again, so too did every other voice.

“What about the captain?”

As an uneasy quiet settled, Walsh’s mouth opened to reply… and then closed again, lips pinched, fingers clasping together.

It was Rekii who broke the silence, the potbellied Saurian leaning against the bar with a dismal frown on his face. “… you still haven’t convinced her, have you?”

“Erin is…” Walsh struggled to think of the right word for a moment. “… stubborn. Sometimes it feels like I’m talking to a wall, with her.”

“But you’ll get through to her, right?” Tallinn Dehanra asked, the normally-quiet Romulan piping up for the first time since her arrival, as far as Walsh was aware. “There’s not many other candidates available and nobody who knows Archer like she does. If-”

“I’ll get through to her, Dehanra,” Walsh reassured, an easy smile gracing her lips as she sipped her ginger ale. “I married the woman, for crying out loud. There’s nobody I can get to better.”

“Damn right she will,” Mitch agreed, slamming a few more rounds down on the table and smacking Kimura’s hand away when she reached for one. “But no worrying about that tonight- we got some celebrating to do! Ines, you mind gracing us with some actually good music?”

The Medetian rolled her eyes, muttering a quiet “sorry” to Kimura with a pat on the back as she rolled her wheelchair up to the stage. Her honeyed, sweet tones rolled through the microphone like a brook through a calm wood, and a dozen more rose to join her in an Archer favorite. Walsh didn’t hesitate for even a tenth of a second.

“Ah, for just one time, I would take the Northwest Passage

To find the hand of Franklin reaching for the Beaufort Sea

Tracing one warm line through a land so wild and savage 

And make a Northwest Passage to the sea!…”