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Chapter Text

If he tilts his head up towards the ceiling, Malcolm doesn’t have to look at the screen in front of him. It’s a nice ceiling, really, plain and painted white, very office-like; it’s a boring ceiling, nothing to hold his attention for more than a moment, nothing to prevent his eyes from sliding back to the screen. The form is still there, just waiting for him to make the final decision – do you want this? Are you coming with us?

In twelve hours, if he still hasn’t reached that decision, if he still hasn’t filled it out, the choice will be made for him; the position will be automatically rejected. And he might have been sat in front of that same screen for hours, painfully debating the pros and cons of each side, but the idea of the system choosing for him, the idea of everything moving on without him fills him with a sense of dread.

“I’ll think about it.”

His own words echo around his head, a mocking reminder of what he had told Archer. Something in him had faltered when faced with the enthusiasm of a man who had been waiting his entire life for this moment. But then, hadn’t everyone? This was what Starfleet had been made for, every moving part designed to help them realise the NX programme. What had Malcolm himself even joined for, if not to go to space?

Groaning, he dragged a hand over his face. The screen was still there, waiting patiently, when he took it away.

“I’ll think about it.”

It was the only thing he had been doing since Archer left. It was the only thing he had been doing after Archer had come, personally, to ask Malcolm of all people to be the security officer for Earth’s first ever starship. It was an honour, really, to have been chosen out of everyone available to fill that position. And it was certainly a position that would have been sought after, just like the rest of the senior crew positions, likely the reason they had allowed Archer to choose his crew was to prevent any fights from breaking out. He sighs, runs another hand through his hair and stares at the screen again.

As if the universe was sick of his deliberating, someone knocks at the door in the same moment.

Malcolm turns to blink at it. “Enter.”

The door swings inwards almost immediately, as if whoever was on the other side had been waiting impatiently for his response, and it reveals a young woman: blonde, short, unassuming. She eyes him, quickly.

“Lieutenant Reed?”

“Yes.” He stands, a little surprised and a little smug to realise that the woman was actually shorter than he was. “Can I help you with something?”

She looks thrown by the question. “Uh, I’m Ensign Emma Rogers, I’ve been assigned as your second.”

Malcolm stares at the hand she holds out. “Second?”

The hand drops, tucked neatly back into holding the pad at her chest. “Yes, for the armoury and security team?” her voice raises at the end, an obvious question: ‘don’t you know that? why don’t you know that?’

“Oh, I –”

He’s trying to come up with a response when her eyes flick to the screen behind him, still open to the acceptance form, and take in the information presented to her. Malcolm swallows: he should have locked it before he let her in.

“You haven’t accepted the position?” Her voice drops slightly, quieter, a little nervous.

“I’m still thinking about it.”

The nervous expression vanishes, cloaked under a deliberate mask of professionality. “I’m sorry, sir, I was under the impression that everything had already been sorted.”

There’s a slight lilt to her voice, he notices, an accent that suggests English is not her first language, but suppressed the same way she seems to know how to supress her facial expressions. Malcolm himself can remember his father’s lessons on keeping your emotions to yourself – when he had first learnt of the Vulcan way, he’d thought that his father would get on well with them.

“Have you met the Captain?” He asks instead of voicing any of those thoughts or answering in a way that might invite her to press him to open up.

Rogers’ eyes return to his face. “Archer?”

“Mmhm.”

She nods, briefly. “He seems… enthusiastic.”

Malcolm can’t stop the tiny smile from sliding onto his face. “That was exactly the word I was thinking, Ensign.” And then, because she’s still there. “Do you want to sit down?”

There are two chairs in his office but only one of them has been used so far, and he can’t help holding his breath as Rogers is the first person to sit on the other.

“Did you come here for a reason? Or just to introduce yourself?”

She gestures at the tablet she’s holding. “I collected all of the team’s files, I just thought you might like to read through them and get a sense of the group before meeting them.”

Malcolm isn’t stupid enough to try and take the tablet from her, he might outrank her, but that information is clearly only available to certain people, and he still hasn’t confirmed whether he wants to be one of them.

“I’m still working on the rest of the crew,” she continues when he doesn’t say anything, “uh, I think that Archer hasn’t confirmed some people still, we’re missing the communications team and probably around half of the expected science team.”

He watches her as she speaks, takes in her as a whole: she’s organised, he thinks, possibly more organised than Archer had seemed, but young. Wide-eyed when she isn’t focusing on keeping up the mask of professionalism, and almost brittle looking in a uniform shirt that comes down over her hands.

“Thank you for doing that.”

She blinks, clearly not expecting him to say that. “Oh. Uh, it’s no problem, sir, I assumed it was a part of my job.”

“What happens if I refuse this position?”

“Sir?” She’s stalling, struggling to keep up with what must seem like abrupt changes in the conversation.

Malcolm lets her. “Well, do you get it? Does it become your position?”

Rogers opens her mouth, shuts it again, pauses, a small crease appearing on her forehead. “I hope not.”

“Really?” He glances down at the pad in her hands. “You seem overqualified for it.”

“You haven’t even read my file.”

The deflection is obvious enough that Malcolm smiles slightly. He tilts his head and doesn’t say anything, watches as her mouth pinches up slightly, unimpressed.

“I know what you’re doing, Lieutenant, not saying anything to keep me talking. We all have to do the same interrogation training.”

“Why don’t you want the position?”

Rogers shrugs. “Why don’t you want the position?”

“I do.” Malcolm says and is a little surprised to find that he means it. He does want to be the security officer on Earth’s first starship, and he does want to serve under a man who is clearly eager to be exploring the unknown.

“Then why haven’t you accepted it yet?”

He looks back at the screen, the form still waiting for him. “Do you think this is a good idea?”

Rogers snorts softly, a cut off laugh before she clears her throat. “What in particular, sir?”

He smiles again, face still turned away so she can’t see it. “Going out there. Are we really ready to do it?”

There’s a pause and he can almost hear her thinking over the answer. “I don’t think we’d ever really be ready, sir. We could sit for years and try to be fully prepared and would still come across things we can’t even imagine.”

He turns back to her. “That’s a good answer, Ensign.”

“Thank you, sir.” She glances back at his screen. “I was surprised as well, when they told me I had been picked for this role. I have the rank, but I’m young and I don’t have the experience a lot of them do, even some of the members of the team. But, they were insistent.”

He can hear the underlying explanation, she doesn’t feel ready to take on the level of responsibility she’s been given, let alone the level that would be expected of him. He doesn't push on her age; if he accepts the position, he can find that information out himself and if he doesn’t, then she doesn't need to tell him, but still… she is young. Not as young as some of the incoming cadets he’s seen, but certainly much younger than he would have expected them to send out into space. Looking at her, she’s still just a child, really, left in a position of enormous responsibility. It might have been more surprising if he wasn’t aware of how small the pool of potential candidates for this mission really was, but…

He takes another look at her. Straight-backed, sat in the chair as if she’s standing at parade rest – military brat of some kind – a few scars on her hands, mostly faded, and blonde curls framing a face in a way that makes her look almost angelic. He was never a great older brother to Madeline, preferring to lock himself away and avoid anything from his parents, but the wave of protectiveness that seems to be slowly creeping up on him is what he imagines most brothers feel.

“How many on the security team?”

Rogers glances down at her tablet, doesn’t turn it on though, so she obviously knows the answer already. “Including you and me? Twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five.” He repeats. “And how many on the crew in total?”

“Well, like I said they haven’t confirmed everyone yet, but apparently it should be around eighty. The ship has room for eighty-five.”

He frowns, leans back in his seat. “That’s a pretty small percentage being security.”

Rogers makes a face that suggests she had also had that thought. “It’s an exploration mission, sir, not a battleship.”

“That’s the answer they gave you?”

“Yes sir.”

He glances at the clock on the screen. Eleven hours and twenty minutes before the decision is made for him. Eleven hours and twenty minutes before eighty people continue on, preparing to leave without him.

Rogers is still there when he turns back, watching him carefully.

“Have you met the security team yet?”

“Yes sir, I got the details confirmed on Monday, so we had a training session yesterday and this morning.”

“Do they work well together?”

A tiny smile creeps onto her face. “Yes sir. We’re still balancing out strengths, but they compliment each other well as a team.”

He nods, slowly.

“I’ve also organized room allocations with them,” she says, “since we’ll all be sharing rooms. Except y- our security officer.”

He bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself grinning at her. “Except me?”

“Officers’ privileges. If you accept the position, of course.”

“Of course.” He turns back to look at the screen again. It’s just a tick box and a signature required. Less than thirty seconds to complete, really.

Rogers holds out the tablet. He carefully takes it off her.

“I want to meet them all, tomorrow, oh-nine-hundred hours, in the training room.”

“Yessir. It’s good to have you onboard, sir.”

“Thank you, Ensign.”

It takes less than twenty to fill it out in the end.

Chapter Text

Tucker - Trip, he’s asked Malcolm to call him - looks vaguely ill when he corners Malcolm in the corridor outside the armory, glancing around like he’s worried someone might overhear them. Malcolm lets him crowd them both against the wall, tilting his chin up to stare at the other man. 

“I need a favour.”

He raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

They both know what it's about, but Malcolm is bored and there's a slight level of amusement to be found in forcing his commanding officer to admit that he's pregnant. 

“This wouldn’t happen to be about your… condition, would it?”

Trip scowls. “It ain’t a condition, it’s a damn mistake, and I’d appreciate it if the whole ship didn’t find out about it before I’ve even had time to process it myself.”

“You’re worried about the rumour mill.”

“Yeah." Trip rubs the back of his neck. "You know how people talk. One person overhears somethin’ in sickbay, tells a friend, and next thing you know, the chef’s askin’ if I want pickles with my ice cream.”

“I see your concern.” He magnanimously does not point out that several members of the security team have stopped in the doorway to the armoury, peering around at the two of them, both as if they want to know what is happening, and as if they are fully prepared to step in if either of them happen to get violent. With no context, Trip having him backed into the wall probably doesn't look good. 

“Do you?” Trip looks exasperated. “Look, I just don’t wanna deal with it right now. Can you… I don’t know, keep a lid on it? You’re good at that kind of thing, right?”

Reed straightens, nodding briskly. “Consider it handled.”

The people in the doorway - Hunter, Nguyen and Castillo, he's fairly certain - duck back in as Trip turns, pressed against the wall just enough that the distracted chief engineer doesn't see them as he walks away. 

They stick their heads back out again as soon as he's gone, all watching Reed with a concerning level of glee; they might not know what's going on, but they sure know that it's something. 

"You have drills to do." He informs them dryly, watching as they all vanish again before he sighs. 

There's no way he can just keep it quiet now, not now they know something has happened, and there's no point in telling them to keep it to themselves, because if there’s one thing he knows about security teams—all security teams—it’s that they thrive on gossip. It’s part of what keeps them going during long shifts. More than that, it’s something they’re trained to keep an eye on.

It's not that gossip is a part of their job, as such, but it does come under their umbrella, protecting the crew from themselves as well as from external threats - after all, it's only a matter of time before some of the bored scientists decide to implement a prank war, and it'll be his job to keep that from getting out of hand.

And now, against his better judgment, it’s his job to keep the ship from learning that their chief engineer is, somehow, pregnant.

He follows the three of them into the armoury, already resigned to whatever nonsense he’s about to walk into. As usual, his instincts are correct: the team are not doing their drills – they aren’t even pretending to do their drills, just holding the equipment loosely – instead, they are gathered in a misshapen knot in the centre of the room, speaking over each other in hushed, but gleefully enthusiastic tones. 

“Could be some kinda alien virus,” Foster is saying. “Maybe he got stuck in a transporter malfunction.”

Rogers notices him as he walks in and makes an aborted gesture, as if she’s about to try and start up the drills again. 

“Or maybe it’s genetic,” Mack counters. “Something dormant in his DNA until the right conditions—”

“Or,” Di Dio interrupts, grinning, “he got cursed.”

There are general objections to that, mainly along the lines of ‘magic isn’t real,’ and Reed sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose and clears his throat, loudly and pointedly. They fall silent, spreading out again to face him with expectant faces. 

“Ensign Rogers,” he says instead of giving in to them, “I need to speak to you in my office.” 

She follows him obediently across the room and into what is nominally his office. It’s a small room off the armoury with a desk, a chair, a com, and a computer. It’s also not much bigger than a broom closet, but it’s what he has to work with.

Malcolm can feel the eyes of the rest of the team on them as he closes the door. He might not yet have a lie to give them, but if he doesn’t get ahead of it before they leave for lunch, the entire thing is going to spiral out of control. 

“Ensign.” 

There’s no second chair in the office, so she perches on the edge of his desk. “Sir?”

He sighs, again. “We will be following the xyrillian ship, attempting to regain contact with them.” 

Her eyes and smile are brighter than they have any right to be. “Why?”

“I need you to inform the team that it is because Commander Tucker has accidentally married one of the xyrillian crew, and Starfleet want the marriage annulled before it can cause any problems.”

Rogers nods, reasonably, and for a stupid moment he lets himself hope that she’ll let the rest of it go. 

“What’s the real reason, sir?”

It was a stupid hope. He sighs. Braces his elbows on his knees and looks up at her. “You cannot tell the rest of the team this.”

She still looks way too thrilled at the entire situation when she agrees. 

"He's pregnant."

Rogers falls silent for a moment and he watches as she tries to twist the situation to fit her worldview. "Like... with a baby?"

"An alien baby, yes."

"I thought he had..." she breaks off and makes a slightly crude gesture in the direction of her crotch instead of finishing the sentence. Malcolm bites down on the inside of his lip to keep himself from laughing.

"He does."

"Right."

And then, because he's already too deep in this, "He's growing nipples and everything."

"Nip- he already has...!" She cuts herself off with an expression that suggests she doesn't actually want to think about that. Malcolm can sympathise. 

"I know." He replies, mildly.

There’s a pause. She glances between him and the door. 

“Go.”

“Yessir.” She hops up and almost bounces out the room. And she leaves the door open, so Malcolm had an audible front-row seat to the chaos that he’s started to unfold. 

The team pounces almost immediately. “Well? What did he say?!”

He hears her take a deep breath, and while he can't actually see any of them, he imagines her mouth twitching with barely concealed humour. Imagines that the slight shake to her voice when she speaks is laughter she’s trying not to let out. 

“Commander Tucker accidentally married one of the Xyrillians,” she announces. “Starfleet wants the marriage annulled before it causes a diplomatic incident.”

There is, for a moment, blessed silence in the armoury. Despite himself, Malcolm smiles. 

Then—

“He what ?” Foster demands, voice trailing off in a slight shriek. 

“Oh, this is beautiful ,”

“We have got to get him a wedding gift,”

“I’m pretty sure that makes him an ambassador’s husband,” Castillo jumps in, loud enough that Malcolm's pretty sure he's supposed to hear it. “Maybe he’ll get diplomatic immunity.”

"It's not an ambassador." Rogers objects. "Just a crew member."

"OK, but... a wedding gift, right?"

Reed, still in his office, buries his face in his hands as the chaos continues to erupt outside. He takes a slow breath, willing himself to remain calm. There is no undoing this now.

And, in a moment of deep and bitter regret, he wonders why he didn’t just tell Trip to spread his own damn rumor and keep himself out of it entirely.

*

Trip finds him in the corridor outside the armory again, and this time, he doesn’t look vaguely ill, he looks furious.

Before Malcolm can react, Trip has him backed into the wall again, one hand braced beside his head, the other jabbing a finger into his chest. It’s an oddly intimate position, and Malcolm were a stupider man (or maybe a braver one) he would point this out, but he’s not, so he doesn’t. 

“What the hell, Malcolm?”

He sighs, slowly, tilts his head against the wall and remembers that he chose to be there, he had chosen to join this crew, through good and through bad, through truth and through… spreading rumours, apparently. 

“Good morning, Commander.”

Trip does not look appeased by his greeting. 

Over his shoulder, Malcolm can see that the door to the armoury is open, again - do they ever close it? - and this time, there’s only one person peering out. Rogers. Watching the whole thing unfold, both with that same amused glee, and with a readiness that suggests she’s prepared to put the Commander on his back, should it be necessary. 

Trip’s voice drops into a hiss. “How, how , is this fixin’ the situation?!”

Malcolm lifts an eyebrow. “Has anyone mentioned your… condition?”

They’re still looking for the Xyrillians’ ship, by now the entire crew is aware of that, and Malcolm’s pre-prepared excuse has actually been useful. Not that Trip seems to appreciate that. 

Trip falters. His mouth opens, then closes again.

Behind him Rogers has a hand over her mouth, stifling a smile. She knows the truth, and Malcolm’s pretty certain Hoshi and Travis know the truth as well, either through being told or working it out, based on the way he saw them crowded into a small triangle in the mess hall the day before, pointedly not looking in Trip’s direction. 

Malcolm allows himself a small, satisfied smile. “Exactly.”

The other man throws his hands up and storms off without another word; he scowls at Rogers as he walks past her. “What are you starin’ at?”

She doesn’t respond, just watches him walk down the corridor, but when Malcolm approaches her, she turns her head towards him with a faint smirk. 

“Those hormones are really getting to him, huh?”

Trip lets out a strangled shriek and Malcolm shoves the two of them into the armoury, shutting the door behind him as he bites down on his laughter. 

“Stop bullying the chief engineer, you’re going to wake up to a shower that doesn’t work.”

“He doesn’t know which shower is mine.” She replies with far too much confidence. “And even if he did, I could just use someone else’s.” 

*

As far as Malcolm is concerned, the situation is resolved a few days later; the Xyrillian crew has been contacted, the baby removed, and everything is back to normal, with the addition of a few snickering crew members expressing their sympathy to Trip at his ‘divorce’ as they walk to the mess hall together. 

He watches Trip wave off the latest one with good humour. 

“Guess T’Pol was right, I should watch where I stick my fingers.”

“Or at least ask what it is before you stick your fingers in.”

Trip rolls his eyes, but it’s amused. “Yeah, yeah, let’s just move on and pretend this never happened.”

“Sir?” It’s Foster sticking his head around the office door, rather than Rogers and that sets off alarm bells in Malcolm’s mind almost immediately. “Uh, it’s Commander Tucker.”

He follows Foster back out into the main armoury, and is greeted with the sight of a rather furious Trip pointing an accusing finger at Rogers. Di Dio is stood almost in between them, clearly prepared for Trip to lunge at her, although Malcolm likes to think that he wouldn’t do that. 

It’s clear, immediately, that someone has dropped the ball on keeping the Commander’s secret, not least because he promptly yells an accusation at Rogers that she told everyone he was pregnant. 

"Pregnant?" At least three people repeat, the word echoing around the room.

Trip pauses, glances around at their faces, and apparently realizes that he's made a mistake.

"I didn't tell anyone." Rogers insists, and she looks so utterly confused that Malcolm believes her. She might have been thrilled at the possibility of gossip, but he doesn't think she would actually break someone's privacy like that.

Despite his realisation, Trip stands his ground. “Then who did?”

She stammers, “Uh, Sato and Mayweather knew as well."

He drops his hands and then brings them back up to press into the corners of his eyes, something like clarity dawning across his face. "Fuckin' Travis," he mutters and walks out again, leaving a room full of gaping security officers in his wake.

There’s a beat of silence. 

"Was... was he actually..."

Malcolm sighs, the cat is out of the bag at this point, and confirms it.

There's another pause, and then, because apparently not poking the bear is not a skill that Starfleet has ingrained in their security personnel, "Is that why he's been so moody?"

Chapter Text

There’s something about the security team – about his security team – that invites a certain level of warmth, that gently pushes past the walls he’s built up around himself and asks him to laugh with them, share in their amusement. It’s different from the way Tucker has been trying to work his way around those walls; determination, a refusal to be brushed off and an unrelenting positive attitude that Malcolm sometimes finds slightly grating. The man is nice, but he can be a lot.

And he finds himself drawn to the armoury after his shifts.

They’re all sat on the floor when he walks in - well, not all of them, the night shifters are still asleep - and they all have a phaser in their laps, most of them half dismantled, and a variety of tools strewn around the floor, clearly abandoned when they were deemed useless. 

Rogers is on her feet immediately, appearing at his side. “Lieutenant.”

“Ensign,” he greets in return, “what is going on here?”

She looks between him and the knot of people on the floor, something like trepidation in her eyes. “We’re practicing replacing the power cells in the phasers, sir.”

The members of the team, aware of his presence, hold up their own phasers, as if to demonstrate both their progress and to prove that Rogers is telling the truth. He bites back a smile. 

“Why?”

 The slight uncertainty is back in her eyes. “Well, sir, I thought it would be worth practising. So we’ll be able to do it in a hurry if we need to.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Fair enough.”

One of the team, at the back of the room, lets out a loud, frustrated noise before he can say anything else. It’s Yılmaz, he thinks, already noted for not having the greatest skills with the ship’s technology. 

“Why are these screws so fucking tiny?”

There’s general laughter around the room in response. 

“Oh yeah,” Foster responds, “that’s why you’re struggling, just like the wall panel already being damaged is why it exploded yesterday.”

Reed glances over at Rogers, raises an eyebrow again, a silent request for an explanation. 

“Yeah, he managed to hit a wall panel, and it dented slightly and sparked.” She glances up briefly to meet his eyes. “I reported it to engineering, they said there’s no major damage or anything.”

“Hit with a phaser?”

“With his shoulder,” Mack interjects, he’s sitting almost at their feet, leaning back on his hands to look up at the two of them, and his phaser is whole again, “we have no idea how he did it.”

“OK then.”

Rogers nods. She’s still not meeting his eye, and he’s fairly certain that the power cells shouldn’t ever need replacing, so… "Is this some new training exercise I wasn't informed about?"

She squirms slightly under his gaze. “I mean…”

“She’s running out of things for us to do.” Di Dio says, an oddly fond look in his eyes when he looks at Rogers. Paternal, maybe. 

Di Dio is one of the few members of the team that Malcolm can’t quite get a read on; he’s ex-air force, dishonorably discharged for reasons that aren’t stated in his file, but he worked his way back up through Starfleet’s ranks, and is, by all accounts, overqualified for his position. He has experience as an officer, more than Malcolm himself has, and yet confined to the rank of crewman, ranking below him and below Rogers despite their age differences. 

Rogers winces at his words. “Yes, that’s… I am running out of things for them to do, sir.”

He nods, quietly, glancing around the room again. The rest of the team, the ones who hadn’t noticed when walked in, are aware of him now, and most of them have stopped their movements, watching him patiently. 

"We’ve run out of walls to inspect, sir." Foster jokes. “And I think Gaeta’s cleaned her locker about three times today alone, not to mention the rest of the week.”

Gaeta throws a loose screw at his head. It bounces neatly off his nose, and rolls almost straight back to her. “Shut up. I’m bored.”

Reed glances around the group again, most of them nod in response to Gaeta’s statement. 

"You’d think an armory would have more to do." Di Dio says, his eyes on Reed as he speaks, careful, as if he’s watching for Malcolm’s reaction. 

He can’t say much to help with that, in all honestly their first few weeks in space have been quiet, almost ominously so, with the main action they’d seen being the malfunctions that had happened when they were near the Xyrillian ship about a week prior. And, of course, the utterly bizarre situation that had been a pregnant Commander Tucker, but neither of those had really required the security team to do anything. 

"Well," he says carefully, watching the reactions of the team, "the captain wants to stop off at a Vulcan monastery soon, P'Jem, it's called, so maybe that'll give us something to do." 

"I'm not sure there's going to be much use for us at a monastery, sir," Rogers says, a brief amount of scorn in her voice at the idea before she stamps back down on it, "if anything, that's more likely to interest the... language people."

"Linguists?" He offers.

"Yes. Linguists."

She's probably right. The Vulcans may not be particularly fond of humans, but there's no way that they'll be starting any sort of firefight with them. 

"Well, maybe they'll at least let us off the ship for a bit." He counters. "Fresh air."

Rogers eyes him dubiously. "Yes sir." 

He smiles, it’s a slightly strained movement, but she doesn’t seem to pick up on it, her attention already moving back to the rest of the team, even as she stays stood by his side. There isn’t really a gap between them, Zabel is sat almost directly at his feet, but it feels like there’s a chasm there, unbridged. Carefully, he steps back, turning towards the door. 

“You’re leaving? Sir?” It’s Di Dio again, those strangely-knowledgeable eyes back on him. 

He’s asking a genuine question, no teasing in his voice, and for a moment, Malcolm considers staying, considers sitting down on the floor with his team and following through on Rogers’ attempt at a training session. But laughter sounds from across the room, Gaeta is leaning forward, one of her fingers tangled around some of Foster’s red hair, and the uncertainty creeps back in. He doesn’t have a place here, doesn’t have a right to force his way in to the space that junior officers have carved out for themselves. 

Besides, Rogers has already turned away, crouching down with the others, her back turned to him. It feels like a dismissal, even if he’s the one who outranks everyone else, it feels like she’s expecting him to leave. 

He clears his throat. "I need to get back to the bridge."

Di Dio frowns slightly, seemingly not quite believing, but nods, shifting back into the group with only one quick glance back at Malcolm. 

Reed swallows, gives a quick nod to the few members of the team that are still looking in his direction and steps away, leaving behind the warmth of the room and the laughter that follows. His shift is already over, but still, he walks toward the bridge.

*

The message from Archer comes through hours later - too many hours that they’ve spent out of contact with the ship’s two senior officers - and it’s both a relief and an additional source of tension. This should have been a routine stop, shouldn’t have needed the security team at all, and yet he’s heading directly for the armoury, stepping in with purpose and finding all the security team present: nights are handing back over to days, giving them a rundown of the nothing that had happened in the previous 12 hours. 

“Lieutenant.” Again, Rogers appears at his side almost instantly. “Have you…?”

He nods, “We’ve re-gained contact with the Captain.”

His voice attracts everyone’s attention instantly, his team snapping into focus, silent, listening and prepared. 

“Ensign, put together an away team. We’re needed planetside.”

Rogers blinks but recovers quickly, her attention turning back to the team and he can almost see the connections she’s making in her head as she calls out names: Wolfe, because she is from a desert environment, Mack for his proficiency with explosives, Kowalski for his build, and Cho and Sinclair to round out the small group. 

He lingers for a moment, watching them separate out into those who are going and those who will remain, before turning away, he can prepare in his own quarters, he doesn’t need to infringe on their space in the locker room. 

“You’re really choosing him to come on this mission?” Kowalski is asking when Reed enters the room again. It’s a clearly teasing tone, so he lets it be. 

“Oh, come on, I’m a good member of the team and I’ve made no mistakes in training!” 

“Not in training, no,” the same person takes up, laughter in her voice - Zabel, Reed identifies her - “but I don’t think anyone else managed to salute the captain with their left hand on our first day.”

There’s general spluttering from the poor man - Sinclair, apparently - and Reed hides a smile, keeping his back to the team. 

“Suit up, come on,” Rogers calls, but there’s laughter in her voice as well.

He comes over, pushing down on the smile. “Alright, basic plan: we go down, set explosives, ideally to scare rather than kill or injure, keep phasers set to stun unless it’s absolutely necessary.” 

There are nods and murmurs of agreement. Even the members Rogers hasn’t chosen to join them are hanging out in their locker room. 

“Good. Leftie, you can take point this time.”

“Sir!” the man objects. 

Reed turns back, the smile that he was suppressing threatening to burst through. “You have a problem with taking point, Crewman?”

Rogers snickers beside him. 

“Not with taking point, sir, no.”

“Good. Reconvene at the transporter with weapons, please.” 

He hears the laughter from the rest of the team start as he finishes the sentence, catches Rogers’ eye and sees a slightly unreadable expression, clearly she hadn’t quite realised he had a sense of humour, and hears it burst out entirely as he turns the corner. 

Sinclair groans, “Do not call me that, je-yay-sus.”

“Oh, no, Leftie,” Di Dio says, “you’re stuck with that now, that’s how callsigns work.”

*

The halls in P’Jem are cool, a stark contrast to the desert surroundings. As a group, they advance along the stone corridors - Sinclair at the front, closely followed by Rogers, the others in the middle and then Reed at the back, accompanied by Kowalski. Despite their careful movements, their footsteps echo against the polished floors. The scent of incense lingers in the air, a reminder of the monastery’s purpose, a reminder of the peace that ought to be there. 

Sinclair signals for the team to halt, pressing against the nearest wall as he listens. There’s movement ahead, faint but unmistakable. He exchanges a look with Rogers, Reed watches them both adjust their holds on their phasers, tension in the lines of their shoulders. A part of him regrets the set-up he decided on, wants to be the one at the front. He swallows. He trusts the team, he needs to trust them, and he needs to be watching their backs. 

They keep moving forward. 

The silence is almost unbearable, an oppressive force pressing in on them from every direction, only interrupted by them and… something else, the faintest scuff of a boot, a flicker of movement in the shadows, the sound of someone exhaling too sharply. Something that moves too fast to be one of the monks. Rogers and Sinclair barely have time to stop the group before the first shot rings through the air.

It shatters the silence of the moment, and both of them jump back, one of them manages to fire off a response as everyone pushes into the walls, keeping out of the line of fire. For a moment, it’s silent again, just the sounds of ragged, human, breathing filling the space. 

“Got’em.” Sinclair whispers, leaning just far enough out to see the body. 

Reed taps Kowalski on the shoulder as he moves past, letting him hold the rear, and joins Rogers and Sinclair at the front. He’s right, he did manage to hit the person, an alien, one who is visibly alien, blue skin and antenna. 

“Anyone seen one’a those before?” Mack asks, leaning around Rogers’ shoulder to look. 

There are general mumbles of dissent. 

“Keep moving.” Reed whispers into the silence. “Set the explosives.” 

They keep moving. He returns to the back. 

The silence remains unbearable, moving along with them like a second presence, unseen but pressing against their backs. Every so often, Sinclair gestures for the group to pause, listening, before waving them on again and Malcolm feels his heart almost stop with the group each time, waiting for another shot to come at them. It doesn’t come. 

Mack is the first to whisper into the quiet, his voice barely above a breath. “Feels too easy.”

“Not complaining,” Rogers murmurs back, keeping her eyes on the corridor ahead as she moves.

They’re both right, and it makes something uncomfortable creep up Malcolm’s spine, almost like goosebumps. 

They continue forward, sweeping each room as they pass. It all looks untouched. The soft glow of the monastery's lanterns flicker along the walls, throwing long shadows. Everything is still. It’s almost enough to believe that maybe, just maybe, things really are going smoothly.

Rogers kneels, carefully placing the first charge. Her movements are methodical, practiced, but Reed can see the tension in her shoulders. Mack and Kowalski spread out, covering their exits, Cho stays at his side, and Sinclair scans the hallway ahead. The dim light flickers slightly, casting elongated shadows along the walls.

Reed watches Rogers as she works. She glances up at him briefly, meeting his gaze. A quick nod. So far, so good.

He should have left her on the ship.

The thought comes unbidden, tightening in his chest. She’s his second, she’s the one who the team needs to step up should anything happen to him. Silently, he curses himself, curses himself for allowing them all to get complacent in the quiet weeks that started their mission. It’s too late to change it now, too late to send her back up, and… everything has gone well so far, only one hostile encounter. Maybe he’s worrying for nothing. 

Rogers nods again, carefully moving past the charge she just set to rejoin Sinclair. Malcolm lets himself breathe out. 

“Kee–”

And then it happens. A sudden burst of movement. A shadow that wasn’t there before.

Two shots ring out in quick succession, before they’ve had time to react, the first catches Rogers’ shoulder, leaving a deep, searing wound that Malcolm can see bleeding even with the distance between them. It’s deep enough to scar, but she just grits her teeth, inhales sharply as she brings her phaser up to return fire. 

The second hits Sinclair in the chest. 

As if the world around them slows for a moment, Malcolm watches him stumble back, bring up a hand - his left hand - to the wound, and then fall, hitting the ground with a startling loud noise. 

There’s no time for anyone to react, the hostile is still firing, as if unaware that he’s hit one of them, or maybe hoping to take advantage of their shock. At the front, Mack steps up into his place, he and Rogers firing back automatically, their training taking over. One of them must hit him, because the shots stop and the oppressive silence presses back in, filling the space that Sinclair had been occupying. 

“Lieutenant?” Kowalski murmurs. 

It’s less a question and more a prompt,but it’s Rogers that responds to it, dropping to her knees next to Sinclair, shaking fingers pressing into the side of his neck. Mack moves with her, stays at her side, phaser ready, but his hands are shaking too.

She looks up after a moment, eyes wide, uncertain and suddenly so, so young. “He’s dead.”

None of them move for a moment, Malcolm feels more than he sees Cho bring a hand up to her mouth. 

There’s more movement further down the corridor and everyone’s heads snap around to look in the direction it came from. 

“We keep moving.” He says, the words sounding hollow even to his own ears. 

Kowalski pushes to the front, moving toward Sinclair’s body. His hands tighten into fists as he kneels, reaching out as if to lift him.

Malcolm stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “No.”

The team look up at him with varying levels of disbelief and he has to fight to keep his voice steady. 

“No time. We come back for him later.”

No one disagrees, they know that the mission comes first - even Sinclair knew that - but Kowalski runs a hand through the man’s hair and Rogers gently pushes his eyelids shut before they stand. He lets them have that, a tiny moment to try and come to terms with it. 

And no one says it, but the way they all glance at the prepared explosive tells Malcolm that they know what he knows - if they detonate that, there will be nothing to come back for. 

He takes Sinclair’s place at the front, sends Rogers to take his position at the back. It should have been him to take that hit, and he won’t make the same mistake again. 

*

They don’t even get thanked, in the end, the Vulcan monks barely acknowledge their presence, too caught up in their own actions, in what has been revealed. Archer is talking on their way back, Malcolm can hear the sound of his voice, talking about diplomatic consequences, about Vulcan relations, right and wrong and where they stand, but the only thing he can focus on is the image of Rogers and Kowalski bent over Sinclair’s body.

On the shuttlepod, they squeeze together at the back, let Archer, Tucker, and T’Pol crowd the front, direct them back to the ship, their voices filling the air.

He watches Rogers watch their commanding officers, watches her realise that they have no idea the security team has just lost a member, watches her realise that they haven’t even asked, and presses their knees together as if that can help take some of the weight that he knows is settling on her shoulders.

Maybe Archer says something about a debrief, and maybe he agrees to it, he’s not sure. But he is sure that he needs to be there when the news is broken - or maybe that’s just him reasoning with himself, trying to justify the pull he feels to move with the others, back to the armoury.

There’s a shift in the air when the five of them enter, the feeling of eyes sweeping over the empty space where another person should be.

“Where’s Noah?” Someone asks, Reed isn’t quite present enough in his body to note who, but he does hear the defeat in the way they ask, as if they already know the answer.

He should have taken point. He should have been the one to take that hit. Around him, the team is sinking to the ground, sitting down where they stand.

The silence that follows is different from the one in the monastery. That had been tense, waiting, the precursor to action. This is something else. This is final. Heavy. Defeated. The weight of it settles over them all, pressing down into their bones. No one speaks, because there is nothing to say.

He pulls himself away at some point, doesn’t remember making the choice, just finds himself walking towards the Captain’s ready room, not quite prepared to debrief. He sits, listens, answers when spoken to, but the words barely register. The surprise on Archer’s face when he informs them of Sinclair’s death manages to push through the haze that surrounds him, noted with a hint of angry, ironic humour. Trip’s expression falters just slightly before smoothing over again, but it’s the Subcommander’s reaction that he appreciates, the way her eyes flick briefly to the floor, the almost imperceptible clench of her hands where they’re linked behind her back. He doesn’t remember the rest of the meeting. 

Later, he finds himself in the mess hall. Rogers is there, surrounded by the rest of the security team. It’s clear they’ve broken the news to the night shift—the weight of it hangs over them, settling into their shoulders, making their usual presence feel smaller.

She meets his eyes across the room. There’s a silent invitation there, a quiet plea for him to join them. For just a second, he considers it. Then, from the other side of the room, Trip calls his name.

His feet follow the noise automatically.

Just before he turns away, he catches the hint of defeat in Rogers’ eyes. Guilt coils tight in his chest. He should sit with them, should acknowledge what they've lost together. But he doesn’t. Because if he does, if he lets himself feel it now, he’s not sure he’ll be able to keep moving. 

Around them, the ship moves as it always does—crew members pass by, voices chatter, engineers argue over minor malfunctions. The normalcy is almost unbearable, an insult to the weight pressing down on him. He wants to stop someone, shake them, demand to know how they can carry on like nothing happened. But he doesn’t. Because this is how it works. One person gone, and the ship keeps moving. The normal hum of life aboard Enterprise continues, unshaken, as if nothing has changed. As if the security team haven’t just had part of them yanked away like it's nothing.

Chapter Text

The sound of a steady, slow voice is the first thing Malcolm registers as he swims back towards consciousness; carefully deliberate, halting, each word spoken with a level of focus that suggests both effort and quiet determination.

"If I commanded a general to fly from one flower to the next like a butterfly, or to write a tragedy, or to turn into a seagull, and if the general did not carry out my command, which of us would be in the wrong, the general or me?"

There’s a pause, and then the voice continues, stumbling slightly over the next line: “‘You– you would be,’ said the little prince, quite firmly.

The words are familiar, although it takes Malcolm’s still-addled mind a few moments to connect them to a memory. 

Another voice, softer, murmurs encouragement. “You’re doing great, Reuben.”

He cracks his eyes open, and the world around him slowly comes into focus: Sickbay. The familiar scent of sterilised air. And three members of his security team sitting around him, their presence so casual and unguarded that it takes him a moment to process it. 

For a brief, disorientated second, he wonders if this is another oxygen-deprived hallucination, a tantalising hint of safety before death sets in. The last thing he can remember is the freezing shuttlepod, the slow crawl towards what he had thought would be his last moments. And now, there is warmth, quiet voices, the weight of a hand resting on his ankle and another on his shoulder. He focuses on the sensation of being touched, allows it to ground him, tether him to the present. 

When he blinks again, the three figures around him morph into recognisable faces: Castillo, perched on a chair that has clearly been dragged down from the mess hall, is holding a well-worn copy of The Little Prince , finger tracing the lines as he reads aloud. Moreno is leaning against the bed, close enough that she can see the book as well, and it’s her hand on his ankle, and finally Rogers, perched on the tiny amount of space between Malcolm’s arm and the edge of the biobed. 

Castillo inhales, deliberately, and Malcolm tilts his head just enough to catch the way his jaw tenses in concentration before he begins the next sentence. Through the heaviness of remaining exhaustion and a headache that could have been from the alcohol or the dehydration or even just the oxygen deprivation, he reminds himself that Castillo is dyslexic. It had been one of the notes Rogers had added to his file. Blinking sluggishly, he sees how Castillo looks determined, his finger tracking each word carefully.

"Exactly. One must command from each what each can per—perfor—" He exhales sharply, frustrated. "Moreno."

Moreno, already expecting this, straightens and reads smoothly, "Perform."

Castillo nods quickly, picking up again. "Authority is based first of all upon reason. If you command your subjects to jump in the ocean, there will be a revo—rev—" Another frustrated huff. 

"Revolution," Moreno supplies, uncrossing her legs to nudge one foot against his in encouragement. 

"—revolution. I am entitled to command obedience because my orders are reasonable."

"Good work," Malcolm mutters, his voice hoarse. He shifts slightly, eyes flickering around the room, a brief spike of worry cutting through the haze. "Where’s Trip?"

Castillo startles at his words, nearly dropping the book, and all the attention in the room transfers from him to Malcolm. 

"Sir—" Rogers sits up straighter, relief flashing across her face. 

Moreno lets out a sharp exhale, tension that Malcolm hadn’t noticed she was carrying, easing from her posture, "You're awake." Her hand remains on his ankle, as though she’s forgotten it’s there. 

"Clearly." Malcolm clears his throat, trying to push through the dryness. He lets his gaze settle on Castillo, who still looks a little startled. "You’re doing a great job, Crewman."

A pause. Then, tentatively, "Thanks, sir."

There’s a silence, Rogers’ hand travels from his shoulder up to rest gently against his forehead for a moment, before she wriggles off the bed and moves to the edge of the curtained-off area, glancing back at him before she sticks her head out briefly. 

“Doctor? He’s awake.”

“Trip.” Malcolm repeats, the dryness of his throat finally catching up to him and cutting off the rest of the sentence. 

Rogers is back at his side almost immediately, “Commander Tucker woke up about an hour ago. Phlox discharged him, he’s sleeping off the rest of the effects in his own quarters.”

He nods, relieved, and anything else he might have said is cut off by the appearance of a familiar figure, the beaming smile on Phlox’s face reassuring him once again that he’s back and safe. 

"Ah, Lieutenant, good to see you rejoining the waking world.” He scans Malcolm with a practiced eye before turning a slightly more serious gaze to his visitors. “Now, if you don’t mind—" He turns a pointed glance in the direction of the door. “Out.”

“But—” Rogers’ hand is back on his shoulder, squeezing slightly. 

“I believe the rest of your team would like the news that Lieutenant Reed will live to fight another day, no?”

The three of them exchange a glance. 

“Now, please.” Phlox prompts. “I’m sure he will be on his feet in no time.” There’s an unspoken threat in his pleasant voice. 

Rogers rolls her eyes but stands, Moreno following suit. Castillo lingers for half a second longer before closing the book and tucking it under his arm. He doesn’t miss the way all three of them glance back, leaving a gap in the curtains so they can see him right up until they’re on the other side of the doors. 

Once they’re out of earshot, Phlox sighs, shakes his head, an amused look in his eyes. “They’ve been rotating since you got back. It’s normally impossible to get any of them in here for routine check-ups, but they’re perfectly punctual when it comes to switching over. Quite dedicated, your people."

Malcolm frowns slightly, glancing toward the door just as it slides shut behind them. He doesn’t quite know what to say to that.

Phlox merely smiles. "Now then, Lieutenant. Let’s have a look at you."

*

Later, once he’s been cleared for “light duty only, Lieutenant,” coupled with the threat of having the security team report back to Phlox if he attempts anything else, Malcolm sits in his office and starts on the reports Rogers compiled while he was gone. 

They’re thorough, detailed and exactly what he expects from her. But there are more of them than usual, too many of her meticulous notations - what does it matter to him to Zhao is currently refusing to do anything in engineering because she had an argument with her boyfriend - and additional security checks logged that have never been a part of their standard routine. 

He frowns, flipping through them, something unsettled curling in his stomach.

There’s a knock at the door and he glances up to see Rogers step inside, hands shoved deep into her pockets and a crease between her brows. 

“You’re working already?”

“I was cleared for light duty. And I wanted to check what happened while I was gone.” 

She nods, not meeting his eye. 

"There are a lot of reports," he says evenly, watching her. "More than normal."

"I wanted to make sure everything was covered."

"It would appear you did," Malcolm replies, setting the padd down. He watches her shift from foot to foot. "Unnecessary patrol routes. Twice as many incident logs as usual, the only relevant one being that Whitaker stabbed himself. Even a routine sweep of the maintenance shafts without a single engineering request on file."

Rogers looks away, lips pressing together. "It was a precaution."

"A precaution," Malcolm echoes, raising an eyebrow. "For what, exactly?"

She exhales sharply, somehow shoving her hands even deeper into her pockets. "For you not being here."

Something in her voice makes him pause. The words are clipped, precise, but there’s something underneath them, something uneasy. He leans back slightly. "I was only gone a few days."

"A few days," she shakes her head, an unamused smile curling at her lips. "And for most of that, we thought…” She stops herself abruptly, jaw tensing.

Malcolm stays quiet, waiting.

She inhales slowly, then exhales again, as if trying to steady herself. "You weren’t here. We didn’t know if you were coming back. And someone had to make sure everything kept running."

He should tell her she did well. That he trusts her to handle things. That the team is more than capable. But before he can say anything, she looks at him, and for the first time, there’s something raw in her expression.

"Please don’t leave us." Her voice is quieter now, but no less certain. "Please don’t leave me to run the team alone."

Malcolm stares at her, at the way her fingers tighten around her arm like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud. She doesn’t give him the chance to respond. Instead, she nods once, sharply, and walks out, leaving him alone with her words.

Silence settles over the office in her absence. He exhales slowly, staring down at the reports without really seeing them.

It doesn’t make sense.

He knows – of course he knows – that the team respects him. That they listen to him, follow his orders, trust his judgment. Despite Starfleet’s claims to the contrary, they’re soldiers, and that’s what soldiers do. It’s what they’ve been trained to do. What Malcolm himself has been trained to do. But this? This is something else. 

Precautionary patrols. Shifts in sickbay. The weight of a hand on his shoulder, an arm resting against his leg. Rogers standing in his doorway, looking at him like she’s afraid he’ll disappear if she blinks.

Everything they’ve done suggests care, suggests something further than typical respect, but the thought snags in his mind, impossible to hold onto. He’s their commanding officer. They respect him. They follow his orders. That’s all it is. That’s all it should be.

Isn’t it?

He exhales again, scrubs a hand over his face, then flicks his eyes back down to the reports.

Work. Work is easier to understand.

*

The next knock comes later, when Malcolm is still sitting at his desk, the reports long forgotten. He doesn’t bother to look up. "Come in."

Trip steps through the doorway, into the office, arms crossed and eyes sharp. “Workin’ already?”

It’s almost a repeat of the conversation he had with Rogers, and he gives the same response. “I was cleared for light duty. And I wanted to check what happened while I was gone.”

Trip hums. “They do much?”

He’s forced to look back at the reports, the ones that he just can’t quite grasp the meaning behind, no matter how much he rereads them. “The usual.”

“Heard they did a sweep of the maintenance shafts.” Trip nods to himself. “That no one asked for.”

“They’re bored.” Malcolm finds himself defending. “She’s trying to find things to keep them occupied.”

The other man snorts in a way that makes Malcolm think he’s being mocked. “Uh huh. You know I saw your little bodyguards in Sickbay.”

He doesn’t have a response to that. 

“And you thought no one would miss you if you died."

Malcolm tenses, just slightly. "I’m their commanding officer."

Trip looks at him like he thinks that statement is utterly irrelevant to the conversation they’re having. "Yep."

Silence stretches between them. After months working together, and an unreasonable amount of hours stuck in a tiny shuttle with the man, Malcolm can read him well enough to recognise that he’s letting something settle, waiting to see if Malcolm will challenge it. 

He stares back at the screen, not reading the report about Zhao.

Trip snorts, shakes his head slightly, then shifts his weight like he’s about to leave. Except he seems to change his mind at the last minute, turning back to Malcolm with a casual air. "You know, I would love to meet your parents,"

It’s unexpected enough that he finally looks up from the screen. “What?”

"Just feel like that might explain a lot about you."

Now Malcolm is the one looking at him like that statement is utterly irrelevant to the conversation they’re having. Because it is. "I fail to see how that’s relevant."

"Yeah. I bet you do." Trip claps a hand on his shoulder, squeezes briefly, and then turns to leave, shaking his head as he goes. "Gonna get you to a damn therapist one of these days."

Malcolm watches him go, exhaling sharply through his nose. He’s not sure if the conversation has left him more or less unsettled than before.

*

He's about ready to give in, the confusing mess of the reports, and the conversation with Rogers, and then the one with Trip getting to him in a way he can't describe, when there's a third knock at the door.

Groaning internally, he raises his head to see Di Dio standing there, leaning against the doorframe casually.

"Can I help you, Petty Officer? Or are you here to also comment on the fact that I'm working already?"

Di Dio smiles, almost imperceptibly. “You’ve had visitors already, sir?”

“Just Rogers and Trip.”

“Good.” He folds his arms, tilting his head slightly. "You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a team react this way before." He pauses, watching Malcolm closely.

Malcolm tenses, his fingers curling slightly against the desk. "That’s ridiculous."

"Is it?" Di Dio lifts an eyebrow. "Half of them have barely left the armory except to check on you or file reports that probably didn’t need to exist. Getting them to eat was like herding cats. Rogers hasn’t even tried to hide it."

Malcolm shakes his head. "That’s just overcompensation. She's trying to prove she can handle it."

Di Dio doesn’t move, just studies him, letting the silence stretch between them. "And the rest of them? Were they overcompensating too? Or is it easier to believe that than to accept that they care about you?"

Malcolm exhales slowly, his jaw tight, and looks down at the reports again as if they hold an answer he hasn’t found yet.

"Are you aware that Rogers wrote an unreasonable number of reports while I was gone?"

“Are you aware that the security team needs a lieutenant who’s had enough sleep to be able to function?”

Malcolm exhales sharply, pressing his fingers against his temples. “I was just leaving.”

“Good.” Di Dio steps to the side and waves a welcoming arm at the gap he’s left.

There’s something about him that has Malcolm on his feet and about to step out of the office when he realises what he’s doing. He pauses, straightening. “I don’t need babysitting, Officer.”

“I’m sure you don’t, sir.”

“Then what, exactly, are you doing?”

“Looking out for your wellbeing.”

He sighs. “Why?”

“Well, like I said, the team needs a functioning leader.”

Malcolm narrows his eyes. “The team is functioning fine.”

Di Dio raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “If you say so.”

“I do.”

Silence stretches between them, the tension settling into the space. Malcolm crosses his arms. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

Di Dio huffs out something that is almost a laugh. “You keep saying that like it’s going to change something.”

“It should,” Malcolm snaps, sharper than intended. “I’m your superior officer. You follow my orders, you do your job. If anything, you should worry about Rogers."

Di Dio laughs without humour. "Oh, I do. Trust me, I do, but this doesn't work unless you can accept that we care about you, that we want you to survive this."

"I'm your commanding officer. That's it." Even to his own ears, the response sounds weak. 

Di Dio tilts his head, considering him. “Is it?”

“Yes.”

He exhales through his nose, then shrugs. “Could’ve fooled me. Considering you had the entire team practically fighting over who got to sit with you in sickbay.”

Malcolm shakes his head, dismissive. “That was unnecessary. You didn't need to organise that.”

“No one organised that, sir.” Di Dio’s voice is quieter now, but no less firm. “It came about because there was an argument over who got to sit with you. Emma is good at her job, you know.”

Malcolm thinks back to the reports, the way Rogers had overcompensated, the way the team had hovered. “I do know.”

“Good.” Di Dio watches him for a moment longer, then nods toward the door. “Come on, sir. Let’s get out of here.”

Malcolm hesitates, but after a moment, he finds himself following.

They walk through the armory; it's empty, almost cold without the team in it, in that in-between phase where neither nights nor days are technically on duty. The silence feels strange, unnatural, like a space that should be filled with quiet conversation, the hum of activity, the presence of people who belonged there.

Malcolm’s steps slow slightly as he glances around. The room feels different without them. Less like a place of work and more like something momentarily abandoned, waiting for its people to return.

Di Dio notices. He huffs out a short laugh. "It feels wrong, doesn't it?"

Malcolm exhales, barely a breath. "I suppose."

"You can get to know us, you know," Di Dio says, "and you can ask the question I know has been bothering you since you read my file."

"How do you know what's been bothering me?"

"Emma asked as well." He smiles down at the ground for a moment. "The two of you are so alike, you know."

He sighs. "Why did you get kicked out of the air force?"

"I was caught engaging in an inappropriate relationship with a junior officer."

It's not the answer he was expecting, not from such a solid, seemingly rule-abiding man. 

"Sex." Di Dio clarifies when he takes too long to answer. "We were... well."

"Why?"

"I thought we were in love." The other man replies, honestly. "I thought that she genuinely loved me and we were just waiting for her to reach my rank in order to go public. She saw it slightly differently."

"Sleeping her way to the top?"

"Yeah."

Malcolm looks at him, properly, takes in the lines on his face and the sadness that has overtaken his eyes. "Is that why you're..."

"Why I'm not an Ensign or a Lieutenant?" 

He hums an agreement. 

"Sort of. I did my time as an officer, I made those hard choices, and... well it didn't really get me anywhere in the end." He pauses, takes a breath. "I need the structure of ranks, of command, you know what that's like, but... I don't want to be taken advantage of again, I guess."

Malcolm doesn't really have anything to say to that. 

"I'll do it," he continues, "if it becomes necessary, I'll step up and support Emma. But..."

"You'd rather not."

"I'd rather not."

He opens his mouth to say something else, but a yawn catches him off guard, cutting off whatever thought had been forming.  

"Alright, that’s enough of that. Let’s get you to bed, sir. You’re dead on your feet."

Di Dio walks him to his door, standing there for a moment like he's making sure Malcolm actually goes inside. There's something steady about him, something certain, something that Malcolm recognises as protective. Watching over him in a way his father never did.

Maybe that’s what Trip was talking about earlier.

He's too exhausted to think about it any deeper than that and barely gets his uniform off before he collapses on the bed. Those are things to think about in the morning. 

*

The mess hall is already full by the time Malcolm arrives, later than usual. He doesn’t have to scan the room to know where his team is sitting—he can hear them, voices raised in laughter, the easy kind that comes from familiarity.

He grabs a tray, moving toward his usual seat in the corner, but his feet slow before he gets there.

At their table, Rogers and Di Dio are bickering, their tones playful, Castillo is barely containing his laughter, and Gaeta shakes her head at something Moreno is saying.

It would be easy to keep walking. To sit where he always does, eat his breakfast alone, and leave before anyone can say anything.

Instead, he turns.

Rogers looks up first, eyes widening slightly in surprise, but she doesn’t say anything. She just reaches out and pulls out the empty chair next to her, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The others shift, making room without question.

Malcolm doesn’t quite meet their eyes as he sits, but he doesn’t need to. The conversation picks up like nothing happened.

It doesn’t take long before he’s pulled into it. Rogers is still arguing with Di Dio about some inane detail from a training exercise, and Castillo, ever the instigator, leans over with a barely concealed grin. "Lieutenant, settle this for us. Would you rather fight one sehlat-sized tribble or a hundred tribble-sized sehlats?"

Malcolm exhales, shaking his head, but against his better judgment, he lets himself smile. "That’s an absurd question."

"You still have to answer it," Moreno chimes in, grinning.

He sighs, but there’s no real irritation behind it. "The tribble-sized sehlats. At least I’d have a chance to outrun them."

"Told you," Castillo cheers, smirking as he hits Moreno on the arm.

She scoffs, rolling her eyes. "This is the worst debate we’ve ever had."

Malcolm takes a sip of his coffee, shaking his head as the conversation continues around him. It’s ridiculous, utterly pointless, but he lets himself be drawn in.

Chapter Text

The ship is alive with energy, a rare kind of excitement buzzing through the halls. Their first year in space has been completed. The anniversary alone would be enough to lift spirits, but the Captain’s announcement of shore leave on Risa had sent the entire crew into a near-frenzy. Everywhere Malcolm walks, there’s a palpable sense of anticipation.

He moves through the corridors with purpose, nodding at crewmembers who pass by in various states of enthusiasm. He spots Trip across the hall, garishly dressed in an offensively bright Hawaiian shirt, chatting animatedly with someone. The moment their eyes meet, Malcolm immediately changes course, darting down the nearest side corridor before Trip can catch him.

Further down, he catches sight of Hoshi, who waves cheerfully. He returns the gesture but doesn’t stop, knowing full well she’s probably planning her own excursion planetside. The entire ship is a whirlwind of preparations, conversations overlapping as people discuss their plans, book transport, and make last-minute adjustments to their schedules.

Eventually, he makes his way to the armory, stepping inside just in time to hear Gaeta’s voice ring out:

"We made it!" Gaeta says, punching the air. "A whole year in space!"

"Most of us made it." Rogers corrects, her face turning towards the small space on the wall where they'd pinned up a photo of Sinclair.

Gaeta sighs, wraps an arm around her. "Emma, if Noah was here, he'd want us to celebrate and he would be kicking your ass until you smile."

"That doesn't seem like a very effective way of getting her to smile." Malcolm offers as he walks past.

He gets one unimpressed stare from Gaeta and a tiny smile from Rogers that he counts as a win.

The armoury is just as alive as the rest of the ship, and he already knows that he's going to allow them to bully him into letting them off the ship; the Subcommander has stated that she will remain on board, having no need for the "joys of Risa," as the captain had put it, and it's a peaceful enough area that he feels safe enough to let them all let go for a bit. 

Di Dio jerks his head in Rogers’ direction with a pointed look and he takes the hint, lowering himself to the ground next to her. She’s frowning over an inventory report that he knows she’s already completed.

“What's up with you? Everybody else is celebrating.”

She glances up at him, briefly, and then looks in the direction of the rest of the security team. “They want to go on shore leave.”

“I think everyone wants to go on shore leave.”

She glares at him that time. “As a group.”

“Oh. Well,” he considers this, “you have fun with th–”

“You are not leaving me to deal with this alone!”

“Lieutenant!” Castillo calls from behind him, “you coming too?”

“Do not leave me to deal with this!” Rogers repeats, an expression on her face that suggests she can and will make his life miserable if he does. There’s also a pleading expression in her eyes, slightly panicked, one that he’s learned to mean that she thinks she’s out of her depth. “Please.”

He pauses long enough to weigh up his options — Trip would probably be more than happy to drag him along on whatever nonsense he’s planned — but the image of a completely unsupervised security team, half of them drunk, on Risa, is enough to make him sigh in resignation. "Point taken."

She breathes out, a long sigh of relief, and finally puts the padd away. "Thank you."

"Have you seen Trip's shirt?"

There's a moment where she looks at him like he's lost his mind, and then: "Yes, I spend a lot of time studying Commander Tucker's wardrobe, it's a hobby of mine."

He hits her on the shoulder. "It's a Hawaiian shirt."

"Oh." her face screws up in faint disgust. "Amazing."

"It's hideous." 

"Yeah... I kind of figured that much." 

It doesn’t take long before a major flaw in their planning becomes apparent.

“You don’t have anything other than your uniform?” Malcolm asks, staring incredulously at Rogers, Zabel, and Kowalski.

“I didn’t think I’d need anything else,” Zabel replies defensively.

“We are on duty,” Kowalski points out.

“Not while we’re on Risa, we’re not,” Di Dio counters. “You are not stepping foot off this ship in uniform.”

At least he and Malcolm are in agreement on that. Whatever insane shit they'll inevitably end up involved in, it's probably going to be for the best that no one is able to draw the direct and obvious connection between them and Starfleet.

Rogers crosses her arms, unimpressed. “And why not?”

Di Dio throws an arm around her shoulder. "So, Emma, my darling, they cannot cannot connect us, causing shenanigans, to Starfleet and sully the reputation of this bountiful organisation."

"Bountiful organisation." she repeats. "We're the space navy."

“And we're not planning to cause any shenanigans, sir,” Kowalski says, far too innocently.

Malcolm gives him a flat look. “I find that difficult to believe.”

“Alright, fine,” Rogers sighs. “What do you suggest?”

There’s a moment of sizing-up where the prepared members of the team attempt to determine who is around the same size as the three of them: Rogers is a pretty standard size, and she gets a t-shirt from Zhao and jeans and a jacket from Cho. She patently refuses to wear anyone else’s shoes.

Zabel is notably taller and broader than the rest of the women on the team, not to mention the genuinely horrified expression she makes when presented with one of Zhao’s floral button-ups, but fits into Vassilis and Timmon’s clothes.

Kowalski is the problem. The man is at least five inches taller than the next tallest member of the team and built, as Wolfe succinctly puts it, like a fucking tank.

An argument swiftly commences and Malcolm leaves the corridor all their quarters are on to find a cup of coffee. They're not even off the ship yet and he already has a headache. 

"Hey!"

It's Hoshi again, and he doesn't need to work up a smile, it comes naturally. "Hi, nice dress."

She gives him a whirl, biting down on her bottom lip to stifle a smile. "Thanks. Heard you're going with the security team?"

"Someone's got to keep an eye on them."

"You don't think Emma's capable?"

He shrugs, stabs at the buttons on the coffee machine. "I think she's never actually done anything like this before."

Hoshi's face turns serious. "You're right. I mean, she was, what? Fourteen when she graduated university." A smile splits her expression again. "Oh, she's got no idea what's coming."

"Yeah. Not going to leave her on her own for that."

"How's it going so far? Aside from the not having left the ship yet and already having a headache?"

"Jesus, did I say that out loud?"

She laughs, which he takes as a yes.

"Three of them brought no civvies, only uniform, so that's currently being sorted."

"Ooh, let me guess... Emma."

"Yep."

"Hmmm. Bernadette?"

"Zabel, yeah."

"And..." She trails off, lips pursed up in thought. 

"Kowalski." He says eventually. 

"Oh, of course." She laughs again. "Well, I'll leave you to sort that, have a fun time!"

"You too."

She presses a kiss to his cheek on her way past, snacks grasped in her hands and he shakes his head. He needs to get back to the team. 

Kowalski is shirtless when he returns, standing in the middle of the corridor in just his cargo pants, holding a shirt in his hands. "This is literally a tank top."

"Yeah?" Nguyen says, "well it's either this or a button-up three sizes too small."

He tugs the tank top on, over his head. It doesn't quite cover his stomach and Malcolm presses the back of his hand to his mouth to stifle a laugh.

"No. No, absolutely not. I cannot wear this, you can see my stomach hair."

"It looks hot!" Gaeta says, kicking Moreno, standing next to her until she nods in agreement. "Just roll with it, Henry, you look great."

"I feel stupid." He says. "This is a look for barely legal twinks, not… me."

Malcolm doesn't quite manage to stifle the laugh that time, choking on the mouthful of coffee. The mournful look Kowalski gives him in response doesn't help the matter. 

"You look great." He manages to get out. "Are we ready?"

There are general cheers of agreement from the team.

"Great." He waves them down the corridor, in the direction of the shuttlepod bay. "Let's get out of here."

Kowalski is still pouting when he passes. "I might as well be shirtless."

*

Actually arriving on the planet is much simpler — for them, at least, the poor guy who’s been corralled into piloting the shuttlepod for them seems overly relieved to see them off, shutting the door behind them with more force than is ever really necessary. 

It’s warm, despite the setting sun, and Malcolm takes a moment to glance over the team, already eyeing the bars, the clubs, and everything else Risa has to offer, and exhales slowly. They haven’t misplaced anyone yet, but it’s going to be a long night. 

“We are not,” Rogers begins, shoving her way to the front of the group, “going to be getting into any trouble. Or ‘shenanigans’ while we’re here.”

The air quotes around ‘shenanigans’ are almost audible. 

“Calm down,” Castillo says, grinning. “It’s not like we’re going to be getting into any bar fights.”

Her eyes widen notably, and Malcolm thinks, with some exasperation, that she hadn't even considered bar fights as an option for trouble until he had said that. 

“No bar fights,” he confirms, moving through until he can rest a hand on her shoulder, “we’re smart enough not to get involved in that.”

They don’t even last long enough in the first bar to order drinks, unceremoniously kicked out with the door slammed shut behind them. 

“No children.” The bartender had said, and Malcolm blinked at her until she gestured at Emma. 

“She’s not a child.”

The bartender scoffed. “The rest of you can stay, but she needs to go.”

“I cannot believe that.” Rogers mutters, arms crossed as they regroup on the street.

A few of the others are hiding laughter behind their hands, but the genuine distress in her tone has Malcolm shooting them warning looks. 

“I said you look young,” Gaeta says, swinging an arm around her shoulders, “it’ll be a blessing in ten years.”

“I do not look young, I look exactly twenty-two!"

"The bartender thought you were seventeen."

"The bartender is blind!"

"Not blind enough to let us stay," Malcolm interjects dryly, "Let's move on."

They last longer in the second bar, but it doesn’t really go much better.

It starts out fine. The drinks are good, the atmosphere is lively, and Malcolm is almost beginning to relax.

And then he hears the telltale sound of a chair scraping violently against the floor, followed by a very loud, very irritated voice saying, "You wanna say that again?"

He doesn’t need to turn around to know it’s Kowalski.

Rogers looks at Malcolm. Malcolm looks at Rogers.

"…That didn't take long," she mutters.

They are, once again, kicked out. This time with unceremonious instructions to “stay out!” as well. 

"We were in there fifteen minutes," Rogers groans, dragging a hand down her face.

"New record?" Castillo offers helpfully.

"Not even close," Di Dio says, clapping Kowalski on the back. "But a solid effort."

Someone near the front starts walking again and the rest of them follow. 

“What happened to “we’re smart enough not to get involved” in bar fights?” Rogers hisses in his ear.

Malcolm throws an arm around her shoulders, pulls her into him just in time to stop her walking into someone, and laughs. The alcohol has already started working its way through his body and he feels lighter, looser, it’s easier to laugh. 

“I’m serious!” She insists. “Clearly, we’re not.”

“It’s fine.” He says in her ear, needing to lean closer as they approach the next bar and the noise begins to spill out around them. “It was quick, we got kicked out, it happens.”

The only word for what her face does is ‘pouts’ and it makes him laugh again. 

“I don’t like it.” 

Malcolm doesn’t get to respond; someone opens the door to the club they’re approaching and several people spill out along with a deafening noise that makes Rogers cringe further into his side. 

Even from their distance, it’s clear that the place is packed, little room left between people for the rowdy voices, clatter of glasses, and low-lit but high-energy atmosphere.

At the front of their group, the team is already moving away, drifting gently in their direction.

Rogers peels herself away from Malcolm long enough to squint in through the window and then at the rest of the team. “Too loud?”

Gaeta nods immediately. “Way too loud.”

Malcolm’s attention shifts, and his gaze catches on a familiar figure inside. Through the open doors, he spots Trip at a table, playing cards with two alien women, grinning like he’s already deep into whatever ridiculous scheme he’s involved in. Sighing, he turns back to the group. 

“Moving on?”

They move on. 

They make it to the next bar without incident, which probably shouldn’t feel like an accomplishment, and yet it does. It’s better: quieter, more low-lit, with the soft hum of music threading through the background. The kind of place where you can actually hold a conversation without needing to yell over the noise.

A few of the ones at the front scout out a booth, pushed into a corner, that was probably designed to hold around ten people, and not the twenty-three that they manage to squeeze in. It’s got a wooden ledge that holds the sofa to the wall, and a few of the younger ones — Rogers included — scramble up to sit on that, their legs resting over people’s shoulders. One of Rogers’ feet ends up nearly on Malcolm’s shoulder and the other hovers dangerously close to Kowalski’s head. Malcolm doesn’t bother pointing it out; Kowalski probably wouldn’t care. 

The bar may not be as busy as the others, but it is still populated; a few of the other patrons are eyeing them like they’re an oddity, which they probably are, but no one says anything. It’s hard not to draw attention when you travel in a pack of twenty-odd Starfleet officers, most of them still vibrating with adrenaline from their first shore leave in a year.

Someone demands drinks from the other side of the table, and almost everyone gets up to move towards the bar. Malcolm manages to squeeze out from between Cho and Kowalski and claps neatly. They all fall into line, sitting back down and looking at him hopefully. 

“Let’s not overwhelm the staff.” He says. “A few of us can go up and get everyone’s drinks.”

There’s a general murmur of agreement and the few that are on the edge slide out to accompany him to the bar. Rogers is among them and Malcolm catches Di Dio’s eye and gives the tiniest tilt of his head toward Rogers. Di Dio’s eyes widen slightly before he nods in understanding. No one needs a repeat of the first bar. While he attempts to get some sort of list out of everyone, he sees Di Dio lean in to whisper in her ear, something about keeping an eye on the others while he and Reed are at the bar. She rolls her eyes but nods. 

When the drinks come back, they settle into conversation. Malcolm finds himself wedged between Vassilis and Zhao, with Rogers still perched just over his shoulder. Her foot swings lightly, knocking into his arm every so often.

He leans into her leg, tilting his head up just enough to see her laugh at something Vassilis says, Gaeta hitting him on the arm. There’s more conversation on the opposite side of the table, shared stories and memories from the past year.

"I can't believe we actually made it through the year," Gaeta says, leaning back with a sigh. "I mean, I thought we were done for when the hull started cracking in that Romulan encounter."

"I can't believe we actually made it through the year," Gaeta says, leaning back with a sigh. "I mean, I thought we were done for when the hull started cracking in that Romulan encounter."

A few people wince, and Malcolm rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t that bad.”

He’s ignored.

"Or when the ship got stuck in that spatial distortion," Zhao adds.

"Or when half the crew got knocked out with that damn virus," Kowalski offers.

"Yeah," Rogers chimes in, "and who was it who managed to fix that whole situation by dragging himself out of sickbay to reroute power to environmental controls?"

The nearest eyes all turn to look at Malcolm and he takes a sip of his drink to cover up the smile threatening to burst through. "Just doing my job."

A few people scoff. 

"Right," Gaeta drawls. "And climbing through the Jeffries tubes with a fever of 104 is standard procedure?"

"I didn't have a fever." He absolutely did, but that's not the point.

“Yeah,” she says, “sure.”

He reaches around the others to whack her on the shoulder. “We survived. That's the important thing."

In the corner of his vision, Rogers’ leg tenses, stops swinging for a moment, and he realises his mistake. 

“Most of us survived.”

The table goes silent for a moment. Memories of P’Jem floating in the air between them like a tangible presence. Malcolm remembers Sinclair’s laugh, loud and clear in a way that most laughs aren’t. He can still see the way he’d pull his uniform down, almost out of habit, before running into a situation without hesitation. The empty space at the table feels sharper now.

Di Dio clears his throat, lifts his glass. “To Leftie.”

The rest of them follow suit, echoing his words. “To Leftie.”

Malcolm feels a quiet warmth settle over him as they drink. It’s strange, this feeling: being included, of being part of something bigger than himself. A year ago, he never would have imagined this, not letting his guard down, nor feeling this at ease.

"Alright," Gaeta says, shaking off the mood, "since we’re being sentimental — callsigns."

"We’ve already got some locked in," Vassilis points out.

“Yeah, yeah,” she waves him off, “let’s make it official. Besides, the Lieutenant hasn’t heard them yet.” 

He leans forward, rests his elbows on the table and waves his hands open. “Let’s hear them.”

“Juliet Zhao!” Rogers begins, the alcohol has already started to loosen her up, her smiles freer and her air of authority fading away. Malcolm wonders, briefly, if they see the same in him. 

“No!” Zhao protests.

“Romeo!” A good portion of the table cheers and she throws her hands up. 

"It’s not funny,"

"It’s incredibly funny," Kowalski counters. "You were caught making out with an engineer two weeks into the mission,"

Malcolm had known that, if only through the absolute bullying that the rest had (lovingly) inflicted on her when it happened. 

"And now you’re still together," Gaeta adds, pressing her hands dramatically over her heart, “which means it’s true love,"

"Don’t jinx it," Zhao warns, but she’s smiling.

Di Dio is dragged up next, and he also throws his hands up in protest, but he’s smiling the whole time. 

“Pops.”

He sighs, loudly. “I hate it.”

"You're the oldest one here," Rogers says. "And you act like it."

"Fatherly concern is not the same thing as being old."

“So you admit, it’s fatherly concern?”

He hesitates long enough for the table to start laughing at him. 

“And I’m not old!”

"Tell that to your knees," Mack yells, garnering attention from the other patrons that they all ignore. 

"Jake Whitaker," Rogers announces, and then, quieter. “Pops came up with this one: D.A.S.H.”

Malcolm raises an eyebrow. “Dash?”

There’s snickering from the people at the table who are in the know. 

“Dumbass stabbed himself.”

He can’t quite stop the snort of laughter, remembering the exasperation that Rogers had managed to put into that report, even among the stress of himself and Trip being missing. 

"I stabbed myself once," Whitaker protests.

"In training,"

"It was one time."

"And yet," Gaeta grins.

He throws a balled-up napkin across the table at her, catching her solidly in the forehead, and Malcolm leans over to intercept it before it can devolve into anything more. 

“Kowalski!” Rogers continued, undeterred by Gaeta’s threats to the newly-dubbed Dash’s life. She leans down to throw her arms around his shoulders, nearly catching him in the chin with her thankfully empty glass. 

“Oh,” Malcolm remembers this, “Bear, right?”

“Yes! Because one of the botanists thought you were an alien bear!”

They all look at Kowalski, his enormous statue taking up more of the booth than seems fair. 

“I mean…” Vassilis says, “I get it.”

Laughter rolls through the table. Malcolm finds himself smiling, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. It's easy, this camaraderie, and natural in a way that still unsettles him sometimes.

The night wears on; eventually a load of them get up to dance, taking over the space in the middle of the floor. Malcolm stays put, nursing his drink and letting Emily Cho doze off against his leg. Her head rests comfortably on his thigh, and he carefully adjusts so she doesn’t slip.

It’s nearly time to re-meet at the rendezvous point when the bartender turns on the lights and yells at them all to leave, and they spill back out onto the streets, laughing and yawning, Cho thrown over Bear’s shoulder and Rogers being supported by Mack. 

He can see the shuttlepods, and the poor souls that will be flying them back, and is considering calling the whole thing a success, even with the first two bars, when there’s a few gasps behind him, followed by amused whispering.

"Uh, Commander?" Mack’s voice is full of suppressed laughter.

Malcolm turns to look, and promptly regrets it.

Trip stands there, wearing nothing but his underwear. His expression is flat, as though daring someone to comment. No shoes, no shirt, and yet apparently he received service. 

"No questions," he informs the group of them, “do not. Ask.”

“Oh, but I really want to,” someone whispers at the back, loud enough for Malcolm to hear, but not quite loud enough to reach the man in question. 

"Yes, Commander," he agrees, attempting to stop his mouth from twitching. It’s not, apparently, successful, because Trip glares at him. 

“Wouldn’t have happened if you’d agreed to come with me.” He mutters as he stalks off towards the shuttles. 

The team lean around to watch him go and Malcolm finally allows himself one snort of laughter as he begins to herd them in the direction of their transport. 

Hoshi reappears, looking suspiciously pleased with herself, and is immediately accosted by some of the women from the team. 

“You’re glowing!” Zhao exclaims, ducking under Moreno’s arm to push herself into Hoshi’s side. 

She says something in response and gets a chorus of startled laughter. Malcolm can’t quite make out what it is, and a part of him thinks that maybe that’s for the best. 

“What happened to Sato?” Vassilis asks, peering around him to the group of women. 

They watch as she says something else and gets whacked on the shoulder by all her laughing companions. 

"Don’t ask," Malcolm mutters.

“Yeah… that might be best.”

Chapter Text

“Exploring unexplored space is, quite literally, our job description.” Rogers is saying when Malcolm wanders back into the armoury. And he doesn’t think that he’ll ever tire of walking in on their pointless conversations. 

They’re supposed to be doing drills, but O’Malley, Foster, and Whitaker are still technically off-duty after the fallout from the Suliban incident, and with most of the others still nursing minor wounds, Malcolm’s been a little more lax with them recently.

“We gotta make it explored.” Nguyen agrees. “Where no one has gone before, or whatever.”

Rogers catches his gaze where he leans on the doorway to watch the group for a moment, and rolls her eyes.

Malcolm can't quite bite down on the laugh. "Keep that up, and you'll get a callsign to do with stating the obvious, Nguyen."

The Crewman scowls up at him from the floor. "Rogers said it first, why doesn't she get that?"

"I don't do it regularly."

There's a scattering of laughter across the room. He walks further in and slides down the wall to sit next to Rogers.

"How's the training going?"

"Oh, perfectly." She waves a hand at the assembled crew. "Just look at us."

Tanner stretches out a leg to kick her. "Any updates from the bridge, Lieutenant?"

"Not currently, we're just... drifting, I suppose."

"Hmm. Fun."

"I don't like it." Zabel says from where she's resting against the wall on Rogers' other side. "Things being too calm makes me uneasy, it's like we're building up to something."

"Or," Wolfe suggests, "you're just paranoid."

"Isn't paranoia literally our job?"

The two of them turn to look at Malcolm, clearly expecting him to be the deciding vote. Internally, he can't help but agree with Zabel; it has been almost too quiet, the Suliban being the only major incident their second year has had, but... as a team leader. "You've got a point there, Cassie."

Wolfe punches the air, and nearly Zabel's nose since she's lying with her head in the other woman's lap, and promptly gets shoved off. Her head makes an ominous thud when it hits the floor and Zabel is on her in a second, hands cradling the back of her skull.

"Oh, my god, Cass, I am so sorry!"

The woman in question is clearly uninjured, rolling onto her side and laughing in response, but that doesn’t seem to quell Zabel’s guilt.

“How could you do that to me?” she asks, mock serious through her laughter, “me, a member of your team!”

She gets a punch to the shoulder in response.

“Shut up, I was actually worried there.”

Malcolm leans back into the wall, smiling, and lets the easy atmosphere wash over him, lets the bickering become background noise and relaxes. Rogers leans her head on his shoulder, blonde curls tickling his chin, and together they watch Zabel and Wolfe mock-fight, rolling over the floor and each other.

He thinks about saying something, about asking how everyone’s been getting on, how the injuries are healing, what Rogers is planning to make them do tomorrow, but the comms chirp before he can muster up any words. The sharp sound cutting through the steady noise of bickering in the background and sending an icy feeling down his spine. 

The sound of their laughter cuts off, leaving a heavy silence in their wake, and he sees a few of them reach for weapons that aren't at their sides as they turn as one towards the wall. Rogers lifts her head from his shoulder, taking her warmth with her, leaving space for the ice to creep across his body.

Archer’s voice comes through, clear and steady and yet unexpected. "All bridge personnel to their stations."

He exchanges a look with Rogers: nothing good ever comes of that call, and clambers to his feet. She’s moments behind him, the team’s relaxed atmosphere stilled, eleven people looking at him, ready for whatever happens next.

"Understood, sir.” he says into the comms, and glances at Rogers. "Keep them on standby."

She gives him a quick nod, he can see the preparations running behind her eyes, her fingers twitching, aware that they’re still weakened with most of the team injured. "Aye, sir."

He spares the team one last glance, suddenly missing the camaraderie like an extra limb. The part of him that never really got to be a child selfishly wants to go back, to ignore the call and pull the warmth of his team back over him like a blanket. But he can't, not now, not ever, burying his head in the sand has never been an option. He turns on his heel, so they don't see the shuddering breath he releases, and heads for the bridge, an uneasy weight settling in his stomach and growing heavier with every lonely step.

He’s halfway to the bridge when the mine hits; the entire ship seems to rock with the force, sending him into a wall. It’s nothing major, he spent his childhood on the water and it’s easy to fall back into those motions, one hand on the wall, as he picks up the pace, predicting the next rocking motion and moving through it. Still, he's the last one to arrive on the bridge, and while Archer's tension is probably due to the situation, he can't help but take it like a personal failing, shame hitting him squarely in the chest as he takes his seat and checks over the damages. 

Maybe that's why he volunteers to go out and check, he muses, later, instead of staying inside and sending one of his team – one of the ones with extensive training in the engineering side of things – out onto the hull instead. 

The pain in his leg isn't as bad as it should be. Shock, his brain provides unprompted, shock and adrenaline are keeping him from feeling the pain, and leaving too much space for him to lie there and contemplate his failings. 

The weight of the mine presses down on him, an immovable presence and yet somehow… comforting, the same way a hand on his shoulder could have been. Underneath him, the ship thrums gently, power moving through the systems, silent in the vast vacuum of space, but the vibrations are there nonetheless. 

He stares up, waiting, watching the unfamiliar pattern of stars and wonders if anyone has ever tried to make constellations from this particular angle. Maybe he should; he can almost see a horse in the shapes above him. Maybe he could leave that behind, something that only he would ever see. 

He’s alone. It hadn’t taken much prompting to send the engineer back inside the ship – Malcolm can’t remember his name, probably should – and despite his own insistence that the man return and report to the captain, a small part of him thinks that Trip wouldn’t have just left him there. His team certainly wouldn’t have. 

The ship is still moving, only slightly, gently drifting forward and the movement of the stars is a reminder of just how precarious his position is. One wrong move, one shift in pressure, and…

No. He cuts that thought off before it can fully form. Not helpful.

He forces himself to reassess the situation, to push past the rising edge of panic. But his breathing is loud in the confined space of the suit, and he can’t help but think that they should have contacted him by now. 

He shuts his eyes. Breathes in through his nose. His leg is pinned, but he's still conscious. Still capable of thinking clearly. That's something.

And then the comms finally crackle, Archer’s voice cutting through the silence. "Reed, report." There’s an air of urgency in his voice, slight panic hidden under the controlled response.

“Captain,” he replies, swallowing hard. His mouth is dry, his voice slightly croaky, “bit of a situation here, sir.”

“Danvers told us.”

Danvers, that was the guy’s name. “The mine’s attached itself to my leg. I’m pinned."

There’s silence from the comms for a second and then Archer’s voice returns. “We’re in Romulan space, Malcolm. They’re asking us to leave immediately.”

That’s odd, he hadn’t seen another ship. Maybe it’s on the other side, hidden to him behind the Enterprise’s metal body. “I see.”

“They’re threatening… conflict, if we don’t.”

“I see.”

He hears the way Archer swallows. “It’s gonna take some time to get people out there to disarm the mine and get you back. Your suit is compromised.”

That hadn’t occurred to him yet, the only thing currently holding the internal pressure of his space suit, not to mention the oxygen, is the fact that the mine is still in place.

“I see.”

Well, the solution is obvious, all things considered. He states it plainly, though Archer huffs out a frustrated laugh when he does.

"We can't jump to warp with you pinned to the hull."

"You can, sir. And you will have to." The weaker part of him wants to ask for a sedative or maybe a phaser, so he can take himself out rather than going through the experience of being ripped to pieces at light speed. "Your duty is to protect the crew."

Archer makes that same frustrated sound. "You're part of the crew, Malcolm."

The shock is starting to wear off, the feeling in his leg creeping back up on him, and he sucks in another breath of his limited oxygen, grits his teeth against the feeling. "The needs of the many, sir."

He doesn't hear the captain's response, his mind turned, almost suddenly, to his team, wondering if they've been told what happened yet, or if they're still on standby in the armoury, waiting for his return. 

They’ll be listening in soon, if they aren’t already. Rogers will be pacing, jaw tight, hands clenched at her sides. Di Dio will be still, at her side, watching, waiting, ready to be her support the moment it's needed. They’re capable. He’s trained them well. They don’t need him.

It’s a strange thought, the idea of being… replaceable. He should find comfort in it, in knowing the ship and her people will go on without him. But he doesn’t.

Not yet.

"Look, we're working on it." Archer's voice says. "Just hold on for us, OK? Hoshi's going to stay on the comms with you, and we'll send someone up with another oxygen tank."

"Yes, sir." He says, attempting to call up frustration that the man won't just do what's necessary, but the only emotion that wells up in him is relief. 

"Mal?" It's Hoshi's voice in his ear now.

"Hey." 

There's a small, wet-sounding sniffle from the other end of the comms. A pause. "How are you doing?"

There's a mine pinning him to the hull. "Pretty good, all things considered."

"Do you want to talk to anyone? I can call Emma up?"

Emma. Yes. That's a good idea, he's got the opportunity to brief her in taking over his position, so he should take it. 

"Yeah. Rogers... and Di Dio too."

"OK," she sucks in an audible breath, "OK, give us a minute, yeah?"

"Yeah."

He drifts for a moment, loses track of time, raises a hand, lets it float through the zero gravity so he can draw imaginary lines between the constellations he had noticed earlier. 

“They’re here.” Hoshi says.

“Lieutenant?” It’s Rogers, her voice taut, controlled. She leaves the comm open longer than she probably intends to, unused to being on the bridge. 

It’s silent behind them, the usual background hum of conversation and movement stilled, and Malcolm hates that he’s the cause of that. 

“Rogers.” He says, trying to keep the relief out of his voice. “Is…?”

“Pops is here with me.” Her voice is quieter, as if she’s trying to keep the callsign private, not let the other bridge crew hear it. 

He exhales. “Good.” 

No one says anything for a long moment and takes that time to pull himself back together, to draw in the floating threads of his professionalism. “Listen, this doesn’t look good…”

Rogers cuts him off with a sound that crackles through the comms. It could have been a sob, it could have been a laugh. “The Captain and Commander Tucker are working on it. We’re going to get you back.” 

“I know. But if something happens to me…”

She cuts him off again, harsher, he can almost imagine her fists clenched at her sides as she keeps herself in parade rest. "Sir, with all due respect, shut the hell up,"

“Di Dio.”

“I’m with Emma on this one, sir, respectfully, shut the hell up.”

He exhales, but doesn't stop. "You'll need to handle security rotations. Make sure Kowalski gets that updated roster from…”

“I know!” Rogers snaps. “I know what to do if that happens.”

“Emma.” Di Dio says, quieter. Malcolm hopes he has a hand on her shoulder. 

“He’s talking like he’s already dead!”

“I’m preparing for the worst.” 

“Let’s talk about something else.” Hoshi interrupts, ever the peacemaker. 

“Like what?” Rogers hasn’t lost the tension in her voice, but it’s slackened slightly. 

Even over the comms, Malcolm can almost hear Hoshi trying to come up with an alternative topic. 

“Uh, what’s the view like out there?”

Both of the security officers chorus something that sounds like, “Are you serious?” And Malcolm smiles, despite himself. 

“The stars kind of look like a horse from here.”

There’s a very long pause from the other side of the comms before Rogers speaks again. 

“Are you alright? Do you need us to send Phlox out?”

“No. I’m fine, I just thought you might like to know about the horse.”

Another pause. Malcolm can almost see her and Hoshi exchanging a glance. 

“Any… any others? Constellations?” 

“No.” Death seems so close there, like he’s a fly on the windshield of a car—insignificant, fragile.

The silence stretches, heavy and absolute, pressing in against him. He can feel the slow, deliberate rise and fall of his breathing, the subtle strain of his body against the metal pinning him down. His fingers twitch against the hull, trying to convince himself that he’s still here, still real.

“Emma?”

She responds instantly. “Here.”

“I don’t know if…” He’s starting to lose feeling in his leg. A bad sign. “You need to be prepared for…”

He hears Hoshi whisper his name in the background as Rogers says something—a jumbled, emotional flow of words, mostly French, tangled with panic.

Archer cuts through her confused protest, firm and unshakable. “Reed, we are not losing you today.”

There's silence from both ends of the comms, stretching tight. His breath catches, an almost painful feeling gripping his chest—something sharper, deeper than just fear.

"Do you hear me?"

Malcolm exhales, slow and deliberate. “Understood, sir.”

The weight of it lingers, pressing into the space between his ribs as the line goes quiet again. He lets his head rest back against the suit, staring up at the stars. The slow drift of them across his visor is mesmerizing, a quiet, distant rhythm that stands in stark contrast to the chaos around him.

He never wanted a window in his quarters—knew the movement would make him nauseous—but now, he almost regrets it.

It’s so peaceful.

“Hey,” Hoshi again, voice softer this time, careful. “You still with us?”

His words seem to stick in his mouth, have to be dragged out in a slur. “I’m here.”

There’s a rustle of movement over the comm, then Di Dio’s voice cuts in. “Emma left.”

Malcolm blinks sluggishly, the words slow to sink in. “Rogers?”

“Stormed out.” Di Dio confirms. His voice is steady, but there’s something under it. Frustration? Worry? Reed isn’t sure. The man is difficult to read at the best of times. 

That shouldn’t bother him. It shouldn’t. But the thought of Rogers—of the sheer force of will that keeps her together—makes his chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with his current predicament.

For a moment, an old memory flickers at the edges of his mind—her laughter in the training bay after he’d scolded her for getting too cocky, the way she’d grinned, all bright-eyed confidence. The way she’d rolled her eyes but still listened.

He swallows. “She’ll be fine.”

“I hope so,” Di Dio says simply.

Silence stretches out between them again, filled only by the quiet hum of his suit systems and the distant sound of Archer speaking with Trip over the open channel.

Reed closes his eyes for a second, then forces them open again. He cannot fall asleep out here. He cannot let himself drift.

“Talk to me,” he murmurs. “Keep me awake.”

Hoshi hesitates for only a beat before answering. “Alright,” she says.

He lets himself drift on the sound of her voice, mumbling responses whenever she prompts them.

Someone does come up and change the oxygen tank, it might have been Trip, but his vision is blurred, eyelids heavy, and he can’t quite turn his head to see.

Time seems to pass in a haze. Maybe he sees the Romulan ship at one point, weapons ready to fire, maybe he sees another person, crouched beside him, cradling his body as they poke at his leg. Maybe Rogers comes back and says something to him. It's hard to tell. Everything drifts into each other, one steady stream of things happening, until the Captain's voice cuts through, firm and certain. 

"Still with us, Malcolm?"

He thinks he manages to get out a confirmation.

"Good." The other man says, a relieved, breathy quality to his voice. “We’ve got a plan, OK? We're gonna get you back in.”

It's not quite relief that washes through him, loosening something deep in his chest, as much as it is a feeling of rightness. A feeling that this is how things should have happened; Archer said they weren't losing him today, and he followed through. His body sags again against the suit, and this time, he lets his eyes close.

Darkness takes him.

*

Trip’s at his bedside when he wakes, and Malcolm’s still out of it enough to frown, looking around the room for people that aren’t there.

“Phlox kicked ‘em out.”

“What?”

“Your security team? Yeah, apparently they were tryna all be in here and Phlox nearly lost his shit.”

Malcolm takes a bemused moment to try and picture the concept of Phlox losing his shit. The image doesn’t quite land with his brain still foggy and the edges of the room wavering slightly, shifting.

“Hoshi and I only managed to get them to leave by promising one of us would stay with you.”

“Oh.” He tries to sit up.

The world tilts. Not dramatically, but enough to make his stomach lurch and his vision blur for a second. He eases back again, dragging in a breath through his nose. His leg pulses with a dull ache, but Phlox has clearly done his best work. Malcolm feels… mostly alright. Whole, at least. Solid. Present.

Trip kicks his feet up as he continues. “Apparently they nearly revolted against Rogers when she wouldn’t let any of ‘em go out to sit with you.” He frowns. “Told the Captain not to let me go out either.”

“Wh– why?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. That woman is an enigma and a half, I’ll tell you that.”

Malcolm doesn’t answer. Doesn’t quite know how to. There’s something hot and tight and inexplicable lodged in his chest. He hadn’t asked her to do that. Wouldn’t have. But she had anyway.

He doesn’t know what to make of that.

Gratitude, maybe. Or frustration. Or both, twisted together in the same breathless knot.

Chapter Text

The shift into the catwalk is chaotic in the way only a well-practiced crew can manage. Dozens of people, each carrying gear or guiding others, moving in coordinated bursts of motion. The air is already thick with recycled heat, and the low hum of systems running on emergency power makes conversation strangely muffled.

But, as much of a hassle as it is to get the entire crew into one, confined space, there does actually turn out to be more room than Malcolm was expecting. Not much, it’s certainly “cozy” as Trip remarks when he clambers in, but enough that they aren’t packed in like sardines.

He’s waiting, with the Captain, at the small entrance when Rogers appears again, accompanied by Dunn – normally on night shifts and just irritated enough about having his schedule thrown out – and Wolfe.

“Secured?”

“Yessir. Everything’s in place and locked, shields are up, and autopilot seems to be working fine.”

She glances back at Dunn to confirm her final observation and he gives them a grunt of agreement. Malcolm sees Archer frown out of the corner of his eye; Dunn has never been particularly verbose, but Malcolm does trust that he would say if something were wrong.

“Good. Ready to go in?”

The three of them glance up the small ladder, and he watches Rogers grimace. She’s not meeting his eye. Hasn’t really, since the minefield incident, Certainly, she hasn’t been unprofessional; speaks to him when it’s necessary, quick acknowledgments in briefings, a few sharp nods. But she’s slid away from her normal space at their breakfast table, no longer at his left hand, and he can’t quite work out why.

"What's it like in there?" Wolfe asks, peering up the ladder. 

"Cozy." He deadpans, borrowing Trip's phrasing from earlier, and it does get a quick smile out of the two women. 

"Ah, great. Bernie's gonna love it then."

He smiles himself at that; Zabel's dislike of small spaces is well-documented among the security team, to the point that she has been asked why she signed up to go to space at all, considering her obvious preference for being outside. 

"Alright, after you."

Rogers' head snaps around, her gaze moving from the small entrance to Malcolm's face like a predator spotting movement from their prey. 

“Actually, sir,” she says, voice sharp with something he can’t quite name, “I think the senior officers should head in first. We’ll follow behind.”

There’s a beat of silence. Malcolm raises an eyebrow, but before he can ask what she means, Archer shrugs. “Fine by me.”

Wolfe glances at Rogers, a faint crease between her brows. Dunn tilts his head, clearly considering questioning it, but then nods once, slow and firm.

No one pushes back. No one asks why.

Malcolm steps forward, casting a glance over his shoulder. Rogers isn’t looking at him. Neither are Wolfe or Dunn, not directly. Just standing there, quiet and unreadable.

He climbs the ladder, still not sure what game they’re playing—or if it’s even a game at all.

He pauses just before ducking into the crawlspace, something itching at the back of his neck. It’s not mutiny, not exactly. But there’s weight behind their silence. Agreement. A shared message they’ve delivered without ever saying it out loud.

And for the first time in a long while, Malcolm doesn’t know what that message is.

They scramble in behind him, concealing their weapons from the crew — it was agreed that they keep a couple of phasers on them, just in case something goes wrong, but it’s a tightly kept secret. They don’t need anyone reacting badly to that fact if everything goes right.

Wolfe and Dunn both pat him on the shoulder as they pass, gentle gestures that only further his thought that, while they aren't challenging him, not out loud, there's a shift there. A shift in the dynamic he's too tired to unpack, but not blind enough to miss. Trust, maybe. Or doubt. Or something worse: protection.

He doesn't know which unsettles him more.

Rogers is the last one in, her boots thudding on the floor, slightly lighter than the other two.

“Have you done a headcount?” she asks, wringing her hands together as a few of the engineers shut and seal the ‘door’ behind them.

“No, Ensign, I am incapable of doing the basics of my job.”

“Jesus, Mal, don’t get like that, we’re gonna be in here for a while.” Trip throws an arm around his shoulders and he resists the urge to push him off.

He breathes out through his nose. “Yes. I did a headcount. With the three of you, everyone is now accounted for.”

“There we go, isn’t that nicer?” Trip leans around him to grin at Rogers. “We’ll have to train him or something. Pineapple for saying nice things.”

Rogers side-eyes him. “Yes, Commander.”

Malcolm doesn't miss the slight change in her expression that makes him think she's re-evaluating the decision to live in the confined space for the next week. Or maybe the benefits of letting Trip live in it with them. 

"I think it's a good idea."

"Yes, Commander." She repeats. Her voice is dry and clipped, as if she's shelving a retort And she walks off without another word.

The two of them watch her go.

“Y’know. Sometimes I feel like she’s not that fond of me.”

Malcolm looks at him. “Really?”

He hears Trip spluttering indignantly as he slips out of the other man’s hold and follows his SIC to the small area the security team have claimed.

The space is already heating up, muggy with recycled breath and too many bodies. The walls radiate a low, constant heat from the engines below, and the smell of metal and sweat is setting in fast.

A few groups of people have already given up on any air of professionalism and stripped down as far as they each think is reasonable.

“So,” Gaeta is saying, as she approaches, “how long until Commander Tucker strips down?”

“Five minutes.” Mack offers.

“Two.” Whitaker counters.

There’s a pause, and Gaeta raises her hands. “C’mon. No other bets?”

“Well, he’s already taken off his top half, so if we’re counting that then… thirty seconds?”

They all follow the direction Vassilis is gesturing in, and find that, yes, he has already started stripping down.

“Well, there goes all my ideas for entertainment.”

She gets a couple pairs of socks thrown at her and laughs, chucking them back to their owners. One goes rogue and hits an engineer on the head. It does not get returned.

There is no privacy. Absolutely none. People are already staking out what corners they can, laying out sleeping bags or curling up with blankets. Engineers and command crew alike, crammed into shared confinement.

Even in this chaos, the security team falls into formation automatically. They’ve claimed a small area near one end of the catwalk, and even sat cross-legged or half-reclining on the floor, there’s a clear pattern. A defensive shape.

Malcolm ends up front and center without even meaning to, Rogers directly at his side. She doesn’t say anything, just drops into position and starts checking the supplies stashed nearby.

He’s still standing up, almost towering over his sitting team, and, without any other direction, picks his way around people’s arms and legs, careful not to step on anyone, checking on each group as he passes. 

Hoshi had started up a small poker ring, although it seems to have fallen apart slightly as she kept winning, and only Travis and one of the cockier engineers are still playing, the others relegated to spectators as they gave up. She shoots him a grin as he walks past and he catches a glimpse of her perfect hand. 

Archer, T’Pol, and Trip are sitting together, talking about whatever it is the three of them talk about, and they wave as well as he passes. 

It’s not a big space, and it doesn’t take him long to traverse the entire length, finding himself standing back at the ‘door.’ He checks the seal one more time, just to be sure. When he glances back, Rogers is standing behind him, arms crossed.

The steady way she meets his eyes has him wanting to back up, but he’s already against the door and there’s nowhere further to go. 

“Ensign.”

“You’re not thinking about crawling outside the hull again, are you?” The expression on her face is unreadable. 

“That was a unique situation.”

She doesn’t smile. “Right. And if another one of those comes up?”

He looks away.

“Lieutenant,” she says, and her voice is lower now, just between them. “I need to know you’re not going to pull that again.”

He wants to lie. He wants to say what will make her leave. But the truth hovers there.

“I thought it was the best option,” he says. Quietly. “At the time.”

“You thought dying was the best option.”

“It was calculated—”

“Bullshit,” she snaps, then exhales. “You don’t get to decide that you’re expendable.”

The tension buzzes between them. No one’s paying attention, still too focused on getting comfortable, but it still feels too loud.

“I’m your second,” she says. “You die, I have to pick up the pieces. And if you think for one second that doesn’t matter, you’re wrong.”

He swallows hard. Doesn’t speak.

“I’m not mad you tried to do your job,” she continues. “I’m mad you didn’t think we’d fight to save you.”

For a moment, the catwalk tilts slightly with the inertial shift. Malcolm steadies himself on the wall.

“…I didn’t think anyone would have time.”

Rogers stares at him. She doesn’t answer. She just walks away.

*

He finds his way back to them eventually, her words rattling around his mind in a way that makes it difficult to focus on anything else, and sits down in the space left for him. Next to Rogers. 

"Well," Zhao says, in response to something Malcolm doesn't catch, "it can't be worse than the first year at the academy when they just stuck you in a room with someone random."

There are mumbles of agreement. 

"My roommate dropped out after the first exam." Moreno offers -- she's sat back to back with Yılmaz, the two of them propping each other up -- "I think she said it was stupid and she could be doing better things with her time." There's a pause. "Can't say I was sorry to see her go. She was a pretentious little shit."

Malcolm remembers that exam. Remembers staring down at the padd and wondering why they were asking such pointless questions. Pointless questions with multiple option answers. He’d passed with full marks, of course, but only because he’d memorized the answers, not because the questions had any substance.

"Oh, I failed that."

Everyone's heads snap round at that. 

"No you didn't." O’Malley says, disbelieving. "The first exam?"

Timmons raises a hand in mock defeat. “I did. Bombed it so bad they made me retake it solo. Apparently, no one had failed that one in years.”

“That’s the easiest test in the entire academy!” Gaeta says, incredulous. “It’s multiple choice!”

“Exactly,” Timmons sighs. “Too many options.”

Laughter bubbles up.

"OK," Nguyen interjects, "you can call me out for stating the obvious all you like, but at least I can see the obvious."

Timmons shoves at him. "Shuddup."

"You must be something of a legend among the teaching staff then, failing an exam that literally no one has ever failed."

Gaeta gasps, excited. "Legend!"

"Oh, you are not gonna call me that."

They keep the cheering quiet, respectful of everyone else trapped in there with them, and Malcolm finds himself smiling faintly as the teasing continues. Another day, another callsign. 

He glances at Rogers, smiling as well, her eyes alight with amusement as Timmons appeals to her sense of reason and is summarily rejected. The smile dims when she meets his eyes, the amusement fading into something like pain. He turns away again, lets her have the moment with the team and wonders when he started feeling like an outsider again. 

*

Things settle down after a while. It's still too hot for anyone to be doing much of anything, and most of the crew have dozed off, lulled into sleep by the heat and their boredom. His security team have joined the rest in stripping down to undershirts, their currently unneeded weapons hidden neatly beneath piles of jackets and folded uniform. Even off-duty, or in this strange in-between, their habits remain orderly. 

Rogers stirs first, although Malcolm didn't think she had actually been sleeping, clambering to her feet with a stretch before she begins a slow circuit of the catwalk. He can't tell if it's intentional, but as he tracks her movements, he realises she's following the same path he had walked earlier. She’s shed her boots and jacket, picking her way barefoot and steady around the tangle of sleeping bodies. 

Beside him, Cho stirs with a faint groan, face scrunching before she rolls over, planting her cheek directly onto the warm metal floor, somehow remaining asleep even as the grating bites into her skin. He suppresses a laugh, gently pushes her t-shirt under her skin, mumbling reassurance when she blinks up at him, and glances away before she catches him smiling.

His gaze finds Rogers again. She’s paused beside Hoshi’s game of cards, although it seems to have devolved from poker into something looser and less structured; only Travis is still actively playing. Rogers crouches, resting a hand on Hoshi’s shoulder as she leans in, the other two Ensigns turning their attention away from their cards for a moment. There’s laughter, low and easy, the sound only just carrying across to him. 

Malcolm doesn't hear whatever it is Rogers says next, but whatever it is draws three glances in his direction.

He looks down immediately, fixing his eyes on his lap like there’s something urgent to study there. 

He tells himself it’s just curiosity: they’re wondering if he’s asleep. Or maybe planning a prank. But the flicker of something heavier settles in his chest before he can dismiss it. An old instinct bristles: not at the attention, but at how far removed he still feels. Like he's a child again; a guest in his own house. 

He breathes in slowly, and lets it pass. Or tries to.

She comes back eventually, settles down next to him again, frowning faintly at the uncomfortable position Cho is still lying in. 

"Everything OK?"

His voice sounds hoarse, even to his own ears, and she frowns again, pushing one of the canteens of water in his direction pointedly. He takes a sip as she nods. 

"Most people asleep, but you can see that from here. I think we're going to need to remind people to drink water, but it's only been a few hours, so we'll see how it goes."

"I'll mention it to the Captain."

They both glance across the room at where Archer sits, asleep against the wall with Porthos in his lap. 

"When he wakes up."

A dull clang echoes somewhere beneath them before Rogers can say anything in response, startling most of the security team out of their dozes. He holds his hand up, gestures gently for them to keep calm, not react. 

"Just the hull adjusting." Rogers says, voice firm and calm. 

But there's an uneasy shift from the gentle calm, and while they all lie back down, no one goes back to sleep. 

That’s day one. 

Day two begins in the same, slow way. Despite his paranoia, Malcolm had fallen asleep at some point; he doesn't quite remember when, but he knows when he's jolted back to awareness. His shoulders and neck ache from several hours of sleeping up against the wall; his mouth is dry, and O'Malley is crouched beside him, a hand warm on his arm. 

"Sir," the other man murmurs, "shift switch."

Through squinted eyes, Malcolm almost mistakes him for Di Dio. 

He nods in response, slowly pushing himself upright. His back joins in the protests, stiff from the odd position, and he's acutely aware of a layer of sweat that has settled in a fine sheen over his body. The air is no better, still thick, stale, and now slightly damp, but the atmosphere seems lighter. Less chaotic. More settled. 

Security's day shift is being slowly shaken awake by nights, moving through quiet routines with the same wordless coordination they always fall back on. He watches them switch places; days up, nights down, exchange quick briefings, and lets his gaze drift across the space. 

Their layout has become less structured, the departments having begun to intermingle: Zhao is laying with her head in one of the engineer's laps — her boyfriend, Malcolm assumes, although he's a little ashamed to realise he can't remember the man's name. A few of the others, those with engineering qualifications mostly, have drifted over with her, naturally clustering. 

Hoshi and Travis have moved as well, joining Rogers against one of the ventilation panels. They're all looking up at O'Malley as he gives her a rundown of the night's events, and yet still look half-asleep, younger, legs stretched out and tangled slightly, their voices low. Hoshi glances over and offers a tired smile.

Opposite them, Trip is still dead asleep, sprawled across a set of blankets with an arm slung over his eyes. T’Pol, eyes open, watches him from where she sits, unmoving, like she hasn’t slept at all, only pausing her watch to look up when Archer passes, moving slowly through the space with an almost paternal air. 

He stops beside one of the science team, crouches low, and begins murmuring something Malcolm can’t hear. From the way the crewman turns a data padd toward him, he thinks it’s a crossword puzzle. Or maybe something less frivolous and more distracting. Malcolm can’t quite tell.

Off to one side, Moreno has created a sort of pocket of peace. She’s propped against a rucksack with a book in hand, Castillo’s head resting in her lap, eyes closed. A few others have gathered around them, content to listen as she reads aloud in a careful, even cadence. He watches Moreno, steady and unhurried, her voice soft enough that he can’t catch the words, only the rhythm. It’s domestic, oddly like something he’s stumbled across, not something he belongs to.

Rogers nods at him from her space with the other ensigns, and he nods back. There's nothing requiring their immediate attention, and he almost feels as though he could fall back asleep. 

There’s a crackle from the comm system. A sharp burst of static, then silence.

Malcolm straightens automatically, scanning the room. Most people glance toward the overhead panel with mild concern. There's nothing quite frantic yet, no reason that his heart should have started beating double-time, just an air of bemusement. 

Trip, woken with a pointed poke from the subcommander, is on his feet in an instant, fingers tapping the side panel near one of the vents. “Probably just the pressure equalizer kicking in. System’s been weird since the backup reroute.”

“Could also be someone leaning on a panel,” Di Dio offers, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Half these kids treat exposed wiring like it’s a handrail.”

A couple of engineers mutter apologies from their corner, and there’s a round of quiet chuckles.

Malcolm doesn’t laugh. Neither does Rogers.

She's gone still, he can see that even with the distance between them, alert in a way that makes his spine twitch in response. He wants to ask what she's thinking, but he can't verbalise that concern to the whole crew; can't risk starting a panic. 

Carefully, a few of them pull themselves into a smaller cluster. Malcolm gestures at Zhao and Moreno to stay where they are, to keep the calm atmosphere intact. 

“We should rotate watches.” Dunn says, just loud enough for their small circle to hear. 

The rest of the bridge staff have moved in with them, although they make an amusing-looking group with Trip and Travis both stripped down to their underwear and everyone except the subcommander in various states of undress. Or maybe it would be amusing if Malcolm wasn't so on edge. 

“Standard two-hour shifts?” Rogers asks, already reaching for the notepad they'd used earlier for inventory.

Archer nods before Malcolm can respond. "I think that's a good idea. Mal?"

He agrees, glances over Rogers' shoulder to where she's scribbling names and times. 

She turns to look up at him.  “Start with us?”

He nods, taking the pad when it’s offered. “Us, then Wolfe and Di Dio. Leave Moreno and Zhao at the moment, but keep  it to security for the first few rounds, then we’ll loop in engineering.”

Trip raises an eyebrow. “Not trusting us to keep watch?”

“Trusting you to sleep so you don’t collapse when something does go wrong.”

Trip considers that, then shrugs. “Fair.”

Malcolm leans back against the wall, nudging Rogers gently with his shoulder as she stands to take first walk. “Give me ten, then I’ll switch in.”

She pauses, looking down at him. “You sure?”

“I need the time. Think.”

“Dangerous hobby,” she says, faint smile flickering across her face before she turns to pace the perimeter again.

This time, Malcolm watches her go without letting himself retreat.

There’s nothing much they can do from within, but there’s a certain level of comfort that he can see relaxing the crew as Rogers starts her slow rotation. A level of trust in them that Malcolm can’t help but think might be unfounded.

Day three is the point at which everything starts to go wrong. 

“Bad things come in threes.” Hoshi mumbles as Trip sharply gestures the four of them over.

Archer and T’Pol are already beside him, frowning over the readings, even as they try to keep up a calm front for the rest of the crew. 

The injectors, Trip explains, have started to come online. They’ll raise the temperatures in their temporary sanctuary to deadly levels, and the only real solution is that someone goes out and shuts them down. 

There’s a pause as they all take in the information. 

“Who?” Travis asks into the silence. 

"I'll go," Malcolm says, unhesitating. "I'm trained for EVA and—"

He stops when Rogers clamps a hand down on his arm, fingernails digging into his skin painfully. The look in her eyes is sharp enough to cut steel. 

“I’ll go,” Trip disagrees, “if something goes wrong, I don’t want to be talkin’ you through it blind.”

He goes to object, but Archer holds up a hand. “Trip’s right,” he says, regret heavy in his tone, “He’ll go."

“We can’t afford to lose our chief engineer if something happens out there.”

Rogers exhales, an almost disbelieving laugh through her nose, shakes her head when they all turn to look at her. “I agree with the Captain.” She says, voice taut. 

“Thank you, Ensign.”

“No worries.” She turns sharply and walks off, back to where the rest of the security team are watching their small group, anxious expressions concealed behind practiced masks. 

No one else watches her go, Archer, Trip and T’Pol already bending back over the padd, making a plan, and Malcolm suddenly feels incredibly unnecessary. 

Hoshi slides her hand into his elbow, tugs him back over to where they were sitting. To where Rogers has returned to, knees up to her chest and one hand fisted in her hair as she explains the situation to the others. 

“Keep everyone calm.” She orders them. “You’ve already formed little groups, just… keep them calm.”

The team disperse, Moreno grabs another book from the pile she’d managed to sneak in, and Di Dio takes Hoshi’s pack of cards over to the science team. 

"You don’t get to decide that you’re expendable," Rogers repeats, once they’ve gone. It’s not the first time she’s said it; this time the anger in her tone is something new, something that cracks beneath the surface.

Malcolm looks at her, caught off guard. The protest in his throat dies as he processes the expression on her face, equal parts furious and afraid. 

“I know.” It’s not quite an apology. 

She gives him a tight smile and follows Zhao over to some of the engineers. 

It’s strange, he thinks, watching her walk away yet again, to be surrounded by people who care whether he lives or dies. He’s not used to that.

Later, as things settle into uneasy waiting, Hoshi comes to sit beside him. Malcolm notices the way she keeps her body turned slightly toward him, the casual alertness in her eyes. Rogers probably asked her to keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn't do anything reckless. He doesn’t quite know how to feel about that.

They sit in silence for a few minutes before Hoshi speaks.

"Why do you think your death is a solution to anything?"

He exhales slowly. "I don’t think that. Not exactly. It just seems like… sometimes, it would be the best option. The cleanest."

"That’s not the same as a solution," she says. "And it’s not true."

Malcolm can’t quite come up with a response to that. 

“Pineapple.” She says, unexpectedly.

“What?”

She’s still watching him. “When I was trying to work out your favourite food, I spoke to your family. Your parents, your sister, and they didn’t know.”

“What’s your point?” 

Her words send something like pain through him. A pain he thought had stopped hurting a long time ago, and he can’t quite meet her eyes. 

“I guess I don’t have one. Just that… we know. We know what your favourite food is.” She pauses for a moment before continuing. “You’re not the only one who came out here trying to outrun a home that didn’t fit.”

He blinks, surprised by the way her words settle in his chest, heavier than he expects. He follows her gaze as she gestures subtly toward the security team—Rogers, emancipated from her family; Zhao, the only survivor of an unexploded bomb found in the worst way possible; Di Dio, kicked out of the airforce. And the others, whose stories he hasn’t had the time or space to dig into yet.

“Yeah,” he replies, feeling an unnamed emotion rise up and choke his words, “yeah, you do know.”

She rests her head on his shoulder. “You still owe Emma an apology.”

Across the room, Gaeta leans over and puts Rogers in a headlock, both of them rolling on the ground as they laugh, the engineers cheering them on. 

“I know. I will.”

Later still, Archer forms a plan to communicate with the hostile ship. He sends Malcolm out with T’Pol to shut down the warp reactor.

As T’Pol moves to the front of the group, prepping the equipment they’ll need, Malcolm rises to his feet. The motion draws the attention of his team who instinctively gather around him, a silent formation without command.

He pauses by the door and takes a moment to just look at them: Rogers, Pops, Dunn, Patel, O'Malley, Bookie, Wolfe, Hunter, Nguyen, Zabel, Sparky, Foster, Castillo, Romeo, Bear, Mack, Legend, Vassilis, and Giallorenzo. His team. 

They’re watching him like they expect him to come back.

His voice is quiet, almost swallowed by the hum of the ship. “I’ll see you all in twenty-two minutes.”

There’s no chorus of agreement. Just a small group of nods, and a quiet smile from Rogers, Hoshi and Travis both offering him quick thumbs-up from the rear. 

He turns away, follows T'Pol out, and only glances back to catch a final glimpse of them as the hatch seals behind him.

Chapter Text

There’s no warning for it or anything; one moment Malcolm is in his body, walking normally down the corridor, and the next he’s outside, watching his body continue to walk down the corridor. 

He yells something inexplicable, but the thing in his body does not respond, does not even seem to have heard him. 

It just keeps walking.

He yells again – something startled, furious, human – but the thing still doesn’t flinch. It moves smoothly, too smoothly. Its stride is just slightly off, just enough for Malcolm to feel something cold and alien crawl up his spine – or where his spine would be. 

He follows, because there’s nothing else to do.

The corridors of the Enterprise blur around him, unreal in a way that makes his stomach twist, though he knows that isn’t possible anymore. He doesn’t float so much as exist , pulled along by some invisible tether, watching the imposter continue. It tilts its head wrong, nods at passing crewmembers, and smiles. 

It’s his smile. Too wide. Too confident. Wrong in a way that makes something inside him recoil.

Continues to tilt its head just slightly, as if performing friendliness, and then keeps walking.

Malcolm follows, heart hammering – or maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just the ghost of that panic still echoing in what he used to be.

He watches it enter the armory.

The panic swallows him for a moment and he hurries after it. Or maybe he’s just pulled along with his body. It’s hard to tell. Time feels disjointed here – like movement is a choice, not a rule.

Rogers smiles at the thing when it enters, walks up to it, and Malcolm reaches for her, finds his hand passes straight through her shoulder. 

Around them, movement continues as normal. His team, checking weapon lockers, running inventory, engaging in easy conversation. 

“Lieutenant?” 

He turns back to Rogers, only to realise that she’s not looking at him, not talking to him, but at the thing in his body. There’s a small crease between her brows and he feels a surge of something like hope. She’ll notice. She’ll realise there’s something wrong. 

“Are you alright?”

The thing tilts its head – Malcolm’s head – “Yes.” and smiles again. That same too-wide smile. 

Rogers’ face goes slack for a moment, uneasiness taking over, and Malcolm reaches for her again. 

“Come on, come on, that’s not me. You know me.”

“I’m just tired.” The thing in his body adds, as though it’s something it has just realised.

The uneasiness is replaced, just briefly, by a flash of relief, and then her face is back to normal. In the silence no one can hear, Malcolm screams.  It doesn't even echo. 

She prompts it gently, reminds it that he's supposed to be on the bridge. 

It tells her that it’s been slow. That there’s not much happening, so he came down to check on them. It’s his voice. His words. But they’re not coming from him. They’re being worn.

She smiles again, in response, tells him there’s not much happening there either. 

Malcolm watches the thing try his smile again. It’s still wrong. Off. 

“Maybe you should get some rest, sir.” Rogers offers, quietly. 

When he glances at her face, that slight unease is back. 

“It’s not me.” He begs, stands in front of her and watches her look straight through him. 

The thing glances around. “No, I don’t think so.” And walks off, leaving Malcolm with Rogers. 

He watches her face pinch up, confused, annoyed, and then he watches her shake her head, shake it off, and turn back to her pad. 

Sighing, he sits down on one of the boxes, watches the thing move around his team. Watches it pat them on the backs. He doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t cast a shadow. But he still feels: cold, distant, furious. That’s his team. His. 

And they don’t even know he’s gone. 

He watches the thing cross the armoury like it owns the place. Feels his teeth grind together as it stops beside Zhao. 

She glances up from the console when it approaches, and Malcolm watches her give it a small, distracted smile. Easy, calm, unbothered. Murmurs something, possibly a greeting. 

And then the thing leans in. 

Just a bit. Just enough. 

Sets a hand on her shoulder, just a little too close to her throat and the bare skin there. The contact isn’t overt – barely even notable. But Malcolm sees the way Zhao stiffens, how her smile falters like something in her brain just skipped a beat. How her eyes flick over in Rogers’ direction, just briefly. 

She laughs a little, awkwardly. Shrugs it off. Shifts away from it, just slightly. “Bit warm in here today, huh, sir?”

The thing chuckles, a laugh Malcolm has never heard from his own mouth, and he wants to scream again. 

Wants to rip that thing out of his skin.

It doesn’t move away immediately. It watches her for a second longer than it should. Not enough to be obvious, just long enough to make something cold twist in Malcolm’s gut.

Then it turns and walks on, heading back into the corridor, leaving Zhao blinking down at the console like she’s trying to reset herself. Desperately, he wants to stand beside her, apologise for overstepping, ask if she’s alright, but he’s pulled, helplessly, after it. 

It stops again next to Rogers. Smiles and tells her it’s heading back to the bridge. She frowns, only slightly, like she doesn’t understand why it’s telling her that – she doesn’t understand why Malcolm would tell her that. Because he wouldn’t. 

“Alright. See you later, sir.”

It echoes the sentiment back to her and leaves again. 

Behind him, Malcolm sees Zhao approach Rogers, her hand almost unconsciously rubbing at the spot the thing had touched. 

He wants to stay, wants to see how they react, how they talk about him, whether Zhao is uncomfortable or just confused, but he’s pulled in the same direction as his body. Unable to do anything else, Malcolm follows the thing, icy and vibrating with helpless rage.

It finds Trip, also wandering the corridors, which is odd behaviour for a man who prefers to be near the hum of the engines, and heads directly for him. 

“No.” Malcolm pleads, unwilling to let it impact on one of the first friendships he made on the ship. 

It doesn’t hear him, stops by Trip, who smiles widely and says something that throws him for a loop. Because… that’s not English. That’s not any Earth language and that’s not Trip. 

He stares at the two bodies for a moment, grasping at thoughts that seem to be floating away in the ether. 

And if that’s not Trip, then Trip must be in the same situation as him. So where is he? 

Fruitlessly, Malcolm turns around, looks around the entire area, as far away from the thing as he can get. There is no Trip, no other spirit following his body around. 

He turns back to watch them again and is hit with a horrible thought. 

Maybe there is another spirit following his body around, and the two of them just can’t see each other. 

Something like desperation settles in his chest. 

He continues to follow it around the ship. There aren’t really any other options. 

It sits in the mess for a while, tries various foods under the confused eye of a few passing crewmembers. None of them stop to ask what he’s doing: as far as they’re concerned, the security officer isn’t to be questioned. 

Malcolm continues to attempt to get its attention. 

He thinks, once, that it uses his mouth to smile – smirk – in response to his pleas for information, for his body back, for anything. 

They end up back in the armoury, alone this time, and Malcolm watches with trepidation as it extracts a phase pistol from the cabinet and carefully turns it over and over in its hands. He sighs, wanders over to the beanbags – “they’re not beanbags, sir! They’re for training! – that sit in one corner and sinks down. 

It keeps turning the phase pistol over. 

The sound of someone clearing their throat cuts through the silence like a knife. 

It’s Rogers, standing just inside the doorway, watching the thing. It’s testament to how rattled Malcolm is that he hadn’t even noticed her come in. But there’s something in her posture, tense, and in her eyes, that relights the doused hope inside his chest. 

The thing turns. Slowly. Not startled – never startled – but calculated, like it had known she was there and simply chose not to acknowledge it.

Rogers frowns, just slightly, but she doesn't drop her composure. “What are you doing?”

There’s silence for a long moment. 

“Just thinking.” It says, and slides the phase pistol into the holster on its hip. 

“Just thinking.” Rogers echoes. 

From his position as a spectator, it’s clear that the two of them have reached an impasse: Rogers knows that the thing is not Malcolm, and the thing knows that she’s aware. 

“Who are you?” She asks, eventually. After the silence has stretched out for several eternities. 

The thing smiles. Malcolm’s smile this time. It steps closer.

Malcolm follows instinctively, dread crawling up his throat. He watches it circle the room, toward her, each step quiet, deliberate.

“We’re travellers.” The thing says, in Malcolm’s voice. “We want to experience the universe the way you do.” It keeps moving closer to her as it speaks, and Malcolm follows, desperate and useless. 

Rogers doesn’t move. She just watches, jaw set, hands loose at her sides. “Experience it how?” she asks, voice low and even.

“Through your senses. Your skin.” The thing lifts a hand like it’s fascinated by its own palm. “Your touch.”

There’s something in the way it moves that starts to scare Malcolm. The way it continues approaching her, calm and collected, until it has her backed into the wall. 

She doesn’t flinch, just tilts her chin up to meet its eyes, even as it crowds her closer. “I want to speak to him. Is he in there?”

“You can’t speak to him.” 

Malcolm surges forward, putting himself between them though it’s useless, futile, desperate . “Stop. Please. Stop.”

It doesn’t even glance at him.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” the thing murmurs, stepping into her space now, close enough that their uniforms nearly brush. “It’s just experience. That’s all we want.”

“I want to speak to him,” Rogers repeats. Her voice has sharpened.

It shrugs, almost echoes its words. “He can’t speak to you.”

Her brow creases again, picking up on the slight change, even as it reaches for the zipper on her uniform. 

And that’s when she moves.

The phase pistol is in her hand before the thing can blink. One stun blast to the chest, dead centre.

It drops like a puppet with its strings cut.

The thud of his own body on the deck rings louder than it should.

Malcolm gasps, or tries to. His knees go weak with relief that doesn’t quite reach the surface.

“Emma.” He breathes into the silence. “Please, you have to be able to see me now.”

She doesn’t react, just stands there, still holding the phase pistol, still pointed at Malcolm’s body, as if the thing might shake off the effects and stand back up. Her mouth is pinched as she moves, keeping her eyes on the body, towards the comms unit. 

“Security to the armoury.” 

*

Some of them lug his body down to sickbay. 

It’s not just him, Malcolm notes with some relief as he follows; other crew members, similarly stunned, are already in the secure medical unit. Familiar faces, unnervingly still. 

His body is dropped – not without care – on a bed, next to Hoshi. 

Seeing her there sends a cold chill down his spine. She’s so still. Lifeless, like he’s never seen her. Not in all their time on Enterprise. Not even during the worst missions. Her eyes are closed, her hands folded awkwardly, and something about the way she’s positioned – like she was caught mid-movement – makes it worse.

The security team retreat, and have vanished when Malcolm thinks to push the boundaries of his tether. He can just push through the wall. 

On the other side, Rogers and Travis stand shoulder to shoulder at the observation window, looking in.

Their eyes are on his body.

On Hoshi.

On the others.

They’re both silent. Rogers’ arms are crossed tightly over her chest, jaw clenched hard enough that he can see the muscle jump. Travis has his hands on his hips, shoulders tight, gaze flicking between crewmembers as if hoping someone will just sit up and tell them it’s all over.

Malcolm moves to stand next to them.

He looks at them.

Then through the glass, at himself.

And for the first time, the silence settles into something heavier than dread.

“You OK?” Travis asks, quiet in the tense silence that seems to have bubbled around them. In the background, Phlox is present, the other medical staff moving around, murmuring between themselves.

Rogers sighs, shrugs. “I just… how long has that thing been in there?”

Travis bites his lip, turns back to the window. 

“How long…” she cuts herself off, sighs again. “I should have noticed immediately.”

“Yeah? Well, I should have noticed that wasn’t Hoshi faster as well, then.” 

He’s challenging her, Malcolm realises, pushing her to realise that if she’s going to say he had no way of knowing, then neither did she. 

“It’s my job to notice these things. I didn’t notice there was anything wrong with Hoshi either.”

Travis sighs, throws an arm around her shoulder and tugs her in to an almost-hug. “I mean, I don’t think anyone realised that possession was actually a possibility.” 

“Yeah…”

They lapse back into silence. 

Eventually they both leave, called away by duty, by the roles they need to fill while people are unavailable, and Malcolm is left alone to watch the medics check vitals, run hands through their hair, worry. 

Someone will come up with something, he tells himself. Archer wouldn’t leave just him to die, so he’s not going to give up on – he pauses to count – twenty two crewmembers. He tells himself that. Again. And again. Until the thought starts to sound less like truth and more like prayer.

Time moves oddly there, in his in-between place. 

People come and go, T’Pol, the Captain, friends of the other crewmembers, and – scattered between them all – his security team. They never stay for long, just enough time to step up to the window, cast their gazes over the bodies, and then leave again, but it loosens something in him, calms him to see them. 

And then people start leaving. 

Malcolm thinks he hears the Captain’s voice over the comms, telling everyone to go somewhere. 

He hopes it’s not to abandon ship. 

“Hey.” 

He turns, startled, to see Rogers, one hand pressed against the window, and Wolfe, behind her, glancing around the room like she’s keeping watch. 

“I don’t know if you can hear me.” She continues, slightly breathless. “But that thing said that you couldn’t talk to me, so I think you might be able to.”

“Emma,” Wolfe says, quiet, “there’s no one in here.”

“OK, OK. Look,” she turns back to the window, “the Captain has a plan. It…”

Malcolm watches the two women exchange a glance. 

“Yeah. He has a plan. So just hold tight, and we’ll see you soon.”

The comms crackle. “Rogers,” Archer’s voice says, “is sickbay cleared?”

She and Wolfe exchange another glance before she moves to respond. 

“Yes, sir. We’re heading back now.”

And then they’re gone again, leaving Malcolm alone, possibly with the ghosts of crewmembers that he can’t see. 

And the last thing he remembers is the beeping of medical equipment, signaling that the oxygen levels are too low. 

*

Malcolm wakes up slowly, everything heavy and muted around the edges. The exchange with the Captain blurs in his mind – fragments of Archer’s voice, serious and quiet, something about how close they came to losing control of the ship. Of losing people. There was fear in his eyes. And gratitude.

Mostly, Malcolm remembers that: overwhelming gratitude that they all came back.

He’s released from sickbay not long after, Hoshi walking beside him in the corridor with her arms tucked around herself like she’s not quite convinced her body is hers again.

“Is it just me,” she asks, “or is it really weird being in a physical body again?”

He presses a palm to the wall beside him. It’s solid. Real. Cold under his skin. “It’s a bit weird.”

She leans lightly against his side, and he lets her.

“I did like the walking through walls bit,” Malcolm says and is gratified when she laughs. 

When they reach her door, she nudges him gently with her elbow. “Go,” she says. “Your team’s gonna be hounding the medbay if you don’t show up soon.”

He draws her in, wraps his arms around her, presses a kiss to the top of her head. She breathes in like she’s grounding herself and he lets her. 

“Yeah. Okay.”

She disappears behind the door. For a second, the corridor is still.

Then Zhao rounds the corner.

She spots him instantly. Her face goes slack with relief. “Lieutenant!”

He stiffens instinctively. All he can think of is that moment, that wrongness, that hand on her shoulder that wasn’t his.

But she doesn’t hesitate. She closes the space between them and throws her arms around him, fierce and tight. His breath catches.

“God, I was so worried.”

“I… the thing,” he starts, guilt still crawling up his throat.

But she’s already shaking her head. “It wasn’t you. We all know. You would never.”

The ease with which she says it nearly knocks the wind out of him.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it. She pulls back, grabs his wrist. “Come on. The others are losing their minds.”

She tugs him down the corridor, through the turn, into the security quarter.

They’re all there – Rogers, Di Dio, Kowalski, Castillo, the rest – clustered around like they’ve been holding their breath for hours. The moment he steps inside, the room erupts in relief: cheers, groans, someone yells “He lives!” and someone else swears they owe Bookie five credits.

And Malcolm, who just hours ago wasn’t sure if he’d ever feel the floor under his feet again, lets himself smile.

Walking through walls would never top this.

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be a routine mission. 

That’s all Malcolm can think for a moment – right before they all hit the ground, scramble behind the not-quite-trees, and start shooting back. 

It was supposed to be a routine mission. 

Later, T’Pol will quietly admit to him that their scanner missed the intelligent life forms, because they were plants, not mammals or reptiles. And Malcolm will walk away without saying anything, because he can’t quite suppress the urge to take his anger out on her. 

That doesn’t matter in the moment. 

The Captain is shouting, but no one can hear him over the chaos. The three security officers Malcolm brought down – Patel, Foster, Di Dio – have already taken up defensive positions. Ideally, they’d be triangulated around the others, but there was no time for moving around. 

The scientists are all huddled together. One of them is crying. One of them, Malcolm notes, has grabbed a phase pistol from somewhere and is – albeit ineffectively – shooting in the direction of the attackers. 

“Stun doesn’t seem to have any effect on them!” Foster yells.

He wasn’t even supposed to be on this mission. Malcolm had only brought him because he’d complained about never being picked.

Archer waves his arms – Malcolm thinks he’s trying to communicate “don’t kill” but they’re out of time and quickly running out of options. 

Malcolm nods to the others. They duck back to switch their settings, and that’s when the tree Di Dio is leaning against moves. 

It rises up out of the ground and stabs him in one fluid movement.

Someone screams – one of the scientists, maybe the one that was crying. Malcolm’s not sure. 

With his cover gone, Di Dio becomes a target. Three shots hit him before Patel and Malcolm can reach to drag him back. 

One of the bullets – or maybe it was the branch – has hit an artery. His thigh is bleeding heavily. Too heavily.

Malcolm clamps a hand over the wound, feels the blood seeping up between his fingers, already losing pressure. His other hand fumbles for his communicator. 

As if from a distance, he can hear himself hailing the Enterprise, calling for emergency medevac. 

Beneath him, Di Dio grins, and there must be a hit to his lungs somewhere, because there’s blood bubbling up between his teeth. 

“Stay with me.” Malcolm mumbles, trying to find the other injuries. “C’mon, Pops, stay with me.”

“Don’t worry, sir,” he says, blood spitting out with every word, “‘s just a flesh wound.”

“Locking onto your position.” Trip says over the comms. 

Malcolm presses down harder on the wound. 

“Hey,” Di Dio gasps, patting the hand on his leg, “you’re a great leader, d’you know that? You’re gonna be an amazing captain someday.”

“Don’t,” Malcolm whispers.

“And Emma, she’s gonna go far.”

Trip confirms the lock. It must only be seconds before the beam-out starts, but it feels like an eternity.

“Look after each other, yeah?”

Malcolm doesn’t get the chance to respond.

Di Dio’s eyes slide closed the moment they dematerialise.

The med team is waiting for them, already moving before the transporter finishes materialising. Malcolm watches them take over. Efficient, fast, and practiced movements. They spot the wounds he missed, slap gauze over them, shout orders, and load Di Dio onto a stretcher. 

Rogers has also come to meet them. 

She stands, frozen, in the same places she’d stood when they left the ship. Earlier, she’d been smiling, had made a joke about changing the layout of the bridge when Malcolm told her not to touch anything. 

Now her eyes are wide and hollow. 

“Go with him,” Malcolm croaks.

She nods once and vanishes down the hall after the stretcher. Only the echo of her footsteps remaining with him. 

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, on the transporter pad, feeling Di Dio’s blood drying on his clothes and skin. Trip gives him one uneasy look, possibly says something, and leaves. 

In the end, it’s Hoshi who finds him again. 

She steps onto the transporter pad, even though she hates it, takes his hand without hesitation, and leads him back to his quarters. 

“Clean up,” she says gently. “I’ll wait.”

He strips down in silence. Shoves the uniform in a heap outside the bathroom, can’t bear to look at it. Hopes that she’ll know, that it won’t be there when he gets out. 

In the shower, under water hotter than he would normally choose, the blood doesn’t stop coming. He watches it circle the drain, dark at first, slowly fading into pink, and then finally clear. 

He’s been covered in blood before. It’s never felt like this.

Eventually, he gets out. 

Wraps a towel around his body. His hands rise on instinct, scrubbing at his face. It’s only then he notices that some of the blood has gathered underneath his nails. 

When he steps out of the bathroom, shows Hoshi his hands, her face crumples briefly. She gets it back under control, leads him back in and takes a nail brush to them until the only red left is the red-raw of rubbed skin. 

“Get dressed,” she prompts quietly, “we’ll go down to sickbay, see what’s happening.”

He follows her orders, mindlessly. Her voice is steady. He clings to it without realising it.

Even that can’t change the way he still feels Di Dio’s hand on his wrist, like the last thing his body memorised before everything fell apart.

When they reach sickbay, Malcolm’s hair is still damp from the shower. He hasn’t bothered drying it properly. It clings to his forehead in uneven strands. 

The security team is clustered in the corridor outside, backs pressed to the wall, legs curled under them or stretched straight across the floor. No one is speaking.

Gaeta looks up when Malcolm approaches. “We got kicked out,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “Too many bodies in the way. Phlox needed the space.”

Under any other circumstances, the phrasing would’ve been a joke. It falls flat in the silence.

Rogers and Nguyen shift apart, just enough for Malcolm to slot himself into the gap between them, and they both lean heavily on him once he’s sat. It’s the role that Di Dio had been filling for him: the solid one, the one that could be leant on. 

He sets an arm on Nguyen’s shoulder and slides an arm around Roger’s waist. Her face is damp when she turns it into his neck. 

Hoshi hovers nearby, hands clasped behind her back, gaze flicking toward the closed sickbay doors like she’s willing them to open.

Patel and Foster appear a moment later, singed and slightly dazed, uniforms torn and scorched at the seams. Foster’s bleeding from a graze on his shoulder. They look at Malcolm like he’s the one who needs to speak first.

“All clear,” Patel says anyway. “Everyone else is fine. Archer’s started negotiations.”

Malcolm nods. There’s blood caked in Patel’s hairline.

“Go get cleaned up,” he says quietly.

There’s a pause where they both look at the sickbay doors, the same uncertainty that must have drawn the rest of them there – the need to be present, regardless of the outcome.

“He’s in surgery.” O’Malley says. “It’s still gonna be a while.”

They nod and disappear down the hall. The others don’t move. Neither does Malcolm. Time stretches.

Eventually, Patel and Foster return: hair damp, new uniforms, small medical patches on their arms. People slide over to leave room for them, allowing them to be among the team rather than to sit on the edges. 

Still, no one speaks. 

When the sickbay doors finally hiss open, the team collectively rises. And despite it all, Malcolm feels something like hope dawn in his chest. 

Phlox stands in the doorway. Takes a moment to just look at them all, his eyes slowly falling on each, individual face. His expression is wrong – grim, heavy, flattened, somehow. It takes Malcolm a second to process what it means. 

“I’m sorry,” Phlox says, and that’s all it takes. He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to.

The hope in Malcolm’s chest drops, falls into the pit of his stomach, now a heavy, absolute, sadness. 

Behind him, he hears Rogers exhale, quietly. Like a balloon deflating.

No one speaks. No one moves.

In the sterile corridor, he can almost hear everyone’s individual breaths. 

They scatter eventually.

Malcolm doesn’t remember how the hallway empties, only that Hoshi stays behind, murmurs something to Phlox, places a hand on his arm. Malcolm feels a flicker of warmth for her, buried under the exhausted emptiness that’s settled deep into his bones.

The mess hall is quiet. Too quiet. Not in the physical sense; there’s still the hum of systems, the clang of utensils, and the conversation of the rest of the crew. But the security team are always such a presence in there, the loudest group, laughing. That noise, that energy, is gone. Distant. Muted. Like the air has been thickened somehow.

Those of them who show up eat in silence. Malcolm picks at the food on his plate, not tasting the little that he does eat. 

No one even glances at the far wall where Di Dio used to sit. There’s a gap there, more noticeable than any empty chair.

The anniversary of their second year in space is tomorrow.

No one mentions it.

Di Dio had been the one who suggested a party. Just a week ago.

“‘Two years in orbit without killing each other,’” Rogers had laughed when he brought it up. “‘That’s worth a drink.’”

Malcolm hears it again in her voice, replayed in his head. The echo of a joke that never got made. 

Back in his quarters, he pulls up Di Dio’s file. 

It’s all information that he knows – his military service, his discharge, his recommendations, commendations – most of it gained through spending time with the man. Through being his friend. 

Because they had been friends, Malcolm realises. They had worked together, trained together, eaten together, laughed together, and he had leaned on Di Dio, heavily, trusted him to take care of the team and of Rogers when he wasn’t there. 

He thinks of the other man, gently nudging Emma to take a break, cajoling the whole group into the mess hall when they got too caught up in something, being a literal shoulder for Zhao to cry on that week some of the engineers had gone missing, her boyfriend included. 

Malcolm scrolls past the log without really seeing. Stops on the personal information.

Di Dio’s only listed family is a sister. He’s never mentioned her. There’s one note by Emma that says they’ve had no contact in the last four years.

He exhales slowly. He’ll have to write to her. Try to explain. Put into words what happened on a planet that doesn’t have a name yet.

For a long time, he just stares at the file. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t close it.

*

The ready room is too small for this many people.

Malcolm stands near the viewport, shoulders stiff, arms crossed in an effort not to take up space. T’Pol is by the desk, silent as ever, her posture impeccable. Travis and Hoshi lean against the far wall. Trip paces, in the little space that’s left, like a man with his skin on wrong.

The room feels like it's holding its breath.

Malcolm hasn’t slept. He didn’t try. Every time he closes his eyes, he feels Di Dio’s hand on his wrist again, hears his voice saying you’re gonna be an amazing captain someday . The words echo, but they don’t settle.

Archer stands behind his desk with a PADD in his hand, looking down at it like it might change if he just blinks hard enough.

No one says anything.

“This came through last night,” Archer says at last, and the silence breaks like glass. His voice is hoarse, like he’s been up longer than any of them. “Earth has been attacked.”

No one moves.

“We don’t know who yet,” he continues. “We’re getting information in pieces. Civilian reports. News channels. Emergency broadcasts. There’s… no confirmed number of casualties. Not yet.”

Hoshi’s hand comes up to her mouth. Travis exhales, low and shaken.

“It hit the western hemisphere.” Archer’s eyes skim the PADD again, then close briefly. “Florida took the worst of it.”

Trip’s head snaps up. “What?”

“There’s a confirmed impact in the central region. We don’t have a list of affected towns, but there was…” Archer hesitates. “There was significant damage.”

Trip takes a step back like he’s been physically hit.

“My parents,” he says, breath catching. “My– my brother, god, Lizzie…” 

He’s not asking a question. Just saying their names like a prayer.

Malcolm wants to move toward him, to offer something – reassurance, maybe – but his limbs feel numb, like his body isn’t quite his anymore. How much grief can one person take?

“There’s a message queue,” Archer says gently. “Hoshi, I need you to prioritise that. People are trying to get through. We’ll know more soon.”

She nods, as Trip lowers himself into the nearest chair like he’s afraid it might shatter under him. Puts his face in his hands. Says nothing. 

The silence around him stretches, long, taut, and painfully human.

Malcolm keeps his gaze on the stars outside the viewport. He tries not to think about how easy it is to disappear, how little warning you get. Di Dio had been talking one moment. Gone the next.

T’Pol is the one who breaks the silence again, quiet but firm. “If this was an intentional strike, it was meant to send a message.”

Her tone is too calm. Too calculated and she seems to know it. The words thud heavily in the space she leaves behind, and no one rushes to fill it.

Archer nods, face hardening.

“We intend to respond,” he says.

It doesn’t feel like a plan. Not yet. It just feels like inevitability.

The briefing ends shortly after. The door hisses open, and they spill out into the corridor in ones and twos, too quiet, too scattered.

Malcolm lingers in the doorway. He glances back once at the room, at the chair where Trip still sits, unmoving. Then he turns and follows the others out into the too-bright hallway, still carrying Di Dio’s final touch like a weight on his skin.

When he returns to the mess hall, brought there by an unwillingness to be alone, he finds that someone has projected up news footage that must have been sent in the same brief Archer received. 

The camera has captured a shaky image of the weapon, before it fired – an odd looking black orb – and the news reporter is attempting to describe what she can see. It quickly switches over to a shot from a helicopter. A different reporter, in contact with the first.

“I’m not quite sure what we’re seeing here, Vic, it seems to have some sort of eye? Or opening?”

“What for?”

The question is answered by the weapon itself. The ‘eye’ that she had described glows, a bright orange, red, and then blue, and a beam of energy shoots out, momentarily blinding the camera.

Malcolm finds himself stuck in the doorway, watching with everyone else as horrors that have already happened, unfold.

On screen, the reporter in the helicopter is yelling at the pilot, instructions to “get us out of here!” while her colleague on the ground desperately tries to work out what’s happening. 

“Oh, God.” The cameraman says, the image dropping as he loses control of the camera in his panic. “Oh, that’s coming straight at us, we gotta…”

There’s another blinding glimpse of the beam, a wide, shaking shot that suggests the pilot is attempting to get out of its path, and then the feed cuts out, leaving only the original reporter, staring at the sky, something like panic in her eyes. 

“May?” She asks. “May, are you there? What happened?”

They’re gone, Malcolm thinks, and she must know that they’re gone, but…

“May?” 

Across the room, he watches the crew come to the same realisation. Someone stumbles out of their chair. Another just puts their head down on the table.

“It’s still coming.” Someone else behind the camera says, a tone of detached acceptance in their voice. 

The reporter turns back to the camera. “I think…” she clears her throat. “We appear to have lost contact with our aerial team, and I think, given the circumstances, we are unlikely to regain it.”

Malcolm’s hand clenches against the wall beside the doorframe. He can’t step forward. Can’t look away.

The people in the background, who had been running since the beam started, have stopped, are just milling around and watching the red-hot destruction approach them. 

“If this is my last time on air,” the reporter – Vic, her colleague had called her – “then I want to say it has been a pleasure working with you all.”

There are tears dripping down her face, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“The destruction from this… weapon seems to be creating some sort of cavern. I’m not sure to what end, but the willful death of civilians does not seem to be an issue for whoever is manning it.” 

Some of the people in the background have sat down, are hugging, kissing, wrapping themselves up in each other. The destruction, the fire, is getting ever closer.

“Jane?” Vic says to the camera. “I love you.”

And then the red-hot overtakes the background, her, and the camera feed cuts out, leaving two shaken reporters in the studio, staring at their screens, lost for words. 

One of them shakes his head, presses a hand over his mouth and gets up, walks off camera, obviously crying. The other one stays put, something distant in his eyes. 

He doesn’t say anything.

Someone shuts the projection down, rolls up the screen, as almost everyone leaves the room, as if they can flee from the horrors they all witnessed. 

The security team stay. 

Malcolm finally moves from the door, pulled towards them by an unnatural force. 

They gather like they always do: instinctively, without instruction, in the shadowed corner of the mess hall that’s somehow become theirs. A few chairs scraped into a circle. Some stand. Most sit on the floor. No one speaks.

Malcolm finds himself in the centre, not by design, just gravity. Gaeta and Kowalski are shoulder to shoulder beside him. Rogers is on his left, stiff-backed, arms crossed, staring hard at nothing. Her face is dry.

Zhao sits opposite, knees pulled tight to her chest, face buried in her hands. Her shoulders shake. Nguyen crouches beside her, a hand on her knee, saying nothing. There’s nothing to say.

No one tells her to stop.

For once, the silence of his team isn’t comforting. A sort of despair hangs in the air between them. No one is pretending to be okay. No one is telling jokes to break the tension. It would have been Di Dio who spoke first, who gently pushed them towards distraction. 

Can it really only have been a day since he left? In the space between them, it feels like an eternity. 

Malcolm looks around at them – these people who have bled with him, who have buried their own, who have clung to each other through two years of unthinkable things – and realises they are bracing together again. Not against fire or bullets or hostile species this time, but something quieter, more terrifying in its vastness: loss without meaning. Grief without answers.

And for a second, he can feel Di Dio’s hand on his wrist again, warm and steady. Look after each other, yeah?

He exhales slowly.

The space between life and death has always felt thin out here: a narrow edge, worn thinner with every mission, every name scratched into memory. But today, it feels thinner than ever.

And they are still here. Still together.

For now.

*

Even Earth itself feels different, when they arrive back.

The atmosphere is thicker, the light too sharp. The moment the Enterprise docks, Malcolm feels it: like the whole planet is holding its breath. Waiting for the next blow. Or the next order.

He walks through it like a man visiting his own grave. Floats, almost untouched by everything around him. 

They’re checked back in by Starfleet’s admin team with practiced efficiency: names, ranks, casualty reports. The woman across the desk doesn’t flinch when Malcolm gives his. But her eyes shift, just slightly, when his voice catches on Di Dio’s name. She nods, types something into her pad, and says, “Thank you, Lieutenant,” in a voice too smooth, too professional to be real. No one says, I’m sorry.

The walk through headquarters is quiet. Not just from the crew, though his people have folded inward, tighter than ever. Even the civilians on the ground move differently. The streets feel too clean. The silence feels staged.

Malcolm trails a few steps behind the rest of the team, not because he’s choosing to, but because something in him hasn’t quite caught up. Di Dio’s voice is still in his ears. His hand, still on Malcolm’s wrist. Look after each other, yeah?

He’s trying.

But it weighs on him. The distance between the number on the casualty report and the man who used to nudge him toward breakfast, who used to take up too much space in the mess hall, who used to call him “sir” with the exact right balance of respect and mischief.

That weight makes it hard to get out of bed in the mornings. Harder still to pretend he’s okay in front of the crew – and he needs to, Archer is relying on him to project that air of calm confidence that he’s known for, to show the non-combatant members of Starfleet that it’s going to be OK. It’s hard to fill that position when he doesn’t believe it himself. 

Di Dio’s voice weighs on him, reminds him that he should be doing more – should be pushing the team to integrate again, to spread out beyond the cocoon they’ve built around themselves – but he doesn’t. He can’t. And they don’t seem to want him to.

They huddle together instinctively: at check-in, in the corridors, even on transport back to temporary Earth housing. It’s like losing Di Dio cut some final tie that had kept them tethered to the rest of the crew. The mess hall isn’t the same without his voice echoing off every wall.

Speculation runs quietly beneath the surface. No one says it directly, but they all feel it. Earth doesn’t summon the Enterprise home unless it needs something. This isn’t shore leave. It’s staging.

They’ll be sent after the attackers. That much is obvious. The whispers around Starfleet Command confirm it: overheard meetings, glimpses of ship assignments, unfamiliar insignias on officers Malcolm doesn’t recognize. The rest of the quadrant might still be searching for names and blame. But Enterprise? Enterprise will be sent to end it.

Malcolm watches his team move through the too-bright, too-silent halls of Earth Command, and thinks: We’re not ready for this. And we’ll go anyway.

Because that’s the job. Because someone has to.

Because the last thing Di Dio asked was that they look after each other.

“They’ll send us out after the attackers.” Rogers says, unexpectedly, a few days after their arrival. 

Her voice is hoarse, unused in the wake of two tragedies. 

Malcolm can’t quite come up with a response, but his silence must tell her enough. 

“We’re not ready to lose anyone else.”

They’re back in armoury, the one place that seems safe from the oppressive atmosphere of fear, and Malcolm can see the small memorial wall they’ve started in the corner. The three pictures don’t represent the whole crew, just their team. 

“We’re still waiting for confirmation of orders.” He responds, uselessly. 

Rogers doesn’t speak. Just steps up, reaches out, and straightens the edge of Leftie’s photo with a finger. The corner lifts again, stubborn in the recycled air. She doesn’t try again.

“Emma.”

She turns her head to look at him.

“The…” he swallows. “The Columbia will be needing a security officer when it laun–”

“No.” She cuts him off. “I’m not leaving you.”

She says it like it’s obvious. Like the idea of leaving him – leaving them – was never real. And for a moment, he hates how much he needs that.

It’s the end of that conversation. 

The tension, the waiting, can’t last forever. 

It’s exactly one week since Di Dio died when Archer finally calls Malcolm into his office. The door shuts behind him with a hiss, and before a word is spoken, he already knows: the waiting is over. They have their orders.

Archer doesn’t look up right away. He’s standing by the viewport, arms crossed tightly over his chest, back rigid. The silence stretches. Malcolm stays still.

He already knows.

But he waits to hear it anyway.

Eventually, Archer speaks. “We’re going.”

Malcolm doesn’t ask where. Doesn’t ask who. None of that matters. Not really.

“We’re tracking a signal,” Archer says, voice low, like speaking it too loud might make it worse. “A warp trail, buried deep. It wasn’t easy to find. They didn’t want to be found.”

He turns now, eyes tired, face older than it was two weeks ago. “But we have them.”

Malcolm nods once, mechanically. His hands are clasped behind his back so Archer doesn’t see the way his knuckles are turning white. 

He thinks about Trip – how he’d left for Florida as soon as he could, how no one has heard from him since – he thinks about Rogers and Di Dio, and Zhao, and everyone else. 

“I know your team isn’t ready.” Archer’s voice softens. “Hell, I don’t know if any of us are. But Command wants us out there in forty-eight hours.”

There’s a pause. Malcolm breathes through it.

“We’re not just first contact anymore,” Archer says. “We’re first response.”

The words settle in Malcolm’s chest like stone.

“We just lost one of the best men I had,” he says quietly. “You really think we’re still your best option?”

Archer doesn’t flinch. “You’re the only option I trust.”

The silence that follows is heavier than before, but it’s not hopeless. Not exactly.

Malcolm nods again. Firmer this time. “Then we’ll be ready.”

He doesn’t go back to his quarters right away.

Instead, Malcolm ends up in the old gym — the one tucked into the back of the Starfleet housing facility, the one with poor lighting and mats that are just slightly too soft underfoot. It’s nearly empty, a few officers scattered across the space, heads bowed over datapads or mid-routine, lost in their own private silences.

He finds a corner. Sits.

He doesn’t train. Doesn’t move. Just presses his back to the wall and lets the stillness stretch.

One week to launch. Enough time for everyone to get their affairs in order. 

There’s a quiet acceptance in that. An acknowledgement that they might not be coming back. 

He leans his head back and stares up at the low ceiling. It feels like a countdown has already started, a clock ticking somewhere just out of reach.

We’re not just first contact anymore. We’re first response.

His body’s still tired in a way that rest hasn’t touched – not since the planet. Not since Di Dio. He’s aware of every scar, every old bruise. His shoulder twinges with a ghost of an injury from years ago. It’s like his body is reminding him of all the ways it has survived before. All the ways it might not, next time.

He closes his eyes.

He thinks of Di Dio’s last words. Of the photo pinned on the wall beside Leftie’s and Giallorenzo’s – G11, they’d called him. Of Rogers’ quiet grief. Of the team folding in on itself like a shield. And of the look on Archer’s face, when he said, You’re the only option I trust.

A strange ache blooms in his chest.

He’s never been good at trusting that kind of responsibility — that faith. Never good at believing he was enough.

But here they are.

Here he is.

Still here. For now.

He stays like that for a while, motionless, tucked into the quiet corner of the gym, letting the low sounds of other people moving around him keep him tethered. It’s the closest thing to peace he’s managed in days.

Eventually, he’ll have to go back.

Eventually, he’ll have to tell them all what’s coming.

But for now, he lets himself sit in the silence and breathe.

They gather in one of the smaller briefing rooms. It's tucked away behind the main corridors, meant for squad-level debriefs or low-priority tactical run-throughs. It’s quiet, dimmer than the rest of HQ. Malcolm chose it deliberately.

They arrive without needing to be called. Rogers first, Zhao and Nguyen not far behind. Gaeta, Kowalski, Foster, O’Malley, the rest. Even Patel, still stiff from his last injury. The chairs are arranged in a loose semi-circle, but half of them take the floor instead. Habit.

He wants to smile, but the muscles in his face don’t cooperate. 

Malcolm stands for a moment before speaking, letting the room settle. Letting the silence press in.

Then: “We’ve received our orders.”

No reaction. Not even a shift in posture.

“We’re being sent after whoever did this.”

Of course they are, everyone knew that. The Columbia is still being finished, not quite ready for any maiden voyage, let alone one like this. They are Earth’s only option. 

“To negotiate peace, if possible,” he continues, “or to stop another one of those weapons reaching Earth, no matter the cost.”

Still nothing. Still waiting.

He clears his throat. “But this isn’t a standard deployment. We don’t know where we’re going or how long we’ll be out there. What we do know is that this will be dangerous. It’s going to be combat. Extended operations. Possibly worse.”

That gets a small twitch from Foster. Nothing more.

Malcolm glances down at the PADD in his hand, then sets it aside. No point reading from it.

“I need you all to understand something clearly: no one is required to stay. You’ve all served with distinction. If you want to transfer to ground security, station duty, reassignment anywhere else. Starfleet will support that. And so will I.”

That finally gets something. A shifting of weight. A glance exchanged between Rogers and Gaeta.

Malcolm takes a breath. “There’s no shame in stepping back. We’ve already lost good people. This is your chance to leave, if you want it.”

He lets the silence stretch.

Nguyen leans forward, elbows on knees. “Sir,” he says, voice steady, “you’re not getting rid of us that easily.”

It lands flat.

But then O’Malley snorts. “That sounded way cooler in your head, didn’t it?”

A few quiet chuckles ripple through the room. The sound is small, barely there — but it’s something. Zhao lets out a shaky breath that might be a laugh. Even Rogers smiles, just a little.

It matters that laughter still exists.

Malcolm looks around the room. These people. His people.

“All right,” he says softly. “We leave in one week.”

No one moves to stand. No one says a word about leaving.

And that, he thinks, is the answer.

They almost set up camp in the briefing room over the next few days. It's not official, but somehow it becomes the place they gravitate to — the chairs pushed out of rows and into loose clusters, floor space claimed with discarded jackets, half-full coffee mugs left to cool on corners of tables.

They come and go in shifts, but someone is always there. O’Malley dubs it “the nest.” Says it with a kind of half-smile as he returns with an armload of food containers from the cafeteria. “Scavenged,” he adds, setting down the haul. “Nearly lost a hand to the science division.”

The joke gets a few tired chuckles. Foster breaks out napkins. Rogers doesn’t even flinch when Patel starts stealing chips from her tray. They eat like that — cross-legged, hunched together, like kids at a sleepover trying not to talk about the thing none of them can stop thinking about.

Every so often, one of them will slip away for an hour or two — errands, check-ins, the odd mandatory session with Command — but they always return. Always drift back like gravity pulls them to one another. Even Malcolm does, though he rarely leaves for more than ten minutes.

Zhao is the only one who’s absent for any real stretch of time. She leaves in the early afternoon, and when she doesn’t return before nightfall, Malcolm assumes she’s with Daniel. The thought doesn't sting. If anything, it settles him. She has someone else who sees her. Someone who can catch her when he can’t.

She returns the next morning, just as the team is halfway through breakfast. The conversation dims when she steps into the room, not in alarm, just anticipation. Everyone looks up, waiting.

She stops near the door, eyes scanning the room like she’s searching for someone. Her gaze lands on Malcolm for a beat. Then she takes a breath and squares her shoulders.

“Hi,” she says. “Um… I just wanted to tell you all that I spoke to Daniel.”

Something clenches in Malcolm’s chest.

She’s leaving.

She and Daniel are stepping out, away, going to live while the rest of them keep fighting. He can’t even resent her for it.

“We’re getting married,” she says.

Silence. Then, a beat later:

“Wait, what?” Gaeta blurts.

Zhao laughs – awkward, a little nervous – and brushes her hands against her thighs. “Before we leave,” she clarifies. “Since… since we don’t know if we’re gonna come back, we want to have this. We want it to be now.”

A pause. The weight of what she’s saying settles among them like another person. Before we leave. Before we go into the unknown.

Foster makes a low, impressed noise. “Damn, Romeo.”

She gives him a playful glare, but there’s warmth behind it.

Malcolm clears his throat. “Do you need anything from us?”

“Aside from our attendance, of course,” Foster adds. He’s ignored. 

Her gaze flicks back to him. She hesitates. Then, almost shyly, “Actually… I was hoping you’d walk me down the aisle.”

The room goes still.

Malcolm blinks. “Me?”

Zhao nods, lips twitching. “You’re sort of my next of kin, sir.”

He feels something like a laugh get caught in his chest. Then he nods, slowly. “Yeah. Of course.”

Her smile widens, and the others murmur their approval: soft jokes and teasing comments already rippling out, like breath returning to lungs. Someone throws a napkin at Foster when he starts proposing reception playlists.

Malcolm sits back as they talk over each other. He watches Zhao drift into the circle, kneel beside Nguyen, and launch into planning with a kind of radiant determination.

And he feels it again, that echo of Di Dio’s voice. Look after each other, yeah?

They are.

Somehow, impossibly, they are.

It comes together faster than it should; less than forty-eight hours from the announcement to the ceremony.

There are two fights about speeches. Foster wants one because he knew Zhao first. Rogers wants one because she’s Zhao’s roommate and “held her hair after that tequila incident.” Malcolm doesn’t volunteer, but he’s told – by Rogers, then by Zhao herself – that he has to say something. Castillo wins the other slot through what appears to be a game of rock-paper-scissors and a not-so-subtle threat of tears.

The rest of the team pitches in. Someone finds a Starfleet chaplain who’s willing to officiate on short notice. Hoshi scrounges up a dress from somewhere – no one asks questions – and, unexpectedly, T’Pol helps hang white cloth over the walls of the small on-base chapel to give it a more timeless feel. She doesn’t stay for the ceremony, but Malcolm hears her speaking to Daniel in low Vulcan words before she leaves. 

The lighting is low. The space is intimate. There are more uniforms than suits, but no one cares. One of the engineers has crafted rings for them, out of the same metal that plates the hull. 

Zhao meets Malcolm just outside the room, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“You look nervous,” he says.

She gives him a look. “I’m about to let you walk me down the aisle in front of every person I’ve ever served with. I’m terrified.”

He almost smiles. “You’re braver than most people I know.”

“Di Dio said that too.” Her voice cracks. “Right before he got up to sing karaoke on shore leave.”

That gets the smile. “Then we’re both right.”

Inside, the rest of the team is already seated. A few have crammed into the back, elbows pressed to knees, hands curled tight in their laps. Rogers is crying and pretending she’s not. Castillo is holding a PADD like it’s a lifeline. The hum of the moment is heavy and warm, charged with the fact that it’s real.

The aisle is short – just the length of the room – but Malcolm finds it difficult to hold it together even for that short distance. Zhao isn’t quite shaking beside him, but she’s vibrating with energy: nerves, excitement, maybe even a little hope.

Daniel is already at the front. The engineer, the same one who patched a busted conduit with a spoon on their first joint assignment, can’t take his eyes off her. There are tears in them already, but his smile is huge and uncontainable.

The priest waits patiently until the music fades. Then: “Who brings these two to be joined in marriage?”

Malcolm startles slightly, only answers when Zhao elbows him in the side. “Oh. Uh… me?”

A ripple of laughter travels through the gathered crowd.

He hesitates. She squeezes his arm.

She’s radiant in the borrowed (stolen) dress, her eyes damp with tears and wide with something so bright it hurts. “Gonna give me away, sir?”

He draws her into a hug. Presses a kiss to the top of her head.

“Yeah, go on.”

He passes her hand to Daniel, and the other man pulls her gently in, not quite an embrace, but close enough that Malcolm sees them both exhale in tandem.

The ceremony is short. Castillo reads a passage from a battered old book he won’t let anyone touch, something about light, and the constancy of stars. Gaeta sobs openly during the vows. O’Malley hands her a napkin without looking.

Afterward, someone finds champagne. Or something like it. There’s music — from a battered old playlist with at least one song no one remembers downloading — and an impromptu dance between the bride and groom that turns into everyone swaying in the soft light.

Malcolm’s toast comes after the cake, when the silence is soft and satisfied.

He doesn’t have a glass. He holds up a coffee mug.

“To our Romeo,” he says, voice tight, “and her Juliet.”

Laughter rolls across the room: affectionate and bittersweet.

He clears his throat, suddenly uncertain. “He said… Di Dio, he said to look after each other. So that’s what we’re doing, right? We’re not just surviving.” A pause. “We’re still living.”

There’s another beat of silence. Then someone clinks a glass. Someone else cheers. It echoes.

Zhao pulls him into a hug before the clapping’s even stopped. “You did good, sir.”

He’s not sure if she means the toast or everything. He doesn’t ask.

They dance. They drink. And for a few hours, the ache in their collective ribs softens into something else. Something that feels like peace.

Chapter Text

The quarters that the MACOs are shown to are… sparse. It’s clear that they’ve been shoved into a hastily converted storage room that’s had extra walls and shower rooms added.

There’s also two people to each room, which they hadn’t been expecting, and maybe they should have; after all, it’s not a big ship, and they’re already sharing space with the original crew. But they’re professionals. Sharing rooms isn’t a big deal, and they’ve already begun to sort themselves out when their escort turns to Hayes and tells him he has his own room. 

He nods at McKenzie, ignores the tightening in his chest that warns of danger, and allows himself to be led away, down several corridors that all look the same. 

His room also appears to be repurposed: faint bunk outlines on the wall, twin towel hooks in the shower that no longer match its single occupant. Hayes sets down his meager belongings and decides that meeting Reed is the necessary next step.

After all, this isn’t a routine assignment.

He knows the basics; knows what everyone knows, the attack on Earth, the unimaginable number of casualties, but he also knows about the crew. The security team. Knows that Enterprise lost a man just days before the news came through. That they’ve been reassigned without rest, without downtime, to go after a threat that still doesn’t have a name. He knows, too, that they’ll be joining a crew that’s been through hell and come out the other side bloodied, grieving, and probably unwilling to open themselves up again. 

He’s read the mission brief. Read the personnel files. Read Reed’s file twice.

And still: nothing quite prepares him for that first meeting. 

The armoury – once he eventually finds it – has weaponry and other things strewn across the floor in something that might be organised. He counts twenty of the twenty one personnel. 

There’s a blonde woman at the center, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail that bounces every time she moves her head, and the others seem to orbit her. 

“I just don’t think we’ve got this much storage space.” She’s saying, stressed, when Hayes cautiously steps in through the door. “I don’t…”

She tenses, spins, and the rest of them follow her gaze until Hayes is pinned under their collective stare. He doesn’t flinch. 

“I’m looking for Lieutenant Reed.”

The blonde woman – she’s more of a girl, really, now that he’s looking at her face, impossibly young – frowns. “Who are you?”

“Hayes. Major Hayes. Of the MACOs.”

The confusion on her face doesn’t clear, and a few of the others step in to flank her. 

“What do you want with Reed?” one of the men asks. There's something possessive in his tone. Protective.

Hayes doesn’t allow his thoughts to show themselves on his face, but they shoot through his mind like bullets. The security team are not expecting him, as he had been anticipating they would. 

“To introduce myself, since we will be working together.”

There’s murmuring from the back of the group. More confusion. 

“Working together.”

Clearly, despite her age, the blonde woman is in charge. 

“Yes. We’ve been assigned to the Enterprise to assist with security on this mission.”

“We don’t need assistance.” Someone objects. 

The woman waves her hand in their direction and they fall silent again. “We weren’t told anything about that.”

Hayes doesn’t have a response. “Can I speak with Reed?”

The blonde woman, still tense, still frowning, glances to someone at her side. A redhead, taller, arms crossed, silent but watchful.

“Zhao, find the Lieutenant,” she says.

Zhao nods once and disappears through a side door, moving fast.

Hayes doesn’t move. He knows better than to push.

He waits.

The silence stretches. The security officers don’t disperse. They don’t return to their tasks. They stand there, openly watching him: not like a stranger, not even like a threat. Like something other. Something they don’t want.

Someone behind him coughs. Another shifts their weight. The atmosphere tightens.

Eventually, Zhao returns with, behind her, Malcolm Reed.

He looks… different from his file.

Tired, for one. Pale, drawn, like the bones underneath are sharper than they used to be. But his presence? That hasn’t changed. He walks in and the room realigns around him without a word. The others peel back, subtly, instinctively, leaving him space.

Hayes straightens. “Lieutenant.”

“Major Hayes,” Reed says. His voice is level. Carefully so. “You’ve arrived early.”

Hayes nods once, evenly. “I figured it was better to get eyes on the space before we deploy.”

Reed’s gaze flicks over him; not hostile, exactly, but assessing. Controlled. Tired in a way that feels dangerous.

“This isn’t a standard ship tour, Major.”

He can feel the gazes of the rest of the security team resting on him, and he somehow knows that however Reed decides to react will set the tone for how the rest of them treat him and his team. 

“I’m not here for the scenery,” Hayes replies. “Just wanted to introduce myself. My people have been assigned to assist with ship security for the duration of the mission.”

That gets a reaction. 

Small, but sharp. A flicker behind Reed’s eyes, a barely visible shift in his jaw. The rest of the team doesn’t move, but Hayes can feel them listening harder now. Like a wolf pack that’s caught a scent.

“I’m aware.” He replies tightly. “I’ve just come from that briefing with Captain Archer.”

Just? Hayes thinks, but remains silent, allows Reed’s gaze to settle on him, heavily. 

He still doesn’t look at the rest of them, but Hayes can see him feeling them. Calculating how much weight this will put on them. How much they’ve already taken.

“They’re staying?” One of the security team asks, eventually. 

Reed turns to them. “Yes. Archer wants backup for this mission. They’re here to provide it.”

It’s only then that he seems to notice the mess on the floor. 

“Rogers, what is this?”

The blonde woman shrugs. “It’s everything from our storage space. Apparently it’s being used for something else, I haven’t had a chance to go down and check.”

“On G-deck?” Hayes asks. 

The attention of the room turns back to him as Rogers slowly nods. 

“I think that space may be being used as the MACOs quarters now.” 

As if they weren’t already unhappy enough with his presence. Rogers’ mouth pinches together at his words. 

“I see.”

They’re annoyed. Hayes keeps his tone neutral. Diplomatic.

“Lieutenant, I would appreciate a chance to discuss the integration of the teams.”

Reed’s mouth twists slightly, but he shrugs, gestures to a door towards the back of the room that Hayes hadn’t seen. “Then by all means, please step into my office.”

Ignoring the weight of twenty gazes, Hayes does. 

It’s a small room. Just a desk and a chair, with enough space for maybe two people to stand. He falls into parade rest and waits. 

Finally, Reed speaks.

“This mission is not routine. I assume your briefing made that clear.”

“It did.”

“And did it make clear that we do not need your help?”

They stand there, silent. Hayes doesn’t blink.

“I know what it looks like,” he says eventually. “Outside unit. Fresh faces. Reinforcements. But I’m not here to replace you, Lieutenant. Or your team. I’m here because whatever’s out there is big enough that Starfleet thinks you’ll need help.”

Reed looks at him for a long moment.

Then: “Help is one thing. Taking over is another.”

“I don’t take what isn’t mine.”

Reed’s head tilts slightly. “We’ll see.”

He’s an odd man, Hayes decides. Deeply caring and yet also toeing the line of apathy.

“I’ll arrange a joint briefing,” Reed continues finally. “You’ll meet the senior staff tomorrow. After that, we’ll figure out how to keep your people out of my way without putting anyone at risk.”

Hayes nods. “Understood.”

“Good.” Reed turns again, already walking. “And Major?”

“Yes?”

“If your team causes trouble, I will send them back to Earth. With or without your permission.”

Hayes doesn’t rise to it. Just inclines his head. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“Good.” There’s another pause. “You’ll need to liaise with Ensign Rogers.” Reed tells him. 

Rogers. “The blonde?”

Reed looks up, clearly unimpressed with his description. “Yes. She’s my second, she runs the team while I’m on the bridge.”

Which explains the way she’d been the center of the room when he’d first walked in, but doesn’t explain why she looks so young. Reed watches him run that through his head, a hint of threat in his posture as he waits for Hayes’ reaction.

“Noted. I’ll pass on our personnel files to her.”

“Good. Send her in on your way out.”

It’s a dismissal if Hayes had ever heard one. He leaves the room.

Rogers isn’t hard to find, already hovering outside the office, as though she knows he’ll want to speak to her next. She doesn’t acknowledge Hayes when he passes. 

So that’s Reed.

He lets out a slow breath, adjusts his cuffs, and heads back toward the converted quarters. His team will want answers. 

*

“Hey.”

Rogers’ voice is quiet as she slips into the room, closing the door behind her with a soft hiss.

Malcolm doesn’t look up right away. Just lets out a breath and stares at the middle distance. “Hi.”

She crosses to his desk, perches on the edge. Their knees bump. He still doesn’t move.

“What’s the verdict?” she asks, after a moment.

He exhales slowly. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t know what to make of them yet,” he clarifies. “They’re MACOs. They’re efficient. And they’re here.”

“Why?”

“Archer requested it.”

She blinks. Frowns slightly. “Seriously?”

He nods, rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah. Just came from his office. He thinks we need the support.”

Rogers’ jaw tightens. “We don’t.”

“No. We don’t,” he agrees, and this time, his voice is firmer. Bitter, even. “But I didn’t say that, did I? I nodded. I said understood, sir .” He scoffs. “You know, when he first told me about the mission, he said ‘You’re the only option I trust.’ Us. Me.”

Rogers glances back at the door, as if she’ll still be able to see Hayes’ retreating figure.

“What happened to that?”

Malcolm finally looks at her. There’s something cracked in the look. Not broken, but worn thin.

“He’s sending over their personnel files,” he says. “I need you to review them. Figure out how they fit.”

“They won’t,” Rogers replies immediately. Then, a beat later, “But I’ll read them.”

He nods, grateful in the way only someone deeply tired can be.

“We still have the advantage,” she says. “We know the ship. We’ve lived this mission longer than anyone else. We know what it takes.”

“They’ll learn,” Malcolm says quietly. Not with malice. Just resignation.

Rogers tilts her head. “And in the meantime?”

He looks past her, to the door she came through. Beyond that, to the corridors, the crew, the pressure still climbing behind his eyes.

“In the meantime,” he says, “we make sure no one gets killed because they’re trying to prove something.”

Rogers doesn’t answer right away. She just nods, slow and deliberate, like she’s filing the sentence away somewhere it’ll echo when she needs it. She’s always been good at learning from orders she’s not sure she agrees with.

“Understood.”

*

When Hayes gets back to the MACO quarters, they’ve already started making themselves at home in the sparse, utilitarian kind of way soldiers do. Bags stowed, boots lined up. There’s a workout circuit half-formed in one corner. 

McKenzie looks up from where she’s organizing the weapons lockers. “That didn’t take long.”

“It was long enough,” Hayes replies, deadpan.

A couple of the others glance over. No one speaks right away, but it’s clear they’ve all been waiting. Watching the clock. Wondering how it went.

“Report?” McKenzie asks, like she already knows what kind of welcome he got.

Hayes doesn’t sit. “Security team wasn’t briefed about our arrival.”

“Seriously?” That’s Ramirez, incredulous. “Starfleet just tossed us in with no warning?”

He shrugs. “Look, from what I’ve seen, the team’s tight-knit. Insular. We’re not going to get a warm welcome.”

“We’re not here for a warm welcome,” McKenzie mutters. “We’re here for the job.”

Hayes nods. “Lieutenant Reed knows that. Barely.”

That gets a few quiet chuckles. Tension bleeds off, just a little.

“Tomorrow we’re sitting down with the senior officers,” he continues. “Until then, keep to the schedule. Stay out of their way. No challenges, no showing off. This is not a proving ground. Not yet.”

He looks around the room. They meet his gaze, one by one.

“Understood?”

A chorus of muted affirmatives. Nothing enthusiastic. But solid.

Still, as Hayes moves to his locker, he catches the glances passed between a few of them; the familiar flickers of anticipation, challenge, pride.

They’re professionals. But they’re MACOs, too. Trained to push. To prove. To hold the line even when no one wants them there.

This ship doesn’t trust them yet. That much is clear.

The question is, how long will it take before it does?

*

There isn’t even a briefing room for them to use – and Hayes knew it was never a military ship, but that just seems insane. Instead, they’re told to gather in the armoury. 

It’s the security team’s territory, and all of them know it.

The room is large enough for drills, maintenance, and light training, but not for this. Not for two full squads of armed personnel standing shoulder to shoulder, refusing to look at each other.

Hayes arrives with his MACOs in silent formation. They take the right-hand side of the room, automatically lining up against the wall like it’s a parade ground.

The security team is already there. Twenty of them, give or take. Some are standing. Some are seated on crates or benches. None of them move. They don’t introduce themselves. They don’t offer greetings. They just watch. Warily.

Hayes doesn't know their names yet. Just Reed – who isn’t yet present – and Rogers who he’d been sort-of introduced to the day before. 

She’s standing at the front of their group, arms crossed, jaw tight. Her expression is a carefully constructed mask, but her stance screams protector. Challenge. A wall he’s not meant to cross.

Beside her stands a tall redhead; silent, sharp-eyed. A few paces behind them, a broad-shouldered man in a torn undershirt leans back against the lockers, chewing something with slow, deliberate disinterest.

A no-man’s land stretches between the two groups: an unspoken barrier across the middle of the room. Not a single person steps into it.

The air is thick. Tense. Recycled too many times, stale with friction before a single word is spoken.

McKenzie coughs. The attention of the room shifts to her.

“Hi.”

She’s greeted with silence. Rogers narrows her eyes slightly, as if she’s trying to work out what McKenzie means by that.

“Or not.” She mumbles, loud in the silent room.

Reed choses that moment to enter. The shift is immediate. The security team straightens. The MACOs clock the change too, subtly adjusting posture, even if they’re not sure why.

Hayes nods at him, doesn’t offer a smile. 

“This is Lieutenant Reed,” He says, by way of introduction, even though it’s obvious. “Ship’s Tactical Officer. Head of security.”

No one replies. A few MACOs incline their heads. The security officers do not.

Reed doesn’t greet them. He doesn’t bother with introductions either. “You all know why we’re here.”

The security team all nod. Apparently they are capable of reactions. 

“We’ve been ordered into a hostile theatre,” he continues. “The threat is unknown. The danger is not. Starfleet Command has assigned the MACO unit to assist with this mission.”

Someone in the security team mutters something too low to catch. A ripple of suppressed reactions rolls through their half of the room.

Hayes breathes in deeply through his nose, lets the silence hang for a moment before he steps forward. Reed doesn’t exactly give him the go-ahead to speak, but he doesn’t stop him either.

“I expect coordination. Professionalism. We will be sharing resources, sharing responsibilities.”

“Do you think we’re incapable of that?” Rogers asks. 

Something in that half of the room shifts, as though they’re all prepared to defend her. 

“No. I’m simply stating expectations.”

“We answer to the Lieutenant.” One of them says, a hint of something defensive in his voice. 

Hayes had skimmed all their files, but hadn’t been provided with photos to attach names to faces.

The unspoken words are obvious: not to you.

He looks to Reed, expects some sort of backup, but the man just stares him down, coolly. 

Hayes keeps his tone even. “Understood. I’m not here to overstep.”

“Then don’t,” Rogers replies.

There’s something he can’t quite place in her voice. Something that seems to compliment the way the entire team are only-just angled towards Reed, regardless of who is speaking. 

For a moment, no one moves. Reed still hasn’t said a word since his opening statement, and Hayes realises, abruptly, that he’s the one being evaluated here. Not his unit. Not the mission parameters. Him. And not by the MACOs, but by the twenty officers across the room who don’t blink, don’t speak, don’t break rank, not in formation, but more unified than any squad Hayes has ever commanded.

“I’ll be liaising directly with Lieutenant Reed,” Hayes says, voice steady. “And Ensign Rogers, as second.”

He pauses to gesture to the woman in question, for the benefit of his own team, sees a few of them tilt their heads, appraising. They might be being judged, but they can judge right back. It’s a vindictive thought. Not necessarily conducive to the situation and he scolds himself quietly. 

His statement at least gets a nod of acknowledgment from the redhead beside her: Zhao, maybe. Rogers had named her as the one sent to retrieve Reed the day before.

“We’ll conduct joint drills starting tomorrow,” Reed says finally, his voice dry. “Gear alignment. Combat protocols. Boarding procedures. If you’re not on rotation, you’re expected to be present.”

“We run our own formations,” someone from the MACO side puts in – Ramirez, Hayes thinks with a sigh.

“Then run them elsewhere,” Rogers snaps, quick as a whip.

A low murmur runs through the security team, fast and flickering. The MACOs stiffen, almost imperceptibly. It doesn’t matter how professional they are – they weren’t expecting this. Not hostility, exactly, but this defensiveness . This closed circuit. A team that functions like a single creature, curled around a fresh wound.

Hayes lifts a hand slightly, a silent gesture for Ramirez to stand down.

Reed still doesn’t react to the undercurrent. He simply tilts his head, gaze flicking over the MACO squad.

“Any questions?” he asks.

None are voiced.

“Good. Ensign Rogers will provide a schedule for integration. And Major Hayes…” He glances back at Hayes, expression unreadable. “You’ll forward a list of your personnel’s qualifications before tomorrow. Tactical preferences. Deployment records. Anything I haven’t already been given.”

Hayes nods once. “Of course.”

Reed looks at neither group. “Dismissed.”

The word isn’t shouted. It’s barely louder than conversation level. And yet, both halves of the room move at once.

The security team breaks formation like smoke, moving in a coordinated drift, dispersing into pairs and clusters, heading toward lockers, gear racks, or the exits. The MACOs remain more contained. More traditional. Hayes sees a few of his people trading looks with the security officers, sizing them up, exchanging silent evaluations that are equal parts interest and challenge.

Rogers doesn’t leave. She waits. Watching Hayes. As if daring him to follow her out.

He doesn’t.

Reed turns on his heel and leaves without another word. The doors hiss shut behind him. 

“Okay,” McKenzie says under her breath as they return to the MACO corridor. “So we’re not friends.”

Hayes just exhales slowly and begins mentally rewriting the next three days’ worth of drills.

“It’ll pass.” He tells them, without conviction. “They’ll get used to us.”

*

The entirety of Reed’s security team is gathered around one table when he walks into the mess. Apparently, their shifts overlap enough for them to eat together. There are several abandoned trays on the tables around them, some with the remainder of breakfast foods and others with the remainder of dinner.

He walks as close past them as he can without looking weird on his way to the food and manages to catch a part of their conversation.

“Well, now you’re just being unrealistic.”

“No, no, come on, you can’t see it?”

The table laughs, loud enough that the rest of the room looks over to see what’s going on, although no one actually approaches to ask. Hayes isn’t confident enough on the dynamics of the ‘fleeters to comment on them, but the security team feels like a separate organism: self-contained, largely uninterested in mingling the way the rest of the crew does.

Rogers glances up, sees him watching and he turns away again. It’s one thing to watch the security team interact, it’s an entirely different thing for them to be aware of it. 

“What are they doing?” McKenzie asks, quietly, when he finally sits down. The rest of the MACOs keep glancing over at the group, a general air of wariness surrounding them. 

He shrugs. “No clue.”

“They’re making a bet,” Forbes offers. He seems particularly wary of Reed’s team, sitting sideways in his seat slightly so he can keep an eye on them. 

“On what?”

Forbes shrugs. “Can’t hear them. But that’s gotta be it, they’re gathered around one person, gotta be their bookie.” 

Hayes glances back over, catching Rogers’ eye again. “They were saying about something being unrealistic when I walked past.”

Forbes waves his knife like that proves his point. “Exactly.”

“Are they running numbers again?” Reed says nearby, voice low but easy to catch.

The MACOs all go quiet. Listening.

Rogers laughs slightly. “They’re bored, and it’s tense.”

“What’s it on?”

He doesn’t hear an answer, but Reed snorts, amused. “Who’s at the top?”

Instead of an answer, Rogers gestured him over to the table where the rest of the team look up hopefully. It’s weird. The way they look at him whenever he walks in, like they’re all sunflowers and Reed’s the sun.

“Wanna put something down, Lieutenant?” One of them asks. 

“Who’s at the top?” Reed asks again, leaning over, the ones around him shuffling slightly so he can get a good look at whatever’s on the screen. He laughs, a short sound. “You do know that bullying the chief engineer is a bad idea, yes?”

A few of them scoff. “We’re not bullying him,” Rogers objects, “statistically speaking, he is the most likely to do it.”

There’s a pause as Reed reads over the rest of the list. And then, “Twenty. On Mayweather.”

The entire table cheers. 

Chapter Text

Six weeks in, and the tension has settled into something manageable. Not gone, but buried. The MACOs and the security team work around each other with the cautious precision of soldiers in close quarters. They train together. They drill together. They nod, occasionally, in passing. It’s not friendly. But it’s functional.

Hayes is beginning to think they’ve turned a corner.

The security team still mainly exists as that external entity, but he has started to notice the few people they allow to pierce that carefully constructed bubble. One of them seems to be in a relationship with one of the engineers – occasionally she eats with him and his friends, always taking at least one other security member with her – and there’s Sato and Mayweather, who seem to enter and exit the bubble as they wish. Sometimes they’ll shift their over-full table enough to squeeze one or both of them in. Which is notably weird, because Sato is also the one who seems to be making the strongest effort to include the MACOs in the ship’s community, while Rogers remains quietly hostile.

It’s not integration. It’s proximity. Like studying a separate species that tolerates your presence but hasn’t yet decided if you’re a threat or a tool.

And then there’s Tucker, who seems abnormally close with Reed, yet doesn’t appear to appreciate the security team in the same way, or indeed at all sometimes. 

It’s an odd dynamic, and one that bugs him more often that he likes, but he doesn’t get any answers to that until he finds Rogers alone in the armoury one evening.

“Hi.” She’s sat on the floor, leaning back against a bulkhead, and she’s also alone, which is patently unusual.

It’s the first time he’s seen her without someone orbiting close. No shadow, no flanking teammate. Just her. Still and quiet like the aftermath of a blast.

“Oh. Hi. I didn’t realise there was anyone in here.”

“It’s just me.”

He opens his mouth to say how weird that is, realises that it might be seen as an attack on her, and shuts it again. “Mind if I stay?”

“That’s fine. It’s an open room.”

“Right.”

Hayes can’t say he’s particularly comfortable with having her behind him, where he can’t see, but he turns his back to her regardless and wanders over to the weapons’ locker, trying to seem as though he had a purpose for entering the room.

“It gets loud.” Rogers says. “Sometimes. I need the quiet.”

“Oh.”

She shrugs. “You were wondering why I don’t have an escort.”

He turns back to the locker. “I wouldn’t have worded it like that.”

“No.” he can hear the smile in her voice. “You wouldn’t.”

There’s a pause, and then:

“You know I know you’re not actually doing anything over there, right?”

He sighs, shuts the door again and walks back over to take a seat opposite her. “Yeah.”

“Also looking for quiet?”

“I suppose so.”

She nods, tilts her head back and shuts her eyes, and Hayes just watches her for a moment; she looks so young like this, blonde curls spilling out of a ponytail instead of the tight braid she normally keeps them controlled in. And yet, he’s read her work, seen the annotations she added to all of the MACO files – comments on their known terrain, their strengths, weaknesses, where they would be of most use to the ship – and it’s clear that she has earned her position.

“I can feel you staring.”

“Sorry.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Hey, uh, can I ask you a question?”

Rogers opens her eyes fully now, leans forward to look at him. “I mean, you can ask. I may not answer.”

“Fair enough. Commander Tucker.”

She laughs. “Commander Tucker.”

“He doesn’t…”

“Like us?”

“I wasn’t going to put it like that.”

She shrugs again. “So, Tucker ties a lot of his self-worth to whether or not other people need him,” she says.

Hayes frowns. “That seems… kind of intense.”

“Yeah. It is. But it’s also kind of beautiful, when it works. And for a while, it worked for Malcolm. When we got here, he was quiet. Detached. Tucker helped him bridge that. Made space for him. And Tucker… Tucker needs that kind of role. Someone to steady. To guide.”

Hayes thinks about that for a moment. “So, Reed… needed him?”

Rogers hums, reaches up to run her fingers through her hair. “I mean, he probably wouldn’t say that, but the bit of Tucker that relies on being needed saw it, grasped onto it.”

“And when he’s with you, he doesn’t need Tucker?”

Rogers wiggles her hand between them, a so-so gesture. “Pretty much. He didn’t need Tucker to connect with us, the same way he relied on him to connect with the rest of the senior crew. Anyway, uh, you heard about his sister, right?”

Hayes blinks. “Oh, Tucker? She was killed in the attack, right?”

“Yeah, exactly. So – and this is just my theory – that’s one less person that needs him, so he’s trying to overcompensate. Fill the gap.”

They sit in silence for a moment as Hayes considers this.

“I mean,” Rogers adds, “it’s not that he hates us, and I’m pretty certain none of what is just said is happening on a conscious level. It’s subconscious. Internal.”

He nods. “I guess that makes sense.”

“Yeah.” She pauses, bites her lip. “It, uh, it can be utilised against him. Under certain circumstances.”

Hayes stares at her. “That’s… a little dark, isn’t it?”

She shrugs, not quite apologetic. “Sometimes manipulation is just timing and tone.”

He doesn’t say it, but part of him suddenly gets why Tucker doesn’t like them. And maybe he just hasn’t had the same experiences as her, but Hayes can’t think of any circumstances in which it would be necessary to use an officer’s personal weakness against them.

"He hasn't been sleeping properly." She adds, when he doesn't say anything. "Guilt complex probably. Maybe nightmares."

“Right, so he hasn’t been sleeping, because of his sister, so…?”

She smiles. “Oh, Phlox sent him to T’Pol for neuropressure sessions. Hoshi says that the only reason she managed to get him to stay was because she claimed to need it as much as he did.”

Hayes doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he doesn’t. 

Rogers shrugs. “Anyway. It’s a theory.”

“It’s a good one,” Hayes says.

She opens one eye and looks at him. “You think it’s useful?”

He considers it. “I think knowing what hurts someone isn’t the same as knowing how to use it. But yeah. I think it might be.”

A beat.

“Let’s just hope we never need to.”

Later, he re-reads her file and finds what he thought he remembered—undergraduate and postgraduate degrees in human psychology.

He closes the report and tells himself not to wonder what she sees when she looks at him.

He tells himself again when it doesn’t work.

Because whatever Rogers sees – in him, in Reed, in the rest of the crew – she’s not saying.
And the more time he spends around her, the more certain he becomes that she knows exactly what to say… and exactly what to keep back.

Which is why, when he starts to think he’s finally getting used to the dynamics between the security team, it still feels off that he hasn’t once seen them train with Reed.

Anything Reed needs to pass along comes through Rogers.

“It’s nothing important,” she says, when he finally points it out. “And he’s busy.”

McKenzie had warned him, that first night, that they’d never tolerate criticism of Reed. But it’s something else entirely to see the way Rogers’ expression locks down when even the faintest implication is made.

And then there’s the waiting.

There are whispers among the crew, almost constantly, about possible away missions – when, where, how dangerous. But it’s been six weeks, and Hayes reads the reports that filter down from the bridge, listens to Reed briefing his team, and watches the restlessness grow in their eyes.

Not impatience. Not unprofessionalism. Just… stalled. Stuck. 

More and more, he finds himself wondering how long a person can go in a closed system before they start to fracture. Space sickness, some of the fleeters call it—the slow creep of recycled air, steel walls, and the absence of open sky. It’s not good for a human.

So when a mission finally comes, it should be something.

But when Reed enters the armoury, it isn’t to speak to him.

He walks into the armoury with a datapad and a clipped order from the bridge. He hands it to Rogers, speaks so briefly Hayes almost misses it: “Away mission. Captain and Ensign Sato. Sort out the rest.” And then he leaves, just like that. No acknowledgement. No explanation.

Hayes grits his teeth against the slight, but doesn’t say anything. Just moves over to watch as Rogers surveys her team. 

“All right,” she says. “Four of us. Two of them. The Captain and Ensign Sato.”

A round of nods in response. No one questions the distribution. No one asks why it’s still mostly them.

“Patel. Hunter. Zabel. Castillo.”

The chosen four start moving without question, their muscle memory taking over as they reach for gear. Hayes watches them work, impressed despite himself. Rogers moves efficiently, directing them with short, sharp instructions.

“Terrain’s rocky,” she says, glancing at him. “They’re beaming down. No shuttle, so prep for climbing, long-range relay lag, and unstable ground.”

“Copy.”

She speaks quickly, like her brain is moving faster than her mouth can keep up. Her eyes flick, calculating.

“Based on your files, you and Walker make the most sense to supplement. That still okay?”

“Sure.” It catches him off guard – not the choice, but the speed with which she’d processed the files, memorized the logistics, parsed the terrain. He turns. “Walker! With me.”

There are quiet murmurs of approval from the MACOs – back slaps, a bit of half-contained pride. Hayes hears someone mutter something about boots on alien soil. Walker grins. First MACOs on the surface. A milestone.

When he glances back at Rogers, her mouth is tilted slightly up. Not a smile, exactly, but close enough to count.

The moment doesn’t last.

The atmosphere shifts the instant the door hisses open again.

Reed enters like a thunderhead: not fast, not loud, but so charged that the air itself tightens.

Rogers is at his side in an instant. Hayes notices the way she positions herself, like muscle memory. But Reed doesn’t look at her. And even in the short time Hayes has known them, that feels wrong.

The security team freezes. Patel pauses with a phaser half-holstered. Hunter’s still tugging at his boot strap.

Reed doesn’t waste time.

“There’s been a change.”

His voice is too measured. Too flat.

“The Captain has decided the away mission will consist solely of MACO personnel.”

Silence. Heavy. Hayes feels it drag the oxygen out of the room.

Behind him, one of the security officers lets out a low, disbelieving breath. Patel swears under his breath.

“Wha–” Rogers flounders, just for a moment. Then she catches herself. “With respect, sir, that’s–”

“Not my decision,” Reed cuts her off. “But it’s final.”

“They don’t know the terrain protocols.” Her voice rises slightly, not defiant, but hurt. “They haven’t trained with our away teams. They don’t know the shuttle fail-safes. Or the relay patterns. Or the atmospheric sync procedures–”

“Then teach them,” Reed snaps. “Or are you disagreeing with the Captain’s orders?”

The room flinches.

It’s not yelling. But it cuts. The kind of anger that's carved into stone by everything it’s holding back.

Hayes watches the tension ripple through the team. Watches Patel glance at the phase pistol in his hand, then shove it back into its locker with deliberate force.

“They have no practical training,” Rogers says again, quieter now. Still standing her ground, even as her voice dips.

Reed glances at her. Just a glance. But it’s enough to show the weight of what he’s swallowing back. His jaw works once, tight. Then he looks away.

“I want you prepped and ready within the hour,” he says. Flat. Cold. “Dismissed.”

And then he’s gone.

Just like that.

The door hisses shut behind him, sealing in the silence.

No one speaks for a long moment.

Then Castillo, low: “Well. That’s new.”

The team gravitates to Rogers like they always do — like she might still be able to change it.

“Emma, this is ridiculous,” one of them mutters, low, like Hayes isn’t meant to hear it.

Rogers doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. She looks somewhere past the lockers. Her jaw is tight. Her eyes are unreadable.

“Those are the Captain’s orders,” McKenzie offers, from Hayes’ side. “We can’t argue with those.”

The glare she receives from half the security team could melt metal.

Hayes doesn’t interrupt. Just watches.

Watches the weight settle across them all like a shroud. Watches the way their eyes flick to the gear they’ve just been told not to carry. At the MACOs, lined up too straight. Too clean. At the mission that’s no longer theirs.

It’s not mutiny. Not even open defiance. It’s something quieter. Older. Something sacred being cracked.

Because they were the ones trusted to go. The ones who bled first. The ones who knew how to get the Captain home.

Now, apparently, they’re not even good enough to go.

“Well,” Hawkins says, eventually, dry and brittle, “guess he just wants the best at his back.”

Silence.

Rogers doesn’t look at him. Her expression is tight with something not quite grief. Not quite anger. Something bitter.

Her mouth twists. Not a smile.

“I’m only going to tell you the protocols once,” she says. “So you better be the best at remembering.”

She walks away before anyone can respond. The others scatter after her, like a body breaking apart at the seams.

And Hayes might not have her uncanny ability to read people, but even he can tell that she’s taken the whole thing as a personal slight. 

It had taken six weeks for the tension to settle into something livable.

It took less than sixty seconds to remind them it was still there.

Buried.

But not gone.

Chapter Text

It’s not a big ship. All things considered, the Enterprise is actually quite a small ship. 

And yet, Hayes is slowly discovering that finding one man in that finite space is in no way as easy as it should be. 

He tries the security team’s corridor first; knocks and rings at Reed’s door until he’s certain there’s no one in there. Irritated, he moves on to the armoury. Then the mess, the lower decks, the systems’ corridor where some of the security team have been sent to reinforce the bulkheads – whatever that means – and yet none of them reveal the location of the Lieutenant. 

The internal sensors seem to be glitching every time he tries them, and the comms keep going to static. Bracing against the wall, he inhales sharply through his nose, holds the air, and releases it again. The movement doesn’t help and the lights flicker again, as though they’re mocking his efforts. 

For half a second, watching the red light on the comms panel, Hayes entertains the thought that Reed is hiding from him, but that can’t be true. Reed is too professional for that. 

He hopes. 

When he turns the next corner, a few engineers shuffle out of his way, eyeing him carefully. He attempts a smile. It just seems to make them nervous. 

“Alright,” Rogers’ voice cuts through the hallway ahead, “I am currently accepting good ideas and bad ideas.”

“I have a mediocre idea.”

Hayes continues round, just in time to see her point at one of the crewmen lounging nearby. Not one of the security team, he thinks, possibly engineering; he might be the one that Zhao’s with, but with the dirt smudged across the man’s face, and the low lighting, Hayes can’t quite tell.

“Well,” Rogers responds, cheerfully, “you can keep that shit to yourself.” 

And then, without missing a bear, she spins on her heel and beams at Hayes. Too bright. 

He resists the urge to take a step back.

“Major! How can we help you?”

She’s not even finished turning before she starts the sentence, and it sets Hayes’ teeth on edge. Her ability to sense whenever someone is nearby – and who it is – is probably a useful trait in a security officer, but that doesn’t make it any less creepy when it’s directed at him. 

“I’m looking for Lieutenant Reed.” 

“Have you tried the bridge?” someone offers. 

Hayes can’t place the voice. Despite those weeks where it seemed the teams would intermesh, he still can’t quite match voices to names. 

Regardless, there’s something of a challenge in the tone. A warning that he’s not welcome here, not useful here. 

“That is where he normally is at this time.” 

“I haven’t had a chance to familiarise myself with everyone’s schedules,” Hayes replies, stiffly. 

“Try the bridge,” Rogers echoes sweetly. “He should be there.” 

He eyes her face for a moment; streaked in whatever oily substance runs in the ship’s veins, white teeth a shining beacon in her face, and tries not to think about that quiet moment in the armoury those weeks ago. Tries not to wonder what she sees in him as she eyes him back. 

“He hasn’t responded to any comms.” 

That catches her. Throws her off. A small frown creases her brow before she wipes it away and replaces it with another too-big smile. “You should mention that to Commander Tucker. If the comms are down again, he might need to kick something. Again.”

Hayes chooses not to suggest what he’s slowly coming to suspect is the truth; that maybe Reed is just ignoring him, professionalism be damned. Instead he nods, slowly. 

“Thank you, Ensign.” 

“Anytime.” She replies and means it as much as he means his gratitude. 

He walks away, tries to ignore the feeling of being watched, the raising of hairs on the back of his neck. He doesn’t even get fully around the corner before the group behind him erupts in laughter. 

Somewhere down the hall, the lights flicker again.

Resisting the slowly building urge to scream, Hayes sighs, adjusts his uniform, and heads toward the bridge. 

Reed isn’t on the bridge, his position left unmanned. 

Neither, interestingly, is the Captain. 

Mayweather is, though, and he greets Hayes with a cheerful wave as he steps inside. Hayes nods back. Most of the ‘fleeters keep their distance from the MACOs, but Mayweather clearly isn’t most of the ‘fleeters. He’s even started turning up at their training sessions – invited, apparently, by Chang, who’d shrugged and offered two words in explanation: “He’s cool.”

The Subcommander doesn’t frown when he politely – stiffly – asks where Reed might be, but she exchanges a glance with Hoshi that speaks a thousand words. 

“Lieutenant Reed is not currently aboard.”

Hayes blinks, can’t quite control the reaction. “The ship?”

She folds her hands over each other where they rest on her console. “A dead ship was noted on the sensors. The Lieutenant has accompanied the Captain to investigate the situation.”

“And… when did they depart?”

Hayes is impressed he manages to keep his voice mostly steady, considering the circumstances. 

“‘bout an hour ago.” Hoshi responds. She’s chewing on her bottom lip when he looks over. “They… uh, they took some of the MACOs with them.”

“Who?”

She gives a half-shrug, helpless. “I don’t know.”

T’Pol and Mayweather both shake their heads as well when he glances at the two of them.

“I see. Thank you.”

He swallows down the vitriol building and leaves the bridge before he can lose his temper. It’s not T’Pol’s fault that he wasn’t informed, nor is it the two Ensigns. There’s one man who should have kept him in the loop, and it is starting to seem like Reed specifically decided not to. 

The metal of the walls are smooth in this interior part of the ship. Undamaged by any of the recent issues, and they remain that way, even after he pounds a fist into the centre of one sheet. 

Pain ricochets up his arm. 

“So, that’s how it is?” He asks the empty space. “This is how it’s gonna be?”

His feet take him back down to where he found Rogers before he can consciously think about it. 

She’s back where he left her – or maybe she never moved. Same hallway, slouched against the bulkhead, out of the way this time, rather than in the centre of the action. The same crew surround her, although one of them is now shoulder-deep in a wall-panel, fingers tangled up in wires. 

The rest of them somehow remain loosely gathered around her. Keeping her as the focal point even as she sits on the edge. 

Satellites in orbit. 

She blinks up at him when he shoves his way into her eyeline. “How was the bridge?” 

His carefully contained anger threatens to boil over. 

“Why didn’t anyone tell me Reed took my people?” Hayes doesn’t raise his voice, but it cuts through the space like a blade. 

Rogers frowns again, and the movement highlights how prominent the bags under her eyes are. “Took…”

Something in him reaches for that, grabs at it, triumphant. “On the away mission. To the dead ship?” 

Her eyes skitter away from his, not nervous, confused. He crouches down, leans in. 

“You didn’t know either.”

She straightens, pushes her shoulders back. “I’m currently focused on attempting to fortify the ship against whatever anomalies we keep passing through.”

The engineers, who had turned to watch their conversation, refocus hurriedly on the wall panel, their quiet words creating an atmosphere of noise in the empty space. 

“That’s not…” Hayes starts, then stops himself. “Rogers.”

She meets his gaze finally. There’s no venom there. No apology either.

“Major,” she says, neutral as stone, “I don’t run the manifest. You’ve got a problem, take it up with the Lieutenant. When he gets back.”

He grits his teeth. “You don’t think I would’ve liked to coordinate? Know who I’m missing? Prepare in case something goes wrong?” 

There’s something in her posture that shifts, just slightly. Not shame. Not defensiveness. Just distance.

“Maybe.” She says. “But maybe we didn’t have time to wait.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know the state the ship’s in,” she replies, waving a vague hand upward. The lights flicker as if on cue. “Maybe Command called it fast. Reed moved. The Captain approved. That’s how this works.”

“That’s not how we work.” 

“Then maybe we don’t work,” Rogers says, sharp and quiet. 

The hallway goes still. The engineers hushed again, and the hum of the engines seems louder in the silence left behind. 

A part of him wants to hold onto his anger, but the bags under her eyes are so dark, accompanied by an exhaustion that’s echoed in the other crewmen as he glances around. 

“You didn’t know either.” 

Even her unfailing belief in Reed hadn’t kept her in the loop this time. Hadn’t allowed her to advise on who would be best suited for the mission.

“Command moves fast.” She repeats. 

And Hayes doesn’t know which one of them she’s trying to convince, but he knows that the lights flicker again as he walks away. 

*

He gets the story out of the three that had been taken from his team. It, unfortunately, seems to match up with the half-hearted theory that Rogers had presented. 

Reed had come into the small space they’d carved out for the MACOs – “already irritated,” Cole says – and told three of them to suit up, giving them the basics of the situation. The same basics Hayes had heard second hand: dead ship, looking for survivors.

He also discovers that they’d taken anything the Captain had deemed relevant or necessary off the ship. 

Cole grimaces when she relays that part. “He just… I mean, we were surrounded by dead bodies, and he just didn’t seem to see them.” She shrugs. “He took a communicator or something off one of the bodies. Even Reed seemed to know that was too far.” 

Hayes fills in the gap – and yet, no one had dared to object.

“What do you think about Archer?” 

The three of them had exchanged a glance, uncomfortable. 

“He’s not what the ‘fleeters seem to think he is.” Forbes answered. “I mean, they all talk about him as soft, relaxed, that kind of thing.”

“Yeah,” Kelly agreed, “that man was not soft or relaxed.”

He retreats to his own quarters, imagines confronting Reed over the whole thing. 

“You brought my people into a graveyard without even warning me,” he could say, “and you let the Captain loot it like a supply crate.”

But he can imagine Reed’s answer all too clearly: “We needed the data. The Captain made the call.”

“And you followed it?” asks the imaginary version of him, the one that’s brave enough to verbally question a superior. 

Imaginary Reed tilts his head, almost sympathetic, almost mocking. “That’s what officers do, Major. We follow.”

He exhales, slow and tired. The room is too quiet.

Outside, the ship groans faintly as another wave of anomaly turbulence rolls through.

Hayes doesn’t sleep.

In the end, that’s a good thing. 

It means he’s still ready and prepared when the red alert blares through the ship – loud and shrill enough to hurt his head – at the same time it rocks violently. 

He’s already out the door, but has to grab a wall for balance as the deck pitches. 

Down the corridor, he can see Reed’s ‘nights’ team stumbling out of their quarters, half-dressed, but ready for combat. He ought to take charge of them, but he stumbles towards his own team, leaving them to find their own commanding officer. 

It’s a petty move, he’ll reflect later. In the moment, he’s more focused on catching hold of McKenzie as she slides down the tilting corridor towards him. 

“Boarders,” she says, steady despite the way they’re both clinging onto railings to prevent being thrown around, “in multiple sections. Rogers radioed, but I think the comms are down again now.”

 “OK.” The ship rights itself again – or, more likely, Mayweather rights the ship – and Hayes braces himself against a wall as he faces his team, takes the weapons that are handed to him. 

“Walker, McKenzie, find the port side junction. Ramirez and Forbes, same on starboard. The rest of you, spread out on the decks. Collect anyone you find. Keep an eye on them, we don’t need any casualties.”

His team, organised as they are, accept the orders and split off, only Walker and McKenzie holding back as she steps into him. 

“What are you doing?”

“Bridge. We need to make sure they don’t gain control of it.”

She nods. They split up. 

*

Malcolm stumbles off the bridge as soon as he realises what’s happening; rides the tilts of the ship with an ease born of a childhood on boats. 

The gravity stutters again. For half a second, his feet barely skim the deck. Then it slams back down and the lights flicker overhead — blood-red and staccato. Something sparks in the bulkhead to his right. He doesn’t look.

He knows the sound of combat. Of hull breach. Of chaos. And what he hears now — through the steel bones of the ship, through the muffled, stuttering comms and the thud of boots overhead — is all of it at once.

He doesn’t stop for a weapon. His sidearm’s already holstered and his side already aches from the bruising inertia of the earlier impact. Still, he runs.

He stumbles again when he reaches for his comm. “Reed to Rogers.”

Static.

He tries again. “Rogers, report.”

Nothing. He clenches his jaw. Either the comms are still down or she’s too deep in a firefight to answer. Neither option comforts him.

He curses under his breath and pushes forward. Another lurch of the deck, another hiss of comms static. He rounds a corner and nearly runs down one of the botanists, wide-eyed and frozen mid-step.

“Lieutenant!” she gasps.

He can trust Rogers to move without waiting for his orders. That’s why she’s where she is.

That’s why they’re still alive.

“Hi, Maria.” He replies, hoping the familiarity will calm her, and ignoring the way he’s out of breath. “Where are you going?”

“My quarters.” The woman responds, to his relief. “That’s… that’s the protocol, right?”

“Yeah.” 

He’s heading past that way regardless, so he escorts her there, just as two boarders emerge from a side access crawl. Behind him, she inhales, sharply, her fingers digging into his shoulder where she’s grabbed him. 

Malcolm doesn’t hesitate. One clean shot to the first. The second turns, too late.

The man collapses with a strangled gasp, weapon clattering across the deck.

He picks it up. Tucks it into his belt without pause.

“Come on, we’ve got to keep moving.”

Maria’s roommate meets them in the doorway, wild-eyed. Relief crashes between them in a silent hug. Malcolm doesn’t wait for thanks.

“Keep the door locked until we give the all-clear, alright?”

They nod. They know the protocol. 

He continues alone. 

The hallways groan. The metal hums like it’s straining under its own skin, and the red lights pulse like a heartbeat — steady, accusing. He was the one who set up the red alert and all its symptoms, but he’s starting to hate it all. 

He doesn’t know what part of the ship the other vessel latched onto. Doesn’t know if they’ve breached engineering or hydroponics or the shuttle bay. Doesn’t even know who it is that had boarded; he hadn’t recognised the species of the two he’d already taken down. 

And, in the back of his mind, he’s remembering the dead ship and the cold front Archer had displayed. He shouldn’t have left the bridge. Not when he doesn’t know what Archer will do.

But he knows Rogers will hold the port decks. He knows that T’Pol and Travis and Hoshi are still on the bridge. 

And that, for now, has to be enough.

He’s halfway down the access corridor to Deck D when he nearly slips on blood. It's not fresh. Not slick. Already tacky.

Not one of his.

He breathes in through his nose. Keeps going.

Around the next corner, he finds a MACO – Kelly – and someone from environmental whose name might be Dyer, crouched low over another crewmember, this one barely conscious and clutching his leg. Reed doesn't know his name.

“Lieutenant,” Kelly greets him, voice taut with effort.

“What happened?”

“Corner ambush,” Dyer answers. “We pushed them back, but he's—”

“Already paged Phlox,” Kelly cuts in. “Hawkins is securing the hallway with Forbes. They’ll call if the bastards double back.”

Reed nods. “You two, move him. Take the maintenance chute to sickbay. It’ll be slower, but safer.”

They nod. Wordless.

He keeps going.

The corridor ahead twists with another tremor, the kind that doesn’t come from weapons fire but from the ship itself; flexing, resisting.

He grips the rail, breathes slow through his nose.

Not fear. Not quite. Just… calibration. Assessment.

The Osaarian ship shouldn’t have been able to catch them. That’s what eats at him now, beneath the tactical worry: they were faster. They had shields. And still, they were boarded.

He rounds another corner and finally hears the distinct voice of Ensign Rogers, clipped and furious, giving orders near the outer junction where the hull plating had taken a direct hit.

“Zhao, with me. Howell, cover the rear. Patel, I want your eyes on that corridor.”

They’re dug in. He can tell even before he sees them. Smoke hangs in the air, cut by the glow of phaser fire bouncing around scorched metal.

Rogers has her sidearm drawn, her knuckles bloodied. Someone's bandaging a torn bicep beside her, and two MACOs are dragging a pirate into a corner to restrain him.

He steps into the chaos and, for a moment, no one notices him. They’re too focused. Too deep in it.

That’s good.

Then she sees him.

“Lieutenant,” Rogers says, tone neutral. She doesn't ask why he’s not on the bridge. “Deck’s mostly secured. Two unaccounted for, Osaarian types, apparently. We’ve got three in containment. No casualties yet.”

He nods. “Any sign they’ve hit engineering?”

“Negative. But someone tried. We’ve rerouted power in case they come back.”

“Good. Keep the prisoners isolated. No access to vents or auxiliary terminals. No contact with each other.”

She pauses. “You think they’re coordinated?”

“I think…” He trails off. Glances at the pirate slumped against the wall, wrists bound. “I think it doesn’t matter. We’re past trust.”

That makes something shift in her expression. Just a flicker. Something that might have been an attempt towards sympathy in another person, understanding that the boarders might have been as desperate as them, but it’s gone as soon as it appears, and she nods. 

Rogers doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t say anything at all, actually. She just stands, slow, stiff, and reaches for her rifle.

“We’re taking back the deck,” she says. “You coming?”

And even though it’s not really a question, Malcolm nods.

Of course he is.

*

Hayes is on the bridge when he finds his way back, standing behind Archer’s chair, the very paragon of calm. 

Malcolm can’t quite stop himself from frowning, confused, and Hayes catches it before he can smooth his face back out. 

“I thought the boarders might have been heading for the bridge.” He explains, calm. “And I wanted to ensure the safety of the senior crew.”

Malcolm clenches his jaw and nods, intending to leave it at that. 

“Mm.” Archer says. “I appreciate you looking out for us, Major.”

And Malcolm, bruised, beaten, and with other people’s blood on him, draws himself up. “It is possible to seal the bridge off from the rest of the ship. Prevent anyone from accessing it.” 

Archer blinks at him, as though only just realising he’s there. “And we did, after the Major arrived.”

“The Major would have been more use on the lower decks helping repel the invasion.”

“Well, there’s no point arguing about it now.” Archer replies, already distant and focused on something else. 

Malcolm wants to argue back. Wants to tell him about Fuller: their first casualty of this mission, and the injuries that were sustained. The cost of protecting the ship. But he meets Hoshi’s eyes, sees the pleading there for him to drop it – for now, at least – and something scared that he doesn’t understand. 

She flicks her eyes in the direction of the Captain, pointed and Malcolm follows the motion. 

Archer looks... wild. Focused. But in the wrong way. His hands clench around the armrests like he’s holding the ship together by sheer will. It’s odd. A little out of character. But not, yet, unreasonable.

He frowns at Hoshi again. She shakes her head. 

“Am I correct in hearing that one of the boarders was taken prisoner?” 

Malcolm turns his attention back to the Captain. “Yes, sir. He’s been placed in the brig.”

“Good. I want you and Major Hayes to accompany me down to see if we can get any information out of him.”

He meets Hoshi’s eyes again. Notes the tension there. 

“Sir, he was stunned. With a phase pistol, he won’t be conscious for a few hours.” 

“Then we’ll speak to Phlox first. I’m sure he’s got something that can wake him up.”

Thankfully, it’s T’Pol that speaks next, releases Malcolm from the uncomfortable position of being the only one disagreeing with the Captain. 

“It seems likely that Sickbay is busy at the moment, dealing with the injuries sustained during the boarding.”

Archer breathes out through his nose, sharply. 

“Captain,” she continues, “a few hours will not hinder our progress significantly.”

He leans back in his chair, but the tense line of his body doesn’t relax. “Fine. But I want people posted outside the brig. And I want an immediate update when our guest is awake.”

Malcolm nods. “Yes, sir.” 

He finds his way back down to where he’d left Rogers and Cho, in the guts of the ship — the weapons recharge relay near the aft junction. They’re both crouched beside the scorched housing, sleeves blackened, hair half loose from its ties, and Cho is buried elbow-deep in the wall. 

“Report?” His voice is softer than he intends. 

She doesn’t look up, and Cho doesn’t even acknowledge him. 

“We’ve got casualties in Four and Eight. Two missing.”

“Who?”

“Stewart and Connors. Engineering.”

His jaw clenches. He thinks of the Osaarian in the brig. “We need to recover them.”

“I know.” She finally glances up at him. Her eyes are glassy from smoke or exhaustion or both. “We’ll get them.”

He knocks his head sideways, a silent command, and she stands up, squeezes Cho’s shoulder on the way past, and follows him a little way down the corridor. 

“Archer wants to question the one in the brig personally.”

She frowns. “And… we’re going to let him?”

“He’s the Captain.”

Rogers sighs, turns away slightly and focuses on a hanging piece of metal. “I heard what he did on the derelict.”

Malcolm nods once. “We needed the data,” he says, because it’s what he’d told himself.

Rogers doesn’t reply.

She turns back to the corridor. Rejoins Cho without waiting for dismissal.

Reed watches her go. Doesn’t follow her line of sight.

Because if he does, he’ll have to look at the hole Archer’s orders left behind.

*

O’Malley passes on the message that their prisoner is awake, and Malcolm feels something in the bottom of his stomach clench. Watches as the Captain takes the message and orders T’Pol to take the comm. 

Whatever he feels when T’Pol promptly passes that on to Travis and informs the Captain she will also be accompanying him is drowned out by the pounding of his heart. 

“Malcolm.”

He gets up. “Coming, sir.”

The Osaarian might be conscious, but he seems to be barely holding onto that. 

His skin is slick with sweat, eyes red-rimmed and dull, shoulders slumped where he sits against the wall. He’s chained at the wrists. Dried blood crusts at his temple from the earlier fight.

Malcolm stands off to the side, near the wall panel. Rogers is next to him, arms crossed. Hayes hovers closer to Archer, both of them silent and unreadable. McKenzie has stopped in the doorway, and T’Pol next to her. 

Archer paces the little available space. 

The five of them watch him. 

“I’m not asking again,” Archer says. His voice is too calm. Too level. “Where is the rest of your crew?”

Malcolm glances over at Rogers. Sees her hard-lined face. She doesn’t meet his eyes. 

The Osaarian lifts his head, breathing ragged. “You’re wasting your time.” 

Archer steps closer. Closer, until his nose is almost pressed against the cell door. “Am I? You attacked us. Boarded our ship. Killed one of our crew.”

T’Pol shifts, just out of sight. “Captain.”

Neither he nor the prisoner react. 

“I need this information. And I will get it. Whatever it takes.”

Glancing over at T’Pol, Malcolm wonders if that was aimed at her. It’s clear from the line of her mouth that she doesn’t know whether. 

“Your threats aren’t very convincing,” the Osaarian mutters. “I told you — you’re too civilized.” 

And now they’re going around in circles. 

Archer doesn’t blink. He turns. Steps out of the small room. “Bring him.”

Malcolm freezes. “Sir?”

Archer looks back at him. Not angry. Not wild. Just blank.

“We’re taking a walk.”

T’Pol steps forward, probably to stop him, but Archer waves her aside, irritation taking over his face as Malcolm doesn’t move. 

“Do I have to do this myself?”

He slams a hand down on the control panel, hard enough that Rogers flinches, opens the door and drags the Osaarian out with a grip on the front of his clothes. 

With little other option, the small group of them follow his lead, through the corridors of the ship. 

They’re widely populated; all hands on deck for the repairs that needed doing after the attack, and the crew members flinch as Archer passes them, pressing themselves against the walls, silent. 

“Where are we going?” T’Pol asks. 

She doesn’t receive a response. It’s only when the floor plating beneath their boots begins to curve, subtly, that Malcolm realises the answer to her question. 

The airlock. 

The inner doors hiss open. Cold metal. Cold light. The air in the chamber hums, restrained and waiting. 

“Captain,” T’Pol says. “This is not sanctioned procedure.”

Archer shoves the Osaarian forward, past the doors, and shuts them behind him. “We don’t have time for procedure.” The beeps of the control panel echo like a warning. “He said we’re too civilized.”

There’s something horrified in T’Pol’s face when Malcolm catches a glimpse of it. That emotional control broken in the moment. 

“Sir,” he tries.  It comes out strangled. “We can’t–”

“He has information,” Archer cuts in. “He’s just choosing not to give it.” 

The prisoner stares at the outer door. His bravado is gone. Like water draining through cracked glass.

Malcolm thinks of falling over the edge of a boat. The shock of cold water, the way it forces you to suck in a breath, despite the circumstances. Thinks of the feeling that accompanies it; water forcing its way into places only air should go. 

“He’s unarmed,” T’Pol says. “He’s in custody. This is not an interrogation. It’s coercion.”

“This is survival!” 

There’s a pause that must only last a few seconds, but seems to stretch for an eternity. And then Rogers steps back, shakes her head, turns on her heel and walks out. 

Malcolm stares after her.

It’s only when McKenzie follows that he realises he should have gone after her. 

And he’s stood on this side of the airlock – perfectly safe – but he still feels like he’s underwater. Drowning on dry land. 

Behind the glass, the depressurising sequence starts, and Malcolm just watches as the prisoner scrapes his fingernails against the door, real panic on his face. 

No one moves. 

And then he finally breaks. 

“The codes,” he gasps. “They’re in the data node. Aft hold. Behind the secondary relay.” 

Archer stares at him for a moment. The beeps of the sequence being cancelled resonate through the space. 

“Good. Take him back to the brig.”

It’s Hayes who steps forward to follow that order, Malcolm still frozen in place as T’Pol chases the Captain out of the room, the sound of her voice echoing back. 

“Sir?”

Malcolm looks up. Hayes has the end of his weapon pressed against the man’s back, despite his obvious inability to fight back. 

“Just take him.”

And Hayes nods his response, stiff as stone. His face gives away nothing.

He can’t say anything else. Doesn’t trust what would come out if he did. 

Later, he finds the other two. 

Three corridors down, probably the first one that didn’t already have people in it, hidden behind Cargo Bay Two. 

Rogers is sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees, head down. Her braid is half undone and her shoulders are shaking slightly. 

McKenzie sits beside her. Not talking. Just… present. And she’s the only one to look up when he approaches. One quick glance, almost a warning. 

This is not your place. 

Malcolm doesn’t argue. He nods, barely, and turns away. 

Further away, Hayes remains outside the brig: Parade rest. Eyes forward. Watching the traumatised man inside. 

There’s no tension in him. No confusion. No remorse. If there’s a storm behind his eyes, it’s been buried deep. 

Malcolm watches him. Waits for something to shift. Something to crack. 

It doesn’t. 

“You were OK with what happened in there?” 

Hayes doesn’t blink. Doesn’t waver. “The Captain made the call.”

Malcolm stares at him for a long moment. “Yeah. I suppose he did.”