I'm looking out into the pale green haze of an ocean, calling out for someone. It's urgent, but as my mind fades from consciousness I begin to lose track of why. I wonder why I haven't drowned yet.

Then in a moment, I'm striding against the breeze, looking out across the seemingly endless sea instead of into it. He's sitting at the end of the dock, feet dangling in the water as he watches the sunrise paint subtle depth into the gray haze in the distance. His back is to me, but I could recognize that dappled blond hair and slight slump anywhere. Besides, this has all happened before. He has a sunburn on the back of his neck; it clashes horribly with his hair. It makes me both smile and frown to know that he's been busy disobeying the doctor's orders.

Even my quiet steps against the sun-baked wood of the planks are enough to disturb the early-morning silence. In the distance, fishing boats are already setting out for the morning catch. I can see the fisherman shouting to each other, casting their nets overboard, but all sound is swallowed by the fog. He's silhouetted against the vast sea that melts from green to heartless gray, only to be awakened by the sharp glint of the sunrise.

His shoulders tense just slightly as I approach, but he does not turn. He knows it's me - he's about to say so.

"Couldn't stay away, eh Jonny?"

"You know I'd never leave you," I say with feeling, laying a hand delicately on his good shoulder, careful not to dislodge the sling from around his neck.

"Promise?" He says, finally tilting his head to look up into my eyes, the clarity of his gaze startling and bittersweet. Even wearing that youthful smile, his eyes tell me that he knows that I can't make that kind of promise, but he refuses to let that particular sword hanging over our head interfere with our flirtation.

I lean down to give him a chaste kiss, ruffling his unruly but soft hair. He makes room for me next to him and I sit, enjoying the sunrise and finally understanding why he misses it so much. The calm of the comfortable silence is astounding. But then again, I've always been comfortable with Trip, even in the most daunting silences.

"You shouldn't be out here. You can't get that wet," I gesture to the cast on his right arm.

He smiles ruefully, dangling his legs over the edge of the pier, "I don't intend to go for a swim, Jonny. I'm just gettin' my feet wet."

I look over at him. He seems contented; who am I to spoil his fun? I notice the fishing pole balanced between his legs and chuckle, "You're going to fish one handed?"

"It calms me."

"Yeah, well, what if you actually catch something?"

He shrugs, "I'll cross that bridge when I come to it."

We fall into silence once again, but it's not comfortable this time. We need to talk. "Look, Trip . . ."

"Don't spoil the moment, Jonny," he says, lost again in the seascape. "We're not going to have too many more like this."

He's not supposed to say that. I shoot him a questioning look, but he ignores me. "Trip, we really need to discuss this. You could have been killed." I'm remembering the panic I felt when I checked my inbox and noted an ordinary daily status report detailing an accident in testing, skipping down to the single line that nearly made my heart stop: 'Injuries- Lieutenant Commander Tucker. Treatment being received at the academy hospital." Then I was forced to sit through the longest two-hour meeting of my life with dignitaries from the Vulcan consulate before I could run (actually walk extremely quickly while trying to appear calm) over to the academy hospital to check on him.

"Any one of us could be killed at any time, Jon. That's life."

"But you . . ."

"We would have lost the prototype, Jon."

I snake my arm around Trip's waist pulling him to me to relish in the feel of his warm flesh against mine. "I don't give a damn about the prototype, Trip. You're more important than a machine, and I'm saying that as both your lover and your commanding officer. I don't want you to do this ever again."

"Is that an order? Because I thought we agree that we'd leave work out of this."

"I know, Trip. I just . . . do you have any idea how hard it was for me not to come running to your side? How hard it was to just pat you on the back and wish you well when I wanted to touch you, to feel every inch, to prove that you were alive? And God, having to wait two whole days before I could sneak off here? It was pure torture!"

"I know, Jon. I wanted to go back to your apartment and snuggle in your bed and let you take care of me instead of coming her to make Lizzie do it. It would have been a good chance to order you around for a change." Trip grins, smile lines obscuring the sadness in his eyes for a brief moment.

I chuckle half-heartedly, "Hey, you know you can order me around any time you want."

"Ah! The question, Jonny, is whether or not you'll obey."

"If it suits me, Trip," I say, stroking a hand down his cheek, feeling the slight stubble he's let grow during his sick leave. "But I'm serious, Captain Archer stays out of our relationship, and our relationship stays out of Starfleet."

"But, Jon you were just saying how hard . . ."

"It was hard, Trip, but we did it."

"But when the ship's finally built . . ."

"We'll find a way. I love you too much not to."

"You promise?"

"I promise," I say, pushing down that nagging voice, the one that is screaming, 'that's not what's going to happen.' - the one that knows I'm going to subject Trip to the same heartbreak I had just suffered only a thousand times worse, all for the illusion of duty.

He looks at me with this pained expression in his eyes, showing me that he knows exactly what's going to happen. It's the same look that he gave me on the bridge, when I was giving my little speech about how proud I was of our crew. Looking into his eyes I saw both accusation and sorrow. I didn't think I was capable of causing my lover that kind of pain, but apparently I am. This is not how it goes. There are no devastated looks, no true consideration of the kinds of burdens we'd find in the future. We're supposed to kiss, and then I'm going to ask him to marry me.

But the hurt in those baleful eyes doesn't stop the kiss, his lips heavenly against my starved flesh. Suddenly I wonder why I would ever consider separating from his embrace, let alone leaving him. This was the goodbye we were meant to have, no pleading, no anguished accusations, just flesh on flesh, tongues sliding against each other, mouths merging to become one.

Then his fishing pole shakes, just how I remembered it, after he accepted my proposal. Only this time he hasn't accepted anything, not even my promises. I reach for the pole that he couldn't possibly reel in on his own, and catch that same knowing smile, the one that tells me that he was planning to have me reel it in for him all along.

I sweat and struggle, fighting with whatever big fish is on the end of the line. I seem to remember the four-foot bass thrashing and fighting and almost pulling me in to the water, but this line is taunt and eerily still. I'm too strained to look down at it, but the second Trip sees what's on the other end, he's on his feet with a disbelieving and frightened look on his face, lower lip trembling and eyes ablaze. Is that accusation I see there?

I take a deep breath, knowing that I'm not going to like what's on the other end of the line, but finally forcing myself to see it. When I do, I drop the pole in the water in shock. I reeled in my own dead body, wearing a bloodstained Starfleet uniform, skin bloated and blue.

I'm trembling when I look away, reaching for Trip, needing his delicate touch and soft voice to comfort me, but he takes a step away from me, the accusation in his eyes growing into hate. "Trip!" I call out, suddenly cold and knowing that he is the only thing in this universe that can warm me. Death has touched me, sending a chill shooting down my spine. He knows how much I need him, but he looks at me as though he's looking at a monster, a zombie, a ghost returned from the dead.

I call out to him again, but he seems to be getting farther away, the dock stretching beyond the laws of time and space. I watch his image fade, knowing that there's nothing to do except weep. I feel so helpless.

Then I feel a hand on my shoulder in the darkness. I want nothing more that for it to be Trip's but I recognize the soft but purposeful grip. I don't want to open my eyes. I don't want to see the hate in his eyes, even on his fading image. I don't want to see anything unless it's his carefree smile - the one I haven't seen in what seems like an eternity.

But the grip on my arm is insistent, and suddenly there's a light, dim but persistent. I can't hide from it. I open my eyes, feeling the weight of the world settle once again on my shoulders.

Blinking, I find T'Pol's demure face instead of Trip's anguished one. T'Pol really is beautiful, though her face has twisted to become the mask of a prison guard for me. Every stoic expression reminds me of my duty - my burden. I nearly miss the hint of concern and relief in her probing brown eyes. "Captain?"

"T'Pol?"

"Do not worry, Captain. I am sure Commander Tucker will come as soon as he hears you are awake."

"Trip?" I ask, confused, weak, and more than a little hopeful.

"You were calling for him," she says, looking down - maybe in shame. I wonder how much my subconscious mind has revealed to her. If she suspects anything, she knows that now is certainly not the time to bring it up, because her eyes find mine once again. "It is fortunate that you have survived, Captain."

I nod absently, wondering where Trip is. "What happened?"

Her shoulders slump just slightly -her version of a sigh- as she leans away from me, releasing her grip and calling for the doctor. "We found you unconscious in an unarmed vessel."

Phlox appear beside me in an instant, taking a scan and muttering something about blunt trauma. My body winces in agreement, while my mind is elsewhere. I need to feel him in my arms again. My thirst for his flesh seems unquenchable, though I know what I need even more is his soul. I just need him; I feel empty without him.

Phlox is soon off to deal with his other patients. I barely notice his absence. I'm only aware of this pervasive cold. My training tells me that it might be shock, but I can only conceive of it as lack of his warmth. I reach for a blanket, a meager comfort that cannot possibly warm my traumatized mind. I remember sitting in the insectoid shuttle, remembering every kiss, every touch, every look of love, knowing all that I was giving up for peace and perhaps retribution.

T'Pol sees my wince and grabs the blanket herself allowing me to see how her arm shakes. I grab onto her, trying to read her through the walls that have suddenly gone up. T'Pol has never made an effort to show herself to me, but it's been a long time since she so actively tried to hide. I know I should ask - pound my head against the wall that is T'Pol's stubborn logical denial until I find out what's clearly wrong with my first officer, but there's too much else going on. I've been rudely thrust back into the fray that I thought I would never have to deal with again. Everything is moving far too quickly for me. The miriad concerns of this shattered world are circling me like a pack of wolves, striking at me and preparing for attack and he's not here to protect me.

I let T'Pol slip out of sickbay. I have enough problems of my own. I just can't deal with hers right now.

I give a shaking exhalation, staring after her impotently. I should be moving. I should be doing something, but I can't seem to build enough momentum.

Then the doors open and he steps in. His cheeks are flushed and he's slightly out of breath, hair disheveled and face still stained with dirt and perhaps the tracks of recent tears, but he's still an angel in my eyes. It's an eternity before he crosses the room and finds his way into my arms.

I thought I'd never feel this again - his body pressed against mine, every inch touching in a perfect fit. A part of me knows that we're making a scene, but I'm too drunk with his presence to care. I want to stay like this forever, face buried in his hair, inhaling his intoxicating scent, even sweaty and tinged with fear and the damp smell of tears. But he has more of his wits than I, because he pulls away, wiping the new tears from his face with practiced efficiency.

I've said "I love you" a thousand times in my head, hoping he hears, before I'm forced back into the role of captain. I want to crawl inside his skin. I want to reclaim him, banish that dream-image of him fading with hate in his eyes from my mind forever. I want to be a part of him again. I don't want to feel detached and alone like this ever again. But I'll have to settle for just being near him for now.

Finally that business with the other damaged ship is over! It took almost all of my willpower to tear myself away from Trip's comforting -though relatively professional-presence to meet with their captain. He seemed pleasant enough, as idealistic as I once was. Instead of nostalgia I find myself feeling nothing but pity.

I'm back in my ready room now, having just called Trip up for a status report. I'm entirely aware that he is the most needed man on duty right now, but I only need a few moments. I'm not sure what I'm going to do. I know what's right and I know what's necessary, and I need him to help me decide between the two. No, what I really need is for him to hold me and cocoon me from the destruction of having to make this kind of decision, no matter what I actually decide.

He steps through the door, and I barely give him enough time to close it before I'm on him, pressing him flat against the wall, practically crushing the air out of him in my need to fuse us together. His mouth is as hot and his taste as sweet -if not sweeter- as I remember it. I'm dying for him, knowing that he's the only one who can help me, the only one who can give me the strength that it takes to survive.

We share a few passion-filled seconds before he pushes me away, gently but determinedly. "I can't, Jon." His voice cracks, betraying his lack of resolve.

"Please, Trip. I just need to be with you. Repairs can wait a few minutes."

I press my lips to his again, but they refuse to part for me.

"No, Jon, you don't understand . . ."

"Please . . ." Alarm bells are going off at the back of my mind, but I press onward, reaching for the zipper on his filthy uniform.

His hand covers mine, sending sparks through every cell of my body, but keeping me from undressing him. "I slept with Malcolm," he says, voice harsh and angular, as though folded in upon itself. I've heard this tone before: he's swallowing his anger.

The rational part of me knows the pattern. I've had enough arguments with Trip to know what I should do. I should try to figure out why he's really angry. For someone so impulsive Trip can be damn passive-aggressive, but that's only ever been with me. With everyone else he's just aggressive-aggressive - after all these years I'm still not sure if that's a good thing. But then again maybe that's how you know you're in love: you make compromises.

Of course, I'm too damn tired and stressed out to do what I know I should do. Instead, I allow him to bait me. I've done this plenty of times, and it always ends up a mess, which is what Trip wants, at least subconsciously. He wants an excuse to go ballistic on me, but he wants me to start it. I guess some of the command structure has implicitly slipped into our relationship. Or maybe I'm just too damn used to being in command, and Trip loves me too much to really challenge it.

If I were smart, I would make him tell me what's upsetting him, not that it's really all that hard in this situation. I almost died. Why can't we just have some great I'm-so-glad-you're-alive sex like a normal couple?

"Jesus, Trip!" I yell, but there's more disappointment in my words than anger. I guess, deep down, I don't blame him. We haven't been on the best of terms lately, and he did think I was dead. But I was gone for less than five days, for Christ sakes! Trip and I went an entire month and a half with nothing but Starfleet communiquŽs to each other and no 'self-pleasure' while I was doing the initial press tour for Enterprise, just to prove to ourselves that we could keep a secret on the ship - and he can't wait a respectful time after my death! He couldn't even wait for the fucking funeral! Unless . . .

He immediately catches the question in my eyes and lays a reassuring hand on my shoulder, "You know I wouldn't cheat on you, Jonny. I respect you enough to tell you we're having problems before I . . ."

"That doesn't change the fact that you did, Trip," I accuse.

"I know, Jon, and I'm sorry. I just . . . well, I just don't know what to say."

He eyes me sheepishly, and I don't know why, but it sets me off. He doesn't know what to say? He should have thought about this before he slept with Malcolm. A part of me knows that's not really fair (I was 'dead,' after all), but the rest of me doesn't give a damn. I can't accept his apology as much as I want to. I so desperately needed to feel him in my arms tonight, but instead he's dumping this shit on me! Why can't he just give me what I need?

Somewhere deep down I'm lashing out from stress and frustration, but I can't seem to stop the words coming out of my mouth. "You couldn't wait a goddamn week, you horny bastard! I thought you loved me enough to a least hope that I might live. Apparently, I was wrong. You are so fucking selfish."

I guess I've finally tapped the aggressive-aggressive vein, because Trip's face is reddening and compressing, preparing to explode like one of Malcolm's torpedoes. "Selfish? You're accusing me of being selfish?" He's doing that haunty upturn of his already snobbish nose. He knows how much I hate it - exactly the right combination of biting sarcasm and righteous indignation to trigger a violent reaction in me.

"That's what I just said," I reply icily, daring him with my eyes, knowing full well that now that he's in full attack mode, there's not a chance in hell he'll back down.

"I'm sorry, Jon, but I'm not the one who decided to duck out on all his responsibilities to this ship and her crew. I'm not the one that walked to their death without saying goodbye. I'm not the one that hasn't . . ." he chokes. Trip drops his eyes, letting me see the slight frost of tears forming.

"It was for the crew that I went, Trip. You promised that our relationship wouldn't get in the way of this mission. As your lover I wanted to stay, as your captain, you know I had to go." At least that's what I told myself.

The glare is back full-force, seeming to intensify in the prism of his tears, "Bullshit, Jonny. You let your misguided sense of honor - or perhaps your immense overcompensation for the so-called 'impropriety' of our relationship- get in the way of the truth of the matter. You know that for the mission to succeed, Enterprise needs her captain. Why can't you get this through that thick skull of yours: no one can do this but you. I know you sometimes wonder if you're worthy, but it doesn't matter, Jon. You're the captain, your job is to lead the crew not jump on the martyr-boat every fucking time it sails around. It worked for Jesus, but we don't have millennia to spend while the truth of your heroic act is spread through the hearts and minds of the people. You were being selfish. Maybe you didn't want to see your lover die before you or maybe you were tired of the burdens of command. But I think you were just was too fucking scared to step up and do what you were meant to. You were never acting responsibly. And you weren't listening to me as an officer a friend or as a lover. No, you we doing it for yourself. But, damn it, Jonny, what right did you have to leave me to take care of all your shit and deal with the loss of the man I love at the same time?"

Trip has worked his red-faced tears into a hurricane, his breath finally unable to sustain him, as he gulps in great wheezing breaths. I take the opportunity to interject, though I can't really bring myself to deny his accusations. In the end, I am just a man, too weak to be able to order someone else to die in my place because the powers that be deem them more 'expendable.' "So you cheated on me because I made a faulty command decision?" I hiss sarcastically.

"First of all, I didn't cheat on you. I thought your were dead. Second of all, you selfishly left me alone to deal with everything when all hell broke loose. I was under a lot of stress. Third of all, you broke your promise by letting your personal feelings for me get in the way of listening to my advice as an officer. And last but not least, our relationship has been going south for a while now. But I guess you were too busy to notice. I said I respect you enough to tell you when things aren't working. You weren't here before," Trip's voice has calmed, but his hands are dancing in his lap, his eyes staring straight ahead determinedly, a million miles away, "now you are."

I can feel my jaw drop, all the fight leaving me in an instant. "Are you breaking up with me?" I choke, trying but failing to make it the biting accusation it should be. I can't believe it. Ten years and it ends like this? I know I should try to do something drastic to win him back, but there's just too much to consider right now. It feels as though my entire world is falling apart, though I guess it really is. I give a choked sob, but no tears dare fall. I'm too shell-shocked to respond.

Trip nods, whispering, "I'm sorry, Jon." And the so softly that I can barely hear him, "I'm just trying to do the right thing."

There's only one thing I need to know. This war has eaten us alive, mixed captain and commander and friends and lovers all together deep in its bowels. Maybe this separation is the only way to protect it all. But, even though I know it would be best if I didn't, I still love him. Now that both of our breathing has evened out, I force him to meet my eyes before asking quietly, "Do you still love me?"

He looks at me for a passion-filled moment, clearly torn. In the end, the anguish seems to consume him as he looks away before he reveals his true intentions to me. "I can't do this, Jon," he says sadly, repeating his earlier words. "I just can't." He turns to leave, entire body shaking from the flood of emotion still rolling off of him.

I sigh, defeatedly, too tired to remind him that he still hasn't answered my question. I let him walk out the door, taking the last of my humanity with him.

I don't know for how long I simply stare at the empty gray of the bulkhead, a wall that used to have pictures hanging from it. I wonder what's left for me now. Maybe I really have died, and this is hell. My ship's shattered, a pale mirror of the state of my heart.

Perhaps this is the last push I need. Someone has to do the dirty work, after all. Someone has to make those decisions - the ones we'd all like to deny have to be made. Not everyone can pull the trigger. Not everyone can be a Napoleon, as Dostoevsky once put it. In the end, the guilt will eat away the good man who tries to take the step to be one.

No, you cannot be great and moral at the same time. And truly good men cannot do what it takes to be great. But I need to be a great man - not for myself, but because the situation necessitates it. I need to condemn others to death, even ones more worthy than I, because that is my burden. I need to save my people, the costs be damned.

I was never a great man. I was an idealist, an explorer still awed that humanity had put all it's faith in me. But the universe is on humanity's side it seems, because it's just taken away the one thing that keeps me human. I've been vaulted into the realm of heroes along with Napoleon and Peter the Great and Lincoln and Churchill and perhaps even Hitler - though he lost both his war and his sanity in the process. I do not feel great, in fact I feel empty. But heroes are just the tools of the people. They live and breathe the will of worlds. No, I have lost the one thing tying me to my individuality, to the plane of everyday things.

Before, I had love to tell me why I must care about every being capable of that same love, because there's some now-lost significance in that. Now I have nothing holding me back. Now I know what I have to do. No, I always knew what it was I had to do; it's only now that life has given me permission to do it.

"All yours. He was the perfect houseguest, as usual." I barely even flinch when Phlox interrupts my perfect cocoon of darkness, my own private hell. He deposits Porthos on the floor, but I don't turn to scoop him up. I don't want to contaminate him. I must reek of destruction. Normally I would cuddle my dog in my arms and let him lick the tears from my face, the way I did when Phlox told me Trip might never wake up from that coma, but there are no tears here. Perhaps I really am dead or just too damaged to cry.

Phlox is prattling on about something I should be interested in, but I'm not. I'm beyond the point when I can even care about my crew anymore. In command training they taught us that we had to learn to think of people under our command in terms of skills that could be best utilized, that we couldn't afford to let bias affect our command decisions. Jesus, I really blew that, didn't I?! I'll soon make up for it. What skills do the aliens I'm about to rob have that are of use to me? Before they had the ability to think and want and love, but great men have no use for such things.

"Captain?" Phlox urges.

I can't even meet his too-blue eyes - they've always had a way of piercing me, making me feel inadequate. "It's hard to imagine we'll ever get this ship back to the way it was."

He tries to console me: always the good Doctor, trying his nifty little psychological tricks on me. Hah! I'm beyond consolation. Even when he hears the hard edge in my voice, sharpened to cut through the lasts shards of deontological thought, the Doc hopes he can heal me. How can he see the suffering and the death of beings on a daily basis and still hope?

I begin to ask him for absolution, only to realize that I'm far beyond redemption as well - Trip's already proven that. No, the best I can hope for is the healing power of confession, but I can't even bring myself to burden Phlox with my true intent. "I'm about to step over a line, a line I thought I'd never cross. And given the nature of our mission, it probably won't be the last."

He won't look at me unless he has too. He keeps gazing down at the lifeless display on the table. It's taking all of my will to keep up the façade as well, so I don't blame him.

When I reveal my plan his eyes shoot up. I can tell he disapproves. A year ago I never would have caught myself asking this question, but I wonder if his disapproval comes from the commander or the wounded and spiteful lover. When did I start second guessing his motives as an officer? Or have I just recently become aware of the fact that I do?

Still, I can't question his engineering knowledge. "One lucky shot to our starboard nacelle . . ." He says it as a warning, but I see the hope in his eyes. He'd welcome it.

I cut him off, barely masking the bitterness in my voice and utterly failing to hide the defensiveness. I can't deal with either his despair or his skepticism right now. The last thing I need is for him to question. He can't question any of it, or I'll lose my resolve. The officer in him offers me a workable strategy and I manage to dispense with all complaints and escape his subtle but still-present disapproval.

But it seems that I truly cannot escape the consequences of my decision, just as I could not escape into a kamikaze attack, because T'Pol follows me into my ready room - my now-unhallowed sanctuary. Her tone is insistent, almost belligerent. I try to keep her barbs at a distance, but they pierce me to the core. She knows the exact arguments that I made against myself an hour ago and she voices them. But there's nothing she can say that will reach me now. She may have sent her arrows flying through my breast, but there is no heart left for them to strike. You cannot smite a zombie, after all.

"We can't save humanity without holding onto what makes us human." She says, my words, on an alien tongue.

I can't turn to face her, or she'd see the defeat in my eyes. I used to be the idealist. It seems as though I've somehow rubbed off on her. But it's not idealists who win wars. There's a small part of me that wants to believe her -the part that still longs for love in this void between the stars- but I know that we cannot hold onto what makes us human if we don't survive to be human. Humanity needs monsters like me to preserve its idealism.

She accuses me of rationalizing. Finally her well-studied psychological analysis has broken down. She could understand me as an ordinary man, but not as a monster. "I'm not rationalizing anything. I know full-well what I'm doing." Just as I knew what I was doing when I ordered the Doctor to create Sim and when I decided to invoke my privilege to die for this mission. Rationalizing is what I do when I need to believe that someone could still love a monster like me.