8.
Still as a slave before his lord,
The Ocean hath no blast;
His great bright eye most silently
Up to the Moon is cast --

If he may know which way to go;
For she guides him smooth or grim
See, brother, see! how graciously
She looketh down on him.


Archer has retreated to his room, claiming need of an early night, but Malcolm can't remember Archer ever being one to turn down a nightcap, if offered. He can practically feel the tension in the house. Of course, it doesn't surprise him. Trip and Archer were so in love. They practically died for each other so many times. Everyone could see it, even if most of the crew thought it was just platonic. They were lovers for more than a decade, of course the aftermath was going to be as bad as what he remembers of his parents marriage.

"Maybe you should apologize," Malcolm says.

Trip looks up from where he's pouring them each a glass of bourbon. "Why? Everythin' I said was true."

Why's he doing this? Trip's not going to back down. Sometimes he's the sweetest most sensitive guy in the world, but when something hurts him he can be stubborn, macho and righteous beyond belief.

"Because he did what he had to do and you're just making it difficult for him."

"He hurt me Malcolm. He hurt me more than you can imagine. He's lucky I can still speak to him."

"And seeing you, married with the family he wanted to have with you isn't supposed to hurt him?"

"He never wanted that." That's a lie. He doesn't even need to hear the baseless bitterness in Trip's tone to realize it.

"Maybe he just doesn't want it as much as you did."

"Since when have you become the emotional expert?"

Malcolm swallows. Before he wouldn't have taken that as an insult, but he finds himself ducking his head. He doesn't know when he changed, but Trip certainly notices, because he sighs, looking forlorn.

"I'm sorry, Malcolm. Let's just drop the subject, okay?"

Malcolm nods.

"So, you and Hayes trapped together for twelve years. That must've been fun."

Trip's trying to make a joke, but Malcolm's not really in the mood. "It had its ups and downs."

"No kidding. So did you guys get into another fistfight?"

Malcolm tries not to think about it – the sparring sessions that almost always lead to them naked and panting or sometimes even too frantic to remove clothing at all. He thinks about how fighting became foreplay, how it lost practically all significance, the way it had on the rest of Mil'aka. He gulps.

"If you don't want to talk about it . . ."

But he does. He needs someone else to know. "Trip, on the planet . . . Matt . . . Hayes and I . . . our relationship changed."

"Well, you obviously can't afford to keep trying to beat the shit out of each other if you're the only two humans on the planet, can you?" Trip chuckles.

This is so hard – too hard, even though Trip is his best friend and admittedly bisexual himself. He can't imagine everyone knowing. But . . . but he needs to tell someone. He needs for it to have been real, not just isolated and packed away with the civilization that conquered war and all the changes he and Matt wrought upon it. Everyone else has changed, why should he and Matt stay the same?

"No . . . we . . . we eventually became lovers, Trip."

Trip frowns a little, squinting the way he does when he's concentrating on some complex engineering problem. "Hmm . . . I mean, I sure got that there was tension there between the two of you from the beginning, but I always thought you'd kill each other before you'd do anything."

"Well, twelve years with the Hil'aka can do a fair bit to condition away the impulse to kill a person."

"I hear ya, Malcolm. Look, there's no need to be ashamed of what happened. You were literally the last two humans on the planet. I mean, I can't even begin to imagine that. I doubt I'd last two weeks. I love explorin' an' all, but I don't think I could actually survive in a culture that different for any length of time."

"We did what needed to do. To survive."

Trip sits up, interest piqued. He leans forward, gaze piercing. "But it turned into more, didn't it?"

"Trip . . . I . . ."

"Well, I'll be damned. You fell in love with him. Didn't you?" He gives Malcolm a playful nudge. "I never thought I'd see the day."

"So, you don't think it's a little . . ."

"Surprising, yeah. But, Mal, that's wonderful! I'm so happy for you."

"I'm glad someone is."

Trip's smile falls into a frown. "He doesn't return the feelings?"

"I don't know."

"You mean you haven't asked?"

"What am I supposed to say? ‘Hey, Matt, thanks for being the last guy on the planet – literally, want to continue it?'"

Trip gives Malcolm a hard slap on the back, nearly causing him to spill his drink. "Still as morbid as ever, I see."

"I am not . . ."

"Malcolm, you've got a romantic buried deep under all the cynicism somewhere. I know ya do."

"And why should I listen to a man who cries during romantic comedies?"

"Because in matters of the heart, there's no one better." Sure. That's why Trip and Archer worked out so well. They were too in love. And that leads to bitterness, like he just saw. Not that Malcolm isn't bitter about a few things, but his love life has never been one of them.

Before he was on deep space duty he had a steady diet of about a girl a month. He'd take a week on the prowl, a week of seduction, a week of what they thought was whirlwind romance and a weak of trying to change him, plus a day or so for breaking up, leaving him free to start the process all over again. He wasn't a one-night-stand kind of guy, but he seemed to be utterly lacking in something that made him considered a ‘keeper.' And he liked it that way.

"So, Mal, tell me. If you could have it your way and Hayes was here and you knew that he felt the same, would you stay together?"

"If I had it my way, we'd never have been stuck on that godforsaken rock to begin with."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, besides that."

Malcolm takes in a great big breath, Trip studying him skeptically. "Yes. I'd stay with him."

Trip rewards him with a hearty slap to the back. "There, see, that wasn't so hard? Now, if Matt doesn't feel the same way and you tell him, what do you think will happen?"

"I don't know. We'll probably just pretend none of it ever happened."

"So you've got nothin' to lose."

"Trip, it's not that simple."

"Like hell it's not, Malcolm. You're just afraid."

"Am not."

"You're afraid that Hayes might just return your feelings and that you're going to have to change your little James Bond hot piece of womanizing British ass routine - that you're going to have to let someone leave a mark on you." But he's already marked – damaged beyond repair.

"I do not fancy myself James Bond."

Trip looks at him over the top of his bourbon glass, before knocking it back. "Sure you don't." He's forgotten how annoying Trip can be when he settles his mind on something.

"Really, Trip, this is ridiculous. Hayes is straight as an arrow."

"Not if you were fucking him," Trip mumbles into his drink, winking. Bastard.

"I was straight too!"

"So was I. So was Rock Hudson. Please, Mal. Who do you think you're foolin'?"

"Not you, apparently. Look, regardless of Hayes' feelings, if he has any, we're not on Hil'aka anymore. We're on Earth. Things are different here. He has a son now."

Malcolm just wants to go back to how things used to be – clear, emotionless, black and white.

"She's married to someone else, Mal. Besides, that doesn't change the past twelve years. You can't just forget them. Whether or not you choose to admit it or not, you've changed. You can't go back to how everything was before."

Deep down, he knows that Trip's right, but he can be stubborn when he wants to.

"I can try."

---

The children are in bed and they're sitting on one of the swings on Hoshi's backyard playset. The moon is full and bright above them, looking alien and strange after all these years of looking up into a void. Matt almost squints against the moonlight and the humid, breezeless air of the jungle just beyond the reaches of the immaculately landscaped backyard.

"So, tell me about Mr. Sato-Diaz."

"Actually, it's just plain Doctor Diaz. He didn't want to change names and confuse his loyal following."

"He's famous?"

She laughs, a little bitterly. "No. He just thinks he is. He's a professor of exolinguistic literature. He wrote a novel about twentieth century soviet politics in Klingon that's won a lot of awards, but I doubt that anyone without a PhD has ever read the thing. He's in Barcelona right now, giving a talk about his latest work."

"Oh." Matt tries not to sound like he thinks this guy is a total prick, but isn't sure he succeeds.

"I actually do enjoy his writing. It's just that working in the field really does change your point of view about academics."

"So you met at some highbrow university function?"

"Actually I knew him before. He was the TA in one of my practical Vulcan courses. Classic romance: I had a huge crush on him and he wouldn't give me the time of day. We met again at the beginning of the year faculty picnic. He and Sam hit it off almost immediately. Whatever else you can say about him, Koth's a great father."

"Koth?"

"Name given to him by the Klingon ambassador after she read his book."

"I thought he didn't want to change his name."

Hoshi rolls her eyes. "He is a good man. Just overeducated."

"Funny, I usually find myself telling people that about Malcolm."

"Malcolm couldn't even hold a candle to Koth. But he has his moments. Klingon love poetry is actually one of the most romantic things you'll ever hear."

"I'll take your word for it." He feels suddenly isolated. He knows that it's some sort of psychological bullshit that comes from long periods of isolation, or culture shock. But he still feels so far away from this world – so detached from academic squabbles and fiction and children's soccer games. And as open-minded and compassionate as Hoshi is, she'll never be able to understand. No one can. Except maybe . . .

Hoshi leans her head against Matt's shoulder and he pushes them back and forth, closing his eyes and imagining that it's the rocking of a boat at sea.

"He's cheating on me, you know," she says, like a whisper.

Matt tightens his arms around her. He's always protected her and there's no way he's going to stop now. "I'm sorry, Hosh."

"Actually, I not that mad about it – not the way I should be. There was a time where I used to think I loved him. But it's just not there anymore. But does it need to be? We get along well. We're both neat. He likes the right side of the bed."

"You always preferred the left."

"With a vengeance. We can discuss literature and speak to each other in about twenty different languages. He's great with the kids. He's always tossing a baseball or showing Fooz goalie blocks. And he plays the sax along with Sam. They can talk about Jazz for hours and hours. When Sam was little, Koth used to read to him in all different languages."

Matt's almost glad that he wasn't here. He would have been a terrible father. He doesn't know the first thing about kids. It sounds as though he might get along with Fooz, but with his own flesh and blood? He certainly couldn't read to him in Klingon and he knows just about as much about music as he does about classical Vulcan literature – which is to say nothing at all.

"Not that I'm saying you wouldn't have made a good father or that you don't have a place in Sam's life . . . if, of course, you want one. It's just that . . . Koth and I fulfill each other's needs. There's not a lot more to it. He's sleeping with this Spanish professor of anthropology, and I'm fine with that – as long as he doesn't bring it home, which he doesn't."

She doesn't sound fine. She sounds like she's missing something, like she's lost some of the fight he'd seen in her back on Enterprise, cultivated by the rough life they all led back then.

"It's okay, Hosh. You don't have to be the perfect understanding wife, you know. It's okay to tell him to stop if it upsets you."

"I know," she says softly, looking up at him with the moon full in her eyes, lips tilting up to meet his. The kiss is familiar and comforting and sweet just like he remembers, like he's fantasized about so many times. But it's missing something too. It's missing the fight, the jagged rough desperation. It's missing all that pent up need like explosions and war and bombs going off. Maybe Hil'aka didn't cure his war-lust after all, just transformed it.

He pulls back, not knowing what to say.

"It's not the same is it?" Hoshi asks.

"No, it's not." He places a chaste kiss on her temple and she wraps herself tighter around him, snuggling close until her sensitive ear is atop his heartbeat - as if she can understand even its strange language.

"You really love him, don't you?" she sounds disappointed but not angry.

He sighs, petting her silky smooth hair. He hasn't really thought about it. With he and Malcolm, it's not like flowers and chocolates and sighing cherubs or anything like that. It's like going into battle, knowing that the guy beside you will die for you and you'll do the same. It's like he feels about defending Earth - all fire and need and passion. It's a fine line between violence and desire and sometimes they cross it.

But at the same time, Malcolm knows him better than anyone, even Hoshi. He's been with him when he was at his weakest and maybe at his best. He understands about war and duty and the love of all that's dangerous and dark and so natural. He understands what it is to come apart and be made at the same time. He understands the loneliness and the confusion and the frustration –the need practically causing him to burst- and not just because he experienced it too.

Maybe it is because extraordinary circumstances forced them to new realms of experience. If they'd never been trapped on Hil'aka, he certainly wouldn't have ever thought about Malcolm like this. But that doesn't mean that on Earth the feelings that they developed there suddenly disappear. It happened and the only place he can go from here is forward.

"You know, I think I do. Thanks Hosh."

They just sit there, enjoying the moon and the shadows it casts on the grass and the trees, making the whole world seem dulled and alien in the pale blue light.

---

They hug on Hoshi's doorstop, longer and harder than seems necessary, even though it is. "I'll be back soon." They talked about it, and regardless of what happens with he and Malcolm, he wants to be part of Sam's life and hers. And he wants to start making up for those 12 years he missed of his son's life as soon as possible.

"Take care, Matt. I hope you get your man." She kisses him on the cheek.

"Me too."

"I'll hold down the fort," she smiles, a restraining hand on young Fooz's shoulder.

"You do that." He waves to the kid. "Take care, Sport. Try not to get into too much trouble."

"No, Sir," Fooz says seriously and Matt smiles.

---

When finally gets up the nerve to call his sister, she doesn't answer the comm. For a second he thinks it is her, until he realizes that Madeline must be older than this girl of maybe nineteen, looking exactly like Maddie did back then, with the hair pulled back into a ponytail, not a single strand out of place and the eyes wide and staring, as though surprised to actually find someone one the other side of the comm link.

"Hello?" The girl says, impatiently.

"Hello . . . erm . . . Catherine?" His niece, the awkward quiet seven-year-old from so many years ago.

She blinks. "Yes. Do I know you?"

"Yes." He's slightly hurt that she doesn't remember, but then again, why should he expect any differently? Maddie was always the same way. "I'm your uncle, Malcolm."

She frowns. "Uncle Malcolm died," she says, matter-of-factly.

"I was missing in action. I'm back."

She doesn't look shocked or excited, just skeptical. She turns and calls. "Mum! There's a gentleman on the comm for you."

It's not long before the cynical child is replaced by a familiar face. The years haven't been too kind to his sister. Her hair hangs down around her shoulders, whitening. She's developing wrinkle lines at the creases of her eyes and around her lips but she smiles wider than he's seen her do in a long time when she sees him.

"Malcolm?!"

"Maddie."

She's almost shaking. "They told us that you were dead."

"Well, I'm obviously not." He finds that he doesn't say it as exasperatedly as he meant to. He's almost teasing her.

She gapes at him for a second then says. "Well, I'm glad. You must come to visit, Malcolm. I don't know if I can believe . . . . Malcolm, you're really back?"

"I really am," he says, awkwardly. Everything has been so strange recently, disconnected somehow, his conversation with his sister moreso.

She looks at him for a long moment, then stammers. "So . . . Malcolm, how are you? Where have you been?"

"Stranded on another planet. It's not really important, Maddie. How have you been? Catherine's looking well."

"As well as can be. I don't remember being so difficult as a teenager, Malcolm. Mother just laughs at me though. Of course, David's much more well behaved than you were. He's determined to go into the navy, all spit and polish and everything. I have to force him to go to the movies and read something other than military history."

"I bet Father loves that." Why does it always come back to this? The comparisons. How Madeline, or now her children, are so much better than he is.

Madeline seems to freeze, looking away from the viewer. She takes a deep breath and he knows what's coming but he doesn't want to hear it. "Malcolm . . . when you were gone, Father . . . it was a stroke, Malcolm. He's dead."

Everything she says after that is a blur. He can't believe it. His father always seemed like an unstoppable force, like iron fists that would always be firmly clasped around his neck. He can't just be . . . gone. They sign off with amicable goodbyes and promises to visit. He gets the name of the cemetery where Father's buried, tapping the PADD he recorded it on absently against the table. He's really dead. His father's dead.

---

The weather is perfect for a visit to a cemetery. But, then again, this is England. Matt pulls the collar of his long black raincoat up tighter around his shoulders. He bought it at the transport station – so strange that it has taken so little time for people to go from fearing transporters to using them as a routine part of international travel.

Matt walks among the tombstones much as he walked among the people downtown. They're all blank staring faces, devoid of color. He couldn't read the people any better than he can the oldest markers, engravings worn away by time and apathy.

Malcolm is a bright spot on the top of the ridge, sky storming behind him. He's not wearing a rainslicker, but an old navy blue coat. It's too big for him, and Matt smiles at that for a reason he cannot place.

Malcolm doesn't notice his approach, as concentrated on the glaring black of the tombstone before him as he is.

---

"Commander Tucker told me I'd find you here," Hayes says, more formality in his voice that he's used to, startling Malcolm out of his silent contemplation. The rank sounds strange and alien, the formality in Matt's tone wrong somehow. But this is what has to happen. Things are going to go back to how they were before.

But Malcolm can't stand to hear reminders of his former command, structures rigid and useless, formality and propriety keeping people apart. He doesn't look up, even though he knows its Matt. After twelve years, he knows the sound of Matt's voice better than his own. "He's retired. Besides, I thought ranks offended people."

"We're not on Mil'al anymore," Matt points out.

"No, we're not," Malcom says with a sigh, standing, mind as clouded as the sky. "Why are you here, Matt?"

Matt looks up at the sky, the raindrops falling on his cheeks like tears. "I thought you might want company."

"Well, you thought wrong." He wants to be alone. He can't stand all these people . . . moving around him like the sea. He just wants to escape, get away so he can feel whatever it is he feels in peace.

---

Matt stands there helplessly, as impotent as those first days after Malcolm rescued him. He turns to walk down the hill, letting the rain go pitter-patter on the wide brim of his hat, a language all it's own, and that makes him think of Hoshi, the moonlight in her eyes. He thinks about the life he could have with her, comforting, easy. And he knows that's not what he wants.

He turns, forcing himself to march back up that hill, like it's his last lap around the base, without the drill sergeant screaming in his ear.

Malcolm looks coldly down on him, as unmoving as the stone.

"He would have been proud of you," Matt says. He spits it angrily. "Not only did you grow up to be an amazing sailor and a great man, but you also learned exactly how to cut out the ones that love you."

Malcolm blinks once, twice, the rain forming frost on his eyelashes as cold as his gaze. "You don't love me, Major. You're just afraid to return to this world."

"So what if I am, Malcolm? I'm not a soldier any more. I'm not afraid to fear. Mil'al changed me. I'm not afraid to admit that!"

---

Malcolm sighs. "I want to go back to the way it was." He just wants everything to be normal. He wants to understand people again. He wants to stop seeing the ragged hostility, the commerce in every movement, every action. He wants to stop wishing for color in a world that's doomed to be black and white.

"Why? What's so good about how things were before?"

He doesn't know. Before, he lived in his father's shadow. Before, he had friends, but was only just learning how to care for them deeply. Before, he'd had a career, a purpose. Before, the world was still black and white, but only because he painted it that way, because he saw friends and enemies, like a good soldier does. But, Matt's right about one thing – he's not a soldier anymore.

He doesn't say anything, but he can see himself break in Matt's eyes, the rain swirling around them like the dark of the sea.

Matt steps forward, wrapping his arms around Malcolm. Mil'al was never home, and now Earth isn't either, but this . . . this is right. This is where he wants to be.

"We can do really do this?" Malcolm says, arms coming up around Matt's waist. His voice is like the wind, making great white sails tremble as it pushes ships subtly onward.

"Yes, we can."

FIN