Well, if it isn't the man of the hour. He strides into the armory more like a hurricane or some other force of nature than a man. It remind me of the way my father used to walk into the living room: red in the face about some new perceived 'blemish on the Reed family name' caused by yours truly. He could even suck the warmth out of a blazing fire or a hot summers day, just with the look in his eye - as though he was daring anything to bring joy in his presence. Of course, instead of sitting stock still and looking straight ahead, as I would for Admiral Reed, I follow in the wake of my captain's urgency, duty-bound to provide the snow and sleet for his icy storm.

"Put together an armed boarding party," he commands, still not meeting my eyes. I could follow his gaze, but I know he's looking into darkness - some abyssal depths where duty can never even lead me. There's something in his tone that reminds me of the single-minded determination/desperation he possessed when protecting those insectoid hatchlings.

"Who are we boarding, Sir?" I already know the answer, but I don't want to admit it. There's only one ship around to board. When he gives me his answer I feign ignorance, giving him time and incentive to reconsider his decision, even though

I can tell by the unfamiliar emptiness in his voice and the tension in his stance that he won't. "I don't understand.

"We need their warp coil." I take a step back, almost subconsciously. So he really has crossed that line. I wonder what finally pushed him over the edge.

"They won't give it to us, so we're going to have to take it.

His eyes are hardened, that familiar camaraderie conspicuously absent. Has he suddenly grown this cold or have I only just noticed it because I disagree? And to think, I used to hate his casual attitude - the way he blurred the line between friendship and authority. The chain of command exists for a reason, and so does hundreds years of military tradition of separation between rank. I've been softened by the duty-lax Archer, the one that tried to make you his friend.

Now that he's a military commander, he's had to put back on the rules designed perfectly for war. It hurts all of us, but I suppose I can forgive him for it.

He wasn't raised for the military the way I was. He was raised an idealist, an explorer and a dreamer. And I know he's got to make the tough decisions, and, though I might disagree, I will follow his orders. I respect him, both for trying his damndest to be my friend and for cutting out that part of himself when it was necessary. He's made a lot of sacrifices for this mission, and more of me than just the engrained military pride can respect that.

But there's one thing I'm not sure I can forgive him for: I don't know if I'll ever be able to forgive him for hurting Trip the way he has. My intellect and certainly my actions toward him can certainly absolve him. But forgiveness is a turning of the heart, and my heart is too steeped in Trip's pain to forgive.

"Captain . . ." I try to covey my sympathy and my understanding with my eyes, but I know that I have to protest. Our mission has never been piracy, and if there's any other way . . .

"Get your men together." He leaves me standing there, protest still on my tongue. I swallow it and get to work. If we have to do this, we need to do it right. Minimize the innocent casualties. Though I wonder if any of us is still innocent.

<<<>>>

I know the moment I see him across the situation room table that something is drastically wrong. His eyes are downcast - refusing to look at anyone, especially not the captain. It would be easy to interpret this as condemnation, his way of voicing his complaints at the steps we're about to take. But Trip has never been shy about telling Archer exactly what he thinks - sometimes rather loudly. Trip has gone beyond condemnation, straight to resignation. I don't know whether or not he truly approves, because the only complaints he seems to have are questions of logistics. He's radiating a barely leashed darkness; I can almost feel it as the hair on my forarm that stands on end.

It's a current between the two of them. And the captain thinks he can cross the line alone, without dragging us all down with him?

When Trip finally steels a glance at me for a split second I can see the hollowness in his eyes. I thought he would be overjoyed at his lover's return. He seemed happy enough, losing himself in that embrace in sickbay. The second I look up to show I know something's wrong, however, his head snaps back down. The second the captain dismisses us, I'm at his side.

"Trip, what's wrong?

"What do you think, Malcolm?" he snaps. "The ship's falling apart. We might be missing our last chance to stop this war through negotiation. And the captain's wants us to resort to piracy. So, yeah, I guess I'm a little down in the dumps." He sneers. His sarcasm has always been his best and last line of defense.

"That's not all of it, Trip, and you know it," I try to soften my words, but they come out an accusation anyway. This is just getting to be too much. The emotions are crackling so close to the surface, I can almost feel them.

He whirls around to face me - his stare as clear and piercing as always, if not more. "Look, Mal. I appreciate the effort - I really do." He gives my arm a gentle squeeze. A strange calm has settled over him - a kind of cold control that I had reserved for men like myself and Archer.

Perhaps there's a hidden coldhearted officer in this once-warm soul after all. He is one of the youngest commanders in the fleet, after all. "But now is not the time. We've both got our jobs to do.

I can almost see the tears forming in his clear eyes and the walls holding them back. That quick flash of pain is all he chooses to show me, however, as he turns and heads back into the mayhem of repairs, leaving me on the bridge at my station, with my duty.

Well, we succeeded: we destroyed our ethics, stole good from another ship, left them stranded for three years, but managed to escape relatively unharmed. I'm just glad nobody died - that I didn't have to lie through my teeth to tell a family that their loved one died with honor. Still, I'm anxious to see him. I saw that dangerous look in his eye in the final mission briefing. There's more than one type of casualty, after all. So now I'm making my way down to main engineering, supposedly to make sure the circuitry that links warp power into the weapons systems is still intact. But, really, I'm going to check on him. I didn't see him in sickbay when I stopped by to visit and debrief Parsons, so at least I know that he's physically fine.

I push through the doors, finding that he's somehow got the place up to it's usual standard of spotless -if a little eccentric- efficiency. The tension is still high, and people are rushing about or sitting buried in their work. And, despite casualties, there's a whole lot more engineers that usual - apparently Trip's staff has picked up on his bad habit of refusing to attend to all bodily needs during a crisis.

Hess doesn't even look up from her station as she says, "He's installing the modified coil. Third hatch on your right. Be careful of the drop." I'm debating whether of not I should just have this discussion with his 2IC instead: she's a good engineer, and undoubtedly better at interdepartmental coordination than he is, but she wouldn't be telling me to climb inside the warp core (sacred space for engineers) if she didn't think I needed to talk to him.

"Thanks.

Only now does she look up - an almost regretful sympathy in her tired eyes. Still, she spares me a second for an inspiring smile, "Good luck." So she's sending me in there to deal on a personal level as well. Nothing gets by that woman.

I open the hatch and step inside just in time to hear a long string of expletives. I'm glad that Hess warned me: both of the drop and her superior's mood. I squeeze around a particularly tight corner, careful not to jar any important engine components, to find Trip in front of a large cylindrical assembly, nestled within a mass of jury rigged wires and circuitry. I know Trip will try to pass it off as nothing, but I can tell this is a 100 percent Tucker miracle. He wipes the sweat from his brow, looking even more distraught in the strange red glow of the lights in here.

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?

"Only when she asks for it," he responds automatically, getting on his knees and reaching under the coil assembly for the dropped plasma torch, which is obviously the cause of the cursing. I bite my lip upon seeing the way the tight material of his uniform stretches across his shapely arse. Now is not the time, Malcolm.

When I don't respond, he prompts, "Do you have a reason for this lovely visit, Lieutenant?

"Just wanted to check the weapons relays with you before we power anything up." I hand him a pad. He doesn't even pause to look up at me, as he scrolls through it.

"Everything checks out from your end and we've done our part. I wouldn't worry about you precious phase cannons, Lieutenant. He holds out the pad for me to take and I notice that he's trembling, "Trip, your hands.

He looks down at them, "Stress." He smirks and leans back over the junction in front of him.

"Trip, please just tell me what's wrong." I try to use my most calming voice.

"We've got work to do," he replies icily, mumbling to himself, "Just gotta weld this last junction . . ." Then he drops the torch again. "Godamnit! Of all the fucking . . ." His stream of curses subsides into tearless sobs.

I reach down and pick up the dropped torch, and he reaches out a shaking hand for it. I run a comforting hand down his arm, gently pushing him aside, "Which junction, Trip?

"The one on the left." He sounds so small and helpless, sitting down against the wall of pipelines behind him with a sigh. "Then we just have to wait for Hess to finish with the nav circuitry and we're in business.

"In the meantime, do you feel like telling me what happened.

"Not really.

"How about you tell me anyway? We're all alone. No one's going to hear.

He chuckles mirthlessly. "We are on the one place on the whole damn ship with heavy duty soundproofing." He hangs his head, allowing his shoulders to slump.

"Jonny and I broke up.

I let the plasma torch fall to my side and turn to face him. He's staring straight ahead, his knees tucked into his chest. I want to hold him in my arms and comfort him, but something in his posture tells me to keep my distance. He reminds me of a wounded animal, all huddled up like that. "I'm sorry . . .

"Not your fault. I just . . . I wanted to do the right thing. I was so glad that he was alive. But that doesn't change what happened. Nothing could ever make up for it. We're never going to be able to . . ." He pulls himself unsteadily to his feet. "God, Malcolm, I need . . ." He winces and presses his palms to his temples. I can almost see the pressure of a headache forming. "I don't know what I need anymore." He looks so helpless - so lost. I can't help but reach out for him, letting him lean against me. He clings to me so tight I'm sure it'll bruise, but I don't care. Anything to keep him safe - keeping him safe is my job.

Then those skilled fingers -still trembling- dance down my back to roughly cup my ass. I pull back to look into his eyes: there's an unrestrained fire there, a deep destructive desire. Before it was desperation and grief and need for release, but now . . . That look is both predatory and tragic. Is this a form of revenge? No, Trip would never do that. What is it then?

"Fuck me," he whispers, his voice a husky snarl, just hinting at a weak but somehow-willful submission. I can't help the spike of heat it sends to my groin.

Trip doesn't really know about my past, but he must know enough about me to know that he's just pushed one of my major buttons.

"Trip . . ." I manage, through gasping breaths. I'm trying to remember those breathing techniques T'Pol taught me what seems like a lifetime ago. "We shouldn't . . ." I press my hands to his chest, feeling his heart thundering syncopatically, but I can't bring myself to push him away. If I push, he might never come near again.

"What have we got to lose?" His laugh is walking the fine line between rock-bottom and insanity. And, judging by that bittersweet grin plastered to his lips, he knows it. He takes my hesitation as a sign of acquiescence, and I'm still not sure whether it is. His lips crush against mine, stifling any protest like a gag. My body has utterly betrayed me - I'm involuntarily grinding myself against him, pressing him back against the bulkhead. He brings a hand up to cup my check, and I can feel it trembling against my clammy skin. Despite how much the trembling of his hand turns me on, I break the kiss and grab it, a protest on my tongue. His eyes are murderous, his voice gruff, "Tell me you don't want this." He orders, probably one of the fiercest commands I've ever heard him give, and one of the few I can't bring myself to obey, even when I know I should - like the order to let him die for me.

He kisses me again and I force myself not to respond. His voice is softer now, but no less demanding, "Tell me you don't want to do this for me." Those piercing eyes are on me again, and I'm mesmerized by them. I shake my head. "Good." He says it with all the finality of a suicide note.

Before I know it he's got my uniform unzipped and down around my ankles and is moving in rough nips and bits up my inner thigh. The hardness and heat of the moment are overwhelming. I feel my control slipping. Before, he was completely lost in his own misery. Now, I'm the one who's quickly spiraling away from sanity. I can't resist him. Of course, as much as I know he needs this and despite the feral grunts and moans, he's 100 percent in-control of this situation. And he's going to get what he wants. His mouth encloses around me and I forget even the illusion that I'm in command of the situation. His breaths are heavy and his mouth hot, but the warmth is taken away almost as quickly as it graced me. I don't know how he did it, but by the time he stands, he's managed to get his coverall and underwear entirely off.

He just gives me the most delicious look of desperate submission as he turns to face the wall and spreads his legs wide. "Fuck me," he repeats. There's a thousand reasons why I shouldn't: we're in public and in the middle or crucial repairs, to name a few. Not to mention the fact that with only his saliva to prepare me, I might do damage. "Now," he growls. I can't stop myself. After the first merciless stroke he lets out a slight cry of pain. I'm about to pull out when I feel his hand grip mine. It's so tight that I can feel my circulation cut off. "Harder," he manages through his pained gasps. It's only now that I realize what he wants: he wants to be punished, and through pain - absolved. We've made so many mistakes, seen so much damaged. I never recognized this masochistic near-suicidal streak in him before, but I sure should have.

Whenever he's upset he abuses himself: he doesn't eat or sleep; he works on repairs until he's covered in grease and bruises. And his obsession with fixing things - sometimes taking them apart before they can be remade . . . why would I think he would deal with himself any differently?

Destroy the body until it matches the mind, then let the mind follow the body's map in healing. But is this penance just another sin? Are we putting out a fire by dousing it with gasoline? I don't know. I only know that our fire is getting hotter. It consumes me, burning through me to completion.

When I return to my senses, Trip is leaned against me, heaving, but still not facing me. I kiss the small birthmark on his left shoulder, wondering at how it looks remarkably like the State of Norway. He's still trembling. I hope it's from release, not from pain. Then his communicator sounds from the folds of his disgraced uniform. It's Lieutenant Hess.

"We've finished repairs to the nav interface, Sir.

"I'm on my way.

I'm still sitting on the floor, panting, with my jumpsuit half pulled up, when he finally turns to face me, fully dressed, "Jesus Mal, you look like shit!" That has nothing to do with the fact I've just be thoroughly used.

"Looks who's talking." That doesn't even get a rise out of him, allowing that awful, yet someone reassuring look of concern on his face to remain.

"When was the last time you slept?

"Before the attack.

"I'm going to have to order . . .

"My quarters are on E deck near . . .

"Use mine. I'm not going to be seeing them anytime soon.

"Trip, you don't have . . .

"Order, remember?" He gives me a half smile and an eyebrow raise.

"It's the least I can do." With that he's gone. I can't help but notice a slightly limp in his walk. I've hurt him; I hang my head in shame. That wasn't me. Perhaps this instability is communicable, passing down the chain of command like waste dumped upstream. It's not as bad when it gets to me, but pretty soon, there aren't going to be any defenses - any more dominos waiting to fall. Have I too, abandoned my ethics for a fling, an imaginary relationship made from the shadows of war? Or was it my ethics that were the illusion?

I sit there for a minute more, letting my mind float, before I sigh and head for Trip's quarters, submitting to even his shattered authority.

His quarters were messy, stuff knocked off shelves and pictures cracked. I cleaned it up before stripping and falling into his bed. I'm surrounded by his scent. That alone is enough to drag me into that contented haze before sleep. I'm just about to nod off when a slant of light falls against my eyes. He's standing at the doorway, trying not to make a noise as he pulls it shut.

"Trip?

"Shh . . . Mal, go back to sleep.

"Wasn't 'sleep," I mumble.

"Yeah right.

"What're you doing here?

Trip heaves a weary sigh, "At least I'm not so distraught that I shake out of psychosis.

"What do you mean?

"Phlox says it's just a little aftershock from my close encounter with that force shield.

I prop myself up on my elbows, fully awake from concern, "It isn't serious, is it?

"Naw, just a hypo and a 'full night's sleep'' serious.

"I'll get out of here then," I say, dragging myself out of the comforting softness of his bed, the pleasant tang of his smell, the illusion that I belong here.

He stops me with a gentle hand on my shoulder. "You don't have to go." Such a simple statement. I wish it could be that simple - that we could just be together and forget about the lovers with martyr complexes and aliens intent on destroying us and the ship crumbling bulkhead by bulkhead. I don't have to go, but I should.

"After what happened in engineering, I'm not sure . . . once we get the ball rolling, I'm not sure I'll be able to stop it. He puts his hands on my shoulders, his grip tighter than the gentle pleading in his eyes, "You won't have to." He licks his lips and focuses on something over my right shoulder. What the hell does he mean by that? I won't have to because he'll stop it? Because he doesn't want it? Because he's going to back off now? Because we're not going to live long enough for it to matter? "What happened in engineering was a mistake. I forced you. I'm so sorry, Mal. I wish . . . well, there's nothing I can do now. I've been so selfish. I can't ask you for more." He looks down, sighing with his entire body.

"You can ask me for anything," I whisper. He can have all I am, if he doesn't already.

He gazes at me through those long lashes, raising his eyes but not his head.

"Could we? I mean, you know I'm not going to . . . and it might just be for now . . . but I want to try.

"But the captain . . . you love him." Please don't do this to me, Trip. Please don't make me think that I could ever have more than this, because then I'll never settle. I don't think he hears my silent plea, or perhaps he does and he's just beyond caring.

"I loved Jonathan Archer - you're right. In fact, I still love him. But he's gone now. He died when he went down to Azati Prime, or maybe when we entered the Expanse. Now there's only Captain Archer left, and we made it clear that I was never in a relationship with him. It's time I moved on. You've been here for me every step of the way, Mal. He hasn't." He gives me a tender pleading kiss: just enough to leave our lips sticking together but chaste enough to be used in front of a classy audience. "Jon cared about me like you do, but he's dead. You're all I have left.

I sigh, wondering yet again if there is any separation between the officer and the man. Then again, Trip and Archer have been deluding themselves into believing that this separation really does exist for so long that it might actually be true.

"I just need . . ." He looks at me shyly, almost as though ashamed, ". . . I just need someone to hold me - to love me. I've had enough of promises for the future or duties of the present. I just . . .

He can't even bring himself to finish his own sentences. My heart goes out to him. "I understand." Maybe I'm coddling him, by not making him voice it, but he doesn't have to say anything. I know what he wants. He wants strength and stability, someone to comfort and take care of him.

You wouldn't think that of him, because Trip's the kind of person that will go out on a limb for most anything. Some might even call him recklessly independent. But he only does it because he's got a steady trunk holding him up. He's always had a stable loving home and family to come back to, and for the longest time, the quintessential protector/authority figure for a lover. Trip has always had something to fall back on. He's never had to stand tall and alone. And it's hard: I've done it my entire life and it still brings me close to tears sometimes.

So the captain's finally collapsing under the weight of being the trunk for our entire world, so Trip's left high and dry and turns to me. I am a replacement, an experiment, a necessary sin because he's either too scared or too weak to stand alone, or be a support for someone else for a while. Still, I can't blame him. I might be jealous that he's never been forced to do it like I have, but I could never begrudge him who he is. I love his weakness as much as his strength - that's the sad, or at least poetic, thing about it. The smart thing to do would be to give him a hug and tell him that I can't then return to my ruined quarters. I should protect myself; get out before I get in too deep, before he can break my heart. He says he's in love with a ghost, but I wonder if it matters. This particular ghost is still here to haunt him. Even if we could make something work, how much of him would really be with me? How much would be thinking of his lost love, or even imagining, yet again, that I am he? But I'm too weak to do the right thing. I may make my life protecting others, but I've never been able to protect myself. I'm disarmed by his pleading but nervous expression. It's only a step. I just have to take one step back toward the bed, and I will have surrendered.

I step, and he follows wordlessly, discarding his uniform along the way. I thought sleeping surrounded by his smell was heavenly, but being surrounded by the man - even grease stained and sweaty- is a thousand times better. He spoons up against me - too tired to do anything else. It feels so right, lying with him in my arms. This time, as he fades into sleep, it's my name on his tongue. I pull him tight against me the way one holds on to a sweet dream while returning to consciousness.